Well, you have taken my advice; you are at the window. Now catch up your pen and describe what you see, _as you see it;_ or take your pencil if you are good for any thing in that way, and let us see what you can do. A free, bold, happy and _faithful_ sketch of that which in itself would be worthless, or even loathsome, shall make your fortune. Morland's pigs and pig-styes, on paper or canvas, were always worth half a hundred of the originals. One of Tenier's inside-out pictures of a village feast, with drunken boors--not worth a groat apiece when alive--would now fetch its weight in gold three times over. Look you now. There goes a man with a large bundle under his arm, tied up in a yellow bandanna handkerchief, faded and weather-worn, and looking as if ready to burst--the bundle I mean. What would you give to know the history of that bundle and what there is in it? Observe the man's eye, the swing of his right arm--the carriage of his body--the dip of his hat. You would swear, or might if your conscience, or your habits as a gentleman, would let you, that he was a proud and a happy fellow, though you never saw his face before in all your life. The tread of his foot is enough--the very swing of his coat-tail as he clears the corner. It is Saturday night, and he is carrying the bundle home to his own house--of that you may be sure. And you may be equally sure that whatever else there may be in it, there is nothing for him to be ashamed of, and _therefore_ nothing for the man himself. My notion is, that he has bought a ready-made cloak for his wife, without her knowledge, or got a friend to choose the cloth and be measured for it, who will be found at his fire-side when he gets home, holding forth upon the comfort of such an outside garment in our dreadful winters, with a perseverance which leads the good woman of the house to suspect her neighbor of being better off than herself, in one particular at least, for the coming Sabbath. But just now the door opens--the gossiping neighbor springs up with a laugh--the bundle is untied--the children scream, and the wife jumps about her husband's neck as if he had been absent a twelvemonth. Where!--where! Can't you see them for yourself! Can't you see the fire-light flash over the newly-papered walls! can't you hear the children laugh as mother swings round with her new cloak--scattering the ashes, and almost puffing out their only lamp, which she has set upon the floor to see how the garment hangs! and now she drops into a chair. Take my word for it, sir, that is a very worthy woman--and the man himself is a Washingtonian. What man? What man! Why the man that just turned the corner, with a great yellow bundle under his arm. Indeed! you know him then?