George Cruikshank | Page 4

a common day! what a foggy, dull, shivering apology for
light is this kind of muddy twilight through which we are about to
tramp and flounder for the rest of our existence, wandering farther and
farther from the beauty and freshness and from the kindly gushing
springs of clear gladness that made all around us green in our youth!
One wanders and gropes in a slough of stock-jobbing, one sinks or rises
in a storm of politics, and in either case it is as good to fall as to rise--to
mount a bubble on the crest of the wave, as to sink a stone to the
bottom.
The reader who has seen the name affixed to the head of this article
scarcely expected to be entertained with a declamation upon ingratitude,
youth, and the vanity of human pursuits, which may seem at first sight
to have little to do with the subject in hand. But (although we reserve
the privilege of discoursing upon whatever subject shall suit us, and by
no means admit the public has any right to ask in our sentences for any
meaning, or any connection whatever) it happens that, in this particular
instance, there is an undoubted connection. In Susan's case, as recorded
by Wordsworth, what connection had the corner of Wood Street with a
mountain ascending, a vision of trees, and a nest by the Dove? Why
should the song of a thrush cause bright volumes of vapor to glide
through Lothbury, and a river to flow on through the vale of Cheapside?
As she stood at that corner of Wood Street, a mop and a pail in her

hand most likely, she heard the bird singing, and straight-way began
pining and yearning for the days of her youth, forgetting the proper
business of the pail and mop. Even so we are moved by the sight of
some of Mr. Cruikshank's works--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 of
boyhood; hence misty moralities, reflections, and sad and pleasant
remembrances arise. He is the friend of the young especially. Have we
not read, all the story-books that his wonderful pencil has illustrated?
Did we not forego tarts, in order to buy his "Breaking-up," or his
"Fashionable Monstrosities" of the year eighteen hundred and
something? Have we not before us, at this very moment, a print,--one
of the admirable "Illustrations of Phrenology"--which entire work was
purchased by a joint-stock company of boys, each drawing lots
afterwards for the separate prints, 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 all improved by being colored, which operation we performed
on it ourselves)--a marvellous print, indeed,--full of ingenuity and fine
jovial humor. A father, possessor of an enormous nose and family, is
surrounded by the latter, who are, some of them, embracing the former.
The composition writhes and twists about like the Kermes of Rubens.
No less than seven little men and women in nightcaps, in frocks, in bibs,
in breeches, are clambering about the head, knees, and arms of the man
with the nose; their noses, too, are preternaturally developed--the twins
in the cradle have noses of the most considerable kind. The second
daughter, who is watching them; the youngest but two, who sits
squalling in a certain wicker chair; the eldest son, who is yawning; the
eldest daughter, who is preparing with the gravy of two mutton-chops a
savory dish of Yorkshire pudding for eighteen persons; the youths who
are examining her operations (one a literary gentleman, in a remarkably
neat nightcap and pinafore, who has just had his finger in the pudding);
the genius who is at work on the slate, and the two honest lads who are
hugging the good-humored washerwoman, their mother,--all, all, save,
this worthy woman, have noses of the largest size. Not handsome
certainly are they, and yet everybody must 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 huge bump of philoprogenitiveness. He loves children
in his heart; every one of those he has drawn is perfectly happy, and
jovial, and affectionate, and innocent as possible. He makes them with
large noses, but he loves them, and you always find something kind in
the midst of his humor, and the ugliness redeemed by a sly touch of
beauty. The smiling mother reconciles one with all the hideous family:
they have all something of the mother in them--something kind, and
generous, and tender.
Knight's, in Sweeting's Alley; Fairburn's, in a court off Ludgate Hill;
Hone's, in Fleet Street--bright,