George Cruikshank

by William Makepeace Thackeray

The famous drawing of "Jack carving the name on the beam," which has been transferred to half the play-bills in town, is overloaded with accessories, as the first plate; but they are much better arranged than in the last-named engraving, and do not injure the effect of the principal figure. Remark, too, the conscientiousness of the artist, and that shrewd pervading idea of FORM which is one of his principal characteristics. Jack is surrounded by all sorts of implements of his profession; he stands on a regular carpenter's table: away in the shadow under it lie shavings and a couple of carpenter's hampers. The glue-pot, the mallet, the chisel-handle, the planes, the saws, the hone with its cover, and the other paraphernalia are all represented with extraordinary accuracy and forethought. The man's mind has retained the exact DRAWING of all these minute objects (unconsciously perhaps to himself), but we can see with what keen eyes he must go through the world, and what a fund of facts (as such a knowledge of the shape of objects is in his profession) this keen student of nature has stored away in his brain. In the next plate, where Jack is escaping from his mistress, the figure of that lady, one of the deepest of the [Greek text omitted], strikes us as disagreeable and unrefined; that of Winifred is, on the contrary, very pretty and graceful; and Jack's puzzled, slinking look must not be forgotten. All the accessories are good, and the apartment has a snug, cosy air; which is not remarkable, except that it shows how faithfully the designer has performed his work, and how curiously he has entered into all the particulars of the subject.

Master Thames Darrell, the handsome young man of the book, is, in Mr. Cruikshank's portraits of him, no favorite of ours. The lad seems to wish to make up for the natural insignificance of his face by frowning on all occasions most portentously. This figure, borrowed from the compositor's desk, will give a notion of what we mean. Wild's face is too violent for the great man of history (if we may call Fielding history), but this is in consonance with the ranting, frowning, braggadocio character that Mr. Ainsworth has given him.

The "Interior of Willesden Church" is excellent as a composition, and a piece of artistical workmanship; the groups are well arranged; and the figure of Mrs. Sheppard looking round alarmed, as her son is robbing the dandy Kneebone, is charming, simple, and unaffected. Not so "Mrs. Sheppard ill in bed," whose face is screwed up to an expression vastly too tragic. The little glimpse of the church seen through the open door of the room is very beautiful and poetical: it is in such small hints that an artist especially excels; they are the morals which he loves to append to his stories, and are always appropriate and welcome. The boozing ken is not to our liking; Mrs. Sheppard is there with her horrified eyebrows again. Why this exaggeration—is it necessary for the public? We think not, or if they require such excitement, let our artist, like a true painter as he is, teach them better things.*

* A gentleman (whose wit is so celebrated that one should be
very cautious in repeating his stories) gave the writer a
good illustration of the philosophy of exaggeration. Mr. —
— was once behind the scenes at the Opera when the scene-
shifters were preparing for the ballet. Flora was to sleep
under a bush, whereon were growing a number of roses, and
amidst which was fluttering a gay covey of butterflies. In
size the roses exceeded the most expansive sunflowers, and
the butterflies were as large as cocked hats;—the scene
-shifter explained to Mr. ——, who asked the reason why
everything was so magnified, that the galleries could never
see the objects unless they were enormously exaggerated.
How many of our writers and designers work for the
galleries?
The "Escape from Willesden Cage" is excellent; the "Burglary
in Wood's house" has not less merit; "Mrs. Sheppard in
Bedlam," a ghastly picture indeed, is finely conceived, but
not, as we fancy, so carefully executed; it would be better
for a little more careful drawing in the female figure.
"Jack sitting for his picture" is a very pleasing group, and
savors of the manner of Hogarth, who is introduced in the
company. The "Murder of Trenchard" must be noticed too as
remarkable for the effect and terrible vigor which the
artist has given to the scene. The "Willesden Churchyard"
has great merit too, but the gems of the book are the little
vignettes illustrating the escape from Newgate. Here, too,
much anatomical care of drawing is not required; the figures
are so small that the outline and attitude need only to be
indicated, and the designer has produced a series of figures
quite remarkable for reality and poetry too. There are no
less than ten of Jack's feats so described by Mr.
Cruikshank. (Let us say a word here in praise of the
excellent manner in which the author has carried us through
the adventure.) Here is Jack clattering up the chimney, now
peering into the lonely red room, now opening "the door
between the red room and the chapel." What a wild, fierce,
scared look he has, the young ruffian, as cautiously he
steps in, holding light his bar of iron. You can see by his
face how his heart is beating! If any one were there! but
no! And this is a very fine characteristic of the prints,
the extreme LONELINESS of them all. Not a soul is there to
disturb him—woe to him who should—and Jack drives in the
chapel gate, and shatters down the passage door, and there
you have him on the leads. Up he goes! it is but a spring
of a few feet from the blanket, and he is gone—abiit,
evasit, erupit! Mr. Wild must catch him again if he can.
We must not forget to mention "Oliver Twist," and Mr.
Cruikshank's famous designs to that work.* The sausage
scene at Fagin's, Nancy seizing the boy; that capital piece
of humor, Mr. Bumble's courtship, which is even better in
Cruikshank's version than in Boz's exquisite account of the
interview; Sykes's farewell to the dog; and the Jew,—the
dreadful Jew—that Cruikshank drew! What a fine touching
picture of melancholy desolation is that of Sykes and the
dog! The poor cur is not too well drawn, the landscape is
stiff and formal; but in this case the faults, if faults
they be, of execution rather add to than diminish the effect
of the picture: it has a strange, wild, dreary, broken
-hearted look; we fancy we see the landscape as it must have
appeared to Sykes, when ghastly and with bloodshot eyes he
looked at it. As for the Jew in the dungeon, let us say
nothing of it—what can we say to describe it? What a fine
homely poet is the man who can produce this little world of
mirth or woe for us! Does he elaborate his effects by slow
process of thought, or do they come to him by instinct?
Does the painter ever arrange in his brain an image so
complete, that he afterwards can copy it exactly on the
canvas, or does the hand work in spite of him?

* Or his new work, "The Tower of London," which promises
even to surpass Mr. Cruikshank's former productions.

A great deal of this random work of course every artist has done in his time; many men produce effects of which they never dreamed, and strike off excellences, haphazard, which gain for them reputation; but a fine quality in Mr. Cruikshank, the quality of his success, as we have said before, is the extraordinary earnestness and good faith with which he executes all he attempts—the ludicrous, the polite, the low, the terrible. In the second of these he often, in our fancy, fails, his figures lacking elegance and descending to caricature; but there is something fine in this too: it is good that he SHOULD fail, that he should have these honest naive notions regarding the beau monde, the characteristics of which a namby-pamby tea-party painter could hit off far better than he. He is a great deal too downright and manly to appreciate the flimsy delicacies of small society—you cannot expect a lion to roar you like any sucking dove, or frisk about a drawing-room like a lady's little spaniel.

If then, in the course of his life and business, he has been occasionally obliged to imitate the ways of such small animals, he has done so, let us say it at once, clumsily, and like as a lion should. Many artists, we hear, hold his works rather cheap; they prate about bad drawing, want of scientific knowledge:—they would have something vastly more neat, regular, anatomical.

Not one of the whole band most likely but can paint an Academy figure better than himself; nay, or a portrait of an alderman's lady and family of children. But look down the list of the painters and tell us who are they? How many among these men are POETS (makers), possessing the faculty to create, the greatest among the gifts with which Providence has endowed the mind of man? Say how many there are, count up what they have done, and see what in the course of some nine-and-twenty years has been done by this indefatigable man.

What amazing energetic fecundity do we find in him! As a boy he began to fight for bread, has been hungry (twice a day we trust) ever since, and has been obliged to sell his wit for his bread week by week. And his wit, sterling gold as it is, will find no such purchasers as the fashionable painter's thin pinchbeck, who can live comfortably for six weeks, when paid for and painting a portrait, and fancies his mind prodigiously occupied all the while. There was an artist in Paris, an artist hairdresser, who used to be fatigued and take restoratives after inventing a new coiffure. By no such gentle operation of head-dressing has Cruikshank lived: time was (we are told so in print) when for a picture with thirty heads in it he was paid three guineas—a poor week's pittance truly, and a dire week's labor. We make no doubt that the same labor would at present bring him twenty times the sum; but whether it be ill paid or well, what labor has Mr. Cruikshank's been! Week by week, for thirty years, to produce something new; some smiling offspring of painful labor, quite independent and distinct from its ten thousand jovial brethren; in what hours of sorrow and ill-health to be told by the world, "Make us laugh or you starve—Give us fresh fun; we have eaten up the old and are hungry." And all this has he been obliged to do—to wring laughter day by day, sometimes, perhaps, out of want, often certainly from ill-health or depression—to keep the fire of his brain perpetually alight: for the greedy public will give it no leisure to cool. This he has done and done well. He has told a thousand truths in as many strange and fascinating ways; he has given a thousand new and pleasant thoughts to millions of people; he has never used his wit dishonestly; he has never, in all the exuberance of his frolicsome humor, caused a single painful or guilty blush: how little do we think of the extraordinary power of this man, and how ungrateful we are to him!

Here, as we are come round to the charge of ingratitude, the starting-post from which we set out, perhaps we had better conclude. The reader will perhaps wonder at the high-flown tone in which we speak of the services and merits of an individual, whom he considers a humble scraper on steel, that is wonderfully popular already. But none of us remember all the benefits we owe him; they have come one by one, one driving out the memory of the other: it is only when we come to examine them all together, as the writer has done, who has a pile of books on the table before him—a heap of personal kindnesses from George Cruikshank (not presents, if you please, for we bought, borrowed, or stole every one of them)—that we feel what we owe him. Look at one of Mr. Cruikshank's works, and we pronounce him an excellent humorist. Look at all: his reputation is increased by a kind of geometrical progression; as a whole diamond is a hundred times more valuable than the hundred splinters into which it might be broken would be. A fine rough English diamond is this about which we have been writing.