_A BOOK ILLUSTRATOR: HABLOT KNIGHT BROWNE._
In a work dealing with comic artists and caricaturists, one is somewhat
puzzled to decide what place to assign to the distinguished draughtsman
who died a year and a half ago. _Ultimus Romanorum_, the last of the
great trio of designers, Cruikshank, Leech, and Browne, his career
offers to us a singular paradox; for although not born a comic artist
(as we shall endeavour presently to show), he executed a vast number of
comic illustrations; and while, so far as we know, never guilty of a
caricature in his life, the larger portion of his drawings are
caricatures pure and simple.
We might cite a hundred examples of this tendency to exaggeration, but
one shall suffice. In the etching wherein Miss Nickleby is introduced to
her uncle's objectionable friends, Miss Nickleby as well as the
"friends" are remarkable for the largeness of their heads and the
flimsiness of their bodies; while the men, if not exactly like those
described by Pliny, or quoted from him (without acknowledgment) by our
Sir John Mandeville, are at any rate too grotesque for human beings. If
humanity offers to our study in daily life a variety in form, face, and
feature, comprising eccentricities as well as excellencies, such
specimens, nevertheless, as poor Smike or Mr. Mantalini were never
designed in its _atelier_.
[Illustration:
PHIZ. "_Master Humphrey's Clock_," 1840-1.
THE DEPARTURE.
_Face p. 336._]
The artist's invincible tendency to exaggeration, that is _caricature_
(in the Johnsonian definition of the word), was observed by his friend
and ally, the late Charles James Lever, who remarked with reference to
his illustrations of the novel of "Jack Hinton," "Browne's sketches are
as usual _caricatures_; they make my scenes too riotous and
disorderly. The character of my books for uproarious people and incident
I owe mainly to Master Phiz."[172] When Samuel Lover was sent over to
Brussels by McGlashan, the publisher, to take a likeness of the
novelist, he was accompanied by Browne, the object of whose visit was to
confer with the author on the subject of these very illustrations. Lever
was so anxious to restrain him from caricaturing his countrymen, that he
even begged Browne to accompany him to Dublin for the purpose of seeing
the _natives_, instead of the wretched specimens of Milesian humanity to
be met with in London.
LACK OF VITALITY.
Another fault of this artist, which will be apparent to any one
acquainted with his work, is the weakness of his outline, and the
singular absence of solidity, stability, and even of _vitality_ in his
figures. There is no lack of powerful situations in Frank Smedley's
novel of "Lewis Arundel," but Browne's illustrations are characterised
by an utter absence of vitality, while shadow usurps the place of
substantial bone and muscle. There are the usual thread-paper men in
tail hats, with trousers so tightly strapped to their feet that they
must go through the tedium of existence in intolerable discomfort. In
one picture he shows us a fragile, attenuated man holding another
fragile, attenuated man over the well of a staircase by the waistband of
his trousers, a feat which, difficult of performance to a Hercules,
would be absolutely beyond the power of a person so fragile, so
absolutely destitute of bone and muscle, as the hero of this particular
episode.
The weakness of which we now speak becomes strikingly apparent when he
enables us to compare him with either of the distinguished trio to which
he himself belonged. Such an opportunity offers itself in Mr. R. W.
Surtees' novel of "Mr. Facey Romford's Hounds." Compare John Leech's
illustration, _Fresh as a Four-Year Old_ (the last he executed for the
novelist before his firm, free hand was paralysed by death), with Hablot
Knight Browne's first etching in the same book. A better subject,
surely, could scarcely have been selected: the hounds have just been
let out of the kennel, and in actual life would, of course, be
scampering over the place in all the exuberant consciousness of canine
freedom; the scene, in fact, would be redolent of life and excitement,
which is wholly wanting to Browne's illustration. "Phiz," from boyhood,
had been accustomed to horses, and frequently hunted with the Surrey
hounds, and to this circumstance is due the facility with which he
usually delineated horses in the hunting field. In the delineation of
hunting scenes, however, he falls far behind John Leech, and this
inferiority is strikingly manifested in the illustration to which we are
now referring. If you compare the fragile men, horses, and hounds, with
those in Leech's last etching, you cannot fail to be struck with the
vigour and life-like reality of the latter drawing. Browne's women as a
rule are delicate, fragile, consumptive-looking creatures. The one in
the etching referred to is both physically weak and a bad horsewoman to
boot--sitting her horse with all the ungracefulness of a sack of flour.
Another weakness of Hablot Knight Browne is a tendency to reproduce. If
you look at any of his "interiors," it will be apparent to you that the
men and women--the furniture and fittings--the room itself, you have
seen any number of times before. Charles Chesterfield becomes Nicholas
Nickleby, and Nicholas Nickleby Harry Lorrequer; and with the slightest
possible rearrangement, the scenes in which these gentlemen figure from
time to time are so much alike, that we are reminded for all the world
of the set scenes and artificial backgrounds of a photographer's,
"studio." Take "Nicholas Nickleby," by way of example: the room in which
old Ralph Nickleby first finds his poor relations, does duty (with the
slightest possible rearrangement) for the Yorkshire schoolmaster's room
at the Saracen's Head; while a room in Kenwig's house becomes
successively an apartment in Mr. Mantalini's residence, a green-room,
Mr. Ralph Nickleby's office, Mr. Charles Cheeryble's room, a
hairdresser's shop, and so on. The illustrations to a novel may not
inaptly be compared to the scenery and characters of a drama, and a
theatre furnished with such a dearth of scenery and "properties," would
be a poor affair indeed. This tendency to reproduction becomes
strikingly apparent wherever a romantic hero puts in an appearance.
Thus, Mrs. Trollope's Charles Chesterfield in a frock coat, becomes in a
tailcoat Charles Dickens's Nicholas Nickleby; in another frock coat,
Martin Chuzzlewit; while a military surtout converts him, with equal
facility, into Charles Lever's Jack Hinton or Harry Lorrequer, according
to the exigencies of the costume. The strange part of it is that this
peculiarity is shown almost exclusively in the delineation of heroes of
fiction. The imagination of the artist is evidently impressed by marked
and clearly defined characters such as Squeers, Pecksniff, Gamp, Dombey,
Macstinger, Quilp, or Carker, and their identity as a rule is admirably
preserved. If pressed for an explanation, it is possible that Browne
might have pleaded that heroes of romance present for the most part,
with a few notable exceptions, a strong family likeness, being little
better than dummies, introduced by their authors for the purpose of
setting off personages possessed of greater force of character and
decision of purpose. Be this as it may, the singular failing we refer to
is certainly no mere fancy of our own. Charles Lever himself complained
that in the supper scene of his second number, Lorrequer bore so
striking a resemblance to his contemporary, Nicholas Nickleby; while his
biographer, Mr. Fitzpatrick, observes that the identity of Harry
Lorrequer is never maintained throughout the novel, that mercurial hero
being alternately represented old, young, good-looking, and ugly. So
much indeed was Lever impressed with the fact, that he actually besought
the artist to represent O'Malley the _same person throughout the book_.
A knowledge of Irish physiognomy was essential to any illustrator of
Lever's novels, and Hablot Knight Browne was so innocent of this
knowledge that the author begged him to go down to the House of Commons
and study the faces of the Irish members there, as the only accessible
method of obtaining the necessary insight in England.
Hypercriticism, happily, would be out of place in a work dealing with
caricaturists and graphic humourists of the nineteenth century. Faults
such as those the author has ventured to indicate appear to him faults
indeed of a grave character; but, while conscious of defects which
cannot fail to be patent to the most ordinary observer, he is conscious
at the same time of the great abilities of the artist, who like those of
whom he has already treated, has passed over to the ranks of "the great
majority." If the scenery and properties are sometimes poor,--if there
is no genius, and oftentimes a lack of decision and reality, there is on
the other hand no lack of talent; and there are many designs of Hablot
Knight Browne which place him in the very first rank of English book
illustrators. His etching of _The Goblin and the Sexton_ (the eccentric
yew-tree notwithstanding), _Mr. Pickwick in the Pound_, and the very
admirable little etchings which we find in that rare _Paper of Tobacco_
by "Joseph Fume," may be favourably compared with some of the best comic
illustrations of George Cruikshank himself.
[Illustration:
PHIZ. "_Master Humphrey's Clock_," 1840-1.
DICK SWIVELLER AND THE LODGER.
_Face p. 340._]
"NICHOLAS NICKELBY."
Can any picture tell its story better than that first illustration to
"Nicholas Nickleby," where old Ralph pays his "visit to his poor
relations"? Mark the supercilious air with which the vulgar moneylender
hands his hat to Nicholas, and the unveiled contempt with which he
receives the attentions of poor Mrs. Nickleby and her daughter. A no
less admirable illustration is the one wherein we see the Yorkshire
schoolmaster nibbing his pen, whilst Snawley consigns his wretched
step-sons to the tender mercies of the principal of Do-the-boys Hall.
Observe the extraordinary anatomical proportions, hat and toggery, of
Mr. Newman Noggs, as he stretches up to the top of the coach to hand a
letter to Nicholas. Regard the nightcap and head-gear of the detestable
Mrs. Squeers, as she administers matutinal brimstone and treacle to the
starving pupils of Do-the-boys Hall. Mark the astonishment of Squeers
and his victim, as the savage goes down under the thundering blows of
Nickleby's cane. Look at the old imbecile declaring his passion for the
foolish Mrs. Nickleby. Behold his knee-breeches and shorts protruding
from the chimney, when his benighted intellect prompted him, at the
imminent hazard of strangulation, to pay a visit to the object of his
affections _via_ that unusually circuitous route. Look at the fatal
brawl between Sir Mulberry Hawk and his hopeful pupil; and rejoice at
the final retributive justice which overtakes Mrs. Squeers, when she
falls into the hands of her late victims, and is drenched in her turn
with the loathsome brew she had so long administered to themselves.
"MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT."
Specially noteworthy is the bright little picture on the title-page,
where the coach, with its spanking four-in-hand, gallops on its distant
journey after depositing Martin Chuzzlewit at his destination. The
guard, as he mounts up behind, watches with curious interest Pecksniff's
unctuous reception of the new pupil. Nothing can well be cleverer than
his realization of the _Pleasant Little Family Party at Mr.
Pecksniff's_, where that hypocritical personage, surrounded by foes,
assumes a look of persecuted benevolence, and gravely requests his
daughter, when he takes his chamber candlestick that night, to remind
him to be more particular in praying for Mr. Anthony Chuzzlewit, "who
had done him an injustice." _The Warm Reception of Mr. Pecksniff by his
Venerable Friend_ gives us the liveliest satisfaction. If old
Chuzzlewit's face is one of the "caricatures" referred to, it must be
remembered that it is distorted with passion, and the fact is forgotten
in the satisfaction with which we hail the detection and punishment of
the whining rascal, the sting of which is envenomed by the astounding
revelation that all the while he has been weaving his web of falsehood
around his intended victim, he himself has been the dupe of the man he
had schemed so long to hoodwink and deceive.
"THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP."
Regard again Quilp, the dwarf, and his elfin errand boy (in the "Old
Curiosity Shop"), enjoying the agonies of Sampson Brass as he essays to
smoke a long churchwarden. Behold Quilp upon his back taunting the large
fierce dog with hideous grimaces, triumphant in the consciousness that
the shortness of his chain will not permit him to advance another inch.
Look at Mrs. Jarley's wax-work brigand, "with the blackest possible head
and the clearest possible complexion," going his rounds in the company
of little Nell, his eyes fixed on the miniature of his lady-love, and
his hand pressed to his stomach instead of his heart. Behold the dwarf
once more, as he entertains Sampson and his sister Sally in the ruined
outhouse overlooking the river; the rain pours down on the head of the
hapless attorney, who, with coat buttoned up to the chin, and evidently
suffering from severe influenza, looks the picture of shivering
discomfort. Although in no better plight herself, Sally rejoices in the
sufferings of her brother, and as she sips her tea, her repulsive
features are distorted with a hideous grin of satisfaction. Quilp,
seated on his barrel beneath the only remnants of a roof, occupies a
comparatively dry corner, and looks the very picture of rollicking fun
and enjoyment.
"BUNSBY."
But incomparably one of the best of Browne's comic illustrations is the
one in "Dombey," wherein Captain Cuttle encounters Mrs. Macstinger in
charge of Bunsby, bent on rivetting matrimonial chains upon that
confused and ancient mariner. Bunsby is one of the happiest of Dickens's
creations; stupid as an owl, he has nevertheless an oracular mode of
delivering himself, and the simple-minded Cuttle places as much reliance
upon this wooden-headed sailor as the ancients did on the mysterious
utterance of the Delphic Apollo. That the powerful will of Macstinger
should hold himself in subjugation so long as he was under the dominion
of her eye was a matter of course; but that this man of wisdom should be
so easily boarded and captured by the enemy, is so absolutely beyond his
simple comprehension that he scratches his head in sheer amazement. As
for poor Bunsby, the cup of his humiliation is full. So far as his
wooden features are capable of expression, they indicate two distinct
trains of thought: a conviction that his own pretensions have been
detected and exposed, and a desire to run,--an inclination repressed by
the powerful clutch of his strong-minded bride, who retains his wrist in
a grasp of iron. Compare the look of bewilderment on Cuttle's face with
the look of mingled contempt and triumph on the features of Macstinger;
and then look at poor Bunsby!
"Phiz" began etching when he was seventeen, and was in full work when he
was twenty-one. It was his three drawings on the wood for Dickens's rare
tract, "Sunday Under Three Heads,"[173] which introduced him first to
public notice. This was intended as a protest against the cant and
narrow-mindedness of the bigots whose ignorance of the sacred writings
is so dense that they confound the Jewish Sabbath (_i.e._ the Saturday)
with the English Sunday; misunderstand (which in their ignorance of
Hebrew may be excusable) the directions to _his own people_ of the
Jewish law-giver,--and ignore (which is absolutely inexcusable) the
dictates of common sense, and the plain directions of our Saviour and of
the Gentile Apostle. The strong common sense of Charles Dickens, and of
many good Christian men after him, have striven in vain to expose an
error due to the narrow-mindedness of our Puritan forefathers, to whom
are due also the impurities of Dryden and of the dramatic writers of the
Restoration. Cant, however, has prevailed; and the English Sunday--to
the delight of these fanatics, and the absolute terror of their
children--remains the most unrefreshing and most doleful of the seven
days of the week.
THE "JACK SHEPPARD" MANIA.
Theatrical London in 1840 was visited by an excitement second only to
the "Tom and Jerry" mania of 1821. The mania of 1840, if occupying a
narrower area, was more morbid in its character, and certainly not less
mischievous in its results. Harrison Ainsworth had brought out his
peculiar romance of "Jack Sheppard," which, resting on its own merits,
might have achieved perhaps a mild popularity and done but little harm.
Thanks, however, to the genius and fancy of George Cruikshank, the
public became for a time Sheppard mad; the heroes presented to admiring
and applauding audiences at the theatres were murderers, housebreakers,
highway robbers, thieves, and their female companions. The morbid taste
of the populace had in fact been thoroughly roused, a condition of
things which was satirized by the artist's little-known etching of _The
Way to the Gallows made Easy and Pleasant_, which appeared in "The New
Monthly Magazine" of 1840.[174] The inventive powers of the artist were
almost _nil_, and the rare and able etching referred to was suggested to
him by John Poole, the author of "Paul Pry," to whom we are indebted for
the descriptive letterpress: "At the foot of a gently sloping path
strewed with flowers, stands a gibbet decorated, not with a halter, but
wreaths of roses. Around it are many tombs of elegant construction,
supposed to enclose the ashes of the illustrious departed. Upon one is
inscribed, 'Here repose the mortal remains of the ever-famed Jerry
Abershaw'; upon another, 'Sacred to the memory of Poor Johnny
Greenacre.' A third is remarkable for its touching simplicity--'Alas!
Poor Thurtell!' Another, somewhat more elaborate, gives us 'Burke and
Hare! As they were loving friends in life, so in death are they
undivided! Erected by their affectionate disciples, Bishop and May.'
Besides these there are many others all bearing names of mark and fame.
The whole is surrounded by a pretty arabesque composed of crowbars and
other implements of burglary, pistols, knives, death's heads and
cross-bones, halters, handcuffs, and fetters, ingeniously disposed and
prettily intertwined with wreaths of roses."
We said at the opening of this chapter that "Phiz" was not _born_ a
comic artist. He possessed a certain amount of humour, which was evoked
in the first instance by the example of Cruikshank, and his abilities
and desire to emulate the greater artist have enabled him unquestionably
to realize many humorous designs. It is impossible, however, to examine
the numerous etchings of this draughtsman, without coming to the
conclusion that he is always seen at his best when not called on to
exercise his purely comic powers. Take by way of example, _The Venice
Glass_, in Ainsworth's romance of "Crichton"; you will need no reference
to the letterpress to understand it, for the artist tells his story far
better than the novelist. Observe Crichton as he raises the goblet, and
the poisoned wine bubbles and boils, and finally shivers the chalice
into a thousand fragments; regard the agitation of Marguerite de Valois;
the keen attention of Henri and his attendants. Where shall we find a
finer illustration than the one in this book in which Esclairmonde is
presented to Henri? The meeting of Mr. Tigg and Martin Chuzzlewit at the
pawnbroker's shop is full of pathos. Look at the poor, wasted but still
handsome mother waiting her turn whilst the gin-drinking laundress pawns
her flat-irons to gratify her passion for the deadly drink; note the
_insouciance_ of the thoughtless musician as he twangs the guitar which
he is about to pledge, though probably dependent on it for bread. Notice
the pictures above,--the Bacchante pressing grapes into a wine cup,--the
bailiff distraining for rent. Hablot Knight Browne has no powers which
would enable us to compare him with Hogarth, and yet the grim reality of
this picture Hogarth himself might almost admire.
Regard again that wondrous tailpiece at page 96 of "The Old Curiosity
Shop," where Quilp, the odious dwarf, sits up all night smoking and
drinking, his countenance every now and then "expanding with a grin of
delight" as his patient, long-suffering wife makes some involuntary
movement of restlessness or fatigue. Look at poor, wasted, shoeless
Nell, as she reclines on the settee of the public-house, surrounded by
sympathisers,--the kind-hearted motherly landlady administering mental
and bodily solace to the motherless child,--the poor, foolish, gambling
grandfather gazing into her face with wistful anxiety. Lastly, look at
the ghastly corpse of old Quilp as he lies dead amid the mud and slime
of the river, which, after playing with the ugly, malicious, ill-shapen
thing until it was bereft of life, flung it contemptuously high and dry
upon the swamps at low tide.
"DOMBEY AND SON."
"Dombey and Son" called for comparatively little exercise of Browne's
_comic_ power, and consequently we shall find in this book examples of
some of his finest book etchings. The pompous London merchant, the
frigid influence he exercises on those about him, the distrustful look
of the nurse as she brings baby Paul into his presence, the shrinking
form of little Florence as the frightened child cowers with folded hands
behind her repellent father's chair, are finely depicted in the etching
of _The Dombey Family_. In _Mrs. Dombey at Home_, the proud, haughty
beauty chafing under the consciousness that she has been sacrificed to
the wealth of the heartless merchant, takes no pains to veil the
contempt she feels for the admiring men who surround her. These men (by
the way) are scarcely men at all, they are all grossly exaggerated; but
"Phiz," like many artists of greater pretensions, has sacrificed
everything to his central figure, and the presence and bearing of the
disdainful beauty makes the _coup d'oeil_ delightful. _Abstraction and
Recognition_ is a wonderful etching; both man and horse are admirably
drawn, whilst the figures scowling out of the dark entry on the passing
and unconscious horseman require no reference to the letterpress. In his
etching of _The Dark Road_, Mr. Browne developed a style of etching of
which he afterwards frequently availed himself, and by which (as in
"Bleak House" and "Roland Cashel") he sometimes succeeded in producing
remarkable effects. It shows us a postilion driving a team of horses
over a dark and dreary road bordered on either hand by dismal moorland;
the streaks of the approaching dawn illuminate the edges of the
landscape; the single occupant of the berlin, unable to control his
agitation, stands upright, and gazes anxiously around him. So realistic
is the drawing, that as we look at the flying team we may almost hear
the jingle of the splinter-bars and harness as the horses rattle along
the dismal road. Cruikshank, to save his life, could draw neither a
horse, a tree, or a pretty woman; when he did so it was rather by
accident than by design. "Phiz" (with all his faults) could draw all
three, and impart to them a grace, a beauty, and a poetry peculiar to
himself. Look at that etching of _Carker in his Hour of Triumph_, where
Edith, after using the villain as a tool to revenge herself upon her
husband, turns upon her miserable dupe with all the force of her
superior intellect, and laughs in the face of the man she has so
egregiously befooled. This really is an admirable drawing; the anger and
humiliation on the face of the dumbfounded villain, who feels himself
absolutely powerless in the hands of the scornful, resolute woman, are
powerfully depicted. A more perfect realization of Edith Dombey it seems
to us could scarcely be imagined. Leech, _perhaps_, might have reached
the idea. He would certainly have put more breadth and solidity into the
figure of Carker; but the woman he could scarcely have improved upon--I
doubt if he could have matched her. As for Cruikshank, he would have
given her an impossible waist, a puffy face surmounted with bandeaux of
raven hair scrupulously plastered to each side of her lofty forehead;
whilst Carker would have been presented to us in an uncomfortable
coat, hair parted and dressed after the Cruikshankian fashion, and a
pair of boots at least half a yard in length.
[Illustration:
PHIZ. "_Master Humphrey's Clock_," 1840-1.
THE RIOTERS.
_Face p. 346._]
"BLEAK HOUSE" AND "ROLAND CASHEL."
"Bleak House" (1852-3) has been described as the most successful of
"Phiz's" illustrated work; but although it contains some of the best
etchings he ever designed for Charles Dickens, the rest are in truth of
unequal merit. Among the best may be mentioned _Consecrated Ground_;
_The Old Man of the name of Tulkinghorn_; _Morning_; _Tom All Alone's_;
and the sunset scene in the _Long Drawing-room at Chesney Wold_. In the
dreary twilight of the _Ghost's Walk_ and of the room in which the
murder was consummated we have a pair of drawings unsurpassed by any of
the illustrations he executed for Charles Lever's "Roland Cashel," which
last contains unquestionably the finest of his designs.
Of all his illustrators, Hablot Knight Browne was the one who best
suited the requirements of Charles Dickens. A man of talent without a
single idea of his own, he was found more malleable and manageable than
Cruikshank, who, as we have seen, would have had a hand (if he could)
not only in the illustrations, but also in the management of the story.
The conditions under which "Phiz" illustrated "Pickwick" were wholly
different from those which poor Seymour had endeavoured to impose upon
his author. "It is due to the gentleman," says Dickens, in his preface
to the "Pickwick Papers," "It is due to the gentleman whose designs
accompany the letterpress, to state that the interval has been so short
between the production of each number in manuscript and its appearance
in print, that the greater portion of the illustrations have been
executed by the artist from the author's _verbal description of what he
intended to write_." Cruikshank would certainly not have done this, and
we doubt whether John Leech would have consented to work under such
conditions. But as regards Browne, the case was entirely different. He
had no _genius_ or ideas of his own, and could only work from the
suggestions of others. The interest and anxiety which Dickens felt in
the character of the illustrations to his novels, is shown by reference
to the illustrations to "Dombey." "The points for illustration, and the
enormous care required, make me," he says, "excessively anxious! The man
for Dombey, if Browne could see him, the class of man to a T, is Sir
A---- E----, of D----s. Great pains will be necessary with Miss Tox. The
Toodle family should not be too much caricatured, because of Polly." As
the story unwinds itself, he proceeds, "Browne is certainly interesting
himself and taking pains;" and again, in another letter, "Browne seems
to be getting on well." Still "Browne," with all his pliability, found
it a hard matter to please him. He made a particular point of Paul, Mrs.
Pipchin, and the cat by the fire; and the result to himself was so
eminently unsatisfactory that it produced a characteristic protest. "I
am really distressed by the illustration of Mrs. Pipchin and Paul. It is
so frightfully and wildly wide of the mark. Good heaven! in the
commonest and most literal construction of the text, it is all wrong!
She is described as an old lady, and Paul's 'miniature arm-chair' is
mentioned more than once. He ought to be sitting in a little arm-chair
down in a corner of the fireplace, staring up at her. I can't say what
pain and vexation it is to be so utterly misrepresented. I would
cheerfully have given a hundred pounds to have left this illustration
out of the book. He never could have got that idea of Mrs. Pipchin if he
had attended to the text. Indeed, I think he does better without the
text; for then the notion is made easy to him, a _short description_,
and _he can't help taking it in_." This last sentence exactly describes
the man: a personal description with him did more than any amount of
letterpress, however lucid.
One may readily understand this almost nervous anxiety of Charles
Dickens with reference to the _character_ of his illustrations. He
worked, be it remembered, under conditions entirely different to the
novelist of a later date. The etched illustrations of his day formed a
most important--in some cases (the works of inferior men, such as Albert
Smith, for instance) by far the most important--portion of the work
itself. Under the charm of the illustrations and the mode of issue, the
tale was protracted to a length which would be impossible in a novel of
Charles Reade or Wilkie Collins, which depends for its success upon the
skill of the novelist alone. The novel issued in monthly numbers
depended on two sources of attraction--the skill of the novelist and the
skill of his artistic coadjutor. Dickens' requirements, however, were of
so exacting a nature that they proved in the end too exacting even for
the patience of the accommodating artist, and the reader will not be
surprised to learn that a coolness was ultimately established between
artist and author, the outcome of which was the employment of Marcus
Stone and Luke Fildes on the later novels of "Our Mutual Friend" and
"Edwin Drood."
Those who would find fault with Charles Dickens for the mode in which he
controlled his artists quite fail to understand the man himself.
Although he had no knowledge of the pencil, although he himself had no
knowledge of drawing, he was nevertheless a thorough artist in heart and
mind. There is scarcely a character in his books which does not show the
care and thought which he bestowed upon its elaboration. Ralph Nickleby,
Squeers, Smike, little Nell, Quilp, Barnaby Rudge, Steerforth, Paul
Dombey, Lady Dedlock, Joe, each and all show how carefully they were
elaborated; how distinctly they presented themselves to the retina of
the mind of their distinguished creator. When this is borne in mind, it
will be at once understood why the Mrs. Pipchin of Hablot Browne was not
_the_ Mrs. Pipchin with whose outward appearance and mental
peculiarities the author himself was so intimately acquainted.
"AURIOL."
Notwithstanding the exhibition, after his death, of water-colours and
other works, which took the public by surprise, Hablot Knight Browne
will continue to be known to most of us as an illustrator of books, and
nothing more. "Oh! I'm aweary, I'm aweary," he said himself in a letter
to one of his sons, "of this illustration business." Some of these
illustrations, however, are wonderfully graceful, and one in particular
seems to call for special notice. It will be found in the "New Monthly
Magazine" for 1845, and is undoubtedly one of the best examples of the
artist's work which may be found anywhere. It represents a prisoner in a
dungeon lying at the foot of a pillar, which, except in a ghastly carved
work running round it of skulls and cross bones, reminds us somewhat of
Bonneval's pillar at Chillon. The lights and shadows are wonderfully
rendered, and the work is characterized by a softness, a beauty, and a
finish only to be observed in work which took the artist's fancy. This
etching is entitled, _Rougemont's Device to Perplex Auriol_; and
Ainsworth's story which it illustrates--a peculiarly unsatisfactory
one--commenced, I think, in "Ainsworth's Magazine," passed into the "New
Monthly," when its author purchased that periodical in 1845, and
(whether the novelist got himself into an intellectual fix or otherwise
I know not) finished, I believe, eventually nowhere.
Browne indeed finds a place here more by virtue of his book
illustrations than by reason of any just pretensions to be considered a
graphic humourist. His comic powers appear to us more the result of
education and emulation than natural gifts, and the consequence is, that
in attempting to be funny, his work too often degenerates into absolute
exaggeration. His excellencies must be sought for in his serious
illustrations, which fall more within the province of the art critic
than the scope and purpose of a work which treats of graphic satirists
and comic artists of the nineteenth century. Some of his finest
illustrations of a serious character will be found in the pages of the
"Illuminated Magazine"; in Charles Lever's admirable story of "St.
Patrick's Eve"; in the "Fortunes of Colonel Forlogh O'Brien"; in
Augustus Mayhew's "Paved with Gold"; in Ainsworth's "Mervyn Clithero";
and "Revelations of London"; and above all, in Charles Lever's novel of
"Roland Cashel."
Hablot Knight Browne lived to see the decline and fall of that peculiar
and powerful art of book illustration which was introduced by
Cruikshank; was fostered and encouraged by Charles Dickens, Charles
James Lever, their imitators and contemporaries; and died, so to speak,
with these distinguished men. His work in later years, as might
naturally have been expected, shows a woeful decline of power; and when
the suggestors from whom he derived inspiration were no longer at his
back, the poverty of invention which characterized the man when left to
his own devices becomes painfully apparent.
"Phiz" drew in later years for _Judy_ and other comic papers, and it is
simple justice to say that his designs are characterized by an utter
absence of comic power. The true comic inspiration possessed in so
wonderful a degree by Cruikshank, by John Leech, and even by Robert
Seymour, he never indeed possessed. Some fifteen years before his death
he suffered from incipient paralysis, and furthermore injured his thumb,
which obliged him to hold his pencil between his middle and
fore-fingers. Gradually this great and graceful artist dropped so far
behind in the race of life that he yielded latterly to proposals to
illustrate boys' literature of a very inferior class.
In addition to an absence of comic inspiration, the _creative_ faculty
of Cruikshank and Leech was wanting to Hablot Knight Browne. In order to
carry out an idea, it was necessary that it should be put into his head;
for leave him to himself, and he could do absolutely nothing.[175]
George Cruikshank and John Leech after receiving instructions would
proceed to realize them in their own way and after their own fashion;
but this was not the case with Hablot Knight Browne. While he could
realize the idea of another with peculiar success when the subject took
his fancy, he could neither enlarge nor improve upon it, and in this
lies the difference between _genius_ and mere ability. Lacking an
inherent sense of humour, he copied Cruikshank, and hence his
exaggerations and failures as a _comic_ designer; but he was _ultimus
Romanorum_,--the last representative of the famous men whose art was
fostered and encouraged by Charles Dickens, by Charles Lever, by
Harrison Ainsworth, and by Richard Bentley. The services which these
eminent men rendered to the novelists who like them are dead and gone
can scarcely be appreciated; for we presume few will deny that their
labours lent a charm, a beauty, and an interest to their works, which
largely tended to promote their sale. The fortunes of "Jack Sheppard,"
of "The Miser's Daughter," of "The Tower of London,"--the success
obtained by nearly all the stories of Ainsworth which obtained any
success at all, was mainly due to the pencil of Cruikshank. The
reputation of "Oliver Twist"--a morbid novel--was made in a great
measure by _him_; but for John Leech, neither "Mr. Ledbury," "The
Scattergood Family," "The Marchioness of Brinvilliers," or "Richard
Savage," would have survived to our day. To him the novels of Mr. R. W.
Surtees owe their entire popularity; while his genius has conferred
vitality on the rubbish of A Beckett. It is curious, however, how little
these facts were recognised at the time, and what little credit was
given in contemporary reviews and by contemporary critics to the artists
who rendered to successful novelists the priceless aid and assistance of
their pencils.
How far the needle of "Phiz" contributed to the ultimate success of the
great _raconteur_, Charles James Lever, we are in no position to state;
that it proved a very large factor in that result there can be no manner
of doubt. That success was not achieved immediately. Lever commenced
life as a struggling country doctor, and "Harry Lorrequer," first
brought out in the "Dublin University Magazine," before it appeared in
illustrated shilling numbers, was almost wholly ignored by the London
press, the criticisms and favourable remarks coming almost wholly from
provincial journals. There was one exception by the way, a military
paper, the critic of which went into such ecstacies over this sparkling
military medley, that he asserted he would rather be author of
"Lorrequer" than of all the "Pickwicks" or "Nicklebys" in the world.
This notice (unknown to Lever) was published with the advertisements of
the book, and (strange to say) gave so much annoyance to Dickens that he
sent an angry reply to a civil letter which came to him shortly
afterwards from the Irish novelist, and their friendly intercourse was
for some years suspended in consequence.
[Illustration:
PHIZ. "_Master Humphrey's Clock_," 1840-1.
SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER.
_Face p. 352._]
The decline of Hablot Browne's popularity was painfully apparent to
himself. Although our chapter was written long before the appearance of
Mr. Kitton's pamphlet, we may be permitted to re-open it to extract from
the latter the following melancholy observations which we find in a
letter to his son, Dr. Browne: "I am at present on a sporting paper,
supported by some high and mighty nobs; but I fear, _like everything I
have to do with, now a-days_, it will collapse, for some of the
proprietors of the paper are also shareholders, etc., etc., in the
Graphotype Company, so they want to work the two together. I hate the
process; it takes quite four times as long as wood, and I cannot draw
and express myself with a nasty, finicking brush, and the result when
printed seems to alternate between something all as black as my hat, or
as hazy and faint as a worn-out plate. If on wood, I should like it well
enough; as it is it spoils four days a week, leaving little time for
anything else. Oh! I'm aweary, I'm aweary! of this illustration
business."[176] This seems to us inexpressibly sad. We hear nothing of
it in earlier days, when he was drawing the excellent designs for
"Roland Cashel," for "Dombey," or for "Bleak House."
Of the works and sketches in water colour and oils exhibited in
Liverpool after the artist's death, personally we have seen nothing.
They took the public by surprise, for few at least of the outer world
suspected that this shy, retiring illustrator of books was a persevering
and accomplished water-colour artist. We ourselves were aware of the
fact, and had seen some thirty original and highly characteristic
sketches, some of them studies of characters in novels of Charles
Dickens and Lever; all executed prior to 1846, some in Indian ink, some
in crayon, a few in pencil. Among them was a small but highly finished
water-colour drawing, representing a group of seven knights in full
martial panoply, and a striking effect is produced by the glint of the
sun on the burnished armour of the central figure. The author of a
recent sketch would cite these water colours as a complete answer to
those who like ourselves maintain, in no mere spirit of detraction, that
the artist possessed not one particle of _genius_. Surely he cannot be
in earnest. If so, we have only to say, that if painting subjects in
oils or water colour from the thousand and one hints to be gathered from
history, fiction, or every-day life, be a test of _genius_, the walls of
every summer and winter exhibition--to say nothing of the Royal
Academy--would be furnished annually with examples from end to end.
Leech died in the meridian of his fame at the early age of forty-six.
Hablot Browne when he died had not only survived his talents, but his
peculiarly shy and retiring nature had caused him at the age of
sixty-seven to be absolutely forgotten. The famous men of letters whose
works he had illustrated were dead and gone; the world of literature and
of art took such small note of him that his funeral was the funeral of a
private individual, and not of one who, if he did not partake in, had
contributed in no considerable degree to the success of Charles Dickens
and of Charles James Lever. When his passing-bell rang out upon the
summer air, journalists remembered that a great artist was gone to his
rest, and _Punch_ inserted in his number of the 22nd of July, 1882, to
the memory of the last of the book etchers of the nineteenth century the
following graceful tribute:--
"The lamp is out that lighted up the text
Of Dickens, Lever--heroes of the pen.
_Pickwick_ and _Lorrequer_ we love, but next
We place the man who made us see such men.
What should we know of _Martin Chuzzlewit_,
Stern _Mr. Dombey_, or _Uriah Heap_?
_Tom Burke of Ours_?--Around our hearts they sit,
Outliving their creators--all asleep.
No sweeter gift ere fell to man than his
Who gave us troops of friends--delightful Phiz.
"He is not dead! There, in the picture-book,
He lives with men and women that he drew;
We take him with us to the cozy nook,
Where old companions we can love anew.
Dear boyhood's friend! We rode with him to hounds;
Lived with dear _Peggotty_ in after years;
Missed in old Ireland, where fun knew no bounds.
At _Dora's_ death we felt poor David's tears.
There is no death for such a man,--he is
The spirit of an unclosed book! immortal Phiz!"
FOOTNOTES:
[172] Fitzpatrick's "Life of Charles Lever."
[173] Now lately republished.
[174] And republished in "Poole's Miscellany."
[175] As I notice a similar remark in one of the obituary notices of
the artist's death, I think it necessary to observe that this chapter
was written while "Phiz" was yet living.
[176] Mr. Kitton's "Memoir," p. 19.