produce; or, rather, we should say, he is very original, his trees being
decidedly of his own make and composition, not imitated from any master.

But what then? Can a man be supposed to imitate everything? We know what
the noblest study of mankind is, and to this Mr. Cruikshank has confined
himself. That postilion with the people in the broken-down chaise
roaring after him is as deaf as the post by which he passes. Suppose
all the accessories were away, could not one swear that the man was
stone-deaf, beyond the reach of trumpet? What is the peculiar character
in a deaf man's physiognomy?--can any person define it satisfactorily in
words?--not in pages; and Mr. Cruikshank has expressed it on a piece
of paper not so big as the tenth part of your thumb-nail. The horses
of John Gilpin are much more of the equestrian order; and as here the
artist has only his favorite suburban buildings to draw, not a word is
to be said against his design. The inn and old buildings are charmingly
designed, and nothing can be more prettily or playfully touched.

"At Edmonton his loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wond'ring much
To see how he did ride.

"'Stop, stop, John Gilpin! Here's the house!'
They all at once did cry;
'The dinner waits, and we are tired--'
Said Gilpin--'So am I!'

"Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With post-boy scamp'ring in the rear,