A passing sigh of regret has noted the recent demise, at the good old
age of eighty-six, of one of the most remarkable men of our time.
Seldom has it been our lot to record in the pages of this _Journal_
the story of one whose genius was of so wild and fantastic a character
as that of this veteran artist, who won his maiden fame in the days of
George III., and has passed away in the latter part of the reign of
Queen Victoria.
George Cruikshank, who was of Scotch parentage, was born in London
on September 27, 1792. His father was an artist of the caricature
order, contemporary with Gilray; and his elder brother Robert was a
draughtsman who, though of no great ability, had a strong Cruikshankian
manner about him. George began to sketch at a very early age; and at
the commencement of the present century he got a living by making
etchings for the booksellers. His father had originally intended to
train up his son for the stage; but perceiving that his inclinations
lay in quite another direction, he allowed him to cultivate those
artistic talents which were afterwards to be a source of delight to
himself and to the public. In 1805 the lad sketched Lord Nelson’s
funeral car; and his illustrations of the ‘O. P.’ riots at Covent
Garden Theatre in 1809 attracted considerable attention at the time.
Some of his earliest sketches depict characters who were the centre of
interest at that period, but whose names have now quite an ancient ring
about them.
Before the reign of George III. was over, the young artist had made
a conspicuous name as a caricaturist and comic designer. His first
designs were in connection with cheap songs and children’s books; and
after that he furnished political caricatures to the _Scourge_ and
other satirical publications, besides doing a good deal of work for Mr
Hone’s books and periodicals during several years. Indeed this famous
publisher was the first to perceive the talents of the artist, and to
introduce his rather eccentric sketches to the public. It is related of
the young Cruikshank that, having a desire to follow art in the higher
department, he endeavoured on one occasion to study at the Academy. The
schools at that period were restricted in space and much crowded. On
sending up to Fuseli his figure in plaster, the Professor returned the
characteristic but discouraging answer: ‘He may come, but he will have
to fight for a seat.’ Cruikshank never repeated his attempt to enter
the Academy, although he afterwards became an exhibitor. His pencil
was ever enlisted on the side of suffering and against oppression, and
it is therefore not surprising to find that the cause of the ill-used
Queen Caroline was greatly benefited by its scathing satire. Some
special hits were made by the artist on this occasion, for it was a
subject on which the public mind was very much excited, and one design
which was entitled ‘The Queen’s Matrimonial Ladder’ ran through fifty
editions.
In 1830, when the government had determined to suppress the agitation
for parliamentary reform, Cruikshank, at the request of his old patron
Hone, produced some political illustrations, which are said to have
convulsed with laughter the ministry at whom they were directed, and to
whom they did incalculable damage. One of these, called ‘The Political
House that Jack Built,’ was particularly good, and within a very short
time one hundred thousand copies of it were sold. A few years later
George abandoned political caricature and gave himself up to the
illustration of works of humour and fancy, to the exposure of passing
follies in dress and social manners, and to grave and often tragic
moralising on the vices of mankind.
In the year 1821 he illustrated—and indeed originated—the celebrated
‘Life in London’ of Pierce Egan, a work better known by the title
of ‘Tom and Jerry.’ The book was published in sheets and enjoyed
an enormous success, establishing the name of George Cruikshank as
the first comic artist of the day. The plates for this work were in
_aquatint_, and though not in Cruikshank’s best manner, they exhibited
that variety of observation and marvellous fullness of detail for
which the designer was always remarkable. The letterpress of the work
was, however, written in too free a manner for the moral intention
with which the plates were drawn; and offended at the gross use to
which his illustrations were applied, the great artist retired from the
engagement before the work was completed.
It was related to the writer of this article by Cruikshank himself
that, when a very young man, he was one day engaged in hastily
sketching a work of rather questionable character. While he was doing
it, his mother and another lady entered the room, and he quickly hid
the sketch away. The act, however, so disturbed him that he resolved
never to allow his pencil to produce any work in the future at which a
virtuous woman could not look without a blush. The pure moral tone of
all his works attests how well he kept so noble a resolve.
From 1823 down to many years later, George Cruikshank was the most
highly esteemed of English book illustrators. Work poured in upon him
at a prodigious rate; but being a man of singular energy and tireless
industry, he was always equal to the demand. His designs for ‘Italian
Tales,’ ‘Grimm’s German Stories,’ the ‘Wild Legend of Peter Schlemihl
the Shadowless Man,’ ‘Baron Munchausen,’ and Sir Walter Scott’s
‘Demonology and Witchcraft,’ are amongst his best and highest works. He
also illustrated some of Washington Irving’s works of fiction, Fielding
and Smollett’s books, beside Maxwell’s graphic history of the ‘Irish
Rebellion.’ It would, however, be impossible, in this brief notice of
his life, to mention one tithe of the works that have emanated from the
untiring pencil of this remarkable man. But the generation which is
passing away cannot fail to remember his celebrated ‘Mornings at Bow
Street,’ a series of sketches which depicted and ruthlessly exposed the
dark and savage side of London life.
The genius of Charles Dickens, as we formerly had occasion to remark,
received invaluable assistance from Cruikshank’s pencil, which
illustrated the first writings of the young author, and thus paved the
way for him to a larger audience than he might otherwise have had.
In the first month of 1837 appeared the opening number of ‘Bentley’s
Miscellany,’ edited by ‘Boz’ (Charles Dickens), then in the flush of
his ‘Pickwick’ success, and illustrated by Cruikshank. In the second
number of the ‘Miscellany,’ Dickens commenced ‘Oliver Twist,’ a work
not only illustrated by Cruikshank, but for which the latter it appears
had himself supplied, unwittingly, some of the characters.
George used to say that he had drawn the figures of ‘Fagin,’ ‘Bill
Sikes and his Dog,’ ‘Nancy,’ the ‘Artful Dodger,’ and ‘Charley Bates’
before ‘Oliver Twist’ was written; and that Dickens seeing the sketches
one day shortly after the commencement of the story, determined to
change his plot, and instead of keeping Oliver in the country, resolved
to bring him to town, and throw him (with entire innocence) into the
company of thieves. ‘Fagin’ was sketched from a rascally old Jew whom
Cruikshank had observed in the neighbourhood of Saffron Hill, and
whom he watched and ‘studied’ for several weeks. The artist had also
conceived the terrible face of ‘Fagin in the Condemned Cell’ as he sits
gnawing his nails, in the curious accidental way we lately narrated to
our readers. He had been working at the subject for some days without
satisfying himself; when sitting up in bed one morning with his hands
on his chin and his fingers in his mouth, he saw his face in the glass,
and at once exclaimed: ‘_That’s it! that’s the face I want!_’
Nobody who has seen the sketches to ‘Oliver Twist’ can ever forget
them, and two at least of the series are perfect _chefs-d’œuvre_ of
genius, namely the death of Sikes on the roof of the old house at the
river-side, and the despair of Fagin in his cell. In fact some of
Cruikshank’s best work in the delineation of low and depraved life
and the squalid picturesqueness of criminal haunts, appeared in the
above-named book. His illustrations to Harrison Ainsworth’s works were
also for the most part charming specimens of what may be appropriately
termed the ‘Cruikshankian’ art. At the same time he sketched the
designs for some of the ‘Ingoldsby Legends’ as they appeared from time
to time in the ‘Miscellany.’ In 1841 he set up on his own account a
monthly periodical called the ‘Omnibus,’ of which Laman Blanchard was
the editor; and subsequently joined Mr Ainsworth in the magazine which
that gentleman had started in his own name; the great artist, in a
series of splendid plates of the highest conception, illustrating the
‘Miser’s Daughter’ and other works from the pen of the proprietor. For
several years Cruikshank had been publishing a ‘Comic Almanac,’ which
was a great favourite with the public, and was always brimming full of
fun and prodigal invention. In 1863 a ‘Cruikshank Gallery’ was opened
at Exeter Hall, in which were exhibited a great number of his works,
extending over a period of _sixty_ years. The exhibition originated
from a desire on the artist’s part to shew the public that they were
all done by the same hand, and that he was not, in fact, _his own
grandfather_; some people having asserted that the author of his later
works was the grandson of the man who had sketched the earliest ones.
He will perhaps be remembered most affectionately by the great
industrial portion of the people as the apostle as well as the artist
of temperance. Perceiving drunkenness to be the national vice, he
depicted its horrors from the studio, and denounced its woes from the
platform. It was about the year 1845 that he joined the teetotalers;
and in 1847 he brought out a set of plates called ‘The Bottle,’ a kind
of ‘Drunkard’s Progress,’ in eight designs, executed in glyphography
with remarkable power and tragic intensity, not unlike some of the
works of Hogarth. The success of these extraordinary engravings was
enormous. Dramas were founded on the story at the minor theatres, and
the several tableaux were reproduced on the stage. He soon published a
sequel to ‘The Bottle,’ and did a great deal of work for the temperance
societies; but it was observed that his style suffered somewhat by the
contraction of his ideas and sympathies, and his reputation declined
amongst the general public in proportion to the increase of his
popularity amongst the teetotalers. He remained, however, the staunch
friend and ally of the temperance leaders up to the day of his death;
and he used to say that for years before he became a total abstainer
he was the enemy of drunkenness with his pencil, but that later
experience had taught him that precept without example was of little
avail. There is no doubt that, though the good he was able to do by
persuading others to whom drink was a positive injury, brought great
satisfaction to his mind, it alienated from him to a great extent the
friendship, to their loss, of his former companions. But to know his
duty was for George Cruikshank to do it, and nobly did he stand by the
cause which he had espoused. His advocacy of temperance is also said to
have been a great pecuniary loss to him; and the writer of this article
remembers having heard him say, a few years since, that he had lost a
commission to paint the portrait of a nobleman, because somebody had
told the latter that since George Cruikshank had become a teetotaler he
had lost all his talent! The hearty laugh which accompanied the recital
of the story rings in the writer’s ears still.
Perhaps his greatest work in the cause of temperance, as it is
certainly his most extraordinary one, is the large oil-painting called
‘The Worship of Bacchus,’ which now hangs in the National Gallery. It
represents the various phases of our national drinking system, from
the child in its cradle to the man’s descent to the grave. There are
many hundreds of figures depicted on the canvas, engaged in all the
different customs of so-called civilised life; and the sad lesson it
reads is well deserving the attention of all who love their country,
and would prefer to witness its increased prosperity rather than its
decline. Cruikshank had the honour of describing the picture to Her
Majesty the Queen at Windsor in 1863; and since then it has been
exhibited in all the principal towns and cities of the United Kingdom.
Finally, it was presented by the teetotalers to the nation, having been
purchased from the artist by means of a subscription. The time spent
in the preparation of this work must have been very great, indeed it
might well have been the study of an ordinary lifetime. An engraving of
the picture was published some time ago, in which all the figures were
outlined by the painter and finished by Mr Mottram.
In his own way, George Cruikshank was a philanthropist, and to the end
of his life it was his proud boast that he put a stop to hanging for
forging bank-notes. The story, as told by himself, is so interesting,
that we need not apologise for placing it before our readers. He lived
in Salisbury Square, Fleet Street; and on his returning from the Bank
of England one morning he was horrified at seeing several persons, two
of whom were women, hanging on the gibbet in front of Newgate. On his
making inquiries as to the nature of their crime, he was told that they
had been put to death for forging _one-pound_ Bank of England notes.
The fact that a poor woman could be put to death for such a minor
offence had such an effect upon him, that he hurried home, determined,
if possible, to put a stop to such wholesale destruction of life.
Cruikshank was well acquainted with the habits of the low class of
society in London at that time, as it had been necessary for him to
study them in the furtherance of his art, and he knew well that it was
most likely that the poor women in question were simply the unconscious
instruments of the miscreants who forged the notes, and had been
induced by them to tender the false money to some publican or other.
In a few minutes after his arrival at his residence he had designed and
sketched a ‘Bank-note not to be Imitated.’ Shortly afterwards, William
Hone the publisher called on him, and seeing the sketch lying on the
table, he was much struck with it.
‘What are you going to do with this, George?’ he asked.
‘To publish it,’ replied the artist.
‘Will you let me have it?’ inquired Hone.
‘Willingly,’ said Cruikshank; and making an etching of it there and
then, he gave it to Hone, and it was published; the result being, that
‘I had the satisfaction of knowing that no man or woman was ever hanged
afterwards for passing forged one-pound Bank of England notes.’
In 1863 he published an amusing pamphlet against the belief in ghosts,
illustrated by some weird fantastic sketches on wood. But his public
appearances now became less frequent. During the later years of his
life he gave considerable attention to oil-painting, and he used
greatly to regret that he had not received a more artistic education,
stating that when he first saw the cartoons of Raphael he felt
overpowered by a sort of shame at his own comparative deficiencies.
He has, however, left some good specimens of his power in oil in ‘Tam
o’ Shanter,’ ‘A Runaway Knock,’ and ‘Disturbing the Congregation;’
the last-named having been bought by the late Prince Consort, and
afterwards engraved. The design of the Bruce Memorial, which has been
so much admired, was also from the pencil of George Cruikshank; and the
last contribution from his pen to the public press was a letter on this
subject.
His personal appearance was no less remarkable than his works. Rather
below middle stature, and thick-set, with a rather sharp Roman nose,
piercing eyes, a mouth full of lurking humour, and wild elf-locks
flowing about his face, he at once attracted attention as a man of
genius, energy, and character. He was always famous for great courage
and spirit, which added to his muscular power, made him very capable of
holding his own everywhere.
Though accustomed to depict life in its shadier phases, Cruikshank
was of a naturally joyous disposition. In social life his humour was
inimitable; and his readiness to add to the amusement of his host and
his host’s guests was only equalled by the unique way in which he
played the part of actor, singer, and dancer. The fact of his being a
teetotaler in no way interfered with his honest natural merry nature;
with old and young alike he was a deserved favourite. Young folks were
especially fond of the dear old man. Dining with some other guests
at the London house of a friend of the writer’s some five-and-twenty
years ago, Mr Cruikshank, when asked to favour the company with a song,
struck up the comic ditty of _Billy Taylor_, that brisk young fellow,
and danced an accompaniment, much to the amusement of the good folks
present. ‘Not so bad for one of your teetotalers,’ quoth the veteran as
he returned to his seat.
In his earlier years he ventured alone into the worst dens of criminal
London, and since he had grown old he actually captured a burglar in
his own house and with his own hands. In many ways he contributed to
the public amusement and the public good; and during the later years
of his life he was in receipt of a government pension, for though he
helped to make fortunes for others, he made very little money for
himself. He was a Volunteer so far back as 1804; and in our own days he
commanded a regiment of citizen soldiers of teetotal principles.
There is on view at the Westminster Aquarium at the present time a
splendid collection of Cruikshank’s works, each of which is a study in
itself, while the whole, consisting of about five hundred sketches,
forms a unique monument to his skill and genius.
As an artist he will be certain of lasting fame, for he managed his
lights and shades with a skill akin to Rembrandt, while his delineation
of low life in its every phase was marvellous. His illustrations to
fairy and goblin stories were also beyond praise, as they could not
be surpassed in strangeness and elfin oddity; and in this respect he
was popular with young and old. His sketches must be innumerable, for
he was, like all true men of genius, a great worker, and he must have
toiled unceasingly through at least _seventy_ years of his long life.
He was attacked with bronchitis a few weeks previous to his death, yet
with great care he was actually enabled to recover from this disease;
but alas! only to succumb to an older complaint from which he had been
free for years. He died painlessly, on the evening of the first of
February last, at his residence in Hampstead Road, London; and while
to comparatively few was given the inestimable privilege of the great
artist’s friendship, the grief of a nation for his loss attests the
universality of his fame.