A picture is worth a thousand words, and no one knows that better than Honore Daumier. His life story reads like a strand in a novel by Victor Hugo. The poor son of a failed poet and glazier, young Daumier chanced his luck as an artist in Paris in the 1830s. He studied the new technique of lithography, and at the age of 22 his first political caricatures were published in papers such as Le Charivari. Almost at once, he received a compliment from the government censor -- a six-month jail sentence! But Daumier, born just 14 years after the French Revolution, was to prove a tireless rebel, and for the next 40 years his satires snapped at the heels of hypocrisy.

The caricatures currently on display at the Tobu Museum of Art fall into two categories: impressive "politics" and delightful "manners." First, the political work, dating from 1854, reflects a volatile Europe leading up to the disastrous Franco-Prussian War. However, unless one knows the historical context, (or can read the Japanese exhibition footnotes) much is obscure. Fortunately, the catalog has footnotes in English, some images are self-explanatory, and one can always just muddle through and enjoy his roguish style.

In 1868 Daumier's work was ringing alarm bells about the coming war with Prussia. By 1870 it was too late. In "Bismarck's Nightmare" a grinning Death points to a battlefield, thanking the Prussian Chancellor for the carnage. This refers to the bloody battles at Metz, fought just days before, in which over 30,000 French and German soldiers lost their lives. Daumier was already 62 years old, working very fast to meet deadlines, and pouring a lifetime's experience into such remarkable works.

Much had happened in the meantime. Street warfare in Paris, the Second Empire, the continued poverty of les miserables, the new railways, gaslight and so on. Several times in his career, when the government banned political expression, he turned to social subjects, such as the series "Everything you could want."

Yet, although he could thrust at politicians with a rapier sharp wit, his caricatures of gossiping women, bored musicians or proud fathers are thoroughly good-natured. These observations are never cruel, sentimental or grotesque. They are simply true. Daumier captures the fleeting moments of the human comedy -- a gesture, stance, or expression -- and immortalizes them with a few rapid strokes of the pen. One glance and we recognize the emotions of the vain grocer, or the old woman outraged because her dog is refused a ride on the bus.

Some of the short captions have the authentic ring of a conversation overheard on the street. Others must have sprung up in Daumier's mind, complete with the image. Many cartoons today are woeful in this regard: The punch line is all in the text and the visual wit virtually absent.

Surprisingly, Daumier did not prepare preliminary sketches; he drew directly on the lithographer's stone, and this shows in the spontaneous energy of his work. Nor did he spend hours in formal figure studies. He had no need, simply drawing his subjects from a prodigious memory.

Black, white and gray were his only colors and they were used with both bravado and subtlety. The way he can depict a sweltering summer day in the country, a downpour in the city, or moonlight is exceptional. The early lithographs allowed Daumier a full range of tones, but the cheaper zinc or paper technique was widely used from 1850, and the quality of reproduction fell sharply. However Daumier rapidly adapted and was soon producing bolder, simpler images to compensate for the technical limitations. His work had to leap from a page of closely printed type: grabbing the Parisian's attention while taking breakfast or supper. But what art he brought to the transitory work of the daily cartoon! As a contemporary author put it: to what heights he "raises that which is conveniently called -- a little disdainfully -- the job of journalism."

His bold compositions were much admired by younger artists such as Manet and Degas. For example, his daring composition for "The Orchestra During a Tragedy" directly inspired Degas' well-known painting "The Opera Orchestra," painted around 1868. And Delacroix, that artist of the grandiose, studied his plebian "Bathers" with great respect.

The scenes of people taking dips in baths, rivers and seaside resorts are very droll. In "Tritons Parisiens" a skinny man emerges from the water, beaming at his equally homely spouse. And in "The Sea Lion" a gangly Englishman stands dripping next to an over-dressed woman at Trouville beach, sublimely confident of her admiration. Think of Eugene Boudin's elegiac oil paintings of beach parties from the same era: How well Daumier shows the other side of the coin!

Despite the widespread admiration of fellow artists, he was never to become the great painter of his dreams. Perhaps realizing this, his work in the late 1850s lost vitality, and in 1860 the unthinkable happened: Le Charivari stopped his contract after 30 years. The poet Baudelaire was dismayed that the newspapers were deserting the artist, and wrote to a friend: "Think of Daumier! Daumier free and kicked out of Le Charivari's door . . . with pay for half a month only!"

However, the growing political crisis gave him fresh energy, as we can see in the first part of the exhibition, and he recaptured the brilliance of his earlier career. Steadily, and at times feverishly, he worked until tragedy struck in 1872. The artist who could see like a hawk and draw like an angel became blind. Victor Hugo organized an exhibition of his work, but erstwhile political supporters soon forgot the elderly satirist. However, his great friends, the artists Daubigny and Corot, helped him with a small pension and cottage, where he ended his days in 1879 at the age of 71.

At first, the rows of small prints in the exhibition might appear a rather dull prospect. But the observant visitor will come away with a head full of marvelous characters and unforgettable images: the enraptured woman at the theater, the gallant pensioner, and the lonely old man in a nightcap transported by a snow-fall on Christmas Eve, 1853. Like the banner on an old Fleet Street newspaper, his lifework reads "all human life is there." Few artists could wish for a finer epitaph than that.