“Even when dependent upon his pencil and etching-needle for means of existence, if any good was to be done for a decayed brother artist or literary friend, George was only too ready (for his own prosperity) to throw down his tools, and stroll about the country with a theatrical company, or go anywhere to solicit subscriptions and make speeches, or to settle to his worktable again to make gratuitous sketches for bazaars and charities. When acting in Edinburgh, for Leigh Hunt’s benefit, with Charles Dickens and his brilliant dramatis personae, news came to him that a country editor, with a large family, whom he had often previously helped, was on the edge of ruin for the want of fifty pounds. ‘I must send it to the poor fellow,’ he said to Dickens, ‘immediately.’ ‘That would be very kind to him,’ answered Dickens, ‘but very unkind to yourself. By-the-bye, have you got fifty pounds in your pocket?’ ‘Oh dear, no,’ was Cruikshank’s reply, ‘but I want you to lend me the money to send to him—now—at once.’ Dickens’s rejoinder was not resort to his cheque book, but the remark that he knew George’s incapable friend would be as badly off as ever after the execution had been paid out of his house, even if the money was sent. ‘Then,’ he added, ‘you would deny yourself all sorts of things and be miserable till you paid me back. That I can’t stand, so I must decline.’”
On the day of his death, his old friend and fervent admirer repaid his kindness by sketching this loving portrait of him:—
“Only a few days ago there was extant—nay, it may be said, flourishing, in the midst of the life and bustle of the Great City, and to all seeming as lively and bustling as any citizen there—a hale, bright, active, elderly gentleman, whose age might, by the majority of cursory age-judges, have been set down as ‘a good sixty-five,’ but who was in reality closely verging upon ninety. A quarter of a century before his death he had looked—so those who knew him well loved to declare—much older than when he was past fourscore. Like the American lady mentioned by Dickens, he seemed to have grown old, ‘got over it,’ and become young again. He was slightly below the middle height, spare but solid of frame, somewhat long-armed and short-legged, as powerful and long-lived men are apt to be, and very broad in the chest. His head, scarcely bowed or blanched to the very last, was massive and well-shapen. He had a high forehead, blue-grey eyes full of a cheerful, sparkling light, penthouse brows, somewhat high cheek-bones, a prominent aquiline nose that Caesar would have liked to look upon, and a mouth cut in firm, sharp lines, and from whose corners grew an ambiguous pair of hirsute ornaments which were neither moustaches, nor whiskers, nor beard, but partook vaguely of the characteristics of all three. But, beyond these, there was curious and original individuality in his hair, which, after its fashion, marked him as typically as the well-known mèche marks the portraits of Napoleon L and M. Emile de Girardin. The elderly gentleman’s chevelure had dwindled down to a few thin locks, indigenous, it is to be feared, to his occiput, but which, by careful combing, and an artful contrivance—so rumour ran—of wire and ‘elastic,’ had been seduced over his temples and his parietal bone. Thus to the greater justice could point triumphantly to the fact that his sparse wisps of hair were still mellow brown in hue, and soft as silk in texture. His face was full of wrinkles; but the furrows seemed to have been ploughed more by hard work, sedulously and unwearyingly performed, than by the mere plodding footsteps of the dragging years. In his port and mien, indeed, until almost the very moment when the hand of the Grim Sergeant was laid upon his shoulder, there was but little of the feebleness and less of the caducity of age. Its garrulity he had; but his friends rejoiced in the good old man’s loquacity, recognizing, as they did, the undimmed clearness of his understanding and tenacity of his memory. Nor, with one singular exception, to which we shall subsequently allude, did that memory play him the woful tricks to which the very aged are so often subject. He could remember perfectly well trifling occurrences which happened in 1800, but he did not forget events of moment which had end he repudiated the imputation of baldness, and with happened in 1877. He was, to sum up, a light-hearted, merry, and, albeit a teetotaler, an essentially ‘jolly’ old gentleman, full physically of humorous action and impulsive gesticulation, imitatively illustrating the anecdotes he related; somewhat dogged in assertion and combative in argument; strong-rooted as the oldest of old oaks in old true British prejudices; decidedly eccentric, obstinate, and whimsical; but in every word and deed a God-fearing, queen-honouring, truth-loving, honest man.
“This was the famous George Cruikshank, caricaturist, social satirist and moralist, illustrator of books, engraver on steel and copper, draughtsman on wood, painter in oils and water-colours, the doughtiest champion, in his degree, of the temperance cause; and, albeit his ‘foaming bowl’ was for many years replenished only from the pump, the Prince of Good Fellows.”
The Prince of Good Fellows looked very much as his later friends remembered him, some five-and-thirty years ago, as I can well remember. The ingeniously arranged chevelure was within artful elastic bands drawn over the skull, when I was a boy. I was one of many youngsters who would creep round his chair clay pipe in his mouth (he always smoked a long clay pipe while he smoked at all) and his brandy-and-water before him, talking loudly and eagerly, gesticulating like a Frenchman, and turning now one ear and now the other, to catch the conversation of the company. A man incapable of rest, with a swift, glancing, steely eye, a mobile mouth, and a grotesquely fierce general aspect, aggravated by the hook-nose, which was awry; prodigal in the matters of whisker, shirt-collar, and wristband; old-fashioned enough, even in the year 1845, to strike boys. *
* George Cruikshank was very careful about any portrait of
him that was drawn or painted. One in coloured chalks by his
friend Mill, that hung in his Amwell Street studio,
satisfied him entirely. The eyes were at their fiercest, and
the whiskers were superb. One day, when Cruikshank was
illustrating Scott, Mr. Lockhart called, and, remarking the
portrait, said drily, “I saw a man, very like that, in
Italy, executed for murder.” Some people would have been
offended, but Cruikshank was delighted. He affected the
brigand look.
In his social habits and relations, Cruikshank was a most modest, self-respecting man. He never courted great folk, he submitted to no form of patronage, and he never pretended to ape the manners and habits of the fashionable world. He lived the first half of his life in Pentonville,* and the second in Camden Town. He confined his acquaintance to congenial friends; and when these happened to be persons of rank and wealth, in its unfashionable neighbourhood. In this he set an example which many of his brother artists—his inferiors in genius—might have followed with advantage to their fame. He stood, at the end of his life, in strong contrast with the petits maîtres in the arts, who give themselves fashionable airs, decorate their houses extravagantly, and spend their too easily acquired gains in slavish imitations of Mayfair life. Cruikshank, in his Omnibus, reproved, in his own quaint way, a writer who had said that he was a collector of curiosities.
* Among the visitors to Amwell Street was the Baron de
Berenger, a remarkable adventurer and spectator. George
Cruikshank, when a young volunteer, had been intimate with
Charles Ransom of his corps, who as a print colourer at
Ackermann’s, and who, as a volunteer, was remarked as a good
shot. Being a well-mannered young fellow, he was patronized
by Mr. Hammerley the banker; and at this gentleman’s house
he met the Baroness de Berenger, a German widow. He married
her, and assumed the title of Baron de Berenger. Being a man
fond of athletics, he conceived the idea of turning Cremorae
Farm, Lord Cremome’s place at Chelsea, into a suburban
gymnasium and place for field sports. Cremorne Farm became
the Stadium, and flourished under the Baron’s management. He
rode out always attended by his four sons on horseback,
dressed in grey military tunics, and with swords at their
sides. This cavalcade occasionally clattered along Amwell
Street, Pentonville, to pay a business visit to Cruikshank,
who, with his brother, was illustrating with sporting
etchings the guide-book to the Stadium.
“No single symp—I was about to say that no single symptom of a curiosity, however insignificant, is visible in my dwelling, when by audible tokens I was (or rather am) rendered sensible of the existence of a pair of bellows. Well, in these it must be admitted that we do possess a curiosity. We call them ‘bellows,’ because, on a close inspection, they appear to bear a much stronger resemblance to ‘bellows’ than to any other species of domestic implement; but what in reality they are, the next annual meeting of the great Scientific Association must determine; or the public may decide for themselves, when admitted hereafter to view the precious deposit in the British Museum.” Then follows an amusing account of the old bellows, with a sketch of them. “The origin of the bellows I know not,” says their owner; “but a suspicion has seized me that they might have been employed in the Ark, had there been a kitchen fire there; and they may have assisted in raising a flame under the first tea-kettle put on to celebrate the laying of the first stone of the great wall of China.”
Cruikshank, moreover, took exception to the description of his person by the same writer. If careless about his house, he was vain of his person. The writer said: “In person, G. C. is about the middle height, and proportionbly made. His complexion is something between pale and clear; and his hair, which is tolerably ample, partakes of a lightish hue. His face is of the angular form, and his forehead has a ‘prominently receding shape.” Cruikshank closed with his antagonist:—