footed master of blarney. The other likeness is in a two-page Cartoon," Mr. Punch's Fancy Ball," January, 1847. In the orchestra are the men on the Punch staff at the time. The first on the left is Mayhew, playing the cornet, then Percival Leigh the double bass, Gilbert A'Beckett the violin, Doyle the clarionette, Leech next playing the same, tall, handsome, and nervous,- Mark Lemon, the editor, as conductor, appealing to the fell Jerrold to moderate his bitter transports on the drum. Mooning over all is Thackeray, - big, vague, childlike, - playing on the piccolo; and Tom Taylor earnestly pegging away at the piano. What a change from such a fancy to this sunset and moonrise on the quiet, lonely Connemara Bay, nothing living is seen but the great winged sea-bird flapping his way home, close to the "charméd wave." The whole scene radiant, sacred, and still; "the gleam, the shadow, and the peace

supreme." The man who could feel this, and make us feel it, had the soul and the hand of a great painter.

This speaks for itself. Nobody needs to be told which is Freddy; and you see the book from which Arthur got his views of Genesis and the mystery of being; and the motherly, tidy air of the beds! Freddy's right thumb in his belt; the artistic use of that mass of white beyond his head; the drawing of his right sole; the tremendous bit of theology in that "only,” - do any of us know much more about it now than does Arthur? — only surely nobody would now say, according to Pet Marjory's brother, that our Arthur, as he now sits, clean and caller, all tucked up in his nightgown, made of soft cotton, thick and (doubtless) tweeled, and ready for any amount of discussion, is only "dirt.” *

* This word, in conjunction with children, brings into our mind a joke which happened to Dr. Nor

We have said he was greater in humor than in caricature or even satire, and, like all true humorists, he had the tragic sense and

man M'Leod, and which he tells as only he can tell bis own stories. He was watching some barelegged Glasgow street children who were busied in a great mud-work in the kennel. "What's that?" said he, stooping down. "It's a kirk," said they, never looking up. "Where's the door?" "There's the door," points a forefinger, that answers young Fleming's account of the constitution of man. "Where's the steeple?" "There's the steeple," --a defunct spunk slightly off the perpendicular. "Where's the poopit?" "There's the poopit," said the biggest, his finger making a hole in a special bit of clay he had been fondly rounding in his palms. "And where's the minister?" "O, ye see," looking as vacant as a congregation in such circumstances should, and as the hole did when he withdrew his finger, "Ou're run oot o' dirt;" but jumping up, and extinguishing for the time, with his bare foot, the entire back gallery, he exclaims,