aris 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, with a staff
in her hand, a leadin' of a donkey that has a pair of yaller willow
saddle-bags on, with coloured vegetables and flowers, and red beet-tops,
a goin' to market. And what have you got? Why a pictur' worth lookin'
at, too. Why?--_because it's natur'_.

"Now, look here, Squire; let Copley, if he was alive, but he ain't; and
it's a pity too, for it would have kinder happified the old man, to see
his son in the House of Lords, wouldn't it? Squire Copley, you know, was
a Boston man; and a credit to our great nation too. P'raps Europe never
has dittoed him since.

"Well, if h