As a humorous designer we must accord him a position of eminence, and the characteristic originality of his pencil certainly entitles Thackeray to an honourable place in the front rank of fanciful draughtsmen.

The illustrations which he supplied in profusion for the embellishment of his own writings have a certain happy harmony with the thread of the story, which probably no other hand could have contributed. In the field of design, especially of the grotesque order, his imagination was singularly fertile, and the little figures with which he loved to appositely point the texts of his week-day sermons and moralities strike forcibly by their ingenuity and by the aptness of their conception.

Oliver Goldsmith and Dr. Johnson are both passing the shop-front of the unfortunate tailor. The actors in this comedietta are so absorbed in their several occupations—the lexicographer in a book, Goldy in self-admiration—that they don't notice the tailor, who, too, is completely paralysed at the double spectacle of his coat and his debtor; his assistant is grinning with both his sides—the consequence of the passing of the customer and the discomfiture of his master, who looks somewhat of a 'grinder;' while a pair of arch-faced, merry little urchins are copying to the life the shuffle and swagger respectively of the two Doctors. We will let the paper speak for itself:—

'This drawing is a good specimen of his work; it tells its own story, as every drawing should. Here is the great lexicographer, with his ponderous shuffling tread, his thick lips, his head bent down, his book close to his purblind eyes, himself totus in illo, reading, as he fed, greedily and fast. Beside him simpers the clumsy and inspired Oliver, in his new plum-coloured coat; his eyes bent down in an ecstasy of delight, for is he not far prouder of his visage—and such a visage!—and of his coat than of his artless genius? We all know about that coat, and how Mr. Filby never got paid for it. There he is behind his window, in sartorial posture; his uplifted goose arrested, his eye following wistfully, and not without a sense of glory and dread, that coat and man. His journeyman is grinning at him; he is paid weekly, and has no risk. And then what a genuine bit of Thackeray, the street-boy and his dear little admiring sister!—there they are stepping out in mimicry of the great two.'

The article from which this passage is quoted contains a letter, full of grave feeling and sensibility, which Thackeray wrote, in 1848, in acknowledging one of those spontaneous expressions of gratitude that are occasionally found to cheer an author on his way, and to awaken in his mind the encouraging sense of sympathy from unexpected quarters.

'There happened to be placed in the window of an Edinburgh jeweller a silver statuette of "Mr. Punch," with his dress en rigueur his comfortable and tidy paunch, with all its buttons; his hunch; his knee-breeches, with their ties; his compact little legs, one foot a little forward; and the intrepid and honest, kindly little fellow firmly set on his pins, with his customary look of up to and good for anything. In his hand was his weapon, a pen; his skull was an inkhorn, and his cap its lid. A passer-by—who had long been grateful to our author, as to a dear unknown and enriching friend, for his writings in "Fraser" and in "Punch," and had longed for some way of reaching him and telling him how his work was relished and valued—bethought himself of sending this inkstand to Mr. Thackeray. He went in, and asked its price. "Ten guineas, sir." He said to himself, "There are many who feel as I do; why shouldn't we send it up to him? I'll get eighty several half-crowns, and that will do it" (he had ascertained there would be discount for ready money). With the help of a friend, the half-crowns were soon forthcoming, and it is pleasant to remember that in the "octogint" are the names of Lord Jeffrey and Sir William Hamilton, who gave their half-crowns with the heartiest good-will. A short note was written, telling the story. The little man in silver was duly packed and sent, with the following inscription round the base:—

'GULIELMO MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
ARMA VIRUMQUE
GRATI NECNON GRATÆ EDINENSES
LXXX.
D. D. D.'

How far Thackeray would have succeeded as an illustrator of other men's thoughts there is but little that has been published to prove. His separate cuts in 'Punch' are remarkably happy and droll, but they have none of those graver and more aspiring qualities which authors perhaps might have looked for in the sketches of a young gentleman who proposed seriously to draw pictures for their stories. It is conceded that for the embellishment of his own writings Thackeray's eye, hand, and pencil possessed every desirable qualification; and it is not improbable that the same facilities would have enabled him to offer to others, as his powers became matured, a share of the advantages which his ready wit brought to his own pictorial embellishments.

The few instances of his productions as an illustrator, pure and simple, are too early to come under fair criticism. Before he had acquired practice with his etching-needle, and certainly before he had found out his own particular style, he tried his hand at a set of copper plates, with the example of Seymour, it is believed, to guide his then imperfect knowledge of the art by means of which he desired to publish his designs.

The admirable series of 'Men of Character,' which Douglas Jerrold originally contributed as magazine papers, were collected in three volumes and published by Colburn in 1838. These volumes were illustrated with several plates, the humour of which is undeniable, although it may be thought that the subjects have suffered in execution. The name of the artist does not appear, but there is no doubt that Thackeray supplied these designs to adorn the book of his friend and fellow littÉrateur; the incidents selected are all sufficiently farcical for humorous delineation, and that they have certainly had at the hands of the draughtsman.

'The Practical Philosophy of Adam Buff' (the Man without a Shirt) is completely set out in the frontispiece, where, soused with water, the moral professor is invited by a 'rough' to strip 'to his shirt' and show his skill with his fists. Buff's coat is buttoned to the chin, to conceal the absence of his linen, and with his huge shoulder of mutton hands he is striking the attitude of immovable moral dignity which won the heart of his patron. A likeness to this identical pugilistic coal-whipper will be found in one of Thackeray's wood-cuts to the 'Town and Gown Row' in 'Codlingsby' ('Punch's Prize Novelists'). The 'Fall of Pippins' represents that too susceptible youth on his knees before his lady mistress, whom he has awakened with a kiss. The indignation of the outraged fair, the abject terror and contrition of Pippins, the fury of the jealous husband, Sir Scipio Mannikin, who is breaking in upon the transgressor with uplifted cane, and the startled faces of the domestic chaplain and his followers, are all successfully indicated. From bad to worse, we next find 'Job Pippins—Murderer.' The unfortunate youth, labouring under a very unpleasant suspicion, has been dragged into still more objectionable company; he is nervously seated on the edge of a stool, in a hut tenanted by burglars and cut-purses. A young girl, the mistress of a highwayman, captain of the gang, has one of those pretty, innocent faces Thackeray always expressed so successfully.

'Jack Runnymede's Dream' is perhaps the most indicative of the artist's vein of grotesque humour. This champion of the 'rights of an Englishman' had a peculiar dream before commencing a suit at law. He fancied the Father of Evil met him by the wayside, performing like a shepherd on his pipe, and tendered him a 'little pup.' The Satanic person is set forth with great imaginative attractiveness, and the convolutions of his tail are very elaborate.

'John Applejohn's Humane Intentions' are displayed just at the very instant they were most liable to uncharitable misinterpretation, for he is caught, on his knees, with a bunch of keys, evidently in the act of lock-picking. 'Maximilian Tape before the Lords,' represents the little journeyman tailor just as he was captured by those promising slips of the aristocracy, Lord Slap, Tom Rumpus, young Plucky, and Rowdow; while one of the party is breaking a plate over his affrighted head that he may prove his trade by stitching it together again. 'Mr. Cramlington,' Applejohn's master, in his borrowed locks and whiskers, the son of Tape's employer, a West End outfitter, who has got introduced to this fine, improving society, under the assumption of being a 'man of fashion,' is looking on the scene in ill-concealed dread of his own recognition and exposure.

In the 'Final Reward of John Applejohn,' that unfortunate but well meaning, simple youth, just captured from the front of a booth, and still in the dress of a statue, in which character he narrowly escaped demolition, is restored to the "girl of his heart."

'Barnaby Palms Feeling his Way' is shown, the epitome of artfulness, at the breakfast-table of his worthy uncle, where he is taking his last meal before setting out to seek his fortune in the world. The wily youth insisted on eating a stale egg, declaring he 'did not care for his eggs over-fresh,' in order to win the heart of his relative, before whom is displayed a well-filled money-bag—Barnaby's anticipated 'start in life.' It may be remembered that the uncle expressed his earnest conviction that a man 'who did not care for his eggs over-fresh' was sure to make his way by himself, and so sent Barnaby forth without the coveted money-bag.

'Cheek's Introduction to a New Subject' represents the prison-yard, where the dwarf artist and modeller, Mr. Pop, is maliciously enjoying the spectacle of his employer, Cheek, the waxwork showman, in a state of horror, with his hand locked in the fist of Kemp, the murderer, whose head they have come down to 'take off' after execution. 'The Ghost of Kemp' represents Aaron, the Jew fence, waking from his guilty slumbers to discover the murderer's head, which Pop has modelled and placed for security on the window-sill, where it is suddenly disclosed by the moonlight to the conscience-stricken and horrified 'receiver of stolen goods,' who had congratulated himself that the hangman's noose had effectually removed all evidence of his own guilt.

'Matthew Clear, the Man who Saw his Way,' is introduced in the fatal instance of 'not seeing his way' which proved his ruin; seated on a sofa with the artful adventuress whose fortune the long-headed Clear flattered himself he should secure by persuading her into a marriage. He is planted very comfortably on a little sofa, below the simpering portrait of his bride. Julia's arms are round the neck of the deluded Clear; on his knee is perched a great lubberly boy, a pledge of affection to which it appears the lady stands 'almost in the light of a mother.' Matthew, evidently lost as to 'his way,' is successfully cajoled; and Mrs. Clear's parrot, which had been educated on board ship, is shrieking demoniacally, 'Hooked, by Jingo!'

The last plate illustrates the 'Introduction of Titus Trumps to Miss Wolfe.' The confiding hero of this story, whose belief in something 'turning up' favourable was ineradicable, is being confronted by the peppery Baronet, Sir Jeremy Sloth, with his daughter, the mature but impressionable Emily, when he has actually come to pay a visit to her maid, whose relatives keep a public-house with the sign of 'General Wolfe.'

These illustrations would probably have achieved more success had the artist confined himself to the bold outline manner of etching in which his better-known plates are executed, and in which he early exhibited a fair proficiency. His desire to conform to the fashion of the day (the 'Pickwick Papers' were publishing at the time) led him to attempt a style in which he had not enjoyed sufficient experience to qualify him to produce results which would compare favourably with the works of older hands.

Another jeu d'esprit from his pencil, commenced somewhat later, is considerably more in the unmistakeable Titmarshian vein; indeed, for the force and fun of its satire, it perhaps excels all that he ever did in the indulgence of his amazing talents for ludicrous personalities. We refer to the series of illustrations, or rather caricatures, suggested for the 'Whitey-brown Paper Magazine,' which was never issued. The rarity of these croquis, merely a few loose lithographed leaves, drawn by Thackeray himself, is so excessive that it is stated that the only original copy which has come under our notice cost the proprietor no less than forty guineas. The entire paper, which in its intention does not differ widely from certain of the 'Yellowplush Papers,' is directed to ridicule the consequence of Dr. Lardner, editor of the 'Cabinet CyclopÆdia,' and his friend Sir Bulwer Lytton. It may be remembered that the 'Literary Chronicle,' under the influence of these gentlemen, was a pet aversion to its rival 'Fraser,' with Dr. Maginn and Titmarsh to the front. The caricatures commence with a 'Preface, Advertisement, or Introduction,' to which we must briefly refer in order to bring on the scene the young gentleman whose history is displayed in the caricatures, and who it was stated, lest persons should fancy the ridicule directed against any of the writer's contemporaries, lived many thousands of years ago in the reign of Chrononhotonthologos, King of Brentford.

This gentleman's name was Dionysius Diddler, and the historian hastens to anticipate misconstruction by explaining that he was no relation of any other Dionysius, nor indeed a native of Brentford (though, it is confessed, Diddlers certainly abound in that place).

Dionysius, who was sixty years of age and wore a wig and false teeth, according to his biographer, came over as a young fellow from Patland, and, finding the people of Brentford more easily humbugged and more ignorant than any people on earth, settled himself there, in his trade, which was that of a philosopher; an excellent profession, by which Dionysius would have made a pretty penny, only he spent his money in trying to be a man of fashion, in buying clothes, and other genteel diversions.

In consequence of this extravagance, although his learning had made his name famous (every one has heard of his 'Essay on the Tea-Kettle,' his 'Remarks on Pumps,' and his celebrated 'Closet CyclopÆdia'), poor Diddler found himself one day, after forty years of glory, turned out of his lodging, without a penny, without his wig—which, sad to say, he had pawned—without even his false teeth, which, seeing he had no use for them, he had pawned too.

The first sketch pictures Dionysius Diddler, young, innocent, and with a fine head of hair, on which he wears an old felt hat and band very much out of shape. He wears a clerical-cut buttoned-up vest; a bob-tail coat, very short in the waist and sleeves, and long in the sparrow-tails; his face (an admirable likeness of the Doctor is preserved throughout) is adorned with 'specs;' his 'brogues' are very short, and patched; his shoes are decidedly primitive; a 'shellalee' is playfully twirled in his right hand; under his left arm is his learned library, for he is a young student of Ballybunion University, which noble foundation is seen under the hedge shown in the veracious artist's background, and, we are sorry to think, the famous college looks very like a bog-hut with a hole in the roof to let the smoke through. In contrast to this bright image of his gallant youth is the picture of the Doctor, after forty years of fame, thrown on the world very lean and miserable; the crown of his famous old felt hat is flopping down behind, the brim is very limp and ragged; his stock is buttoned close, as is what remains of his coat, for vest or linen he has none. Elbows are out, so are arm-pits; tails are mere fringe, trousers to match, and oh, such dreadful, shapeless, soleless old bluchers, and, we are afraid, no socks!

Poor old Diddler, with a paper bag on his head in place of his wig, with his face sunken in for the want of his teeth, with his old bludgeon in one hand, and the other exposing the ragged remains of a bottomless pocket, is looking wistfully out of his old barnacles, as he thinks of dear Ballybunion. 'I'm femous,' he is soliloquising, 'all the wurrrld over; but what's the use of riputetion? Look at me, with all me luggage at the end of me stick—all me money in me left-hand breeches pocket—and it's oh! but I'd give all me celibrity for a bowl of butthermilk and petaties.'

A happy thought strikes the Doctor in this strait. He goes off to see what his publisher will do for him; and the next view we have of poor Dionysius is more cheerful. He is in the shop of Mr. Shortman; 'an' sure an' ouns!' Diddler's face wears the most gratified smile possible to be produced without teeth. His roofless hat is on the floor; the state of the top makes it hold his 'shellalee' all the more conveniently. On the shelves, sure enough on the book-shelves, is the 'Closet CyclopÆdia;' and leaning over the counter, on which he has just laid down three five-pound notes and three sovereigns for the delighted Dionysius to sweep up, is the eminent publisher, white neckcloth and all, in his habit as he lived; a capital caricature likeness of the head of the firm of Longman and Co.

Diddler rapidly turns his money to account in reinstating himself as an elegant member of society and art—the man of fashion the rogue longed to be. The first thing he does is to take his wig out of pawn. Here the artist has shown him in the Lombardian counting-house; and, while his 'relative' is examining certain securities (in the way of personal garments) upon which some of his clients in the private boxes desire advances, our fashionable Doctor takes the opportunity of readjusting before a looking-glass his head of hair, which has suffered somewhat by recent incarceration, his fingers being converted into curling-tongs to replace in some degree its pristine splendour.

'And now,' says he, 'I'll go, take a sthroll to the Wist Ind, and call on me frind Sir Hinry Pelham.' It appears that the noble Baronet's West End residence is situated in a neighbourhood no less celebrated than 'famed Red Lion's fashionable Square.' We are offered a jaunty back view of the revived dandy Diddler, as with a swagger of considerable sprightliness, and a genteel comedy strut, he is endeavouring to carry off the impression of his ragged wardrobe, and make the holes in his elbows pass current as a light, airy fashion. The imposing wig is made the most of; one massive lock, like a whisk of tow, is elegantly brushed about four inches beyond one ear, while the famous limp white hat, with its black band, and the top flapping about like the lid of a milk-pail, is cocked over the other. Carriages in the distance, with footmen suspended in pairs to the splashboard behind, attest the highly respectable character of the vicinity.

Sir Hinry Pelham is fortunately at home, reposing in a sumptuous easy chair, and splendidly apparelled in a long black satin stock, a flowing dressing-gown with collars and cuffs of some gorgeous material, and pointed Turkish slippers. The Baronet's fashionable exterior is very characteristic; his hair is thrown back in a rich cataract, over the back of his stock, his full curled whiskers ambrosially droop below his chin, his brow is noble, his eyebrow arched, his eye is haughty, as is his fine-bridged and well-defined hook-nose. This tremendous lion is evidently just roused from a state of well-bred listlessness, and he is propped up on the elbows of his lounge, while he regards, with sleepy astonishment, a banknote which his friend is flourishing before him with an air.

Diddler has thrown his hat on the floor, thrust his stick through the opening in the top, and drawn up a chair upon which he is straddling his long body and little legs in a consequential and impressive attitude. 'Pelham, me boy,' says he, 'you have clothes, and I have cridit; here's a five-pound note, and rig me out in a new shoot.'

In the next plate, Pelham, solacing himself with a cigar, is modestly concealing his features in a magazine; while Diddler—having discarded his shocking old clothes, which, with his vagabond hat and stick, lie scattered about the Baronet's splendid apartments—is ensconsing himself in one of Pelham's fashionable 'shoots;' a large cheval-glass discreetly marks the operations of his toilet. 'Fait,' says Diddler, 'the what-d'ye-call-'ems fit me like a glove.' Pelham is still engaged with his cigar and book in the following plate, but his aristocratic profile is again displayed. Diddler is standing in front of the cheval-glass contemplating with increased satisfaction his improved and respectable appearance; in fact, he is dressed in one of the Baronet's suits, the very height of the mode. His wig is now in curl, a few handsome locks are brushed over his forehead, a curl or two over his ears, and a row of curls over his stock behind. His spectacles, which he never abandons, beam with satisfaction, and his teeth are evidently replaced. He has a black satin stock very high in the neck, and falling into a creasy, shiny avalanche below; his coat has a broad collar, sleeves cut quite tight from the elbow, and snowy wristbands. With one hand he is affectedly adjusting his shirt-collar, while he admires the reflected effect of the other, displayed in an attitude with his thumb in the pocket of his spotless white vest; light trousers, literally fitting like a glove, as was then the fashion, setting tightly over a pair of narrow boots with extravagantly lengthened toes and high heels, which complete the costume of this elegant old dandy.

'And upon me honour and conshience,' says he, 'now I'm dthressed, but I look intirely ginteel.'

In the last cut which has reached us we see the exterior of Sir Hinry's noble mansion, in Red Lion Square. The dandy Doctor, dressed in Pelham's coat, hat, boots, and pantaloons, stock, and spurs, is mistaken for the Baronet himself by Hodge, his groom, who leads round Pelham's horse, and, holding the stirrup, respectfully invites Dionysius to mount; and Diddler is shown in the picture generously dropping a coin into the cap of the groom, who with his disengaged hand is scratching his shock-head with astonishment. His face is a study of comical surprise, his knees are shaking with fright; and as the Doctor rides away, like the dashing blade he evidently considers himself, fear seizes upon the soul of Hodge. Says he, 'That gemman cannot be my master, for, as he rode away, he gave me sixpence, and my dear master never gives me nothen.'

Another capital plate introducing Bulwer and Lardner appeared in the collection of 'Comic Tales,' already mentioned in this volume, and published by Cunningham (1841), for which the author draws a fresh series of illustrations.

The caricature in question accompanies Mr. Yellowplush's 'Ajew,' the opening of which is extremely droll and clever. The two 'eminent gents' have just got out of their fly and are making their entrance at the house of Sir John, who, as a Whig Baronet, receives 'littery pipple;' poor Yellowplush is holding the door for these 'fust of English writers,' and very much amazed he looks. Although the etching is small, the likenesses are carefully worked out; the figure of Bulwer in the 'Whitey-brown Papers' has all the characteristics, slightly heightened, already given, except that he wears a suit of evening dress—'a gilt velvet waistcoat,' with his wristbands turned over the cuffs of his coat, and very tight gloves. The little Doctor has thrust his arm under the wing of his friend, who struts very affectedly in his close-fitting clothes, to exhibit to advantage his small waist and falling shoulders. Lardner's wig is perhaps richer in curls, his spectacles more beaming, his simper more satisfied; he is adjusting the collar of his older-fashioned square-tailed coat over a striped silk vest, which wrinkles over his rounded paunch; his queer-shaped little legs are displayed in somewhat ill-fitting tights, strapped over silk stockings and pumps tied with ribands.

It may be remembered that the announcement of the arrival of these 'genlmn' created some confusion. The Doctor was indignant that any one should fail to recognise so famous a celebrity, when Mr. Yellowplush mildly asked for his name.

'Name!—a! now you thief o' the wurrrld,' says he, 'do you pretind not to know me? Say it's the Cabinet Cyclop——; no, I mane the Litherary Chran——; psha!—bluthanouns! say it's Docthor Dioclesian Larner——I think he'll know me now—ay, Nid?' But Nid had slipped out of the way, being a little nervous about the good-breeding of his friend, it is presumed.

The second footman passed up the name as 'Doctor Athansius Larnder! and by the time he got to the groom of the chambers, who made some pretensions to scholarship, the little man was announced as 'Doctor Ignatius Loyola!'

The other gentleman, when requested to give his name (it was at the time people were talking about the eminent novelist's chances of being made a baronet), said in 'a thick, gobbling kind of voice':

'Sawedwadgeorgeearllittnbulwig;'

which rather dumfoundered Mr. Yellowplush. That accomplished writer evidently watched the two 'littery genlmn' with interest, as he records the gratifying fact that 'they behaved very well, and seemed to have good appytights.'

The little Irishman especially distinguished himself, eating, drinking, and talking enough for six; and, after the wine, described how he had lately been presented at court by his friend Mr. Bulwig, and how her gracious Majesty had desired him to tell her the bon fide sale of the 'Cabinet CyclopÆdia,' and how he had assured her, on his honour, that it was under ten thousand.

The entire illustrations of these 'Comic Tales and Sketches' are engraved with great neatness and spirit; and, in spite of their small size, they are superior, in carefulness of execution and attention to detail, to most of Thackeray's etchings.

The figure of a jester forms the frontispiece. A placard, which nearly conceals his person, exhibits the portraits of the three celebrities who are concerned in the work. The genteel Mr. Fitzroy Yellowplush, in his footman's livery, with a gold-headed cane in his right hand, has hold of one arm of the more homely Michael Angelo Titmarsh, who is in his turn looking up to the ferocious and colossal Major Gahagan, with whose stride he is absurdly endeavouring to keep pace. The Major's is a truly terrific figure. The enormous plumes of his high Polish shako, with the skull and cross-bones in front, are waving in the breeze, as is his long hair, his pointed moustache, and his spreading beard. His manly chest is displayed in a tight-fitting cavalry jacket, his shapely limbs are encased in embroidered tights and heavily tasseled Hessians, a sabre as tall as Titmarsh reposes on his stalwart arm, and altogether he appears some nine feet high.

The trio, thus marching hand in hand together, are supposed to be on the very verge of immortality, which, in the sketch, uncommonly resembles a precipice.

The other illustrations of the two small volumes, all of which are printed in a warm sepia tint, consist of 'Mrs. Shum's Ejectment;' Mr. Deuceace paying for his Papa's Cigars;' 'Mr. Deuceace's disinterested Declaration;' 'Mr. Yellowplush displaying his Credentials' (his plush garments to wit); 'Major Gahagan, from the great portrait by Titmarsh, in the gallery of H.H. the Nawaub of Budge Budge;' 'The Major discovering the Infidelity of Mrs. Chowder Loll' (where his tremendous figure is striding across the 'tattees,' through a window, into the very midst of the disconcerted family); 'The Major's Interview with a Celebrated Character' (no less a personage than the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, who is on tip-toe, dressed in the historical little cocked-hat and grey coat, trying to put his small figure more on a level with the overwhelming Gahagan: in the background an English general of the period, dressed in a crescent-shaped cocked-hat and plume, a tight long coat, with swallow-tails reaching to his heels, and white ducks split over the boots, with a telescope under his arm, is in conversation with one of the fierce-looking French Marshals); 'The Major in the Tent of Puttee Rouge' (a terrifying figure, disguised in black paint, affectionately hugging a whisky-jar of considerable dimensions).

The episode of the 'Professor' affords the artist a favourable subject, which he treats with full comic force—' Mr. Dando declares his Name and Quality.' It may be remembered that the oyster-eater has taken advantage of the absence of the proprietor to obtain an unlimited supply of his favourite bivalves at an oyster-room, where the mistress did not recognise her unprincipled customer, but was even so confiding as to send out for brandy-and-water in liberal proportion to the oysters consumed by this scourge of supper-rooms. The unfortunate proprietor has just returned in time to learn a description of the business which has been done in his absence; in some fear he is bringing in his bill, the while he is tying on his professional apron. Mr. Dando is seated majestically on the table, according to Thackeray's picture of the scene; swinging his legs about in a semi-intoxicated state, and picking his teeth, in an unconcerned and self-possessed manner, with an oyster-knife; a pile of shells, sufficient for many grottoes, are at his feet, while the horror-stricken servants are gathering other shells scattered around. The professor is supposed to have just met the reasonable demand for payment made by the deluded master of the establishment with a yell of tipsy laughter, and the announcement that his name is Dando, and that he never pays! Above his head may be read the comforting intelligence that a great reduction is made on taking a quantity, to which advantage Dando is very obviously entitled.

The last plate ('Bedford Row Conspiracy'), 'Mr. Perkins discovered in the Zoological Gardens,' depicts Mr. John Perkins standing, with the fair Lucy Gorgon, on the parapet which surrounds the bearpit at the Zoological Gardens. The lady's hands are placed on the gentleman's shoulder, his arm is round her waist, she being somewhat timid, and he is encouraging her to jump down—into his fond arms. She obeys him, and jumps plump into the awful presence of her aunt and guardian, Lady Gorgon, who is at the head of a neat little train, consisting of three Miss Gorgons, Master Gorgon, a French governess, and a footman carrying a poodle, all of whom had listened for some minutes to the billings and cooings of this imprudent young pair.

The last story reprinted in this series is 'The Fatal Boots,' which appears without any pictures, the artist and author modestly declaring that, as this edifying narrative originally appeared with George Cruikshank's illustrations (in the 'Comic Almanack' for 1839), he is not inclined to provoke comparisons between the works of that eminent designer and his own.

Allusions to caricature-drawing are frequent throughout Thackeray's works, and he delighted to bring the young art-amateur on his scenes.