ENGLISH BARRACKS.
August 12, 1791. [English Barracks]. Aquatinted by T. Malton. Published by S. W. Fores.—A view of the interior of a cavalry barracks, reproducing a scene more properly indicative of domestic than of military life, although weapons and accoutrements are scattered about. Drums and guns are piled in one corner; at the window is a trooper en négligé employed in brushing his uniform. A woman is nursing a strapping boy, while a soldier at her side, in complete uniform, is adjusting his helmet at the looking-glass. Another trooper has a child in his arms, and is putting a lad, who is playing at soldiers, through his musketry exercise; while a pretty maiden is presiding at the washing-tub. An old grandmother, who is giving a playful infant a ride on her back, is pouring out a glass of cordial for another warrior, whose toilette is far from complete. Guns, sabres, military saddles, pistol-holsters, and other warlike objects are hung on the wall, giving the apartment, which is otherwise blank enough, a certain air of picturesque decoration.
August 12, 1791. French Barracks. (Companion to the above.)—The interior of a French barracks offers a perfect contrast to the simplicity and decorous order which mark the occupants of an English Barracks. The barrack-room is extensive, and handsomely decorated with trophies of weapons, which, with a suit of mail, are disposed on the walls with a good eye to effect. The officers are rising and dressing for morning parade. An officer, the principal features of whose countenance are absorbed in a pair of huge moustachios, is seated on the regimental drum, while a pretty girl is employed unromantically in trimming the warrior's toenails. A soldier-barber is at the same time dressing the hero's locks and binding up his monstrous pigtail, which reaches over a yard in length—a standard of valour of protracted dimensions. A lad is bringing this well-attended son of Mars his monstrous jack-boots, of a size and weight to displace the great guns of his battery with considerable effect. All these dandy warriors seem to be utterly dependent on the assistance of their factotums; it is difficult to imagine these 'curled darlings' in connection with gunpowder and a field of battle. A second officer is enveloped in his powdering-gown, while his barber-valet is smothering him with volumes of violet-clouds from his puffing apparatus. Another hero appears reluctant to abandon his morning slumbers; he is seated, in his shirt, gaping frightfully, on the side of his bed. One distinguished being has almost completed his elaborate toilette; the due adjustment of his lace fall and cravat is engaging his exclusive attention; he is standing in front of a large mirror to perform this delicate manipulation with proper effect, and a very beautiful girl—whose own toilette is neglected, and whose voluptuous charms are freely exposed—is holding a second glass at the warrior's back, that he may be enabled to contemplate the reflection of his own admired rear in the larger mirror; meanwhile one of his petty officers is standing on the salute, ready to receive the orders of his chief. A pretty woman, a young mother, is suckling an infant; and another child, whose wardrobe is limited to a single garment, is, while eating breakfast, training a poodle to stand at ease with a sword in his paw—a ridiculous parody of the warlike accompaniments around.
SLUGS IN A SAWPIT.
October 28, 1791. [Slugs in a Sawpit]. Published by S. W. Fores, 3 Piccadilly.—A brace of heroes, naval and military, are endeavouring to adjust their differences by an appeal to arms; the combat, for the sake of retirement and convenience, is taking place at the bottom of a sawpit. It seems that the duel is of a most obstinate nature; three or four broken swords are strewn around; and, honour not being yet satisfied, recourse has evidently been had to pistols, several of which (some dismantled), with balls, &c., are also thrown about on the limited field of conflict. It seems the antagonists are most implacable, as, after exchanging all these inconclusive passes and discharges, they are resorting finally to the use of a pair of huge blunderbusses, about the dimensions of fieldpieces, which would hold some pounds of slugs. The old Commodore is stooping his fat body, and the military buck is resting on one knee, in order to get the monstrous weapons into comfortable positions for firing; both combatants look a trifle nervous, as the results are likely to be tolerably marked at such ranges; the guns of the inveterate duellists are side by side, the stocks resting on their respective shoulders and the muzzles just touching their noses. The consequences likely to ensue on pulling the triggers can be easily imagined. A workman has just arrived at the edge of his sawpit in time to discover the trespasses these ferocious fire-eaters are making on his property.
November 22, 1791. How to Escape Winning.—A pictorial satire directed against a famous incident of the turf, which provoked an unusual amount of attention and scandalous comments in proportion; the question never having been satisfactorily disposed of, although it has been generally received that the Prince of Wales, who owned the notorious racehorse Escape, was more sinned against than sinning. It is sufficient to mention that the horse in question, from certain circumstances which became a subject of vexed debate long after the occurrence, did not win the race, when it was pretty evident, under fair conditions of horse-racing, that he could have distanced every horse on the course. In the print—which is the chief point we have to deal with—the race is being run; the other jockeys are making great efforts to get ahead; the Prince's jockey, Chiffney, on Escape, is holding in his mount; the horse is furious at the restraint which is crippling him and preventing his running freely, the animal's near fore-leg being secured to his off hind-leg with the owner's Order of the Garter, 'Honi soit qui mal y pense.' The figure of a sporting character, intended either for that of the owner or trainer of this unlucky Escape, is standing with his finger to his nose, an action implying that he has made it all right for himself. In the distance the backers of the Prince's horse are either regarding the owner with suspicion or are stamping with rage at the fraud by which they are doomed to lose instead of winning their money.
November 22, 1791. How to Escape Losing.—The principal figure is standing in much the same style of 'knowing' attitude as that displayed in the previous plate. The race is still being run; Escape is leading, the garter, Qu'en pensez-vous, only remains attached to the near fore-leg; but the horse's chances are borne down by heavy impediments; a pair of weights are slung over the jockey's shoulders and other weights are suspended round the horse's neck and in front of and behind his saddle.
1791. Angelo's Fencing Rooms. (From Reminiscences of Henry Angelo, with Memoirs of his Friends, &c.)—'For some years I had a fencing-room at the Opera House, Haymarket, over the entrance of the pit-door. On the evening of June 17, 1789, about eight o'clock, when in Berkeley Square, I saw a black smoke ascending; and soon hearing that there was a fire in the Haymarket, I directly hastened there, when, to my surprise, I beheld the Opera House in flames. Having the key of my room in my pocket, and the crowd making way for me, I soon got there, at the time the back part was burning. I first secured the portrait of Monsieur Saint George (the famous fencer), which hung over the chimneypiece and removed it to St. Alban's Street, where I then resided. At my return, though I was not absent six minutes, the mob had rushed in and plundered the room of everything. As to the foils, jackets, &c., they were of little value to me compared to what I had in my closet—a portfolio of beautiful drawings, particularly several valuable ones of Cipriani, also of Mortimer, Rowlandson, &c., the loss of which I much regretted; but consoled myself by saving Saint George's picture, which he sat purposely for and offered me, after our fencing together, the second day of his arrival in the country. It was painted by Brown, an American artist, much encouraged here at the time. The last day of his sitting he dined at my father's, when, my mother enquiring of him if it was a good likeness, he smiled and replied (he was a Creole), 'Oh, madame, c'est si ressemblant que c'est affreux.' My room, which was in the front, was the only one saved from the flames in the whole house; and fortunately, the engines being placed in it, prevented the fire from communicating to Market Lane.