The reader who has seen the name affixed to the head of this article scarcely expected to be entertained with a declamation upon ingratitude, youth, and the vanity of human pursuits, which may seem at first sight to have little to do with the subject in hand.  But (although we reserve the privilege of discoursing upon whatever subject shall suit us, and by no means admit the public has any right to ask in our sentences for any meaning, or any connection whatever) it happens that, in this particular instance, there is an undoubted connection.  In Susan’s case, as recorded by Wordsworth, what connection had the corner of Wood Street with a mountain ascending, a vision of trees, and a nest by the Dove?  Why should the song of a thrush cause bright volumes of vapor to glide through Lothbury, and a river to flow on through the vale of Cheapside?  As she stood at that corner of Wood Street, a mop and a pail in her hand most likely, she heard the bird singing, and straight-way began pining and yearning for the days of her youth, forgetting the proper business of the pail and mop.  Even so we are moved by the sight of some of Mr. Cruikshank’s works—­the “Busen fuhlt sich jugendlich erschuttert,” the “schwankende Gestalten” of youth flit before one again,—­Cruikshank’s thrush begins to pipe and carol, as in the days of boyhood; hence misty moralities, reflections, and sad and pleasant remembrances arise.  He is the friend of the young especially.  Have we not read, all the story-books that his wonderful pencil has illustrated?  Did we not forego tarts, in order to buy his “Breaking-up,” or his “Fashionable Monstrosities” of the year eighteen hundred and something?  Have we not before us, at this very moment, a print,—­one of the admirable “Illustrations of Phrenology”—­which entire work was purchased by a joint-stock company of boys, each drawing lots afterwards for the separate prints, and taking his choice in rotation?  The writer of this, too, had the honor of drawing the first lot, and seized immediately upon “Philoprogenitiveness”—­a marvellous print (our copy is not at all improved by being colored, which operation we performed on it ourselves)—­a marvellous print, indeed,—­full of ingenuity and fine jovial humor.  A father, possessor of an enormous nose and family, is surrounded by the latter, who are, some of them, embracing the former.  The composition writhes and twists about like the Kermes of Rubens.  No less than seven little men and women in nightcaps, in frocks, in bibs, in breeches, are clambering about the head, knees, and arms of the man with the nose; their noses, too, are preternaturally developed—­the twins in the cradle have noses of the most considerable kind.  The second daughter, who is watching them; the youngest but two, who sits squalling in a certain wicker chair; the eldest son, who is yawning; the eldest daughter, who is preparing with the gravy of two mutton-chops a savory dish of Yorkshire pudding for eighteen persons;