less than seven little men and women in nightcaps, in frocks, in bibs,
in breeches, are clambering about the head, knees, and arms of the man
with the nose; their noses, too, are preternaturally developed--the
twins in the cradle have noses of the most considerable kind. The second
daughter, who is watching them; the youngest but two, who sits squalling
in a certain wicker chair; the eldest son, who is yawning; the eldest
daughter, who is preparing with the gravy of two mutton-chops a savory
dish of Yorkshire pudding for eighteen persons; the youths who are
examining her operations (one a literary gentleman, in a remarkably neat
nightcap and pinafore, who has just had his finger in the pudding);
the genius who is at work on the slate, and the two honest lads who are
hugging the good-humored washerwoman, their mother,--all, all, save,
this worthy woman, have noses of the largest size. Not handsome
certainly are they, and yet everybody must be charmed with the picture.
It is full of grotesque beauty. The artist has at the back of his own
skull, we are certain, a huge bump of philoprogenitiveness. He loves
children in his heart; every one of those he has drawn is perfectly
happy, and jovial, and affectionate, and innocent as possible. He makes
them with large noses, but he loves them, and you always find something
kind in the midst of his humor, and the ugliness redeemed by a sly
touch of beauty. The smiling mother reconciles one with all the hideous
family: they have all something of the mother in them--something kind,
and generous, and tender.

Knight's, in Sweeting's Alley; Fairburn's, in a court off Ludgate
Hill; Hone's, in Fleet Street--bright, enchanted palaces, which George
Cruikshank used to people with grinning, fantastical imps, and merry,
harmless sprites,--where are they? Fairburn's shop knows him no more;
not only has Knight disappeared from Sweeting's Alley, but, as we are
given to understand, Sweetings Alley has disappeared from the face of