ing of pride, opening the heart of the responsive
beholder to deeper knowledge of the inherent kinship of all humankind.

How does the consummate realism of the cheap photographer show its
babies of yester-year, clothed now in the raiment of mature years and
simple honours?

That appealing spectacle, the girl who has performed somewhere in
curiously home-made-looking "tights," and, laughing roguishly at the
camera, been photographed afterward (from this sight what roue would
not turn away his sinful eyes in shame and pity?). The highly
satisfied young man in the very rented-appearing evening clothes
(photographed, it is apparent, in the day time). The blank-looking
person who for some cryptic reason is enamoured of the studious,
literary pose, and appears, in effect like a frontispiece portrait,
glancing up from a writing table (an obviously artificial cigar between
the fingers of one hand, apparently made of carbon, and, presumably,
the property of the photographer). The aspiring amateur boxer, in
position, with his sparing trunks on and an American flag around his
waist (or sometimes, in default of trunks, he is seen in his nether
undergarment). The jolly girl in boy's clothes (who has not seen
her?). The little child in costume performing a cute dance. The
coloured beau, a heavy swell, in spats and a van Bibber overcoat. The
gay banqueters of the So-and-So Association, around their festive board
(one man, devilish fellow! holding aloft a beer bottle). The young
girl in confirmation attire, standing awkwardly by a table (her slip of
a mind, as she stands there, very probably less upon her God than upon
her common, foolish dress). The team of amateur comedians (sad
spectacle!). The bride and groom (perennial as the naked baby)
standing, curiously enough, upon our old friend, the hairy rug. The
family group (all the figures of which have a curious wax-work effect,
reminiscent of the late Eden Musee). The policeman, in uniform
(sitting in a chair of cathedral architecture). The fireman (a hero,
perhaps,--though no man is a hero, merely amazingly human, to the cheap
photographer's camera). The youthful swains posed beside that
indestructible stage property of the popular photographer, the
artificial tree stump. The immortal woman vain of that part of her
which Mr. Mantalini referred to as "outline," and careful to keep her
near arm from obstructing the spectator's view (sometimes she is
clothed; sometimes