But, somehow, one liked the man who drew these strange people, even
without knowing him; when you knew him you loved him very much--so
much that no room was left in you for envy of his unattainable mastery
in his art. For of this there can be no doubt--no greater or more
finished master in black and white has devoted his life to the
illustration of the manners and humours of his time; and if Leech is
even greater than he--and I for one am inclined to think he is--it is
not as an artist, but as a student and observer of human nature, as a
master of the light, humorous, superficial criticism of life.

[Illustration: "NOT UP TO HIS BUSINESS"

CROSS BUS DRIVER. "Now why didn't you take that there party?"

CONDUCTOR: "Said they wouldn't go."

CROSS BUS DRIVER. "_Said_ THEY wouldn't go? THEY said they wouldn't
go? Why, what do you suppose you're put there for? You call that
conductin' a buss. Oh! THEY wouldn't go! I like that, &c., &c."--
_Punch_, September 1, 1860.]

Charles Keene died of general atrophy on January 4, 1891. It was
inexpressibly pathetic to see how patiently, how resignedly he wasted
away; he retained his unalterable sweetness to the last.

His handsome, dark-skinned face, so strongly lined and full of
character; his mild and magnificent light-grey eyes, that reminded one
of a St. Bernard's; his tall, straight, slender aspect, that reminded
one of Don Quixote; his simplicity of speech and character; his love