Read Ebook: Rowlandson the Caricaturist; a Selection from His Works. Vol. 1 by Grego Joseph Rowlandson Thomas Illustrator

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setting a punch-bowl over the dog's head. The arms of a sweetly pretty Bacchante are entwined round the neck of the maudlin reveller. Beside the well-filled table sits a youthful military 'blood;' another nymph, whose adolescent charms are liberally displayed, is seated on the knee of this son of Mars. The young lady is evidently disposed to be frolicsome, since she is flourishing in the air a full-bottomed wig, which she has snatched from the head of a corpulent Silenus, in whom age has failed to bring sober reason or to correct frivolity; this ancient buck is deservedly getting his face scratched and clawed in an amorous struggle with a handsome maiden, dressed in a hat and feathers, who is forcibly repelling the advances of the elderly rake.

With clasped hands and bended knees, They humbly sought the Count to please, And begged admission to his house. Not that for him they cared a louse, But wished within his walls to shine, And show those charms they think divine. His Ex. beheld these belles unmov'd-- His back their impudence reproved.

Then Moses reply'd: 'Sir, the parish will chide For keeping them out in cold weather.' 'Then, Moses,' quoth he, 'Go and tell 'em from me I'll bury them warm all together!'

'But, sir, it rains hard; Pray have some regard.' 'Regard! ay, 'tis that makes me stay, For no corpse, young or old, In rain can catch cold; But faith, Moses, you and I may!'

Moses begg'd he'd be gone, Saying, 'Sir, the rain's done; Arise, and I'll lend you my hand.' 'It's hard,' quoth the Vicar, 'To leave thus my liquor-- To go when I'm sure I can't stand.'

At length, tho' so troubled, To the churchyard he hobbled, Lamenting the length of the way. Then 'Moses,' said he, 'Were I a Bishop, d'ye see, I need neither walk, preach, or pray!'

The whole composition is more humorous than reverential, but it indicates the taste of the period, according to the last lines:--

'And thus we have carried the farce on: The taste of the times Will relish our rhymes, When the ridicule runs on a parson.'

Wigstead, whose name is associated with authorship , has painted the professional gentleman in no flattering colours; the man of letters is wretchedly lean in person, and abjectly subservient in manner to the trafficker who is buying his ideas; his hat is held respectfully under his arm, and his manuscript, which he is endeavouring to recommend to his patron, is in his hand. One of the bookseller's clients, a respectable Church dignitary, who is looking through the library, with great owl-like horn spectacles on his reverend nose, is present at the interview, and is regarding the poor literary hack with an air of inflated superiority.

F. Wheatley A Coast Scene, fishermen, fisherwomen, &c. " A Companion " Gainsborough A Sketch; trees, cottages, &c. " Cattle, river side. F. Wheatley A Fair. Bartolozzi A Pair of Cupids. Barret and Gilpin Mares and Foals. " Cattle. Gainsborough Landscape sketch. Mortimer A Storm at Sea. Gainsborough Cows. Zucchi Harmony. Two nymphs singing, another playing a lyre. Mortimer The Philosopher. Barret Ruins, and a Park. Mortimer A Study. Barret Ruins, &c. Gainsborough A Cottage, &c. " An Open Landscape. Mortimer Scene in 'The Tempest,' from Shakespeare. Republished 1801. J. P. Thompson, Soho. G. Barret Lake Scene. Saurey Gilpin, R.A. Horses. G. Holmes The Sage and his Pupil. Michael Angelo Leda and the Swan. G. B. Cipriani Sleeping Venus and Love.

FOOTNOTES:

Lord Thurlow, whose private life, if we may believe the caricaturists, was not of the purest.

In several of the caricatures directed against Wray the discomfited candidate is invoking the assistance of Churchill, who was, however, apparently unable to offer his patron any effectual aid.

Thus do I strive with heart and hand To drive sedition from the land!

The Whig chief is disabled, in spite of his armour, and he is lying at the mercy of the enemy.

There is nought but a place or a pension will ease The strain that I've got in my tendon Achilles.

The turns of North and Burke seem likely to follow; the prostrate form of Fox is tripping up his friend's retreat; North's sword and buckler seem of no service to him; he is crying in perplexity--

This curs'd eternal Coalition Has brought us to a rare condition.

Burke is trying to make good his escape.

Come, Paris, leave your hills and dells; You'll scorn your dowdy goddesses, If once you see our English belles, For all their gowns and bodices.

Here's Juno Devon, all sublime; Minerva Gordon's wit and eyes; Sweet Rutland, Venus in her prime: You'll die before you give the prize.

The figure of the fair vocalist is evidently intended for that of Mrs. Weichsel, a Vauxhall favourite, already mentioned as the mother of the great Mrs. Billington, the pride of English operatic celebrities. It was at Mrs. Weichsel's benefit, which Rowlandson attended at 'the little theatre in the Haymarket,' that our artist produced a sketch of this musical family. To return to Vauxhall, Angelo and other informants supply us with a hint or two of the company. Daniel Arrowsmith was engaged as one of the principal singers, 'where Mrs. Kennedy and that capital bass, Sedgwick, entertained the public for several seasons.' Joe Vernon, of Drury Lane Theatre, is mentioned among the performers. Barthelemon was leader of the band; Fisher played the hautboy; and Mr. Hook was conductor and composer.

To describe the visitors: the most conspicuous figures, which occupy the centre of the picture, and are exciting the admiring regards of the frequenters of Vauxhall scattered around them, are understood to be intended for the fascinating Duchess of Devonshire and her sister, Lady Duncannon. Among the 'freaks of folly' recorded by our invaluable authority Angelo he mentions having frequently 'seen many of the nobility, particularly the Duchess of Devonshire, &c. , with a large party, supping in the rooms facing the orchestra, French horns playing to them all the time.'

Why, the bullets and the gout Have so knocked his hull about, That he'll never like the sea any more!

Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.

Within a supper-box--one of those grotesque-looking cabinets which many who have visited the shades of Vauxhall may still bear in vivid remembrance--is assembled another convivial party, the members of which have been described--we are inclined to suspect without any sufficiently valid foundation--as the representatives of an illustrious and very familiar literary coterie. A stout personage, in the centre, of massive proportions, has been adopted as a free rendering of the person of the famous Doctor Johnson, who is pictured as characteristically intent on his supper, and indifferent alike to his company and the sprightly society which surrounds his box; seated in a corner, on the great lexicographer's left, anecdotic Boswell is shown, pausing, open-mouthed, to catch the good things that may fall from his eminent leader; Mrs. Thrale, on Johnson's right, is saying something very pertinent to Oliver Goldsmith, who is endeavouring to carve the contents of his plate. His stolid features do not express anything approaching to rapturous appreciation of the accomplished blue-stocking's extraordinary flow of bewitching conversation.

The dashers of the day, instead of returning home in the morning from Vauxhall, used to repair to the Star and Garter, at Richmond; and, on some occasions, the madcap excursions were pushed farther. Angelo mentions a party of which he had formed a member, when, while crossing Westminster Bridge, the sight of a boat suggested a fresh act of extravagant frolic, no less than being rowed to the Tower, taking places, and straightway setting off in the famous hoy for the sea-trip to Margate, which in those times was quite a journey.

'Subsequent proceedings led to a meeting of the parties at a tavern, where, it seems, some explanation was entered into and an apology was offered. This, as appeared later on, was a discreditable stratagem on the part of the aggressors to revenge themselves on this redoubtable priest, by procuring for him, as they anticipated, a sound drubbing; they had, however, once more mistaken their man.

'Lord Barrymore's fondness for eccentricities ever engaged his mind. Whether in London or Wargrave 'twas all the same--always in high spirits, thinking of what fun he should have during the day. Seated, after dinner, at eleven o'clock, on one of the hottest evenings in July, he proposed that the whole party should go to Vauxhall.

'The carriage being ordered, it was directly filled inside; and the others outside, with more wine than wit, made no little noise through the streets.

'We had not been long at Vauxhall when Lord Barrymore called out to a young clergyman, some little distance from us, who, when he approached and was asked, "Have you had any supper?" to our surprise answered, "Vy, as how, my lord, I have not as yet had none." A waiter passing by at the time, Lord Barrymore said, "You know me; let that gentleman have whatever he calls for;" when he told the parson to fall to, and call for as much arrack punch as he pleased. "Thank ye, my lord," said he, "for I begins to be hungry, and I don't care how soon I pecks a bit."

'On a sudden all were seen running towards the orchestra, the whole garden seemed to be in confusion, and our party, all impatience, sallied out, those at the further end of the box walking over the table, kicking down the dishes. It seems that the effects of the punch had not only got into Hooper's head but had excited an influence over his fists, for he was for fighting with everybody. A large ring was made, and, advancing in a boxing attitude, he offered to fight anyone; but all retired before him. Felix McCarthy, a tall, handsome Irishman, well known by everybody at that time, soon forced his way through the crowd and collared him, at the same time saying, "You rascal, you are Hooper, the boxer; if you do not leave the garden this instant I'll kick you out." The affrighted crowd, who before retreated as he approached them, now came forward, when Hooper, finding himself surrounded, and hearing a general cry of "Kick him out!" made his retreat as fast as possible, thus avoiding the fury of those who would not have spared him out of the gardens, if he had been caught. We found him at five in the morning behind Lord Barrymore's carriage, with the coachman's great-coat on, congratulating himself upon having avoided the vengeance of those to whom, a short time previously, he had been an object of fear.'

Behold a hero, comely, tall, and fair! His only food is philogistic air! Now on the wings of mighty winds he rides! Now torn through hedges! dash'd in ocean tides! Now drooping roams about from town to town, Collecting pence to inflate his poor Balloon. Pity the wight and something to him give, To purchase gas to keep his frame alive!

To what, O Muse! can I compare In heaven, water, earth, or air! The furious Epilogue. His dress to ape, if ape they can, Of every fop is now the plan, And he's alone the vogue.

The macaroni Col. Topham, held in leading strings by Henderson and Mrs. Wells, is vainly trying, armed with a critical squirt, to suppress the rising celebrity of Holman, the actor, and writer for the stage. Holman, it will be remembered , was one of the caricaturist's schoolfellows.

Two patriots in the self-same age were born, And both alike have gain'd the public scorn: This to America did much pretend, The other was to Ireland a friend.

Yet sword or oratory would not do, As each had different plans in view. America lost! Arnold, and, alas! To lose our Eden now is come to pass.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went Postboy at his heels, The Postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With Postboy scamp'ring in the rear, They rais'd the hue and cry:

'Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!' Not one of them was mute; So they, and all that pass'd that way, Soon join'd in the pursuit.

Beauty invites, and love and learning plead; The Oxford scholar surely must succeed. Yet oh! ye blooming, soft inclining fair, Of his too fatal eloquence beware; For see, a slighted fair one is behind, With jealous eye and most distracted mind!

The famous Count Boruwloski visited nearly all the courts of Europe, where he was made the most of on account of his remarkable diminutiveness, as at the age of twenty his height was but two feet four inches. This Polish miniature man differed from dwarfs in general, as his figure was well-proportioned, and he further possessed perfect breeding, was intellectual, good-natured, and accomplished, and, among other gifts, enjoyed a talent for music, which he had cultivated. His memoirs, written by himself, first appeared in 1788; he lived to the advanced age of ninety-eight, he was born at Chaliez, in Russian Poland, November 1739; he died at Banks' Cottage, near Durham , September 13, 1837.

The artist, who had an opportunity of studying this duodecimo edition of humanity from the life, has represented Count Boruwloski in the act of favouring that mysterious potentate, the Grand Seigneur, with a tune on the violin, within the sacred and unapproachable precincts of the harem. The contrast presented between this perfect miniature and the full-blown and highly developed beauties of the seraglio, the overfed Grand Turk, and his gigantic guards, is ludicrously marked.

Full of the art of brewing beer, The monarch heard of Whitbread's fame; Quoth he unto the queen: 'My dear, my dear, Whitbread hath got a marvellous great name. Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brew Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew. Shame! shame! we have not yet his brewhouse seen!' Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen.

Now did the king for other beers inquire, For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire; And after talking of these different beers, Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs-- A kind of question to the Man of Cask That even Solomon himself would ask.

OR AN IMPORTANT EPISTLE TO SIR JOSEPH BANKS ON THE APPROACHING ELECTION OF A PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY.

BY PETER PINDAR.

SIR J. BANKS .

Zounds! ha'nt I swallow'd raw flesh like a hound? On vilest reptiles rung the changes round? Eat every filthy insect you can mention; Tarts made of grasshoppers, my own invention? Frogs, tadpoles by the spoonful, long-tail'd imps, And munch'd cockchaffers just like prawns or shrimps? Hell seize the pack! unconscionable dogs! Snakes, spiders, beetles, chaffers, tadpoles, frogs, All swallow'd to display what man can do-- And must the villains still have something new? Tell, then, each pretty President creator-- Confound him--that I'll eat an alligator.

PICTURESQUE BEAUTIES OF BOSWELL.

'Part the First, containing ten prints, designed and etched by two capital artists' . 'Published in May, 1786, by E. Jackson, 14 Marylebone Street, Golden Square.

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