with gold: this he puts on with the utmost,
gravity—then turns to the crowd to watch its
effect upon them. Then he takes his hat off,
picks up a huge brass helmet from the
bottom of the carriage, and tries it on.
Again he looks gravely at the crowd,
suddenly removes the helmet, and places, singly,
three plumes representing the national
tricolor, watching the effect upon the spectators,
as he adds each feather. Having surveyed the
general effect of the helmet thus decorated,
he again puts it on; and, turning now full upon
the crowd, folds his arms and looks steadfastly
before him. After a pause, he rings his little
bell, and the plumed organist behind him
plays a soft and soothing air. To this tune he
again speaks:

"Well, here I am: as you see, a charlatan.
I have done this to please you: you mustn't
blame me. As I told you, I am the well-
known manufacturer of pencils. They are
cheap and they are good, as I shall presently
show you. Look here—I have a portfolio!"

The gentleman then lifts a large portfolio
or book—opens it, and exhibits to the crowd
three or four rough caricatures. He presently
pretends to perceive doubts floating about as
to the capability of his pencils to produce such
splendid pictures. Suddenly he snatches up
one of them, brandishes it in the air—
turns over the leaves of the book—finds a
blank page—then places himself in an attitude
to indicate intense thought. He frowns; he
throws up his eyes: he taps the pencil
impatiently against his chin; he traces imaginary
lines in the air; he stands for some seconds
with upturned face, rapt—waiting, in fact,
to be inspired. Suddenly he is struck
by an irresistible and overpowering thought,
and begins to draw the rough outlines
of a sketch. He proceeds with his work in
the most earnest matter. No spectator can
detect a smile upon that serious face. Now
he holds the book far away from him, to
catch the general effect, marks little errors
here and there; then sets vigorously to
work again. At last the great conception is
upon the paper. He turns it most seriously,
and with the air of a man doing a very
great favour, to the crowd. The picture
produces a burst of laughter. The pencil
manufacturer does not laugh, but
continues solemnly, to the sounds of his
organ in the buggy, to exhibit his
production. Presently, however, he closes
the book with the appearance of a man
who is satiated with the applauses of the
world. A moment afterwards he opens it a
second time; puts the point of the pencil to
his tongue, and looks eagerly at the people.
He is selecting some individual, sufficiently
eccentric and sufficiently prominent to be
recognised by the general assembly when
sketched. He has caught sight of one at
last. He looks at him intensely, to the
irrepressible amusement of the spectators,
who all follow his eyes with theirs. The
individual selected generally smiles, and
bears his public position very calmly.

"For Mercy's sake, do not stir!" the artist
fervently ejaculates, as he sets vigorously to
work. This proceeding, in the open street,
conducted with the utmost gravity, and with
the most finished acting, is irresistibly
ludicrous. As the portrait advances towards
completion, the organ plays a triumphant
melody. In five minutes a rough and bold
sketch has been produced, resembling only
in the faintest manner the original—yet
sufficiently like him to be recognised, and to
create amusement.  As the artist holds up
the portrait, to be seen by the crowd, he again
rings his little bell to silence his musical
attendant in the buggy.

And now he dwells emphatically upon the
virtues of his pencils. He declares that they
are at once black and hard. He pretends, once
more, to detect an air of incredulity in the crowd.
He is indignant. He seizes a block of oak—
informs his imaginary detractors that it is
the hardest known wood—and, with a
hammer, drives the point of one of his
pencils through it. The wood is split, the
pencil is not injured:—and he tells his imaginary
detractors that even if they are not in the
habit of using pencils for art, they are at
liberty to split wood with them for winter
firing. All they have to do is to buy them.
This is of course a very popular point in the
performances. The next is the display, to the
melancholy grind of the organ in the buggy,
of a huge box full of silver money.

This box is opened and exhibited to the
crowd as the astonishing result of these
wonderful pencils. And then the charlatan
goes through all that pantomime which
usually describes a man utterly tired of all
the enjoyments wealth can give him. He
seizes a handful of the money, and then lazily
drops it into the box. He throws himself
back and pushes the box from him, to
indicate that he is tired of riches. At last he
jumps up, and, seizing a five-franc piece,
raises his arm to throw it amongst the
spectators: but he is prevented, apparently,
by a sudden impulse.

"Once," he explains, "I threw a five-
franc piece in the midst of my customers,
when it unfortunately struck a man in the
eye. That accident gave me a lesson which
I should do wrong to forget to-day."

So he closes the box; throws it to the
bottom of the carriage, and calls upon the
crowd to become purchasers of pencils, which
will never break, and which are patronised
by the most distinguished artists. The droll
thing about this performance is that the
pencils sold really are good, and that they
actually did obtain honourable mention from
the English Exhibition Committee in eighteen
hundred and fifty-one.

The crowd having decided to purchase or
to reject the merchandise of this extraordinary
pencil-manufacturer, are soon drawn