December, 1804. Melpomene in the Dumps, or Child's Play defended by Theatrical Monarchs. Published by Ackermann, Strand.—Mrs. Siddons in tragic swathings, one arm resting on a table, her other hand extended in an interlocutory attitude, while her foot is resting on a stool; on the table are books—Salary Benefits, The Rights of Woman, and The Duty of Man. On the wall is hung Bunbury's Propagation of a Lie. John Philip Kemble is resting his hand on her shoulder, and another gentleman, hat in hand, is pointing with his finger to a shorter figure, probably intended for the person of Colonel Topham, Editor of The World, 'More Soldier than Scholar!'

The Debate or Argument.

Melpomene. And pray, Mr. Monarch, how long am I to be confined to this box fever, or nervous rheumatism in my loins? A pretty business you have made of this season; what between your Blind Bargain and Infant Roscius, you think to send me to the ground; but let me caution you, that 'if once I do but stir or lift this arm, the best of you shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know how this foul rout began, who set it on, and he that is approved in the offence, though he hath twinned with me, both at a birth shall lose me.'

First Monarch. [Probably intended to designate Sheridan.] Why really, Madam, all I can say in my defence or that of my Infant is this, that if John Bull chooses to feed on slink calf, instead of substantial roast beef, yet consents to pay for the roast, it is not for me to complain; but, Madam, should there be a fault laid at my charge, let me tell you it is not entirely mine; your brother here, beside me, has had his share in it, and between friends, I must observe, that you have had your day; and if a good salary during this Infant fever and frigid weather cannot encourage you to wear flannel, gird up your loins, and rest contented on your arm (I mean arms). I will be bound to say, you are not the woman I took you for; and rather than be subject to such complaints while I reign 'King of shreds and patches,' I would forego the advantages of government, and 'live on scraps at proud men's surly doors.'

Second Monarch. [John Philip Kemble, otherwise familiarly designated Black Jack.] Sister, be of comfort, our friend speaks home; you may relish him more in the soldier than the scholar, but though his oratory is bad, his argumentum argentum is good; his voice like mine is husky; but his silver tones are delightful. It is true we have both had our day; 'our May of life is gone; 'tis fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age' we have got. 'The world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.' Public taste is similar, it is now in second childishness; and when mere oblivion takes place, then you shall make a sally, and should the Town require a filip,[4] I will be at your elbow.

December 14, 1804. The Death of Madame République.—The moribund République is stretched on her death-bed, the tricolour cockade is worn on the side of her nightcap; by the side are bottles of Purging Mixture and Laudanum. Vive la Liberté and Vive la République are put out of sight; the Abbé Sièyes, as doctor, is holding the new Emperor, an infant in long clothes, the crown is on his head, a sceptre and orb are in either hand. John Bull, spectacles on nose, and with his hand in his waistcoat pocket, has stepped in; he is much astonished at the change of affairs: 'Pray Mr. Abbé Sièyes, what was the cause of the poor Lady's death? She seemed at one time in a tolerable thriving way.' 'She died in childbed, Mr. Bull, after giving birth to this little Emperor!'

1804. A New French Phantasmagoria. (The date 1805 in one corner.)—Napoleon Buonaparte, with the Imperial crown, sceptre, orb, and robes of state, is holding out his hand, with impertinent condescension, crying, 'What! my old friend, Mr. Bull, don't you know me?' John Bull is dressed in sailor fashion, as the 'champion of the seas;' there is an air of satirical quizzing about his features, and, in order that he may be able to distinguish his transmogrified acquaintance, he has mounted a pair of huge magnifiers, 'Bless me, what comes here, it's time to put on my large spectacles, and tuck up my trousers! Why, surely, it can't be?—it is Boney too, for all that; why, what game be'est thee at now? Acting a play mayhap? What hast thee got on thy head there? Always at some new freak or other.'

1804. A Compendious Treatise of Modern Education, in which the following interesting subjects are liberally discussed: The Nursery, Private Schools, Public Schools, Universities, Gallantry, Duelling, Gaming, and Suicide; to which are added coloured designs, both characteristic and illustrative. By Joel M'Cringer, D.D., F.R.S., folio.

Letters from the hand of the caricaturist are scarce, and however familiar collectors may be with Rowlandson's touch, and even his caligraphy, on his numberless drawings in Indian ink, the productions of his famous reed-pen, it is very seldom that samples of his familiar correspondence are to be met with. We print one example, not as an instance of his brilliancy in composition, or as representing any valuable literary disclosure, but simply as illustrating that the artist's circumstances were not too flourishing at the period under consideration.

The original also contains a sketch, and is exhibited to the public in one of the cases of the British Museum (Manuscript Department), among a collection of interesting autographs of eminent men.

29,300 G. Ad1. MSS.Purchased 6 June, 1871.
Letter to James Heath. Engraver.
Upper Charlotte Street Fitzroy Square.

This note is written in Indian ink, of the consistency mixed by the Caricaturist for his outlines.

No. 1 James Street, Adelphi.
March 1st, 1804.

Friend Heath.

'Tis with sorrow I relate that my own finances and the little sway I have with the long-pursed gentry—obliges me to retire before the plays are ended. I hope you will not say, as they do at Drury (No money returned after the curtain is drawn up).

The Bill sent in says Nine Numbers, Eight only have been received, the Ninth mentioned in your letter as being delivered November the First, since my return to Town, has, through some mistake, never come to hand. I also possess a receipt from you for £2. 2. 0, and as I hope you call me a tradesman and poor, you will make out a fresh Bill, and that we shall verify the old proverb of Short Reckonings make Long Friends.

I remain sincerely yours,
Thos Rowlandson.