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    George Cruikshank: “If a man has committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralist more anxious to point his errors out to the world than his own relations...”
    George Cruikshank: “If a man has committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralist more anxious to point his errors out to the world than his own relations...”
    George Cruikshank: “If a man has committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralist more anxious to point his errors out to the world than his own relations...”
    Ebook65 pages1 hour

    George Cruikshank: “If a man has committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralist more anxious to point his errors out to the world than his own relations...”

    By William Makepeace Thackeray

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    About this ebook

    The great author of Vanity Fair and The Luck Of Barry Lyndon was born in India in 1811. At age 5 his father died and his mother sent him back to England. His education was of the best but he himself seemed unable to apply his talents to a rigorous work ethic. However, once he harnessed his talents the works flowed in novels, articles, short stories, sketches and lectures. Sadly, his personal life was rather more difficult. After a few years of marriage his wife began to suffer from depression and over the years became detached from reality. Thackeray himself suffered from ill health later in his life and the one pursuit that kept him moving forward was that of writing. In his life time, he was placed second only to Dickens. High praise indeed.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherA Word To The Wise
    Release dateFeb 14, 2017
    ISBN9781787370579
    George Cruikshank: “If a man has committed wrong in life, I don't know any moralist more anxious to point his errors out to the world than his own relations...”
    Author

    William Makepeace Thackeray

    William Makepeace Thackeray was a nineteenth century English novelist who was most famous for his classic novel, Vanity Fair, a satirical portrait of English society. With an early career as a satirist and parodist, Thackeray shared a fondness for roguish characters that is evident in his early works such as Vanity Fair, The Luck of Barry Lyndon, and Catherine, and was ranked second only to Charles Dickens during the height of his career. In his later work, Thackeray transitioned from the satirical tone for which he was known to a more traditional Victorian narrative, the most notable of which is The History of Henry Esmond. Thackeray died in 1863.

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      Book preview

      George Cruikshank - William Makepeace Thackeray

      George Cruikshank by William Makepeace Thackeray

      The great author of Vanity Fair and The Luck Of Barry Lyndon was born in India in 1811.

      At age 5 his father died and his mother sent him back to England.  His education was of the best but he himself seemed unable to apply his talents to a rigorous work ethic. 

      However, once he harnessed his talents the works flowed in novels, articles, short stories, sketches and lectures.

      Sadly, his personal life was rather more difficult.  After a few years of marriage his wife began to suffer from depression and over the years became detached from reality.  Thackeray himself suffered from ill health later in his life and the one pursuit that kept him moving forward was that of writing.  In his life time, he was placed second only to Dickens.  High praise indeed. 

      Index of Contents

      George Cruikshank

      William Makepeace Thackeray – A Short Biography

      William Makepeace Thackeray - A Concise Bibliography

      George Cruikshank

      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. Happy he whose fortune has placed him where there is calm and plenty, and who has the wisdom not to give up his quiet in quest of visionary gain.

      Here is, no doubt, the reason why a man, after the period of his boyhood, or first youth, makes so few friends. Want and ambition (new acquaintances which are introduced to him along with his beard) thrust away all other society from him. Some old friends remain, it is true, but these are become as a habit—a part of your selfishness; and, for new ones, they are selfish as you are. Neither member of the new partnership has the capital of affection and kindly feeling, or can even afford the time that is requisite for the establishment of the new firm. Damp and chill the shades of the prison-house begin to close round us, and that vision splendid which has accompanied our steps in our journey daily farther from the east, fades away and dies into the light of common day.

      And what 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

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