y thing make? Take a parcel of sodjers, officers and all, and
stretch 'em out in a row, and paint 'em, and then engrave 'em, and put
it into one of our annuals, and see how folks would larf, and ask, 'What
boardin'-school gall did that? Who pulled her up out of standin' corn,
and sot her up on eend for an artist? they'd say.

"There is nothin' here to take hold on. It's so plaguy smooth and high
polished, the hands slip off; you can't get a grip of it. Now, take Lord
First Chop, who is the most fashionable man in London, dress him in
the last cut coat, best trowsers, French boots, Paris gloves, and
grape-vine-root cane, don't forget his whiskers, or mous-stache, or
breast-pins, or gold chains, or any thing; and what have you got?--a
tailor's print-card, and nothin' else.

"Take a lady, and dress her in a'most a beautiful long habit, man's hat,
stand-up collar and stock, clap a beautiful little cow-hide whip in her
hand, and mount her on a'most a splendiferous white hoss, with long tail
and flowin' mane, a rairin' and a cavortin' like mad, and a champin'
and a chawin' of its bit, and makin' the froth fly from its mouth, a
spatterin' and white-spottin' of her beautiful trailin', skirt like any
thing. And what have you got?--why a print like the posted hand-bills of
a circus.

"Now spit on your fingers, and rub Lord First Chop out of the slate, and
draw an Irish labourer, with his coat off, in his shirt-sleeves, with
his breeches loose and ontied at the knees, his yarn stockings and thick
shoes on; a little dudeen in his mouth, as black as ink and as short as
nothin'; his hat with devilish little rim and no crown to it, and a hod
on his shoulders, filled with bricks, and him lookin' as if he was a
singin' away as merry as a cricket:

When I was young and unmarried,
my shoes they were new.
But now I am old and am married,
the water runs troo,'

Do that, and you have got sunthin' worth lookin' at, quite
pictures-quee, as Sister Sall used to say. And because why? _You have
got sunthin' nateral_.

"Well, take the angylyferous dear a horseback, and rub her out, well, I
won't say that nother, for I'm fond of the little critturs, dressed or
not dressed for company, or any way they like, yes, I like woman-natur',
I tell _you_. But turn over the slate, and draw on t'other side on't
an old woman, with a red cloak, and a striped petticoat, and a poor
pinched-up, old, squashed-in bonnet on, bendin' forrard, w