But the public had come to regard him simply as a keen a sense of the ridiculous as most men. I can see clearly what is ridiculous in others. I am so sensitive myself, that I am quite alive to every situation, and would not willingly place myself in a ridiculous one; and, I must confess, that if to be a teetotaler was to be a milksop, if it was to be a namby-pamby fellow, or a man making a fool of himself or of others, then indeed I would not be one—certainly not; but if, on the contrary, to be a teetotaler is to be a man that values himself, and tries by every means in his power to benefit others; if to be a teetotaler is to be a man who tries to save the thoughtless from destruction; if to be a teetotaler is to be a man who does battle with false theories and bad customs, then I am one. I have been a convert but a short time, not much over twelve months. I only wish that I could say, with Dr. Gourley, that I had never taken a glass of spirits in my life; I wish that I had acted upon the principles of total abstinence only thirty years ago; for if I had, I am convinced that at this time I should have been much better, both in body and mind. I have experienced much benefit already, both physically and mentally. I never did sneer at or scorn the question of Temperance, yet I never thought that I should stand up as a teetotal advocate; but I am proud that I have been put into the position in which I am now placed.
Later on, still conscious of the disadvantage at which he was placing himself as an artist, he said to another audience—.
“When I left off drinking wine altogether, and became a total abstainer, I became a healthier and stronger man, more capable of meeting the heavy responsibilities that were upon me, and for the following two years I had my life renewed, and all the elasticity of my schoolboy days came back to me. Domestic afflictions then came upon me, ending in death, and my spirits and health were crushed down. In this extremity I applied to my medical adviser. He said, ‘Medicine is of no use to you; you must drink wine again.’ I refused, and my medical friend called in some others of his profession; he told me they had had a consultation, the result being that all of them agreed it was necessary I should drink wine to restore my sinking constitution. I replied,
“‘Doctor, I’ll take your physic, but not your wine. Let me try everything else first, and only when there is no other chance give me wine, because I feel there is a great principle at stake in this matter.’ I have said, and I believe, wine is unnecessary, even as a medicine, and I do not wish to do a single act which would tend to weaken or destroy the weight and force of that conviction. And here I stand. I have not tasted the vile and destroying enemy, and I am almost restored to health, without having risked the violation of my principles. I call this a triumph; and I stand here as an evidence that wine is totally unnecessary, even as a medicine.”
Much later, we find the preacher an octogenarian—albeit rudely buffeted by the world, and well-nigh forgotten as a living artist—still true to his noble text. “Alcoholic liquors,” he exclaimed to an audience, little more than two years before his death, “were recommended to keep up strength! But what kept up his strength? He had not taken a drop of wine, beer, or any alcoholic drink, for twenty-seven years, and he would be eighty-three next September, if he lived till then. What was it, then, that kept up his strength? Since he had given up drinking beer and smoking, he had had a higher enjoyment of life, because all his nervous system was in proper tone.”
Cuthbert Bede, who knew Cruikshank intimately in his teetotal days, has drawn this graphic picture of the Temperance advocate at home:—
“Though I had interchanged letters with Mr. George Cruikshank for several years, it was not until early in the autumn of 1853 that I made his personal acquaintance. He had asked me to write a serial story for a projected publication to be illustrated by himself ; and, as it would simplify matters if we could talk over the subject together, I went up from the country to London to call upon him. He was then living in Mornington Crescent, near to Regent’s Park. Numerous portraits had made me familiar with his personal appearance, so that I needed not to be told who was the gentleman who so courteously received me downstairs, and then took me upstairs to his comfortable studio, where he introduced me to his wife. Some of our first conversation, indeed, was on the subject of his portrait; for, among the pictures on his walls, I had noticed the original of the portrait by Frank Stone, which was engraved on steel for the Omnibus, and was certainly a far more flattering representation of George Cruikshank than the caricaturist’s sketches of himself. I told him that I considered the best portrait of himself was to be found in his own etching, ‘The Reverie,’ published in his Table- Book, and in every respect a wonderfully fine specimen of his art and genius. I also referred to his own account of ‘My Portrait,’ in the Omnibus, in which, with his own pen and pencil, he portrayed himself, and made comments on a curious description of himself that had been given in a publication called ‘Portraits of Public Characters’; how he was said to be of the medium height, with a forehead of a prominently receding shape, with a handsome pair of whiskers, and hair partaking of a lightish hue; and, moreover, how the ludicrous and extraordinary fancies with which his mind was constantly teeming often imparted a sort of wildness to his look frighten from his presence those unacquainted with him.
“He read these and similar passages to me, and was immensely tickled at their egregious absurdity. In truth, his manner at once impressed me as being peculiarly gentle, and kind, and genial. Instead of assuming any airs of superiority, I found him possessed of all the humble modesty and chivalrous courtesy of the truly great artist and thorough gentleman; and although I was quite young, and he was in his sixty-first year, he treated me as though I had been his equal, if not superior, in ability. We had so much to talk about, and he had so much to show me, that my first interview with George Cruikshank had been prolonged to nearly four hours before I became aware how quickly the time had flown. The time had then arrived for their luncheon, or early dinner; and as both Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank pressed me to stay, and I had by this time overlapped the hour at which I had made another engagement, I readily and peculiarity to his manner, which would suffice to consented to remain, and we went downstairs to dinner. ‘There will be nothing else than a leg of mutton,’ said Cruikshank. ‘I happen to know that, for I came in with it,’ I replied; ‘for as I knocked at the hall door the butcher’s boy was down in the area, delivering the leg of mutton to the cook.’ Cruikshank seemed to be greatly amused at this, for he laughed heartily, and said to his wife, ‘My dear, Mr. ———— came in with the mutton.’ Something in the occurrence seemed to mightily tickle his fancy, for more than once he repeated the words to his wife, ‘My dear, Mr. ———— came in with the mutton!’ It was while I was eating it that I terribly forgot myself. The day was very sultry; it was five hours since I had breakfasted; we had been busy talking, and I felt thirsty. So, while the parlourmaid was handing something to me. I asked her to give me a glass of beer. She replied, ‘We have no beer, sir.’ ‘Then,’ I said, ‘please to bring me the sherry.’ ‘There is no sherry, sir.’ Whereupon my host interposed, and laughingly explained that he could not allow the introduction of any alcoholic liquor into his house; and that, while I was his guest, I must content myself with drinking water. Then I suddenly remembered that which I ought not to have forgotten, even for a moment, that my host had devoted himself to teetotal, who, six years before, had drawn the eight scenes of ‘The Bottle,’ and had thereby struck a powerful blow at one of the greatest vices of the age.
“I duly apologized for my forgetfulness; and the incident naturally led Cruikshank to dilate on that important theme, in furtherance of which he so steadily devoted his great powers to the very end of his career, with a persistent courage and devoted zeal that won for him the genuine respect and admiration of those even who could not wholly agree with him in details. I was one of those. I could travel with him, very willingly, up to a certain point, after which our paths parted, and we ‘agreed to differ.’ I could accompany him to temperance, but not to total abstinence. During the remainder of the time that we occupied over dinner, we scarce spoke on any other subject than that which gave ism, and that I was sitting at the table of the artist rise to the scenes of ‘The Bottle,’ ‘The Drunkard’s Children,’ ‘The Gin Trap,’ ‘The Gin Juggernaut’—and, at a later period, his large oil-painting, ‘The Worship of Bacchus.’
“Our discussion on the subject was preserved with perfect good humour; so much so, that I ventured to remind him that only a year or so before he had been converted to teetotalism he had caricatured Father Mathew, in an etching for the Comic Almanac for 1844, representing him as an old pump. I reminded my host that these were his sentiments for more than fifty years of his life, and that he had never during that period objected to the moderate use of alcoholic liquors, although he had always vigorously lashed their gross abuse; and I pleaded that I had not lived for half those years that I had named, and that I might be pardoned for my forgetfulness in asking his servant for beer and wine.