behind a counter.  The husband, in the same way, manages to cast off every reminiscence of the shop, in the course of his three miles in the omnibus, and at six or seven o’clock you might fancy they were a duke and duchess, sitting in a gaudily furnished drawing-room, listening to two elegant young ladies torturing a piano, and another still more elegant young lady severely flogging a harp.  The effect of this, so far as our English Paul de Kocks are concerned, is, that their linen-drapers, and lacemen, and rich perfumers, are represented assuming a character that does not belong to them, and aping people whom they falsely suppose to be their betters; whereas the genuine Paul paints the Parisian tradesmen without any affectation at all.  Ours are made laughable by the common farcical attributes of all pretensions, great or small; while real unsophisticated shopkeeping (French) nature is the staple of Paul’s character-sketches, and they are more valuable, and in the end more interesting, accordingly.  Who cares for the exaggerated efforts of a Manchester warehouseman to be polished and gentlemanly?  It is only acting after all, and gives us no insight into his real character, or the character of his class, any more than Mr Coates’ anxiety to be Romeo enlightened us as to his disposition in other respects.  The Manchester warehouseman, though he fails in his attempt at fashionable parts, may be a very estimable and pains-taking individual, and, with the single exception of that foible, offers nothing to the most careful observer to distinguish him from the stupid and respectable in any part of the world.  And in this respect, any one starting as the chronicler of citizen life among us, would labour under a great disadvantage.  Whether our people are phlegmatic, or stupid, or sensible—­all three of which epithets are generally applicable to the same individual—­or that they have no opportunities of showing their peculiarities from the domestic habits of the animal—­it is certain that, however better they may be qualified for the business of life than their neighbours, they are far less fitted for the pages of a book.  And the proof of it is this, that wherever any of our novelists has introduced a tradesman, he has either been an invention altogether, or a caricature.  Even Bailie Nicol Jarvie never lived in the Saut Market in half such true flesh and blood as he does in Rob Roy.  At all events, the inimitable Bailie is known to the universe at large by the additions made to his real character by the prodigal hand of his biographer, and the ridiculous contrasts in which he is placed with the caterans and reivers of the hills.  In the city of Glasgow he was looked upon, and justly, as an honour to the gude town—­consulted on all difficult matters, and famous for his knowledge of the world and his natural sagacity.  Would this have been a fit subject for description? or is it just to think of the respectable Bailie in the ridiculous point of view in which he is presented to us in the