is the friend of the young especially. Have we not read, all the
story-books that his wonderful pencil has illustrated? Did we not
forego tarts, in order to buy his "Breaking-up," or his "Fashionable
Monstrosities" of the year eighteen hundred and something? Have we
not before us, at this very moment, a print,--one of the admirable
"Illustrations of Phrenology"--which entire work was purchased by
a joint-stock company of boys, each drawing lots afterwards for the
separate prints, and taking his choice in rotation? The writer of this,
too, had the honor of drawing the first lot, and seized immediately
upon "Philoprogenitiveness"--a marvellous print (our copy is not at
all improved by being colored, which operation we performed on it
ourselves)--a marvellous print, indeed,--full of ingenuity and fine
jovial humor. A father, possessor of an enormous nose and family, is
surrounded by the latter, who are, some of them, embracing the former.
The composition writhes and twists about like the Kermes of Rubens. No
less than seven little men and women in nightcaps, in frocks, in bibs,
in breeches, are clambering about the head, knees, and arms of the man
with the nose; their noses, too, are preternaturally developed--the
twins in the cradle have noses of the most considerable kind. The second
daughter, who is watching them; the youngest but two, who sits squalling
in a certain wicker chair; the eldest son, who is yawning; the eldest
daughter, who is preparing with the gravy of two mutton-chops a savory
dish of Yorkshire pudding for eighteen persons; the youths who are
examining her operations (one a literary gentleman, in a remarkably neat
nightcap and pinafore, who has just had his finger in the pudding);
the genius who is at work on the slate, and the two honest lads who are
hugging the good-humored washerwoman, their mother,--all, all, save,
this worthy woman, have noses of the largest size. Not handsome
certainly are they, and yet everybody must be charmed with the picture.
It is full of grotesque beauty. The artist has at the back of his own
skull, we are certain, a huge bump of philoprogenitiveness. He loves
children in his heart; every one of those he has drawn is perfectly
happy, and jovial, and affectionate, and innocent as possible. He makes
them with large noses, but he loves them, and you always find something
kind in the midst of his humor, and the ugliness redeemed by a sly
touch of beauty. The smiling mother reconcil