in that picture—what a waking up after the
debauch which the objects left about the room
tell of! And the poor little wretch
rubbing his eyes as the policeman roughly wakes
him, holding in his hand the cash-box which
that unhappy sinner has stolen—what an abject
little creature it is, and what a "settling day"
has dawned for him at last!

Has the Sunday question ever been dealt with
more admirably than in that double picture
called the Garret and the Conservatory? The
misery of that squalid room with the clothes
hanging from the ceiling to dry, and knocking
against the head of the wretched father of the
family, who is further rendered miserable by
finding himself in the way of all sorts of household
operations in which his slatternly wife is
engaged, and by a chorus of yells from half a
dozen squalling children. And then the splendour
of the conservatory, with the rich pluralist
sitting in his easy-chair, and a servant approaching
him with his after-dinner coffee. "What
the people can want with a Crystal Palace on
Sundays I can't think!" says the reverend
gentleman in the full enjoyment of that crystal
palace of his own. "Surely they ought to be
contented with their church and their home
afterwards."  Pages of eloquence could not
plead more strongly, nor protest more earnestly.

Does the reader remember the two Englishmen
at the table d'hôte, with their wooden
countenances and their desperate fiction of
ignoring each other's presence? It would be
impossible even at the hands of the ingenious
M. Assolant for our insularities to receive
rougher treatment, and yet how every one
enjoys that study while acknowledging its entire
truthfulness.

It is not difficult to recal more instances of
serious power manifested in the works of John
Leech. What a group that is, assembled in the
neighbourhood of the Old Bailey on the morning
of an execution! "Vere 'ave we been?"
answers Ruffian Number Two to an inquiry
from Ruffian Number One. "Why, to see the
cove 'ung, to be sure."

These are grim subjects for a humorist
to handle, but they are dealt with in a manner
that leaves no doubt as to the strength of him
who, when he lays aside the cap and bells, can
speak very gravely and to the purpose. Nor
is a jingle of the bells out of place even when
some of the more serious subjects are being
dealt with. When the footman is asked by his
master why he insists on giving warning, and
replies that Miss Wilkins has taken to read
prayers lately, and that he (the footman) cannot
"bemean himself to say amen to a governess,"
the hypocrisy of the flunkey is not rendered
less loathsome by reason of the humorous way
in which it is put before one.

And, while this particular development of the
artist's strength is for a moment under our
consideration, let us ask if there be any one who has
noticed and forgotten that terrible Haymarket
drama—that meeting of two of the race of
"unfortunates," late on a miserable night, and
that bitter question: "How long have you
been GAY?"

Although none of the particular drawings
here mentioned are included in the collection
at the Egyptian Hall, one's thoughts will stray
from the works actually shown there, to others
by the same hand which live with extraordinary
distinctness in the memory: and let us here
consider, first, the number alone of Mr. Leech's
works, and the extraordinary high pressure under
which they have been produced. Consider that,
week after week, for years and years, this gentleman
has felt that he must be forthcoming with new
and striking subjects, and that this terrible
demand he has been able to meet week after week.
Consider how such a labourer as this has no rest.
His hours of relaxation are not his own even;
for then, too, he must be always on the watch,
lest a good thing should escape. If Mr. Leech
goes out hunting, or makes an excursion to the
Derby, or is off to the moors, he still can hardly
be said to be making a holiday. He carries his
task-master, the Public, with him, and though,
doubtless, the complete fitness of his nature
must sweeten such labour to him, though
he must always have the satisfaction of feeling
how entirely he has discovered the exact
part he has to play in the world, and that he is
playing it with all his might, still, labour is
labour, and the wear and tear of a month of such
work must be more than is spread over the whole
lifetime of a large portion of those persons who
turn over the pages of Mr. Leech's books, and
think how easy it must have been to get them up.

We have spoken hitherto chiefly of the more
serious labours of this artist. But Mr. Leech has
other work to do besides "pointing a moral." He
is possessed of a gift which belongs to so small a
class that you may count its possessors at any one
period upon the fingers of one hand, and very likely
have a thumb to spare even then. The quality
called humour is a very rare one. One has only
to look back to any old collection of what are
called caricatures, or funny sketches, to be
convinced of this. Nor are there wanting plenty of
evidences in this our own day that genuine
humour is a most rare and unusual gift. In the
illustrations which abound just at this time, this
one quality of humour is not often seen. The
comic art of the day is for the most part possessed
of every element except comedy. Our caricatures
now-a-days are drawn better than the cartoons.
The light and shade are managed with a
Rembrandt power. We have elaborate studies of
magnificent men and women in clothes of the
last new cut. The figures are perfectly drawn,
and the engraver has done his work as well as
the artist. But this is not what we want. Pegtop
trousers may be very beautiful things, and
worth the amount of study bestowed on them
by some of our artists, but they are not funny.
Comparison, therefore, gives us a higher
appreciation of the works of the great humorist whose
merits we are discussing.

It is extraordinary to observe how, with a
few random touches, as they seem, and with a
word or two, Mr. Leech produces a result