passed over. "Greenwich Hospital" is a hearty, good-natured book, in the
Tom Dibdin school, treating of the virtues of British tars, in approved
nautical language. They maul Frenchmen and Spaniards, they go out
in brigs and take frigates, they relieve women in distress, and are
yard-arm and yard-arming, athwart-hawsing, marlinspiking, binnacling,
and helm's-a-leeing, as honest seamen invariably do, in novels, on the
stage, and doubtless on board ship. This we cannot take upon us to say,
but the artist, like a true Englishman, as he is, loves dearly these
brave guardians of Old England, and chronicles their rare or fanciful
exploits with the greatest good-will. Let any one look at the noble head
of Nelson in the "Family Library," and they will, we are sure, think
with us that the designer must have felt and loved what he drew. There
are to this abridgment of Southey's admirable book many more cuts after
Cruikshank; and about a dozen pieces by the same hand will be found in
a work equally popular, Lockhart's excellent "Life of Napoleon." Among
these the retreat from Moscow is very fine; the Mamlouks most vigorous,
furious, and barbarous, as they should be. At the end of these three
volumes Mr. Cruikshank's contributions to the "Family Library" seem
suddenly to have ceased.
We are not at all disposed to undervalue the works and genius of Mr.
Dickens, and we are sure that he would admit as readily as any man the
wonderful assistance that he has derived from the artist who has given
us the portraits of his ideal personages, and made them familiar to
all the world. Once seen, these figures remain impressed on the memory,
which otherwise would have had no hold upon them, and the heroes and
heroines of Boz become personal acquaintances with each of us. Oh, that
Hogarth could have illustrated Fielding in the same way! and fixed down
on paper those grand figures of Parson Adams, and Squire Allworthy, and
the great Jonathan Wild.
With regard to the modern romance of "Jack Sheppard," in which the
latter personage makes a second appearance, it seems to us that Mr.
Cruikshank really created the tale, and that Mr. Ainsworth, as it were,
only put words to it. Let any reader of the novel think over it for
a while, now that it is some months since he has perused and laid it
down--let him think, and tell us what he remembers of the tale? George
Cruikshank's pictures--always George Cruikshank's pictures. The storm in
the Thames, for instance: all the author's labored description of that
event has passed clean away--we have only before the mind's eye the fine
plates of Cruikshank: the poor wretch cowering under the bridge arch, as
the waves come rushing in, and the boats are whirling away in the drift
of the great swollen black waters. And let any man look at that second
plate of the murder on the Thames, and he must acknowledge how much more
brilliant the artist's description is than the writer's, and what a real
genius for the terrible as well as for the ridiculous the former has;
how awful is the gloom of the old bridge, a few lights glimmering from
the houses here and there, but not so as to be reflected on the water at
all, which is too turbid and raging: a great heavy rack of clouds goes
sweeping over the bridge, and men with flaring torches, the murderers,
are borne away with the stream.
The author requires many pages to describe the fury of the storm, which
Mr. Cruikshank has represented in one. First, he has to prepare you with
the something inexpressibly melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon
the Thames: "the ripple of the water," "the darkling current," "the
indistinctively seen craft," "the solemn shadows" and other phenomena
visible on rivers at night are detailed (with not unskilful rhetoric)
in order to bring the reader into a proper frame of mind for the deeper
gloom and horror which is to ensue. Then follow pages of description.
"As Rowland sprang to the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a war
like a volley of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again burst its
bondage. A moment before the surface of the stream was as black as ink.
It was now whitening, hissing, and seething, like an enormous caldron.
The blast once more swept over the agitated river, whirled off the
sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the
raging torrent blacker than before. Destruction everywhere marked the
course of the gale. Steeples toppled and towers reeled beneath its fury.
All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. Men fled from their tottering
habitations and returned to them, scared by greater danger. The end
of the world seemed at hand. . . . The hurricane had now reached its
climax. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission.
Stunning and continuous, the din seemed almost to take away the power of
hearing. He who had faced the gale WOULD HAVE BEEN INSTANTLY STIFLED,"
&c. &c. See with what a tremendous war of words (and good loud words
too; Mr. Ainsworth's description is a good and spirited one) the author
is obliged to pour in upon the reader before he can effect his purpose
upon the latter, and inspire him with a proper terror. The painter does
it at a glance, and old Wood's dilemma in the midst of that tremendous
storm, with the little infant at his bosom, is remembered afterwards,
not from the words, but from the visible image of them that the artist
has left us.
It would not, perhaps, be out of place to glance through the whole of
the "Jack Sheppard" plates, which are among the most finished and the
most successful of Mr. Cruikshank's performances, and say a word or two
concerning them. Let us begin with finding fault with No. 1, "Mr. Wood
offers to adopt little Jack Sheppard." A poor print, on a poor subject;
the figure of the woman not as carefully designed as it might be, and
the expression of the eyes (not an uncommon fault with our artist) much
caricatured. The print is cut up, to use the artist's phrase, by the
number of accessories which the engraver has thought proper, after the
author's elaborate description, elaborately to reproduce. The plate of
"Wild discovering Darrell in the loft" is admirable--ghastly, terrible,
and the treatment of it extraordinarily skilful, minute, and bold. The
intricacies of the tile-work, and the mysterious twinkling of light
among the beams, are excellently felt and rendered; and one sees here,
as in the two next plates of the storm and murder, what a fine eye the
artist has, what a skilful hand, and what a sympathy for the wild and
dreadful. As a mere imitation of nature, the clouds and the bridge
in the murder picture may be examined by painters who make far higher
pretensions than Mr. Cruikshank. In point of workmanship they are
equally good, the manner quite unaffected, the effect produced without
any violent contrast, the whole scene evidently well and philosophically
arranged in the artist's brain, before he began to put it upon copper.
The famous drawing of "Jack carving the name on the beam," which has
been transferred to half the play-bills in town, is overloaded with
accessories, as the first plate; but they are much better arranged
than in the last-named engraving, and do not injure the effect of the
principal figure. Remark, too, the conscientiousness of the artist,
and that shrewd pervading idea of FORM which is one of his principal
characteristics. Jack is surrounded by all sorts of implements of his
profession; he stands on a regular carpenter's table: away in the shadow
under it lie shavings and a couple of carpenter's hampers. The glue-pot,
the mallet, the chisel-handle, the planes, the saws, the hone with
its cover, and the other paraphernalia are all represented with
extraordinary accuracy and forethought. The man's mind has retained
the exact DRAWING of all these minute objects (unconsciously perhaps
to himself), but we can see with what keen eyes he must go through the
world, and what a fund of facts (as such a knowledge of the shape of
objects is in his profession) this keen student of nature has stored
away in his brain. In the next plate, where Jack is escaping from his
mistress, the figure of that lady, one of the deepest of the [Greek text
omitted], strikes us as disagreeable and unrefined; that of Winifred is,
on the contrary, very pretty and graceful; and Jack's puzzled, slinking
look must not be forgotten. All the accessories are good, and the
apartment has a snug, cosy air; which is not remarkable, except that
it shows how faithfully the designer has performed his work, and how
curiously he has entered into all the particulars of the subject.
Master Thames Darrell, the handsome young man of the book, is, in Mr.
Cruikshank's portraits of him, no favorite of ours. The lad seems to
wish to make up for the natural insignificance of his face by frowning
on all occasions most portentously. This figure, borrowed from the
compositor's desk, will give a notion of what we mean. Wild's face
is too violent for the great man of history (if we may call Fielding
history), but this is in consonance with the ranting, frowning,
braggadocio character that Mr. Ainsworth has given him.
The "Interior of Willesden Church" is excellent as a composition, and a
piece of artistical workmanship; the groups are well arranged; and the
figure of Mrs. Sheppard looking round alarmed, as her son is robbing
the dandy Kneebone, is charming, simple, and unaffected. Not so "Mrs.
Sheppard ill in bed," whose face is screwed up to an expression vastly
too tragic. The little glimpse of the church seen through the open door
of the room is very beautiful and poetical: it is in such small hints
that an artist especially excels; they are the morals which he loves
to append to his stories, and are always appropriate and welcome.
The boozing ken is not to our liking; Mrs. Sheppard is there with her
horrified eyebrows again. Why this exaggeration--is it necessary for
the public? We think not, or if they require such excitement, let our
artist, like a true painter as he is, teach them better things.*
* A gentleman (whose wit is so celebrated that one should be
very cautious in repeating his stories) gave the writer a
good illustration of the philosophy of exaggeration. Mr. --
-- was once behind the scenes at the Opera when the scene-
shifters were preparing for the ballet. Flora was to sleep
under a bush, whereon were growing a number of roses, and
amidst which was fluttering a gay covey of butterflies. In
size the roses exceeded the most expansive sunflowers, and
the butterflies were as large as cocked hats;--the scene
-shifter explained to Mr. ----, who asked the reason why
everything was so magnified, that the galleries could never
see the objects unless they were enormously exaggerated.
How many of our writers and designers work for the
galleries?
The "Escape from Willesden Cage" is excellent; the "Burglary
in Wood's house" has not less merit; "Mrs. Sheppard in
Bedlam," a ghastly picture indeed, is finely conceived, but
not, as we fancy, so carefully executed; it would be better
for a little more careful drawing in the female figure.
"Jack sitting for his picture" is a very pleasing group, and
savors of the manner of Hogarth, who is introduced in the
company. The "Murder of Trenchard" must be noticed too as
remarkable for the effect and terrible vigor which the
artist has given to the scene. The "Willesden Churchyard"
has great merit too, but the gems of the book are the little
vignettes illustrating the escape from Newgate. 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.
A great deal of this random work of course every artist has done in his
time; many men produce effects of which they never dreamed, and strike
off excellences, haphazard, which gain for them reputation; but a fine
quality in Mr. Cruikshank, the quality of his success, as we have said
before, is the extraordinary earnestness and good faith with which
he executes all he attempts--the ludicrous, the polite, the low, the
terrible. In the second of these he often, in our fancy, fails, his
figures lacking elegance and descending to caricature; but there is
something fine in this too: it is good that he SHOULD fail, that he
should have these honest naive notions regarding the beau monde, the
characteristics of which a namby-pamby tea-party painter could hit
off far better than he. He is a great deal too downright and manly to
appreciate the flimsy delicacies of small society--you cannot expect a
lion to roar you like any sucking dove, or frisk about a drawing-room
like a lady's little spaniel.
If then, in the course of his life and business, he has been
occasionally obliged to imitate the ways of such small animals, he has
done so, let us say it at once, clumsily, and like as a lion should.
Many artists, we hear, hold his works rather cheap; they prate about bad
drawing, want of scientific knowledge:--they would have something vastly
more neat, regular, anatomical.
Not one of the whole band most likely but can paint an Academy figure
better than himself; nay, or a portrait of an alderman's lady and family
of children. But look down the list of the painters and tell us who
are they? How many among these men are POETS (makers), possessing the
faculty to create, the greatest among the gifts with which Providence
has endowed the mind of man? Say how many there are, count up what they
have done, and see what in the course of some nine-and-twenty years has
been done by this indefatigable man.
What amazing energetic fecundity do we find in him! As a boy he began to
fight for bread, has been hungry (twice a day we trust) ever since, and
has been obliged to sell his wit for his bread week by week. And
his wit, sterling gold as it is, will find no such purchasers as the
fashionable painter's thin pinchbeck, who can live comfortably for
six weeks, when paid for and painting a portrait, and fancies his mind
prodigiously occupied all the while. There was an artist in Paris, an
artist hairdresser, who used to be fatigued and take restoratives after
inventing a new coiffure. By no such gentle operation of head-dressing
has Cruikshank lived: time was (we are told so in print) when for a
picture with thirty heads in it he was paid three guineas--a poor week's
pittance truly, and a dire week's labor. We make no doubt that the same
labor would at present bring him twenty times the sum; but whether it
be ill paid or well, what labor has Mr. Cruikshank's been! Week by week,
for thirty years, to produce something new; some smiling offspring of
painful labor, quite independent and distinct from its ten thousand
jovial brethren; in what hours of sorrow and ill-health to be told by
the world, "Make us laugh or you starve--Give us fresh fun; we have
eaten up the old and are hungry." And all this has he been obliged to
do--to wring laughter day by day, sometimes, perhaps, out of want, often
certainly from ill-health or depression--to keep the fire of his brain
perpetually alight: for the greedy public will give it no leisure to
cool. This he has done and done well. He has told a thousand truths in
as many strange and fascinating ways; he has given a thousand new and
pleasant thoughts to millions of people; he has never used his wit
dishonestly; he has never, in all the exuberance of his frolicsome
humor, caused a single painful or guilty blush: how little do we think
of the extraordinary power of this man, and how ungrateful we are to
him!
Here, as we are come round to the charge of ingratitude, the
starting-post from which we set out, perhaps we had better conclude. The
reader will perhaps wonder at the high-flown tone in which we speak of
the services and merits of an individual, whom he considers a humble
scraper on steel, that is wonderfully popular already. But none of us
remember all the benefits we owe him; they have come one by one, one
driving out the memory of the other: it is only when we come to examine
them all together, as the writer has done, who has a pile of books
on the table before him--a heap of personal kindnesses from George
Cruikshank (not presents, if you please, for we bought, borrowed, or
stole every one of them)--that we feel what we owe him. Look at one of
Mr. Cruikshank's works, and we pronounce him an excellent humorist.
Look at all: his reputation is increased by a kind of geometrical
progression; as a whole diamond is a hundred times more valuable than
the hundred splinters into which it might be broken would be. A fine
rough English diamond is this about which we have been writing.
End of Project Gutenberg's George Cruikshank, by William Makepeace Thackeray