What a curious picture it is--the horrid rickety houses in some dingy
suburb of London, the grinning cobbler, the smothered butcher, the very
trees which are covered with dust--it is fine to look at the different
expressions of the two interesting fugitives. The fiery charioteer who
belabors the poor donkey has still a glance for his brother on foot, on
whom punishment is about to descend. And not a little curious is it to
think of the creative power of the man who has arranged this little tale
of low life. How logically it is conducted, how cleverly each one of
the accessories is made to contribute to the effect of the whole. What
a deal of thought and humor has the artist expended on this little block
of wood; a large picture might have been painted out of the very same
materials, which Mr. Cruikshank, out of his wondrous fund of merriment
and observation, can afford to throw away upon a drawing not two inches
long. From the practical dustmen we pass to those purely poetical. There
are three of them who rise on clouds of their own raising, the very
genii of the sack and shovel.

Is there no one to write a sonnet to these?--and yet a whole poem was
written about Peter Bell the wagoner, a character by no means so poetic.

And lastly, we have the dustman in love: the honest fellow having seen a
young beauty stepping out of a gin-shop on a Sunday morning, is pressing
eagerly his suit.

Gin has furnished many subjects to Mr. Cruikshank, who labors in his own
sound and hearty way to teach his countrymen the dangers of that drink.
In the "Sketch-Book" is a plate upon the subject, remarkable for fancy
and beauty of design; it is called the "Gin Juggernaut," and represents
a hideous moving palace, with a reeking still at the roof and vast