CHAPTER XXII.ITALIAN CARICATURE.

"Child, you will take cold.""I take cold? But how well that overcoat fits him!"—FromEl Mundo Cómico, Madrid, 1873.

"Child, you will take cold."

"I take cold? But how well that overcoat fits him!"—FromEl Mundo Cómico, Madrid, 1873.

Picture of nurse, infant, and father. The father says: "Tell me, nurse; every body says it looks like me, but I think it takes after its mother more." The nurse replies: "When it laughs, yes; but when it frowns, it looks like youatrociously."

Picture of a "fast-looking" woman and the janitor of a lodging-house. He says: "You wish to see the landlord? I think he does not mean to have ladies in his house who are alone." She replies: "I am never alone."

Picture of young lady in bed, to whom a servant holds up an elegant bonnet, and says: "Tell me, since you are ill, and can not go to the ball, will you lend this to youraffectionate and faithful servant, since I give you my word not to injure it?"

Picture of husband and wife at home, she taking out a note that had been concealed in a handkerchief. He speaks: "A woman who deceives her husband deserves no pity." She replies: "But if she does not deceive her husband, whom is she to deceive?"

Picture of the manager of a theatre in his office, to whom enters a dramatic author.Author:"I have called to know if you have read my play."Manager:"Not yet. It is numbered, in the list of plays received, 792; so that for this year—"Author:"No, sir; nor for that which is to come either."

This will suffice for the "Comic Almanac." TheComic World(El Mundo Cómico), which next invites attention, is a weekly paper published at Madrid during the last four years. This work, also, has much in common with the wicked world of Paris, as with the wicked world of all countries where the priest feeds the imagination and starves the intellect. This reveling in the illicit and the indecent, which so astonishes us in the popular literature ofCatholic countries, is merely a sign of impoverished mind, which is obliged to revolve ceaselessly about the physical facts of our existence, because it is acquainted with so few other facts.

The first number of theComic Worldpresents a colored engraving of a Spanish beauty, attired in the last extremity of the fashion, bonnetless, fan in hand, with high-heeled boots, and a blending of French and Spanish in her make-up, walking in the street unattended. The picture is headed: "In Quest of the Unknown."

The next picture shows that Spain, too, has its savings-banks which do not save. Two strolling musicians, clothed in rags, are exhibited, one of whom says to the other: "A pretty situation! While men drive by in a coach after robbing us of our savings deposited in their banks, we ask alms of the robbers!"

Inconvenience of the New Collar."How, my Adela, can you ask me to whisper in your ear when you have put that cover over it?"—FromEl Mundo Cómico, Madrid, 1873.

Inconvenience of the New Collar.

"How, my Adela, can you ask me to whisper in your ear when you have put that cover over it?"—FromEl Mundo Cómico, Madrid, 1873.

There is a pair of pictures, one called "The Cocks," and the other "The Pullets." The Cocks are three very young Spanish dandies, with dawning mustaches, extremely thin canes, and all the other puppyisms. The Pullets are three young ladies of similar age and taste. As they pass in the street, one of the Cocks says to his companions: "Do you see how the tallest one blushes?" The reply is: "Yes; when she sees me." At the same moment the Pullets exchange whispers. "How fast you go!" says one. "Don't speak!" says another. "The dark-complexioned one is he whom we saw at the theatre." "Yes, I remember; the one in the box." In these pictures, as in most other Spanish caricatures, the men are meagre and disagreeable-looking, but the ladies are plump and attractive.

A "domestic scene" follows, which must be peculiar to Spain, one would think. A gay young husband, on leaving home in the evening, is addressed by his wife, who has a hand in his waistcoat-pocket: "You carry away twelve dollars and three shillings. We will see what extraordinary expense you incur to-night."

At Madrid, as at other capitals of Europe, the Englishman is an object of interest. Ladies seem to consider him a desirable match, and men make him the hero of extravagant anecdotes. There is atable-d'hôtepicture inEl Mundo Cómico, presenting a row of people at an advanced stage of dinner, when the guests become interesting to one another. "Have you seen the colonel?" asks a chaperon of the young lady by her side. The damsel, lookingher demurest, says: "Do not distract me; the Englishman is looking at me." Other pictures indicate that the ladies of Madrid are accustomed to look upon Englishmen as worth posing for.

TheComic Worldaims a vilely executed caricature at the ghost of Hamlet's father, who is represented in the usual armor. The words signify: "All I ask is, did that ancient race take their afternoon nap in cuirass and helmet?" From which we may at least infer that "El Príncipe Hamlet" is a familiar personage to the inhabitants of Madrid.

Sufferings endured by a Prisoner of War.(FromGil Blas, Madrid, September, 1870.)

Among the numerous colored engravings which reflect upon, or, rather glorify, the frailty of women is one which can with difficulty be understood by Protestants. A girl is about to go to bed, and is saying a prayer beginning, "With God I lie down, with God I rise, with the Virgin Mary and the Holy Ghost!" The joke does not appear at the first glance, for there is no one else in the bedroom, unless there is some one in the curtained bed. We discover, at length, lying near her feet, a pair of man's boots!

Nothing is sacred to these savage caricaturists of the French school. Another colored picture inEl Mundo Cómicois called "Absence," and is designed to exhibit the sorrow of a woman at the absence of her lover in the wars. She says: "Poor Louis! I am here alone, forsaken, and he is pursuing the insurgents in the mountains. Does he remember me?" The innocent reader may well ask, What is the comedy of the situation? The woman inthis scene is sitting on the edge of her bed, nearly naked, taking off her earrings, with other finery of her trade lying about on the table and the floor.

After running through a volume of this periodical, we are prepared to believe the descriptions given of society in the Spanish capital by the correspondent of the LondonTimesduring the early months of Alfonso's "reign." Speaking of a monstrous scandal inculpating the king, he wrote: "In a profligate, frivolous, and gossiping capital like Madrid, where every one seems intent upon political plotting, debauchery, and idleness, there is no scandal, no invention of malice too gross and improbable for acceptance, provided those attacked are well known. The higher his or her rank, the greater is the cynical satisfaction with which the tale of depravity is retailed by the newsmongers incafé,tertulia, and club."

Another comic weekly published at Madrid is calledGil Blas, Periódico Satírico. This is by far the least bad of the comic papers recently attempted in Spain. Many of its subjects are drawn from the politics of the period, and some of them appear to be very happily treated. The sorry adventures of Louis Napoleon and his son in the war between France and Prussia are presented with much comic effect. Queen Isabel and her hopeful boy figure also in many sketches, which were doubtless amusing to the people of Madrid when they appeared. The Duc de Montpensier and other possible candidates for the throne are portrayed in situations and circumstances not to be fully understood at this distance from the time and scene.

The Spanish caricatures given in this chapter, whatever the reader may think of them, were selected from about a thousand specimens; and if they are not the very best of the thousand, they are at least the best of those which can be appreciated by us.

Cuba had its comic periodical during the brief ascendency of liberal ideas in 1874. A Cuban letter of that year chronicles its suspension: "The comic weekly newspaper,Juan Palonio, has met its death-blow by an order of suspension for a month, and a strong hint to the director, Don Juan Ortega, that a trip to the Peninsula would be of benefit to his health. The immediate cause of this order was a cartoon, representing the arms of the captain-general wielding a broom, marked 'extraordinary powers,' and sweeping away ignorance, the insurrection, etc. There was nothing, in fact, to take umbrage at; but the cartoon served as a pretext to kill the paper, which was rather too republican in tone. The Government censor was removed from his position for the same reason, and a new one appointed."

In those countries long debauched by superstition, comic art has little chance; for if tyranny does not kill it, a dissolute public degrades it into a means of pollution.

As soon as comic art in Italy is mentioned, we think of Pasquino, the merry Roman tailor, whose name has enriched all the languages of Europe with an effective word. Many men whose names have been put to a similar use have, notwithstanding, been completely forgotten; but Pasquino, after having been the occasion of pasquinades for four centuries, is still freshly remembered, and travelers tell his story over again to their readers.

Pasquino was the fashionable tailor at Rome about the time when the discovery of America was a recent piece of news. In his shop, as tradition reports, bishops, courtiers, nobles, literary men, were wont to meet to order their clothes, and retail the scandal of the city. The master of the shop, a wit himself, and the daily receptacle of others' wit, uttered frequent epigrams upon conspicuous persons, which passed from mouth to mouth, as such things will in an idle and luxurious community. Whatever piece of witty malice was afloat in the town came to be attributed to Pasquino; and men who had more wit than courage attributed to him the satire they dared not claim.

Catholics who have seen the inside of Roman life, who have been domiciled with bishops and cardinals, report that the magnates of Rome, to this day, associate in the informal manner in which we should suppose they did four centuries ago, from the traditions of Pasquino and his sayings. The Pope sends papers ofbonbonsto the Sisters who have charge of infant schools, and shares among the cardinals the delicacies and interesting objects which are continually sent to him. Upon hearing their accounts of the easy familiarities and light tone of the higher ecclesiastical society of recent times, we can the better understand the traditions that have come down to us of Pasquino and his shop full of highnesses and eminences.

Pasquino, like the "fellow of infinite jest" upon whose skull Hamlet moralized in the church-yard, died, and was buried. Soon after his death it became necessary to dig up an ancient statue half sunk in the ground of his street; and, to get it out of the way, it was set up close to his shop. "Pasquino has come back," said some one. Rome accepted the jest, and thus the statue acquired the name of Pasquino, which it retains to the present day. Soon it became a custom to stick to it any epigram or satirical verse the author of which desired to be unknown. So many of these sharp sayings were aimed atthe ecclesiastical lords of Rome, that one of the popes was on the point of having the statue thrown into the river, just as modern tyrants think to silence criticism by suppressing the periodical in which it appears. Pasquino, properly enough, was saved by an epigram.

"Do not throw Pasquino into the Tiber," said the Spanish embassador, "lest he should teach all the frogs in the river to croak pasquinades."

We can not wonder that the popes should have objected to Pasquino's biting tongue, if the specimens of his wit which are given by Mr. Story[38]fairly represent him. There was a volume of six hundred and thirty-seven pages of epigrams and satires, published in 1544, claiming to be pasquinades, many of which doubtless were such. Here is one upon the infamous pope, Alexander Sextus:

"Sextus Tarquinius, Sextus Nero—this also is Sextus.Always under the Sextuses Rome has been ruined."

After the sudden death of Pope Leo X., two Latin lines to the following effect were found upon Pasquino:

"If you desire to hear why at his last hour LeoCould not the sacraments take, know he had sold them."

The allusion is to Leo's unscrupulous use of every means within his power of raising money.

When Clement VII., after the sack of Rome, was held a prisoner, Pasquino had this:

"Papa non potest errare."

This sentence ordinarily means that the pope can not err; but the verberraresignifies alsoto wander,to stroll; so that the line was a sneer both at the pope's confinement and his claim to infallibility.

One of Pasquino's hardest hits was called forth by the grasping measures of Pius VI.:

"Three jaws had Cerberus, and three mouths as well,Which barked into the blackest deeps of hell.Three hungry mouths have you; ay, even four;None of them bark, but all of them devour."

There was a capital one, too, and a just, upon the institution of the Legion of Honor in France by Napoleon Bonaparte, not long after he had stolen several hundred precious works of art and manuscripts from the Roman States.

"In times less pleasant and more fierce, of old,The thieves were hung upon the cross, we're told.In times less fierce, more pleasant, like to-day,Crosses are hung upon the thieves, they say."

Thus for centuries have Pasquino and his rival, Marfario, an exhumed river-god,given occasional expression to the pent-up wrath of Italy at the spoliation of their beautiful country. Mr. Story reports a pasquinade which appeared but a very few years since, when all the world was longing to hear of the death of Ferdinand II. of Naples, who, under the name of King Bomba, was so deeply execrated by Italians. Pasquino supposes a traveler just arrived from Naples, and asks him what he has seen there, when the following conversation takes place:

"I have seen a tumor [tumore]." "A tumor? But what is a tumor?" "For answer, take away thet." "Ah! a humor [umore]. But is this humor dangerous?" "Take away theu." "He dies! what a pity! But when? Shortly?" "Take away them." "Hours! In a few hours! But who, then, has this humor?" "Take away theo." "King! The king! I am delighted. But, then, where will he go?" "Take away ther." "E-e-e-h!"

King Bomba's Ultimatum to Sicily.(FromIl Don Pirlone, Rome, December, 1848.)

Could there be any thing better than a pasquinade which appeared during the conference upon Italian affairs at Zürich between the representatives of Austria, Italy, and France? Pasquino enters the chamber, where he holds the following conversation with the plenipotentiaries:

"Do you speak French?" "No." "Do you speak German?" "No." "Do you speak Italian?" "No." "What language do you speak?" "Latin." "And what have you got to say in Latin?" "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, for ever and ever. Amen."

Happily, Pasquino was not a prophet, and the affairs of Italy are not as they were and had been during so many ages of despair.

From these specimens of Italian satire we should expect to find the people of Italy effective with the satirical pencil also. The spirit of caricature is in them, but the opportunities for its exercise and exhibition have been few and far between. As in Spain there was an exhaustive depletion of intellectual force, so in Italy the human mind, during late centuries, has been crushed under a dead weight of priests. Professor Charles Eliot Norton, in his"Travel and Study in Italy," tells us that Roman artists can not now so much as copy well the masterpieces by which they are surrounded.

"The utter sterility," he says, "and impotence of mind which have long been and are still conspicuous at Rome, the deadness of the Roman imagination, the absence of all intellectual energy in literature and in art, are the necessary result of the political and moral servitude under which the Romans exist. Where the exercise of the privileges of thought is dangerous, the power of expression soon ceases. For a time—as during the seventeenth century in Italy—the external semblance of originality may remain, and mechanical facility of execution may conceal the absence of real life; but by degrees the very semblance disappears, and facility of execution degenerates into a mere trick of the hand. The Roman artists of the present time have not, in general, the capacity even of good copyists. They can mix colors and can polish marble, but they are neither painters nor sculptors."

And yet (as the same author remarks) with the first breath of freedom the dormant capacity of the Italians awakes. In Italy, as in France, Spain, and Cuba, caricature dies when freedom is gone, and lives again as soon as the oppressor is removed. In 1848, when the Revolution had gained ascendency in Rome, a satirical paper appeared, calledIl Don Pirlone, published weekly, and illustrated by strong, though rudely executed, caricatures. Don Pirlone was the name of a familiar character in Italian comedy and farce. The pictures in this work abundantly justify the encomiums of Professor Norton and Mr. Story, who both pronounce them to be full of spirit and vigor, proving that the satiric fire of the early pasquinades is not extinguished.

He has begun the Service with Mass, and completed it with Bombs.(FromIl Don Pirlone, Rome, June 15th, 1849.)

Among the specimens given in this chapter, the reader will not fail to notice the one that made its appearance in June, 1849, when thirty thousand French troops, under the command of General Oudinot, were about to replace upon the heart and brain of Rome the cumbrous, fantastic Medicine-man of Christendom. This picture, slight as is the impression which it makes upon us, who can safely smile at the medicine-men of all climes and tribes, was most eagerly scanned by the outraged people of Rome, to whomthe return of the Medicine-man boded another twenty years of asphyxia.Don Pirlonewas obliged to print extra editions to supply the demand. The picture exhibits the interior of a church, and the Pope celebrating mass; General Oudinot assists him, kneeling at the steps of the altar and holding up the pontifical robes. The bell used at the mass is in the form of an imperial crown. Surrounding the altar, a crowd of military officers are seen, and behind them a row of bayonets. The candles on the altar are in the form of bayonets. The time chosen by the artist is the supreme moment of the mass, when the celebrant elevates the host. The image of Christ on the crucifix has withdrawn its arms from the cross-bars, and covered its face with its hands, as if to shut the desecration from its sight. Lightning darts from the cross, and a hissing serpent issues from the wine-cup. On the sole of one of General Oudinot's boots are the words,Articolo V. della Constituzione(Article V. of the Constitution,i. e., the French Constitution), which declared that "the French Republic never employs its forces against the liberty of any people." Underneath this fine caricature was printed: "He began the service with the mass, and completed it with bombs."

"But, dear Mr. Undertaker, are you so perfectly sure that she is dead?"—FromIl Don Pirlone, Rome, July, 1849.

Two weeks more of life were vouchsafed toIl Don Pirloneafter the publication of this caricature. On July 2d, 1849, the French army marched into Rome, and the paper appeared no more. The last number contained an engraving of Liberty, a woman lying dead upon the earth, with a cock on a neighboring dunghill crowing, and a French general covering over the prostrate body. Under the picture was printed: "But, dear Mr. Undertaker, are you so perfectly sure that she is dead?"

These were certainly vigorous specimens of satiric art, and increase both our wonder and our regret at the mental degradation of the beautiful countries of Southern Europe. They increase our wonder, I say, because the ascendency of priests in a nation is more an effect than a cause of degeneracy. When the canker-worm takes possession of a New England orchard, and devours every germ and green leaf, covering all the trees with loathsome blight, it is not because the canker-worm there is more vigorous or deadly than on the next farm, but because the soil of the blasted orchard is wanting in some ingredient or condition needful for the vigorous life of fruit-trees. It is notpriests, beggars, and banditti thatmakeMexico, Peru, Italy, and Spain what we find them. Priests, beggars, and banditti are but the vermin whose natural prey is a low moral and mental life; and hence the wonder that Italy, so long a prey to such, should still produce originating minds.

Other caricatures inIl Don Pirlonewere remarkable. The alliance between Austria and France in May, 1849, suggested a picture called "A Secret Marriage," which was also a church scene, the altar bearing the words "Ad minorem Dei gloriam" ("To thelesserglory of God"), a parody of the words adopted by the Inquisition, "Ad majorem Dei gloriam." The Pope is marrying the bridal pair, who kneel at a desk—the groom, a French officer with a cock's head, and for a crest an imperial crown; the bride, a woman with long robes, and on her head the Austrian double eagle. Upon the desk are an axe, a whip, a skull, and crossbones.

Bomba at Supper. Effect of Impressions.(FromIl Don Pirlone, Rome, May, 1849.)

Mr. Norton describes another, called the "Wandering Jew." "Flying to the verge of Europe, where the Atlantic washes the shores of Portugal, is seen the tall figure of the unhappy Carlo Alberto, driven by skeleton ghosts, over whose heads shine stars with the dates 1821, 1831, 1848. In the midst of the sky, before the fugitive, are the flaming words 'A Carignano Maledizione Eterna!' ('Cursed be Carignano forever!') to which a hand, issuing from the clouds, points with extended forefinger. The grim and threatening skeletons, the ghosts of those whom Carignano had betrayed, the tormented look of the flying king, the malediction in the heavens, the solitude of the earth and the sea, display a concentrated power of imagination rare in art."

The ruling theme of these powerful sketches is the foul union of priest and king for the common purpose of spoiling fair Italy. The moral of the work might be summed up in the remark of an Italian soldier whom Mr. Norton met one day near Rome. "Are the roads quiet now?" asked the Americantraveler. "Ah, excellency," replied the man, "the poor must live, and the winter is hard, and there is no work!" "But how was the harvest?" "Small enough, signore! There is no grain at Tivoli, and no wine; and as for the olives, a thousand trees have not given the worth of abajocco." "And what does the Government do for the poor?" "Nothing, nothing at all." "And the priests?" "Eh!They live well, always well; they have a good time in this world—but?"

"Such is the Love of Kings." (FromIl Don Pirlone, Rome, 1849.)

One striking picture inIl Don Pirlonerepresents Italy in the form of a huge military boot lying prostrate on the earth, with Liberty half astride of it, holding a broom. She has just knocked off the boot a French general, who lies on the ground with his hat at some distance from him, and she has raised her broom to give a second blow. But at that critical moment, the Pope thrusts his hands from a cloud, seizes the broom, and holds it back. Inside the boot is seen ambushed a cardinal with two long daggers, waiting to strike Liberty to the heart when she shall be disarmed. Underneath is printed: "Impediments to Liberty."

In a similar spirit was conceived a picture called "A Modern Synod," which reflected upon the diplomatic conference in Belgium on Italian affairs between the representatives of Austria, France, and England. There sits Italy in the council-chamber, bound and naked to the waist, for the scourge. At the tableare seated, Austria, with head of double eagle; France, with a cock's head and crest, but a woman's bosom and extremely low-necked dress; and England, with a head compounded of unicorn and donkey. Underneath the table are the Pope and King Bomba, with hidden scourges, only waiting for the conference to end to resume their congenial task of lashing helpless Italy.

Mr. Punch.

A terrific picture is one representing the Pope with a scourge in his hand, riding high in the air over Rome, mounted upon a hideous flying dragon with four heads. One of the heads is Austria's double eagle; another, the Gallic cock; the third, Spain; the fourth, Bomba. The papal crown is carried in the coil of the monster's forked tail. Under the picture are words signifying "Such is the love of kings!"

Imagine endless variations upon this theme inIl Don Pirlone, executed invariably with force, and sometimes with a power that, even at this distance of time, rouses the soul.

Laying aside the caricatures of the Revolution, of which considerable volumes have been collected, I may say a word or two of the comic entertainment that has now become universal, Punch, which, if Italy did not originate it, received there its modern form and character. Punch is now exhibited daily in every civilized and semi-civilized land or earth—in China, Siam, India, Japan, Tartary, Russia, Egypt, everywhere. A New York traveler, well known both for the extent of his journeys and for the excellent use he has made of them, tells me that he saw, not long ago, a performance of Punch at Cairo, in a tent, in Arabic, a small coin being charged for admission. The people entered with a grave demeanor, sat in rows upon the sand, listened to the dialogue without a smile, and at the close filed out in silence, as if from a solemnity. The performance was similar to that with which we are acquainted. The American reader, however, may not be very familiar with the exploits of Punch, for he has made his way slowly in the New World, and was rarely, if ever, seen here until within the last ten years.

Much second-hand erudition could be adduced to show that Punch, besides being universal, dates back to remote antiquity. The bronze figure could be mentioned which was found at Herculaneum some years ago, with the Punchian nose and chin; as well as a drawing on the wall of a guard-house at Pompeii, in which there is a figure costumed like Punch. Even the name Punch, which some derive fromPaunch, is supposed by others to be a corruption of the first name of Pontius Pilate. The weight of probability favors the conjecture that Punch really did originate in India, at least three thousand years ago, and came down, through other Oriental lands, to Greece, part of the stock of traditions that gather about Bacchus and his comic audacities—jovial and impudent Vice triumphant over unskillful Virtue. Punch is a brother of Don Juan, except that Punch is victorious to the very end; and the fable of Don Juan is among the oldest of human imaginings.

Return of the Pope to Rome.(FromIl Don Pirlone, Rome, 1849.)

It is agreed, however, that the Punch of modern European streets is Neapolitan; and even to this day, as travelers report, nowhere in the world is the drama of Punch given with such force of drollery as in Naples. What Mr. D'Israeli, in the "Curiosities of Literature," where much Punch learning may be found, says of the histrionic ability of the Italian people, has been often confirmed since his day. He adds an incident:

"Perhaps there never was an Italian in a foreign country, however deep in trouble, but would drop all remembrance of his sorrows should one of his countrymen present himself with the paraphernalia of Punch at the corner ofa street. I was acquainted with an Italian, a philosopher and a man of fortune, residing in England, who found so lively a pleasure in performing Punchinello's little comedy, that, for this purpose, with considerable expense and curiosity, he had his wooden company, in all their costume, sent over from his native place. The shrill squeak of the tin whistle had the same comic effect on him as the notes of theranz-des-vacheshave in awakening the tenderness of domestic emotion in the wandering Swiss. The national genius is dramatic."

Through the joint labors of Mr. George Cruikshank and Mr. Payne Collier, we now know exactly what the Punchian drama is, as performed by the best artists. Mr. Cruikshank explains the truly English process by which this valuable information was obtained:

"Having been engaged by Mr. Prowett, the publisher, to give the various scenes represented in the street performances of Punch and Judy, I obtained the address of the proprietor and performer of that popular exhibition. He was an elderly Italian, of the name of Piccini, whom I remembered from boyhood, and he lived at a low public-house, the sign of 'The King's Arms,' in the 'Coal-yard,' Drury Lane. Having made arrangements for a 'morning performance,' one of the window-frames on the first floor of the public-house was taken out, and the stand, or Punch's theatre, was hauled into the 'Club-room.' Mr. Payne Collier (who was to write the description), the publisher, and myself, formed the audience; and as the performance went on, I stopped it at the most interesting parts to sketch the figures, while Mr. Collier noted down the dialogue; and thus the whole is a faithful copy and description of the various scenes represented by this Italian."

The drama thus obtained, which has since been published with Mr. Cruikshank's illustrations, must at least be pronounced the most popular of all dramatic entertainments past or present. It is now in the thirtieth century of its "run;" and even the modern Italian version dates back to the year 1600. It is a rough, wild caricature of human life.

James Gillray.

James Gillray, though the favorite caricaturist of London before the beginning of our century, did not reach the full development of his talent until the later extravagancies of Napoleon Bonaparte gave him subjects so richly suggestive of burlesque. Even at this late day, when we have it in our power to know the infinite mischief done to our race by such perjured charlatans as Bonaparte, it is difficult to read some of his bulletins and messages without bursts of laughter—the imitation of known models is so childish, and they reveal so preposterous an ignorance of every thing that the ruler of a civilized country ought to know. After giving London a long series of caricatures of the French Revolution and of the English fermentation that followed it, Gillray fell upon Napoleon, and exhibited the ludicrous aspects of the man and his doings with a comic fertility and effectiveness rarely equaled. True, he knew very little either of the Revolution or of Bonaparte—England knew little—but while all well-informed and humane persons have forgiven the excesses of the Revolutionary period, or laid the blame at the door of the real culprits, the world is coming round to the view of Napoleon Bonaparte which the caricaturist gave seventy years ago. If I were asked to name the best five caricatures produced since Hogarth, one of the five would be James Gillray's "Tiddy-Doll, the Great French Gingerbread Baker drawing out a New Batch of Kings;" and another, a picture by the same artist, "King of Brobdingnag and Gulliver" ridiculing Napoleon's scheme of invading England in 1803. Both are masterpieces of satiric art in what we may justly style the English style;i. e.,the style which amuses every body and wounds nobody, not even the person satirized.

Tiddy-Doll, the Great French Gingerbread Baker, drawing out a New Batch of Kings. His Man, Hopping Talley, mixing up the Dough.(Gillray, 1806.)

Born in 1757, when Hogarth had still seven years to live, the son of a valiant English soldier who left an arm in Flanders, James Gillray belongs more to the old school of caricaturists than to the new. Many of his works could not now be exhibited; nor was Gillray superior in moral feeling to the time in which he lived. He flattered the pride and the prejudices of John Bull. In a deep-drinking age, his own habits were excessively convivial; were such as to shorten his life, after having impaired his reason. He was, nevertheless, for a period of twenty years the favorite caricaturist of his country, and a very large number of his works are in all respects admirable. The reader will remark that Gillray, like most of his countrymen, was not acquainted with the countenance of Napoleon, and could, therefore, only give the popularly accepted portrait. His likenesses generally are excellent.

Among the crowds of laughing English boys who hailed every new picture issued by Gillray during the last ten years of his career was one named George Cruikshank, still living and honored among his countrymen in 1877. Him we may justly style the founder of the new school—the virtuous school—of comic art, which accords so agreeably with the humaner civilization which has been stealing over the world of late years, and particularly since the suppression of Bonaparte in 1815. On page 270 is a picture of his executed in his eightieth year, a proof of the steadiness of hand and alertness of mind which reward a temperate and honorable life even in extreme old age. This picture was bothdrawn and engraved by his own hand to please one of his oldest American friends, Mr. J. W. Bouton, of New York, long concerned in collecting and distributing his works among us. Here, then, is a living artist whose first handling of the etching-tool dates back almost three-quarters of a century. Mr. Reid, the keeper of prints and drawings in the British Museum, has been at the pains to make a catalogue of the works of George Cruikshank. The number of entries in this catalogue is five thousand two hundred and sixty-five, many of which comprise extensive series of drawings, so that the total number of his pictures probably exceeds twenty thousand—about one picture for every working-day during the productive part of his career.

The Threatened Invasion of England, 1804. (Gillray.)(The King of Brobdingnag and Gulliver.Scene—Gulliver manœuvring with his little boat in the cistern.—VideSwift's "Gulliver.")"I often used to row for my own diversion, as well as that of the queen and her ladies, who thought themselves well entertained with my skill and agility. Sometimes I would put up my sail and show my art by steering starboard and larboard. However, my attempts produced nothing else besides a loud laughter, which all the respect due to his majesty from those about him could not make them contain. This made me reflect how vain an attempt it is for a man to endeavor to do himself honor among those who are out of all degree of equality or comparison with him."

The Threatened Invasion of England, 1804. (Gillray.)

(The King of Brobdingnag and Gulliver.Scene—Gulliver manœuvring with his little boat in the cistern.—VideSwift's "Gulliver.")

"I often used to row for my own diversion, as well as that of the queen and her ladies, who thought themselves well entertained with my skill and agility. Sometimes I would put up my sail and show my art by steering starboard and larboard. However, my attempts produced nothing else besides a loud laughter, which all the respect due to his majesty from those about him could not make them contain. This made me reflect how vain an attempt it is for a man to endeavor to do himself honor among those who are out of all degree of equality or comparison with him."

The Bibliomaniac. (George Cruikshank, 1871.)

There is perhaps no gift so likely to be transmitted from father to son as a talent for drawing. Certainly it runs in the Cruikshank family, for there are already five of the name known to collectors, much to their confusion. As a guide to Mr. Reid in the preparation of his catalogue, the old gentleman made a brief statement, which is one of the curiosities of art gossip, and it may serve a useful purpose to collectors in the United States. His father, Isaac Cruikshank, was a designer and etcher and engraver, as well as a water-color draughtsman. His brother, Isaac Robert, a miniature and portrait painter, wasalso a designer and etcher, and "your humble servant likewise a designer and etcher. When I was a mere boy," he adds, "my dear father kindly allowed me to play at etching on some of his copper-plates, little bits of shadows or little figures in the background, and to assist him a little as I grew older, and he used to assistmein putting in hands and faces. And when my dear brother Robert (who in his latter days omitted the Isaac) left off portrait-painting, and took almost entirely to designing and etching, I assisted him, at first to a great extent, in some of his drawings." The result was that, in looking over the pictures of sixty years ago, he could not always tell his own work; and, to make matters worse, his brother left a son, Percy Cruikshank, also a draughtsman and engraver, and he, too, has an artist son, named George. The family has provided work for the coming connoisseur.

The glory of the living veteran, however, will remain unique, because he, first of the comic artists of his country, caught the new spirit, avoided the grossness and thoughtless one-sidedness of his predecessors, and used his art in such a manner that now, in his eighty-fourth year, looking back through the long gallery of his works gathered by the affectionate persistence of his admirers, he can not point to one picture which for any moral reason he could wish to turn to the wall.

England owes much to her humorists of the new humane school. She owes, perhaps, more than she yet perceives, because the changes which they promote in manners and morals come about slowly and unmarked. It is the American revisiting the country after many years of absence who perceives the ameliorations which the satiric pencil and pen have conjointly produced; nor are those ameliorations hidden from the American who treads for the first time the fast-anchored isle. It is with a peculiar rapturous recognition that we hail every indication of that England with which English art and literature have made us acquainted—a very different country indeed from the Englandof politics and the newspaper. A student who found himself one fine Sunday morning in June gliding past the lovely Hampshire coast, covered with farms, lawns, and villas, gazed in silence for a long time, and could only relieve his mind at last by gasping, "Thomson's 'Seasons?'" His first glance revealed to him, what he had never before suspected, that the rural poetry of England applied in a particular manner to the land that inspired it, could have been written only there, and only there could be quite appreciated. From Chaucer to Tennyson there is not a sterling line in it which could have been what it is if it had been composed in any part of the Western continent. We have a flower which we call a daisy, a weed coarsened by our fierce sun, betraying barrenness of soil, and suggestive of careless culture. There is also to be seen in our windows and greenhouses a flower named the primrose, which, though it has its merit, has not been celebrated by poets, nor is likely to be. But the instant we see an English road-side bright with primroses and daisies, we find ourselves saying, "Yes, of course;theseare what the poets mean;thisis the daisy of Shakspeare and Burns;hereis Wordsworth's yellow primrose!" And we go on holding similar discourse with ourselves as often as we descry the objects, at once familiar and unknown, which in every age the poets of Great Britain have loved to sing.

Hope—A Phrenological Illustration.(George Cruikshank, 1826.)

But when, in these recent days, the same traveler observes the human lifeof English streets and homes and public places, he does not perceive so exact a resemblance to the life portrayed in books and pictures. English life seems gentler and better than it was represented forty years ago; manners are freer and more cordial; people are less intemperate; the physical life is much less obstreperous; the topics discussed have a more frequent relation to the higher interests of human nature. The glory of the last generation was held to be Waterloo; the distinction of the present one is a peaceful arbitration. The six-bottle men of Sheridan's time—where are they? Gone, quite gone.Onebottle is now almost as unusual as it is excessive. Gone is the coach, with its long train of barbarisms—its bloated Wellers, its coachmen who swallowed "an imperial pint of vinegar" with their oysters without winking, its mountainous landlord skillful in charging, its general horseyness and cumbersome inconvenience. The hideous prize-fight seems finally suppressed. If there are still estates upon which there are family cottages of one room, they are held in horror, and it is an axiom accepted that the owner who permits them to remain is a truer savage than the most degraded peasants who inhabit them.

Art, humanizing art, has reached a development which a dreamer of Hogarth's day could not have anticipated for any period much short of the millennium; and not a development only, but a wide diffusion. Chadband—where is he? If he exists, he has assumed a less offensive form than when he ate muffins and sniveled inanity in Mrs. Snagsby's back room. Where are Thackeray's snobs? They, too, have not ceased to be, for the foible which he satirized is an integral part of human nature, which can be ennobled, not eradicated. Strangers, however, do not often observe those violent and crude manifestations of it which Thackeray describes; and there seems a likelihood of the "Book of Snobs" meeting the fate of Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations," which made itself obsolete by accomplishing its purposes. Beer still flows redundant in every part of the British Empire. Nevertheless, there is here and there a person who has discovered how much more can be got out of life by avoiding stimulation. A decided advance must have been made toward tolerance of opinion when men can be borne to honorable burial in Westminster Abbey whose opinions were at variance with those which built and sustain the edifice. Chadbandom feebly protests, but no man regards it.

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