But the opus Georgii had been scattered through modest ways, in children’s books, title-pages to forgotten music, ephemeral pamphlets, mediocre works, or romances of passing popularity, as well as in the pages of Fielding, Smollett, Grimm, Scott, and Dickens. Nearly thirty years had passed over his head since he illustrated “Oliver Twist”; and so the crowd passed by his sterling excellence, and, in the old fashion, turned “to some loud trumpet-blowing hero of the hour.”
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I remember seeing him standing in his exhibition room. It was empty. There was a wild, anxious look in his face, when he greeted me. While we talked, he glanced once or twice at the door, when he heard any sound in that direction. Were they coming at last, the tardy, laggard public for whom he had been bravely toiling so many years? Here was his last mighty labour against the wall, and all the world had been told that it was there. His trusty friend Thackeray had hailed it in the Times. A great committee of creditable men had combined to usher it with pomp into the world. All who loved and honoured and admired him had spoken words of encouragement. Yet it was near noon, and only a solitary visitor had wandered into the room. Thackeray might well say, “How little do we think of the extraordinary powers of this man, and how ungrateful we are to him!”
I was reminded of a visit I had paid years before to a room in the Egyptian Hall, where Haydon, wild and lowering, lingered by his pictures, a solitary, almost heart-broken man. In a letter he said that Douglas Jerrold was one of the two or three who answered his summons to Piccadilly. But it was I, then a young art-student, who had begged my father’s ticket, and stood for him, in the empty Haydon gallery. It was thus, with a sinking at the heart, that I went away from Wellington Street.
In order to make the exhibition more attractive, Mr. John Taylor suggested to Cruikshank that he should group around him a complete collection of his art work of sixty years; his original water-colour sketches of the Miser’s Daughter, the Tower of London, the Irish Rebellion, and indeed a selection from the rich store he had garnered in his home, in the hope that he should be able to leave a complete record of his long art-life as a legacy to his country.
This was the origin of the collection which was ultimately bought by the Aquarium Company, and is now, unfortunately, huddled in a corner of a gallery of their building.
From Wellington Street the Cruikshank exhibition was transported late in 1863 to Exeter Hall. All who knew the worth of Cruikshank’s genius went, and were delighted; but Cruikshank was made to see that the new generation had turned irrevocably to other and less gifted favourites, and that he had outlived his popularly with the multitude. * As one of the committee remarks, “The public neither spake nor moved.”