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be invaded and captured by this pygmy swarm from the region beyond the pale of King Fact, who swagger victoriously from A to Z, swing by dozens in the S's and leer through the O's: they are undeniable. In our dim, earthy way we have been aware of them, and find them, somehow, very natural and "impertinently seasonable to the time of the day." These letters are surely such an alphabet as should be provided to charm the pained steps of childhood: they open "magic casements" on the fairy-world; we see the enchanted castle, the gallant knight charging the ogre, the awful shape solemnly riding off with the lovely lady. There are others, too, of a sentiment less remote, which show the serenade, the declaration, and in which a young lady with round cheeks and great black eyes and the daintiest feet and hands in the world is pretty sure to figure. In these little things Doyle manifests an extraordinary sense of unreality, of the wonderful impossibilities of existence. In them he gives a distinct and unique Celtic touch to the pages of the Saxon periodical. If one cannot speak of Doyle without alluding to these little things, it is because this field of liberty, this irresponsible and insubstantial region, seems the familiar native home of his talent. He left it, however, for long tours and excursions into the more actual world of his confrères of "Punch," Thackeray, Jerrold, and Leech,—the world in which we meet the ladies in the toils of the crinoline, and the men with their tufts. He left it far enough to become very intimate with Lord Brougham, by no means a creature of romance, and to comment on a life decidedly not preterhuman, in what may perhaps be called his chef-d'œuvre,—Ye Manners and Customs of ye Englyshe. The most obvious thing about the Manners and Customs is the extent of its scheme and the thoroughness with which it has been carried out. There was nothing that an Englishman of 1849 could be up to that Doyle was not up to likewise,—the vested observances, the established customs, the routine pleasures, the imperative frivolities, the perfunctory dissipations; his nimble pencil follows the thronged and busy little world through them all. He takes us from the cider-cellar to Exeter Hall, to the Houses of Parliament, to somebody's soiree, to Epsom on the Derby day, to the flower-show at "Chysyk," to listen to the band at Kensington Gardens, to play cricket at Lord's, to dine; but it is easier, as every one knows, to eat the feast than to read the menu. But these dealings of Doyle's with real life are still the performance of one quite as much at home elsewhere. By the side of his companion and successor Leech, who by his nearness to his subject gains greatly in substantiality and depth, he has a transient and irresponsible air. Even amid the heavy realities of the political world his ear catches the note of the fairy bell. In those little panoramas of the events of the Corn-Law year, his Lord Brougham is constantly on the verge of becoming a goblin, his queen a Titania, his Sir Robert a Puck. His manner is constantly that of the caricaturist, but his caricature flows along with a most exquisite naturalness, which sets it quite apart among the productions of that past or passing style. His caricature seems the expression of his ever-present tendency toward the unreal, his aversion from the actual. But, in spite of this aversion from the actual, thanks to his quick perception, he had a power of legitimate characterization, rapid, varied, multitudinous, which "Punch" has never surpassed. When Doyle's quick self-respect bade him withdraw his pencil from the service of the paper, a charming lightness of touch and graceful playfulness fled the pages and have not returned; but these are Doyle's non-essentials. It is hardly necessary to point out that the essential thing in the art on which "Punch" relies is the power of characterization. It is indeed the very tongue of "Punch's" illustrator; without it his work is a sort of dumb-show; without it we miss our friends utterly. Shapes seemingly human are before us, but they have nothing to say to us, we never knew them.