As you look at the drawings, secrets come out of them,—­private jokes, as it were, imparted to you by the author for your special delectation.  How remarkably, for instance, has Mr. Leech observed the hair-dressers of the present age!  Look at “Mr. Tongs,” whom that hideous old bald woman, who ties on her bonnet at the glass, informs that “she has used the whole bottle of Balm of California, but her hair comes off yet.”  You can see the bear’s-grease not only on Tongs’s head but on his hands, which he is clapping clammily together.  Remark him who is telling his client “there is cholera in the hair;” and that lucky rogue whom the young lady bids to cut off “a long thick piece”—­for somebody, doubtless.  All these men are different, and delightfully natural and absurd.  Why should hair-dressing be an absurd profession?

The amateur will remark what an excellent part hands play in Mr. Leech’s pieces:  his admirable actors use them with perfect naturalness.  Look at Betty, putting the urn down; at cook, laying her hands on the kitchen table, whilst her policeman grumbles at the cold meat.  They are cook’s and housemaid’s hands without mistake, and not without a certain beauty too.  The bald old lady, who is tying her bonnet at Tongs’s, has hands which you see are trembling.  Watch the fingers of the two old harridans who are talking scandal:  for what long years past they have pointed out holes in their neighbors’ dresses and mud on their flounces.  “Here’s a go!  I’ve lost my diamond ring.”  As the dustman utters this pathetic cry, and looks at his hand, you burst out laughing.  These are among the little points of humor.  One could indicate hundreds of such as one turns over the pleasant pages.

There is a little snob or gent, whom we all of us know, who wears little tufts on his little chin, outrageous pins and pantaloons, smokes cigars on tobacconists’ counters, sucks his cane in the streets, struts about with Mrs. Snob and the baby (Mrs. S. an immense woman, whom Snob nevertheless bullies), who is a favorite abomination of Leech, and pursued by that savage humorist into a thousand of his haunts.  There he is, choosing waistcoats at the tailor’s—­such waistcoats!  Yonder he is giving a shilling to the sweeper who calls him “Capting;” now he is offering a paletot to a huge giant who is going out in the rain.  They don’t know their own pictures, very likely; if they did, they would have a meeting, and thirty or forty of them would be deputed to thrash Mr. Leech.  One feels a pity for the poor little bucks.  In a minute or two, when we close this discourse and walk the streets, we shall see a dozen such.

Ere we shut the desk up, just one word to point out to the unwary specially to note the backgrounds of landscapes in Leech’s drawings—­homely drawings of moor and wood, and seashore and London street—­the scenes of his little dramas.  They are as excellently true to nature as the actors themselves; our respect for the genius and humor which invented both increases as we look and look again at the designs.  May we have more of them; more pleasant Christmas volumes, over which we and our children can laugh together.  Can we have too much of truth, and fun, and beauty, and kindness?