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likely to rival Tenniel as a cartoonist, has not been very active in

this way; while Mr. Matthew Morgan, the clever artist of the

"Tomahawk," has transferred his services to the United States.  Of

Mr. Bowcher of "Judy," and various other professedly humorous

designers, space permits no further mention.

There remains, however, one popular branch of book-illustration,

which has attracted the talents of some of the most skilful and

original of modern draughtsmen, i.e. the embellishment of children's

books.  From the days when Mulready drew the old "Butterfly's Ball"

and "Peacock at Home" of our youth, to those of the delightfully

Blake-like fancies of E. V. B., whose "Child's Play" has recently

been re-published for the delectation of a new generation of

admirers, this has always been a popular and profitable employment;

but of late years it has been raised to the level of a fine art.

Mr. H. S. Marks, Mr. J. D. Watson, Mr. Walter Crane, have produced

specimens of nursery literature which, for refinement of colouring

and beauty of ornament, cannot easily be surpassed.  The equipments

of the last named, especially, are of a very high order.  He began

as a landscapist on wood; he now chiefly devotes himself to the

figure; and he seems to have the decorative art at his fingers' ends

as a natural gift.  Such work as "King Luckieboy's Party" was a

revelation in the way of toy books, while the "Baby's Opera" and

"Baby's Bouquet" are petits chefs d'oeuvre, of which the sagacious

collector will do well to secure copies, not for his nursery, but

his library.  Nor can his "Mrs. Mundi at Home" be neglected by the

curious in quaint and graceful invention. {14}  Another book--the

"Under the Window" of Miss Kate Greenaway--comes within the same

category.  Since Stothard, no one has given us such a clear-eyed,

soft-faced, happy-hearted childhood; or so poetically "apprehended"

the coy reticences, the simplicities, and the small solemnities of

little people.  Added to this, the old-world costume in which she

usually elects to clothe her characters, lends an arch piquancy of

contrast to their innocent rites and ceremonies.  Her taste in

tinting, too, is very sweet and spring-like; and there is a fresh,

pure fragrance about all her pictures as of new-gathered nosegays;

or, perhaps, looking to the fashions that she favours, it would be

better to say "bow-pots."  But the latest "good genius" of this

branch of book-illustrating is Mr. Randolph Caldecott, a designer

assuredly of the very first order.  There is a spontaneity of fun,

an unforced invention about everything he does, that is infinitely

entertaining.  Other artists draw to amuse us; Mr. Caldecott seems

to draw to amuse himself,--and this is his charm.  One feels that he

must have chuckled inwardly as he puffed the cheeks of his "Jovial

Huntsmen;" or sketched that inimitably complacent dog in the "House

that Jack Built;" or exhibited the exploits of the immortal "train-

band captain" of "famous London town."  This last is his

masterpiece.  Cowper himself must have rejoiced at it,--and Lady

Austen.  There are two sketches in this book--they occupy the

concluding pages--which are especially fascinating.  On one, John

Gilpin, in a forlorn and flaccid condition, is helped into the house

by the sympathising (and very attractive) Betty; on the other he has

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