How arch! how lovely! how maidenly in this their "sweet hour of prime," the two conspirators are! What a clever bit of composition! how workmanlike the rustic seat! how jauntily the

approaching young swells are bearing down upon them, keeping time with their long legs! you know how they will be chaffing all through other in a minute; what ringing laughs!

And is not she a jocund morn? day is too old for her. is in "the first garden of her simpleness "in" the innocent brightness of her new-born day." How plumb she stands ! How firm these dainty heels!-leaning forward just a little on the wind; her petticoat, a mere hint of its wee bit of scolloped work, done by herself, doubtless; the billowy gown; the modest little soupçon of the white silk stockings, anybody else would have shown none, or too much; the shadow of puffing papa approaching to help her down; the wonderful sense of air and space. The only thing we question is-Would papa's hat's shadow show the rim across, instead of only at the sides?

BIT FROM THE MINING DISTRICTS.

First "W'NT TAK' THY QUOAT OFF, THEN! OI TELL THEE
OI'M AS GOOD A MON AS THEE!"

Second-"THEE A MON! WHOY, THOU BE'EST ONLY WALKIN'
ABOOT TO SAVE THY FUNERAL EXPENSES."

This belongs to a set of drawings made when down in Staffordshire, his wife's county. They are all full of savage strength. They show how little he drew from fancy, and how much from nature, memory and invention proper, which, as does also true imagination, postulate a foundation in materials and fact. A mere Cockney--whose idea of a rough was that of a London ruffian- would have put Staffordshire clothes on the Bill Sykes he may have seen in the flesh or more likely on the stage, and that would be all: Leech gives you

the essence, the clothes and the county. Look at these two fellows, brutal as their own bull-dogs and as staunch,-having their own virtues too, in a way, what a shoulder, what a deltoid and biceps! the upper man developed largely by generations of arm work, the legs well enough, but not in proportion,-their education having been neglected. Contrast these men with Leech's Highlandmen in Briggs' Salmon and Grouse Adventures: there matters are reversed, because so are the conditions of growth. A Staffordshire torso on Rannoch or Liddesdale legs would be an ugly customer. Observe the pipe fallen round from the mouth's action in speaking, and see how the potteries are indicated by the smoking brick cupola.

This is delicious! What comic vis! Pluck and perspiration bewilderment and bottom! He'll be at it again presently, give him time. This is only one of the rounds, and the boot-hooks are ready for the next. Look at the state of his back-hair, his small, determined eye! the braces burst with the stress! The affair is being done in some remote, solitary room. The hat is ready, looking at him, and so are the spurs and the other boot, standing bolt upright and impossible; but he'll do it; apoplexy and asphyxia may be imminent; but doubtless these are the very boots he won the steeplechase in. A British lion this too, not to be "done," hating that bête of a word "impossible" as much as Bonaparte did, and as Briggs does

him. We have an obscure notion, too, that he has put the wrong foot into the boot; never mind.

The character of Mr. Briggs, throughout all predicaments in Punch, is, we think, better sustained, more real, more thoroughly respectable and comic, than even Mr. Pickwick's. Somehow, though the latter worthy is always very delightful and like himself when he is with us, one doesn't know what becomes of him the rest of the day; and if he was asked to be, we fear he couldn't live through an hour, or do anything for himself. He is for the stage. Briggs is a Briggs is a man you have seen, he is a man of business, of sense, and energy; a good husband and citizen, a true Briton and Christian, peppery, generous, plucky, obstinate, faithful to his spouse and bill; only he has this craze about hunting and sport in general.

This is from the Little Tour in Ireland, in which, by the bye, is one of the only two drawings he ever made of himself,-at page 141; it is a back view of him, riding with very short stirrups a rakish Irish pony; he is in the Gap of Dunloe, and listening to a barefooted master of blarney. The other likeness is in a two-page Cartoon," Mr. Punch's Fancy Ball," January 1847. In the orchestra are the men on the Punch staff at the time. The first on the left is Mayhew, playing the cornet, then Percival Leigh the double bass, Gilbert A'Beckett the violin, Doyle the clarionette, Leech next playing the same-tall, handsome, and nervous-Mark Lemon, the editor, as conductor, appealing to the fell Jerrold to moderate his bitter transports on the drum. Mooning over all is Thackeray-big, vague, childlike --playing on the piccolo; and Tom Taylor earnestly pegging