ed some extremely choice roots of this
valuable plant to a friend in England, who, on the arrival of the case,
consigned it to his gardener to unpack. A great deal of anxiety with
regard to the contents was manifested by all concerned, but on the
lid of the box being removed, there issued from it three or four fine
specimens of the enormous Blatta beetle that had been preying upon the
plants during the voyage; against these the gardeners, the grooms, the
porters, and the porters' children, issued forth in arms, and this scene
the artist has immortalized.

We have spoken of the admirable way in which Mr. Cruikshank has depicted
Irish character and Cockney character; English country character is
quite as faithfully delineated in the person of the stout porteress and
her children, and of the "Chawbacon" with the shovel, on whose face is
written "Zummerzetsheer." Chawbacon appears in another plate, or else
Chawbacon's brother. He has come up to Lunnan, and is looking about him
at raaces.

How distinct are these rustics from those whom we have just been
examining! They hang about the purlieus of the metropolis: Brook Green,
Epsom, Greenwich, Ascot, Goodwood, are their haunts. They visit London
professionally once a year, and that is at the time of Bartholomew
fair. How one may speculate upon the different degrees of rascality,
as exhibited in each face of the thimblerigging trio, and form little
histories for these worthies, charming Newgate romances, such as have
been of late the fashion! Is any man so blind that he cannot see the
exact face that is writhing under the thhnblerigged hero's hat? Like
Timanthes of old, our artist expresses great passions without the aid
of the human countenance. There is another specimen--a street row of
inebriated bottles. Is there any need of having a face after this? "Come
on!" says Claret-bottle, a dashing, genteel fellow, with his hat on one
ear--"Come on! has any man a mind to tap me?" Claret-bottle is a little
screwed (as one may see by his legs), but full of gayety and courage;
not so that stout, apoplectic Bottle-of-rum, who has staggered against
the wall, and has his hand upon his liver: the fellow hurts himself
with smoking, that is clear, and is as sick as sick can be. See, Port
is making away from the storm, and Double X is as flat as ditch-water.
Against these, awful in their white robes, the sober watchmen come.

Our artist then can cover up faces, and yet show them quite clea