CROSS BUS DRIVER. "_Said_ THEY wouldn't go? THEY said they wouldn't
go? Why, what do you suppose you're put there for? You call that
conductin' a buss. Oh! THEY wouldn't go! I like that, &c., &c."--
_Punch_, September 1, 1860.]
Charles Keene died of general atrophy on January 4, 1891. It was
inexpressibly pathetic to see how patiently, how resignedly he wasted
away; he retained his unalterable sweetness to the last.
His handsome, dark-skinned face, so strongly lined and full of
character; his mild and magnificent light-grey eyes, that reminded one
of a St. Bernard's; his tall, straight, slender aspect, that reminded
one of Don Quixote; his simplicity of speech and character; his love
of humour, and the wonderful smile that lit up his face when he heard
a good story, and the still more wonderful wink of his left eye when
he told one--all these will remain strongly impressed on the minds of
those who ever met him.
I attended his funeral as I had attended Leech's twenty-six years
before; Canon Ainger, a common friend of us both, performed the
service. It was a bitterly cold day, which accounted for the
sparseness of the mourners compared to the crowd that was present on
the former occasion; but bearing in mind that all those present were
either relations or old friends, all of them with the strongest and
deepest personal regard for the friend we had lost, the attendance
seemed very large indeed; and all of us, I think, in our affectionate
remembrance of one of the most singularly sweet-natured,
sweet-tempered, and simple-hearted men that ever lived, forgot for the
time that a very great artist was being laid to his rest.
[Illustration: GEORGE DU MAURIER