Since George’s time humor has been converted.  Comus and his wicked satyrs and leering fauns have disappeared, and fled into the lowest haunts; and Comus’s lady (if she had a taste for humor, which may be doubted) might take up our funny picture-books without the slightest precautionary squeamishness.  What can be purer than the charming fancies of Richard Doyle?  In all Mr. Punch’s huge galleries can’t we walk as safely as through Miss Pinkerton’s schoolrooms?  And as we look at Mr. Punch’s pictures, at the Illustrated News pictures, at all the pictures in the book-shop windows at this Christmas season, as oldsters, we feel a certain pang of envy against the youngsters—­they are too well off.  Why hadn’t we picture-books?  Why were we flogged so?  A plague on the lictors and their rods in the time of Plancus!

And now, after this rambling preface, we are arrived at the subject in hand—­Mr. John Leech and his “Pictures of Life and Character,” in the collection of Mr. Punch.  This book is better than plum-cake at Christmas.  It is an enduring plum-cake, which you may eat and which you may slice and deliver to your friends; and to which, having cut it, you may come again and welcome, from year’s end to year’s end.  In the frontispiece you see Mr. Punch examining the pictures in his gallery—­a portly, well-dressed, middle-aged, respectable gentleman, in a white neck-cloth, and a polite evening costume—­smiling in a very bland and agreeable manner upon one of his pleasant drawings, taken out of one of his handsome portfolios.  Mr. Punch has very good reason to smile at the work and be satisfied with the artist.  Mr. Leech, his chief contributor, and some kindred humorists, with pencil and pen have served Mr. Punch admirably.  Time was, if we remember Mr. P.’s history rightly, that he did not wear silk stockings nor well-made clothes (the little dorsal irregularity in his figure is almost an ornament now, so excellent a tailor has he).  He was of humble beginnings.  It is said he kept a ragged little booth, which he put up at corners of streets; associated with beadles, policemen, his own ugly wife (whom he treated most scandalously), and persons in a low station of life; earning a precarious livelihood by the cracking of wild jokes, the singing of ribald songs, and halfpence extorted from passers-by.  He is the Satyric genius we spoke of anon:  he cracks his jokes still, for satire must live; but he is combed, washed, neatly clothed, and perfectly presentable.  He goes into the very best company; he keeps a stud at Melton; he has a moor in Scotland; he rides in the Park; has his stall at the Opera; is constantly dining out at clubs and in private society; and goes every night in the season to balls and parties, where you see the most beautiful women possible.  He is welcomed amongst his new friends the great; though, like the good old English gentleman of the song, he does not forget the small.  He pats the heads of street boys and girls; relishes the jokes of Jack the costermonger