printed in an unmistakeable type on their
own faces.

It is perfectly incredible what a large number
of ugly people one sees. One wonders where
they can possibly have come from,—from
what invading tribe of savages or monkies.
We meet faces that are scarcely human,—
positively brutified out of all trace of
intelligence by vice, gin, and want of education;
but beside this sad class, there are the simply
ugly faces, with all the lines turned the wrong
way, and all the colours in the wrong places;
and then there are the bird and beast faces,
of which Gavarni's caricatures are faithful
portraits. Doesn't everybody count a crane
and a secretary-bird among his acquaintances?
—tall men, with sloping shoulders and slender
legs, with long necks, which no cravat or
stock can cover, with small heads;—if a crane,
the hair cropped short; if a secretary-bird,
worn long and flung back on to the shoulders,
that look as if they were sliding down-hill in
a fright. These are the men who are called
elegant—good lord!—and who maunder
through life in a daft state of simpering
dilettanteism, but who never thought a man's
thought, nor did a man's work, since they
were born. Every one knows, too, the hawk's
face—about gambling-tables and down in the
City very common—and the rook's, and the
jackdaw's; and some of us are troubled with
the distressing neighbourhood of a foolish
man-snipe, and some of us have had our
intimate owls and favourite parrots; though
the man-parrot is not a desirable companion in
general.

But the beast-faces, there is no limit to
them! Dogs alone supply the outlines of half
the portraits we know. There is the bull-
dog,—that man in the brown suit yonder,
with bandy legs and heavy shoulders,—did
you ever see a kenneled muzzle more
thoroughly the bull-dog than this? The
small eyes close under the brows, the smooth
bullet forehead, heavy jaw, and snub nose, all
are essentially of the bull-dog breed, and at
the same time essentially British. Then the
mastiff, with the double-bass voice and the
square hanging jaw; and the shabby-looking
turnspit, with his hair staring out at all sides,
and his eyes drawn up to its roots; and the
greyhound, lean of rib and sharp of face; and
the terrier—who is often a lawyer—with a
snarl in his voice and a kind of restlessness
in his eye, as if mentally worrying a rat—his
client; and the Skye, all beard and moustache
and glossy curls, with a plaintive expression
of countenance and an exceedingly meek
demeanour; and the noble old Newfoundland
dog, perhaps a brave old soldier from active
service, who is chivalrous to women and
gentle to children, and who repels petty
annoyances with a grand patience that is
veritably heroic. Reader, if you know a
Newfoundland-dog man, cherish him, stupid
as he probably will be, yet he is worth your
love. Then we have horse-faced men; and
men like camels, with quite the camel lip;
and the sheep-faced man, with the forehead
retreating from his long energetic nose,—
smooth men without whiskers, and with
shining hair cut close, and not curling, like
pointers; the lion-man, he is a grand fellow;
and the bull-headed man; the flat serpent
head; and the tiger's, like an inverted pyramid;
the giraffe's lengthy unhelpfulness;
and the sharp red face of the fox. Don't we
meet men like these at every step we take in
London?—and if we know any such
intimately, don't we invariably find that their
characters correspond somewhat with their
persons?

The women, too—we have likenesses for
them. I know a woman who might have
been the ancestress of all the rabbits in all
the hutches in England. A soft downy-
looking, fair, placid woman, with long hair
looping down like ears, and an innocent face
of mingled timidity and surprise. She is a
sweet-tempered thing, always eating or
sleeping; who breathes hard when she goes
upstairs, and who has as few brains in working
order as a human being can get on with.
She is just a human rabbit, and nothing
more; and she looks like one. We all know
the setter woman—the best of all the types
—graceful, animated, well-formed, intelligent,
with large eyes and wavy hair, who
walks with a firm tread but a light one,
and who can turn her hand to anything.
The true setter woman is always married;
she is the real woman of the world.
Then there is the Blenheim spaniel, who
covers up her face in her ringlets and holds
down her head when she talks, and who
is shy and timid. And there is the
greyhound woman, with lantern-jaws and braided
hair, and large knuckles, generally rather
distorted. There is the cat woman, too;
elegant, stealthy, clever, caressing; who
walks without noise and is great in the way
of endearment. No limbs are so supple as
hers, no backbone so wonderfully pliant; no
voice so sweet, no manners so endearing.
She extracts your secrets from you before
you know that you have spoken; and half-
an-hour's conversation with that graceful,
purring woman, has revealed to her
every most dangerous fact it has been your
life's study to hide. The cat woman is a
dangerous animal. She has claws hidden in
that velvet paw, and she can draw blood
when she unsheathes them. Then there is
the cowfaced woman, generally of phlegmatic
temperament and melancholy disposition,
given to pious books and teetotalism. And
there is the lurcher woman, the strong-
visaged, strong-minded female, who wears
rough coats with men's pockets and large
bone buttons, and whose bonnets fling a
spiteful defiance at both beauty and fashion.
This is that wonderful creature who electrifies
foreigners by climbing their mountains in a
mongrel-kind of attire, in which men's cloth