this day we can never recall the scenes of the written story without at the same time seeing in our mind's eye the—we do not hesitate to say it—equally powerful work of George Cruikshank's hand. Every edition of Oliver Twist that wants these etchings (and the old editions that contained them are long out of print), wants a charm that no man living can supply. Not even Leech could have done it, for Leech, with all his gifts, was a child to Cruikshank.
Thackeray himself, though he illustrated most of his books with his own hand, was sometimes indebted to Cruikshank. At least, one little book is now before us, written by Thackeray, "Stubbs' Calendar, or the Fatal Boots," which contains six full-page etchings by Cruikshank in his best manner. The book is a mere trifle—the great novelist may have written it in a day—but Cruikshank has worked over his part of it as if nothing more important had ever called for his help to illustrate, and the result is that a little sketch of which the author was probably not very proud, is made precious by the work of this delicate-handed, delicate-minded interpreter. Merely to catalogue the works illustrated by Cruikshank would be the task of several days, if indeed it would be possible to make a complete list of them. All of it is, of course, not equally good; much of it, judged by the taste of to-day, has a coarse flavor, but it is without vulgarity, the fruit of a hale and hearty nature; through all of it we see the noble nature of the man loving goodness and hating wickedness with all his heart. To those who do not know Cruikshank, and the rising generation sees but little of his work, we would say: make the acquaintance of this master, true as Hogarth in his knowledge of human nature, and great as Hogarth in the art of etching. And those Americans who have long known his work, and who owe to it many pleasant hours and many vivid impressions of famous scenes in fiction will be glad, we should think, to show their kindly feelings for the good old man by adding to the comfort of his days, now drawing to a close in a green old age; days that have left behind them an abundant record of purity and depth of feeling, of a hearty love of innocent mirth, and, in spite of his keen eye for their weak points, of a genuine good will to his fellow men.
There is no unwiser policy than that sour-natured policy which seeks to destroy or to mar the pleasures of other people because they are not according to the taste, or in conformity with the convictions, of the ruling power in the state, whether that be a monarchy or a republic. But the opposition to restrictive Sunday laws is often made upon absurdly untenable grounds. For instance, take the complaint of some of our German "adopted citizens," that they are deprived of the liberty of enjoying Sunday according to their national customs. Now, it is the essence of true liberty that it shall be enjoyed in such a manner as not to interfere with a similar enjoyment by others. This being generally true, most especially is it true, a fortiori as the logicians say, in the case of men coming to enjoy the liberty of a country in which they are foreigners, and into which they are adopted by the generous policy of the men who, or whose fathers, have won that liberty. Against the German or the French manner of, observing Sunday we have not here one word to say; but any reasonable foreigner who will consider the subject calmly must see that if his manner of observing the day is so offensive to his American neighbors that it deprives them of their own enjoyment, the fact that his manner is his national manner is an argument rather against than for his claim to be undisturbed. For, in that case, his claim is in simple term's a claim to enjoy all the privileges of a country in which he has only the rights which are given to him, and also to bring into that country a foreign custom
