Here, too, much anatomical care of drawing is not required; the figures are so small that the outline and attitude need only to be indicated, and the designer has produced a series of figures quite remarkable for reality and poetry too.  There are no less than ten of Jack’s feats so described by Mr. Cruikshank. (Let us say a word here in praise of the excellent manner in which the author has carried us through the adventure.) Here is Jack clattering up the chimney, now peering into the lonely red room, now opening “the door between the red room and the chapel.”  What a wild, fierce, scared look he has, the young ruffian, as cautiously he steps in, holding light his bar of iron.  You can see by his face how his heart is beating!  If any one were there! but no!  And this is a very fine characteristic of the prints, the extreme loneliness of them all.  Not a soul is there to disturb him—­woe to him who should—­and Jack drives in the chapel gate, and shatters down the passage door, and there you have him on the leads.  Up he goes! it is but a spring of a few feet from the blanket, and he is gone—­abiit, evasit, erupit!  Mr. Wild must catch him again if he can.

We must not forget to mention “Oliver Twist,” and Mr. Cruikshank’s famous designs to that work.* The sausage scene at Fagin’s, Nancy seizing the boy; that capital piece of humor, Mr. Bumble’s courtship, which is even better in Cruikshank’s version than in Boz’s exquisite account of the interview; Sykes’s farewell to the dog; and the Jew,—­the dreadful Jew—­that Cruikshank drew!  What a fine touching picture of melancholy desolation is that of Sykes and the dog!  The poor cur is not too well drawn, the landscape is stiff and formal; but in this case the faults, if faults they be, of execution rather add to than diminish the effect of the picture:  it has a strange, wild, dreary, broken -hearted look; we fancy we see the landscape as it must have appeared to Sykes, when ghastly and with bloodshot eyes he looked at it.  As for the Jew in the dungeon, let us say nothing of it—­what can we say to describe it?  What a fine homely poet is the man who can produce this little world of mirth or woe for us!  Does he elaborate his effects by slow process of thought, or do they come to him by instinct?  Does the painter ever arrange in his brain an image so complete, that he afterwards can copy it exactly on the canvas, or does the hand work in spite of him?

* Or his new work, “The Tower of London,” which promises
even to surpass Mr. Cruikshank’s former productions.