Part 2

Gillray is said to have sometimes disguised his style in order to evade his agreement with Humphrey that he would work for no other publisher; and there is more than one of Cruikshank's Napoleonic caricatures which might be ascribed to Gillray's dram-providing _alter ego_ if their authorship were in question. Of such is _Quadrupeds, or Little Boney's Last Kick_, published in "The Scourge" (1813). Here the Russian bear holds a birch in his right paw, and Napoleon by an ankle with his left; a naked devil points to the crown, tumbling from the head of the capsized emperor; on the ground is an ironical bulletin. _Old Blucher beating the Corsican Big Drum_ (1814) is an even closer match of the baser sort of Gillrayan caricature; while the particular stench of it rises from _Boney's Elb(a)ow Chair_, of the same date. The last caricature from Cruikshank upon Napoleon came feebly in 1842 with the issue of "George Cruikshank's Omnibus," wherein he figures as a skeleton in boots surmounting a pyramid of skulls. The caricaturist's harlequinade had lasted too long; when it ceased, the soul of it utterly perished, and one views impatiently so formal and witless a galvanisation as was suggested by the return of Napoleon, dead, to the reconquest of France.

Of Cruikshank's Napoleonic caricatures as a whole, it may be said that their function was solely to relieve by ridicule the pressure of a grandiose and formidable personality upon the nerves of his countrymen. He did not, like Gillray in _The Handwriting on the Wall_, confess the historic greatness of Napoleon by an allusion so sublime that it afforded Hone a precedent for unpunished impiety. When, for serio-comic verse, he attempted to delineate a monitory apparition, in the shape of Napoleon's "Red Man," the result was absurdity veiled by dulness.

* * * * *

But it is time to turn to the Cruikshankian view of persons and things in Great Britain in the lifetime of "Adonis the Great." It is said that while Gillray was productive, an old General of the German Legion remarked, alluding to caricature, "Ah! I dell you vot--England is altogether von libel." With the spirit of this speech, one can cordially agree. The concupiscence of princes was serialised for the mirth of the crowd.

There were two great types of ascendant degeneracy to divert the eyes of Farmer George's subjects from their shops and Bibles. One was his son George, the other Mary Anne Clarke.

The cabinet in which George kept capillary souvenirs of so many women was fastened against contemporary critics of his career. Undivulged, therefore, was the touching sentiment of a philofeminism which, in excluding his legal wife, was construed but as vice. There was no Max Beerbohm in his day to appreciate his polish and talents and to pity his wife for playing her tragedy in tights. There was no one to pronounce him the slave of that most endearing of tyrants, the artistic temperament. The caricaturists saw simply a polygamist eager to convict of adultery the wife whom he disliked and avoided, and a spendthrift whose debt was inflicted upon the nation. So far as man can show up his fellow-men, this man was shown up, and in verse and picture became an instrument of public titillation. So roguish a severity as the caricaturists displayed can seldom be accepted as didactic Gillray, indeed, in _The Morning after Marriage_ followed him into the bridal chamber of Mrs Fitzherbert whom he married in 1785, and this caricature is the best advertisement of his grace and beauty which perhaps exists. When attacked by Cruikshank, he was over forty, for the first caricature of him in which that artist's hand is noticeable was published in 1808. It is entitled _John Bull Advising with His Superiors_: the superiors being George and his brother Frederick, who sit under the portraits of their respective mistresses, "Mrs Fitz" and Mrs Clarke. John Bull is clean-shaven, fat-nosed, hatted, and holds a gnarled stick. "Servant Measters," he begins, "I be come to ax a bit of thy advice"; but he proceeds to freeze them with clumsy innuendo and adds, "I does love good old Georg [_sic_], by Goles! because he is not of that there sort," meaning their own. After this, the Regent was for Cruikshank a stimulant to the drollest audacities. The world was younger then and could laugh uproariously at the bursting of a dandy's stays and the mislaying of a roué's removable whiskers. Mrs Grundy had not persuaded it of the superior comicality of Mrs Newlywed's indestructible pie-crust and Mr Staylate's interview with the parental boot. So George, who, at any rate, was real life, blossomed abundantly to another George's advantage. Thus _The Coronation of the Empress of the Nairs_ (September 1812)--a simile suggested by a contemporary account of a curious Asiatic race--depicts him as crowning the Marchioness of Hertford in her bath; _A Kick from Yarmouth to Wales_ illustrates the assault of the provoked Earl of Yarmouth upon his wife's too fervent admirer; and _Princely Agility_ (January 1812) shows His Royal castigated Highness confined by a convenient sprained ankle to bed, where his whiskers and wig are restored to him. The opening of Henry the Eighth's coffin in St George's Chapel, Windsor, April 1, 1813, suggests to Cruikshank _Meditations Amongst the Tombs_, in which the greatness of the deceased sovereign forcibly strikes the Regent. "Great indeed!" he is made to say, "for he got rid of many wives, whilst I, poor soul, can't get rid of one. Cut off his beard, doctor, 'twill make me a prime pair of royal whiskers." The prince's partiality for the bottle is severely illustrated. In _The Phenix [sic] of Elba Resuscitated by Treason_ (May 1, 1815), he receives the news of Napoleon's outbreak, seated on a cushion with a decanter behind him; and even when he was King, Cruikshank dared to draw him (1822) as drunk and curing an irritated cuticle by leaning his kilted person against one of the posts of Argyleshire.

If, however, Caroline of Brunswick had not, by adopting a Meredithian baby and other eccentricities, condemned herself to "Delicate Investigation" in 1806 and to a trial before the House of Peers in 1820, Cruikshank's delineations of Adonis the Great would have seemed genial compared with Thackeray's contempt. That his sentiment for the lady was less chivalrous than Thackeray esteemed it, may be divined by his caricature of her as an ugly statue of Xantippe put up to auction "without the least reserve" (1821), which is less than two months older than his conception of her as a rushlight which Slander cannot blow out. But he perceived, as did the whole intelligent proletariat, the monstrous irony of George's belated notice of his wife. Hence in his woodcuts to "The Queen's Matrimonial Ladder" and "Non Mi Ricordo!" he is not comic but satirical, and satirical with strokes that turn The Dandy of Sixty who bows with a grace into a figure abjectly defiant, meanly malevolent, devoid of levity. A cut in the former pamphlet shows him standing in a penitential sheet under the seventh, ninth and tenth commandments, meeting the gaze of an astonished urchin; on the outside of the latter pamphlet we see him in the throes of awkward interrogation, uttering the "Non Mi Ricordo" which Caroline's ill-wishers were tired of hearing in the mouth of Bergami.

Mary Anne Clarke, our second type of ascendant degeneracy, was, if Buck's drawing of her is truthful, a woman of seductive prettiness, but she could not teach Cruikshank her charm in atonement for her venality. He drew her petticoat "supported by military boots" and surmounted by a cocked hat and the mitre of the ducal bishop of Osnaburg (February 23, 1809); "under this," it is stated, "may be found a soothing for every pain." When Whigs and the Prince of Wales sent the Duke of York back in 1811 to the high post which he had disgraced, Mrs Clarke dwindled in Cruikshank's caricature to a dog improperly exhibiting its contempt for Colonel Wardle's left eye. It is curious that the Clarke scandal did not apparently inspire any caricature which deserves to live as pictorial criticism. Revealing, as it did, not only rottenness in the State, but in the Church, since Dr O'Meara sought Mrs Clarke's interest for the privilege of preaching "before royalty," one may well be surprised at the failure of caricature to ennoble itself in the cause of honour and religion. Yet Cruikshank produced in 1811 a powerful etching--_Interior View of the House of God_--which shows, apropos a lustful fanatic named Carpenter, his power to have seized the missed opportunity. In this plate is the contemporary portrait of himself which P. D'Aiguille afterwards copied.

If we ask, for our soul's sake, to sicken of the Regent's amours and of the demure "Magdalen" of York, whose scarlet somehow softens to maroon because she is literary and quotes Sallust, it is necessary to leave the caricatures which laugh with her--especially Rowlandson's--and look at Cruikshank's tormented John Bull. The most pathetic is perhaps _John Bull's Three Stages_ (1815). In the last stage (_Peace with all the World_) his child, once pressed to eat after repletion, says, "Give me some more bone." The hand that drew the earlier plates of _The Bottle_ is unmistakable in this etching.

It was seemingly in 1819 that Cruikshank first realised his great powers as a critic in caricature. To that period belongs what a pamphleteer called "Satan's Bank Note":--

"Notes which a 'prentice boy could make At fifteen for a shilling."

The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street earned thereby the sobriquet of Hangland's Bank, and her victims included two women on a day when Cruikshank looked at the gibbet of the Old Bailey. They were hanged for passing forged one pound notes. Cruikshank thereupon drew his famous _Bank Restriction Note_, signed by Jack Ketch, and with a vignette of Britannia devouring her children above an $L$ of rope. Hone issued this note (of which there are three varieties) from his shop on Ludgate Hill, a stone's throw from the gibbet; the public flocked to see and buy it, and the moral was not lost upon the Bank of England, who thereafter sent forth no more one pound notes. The pathos as distinct from the tragedy of the condition thus relieved is well recalled by the caricature invented by Yedis and drawn by Cruikshank entitled _Johnny Bull and his Forged Notes_ (January 7, 1819).

We now turn to the lighter side of his topical journalism. One of his subjects was gas-lighting. _The Good Effects of Carbonic Gas_ (1807) depicts one cat swooning and another cut off from the list of living prime donne by the maleficence of Winzer's illuminant. In 1833 Cruikshank reported a ghost as saying to a fellow-shade, "Ah! brother, we never has no fun now; this 'March of Intellect' and the Gaslights have done us up."

Jenner had him for both partisan (1808) and opponent (1812). In the former rôle he makes a Jennerite say, "Surely the disorder of the Cow is preferable to that of the Ass," and the realism is nauseous that accompanies the remark. As opponent he wittily follows Gillray, who in 1802 imagined an inoculated man as calving from his arms. Prominent in Cruikshank's caricature (a bitter one) is a sarcophagus upon which lies a cow whom Time is decapitating. "To the Memory of Vaccina who died April the First," is the touching inscription.

I have already mentioned Cruikshank as a chronicler of fashion. Gillray was his master in this form of art, though the statement does not rest on the two examples here given. The thoughtful reader will not fail to admire the incongruity between the children in the drawing of 1826 and the great verities of Nature--cliff and sea--between which they strut. The latter drawing is as grotesquely logical as a syllogism by Lewis Carroll. Comparable with it in persuasiveness is Cruikshank's short-skirted lady (December 1833) who is alarmed at her own shadow, which naturally exaggerates the distance between her ankles and her skirt. Thence one turns for contrast to the caricature of crinolines in "The Comic Almanack" for 1850. It is called _A Splendid Spread_, and represents gentlemen handing refreshments to ladies across wildernesses of "dress-extenders" by means of long baker's peels. Such drawing educates; it has the value of criticism.

This praise is tributary to Cruikshank's second journalistic period. By journalistic I mean topical, attendant on the passing hour. His first journalistic period begins formally with his first properly signed caricature, an etching praised by Mr F. G. Stephens, entitled _Cobbett at Court, or St James's in a bustle_, and published by W. Deans, October 16, 1807. This period includes Cruikshank's contributions to "The Satirist," "The Scourge," "Town Talk" and "The Meteor." It merges into the second period in 1819, the year that saw the first three volumes of "The Humourist." The principal journalistic works of this second journalistic period are _Coriolanus addressing the Plebeians_ (1820), "Scraps and Sketches" (1828-1832), "The Comic Almanack" (1835-1853), "George Cruikshank's Omnibus" (1842), and "George Cruikshank's Table Book" (1845).

_Coriolanus_ is less a caricature than a _tableau vivant_. It was invented by J. S., whom Mr Layard says was Cruikshank's gifted servant Joseph Sleap. The "Plebeians" are Thistlewood the conspirator, Cobbett armed with Tom Paine's thigh bones, Wooler as a black dwarf, Hone, George Cruikshank, etc. George IV., in his Shakespearean rôle abuses them soundly. As regards the monarch, the work is un-Cruikshankian; its laborious and minute technique is a foreshadowing of a happier carefulness.

The journalism of "Scraps and Sketches" is immortal in _The Age of Intellect_ (1828), which even Mrs Meynell, writing as Alice Thompson, found "most laughable." Here a babe whose toy-basket is filled with the works of Milton, Bentley, Gibbon, etc., learnedly explains the process of sucking eggs to a gaping grandmother, who suspends her perusal of "Who Killed Cock Robin?" while she declares that "they are making improvements in everything!" To my mind the best topical plate in "Scraps and Sketches" is _London going out of Town, or the March of Bricks and Mortar_ (1829). No one who has seen a suburb grow inexorably in field and orchard, obliterating gracious forms and sealing up the live earth, can miss the pathos of this masterpiece. Yet it is not a thing for tears, but that half smile which Andersen continually elicits by his evocation of humanity from tree and bird and toy. For Cruikshank gives lamenting and terrified humanity to hayricks pursued by filthy smoke. He gives devilish energy to a figure, artfully composed of builder's implements, which saws away at a dying branch; and he imparts an abominable insolence to a similarly composed figure which holds up the notice board of Mr Goth.

Nearer perhaps to Cruikshank's heart than this triumph of fancy was _The Fiend's Frying Pan_ (1832), published in the last number of "Scraps and Sketches," which represents the devil, immensely exultant, holding over a fire a frying-pan which contains the whole noisy lascivious crowd and spectacle of Bartholomew Fair. The fair was proclaimed for the last time in 1855, and Cruikshank was pleased to figure himself as an inspirer of the force that struck at its corrupt charm after the fair of 1839 and condemned it to a lingering death. _The Fiend's Frying Pan_ is now chiefly remarkable as an early example of Cruikshank's love of crowding a great deal of real life into a vehicle that belittles it. This frying-pan sends the thought forward to the etching entitled _Passing Events, or the Tail of the Comet of 1853_, where Albert Smith's lecture on Mont Blanc, a prize cattle show, emigration to Australia, and "Uncle Tom's Cabin," are all jumbled together in the hair of a comet which possesses a chubby and beaming face.

The pictorial journalism of the "Comic Almanacks" is often delicious; no ephemerides, in my knowledge, equal them in sustained humorous effect. _Guys in Council_ (1848) haunts one with its grave idiocy. Even His Holiness Pius X. could scarce refrain from smiling at the blank stare of the rigid papal guy in the chair, at the low guy who, ere leaving the conclave, challenges him with a glance of malignant cunning. On the other hand, it would be hypercritical to seek a prettier rendering of an almost too pretty custom than _Old May Day_ (1836), with its dancers ringing the Maypole by the village church. Cruikshank's extraordinary power of conveying dense crowds into the space of a few square inches--say six by three--is shown in _Lord Mayor's Day_ (1836) and _The Queen's Own_ (1838), illustrating Victoria's Proclamation Day. In the 1844 Almanack he humorously foreshadows flying machines in the form of mansions; but the 1851 Almanack shows his liberality scarcely abreast of his imagination, as _Modern Ballooning_ is represented by an ass on horseback ascending as balloonist above a crowd of the long-eared tribe.

One cannot, however, glance through Cruikshank's Victorian caricatures without perceiving that the passing of the Regent slackened his Gillrayan fire. True, in the "Table Book" we have a John Bull whose agony reminds us of the suffering figure in _Preparing John Bull for General Congress_ (1813): the midgets of infelicitous railway speculation who strip this bewildered squire of hat and rings, of boots and pocket-book, while a demented bell fortifies their din, are of an energy supremely Cruikshankian: no other hand drew them than the hand which enriched the immortality of the elves in Grimm. Nor will one easily tire of a vote-soliciting crocodile in the "Omnibus"; and yet the fact remains that the great motives of Cruikshank's political caricature pulsated no more. He was ludicrously incompetent for the task of satirising the forward movement of women: the Almanacks show that, if their evidence be required. The subjects of Queen Victoria found in Keene and Du Maurier pictorial critics who, by the implication of their veracity, their success, demonstrate his imperfect understanding of a generation to whom George the Fourth was history and legend. To the ironists of that generation there was something in the Albert Memorial more provocative than the

"--huge teapots all drill'd round with holes, Relieved by extinguishers, sticking on poles"

which distinguished the Folly at Brighton. It is too much to say that the art of the Victorian epoch establishes this fact; yet of what caricaturist can it be said as of Cruikshank that his naïf enthusiasm for all that an Age rather than a Queen signified by the Albert Memorial forced him into the rôle of its patron rather than its satirist? In _A Pop Gun_ (1860) there is a pathetically feeble engraving, after a drawing by Cruikshank of Prince Albert and the late Queen, which almost brings tears to the eyes, its insipidity is so loyally unconscious. And what does all his marvellous needlework in the Great Exhibition novel entitled "1851: or The Adventures of Mr and Mrs Cursty Sandboys," accomplish for satire in comparison with what it accomplishes as a puff and a fanfare? Here, as in the _Comet_ of his ill-fated Magazine (1854), is a skill beside which his Georgian caricatures are but a brat's defacement of his Board School wall. And yet what is the answer to our question? Nothing. It is an answer that rings down the curtain on the diorama called "Cruikshank the journalist."

III

Cruikshank's didactic work was the offspring of his journalism. No man can journalise with spirit and remain uncritical. Criticism is, in truth, the soul of caricature, which by stressing the emphasis of Nature on face and expression makes even simpletons judges of grandees. Photography itself is on the side of illusion; but caricature has X-rays for the deformed fact. That a habit of criticism should evolve a passion for preaching is only natural, though it is the modern critic with his hedonistic bias who has armed the word didactic with a sting. Even such a critic must admit that Cruikshank's preaching was from living texts and that the preacher seemed well versed in "St Giles's Greek." But before speaking specifically of his didactic drawing we will consider what led up to it. A balladier of _circa_ 1811 threatens mankind as follows:--

"Since I have had some comic scenes, Egad! I'll sing them all, sir, With my bow, wow, what a row! fal lal de riddy, riddy, sparkey, larkey, funny, dunny, quizzy, dizzy, O."

This animal outburst breathes the spirit of all the "bang up" books of the last Georgian period, and might almost have served as a motto for Pierce Egan's "Life in London" (1821), and David Carey's "Life in Paris" (1822). Blanchard Jerrold's bibliography of Cruikshank begins with "A Dictionary of the Slang and Cant Languages" (1809), to which the artist contributes _The Beggars' Carnival_--a folding frontispiece. In assisting his brother Robert--who styled himself "original suggester and artist of the 2 vols." containing "Life in London" and its sequel--to illustrate the rambles and sprees of "Jerry Hawthorn, Esq., and his elegant friend Corinthian Tom," George seems to have seen carnival on a more liberal scale. "Life in London" ranges from the Westminster [Dog] Pit to Rotten Row, and from the [Cyprian] Saloon of Covent Garden to the Press Yard of Newgate. One of the spirited plates (_Tom and Jerry taking Blue Ruin_) powerfully presents some pitiable pothouse types, and is a text, though it is not a sermon. Another illustration, reproduced here, compares equally with _Dick and His Companions Smashing the Glim_ in Carey's work. While illustrating "Life in Paris," George, working alone, pursued the example set by Robert when they collaborated. Carey credits him with "accuracy of local delineation"--praise which he has often and variously deserved--yet it must be confessed that Dick Wildfire like Corinthian Tom is at once commonplace and out-of-date. In face he is like George in early manhood as Corinthian Tom was like Robert; that is his chief recommendation. The book may be silently offered to any one who asserts that George's taste in literature was too nice for Pierce Egan. One of his plates turns a catacomb into a scene of vulgar mirth.

These novels of excess were stepping-stones to a sounder realism which we find in "Mornings at Bow Street" (1824) and "More Mornings at Bow Street" (1827). Here the illustrator's task was to illustrate selected police cases, and through the medium of wood engraving a most delectable entertainment was the result. A choleric gentleman's row with a waiter presents itself as a fractured plate in the rim of which two tiny figures display respectively the extremes of napkined deprecation and of kicking impudence. Tom Crib[b]'s pursuit of a coppersmith suggests a wild elephant storming after a frenzy of flying limbs. The genius that was to realise Falstaff is disclosed in the drawing of a drummer boy discovered in a clothes basket. Did he come to Bow Street? we ask, and did those Cupids fighting in the circuit of a wedding-ring come too? The answer is Yes, but because of one who probably was not there, whose name we know.