I. KATE GREENAWAY

In the world of pictorial recollection there are many territories, the
natives of which you may recognise by their characteristics as surely as
Ophelia recognises her true-love by his cockle-hat and sandal shoon.
There is the land of grave gestures and courteous inclinations, of
dignified leave-takings and decorous greetings; where the ladies (like
Richardson's Pamela) don the most charming round-eared caps and frilled
_negliges_; where the gentlemen sport ruffles and bag-wigs and spotless
silk stockings, and invariably exhibit shapely calves above their silver
shoe-buckles; where you may come in St. James's Park upon a portly
personage with a star, taking an alfresco pinch of snuff after that
leisurely style in which a pinch of snuff should be taken, so as not to
endanger a lace cravat or a canary-coloured vest; where you may seat
yourself on a bench by Rosamond's Pond in company with a tremulous mask
who is evidently expecting the arrival of a "pretty fellow"; or happen
suddenly, in a secluded side-walk, upon a damsel in muslin and a dark
hat, who is hurriedly scrawling a _poulet_, not without obvious signs of
perturbation. But whatever the denizens of this country are doing, they
are always elegant and always graceful, always appropriately grouped
against their fitting background of high-ceiled rooms and striped
hangings, or among the urns and fish-tanks of their sombre-shrubbed
gardens. This is the land of STOTHARD.

In the adjoining country there is a larger sense of colour--a fuller
pulse of life. This is the region of delightful dogs and horses and
domestic animals of all sorts; of crimson-faced hosts and buxom
ale-wives; of the most winsome and black-eyed milkmaids and the most