Matrimonial Ladder" (the ladder was a favourite form with him for conveying the various aspects of a subject)—or Keeley in the new comic song of "Wery Ridiculous"; the next he is the whimsical illustrator of Beaufoy's Advertisement of his Cure for the Toothache—wood drawings engraved by Orrin Smith. Nor had he quite put aside his habit of expressing himself pictorially on political events. In 1843 he published, from Mr. David Bogue's shop in Fleet Street, a separate design entitled "The Queen and the Union. No Repeal! No O'Connell!" It was a woodcut enclosing text in type, the text being Cruikshank's own declamation against the Irish Agitator. Britannia and Erin are represented in the drawing seated, with joined hands, on the shores of the Channel; while the "blustering, foul-mouthed bully, with one foot on Britannia's shoulder, and the other on Erin's harp, has raised an axe to sunder the friends." Frontispieces and covers he designed by the score,—now to "A Tale of a Comical Stick," and now to The Yorkshireman, a religious and literary journal; and now again a headpiece to one of Mrs. S. C. Hall's "Sketches of Irish Character," or a frontispiece to a book on "Prisons and Prisoners." To every item of this extraordinary quantity and variety of pictorial labour Cruikshank gave his utmost energy. He was a most faithful worker, who never stinted himself, even when the humblest or least important subject was in hand. Let me note, however, some exceptions.

In 1843 he had quarrelled with Mr. Bentley, and purposely put bad work in them. This was his revenge—and to the end of his life he never perceived the fault he committed in this act. "One day," says Mr. Locker,* u at my house, he explained how these (the bad etchings) had been etched. It appears that he had quarrelled with Mr. Richard Bentley (he was a singularly kind-hearted man, but, I fancy, had a somewhat remarkable faculty for quarrelling with almost every one with whom he was connected in business), and was obliged to fulfil his contract to supply an etching for each monthly number of Bentley's Miscellany, and he did them as badly as he possibly could, and etched his name under them so illegibly as to be quite indecipherable: 'And,' said he, 'I used to take out my watch, and put it beside me on the table, and give myself just—' (mentioning the number of minutes) 'for each plate.'"

It was after another and a final parting from Mr. Ainsworth, on the sale of his magazine, that Cruikshank, "left in the lurch," to use his own phrase, started his "Table-Book," with Gilbert à Beckett as editor, and Bradbury and Evans as printers and publishers. The artist has put on record the manner in which he and the eminent Whitefriars firm came together:—

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"I will not go into the details of how I assisted this author (Ainsworth) with head and hand work in these novels, but I did my best to design and suggest; and my time was so much occupied in performing this duty, and also with some other matters, that I was not able to bring out my Omnibus as an annual, as I had intended to have done; but I now determined to bring it out again in monthly numbers; and as Bradbury and Evans (the fathers of the present firm) had printed that work for me, I went to their office to see what stock there was of the Omnibus on hand, and to make arrangements for the republishing of it; and when I mentioned this to my friend Bradbury, he said, 'Ah, it is a pity that work was ever stopped; we should have been glad to have bought it of you, and will buy it now, if you would like to sell it.' I replied that I did not wish to dispose of it, but if they would like to join me, I should be glad to have them as partners. 'Agreed,' said both Mr. Bradbury and Mr. Evans; and as these friends of mine were men of business, as well as gentlemen and men of honour, in this case there was a written agreement clearly and legally drawn out, and duly signed by both parties. But their engagements at that time were so many, that a considerable time elapsed before arrangements could be made for the republishing of the Omnibus; so they then suggested, as it was such a long time since my Omnibus had been on the road, that it would, perhaps, be better to start another vehicle of the same build, but under another name. To this I agreed; and thus originated 'The Table Book,' which was edited by my friends the late Gilbert à Becket and Mark Lemon."

The "Table Book" includes two of Cruikshank's most powerful and perfect etchings—viz., "The Triumph of Cupid" and "The Folly of Crime." The fertility of imagination manifest in "The Triumph of Cupid" is amazing. The execution is that of an original master. No man who ever held an etching-needle has surpassed the truth and beauty and boldness of the touches by which hundreds of figures live, a happy tumultuous throng, in this octavo plate. The central figure is the artist, in slippers and embroidered dress-ing-gown, before his fire, smoking a handsome meerschaum pipe, gazing abstractedly into the fire; and upon the cloud of smoke from his lips, his dreams of the triumphs of Cupid rise till they fill the room.

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Cupid perches himself upon his foot, and toasts a heart at the fire; jumps upon the back of Old Time who bears the clock upon the mantelpiece; is enthroned in a triumphal car, with kings and princes, bishops and generals, lawyers and stock-jobbers, drummer-boys and jack-tars and sweeps, clown and harlequin, and even slippered pantaloon, and Chelsea pensioners upon wooden stumps, for his court. The car is drawn by subdued lions and leopards.

The blind beggar is waylaid by the little god, and brought to the ground. He has floored a dustman on his rounds. He makes the Great Mogul sue for mercy. He drags a little black page from under the armchair, and puts gyves upon his wrists. All is clearly and beautifully grouped, and frankly and boldly, and at the same time delicately, drawn. It is as precise and luminous as Durer. It is perfect etching, by one who knew the limits as well as all the capabilities of his exquisite art.

"The Folly of Crime" has been not extravagantly described by a writer in the London Quarterly Review (1873) as a very great work indeed. He says it is perhaps the artist's highest effort: I should rather say it "is clearly and beautifully, and at the same time precise and luminous by one who knew the value of his exquisite art. He says it suggests an undeveloped power of the highest order—albeit the management of the direct and reflected lights is most admirable, and the skill throughout is consummate. "Without lingering over the framework of lesser groups, though these are sufficiently impressive," says the reviewer, "let us go straight to the central picture. A murdered man lies stark in the shadow. The murderer springs forward to catch at, a bowl of pearls, snake-like and seemingly incandescent, that are borne swayingly before him on the head of a grinning fiend. The ground smiles at his feet. He falls, and, as he falls, the light from the pit leaps up, catching his bloody hand, and the fatal knife, and the long ears of his fool's-cap, and gleaming in his despairing eyes; while all the air is