and yet they are all capital portraits." And again;-“I have actually beheld the original of the Long Gentleman in Peter Schlemil, (a German tale, illustr ted by Cruikshank, which we shall notice by-and-bye ;) I know when and where George saw him; and yet it is a thousand to one against his having any recollection of meeting with such a man. He has merely elongated his limbs and carcase, and somewhat diabolised his countenance ;—it is nevertheless a portrait."

All this we firmly believe to be true; it is one of George's happy peculiarities, as we have before said, in other words, not merely to make faces but likenesses-likenesses which every body all but recognizes. Who is there, for instance, that has not, somewhere or other, although he forgets precisely where, met with this Irish gentleman, roaring and ripe for a bit of battery? We quote the creature from "More Mornings."

The eyes and features are certainly national-they belong to a class; Hibernians of a certain grade in society seem to scorn the very earth thus, in common, when excited; the costume, including the disconsolate dragged coat, is general; but our irritated friend has something about him which may be termed particular: he is not even one of a class, an order, a genus, or even a species; he is an individual -a variety. He lodges at number nine in some alley.

To give another case:-Here is a jockey, who is not peculiar to "Three Courses," (though taken from them,) but who has been seen on every course in the three kingdoms. He is well known at Newmarket-the Doncaster folks are intimate with him. Mr. Bland inquires if he isn't "the chap who broke his leg?" Chifney forgets his name, but perfectly remembers having "beat him by half-a-head." He is a feather-weight; the tips of his toes support him with ease; he is afraid to laugh out heartily like a man; we fear he'll have to carry a shot-belt; he has evidently overdone it this time in training. The brawny blackguard Dentist in this cut must be familiar to every man who has travelled; he is ostler at the Rose and Crown, or the Hen and Chickens. The juvenile Jack-o'-lanthorn, who is being

relieved of a tooth, gratis, by Will-o'-the-wisp, feels at once "pained and astonished at his friend's proceedings:" it is clear that the pitchfork is a surprise upon him-he had had no reason to expect it. On suffering his dental domestic enemy to be tied to the stall-post, he had evidently flattered himself that no such course would have been adopted: the pull has just commenced; his whole weight is on the string, and as the gentleman in the next stall, whose hair has been recently conscious of a mane-comb, foresees with grim delight, in another moment he will be on his back minus a molar. Jack is a fellow who could not help being hoaxed; Will is one who could not help hoaxing him: he always has been and always will be a hoaxer ; the other has been a butt all his life.

These are not solitary bits of pictorial biography; but, on the contrary, in George's works, such information abounds: on the brow of nine-tenths of their population a condensed memoir is graven; they are ticketed and labelled; we see at a glance what line of conduct they have adopted-in what society they have moved-whether or not they are in their usual station-" how they are off" in the world, &c. In the Illustrations of Time, the fat knock-kneed fellow, with his eyes half-closed, who is telling the man in the travelling cap that the mail has started full twenty minutes, is a publican who decidedly commenced his career as a potboy. His master died, and the widow finding "Joey" or "Gekup" useful, married him off-hand. He knew the customers and the ways of the house; besides, she didn't wish to be pestered by that old fool Pettifer. Mr. Jones, too, began to grow quite disagreeable, and she durst not affront him; and as for the master sweep-drat the man! Well, Joey or Gekup-we think his name is Gekup, and so be it-Gekup, although the landlady's husband, and "up in years," is still the landlady's potboy. She keeps the key of the till; he puts the house "to rights" after the company are gone and the bar is locked; he lights the fires and

brings her breakfast in bed" of a morning:" he retires at two, gets up at four to make tea "for the Dorchester coach;" withdraws again for half an hour, and rises for the day at five. He never had a good night's rest in his life. He takes a nap in the skittle-ground every fine afternoon; and sips the porter from every pot to which he is invited, for the good of the house. He is not fat-he is blown out like a bad shoulder of veal. You might treat him as a caoutchouc football with impunity. His wife thrashed him the night before last, because she broke a cracked coffee-cup, and so spoiled her set.

The miserable man who is "behind time," has been so all his life. "Delay" is plainly written on his face; it would form a good frontispiece, aye, or even a title to Cogan's work "On the danger of being dilatory." Like the first Billy Pitt's coadjutor in office, the trumpery Duke of Newcastle, he looks as though he lost half an hour every morning of his life, and sweated like a calf broke loose from his pen, throughout the day, in fruitless attempts to overtake it. His wife yonder, the lady bustling up in the back ground (dragging a child that inherits the virtues of papa and mamma, and is and ever will be eminently behind-hand), beats him hollow in the difficult art of doing nothing. She has pushed him forward as a picquet; her despair is visible; still she has hopes, or she would not hurry and drive and drag on the brat at that rate; for she knows that lazy peopleand this is their eventual ruin-often are lucky. They dine at five nominally, but dinner does not appear until half-past six or seven. They are anxious to be au fait to the news, and they read yesterday's paper. One of their mutual relatives-for they are cousins-sent to them on his death-bed, stating how happy he should be if they would procure him a few oranges. As they had great expectations from the old gentleman, they sent him an entire chest-three days after he had died, having previously, by an energetic codicil, transferred their legacy to Mrs. Sims, a lady who is honoured with their mortal detestation. The wife was the posthumous child of a rich and provident father, who unconscious of her future appearance in the world, had divided at his decease the whole of his property among his visible offspring. The husband was a twin; but his mother's barony and entailed estate descended to his elder brother, who contrived to see the light three minutes before him. Should he ever obtain a reprieve, or a pardon for an innocent friend under sentence, he will arrive with it at Debtors' door five-and-twenty minutes after the supposed délinquent, on whose life depends the annuity on which he exists, has been cut down and given over to his friends. When he has an important appointment, and is scarcely in time, he meets with Cross or Mrs. Lorimer.

Then again there is the deaf postillion of "Three Courses and a Dessert." Why the fellow has been deaf these twenty years. How luckless are those two fond lovers who, when striving to outstrip the speed of angry fathers, and uncles in uniform, trusted themselvesJoey Duddle-to thy guidance! Thou didst not hear the perch-bolt of thy chaise snap-thou didst not hear their screams-thou trottest on intent only on thy duty of "getting over the ground." Allow

us to introduce thee. gentlemen; what think

Joey Duddle, the deaf postillion, ladies and ye of him?

To GRETNA

GCK

Speaking candidly now-has not Joey been deaf for a considerable period?-The animals of Cruikshank are equally retrospective; their past achievements are strikingly apparent from their present pursuits. To illustrate our remark, there is the horse bestridden by Gilpin (how afflicted his face looks!) which never was completely "broke in ;" he is a runaway, to the bone! Conscious, as we are, of our superb powers of equitation, we should be sorry to put our foot in his stirrup: he is a downright bad one. Fancy yourself that disconsolate cock, just under his frequent hoof!

To return to our narrative-George and his brother flourished as caricaturists for several years. At length, satiated with political fun, they determined on trying what they could do in another line. "Life in London" was the consequence, and its effect was prodigious. Every watchman had his Tom, and every night-constable was perfectly acquainted with Logic. Moncrieff wrote a piece from the cuts; for, as he told Egan, he had burnt the letter-press as being perfectly useless-and it proved the most successful drama that had ever been produced. At its fiftieth representation, we even we were compelled to see it from the orchestra-seats in the boxes being utterly impossible, unless one could condescend to an undignified rush!

George's idea as to the consummation of the metropolitan exploits, was not, however, fulfilled, either by Egan or Moncrieff. His plan was not without a moral. He would have closed the career of Tom in a workhouse-that of Jerry in a hospital --and that of Logic in a ditch. He certainly intended to have inflicted poetical justice on each of his characters-but he was thwarted-much to his annoyance, even up to the present day.

"Life in Paris" followed; but it was not so successful as the Tom and Jerry affair. Soon after, the brothers parted; and George brought out his brilliant embellishments to Hone's Political Squibs; than which nothing pictorial ever produced so great an excitement. Soon after the conclusion of Hone's works, Canning came into power, and George was floored. He could not render popular, and, comparatively speaking, liberal ministers-although Canning opposed manumission of the slaves, and the repeal of the Test Act-pictorially ridiculous; he loved political liberality, and the same feeling so completely sways him at this moment, that he would not point a pencil against our present monarch or Earl Grey, or Baron Brougham, for the universe. What was the consequence? Simply that he found himself in possession of ten fingers, a set of teeth, and nothing to do. In this dilemma he proposed to illustrate books: but so little were his stupendous powers at that time appreciated, that previously to obtaining a commission, on the Points of Humour, he was requested to furnish specimens! He condescended to do so: they electrified Baldwin and Co., and, on their publication, amazed the public. Lockhart, in Blackwood's Magazine, occupied several pages in discussing the young artist's merits, and thenceforth he became in requisition. Let us recollect, if we can, a few of the books that he was successively entreated to illustrate! There was Wight's work of Mornings at Bow-street," and a book already quoted, by the same facetious wight, entitled "More mornings at Bow-street;"" Peter Schlemil;"" Italian Tales ;" "Hans of Iceland;" "Life of Lord Byron ;"" German Stories ;" "Tales of Irish Life;" " Punch and Judy;" "Tom Thumb ;" "Johnny Gilpin ;" "The Epping Hunt;" "Three Courses and a Dessert;"" Greenwich Hospital;" "Tim Bobbin ;" Punch and Judy;" "Roscoe's Novelists," &c. &c. All these, and the anecdotes and critiques connected with them-jointly and severally; a consideration of George's occasional failures, and incapacities; his devout aspirations to quit the ludicrous, which he contemns, for the sublime, which he admires; his extraordinary powers, considering the paucity of his academical acquirements; his fancy and invention; his "Scraps and Sketches," in which the full extent of his ability is shown-for in them he is neither fettered by the conceptions of authors-nor the punctilios of publishers; the history of his attempting to paint in oil, from his earliest efforts;-in fact a full estimate of his genius, humour, and graphic labours-his days of toil over faces " no bigger than peas," which to the unconscious public seem to have been hit off" at a moment's notice"-his style of execution as a draftsman and an etcher, and all that we have not already narrated about him-must be postponed until our next number. We have only just reached his "high and

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