“You should see the comedies I have not written,” said a pensive playwright. Cruikshank was, throughout his life, disturbed by unfulfilled dreams of great subjects, with which he felt his genius could cope. He would have grappled with Milton, as we have seen, but hard fate kept him tied to bread-and-cheese work, and to minor themes. His “Pilgrim’s Progress” remains unfinished, and, even so far as he executed it, unpublished. *
* The plates are in the possession of Mr. Truman.
“Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,
And the lost clue regain?
The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower,
Unfinished must remain.”
It would have gone sadly then, when the publishers could no longer find profit in his work, when the public had turned from his old-fashioned humour and fancy, to the fresher and more peaceful, albeit more circumscribed and less earnest, genius of Leech, had he not been buoyed up and comforted with the self-imposed mission, for which he had buckled on new armour, resolved to die fighting in the good cause. And so while his rival rode prosperously on the fashion of the hour, catching, in the words of Herrick,
“A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat”—
he ordered a broad canvas to be carried to his modest studio in the Hampstead Road, and sat himself patiently down—his morrow’s bread secured by the sympathetic admiration of a few real friends—to build up that monument of his many-sided genius, his cartoon, composed in the manner of his master Gillray’s “Democracy, or a Sketch of the Life of Bonaparte”—in a series of compartments.
The story of the Triumph of Bacchus is honourable to all parties concerned. On the one hand we find the veteran artist eager to perform an enduring work in support of the Temperance cause; and on the other a knot of friends, also good servants of the cause, anxious to put him in a position to labour in comfort. It has been said the National Temperance League was the means of giving the great painting and engraving to the world; but the truth is, that no temperance association—as an association—took action in the matter. The many earnest men who have this good cause at heart co-operated in several ways in furtherance of the artist’s plans; but these plans were actually directed by a small independent committee, who held on to their task through many troubles and some disagreements, until the plate was completed, and the picture was finally made over to the nation.
When Cruikshank had drawn a rough sketch in oils of his design, he invited a few friends to his house to consult with him as to ways and means. The gentlemen who met as a committee were Sir Francis Crossley, John Stewart—the art critic, Mr. Hugh Owen of the Poor Law Board, Mr. John Taylor, and Mr. W. Tweedie, the publisher. The result of their consultation was the adoption of a proposal submitted by Mr. Stewart, who was a fervent admirer and devoted friend of the artist.
George Cruikshank undertook to produce his complete design in water-colours, from which a steel etching was to be executed. The artist assumed the entire pecuniary responsibility of the undertaking, on the condition that his friends would supply him with what he called “spending money,” or money for his daily wants, while the engraving was in progress. The advances of his supporters were to be refunded out of the proceeds of the sale of the plate. On this arrangement Cruikshank went to work with his usual vigour. The water-colour design was soon completed, and placed in the hands of Mr. Mottram, the engraver—the understanding being that the outline of every figure was to be etched by Cruikshank himself. This laborious work he finally performed, but not before serious and harmful delays had occurred.
It had been distinctly understood that the great oil painting—the ultimate form which the design was to take—was not to be begun until the engraving had been completed; but Cruikshank’s impatience to be at his magnum opus led him to break through his agreement. A member of the committee, on calling at his house one morning, found him before the broad canvas, with the upper row of figures already sketched in. In reply to remonstrances, he gave the reasonable explanation that no man could etch all day long. The committee then agreed that he should work as fast as was prudent at the engraving, and “for rest” take a turn at the big picture. In order further to encourage him, an honorary committee of about seventy gentlemen was formed, to promote the subscription to the engraving. But so engrossed did Cruikshank become in his oil-painting, that, although he knew that the delay in the print was destroying the chances of a great subscription list, he never touched an etching tool until the painting was finally lifted from the easel.
This work was to bring him, not only glory, but fortune. He was confident that crowds would flock to see it He had visions of policemen at the door of his gallery to keep off the tumultuous throng. The advances of his friendly committee exceeded a thousand pounds; but in a few weeks, he believed, the public, for whom he had been labouring since the beginning of the century, would fill his coffers, and he would be able to release himself from his obligations. Flushed with hope, he wreathed some choice specimens of his early work about the magnum opus, in a little gallery next to the Lyceum Theatre, in Wellington Street, Strand; and threw open the doors, and summoned the world to enter. But the world passed his door. *