“Who has not chased the butterfly,
And crushed its slender legs and wings,
And heaved a moralizing sigh: 
Alas! how frail are human things!”

A very unexceptionable morality truly; but it would have puzzled another than George Cruikshank to make mirth out of it as he has done.  Away, surely not on the wings of these verses, Cruikshank’s imagination begins to soar; and he makes us three darling little men on a green common, backed by old farmhouses, somewhere about May.  A great mixture of blue and clouds in the air, a strong fresh breeze stirring, Tom’s jacket flapping in the same, in order to bring down the insect queen or king of spring that is fluttering above him,—­he renders all this with a few strokes on a little block of wood not two inches square, upon which one may gaze for hours, so merry and lifelike a scene does it present.  What a charming creative power is this, what a privilege—­to be a god, and create little worlds upon paper, and whole generations of smiling, jovial men, women, and children half inch high, whose portraits are carried abroad, and have the faculty of making us monsters of six feet curious and happy in our turn.  Now, who would imagine that an artist could make anything of such a subject as this?  The writer begins by stating,—­

“I love to go back to the days of my youth,
And to reckon my joys to the letter,
And to count o’er the friends that I have in the world,
Ay, and those who are gone to a better.”

This brings him to the consideration of his uncle.  “Of all the men I have ever known,” says he, “my uncle united the greatest degree of cheerfulness with the sobriety of manhood.  Though a man when I was a boy, he was yet one of the most agreeable companions I ever possessed. . . .  He embarked for America, and nearly twenty years passed by before he came back again; . . . but oh, how altered!—­he was in every sense of the word an old man, his body and mind were enfeebled, and second childishness had come upon him.  How often have I bent over him, vainly endeavoring to recall to his memory the scenes we had shared together:  and how frequently, with an aching heart, have I gazed on his vacant and lustreless eye, while he has amused himself in clapping his hands and singing with a quavering voice a verse of a psalm.”  Alas! such are the consequences of long residences in America, and of old age even in uncles!  Well, the point of this morality is, that the uncle one day in the morning of life vowed that he would catch his two nephews and tie them together, ay, and actually did so, for all the efforts the rogues made to run away from him; but he was so fatigued that he declared he never would make the attempt again, whereupon the nephew remarks,—­“Often since then, when engaged in enterprises beyond my strength, have I called to mind the determination of my uncle.”