a Dutch paintin', it is good, because it is faithful; the mop has the
right number of yarns, and each yarn has the right number of twists,
(altho' he mistook the mop of the grandfather, for the mop of the man of
the present day) and the pewter plates are on the kitchen dresser, and
the other little notions are all there. He has done the most that could
be done for them, but the painter desarves more praise than the subject.

"Why is it every man's sketches of America takes? Do you suppose it is
the sketches? No. Do you reckon it is the interest we create? No. Is it
our grand experiments? No. They don't care a brass button for us, or our
country, or experiments nother. What is it then? It is because they are
sketches of natur. Natur in every grade and every variety of form; from
the silver plate, and silver fork, to the finger and huntin' knife. Our
artificials Britishers laugh at; they are bad copies, that's a fact; I
give them up. Let them laugh, and be darned; but I stick to my natur,
and I stump them to produce the like.

"Oh, Squire, if you ever sketch me, for goodness gracious sake, don't
sketch me as an Attache to our embassy, with the Legation button, on the
coat, and black Jube Japan in livery. Don't do that; but paint me in my
old waggon to Nova Scotier, with old Clay before me, you by my side,
a segar in my mouth, and natur all round me. And if that is too
artificial; oh, paint me in the back woods, with my huntin' coat on, my
leggins, my cap, my belt, and my powder-horn. Paint me with my talkin'
iron in my hand, wipin' her, chargin' her, selectin' the bullet, placin'
it in the greased wad, and rammin' it down. Then draw a splendid oak
openin' so as to give a good view, paint a squirrel on the tip top of
the highest branch, of the loftiest tree, place me off at a hundred
yards, drawin' a bead on him fine, then show the smoke, and young squire
squirrel comin' tumblin' down head over heels lumpus', to see whether
the ground was as hard as dead squirrels said it was. Paint me nateral,
I besech you; for I tell you now, as I told you before, and ever shall
say, there is nothin' worth havin' or knowin', or hearin', or readin',
or seein', or tastin', or smellin', or feelin' and above all and more
than all, nothin' worth affectionin' but _Natur_.

CHAPTER XIV. THE SOCDOLAGER.

As soon as I found my friend Mr. Hopewell comfortably settled in his
lodgings, I went to the office of the Belgian Consul and other pe