Joseph Grego

The authorship of the following pair of prints is doubtful; they present many indications of Rowlandson's manner, and they were issued by his publisher, S. W. Fores, 3 Piccadilly; they are sometimes ascribed to Gillray:—

January 1, 1787. A pair of single figures, respectively described as London Refinement and Country Simplicity. As the titles sufficiently indicate, the former sets forth a town 'macaroni' dressed in the height of the mode, and the latter represents a pretty youth, of rustic fashion, long-haired, and clad in picturesque and homely country garb.

January 11, 1787. Uncle George and Black Dick at their New Game of Naval Shuttlecock.—From this caricature it seems that the conduct of the Admiralty in 1787 gave reasonable grounds for dissatisfaction. The state of things is pictorially set forth by Rowlandson. In the centre of the picture stand the compound heads of the Admiralty, a single figure with two fronts—those of the King and Lord Howe, who was popularly designated 'The Prince of Duskey Bay.'

A bevy of admirals are applying to the King for recognition of their services to their country; they are all partially disabled by the loss of limbs. A petitioner is offering a statement of their situation to the King, who is made to declare, 'I never interfere with your First Lord; no, never;' while the second head of this Janus, Howe, in replying to a petition from sundry aggrieved captains, is dismissing the applicants with "Go, go! I can do nothing; it is his Majesty's pleasure that——' The abused admirals are expressing their wrongs: 'I see I shall lose my rank after all my long services!' 'I am set aside, although I've lost a son and one eye!' 'Humbug'd, by Jove, by ye old Jesuit!' 'Had I my arm again, to find a better country!' 'Brothers, our Lords and Commons will not suffer this game!'

The captains have evidently a bad opinion of their First Lord, Vultus est Index Animi: 'Our navy has now two heads and no helm; rare work!' 'Rascal!' 'The King's pleasure! That's a falsity added to a mean finesse!' 'He's fond of manoeuvres if ever so bad; you know him!'

THE LOUSIAD.

For Peter nat'ral 'tis to speak In rhyme, as 'tis for pigs to squeak.

PETER PINDAR TO THE READER.

Gentle Reader,—It is necessary to inform thee that his Majesty actually discovered, some time ago, as he sat at table, a louse on his plate. The emotion occasioned by the unexpected appearance of such a guest can be better imagined than described.

An edict was, in consequence, passed for shaving the cooks, scullions, &c., and the unfortunate louse condemned to die.

Such is the foundation of the Lousiad: with what degree of merit the poem is executed, the uncritical as well as the critical reader will decide.

The ingenious author, who ought to be allowed to know somewhat of the matter, hath been heard privately to declare, that in his opinion the Batrachomymachia of Homer, the Secchia Rapita of Tassoni, the Lutrin of Boileau, the Dispensary of Garth, and the Rape of the Lock of Pope, are not to be compared to it,—and to exclaim at the same time, with the modest assurance of an author—

Cedite, scriptores Romani; cedite, Graii— Nil ortum in terris, LoiusiadÂ, melius.

Which, for the sake of the mere English reader, is thus beautifully translated:—

Roman and Grecian authors, great and small, The author of the Lousiad beats you all.

What dire emotions shook the monarch's soul! Just like two billiard-balls his eyes 'gan roll. 'How, how—what, what?... what's that, what's that?' he cries With rapid accent and with staring eyes. 'Look there! look there!—what's got into my house? A louse, God bless us! Louse, louse, louse, louse, louse.' The Queen look'd down, and then exclaimed, 'Good la!' And with a smile the dappled stranger saw. Each Princess strain'd her lovely neck to see, And, with another smile, exclaimed, 'Good me!' 'Good la! good me!' 'Is that all you can say?' (Our gracious monarch cry'd, with huge dismay). 'What! what a silly, vacant smile takes place Upon your Majesty's and children's face, Whilst that vile louse (soon, soon to be unjointed!) Affronts the presence of the Lord's anointed!' Dash'd, as if tax'd with hell's most deadly sins, The Queen and Princesses drew in their chins, Look'd prim, and gave each exclamation o'er, And, prudent damsels, 'word spake never more.' Sweet maids! the beauteous boast of Britain's isle, Speak—were those peerless lips forbid to smile? Lips! that the soul of simple Nature moves— Form'd by the beauteous hands of all the Loves! Lips of delight! unstained by satire's gall! Lips! that I never kiss'd—and never shall. Now to each trembling page, a poor mute mouse, The pious monarch cry'd, 'Is this your louse?' 'Ah! Sire,' replied each page, with pig-like whine, 'An't please, your Majesty, it is not mine.' 'Not thine?' the hasty monarch cry'd again— 'What, what? Who's, who's, then? Who the devil's, then?'

'IS THIS YOUR LOUSE?'

Now at this sad event the sovereign, sore Unhappy, could not take a mouthful more; His wiser Queen, her gracious stomach studying, Stuck most devoutly to the beef and pudding; For Germans are a very hearty sort, Whether begot in hog-styes or a court, Who bear (which shows their hearts are not of stone) The ills of others better than their own. Grim terror seiz'd the souls of all the pages, Of different sizes and of different ages; Frighten'd about their pensions or their bones, They on each other gap'd, like Jacob's sons. Now to a page, but which we can't determine, The growling monarch gave the plate and vermin: 'Watch well that blackguard animal,' he cries, 'That, soon or late, to glut my vengeance, dies! Watch, like a cat, that vile marauding louse, Or George shall play the devil in the house. Some spirit whispers, that to cooks I owe The precious visitor that crawls below. Yes, yes! the whisp'ring spirit tells me true, And soon shall vengeance all their locks pursue. Cooks, scourers, scullions, too, with tails of pig, Shall lose their coxcomb curls, and wear a wig.' Thus roar'd the King—not Hercules so big; And all the palace echo'd, 'Wear a wig!' Fear, like an ague, struck the pale-nos'd cooks, And dash'd the beef and mutton from their looks, Whilst from each cheek the rose withdrew its red, And pity blubbered o'er each menac'd head. But, lo! the great cook-major comes! his eyes Fierce as the redd'ning flame that roasts and fries; His cheeks like bladders with high passion glowing, Or like a fat Dutch trumpeter's when blowing. A neat white apron his huge corpse embrac'd, Tied by two comely strings about his waist; An apron that he purchas'd with his riches, To guard from hostile grease his velvet breeches. 'Ye sons of dripping, on your major look! (In sounds of deep-ton'd thunder cry'd the cook), I swear this head disdains to lose its locks; And those that do not, tell them they are blocks. Whose head, my cooks, such vile disgrace endures? Will it be yours, or yours, or yours, or yours? Then may the charming perquisite of grease The mammon of your pocket ne'er increase; Grease! that so frequently hath brought you coin, From veal, pork, mutton, and the great sirloin. O brothers of the spit! be firm as rocks— Lo! to no King on earth I yield these locks. Few are my hairs behind, by age endear'd! But, few or many, they shall not be shear'd.

* * * * *

Sooner shall ham from fowl and turkey part, And stuffing leave a calf's or bullock's heart: Sooner shall toasted cheese take leave of mustard, And from the codlin tart be torn the custard. Sooner these hands the glorious haunch shall spoil, And all our melted butter turn to oil: Sooner our pious King, with pious face, Sit down to dinner without saying grace; And every night salvation-pray'rs put forth For Portland, Fox, Burke, Sheridan, and North. Sooner shall fashion order frogs and snails, And dishclouts stick eternal to our tails! Let George view ministers with surly looks— Abuse 'em, kick 'em—but revere his cooks!' 'What! lose our locks!' reply'd the roasting crew, 'To barbers yield 'em?—Damme if we do! Be shav'd like foreign dogs, one daily meets, Naked and blue, and shiv'ring in the streets? And from the palace be asham'd to range, For fear the world should think we had the mange?' 'Rouse, Opposition!' roar'd a tipsy cook, With arms akimbo and bubonic look. 'Be shav'd!' a scullion loud began to bellow— Loud as a parish bull, or poor Othello. 'Be shav'd like pigs!' rejoin'd the scullion's mate, His dishclout shaking, and his pot-crown'd pate— 'What barber dares it, let him watch his nose And, curse me!—dread the rage of these ten foes.' 'Be shav'd!' an understrapper turnbroche cry'd, In all the foaming energy of pride— 'Zounds! let us take His Majesty in hand! The king shall find he lives at our command. Yes—let him know, with all his wond'rous state, His teeth and stomach on our wills shall wait. We rule the platters, we command the spit, And George shall have his mess when we think fit; Stay till ourselves shall condescend to eat, And then, if we think proper, have his meat.' 'Heav'ns!' cry'd a yeoman, with much learning grac'd, In books as well as meat a man of taste— 'However modern Kings may cooks despise, Warriors and Kings were cooks, or hist'ry lies. Patroclus broil'd beef-steaks to quell his hunger; The mighty Agamemnon potted conger! And Charles of Sweden, 'midst his guns and drums, Spread his own bread and butter with his thumbs. Be shav'd!—No! Sooner pill'ries, jails, the stocks Shall pinch this corpse, than barbers snatch my locks.'

* * * * *

Around the table, all with sulky looks, Like culprits doom'd to Tyburn, sat the cooks. At length, with phiz that show'd the man of woes, The sorrowing king of spits and stew-pans rose; With outstretch'd hands and energetic grace, He fearless thus harangues the roasting race: 'Cooks, scullions—hear me, every mother's son— Know that I relish not this royal fun. What's life,' the major said, 'my brethren, pray, If force must snatch our first delights away? Relentless, shall the royal mandate drag The hairs that long have grac'd this silken bag?— Hairs to a barber scarcely worth a fig— Too few to make a foretop for a wig! Hairs, look, my lads, so wonderfully thin Old Schwellenberg has more upon her chin!'

'COOKS, SCULLIONS—HEAR ME, EVERY MOTHER'S SON.'

* * * * *

'—What! what! not shave 'em, shave 'em, shave 'em, shave 'em? Not all the world, not all the world shall save 'em. I'll shear 'em, shear 'em, as I shear my sheep!' Thus spoke the mighty monarch in his sleep: Which proves that kings in sleep a speech may make, Equal to what they utter broad awake.

* * * * *

Now did the major hum a tune so sad! Chromatic—in the robes of sorrow clad; But, lo! the ballad could not fear control, Nor exorcise the barbers from his soul. And now his lifted eyes the ceiling sought; And now he whistled—not for want of thought.

PETER'S PENSION.
A SOLEMN EPISTLE TO A SUBLIME PERSONAGE.
Non possum tecum vivere, nec sine te.

January, 1787. The Triumph of Sentiment.

January, 1787. The Triumph of Hypocrisy.

1787. Transplanting of Teeth. Published by J. Harris, 37 Dean Street, Soho.—Among the schemes of charlatans, which were popularly successful in the days of The Temples of Health, Mud Baths, and other devices by which pretenders flourished on the gains extorted from fashionable credulity at the end of the last century, was a new theory of dentistry, according to the practice of which a sound tooth was to be torn from the jaws of a healthy individual, and, while still warm, was to be inserted in the gums of some patient whose decayed molar had been extracted simultaneously, and the rest of the operation was left to nature. According to the caricaturist, who has produced a large, spirited, and well-executed plate on this novel operation, we are informed by advertisement that this truly extraordinary performance is taking place in the surgery of 'Baron Ron, Dentist to her High Mightyness the Empress of Russia,' The professor has appended to this important announcement the further statement, 'Most money given for Live Teeth.'

The dual operations of depriving the poor of their sound teeth for a small pecuniary consideration, that their lost molars may regarnish the gums of patients who are prepared to pay for the accommodation, and the substitution of whole teeth for decayed ones, are proceeding at once. The artist has sketched two wretched young creatures, in rags, who are stealing out of Baron Ron's surgery, weeping and bewailing the loss of their teeth, and regarding a coin held in the palm of their hands, with mourning and reproachful looks. An old dandy, a military buck, is examining the adjustment of his new teeth, which do not appear to fit as accurately as could be desired. An assistant dental professor is planting a live tooth in the gums of a lady of quality, who is kicking violently, in disapproval of the sensation. An elderly dowager is seated in suspense in a chair beside a young sweep, whose odoriferous vicinity she is counteracting by applications to a scent-bottle held to her susceptible nose, while the Baron—a modishly costumed foreigner—is tearing out a beautiful healthy white tooth from the jaws of the sooty patient, to be straightway transplanted into the gums of the customer of quality.

May 9, 1787. The Brain-Sucker, or The Miseries of Authorship.

In 1787 Rowlandson issued a series of rustic sketches, including such subjects as horses, dogs, coaches, carts, haymakers, cottages, farrier's forges, and roadside inns; similar views to those selected by Morland, but treated in Rowlandson's own original style.

Among these rural studies we may particularise:—

Shoeing: the Village Forge. Published by Laurie and Whittle, 53 Fleet Street.

A Brewer's Dray.

A Posting Inn. Republished July 1, 1803.

A Rural Halt. Published by J. Harris, Dean Street, Soho.

Haymakers. Published by J. Harris, Dean Street, Soho.

1787. A Post Chaise.

1787. A Sailor's Family.—One of those charming pieces to which so much of Rowlandson's reputation is justly due. Unaffected simplicity, an easy effortless style of drawing, natural grouping, and the most perfect felicity in rendering graceful attitudes and depicting faces, unequalled for a certain innocent beauty and expressiveness.

August 1, 1787. A College Scene, or a Fruitless Attempt on the Purse of old Square-toes. Engraved by E. Williams; published by J. R. Smith, King Street, Covent Garden.—Old Square-toes has called to see his scapegrace—on the subject of supplies, it is needless to particularise. Young Hopeful, who is obviously destined for the Bar—where, we may feel convinced in advance he is bound to shine—has assumed his most specious deportment, and has donned his cap and gown, with the other semblances of decorum. The title, Fruitless Attempt, seems somewhat of a misnomer, for the special pleading of young Hopeful is evidently producing a favourable impression. Old Square-toes has banged himself down into a chair, and planted his stick on the ground with an air of determination, in a very square attitude, to demonstrate that his resolution is not to be shaken, and that young Hopeful is losing his pains; but, as in the old comedies, the paternal heart is yearning towards his progeny, while his most relentless denunciations are thundered forth; the lines of his stern face are relaxing, an amused smile is twitching at the corners of his mouth, and we are convinced that the next remark will embody the sentiments immortalised by the Georgian dramatists: 'You dog, this time your father forgives you; boys will be boys; I was a gay young spark myself once; I'll pay your debts this time, but never again, &c. &c.'

October 18, 1787. Tragedy Spectators. Comedy Spectators. Published by T. Rowlandson, 50 Poland Street.—The contrast of the respective attractions between the two classes of entertainment is pictured with the artist's characteristic force and spirit. The humour of these two designs is suggestive of Hogarth's genius. While the woes of 'Romeo and Juliet' are influencing the spectators to the most profound melancholy, and reducing the audience to tears and hysteria, the attendants on Comedy are enjoying the humours of the performance with the most frank and unrestrained merriment.

1787. Love in the East.—Oriental luxuriousness seems to have had a charm for Rowlandson's pencil. It is true that the customs of the East were not represented, at the caricaturist's day, with the strictest adherence to facts; their salient points have since been made more familiar by the graphic pictures of our travelled artists, for whom the East has always had a peculiar fascination.

Rowlandson's fancy has supplied those details which he could not furnish from actual experience, and as far as the general theories of oriental splendour are concerned, the imaginative delineations of our artist will be found far more realistic and in accordance with our preconceived impressions than the actuality.

November 5, 1787. Reformation, or the Wonderful Effects of a Proclamation.—The Chapel Royal is apparently the scene of this subject. King George, Queen Charlotte, with a Lord and Lady-in-waiting, are in the Royal pew; near them are the law Lords; the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Fitzherbert, with Col. George Hanger, are in the centre; Burke is between them, with Lord North, who is of course represented as sleeping soundly, in spite of the efforts made by a pretty maiden to awaken him. Pitt is acting as clerk. The sermon is evidently one of no common significance. Fox is standing in a sheet, with a placard, 'For playing cards on the Lord's Day!' A stout lady, armed with a whip, is driving a pack of dogs out of the chapel.

1787 (?). The Art of Scaling.

1787 (?). Modish. Published by S. W. Fores, Piccadilly.

1787 (?). Prudent. Published by S. W. Fores, Piccadilly.

1787. Landscape and other Etchings, by T. Rowlandson.

1787. Embarking from Brighthelmstone to Dieppe.—The spectators are scattered about the shore, with various fishing smacks; the passengers are being pushed off in rowing boats to the sailing lugger, which is to take them and their luggage across the Channel. There is a fresh breeze blowing; the whole view is animated, and complete as a picture.

1787. A Sea-coast Scene. Cottages by the Sea-shore: a Storm coming on.

1787. Deer-Hunting: a Landscape Scene.—A noble park is capitally etched; the subject is diversified by the introduction of a stag hunt. The hunters are riding up as the stag, followed by the pack of hounds, is taking the water.

December 18, 1787. A Travelling Knife-grinder at a Cottage Door. Published by T. Rowlandson, Poland Street.—A pretty rustic scene, etched with spirit and well finished.

The Three Horse-shoes.—A roadside inn.

1787. View on the French Coast.—Partially dismantled ships of war, canted for caulking.

1787. Fox-Hunting: a Landscape Scene.—The artist has taken great pains with the trees and rich foliage which grace this view. The pack have come up with the fox, and the huntsmen are in 'at the death.'

October 15, 1787. Stage Coach setting out from a Posting House.

1787. Cribbage Players.—A lady and gentleman are opponents; a second lady and gentleman are watching the respective hands. Etched in a brilliant outline, probably intended to be coloured in facsimile of an original drawing.

December 15, 1787. Postboys and Post-horses at the White Hart Inn.—Published by J. Harris.

1787. Boy bringing round a Citizen's Curricle.

1787. Civility.