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pubOne.info present you this new edition. Accusations of ingratitude, and just accusations no doubt, are made against every inhabitant of this wicked world, and the fact is, that a man who is ceaselessly engaged in its trouble and turmoil, borne hither and thither upon the fierce waves of the crowd, bustling, shifting, struggling to keep himself somewhat above water- fighting for reputation, or more likely for bread, and ceaselessly occupied to-day with plans for appeasing the eternal appetite of inevitable hunger to-morrow- a man in such straits has hardly time to think of anything but himself, and, as in a sinking ship, must make his own rush for the boats, and fight, struggle, and trample for safety. In the midst of such a combat as this, the "ingenious arts, which prevent the ferocity of the manners, and act upon them as an emollient" (as the philosophic bard remarks in the Latin Grammar) are likely to be jostled to death, and then forgotten. The world will allow no such compromises between it and that which does not belong to it- no two gods must we serve; but (as one has seen in some old portraits) the horrible glazed eyes of Necessity are always fixed upon you; fly away as you will, black Care sits behind you, and with his ceaseless gloomy croaking drowns the voice of all more cheerful companions

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819942207
Langue	English

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GEORGE CRUIKSHANK
By William Makepeace Thackeray
* Reprinted from the Westminster Review forJune, 1840. (No 66.)
Accusations of ingratitude, and just accusations nodoubt, are made against every inhabitant of this wicked world, andthe fact is, that a man who is ceaselessly engaged in its troubleand turmoil, borne hither and thither upon the fierce waves of thecrowd, bustling, shifting, struggling to keep himself somewhatabove water— fighting for reputation, or more likely for bread, andceaselessly occupied to-day with plans for appeasing the eternalappetite of inevitable hunger to-morrow— a man in such straits hashardly time to think of anything but himself, and, as in a sinkingship, must make his own rush for the boats, and fight, struggle,and trample for safety. In the midst of such a combat as this, the“ingenious arts, which prevent the ferocity of the manners, and actupon them as an emollient” (as the philosophic bard remarks in theLatin Grammar) are likely to be jostled to death, and thenforgotten. The world will allow no such compromises between it andthat which does not belong to it— no two gods must we serve; but(as one has seen in some old portraits) the horrible glazed eyes ofNecessity are always fixed upon you; fly away as you will, blackCare sits behind you, and with his ceaseless gloomy croaking drownsthe voice of all more cheerful companions. Happy he whose fortunehas placed him where there is calm and plenty, and who has thewisdom not to give up his quiet in quest of visionary gain.
Here is, no doubt, the reason why a man, after theperiod of his boyhood, or first youth, makes so few friends. Wantand ambition (new acquaintances which are introduced to him alongwith his beard) thrust away all other society from him. Some oldfriends remain, it is true, but these are become as a habit— a partof your selfishness; and, for new ones, they are selfish as youare. Neither member of the new partnership has the capital ofaffection and kindly feeling, or can even afford the time that isrequisite for the establishment of the new firm. Damp and chill theshades of the prison-house begin to close round us, and that“vision splendid” which has accompanied our steps in our journeydaily farther from the east, fades away and dies into the light ofcommon day.
And what a common day! what a foggy, dull, shiveringapology for light is this kind of muddy twilight through which weare about to tramp and flounder for the rest of our existence,wandering farther and farther from the beauty and freshness andfrom the kindly gushing springs of clear gladness that made allaround us green in our youth! One wanders and gropes in a slough ofstock-jobbing, one sinks or rises in a storm of politics, and ineither case it is as good to fall as to rise— to mount a bubble onthe crest of the wave, as to sink a stone to the bottom.
The reader who has seen the name affixed to the headof this article scarcely expected to be entertained with adeclamation upon ingratitude, youth, and the vanity of humanpursuits, which may seem at first sight to have little to do withthe subject in hand. But (although we reserve the privilege ofdiscoursing upon whatever subject shall suit us, and by no meansadmit the public has any right to ask in our sentences for anymeaning, or any connection whatever) it happens that, in thisparticular instance, there is an undoubted connection. In Susan'scase, as recorded by Wordsworth, what connection had the corner ofWood Street with a mountain ascending, a vision of trees, and anest by the Dove? Why should the song of a thrush cause brightvolumes of vapor to glide through Lothbury, and a river to flow onthrough the vale of Cheapside? As she stood at that corner of WoodStreet, a mop and a pail in her hand most likely, she heard thebird singing, and straight-way began pining and yearning for thedays of her youth, forgetting the proper business of the pail andmop. Even so we are moved by the sight of some of Mr. Cruikshank'sworks— the “Busen fuhlt sich jugendlich erschuttert, ” the“schwankende Gestalten” of youth flit before one again, —Cruikshank's thrush begins to pipe and carol, as in the days ofboyhood; hence misty moralities, reflections, and sad and pleasantremembrances arise. He is the friend of the young especially. Havewe not read, all the story-books that his wonderful pencil hasillustrated? Did we not forego tarts, in order to buy his“Breaking-up, ” or his “Fashionable Monstrosities” of the yeareighteen hundred and something? Have we not before us, at this verymoment, a print, — one of the admirable “Illustrations ofPhrenology”— which entire work was purchased by a joint-stockcompany of boys, each drawing lots afterwards for the separateprints, and taking his choice in rotation? The writer of this, too,had the honor of drawing the first lot, and seized immediately upon“Philoprogenitiveness”— a marvellous print (our copy is not at allimproved by being colored, which operation we performed on itourselves)— a marvellous print, indeed, — full of ingenuity andfine jovial humor. A father, possessor of an enormous nose andfamily, is surrounded by the latter, who are, some of them,embracing the former. The composition writhes and twists about likethe Kermes of Rubens. No less than seven little men and women innightcaps, in frocks, in bibs, in breeches, are clambering aboutthe head, knees, and arms of the man with the nose; their noses,too, are preternaturally developed— the twins in the cradle havenoses of the most considerable kind. The second daughter, who iswatching them; the youngest but two, who sits squalling in acertain wicker chair; the eldest son, who is yawning; the eldestdaughter, who is preparing with the gravy of two mutton-chops asavory dish of Yorkshire pudding for eighteen persons; the youthswho are examining her operations (one a literary gentleman, in aremarkably neat nightcap and pinafore, who has just had his fingerin the pudding); the genius who is at work on the slate, and thetwo honest lads who are hugging the good-humored washerwoman, theirmother, — all, all, save, this worthy woman, have noses of thelargest size. Not handsome certainly are they, and yet everybodymust be charmed with the picture. It is full of grotesque beauty.The artist has at the back of his own skull, we are certain, a hugebump of philoprogenitiveness. He loves children in his heart; everyone of those he has drawn is perfectly happy, and jovial, andaffectionate, and innocent as possible. He makes them with largenoses, but he loves them, and you always find something kind in themidst of his humor, and the ugliness redeemed by a sly touch ofbeauty. The smiling mother reconciles one with all the hideousfamily: they have all something of the mother in them— somethingkind, and generous, and tender.
Knight's, in Sweeting's Alley; Fairburn's, in acourt off Ludgate Hill; Hone's, in Fleet Street— bright, enchantedpalaces, which George Cruikshank used to people with grinning,fantastical imps, and merry, harmless sprites, — where are they?Fairburn's shop knows him no more; not only has Knight disappearedfrom Sweeting's Alley, but, as we are given to understand,Sweetings Alley has disappeared from the face of the globe. Slop,the atrocious Castlereagh, the sainted Caroline (in a tightpelisse, with feathers in her head), the “Dandy of sixty, ” whoused to glance at us from Hone's friendly windows— where are they?Mr. Cruikshank may have drawn a thousand better things since thedays when these were; but they are to us a thousand times morepleasing than anything else he has done. How we used to believe inthem! to stray miles out of the way on holidays, in order to ponderfor an hour before that delightful window in Sweeting's Alley! inwalks through Fleet Street, to vanish abruptly down Fairburn'spassage, and there make one at his “charming gratis” exhibition.There used to be a crowd round the window in those days, ofgrinning, good-natured mechanics, who spelt the songs, and spokethem out for the benefit of the company, and who received thepoints of humor with a general sympathizing roar. Where are thesepeople now? You never hear any laughing at HB. ; his pictures are agreat deal too genteel for that— polite points of wit, which strikeone as exceedingly clever and pretty, and cause one to smile in aquiet, gentleman-like kind of way.
There must be no smiling with Cruikshank. A man whodoes not laugh outright is a dullard, and has no heart; even theold dandy of sixty must have laughed at his own wondrous grotesqueimage, as they say Louis Philippe did, who saw all the caricaturesthat were made of himself. And there are some of Cruikshank'sdesigns which have the blessed faculty of creating laughter asoften as you see them. As Diggory says in the play, who is biddenby his master not to laugh while waiting at table— “Don't tell thestory of Grouse in the Gun-room, master, or I can't help laughing.” Repeat that history ever so often, and at the proper moment,honest Diggory is sure to explode. Every man, no doubt, who lovesCruikshank has his “Grouse in the Gun-room. ” There is a fellow inthe “Points of Humor” who is offering to eat up a certain littlegeneral, that has made us happy any time these sixteen years: hishuge mouth is a perpetual well of laughter— buckets full of fun canbe drawn from it. We have formed no such friendships as that boyishone of the man with the mouth. But though, in our eyes, Mr.Cruikshank reached his apogee some eighteen years since, it mustnot be imagined that such is really the case. Eighteen sets ofchildren have since then learned to love and admire him, and maymany more of their successors be brought up in the same delightfulfaith. It is not the artist who fails, but the men who grow cold—the men, from whom the illusions (why illusions? realities) ofyouth disappear one by one; who have no leisure to be happy, noblessed holidays, but only fresh cares at Midsummer and Christmas,being the inevitable seasons which bring u