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Immediately after the death of Gillray, we find evidence of the twinges of conscience which Cruikshank felt, even while he continued to fall, at intervals, into wild excesses. These were followed by dark passages of remorse, and by resolutions which were again and again broken. The fate of the men—and that of Gillray especially—whom he had seen fall victims to what he was pleased to call the fashionable vice, would rise before him. But, in an impulsive, convivial moment, his own sad experiences of time wasted and opportunities gone, and of the friends he had lost, were often forgotten; and he found himself, as of old, wending his way home, in the small hours, covered with a sense of disgrace. Cruikshank was no better, and no worse, than his contemporaries. A letter in Procter’s * neat hand lies before me. It is dated from Gray’s Inn Square, March 13th, 1839; and he says:
“I shall be very happy to be one of the number to dine with Macready. But, remember, I cannot be one of those who will doubtless be found under the table at four a.m. (as I understand was the case upon a late occasion).”
* Barry Cornwall.
If, however, Cruikshank was not early a convert to the practice of temperance, he was, as I have remarked, a preacher betimes.
His “Introduction to the Gout” (1818) is in his best vein. A toper is seated over his pot, and holding a peach upon his fork, with which he is about to cool his mouth. An imp—one Gout—approaches from the fireplace, and with the tongs is about to drop a red coal on the great-toe of Toper. Another drawing (a lithograph) of this date is suggestive. It is called “Deadly Lively.” Death has stepped in, surprising a man and two women, who are drinking in a kitchen, before a blazing fire. Death is filling the man’s glass; the old woman is falling from her seat, and the young man is tumbling drunk under the table. Presently (in the same year) the artist is in a gayer mood as a satirist. The picture is called “Tit-Bits.” An Irishwoman, overcome by beer, has fallen into a deep sleep under a tree. Her slumbers give a yokel an opportunity of stealing one of her chickens, while a cur licks the tarts in her basket.* Then we have “The Three Bottle Divine,” no rara avis in those days. It is the head of a heavy, coarse-featured man, in sporting guise, his face garnished with carbuncles and large spectacles.
So far back as 1836, Cruikshank gave the public a foretaste of “The Bottle” in a vignette to a music title. Two individuals are represented—one old and spectacled, the other young and with an eyeglass,—examining with horror the contents of a spirit bottle, which is filled with malignant imps emblematical of alcohol as “doctored by publicans,” and sold for “Old Tom,” etc. The cork has turned devil, and throws up his arms in delight at the work of his imps.