The Sun.
London, England, 1833-04-06 00:00:00

LIfERATURE.

DON Q UIXOTTE. -- CRUICKSHANK'S
ILLUSTRATIONS, VoL.lL—Lorrpopr, 1832.
George Cruickshank's Illustrations to Don
Quixotte—who does not know George, and
is not the better for such knowledge ?
remind us of those by Hayman, which were
*ttached to the earlier editions of Smollett's
translation. Hayman was an artist of the
Hogarth school, and flourished somewhere about
the middle of the last century. As a carica-
turist, his powers were of a high order. No-
thing could surpass the richness and variety of
his comic conceptions. He literally overflowed
with humour. Yet his career was anything but
fortunate. Few, we believe, except the cog.
noscenti, knew aught of his existence, for he was
not of the number of those who are fond of
trumpeting their own deserts. He left his
works to speak for themselves. If they suc-
ceeded, good ; he would be later at the tavern
in consequence. If they failed, no matter ;it
was but trying his hand at some more attractive
subject. Hayman, from all we can learn of
him,—which " ail," by the bye, amounts to just
little or nothing—was a man who took things
coolly. He had not an atom of the " irritable
genus"about him. He was neither to be put
down by a sneer ; paralysed by a frown ;
paragraphed out of his night's rest, nor squibbed
into an indigestion. His sensibilities were, for
the most part, pecuniary, and the pocket was
the barometer by which he regulated them. A
few shillings, more or less, made all the dif-
ference with him in the way of content or in-

quietude.
The works by which Hayman is most gene-
rally known, are the " Illustrations to Don
Quixotte." Many of these—so far as humour and
truth of character are concerned—are as admi-
rable as it is possible for such things to be.
Hayman had read the achievements of the Don
and his squire with a learned eye. He entered
into and hooked every whimsical trait that be-
longed to them. He understood Rozinante,
too, and had a just appreciation of Dapple. We
would give something to have been by when he
first cut into the pages of " Don Quixotte."
What a treat his first laugh must have been !
What a hurricane of cachinnation the scenes
in the " Enchanted Castle," must have set
brewing in his midriff! Then, too, the " Yan-
guesian carriers," with the episode of Rozinante's
skittishness ! How Hayman got through these tit
bits, without choking, is to us, considering the
man, perfectly unaccountable. A Bishop once
died of seeing an ass eat figs ; our artist would
have made a far more justifiable exit in dying of
Don Quixotte. It would have been as hand-
some an apology for dissolution, as even Cla-
rence's Malmsey butt.
What has seduced us into these reflections,
is the circumstance of both Hayman's and
Cruickshank's illustrations now lying before
us. We wish to do justice to both ; but in our
admiration of the " quick," we must not forget
the " dead." To Hayman, then, we accord
the preference. He has more rich and various
humour. He does not fight shy of the Don or
back out of the Squire, but boldly grapples with
both phenomena. Thus we have Sancho bel-
ligerent—Sancho sentimental—Sancho senato-
rial—Sancho smitten with a delicate affection
for Camacho's flesh-pots—Sancho in as many
moods of mind, and varieties of circumstance as
there are angles in a hackney-coach horse. Then,
too, the Don. We see him in his first out-break of
chivalry when kneeling to be knighted by the sly
innkeeper—when returning home, drubbed to
his heart's content, after his first exploit—when
casting amorous glances at the fair Marcelia,
oblivious for the moment of the still fairer
Dulcinea—when submitting his jaws to the
inspection of Sancho, after his adventure with
the flock of sheep, when the shepherds have
forcibly hurried his three front teeth down his
throat—when exulting in the capture of Mam-
brino's helmet, while Sancho, with a face superior
to I.iston's, stands slily grinning beside him--
when fighting a night duel with the wine-skins,
which he has mistaken for a giant—when un-
horsing the Knight of the Mirrors, and unhorsed
himself while " doing" the polite to the Duchess--
when capering about the Brown Mountains in a
state closely approximating to that of unfigleafed
Adam—when impressing on Sancho by a pro-
cess of logic peculiar to himself, the propriety of
submitting to a liberal self-flagellation ;—in all
these characteristic traits and varieties, which are
ever uppermost in the mind of a reader of
Cervantes, Hayman has presented us with the
Don at full length. But Cruickshank has done
the same ! Not exactly. Neither his Knight, nor
his Squire stand sufficiently out in the fore-
ground. We should say rather, neither of them
have sufficient " mark and likelihood." They
. are not the beings we read of in Cervantes.
They lack humour and character. As for
Sancho, he is not our—every body's Sancho ; he
is a sham Sancho. Cruickshank has given us
an Adelphi copy of him—has modelled him on
John Reeve. Hayman's Sancho, on the other
hand, has a face to dream of. He has muscles,
too, of infinite flexibility, and a grin whose name
is Legion. We have been convulsed more times
than we choose to confess, by Hayman's match-
less sketch of him while boxing with the afflicted
Duenna.

Then, as respects Dapple. Our friend George
has made him a very common-place ass ; whereas,
it we know any thing about the matter, he was
a genius, and so Hayman has depicted him.
His Rozinante is better. One would swear, on
a first glance at his periphery, that he be-
longed either to a poet or a knight-errant.
In this instance George has the advantage of
Hayman.

To sum up the merits of the two artists.
Hayman's illustrations are the more humorous ;
C uic k
xshcaltui ks
vs the more grotesque. Hayman
sticks
elyto character ; Cruickshank has
re
an eye to the picturesque. Hayman gives us
only the Don and Squire, with now and then a
full-length of Rozinante, and a delicious glimpse
of Dapple ; Cruickshank ekes out his sketches,
by the aid of droll superfluities, Hayman's

selection of subject is more felicitous ; Cruick-
shank's more common-place. The latter's two
frontispieces of the Knight and Squire are,
we think, failures. Sancho, to be sure, has a
huge face of his own, worthy to grin in
Brobdignag ; but then it has no expression.
He is doing nothing with it. He is turn-
ing it to no account. Now he should have
been either licking his lips at the recollection of
the " flesh-pots," chuckling at his master's ab•
surdities, or developing some rich conceits of his
own. Instead of this, his face is vacant, like a
house to let. But we should observe, by way
of extenuation, that George has only yet com-
pleted two volumes of his " Don." Possibly he
may improve as he proceeds, and enact marvels
when he comes to the island of Barataria. There
is a fine Duenna for him in the third volume,
and a scene of enchantment in the fourth, that
might convulse even a barber's block.
As regards the literary department, the editor
has done wisely in giving Smollett's translation
the preference. It is incomparably the best we
have. Jarvis's, though more careful, is not to
be mentioned in the same breath. It is through-
out a poor apology for humour. In his anxiety
to be correct, Jarvis has forgotten to be humo-
rous. Now Smollett was imbued with much of
the true Cervantic spirit—witness his inimitable
" Feast after the manner of the Ancients." He
was also indebted to the illustrious Spaniard for
many of his way-side adventures, particularly in
the inn scenes in the earlier portions of Roderick
Random. Moreover his translation was a con amore
task, and labours of love seldom fail to succeed.
It is not often that one finds (as in this instance)
the first-rate novelist of one country, translated
by the first-rate novelist of another. We would
give worlds to see an English version of Quevedo
by Lockhart—of Le Sage by Galt—of Rabelais
(abridged of course) by Peacock or Maginn.

Since the above was written, w e have seen the
third and concluding volume of George's Don
Quixotte. As we anticipated, he has indulged
us with a glimpse of the Duenna, when in the
act of making an irruption into the Don's bed-
chamber ; and of Sancho metamorphosed into a
gastronomist in the banquet-hall of Barataria.
There is certainly an improvement in this volume ;
but the illustrations are still far inferior to Hay-
man's. In the dinner scene, where both artists
come into direct competition, the one is not fit
to hold a rushlight to the other. Cruickshank'a
Sancho is a mere round-faced city glutton
(an Alderman, for aught we know, for cer-
tainly we have no warrant to the contrary
in the expression of his face), and the
Doctor, who forbids him his favourite edibles, is
a Cambridge pedant—a Dominie Sampson
—a Salamanca student with a fish-hook
nose, or anything else one may please to call
him. Hayman's Doctor, there is no mistaking.
He could have been a professor in no other
island than Barataria, a physician to no other
Governor than Sancho. He is just what he
should be, a hoax personified. Independently
of the peculiar humour of this medical anomaly,
there is a spirit and freedom in his attitude—a
character in the fine outline of his figure, amount-
ing almost to the dignified. Sancho is inimitable.
The perplexed Governor—the indignant and
disappointed gastronomist speak in his every
lineament. The Doctor has just laid down the
law of the island ; Sancho is about to lay down
a law of his own. He is going to suspend the
Habeas Corpus Act—to violate the liberty of
the subject, in the person of the officious man of
medicine. What a mock would be majesty,
combined with how fine an apprehension of the
ridiculous, in his look ! Nature and art struggle
for the mastery in him. Nature prompts him
to break out with an oath or a proverb, or even
to discuss matters pugilistically with the Doctor :
art keeps down the indecorous ebullition, by
bidding him remember that he is a governor—a
real governor, large as life, the very fountain of
honour in Barataria ! It is this rich admixture of
the grave and the ridiculous—this oil-and-vine
gar amalgamation of the patrician with the
plebeian, that give such an irresistible, character-
istic bewilderment to Hayman's Sancho. Sure
we are that Cervantes would be proud to own
him as a genuine chip of the old block.

In the Don's interviex with the Duenna,
where Cruickshank and Hayman again meet on
the same field, we must in justice give George's
Knight the preference. The sketch is Cruick-
shank's best, and Hayman's worst. George's
Don looks as thin and shadowy, as if he had
long since dispensed with flesh—as if he was
the mere ghost—the shadow of himself—as if
the very weight of his blanket would bear him
down. He is here a worthy comment on the text
of Cervantes.

As a whole, however, we look on Cruickshank's
Don Quixotte as a failure. It is a mere
make-up from, a reiteration of, his former illus-
trations. There is little of the Don or the
Squire about it but the names. George has
adapted English countenances to Spanish cha-
racters. But this he could not help, for his
genius is essentially English, and should never
cross the Channel. It should cultivate the or-
gan of stay-at-home-ativeness. Wherever two
or three aspiring Cocknies, or pugnacious Irish•.
men, or pedantic Sawnies are gathered together,
there should Cruickshank be in the midst of
them. In such company his genius is sure to
be at home—sure to be irresistible. But in
Spain it is perplexed and paralysed, as if a
Hottentot or an Esquimaux were suddenly to be
set down at St. James's on a court-day.

TOURS IN UPPER INDIA. 2 Vois.
LONDON. 1833.

Those who have been resident in the East
will be glad to have their recollections revived
by a work like the present, which enters with
spirit and vivacity into descriptions of many of
the most imposing scenes and ruins of Upper
India. The various field-sports of the East
are also dwelt on in a con-amore spirit.
Major Archer is the author of the work, and
proves himself to have been no inattentive
observer of men and manners in the various
countries which he professes to describe.

FINE ARTS.

WORKS OF H. LIVERSEGE.....PABT IV.
The death of young Liversege, like that of '
Harlowe and Bonnington, was a sad blow to
modern art. He was a painter of as sterling
promise as had appeared among us for years
past. His conceptions wera. remarkable for
their spirit and simplicity. He caught at a
glance all the striking points of a subject, and
had the rare tact to .avoid that besetting sin of
many young artists, crowding and overlaying his
canvass with irrelevant matter. He was not
ambitious beyond his capacity. He knew the
secret of his own strength, and made the most
of it. He never thrust more characters into a
picture than he had occasion for. All were busy
doing something, and helped to work out the main
effect. These remarks are peculiarly applicable to
the " Recruit," an engraving from which, skil-
fully finished by Giller, is now lying before us.
The scene of this admirable picture is laid in the
parlour of a homely way-side inn. The fore-
ground is occupied by the recruit, his sweet-
' heart, and two sergeants, who are all seated at
a deal table discussing a jug of home-brewed.
Nothing can be finer in their way than the
countenances of these several personages. They
startle you by their strict, positive reality : you
feel convinced that, at one time or other, you
yourself must have met with the same party,
under -precisely the same circumstances. The
up-turned face of the young girl, who is imploring
the Recruit to have nothing more to do with
those " horrid frights" of soldiers : the cold,
inflexible, half-scornful look which they in
return cast upon her, the one coolly resting with
his arm on the table, the other smoking his pipe
and fingering his gilt rattan, and both saying
(or we know nothing of physiognomy), "What
should women know of such matters? Leave the
young fellow alone, can't you ?"—these points
of the tale, together with the irresolute look of
the Recruit himself, who is willing, but half
afraid, to give up glory for love, and is just
undecided enough to be miserable, are as skil-
fully worked out, as if Wilkie himself had
been the artist. By way of episode, we
have an old pensioner seated in the back-
ground, over a tumbler of swipes, whose wooden
leg, and subdued, thoughtful look form
the moral of the tale. And a fine mora
it is. Tenpence a-day, and a wooden leg !
Here's glory for you ! Who would not be a
soldier ? The adjuncts to the story are all in
equal keeping—all equally necessary. The bas-
ket and bonnet which the young girl has flung
down in her zeal to make a convert of the Re-
cruit ; the tin lanthorn stuck against the wall ;
the cuckoo clock behind the door ; the hooks for
ham or bacon fixed in the ceiling; the wicker
bird-cage placed against the half-open window,
behind the veteran, in order that the little cap-
tive may snatch a mouthful of fresh air—a
fine idea, which shows that Liversege had
a heart tremblingly alive to the " still sad
music of humanity ;"—not one of these mi-
nutia, could have been omitted without detriment
to the main effect. The " Recruit" is by far
the best we have yet seen of Liversege's paint-
ings. There is a mingled archness and senti-
ment, a bland repose, a sweet, heart-felt rusticity
about it, which remind us of Miss Mitford's
Village Sketches." Of the remaining en-
gravings, the best is " Little Red Riding-hood."
The wolf is just the sly, wheedling logician that
ave read of in our infantine days—an accom-
plished ventriloquist, who would whine "grand-
mamma" to the life. Liversege had a fine, feel-
ing conception of a nursery tale—and we think
the better of him for it. None but a blockhead
despises anything that gave him pleasure when
a child.