July 9, 1807. A Cure for Lying and a Bad Memory. Woodward del., Rowlandson sculp. Published by T. Tegg, 111 Cheapside.—A wag at one of the universities has applied to an empiric, on a visit to the neighbourhood, for a cure, as a proof of his skill, for a propensity to tell lies, and a memory which retained no recollection of what its possessor had stated last. In the picture the quack has just administered his Pillula Memoria and Anti Fibbibus; the incautious would-be waggish student is very uncomfortable, and declares he has taken Asafœtida. 'You speak the truth,' says the doctor, 'you are perfectly cured; and as to your memory, that cure follows of course, for I am sure you will never forget the medicine!'
July 10, 1807. The Double Disaster, or New Cure for Love. Rowlandson del. et sculp. Published by T. Tegg, 111 Cheapside.—This sketch, which is characterised by the artist's usual spirit when dealing with kindred subjects, represents the situation of a rustic swain, whose philanderings have landed him in the midst of the perplexities of a double dilemma. It is seemingly 'washing day,' and the gallant intruder has effected his admission to court the graces of a pretty maiden, who is thrown into consternation at the risk to which her suitor, by an awkward contretemps, is suddenly exposed. The pair have evidently been disturbed at the moment the lady was engaged in drawing a mug of ale for the refreshment of her admirer; in the confusion, the tap of the beer barrel is still left running, and all the maid's solicitude is centred in the position of her swain, who has incautiously taken refuge in the copper. A very disagreeable-looking old beldame is kindling a blazing fire in the stove, while a buxom wench is working away at the pump, which is pouring gallons of water into the unlucky Lothario's place of concealment. The youth is hesitating midway between the ordeals of fire or water, and he is struggling to effect his escape from both, at the risk of exposure and its consequences.
July 14, 1807. Easter Hunt. Clearing a Fence. (Easter Monday, or the Cockney Hunt.)
1807. Miseries of the Country. 'While on a visit to the hundreds of Essex, being under the necessity of getting dead drunk every day to save your life.'
Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causas....
The hundreds of Essex, it appears from the print, which represents a bacchanalian sporting revel, were doubtless attractive to fox-hunters; but the hospitalities exercised therein were rather excessive. The usual accompaniments of a drunken bout of the period are set forth with Rowlandson's graphic skill; an old toper is draining a punch-bowl and capsizing himself simultaneously; an ambitious young reveller is tipsily trying to mount the table, and over-balancing himself in the attempt; a stout divine is indisposed in a corner; heavy drinkers laid low are on the floor, whence they are dragged off by their heels, and carried to bed in an incapable and collapsed condition. Furniture is knocked over, and chimney ornaments sent to grief. It is an anniversary meeting of choice spirits.
October 5, 1807. A Mistake at Newmarket, or Sport and Piety. Woodward del., Rowlandson sculp. Published by T. Tegg, 111 Cheapside.—A good pious old soul, wearing a hood, red cloak, clean apron, and pattens, and carrying Wesley's hymns in her hand, is interrogating certain sporting characters, who are lounging at the door of the Ram Inn. 'Pray, young man,' she enquires of a smart young jockey, 'are there any meetings in this town?' To which the jockey replies, 'Yes, ma'am, two a year—Spring and October!'
1807(?) [Englishman at Paris.] H. Bunbury invt., Rowlandson sculp.—Our old friend John Bull is shown, with his travelling accompaniments, philosophically pursuing his quiet way in the land of the 'Monsieurs.' He is the centre of curiosity, though, according to the artist's picture, he is the least remarkable object in the group. A corpulent friar is observing the well-rounded person of the stranger with an appreciative eye; while a lean cook, in wooden shoes, is staring with astonishment at the goodly proportions of the Englishman. A French petit-maître is driving a ramshackle contrivance, and his queerly clad servant is perched on the springs behind. A female luggage porter is plodding along, and an adventitious shower, directed from a balcony above, is descending on the umbrella of a dandified pedestrian, daintily mincing along on tiptoe, who, at first glance, might be taken for a live Marquis, if, on inspection, his apron and the professional implements peeping out of his coat-tail, did not proclaim him a barber. John Bull's substantially built dog is eyeing a sniffing French hound with threatening suspicion.
