There were two great types of ascendant degeneracy to divert the eyes of Farmer George's subjects from their shops and Bibles. One was his son George, the other Mary Anne Clarke.
The cabinet in which George kept capillary souvenirs of so many women was fastened against contemporary critics of his career. Undivulged, therefore, was the touching sentiment of a philofeminism which, in excluding his legal wife, was construed but as vice. There was no Max Beerbohm in his day to appreciate his polish and talents and to pity his wife for playing her tragedy in tights. There was no one to pronounce him the slave of that most endearing of tyrants, the artistic temperament. The caricaturists saw simply a polygamist eager to convict of adultery the wife whom he disliked and avoided, and a spendthrift whose debt was inflicted upon the nation. So far as man can show up his fellow-men, this man was shown up, and in verse and picture became an instrument of public titillation. So roguish a severity as the caricaturists displayed can seldom be accepted as didactic Gillray, indeed, in The Morning after Marriage followed him into the bridal chamber of Mrs Fitzherbert whom he married in 1785, and this caricature is the best advertisement of his grace and beauty which perhaps exists. When attacked by Cruikshank, he was over forty, for the first caricature of him in which that artist's hand is noticeable was published in 1808. It is entitled John Bull Advising with His Superiors: the superiors being George and his brother Frederick, who sit under the portraits of their respective mistresses, "Mrs Fitz" and Mrs Clarke. John Bull is clean-shaven, fat-nosed, hatted, and holds a gnarled stick. "Servant Measters," he begins, "I be come to ax a bit of thy advice"; but he proceeds to freeze them with clumsy innuendo and adds, "I does love good old Georg [sic], by Goles! because he is not of that there sort," meaning their own. After this, the Regent was for Cruikshank a stimulant to the drollest audacities. The world was younger then and could laugh uproariously at the bursting of a dandy's stays and the mislaying of a roué's removable whiskers. Mrs Grundy had not persuaded it of the superior comicality of Mrs Newlywed's indestructible pie-crust and Mr Staylate's interview with the parental boot. So George, who, at any rate, was real life, blossomed abundantly to another George's advantage. Thus The Coronation of the Empress of the Nairs (September 1812)—a simile suggested by a contemporary account of a curious Asiatic race—depicts him as crowning the Marchioness of Hertford in her bath; A Kick from Yarmouth to Wales illustrates the assault of the provoked Earl of Yarmouth upon his wife's too fervent admirer; and Princely Agility (January 1812) shows His Royal castigated Highness confined by a convenient sprained ankle to bed, where his whiskers and wig are restored to him. The opening of Henry the Eighth's coffin in St George's Chapel, Windsor, April 1, 1813, suggests to Cruikshank Meditations Amongst the Tombs, in which the greatness of the deceased sovereign forcibly strikes the Regent. "Great indeed!" he is made to say, "for he got rid of many wives, whilst I, poor soul, can't get rid of one. Cut off his beard, doctor, 'twill make me a prime pair of royal whiskers." The prince's partiality for the bottle is severely illustrated. In The Phenix [sic] of Elba Resuscitated by Treason (May 1, 1815), he receives the news of Napoleon's outbreak, seated on a cushion with a decanter behind him; and even when he was King, Cruikshank dared to draw him (1822) as drunk and curing an irritated cuticle by leaning his kilted person against one of the posts of Argyleshire.
If, however, Caroline of Brunswick had not, by adopting a Meredithian baby and other eccentricities, condemned herself to "Delicate Investigation" in 1806 and to a trial before the House of Peers in 1820, Cruikshank's delineations of Adonis the Great would have seemed genial compared with Thackeray's contempt. That his sentiment for the lady was less chivalrous than Thackeray esteemed it, may be divined by his caricature of her as an ugly statue of Xantippe put up to auction "without the least reserve" (1821), which is less than two months older than his conception of her as a rushlight which Slander cannot blow out. But he perceived, as did the whole intelligent proletariat, the monstrous irony of George's belated notice of his wife. Hence in his woodcuts to "The Queen's Matrimonial Ladder" and "Non Mi Ricordo!" he is not comic but satirical, and satirical with strokes that turn The Dandy of Sixty who bows with a grace into a figure abjectly defiant, meanly malevolent, devoid of levity. A cut in the former pamphlet shows him standing in a penitential sheet under the seventh, ninth and tenth commandments, meeting the gaze of an astonished urchin; on the outside of the latter pamphlet we see him in the throes of awkward interrogation, uttering the "Non Mi Ricordo" which Caroline's ill-wishers were tired of hearing in the mouth of Bergami.
Mary Anne Clarke, our second type of ascendant degeneracy, was, if Buck's drawing of her is truthful, a woman of seductive prettiness, but she could not teach Cruikshank her charm in atonement for her venality. He drew her petticoat "supported by military boots" and surmounted by a cocked hat and the mitre of the ducal bishop of Osnaburg (February 23, 1809); "under this," it is stated, "may be found a soothing for every pain." When Whigs and the Prince of Wales sent the Duke of York back in 1811 to the high post which he had disgraced, Mrs Clarke dwindled in Cruikshank's caricature to a dog improperly exhibiting its contempt for Colonel Wardle's left eye. It is curious that the Clarke scandal did not apparently inspire any caricature which deserves to live as pictorial criticism. Revealing, as it did, not only rottenness in the State, but in the Church, since Dr O'Meara sought Mrs Clarke's interest for the privilege of preaching "before royalty," one may well be surprised at the failure of caricature to ennoble itself in the cause of honour and religion. Yet Cruikshank produced in 1811 a powerful etching—Interior View of the House of God—which shows, apropos a lustful fanatic named Carpenter, his power to have seized the missed opportunity. In this plate is the contemporary portrait of himself which P. D'Aiguille afterwards copied.
If we ask, for our soul's sake, to sicken of the Regent's amours and of the demure "Magdalen" of York, whose scarlet somehow softens to maroon because she is literary and quotes Sallust, it is necessary to leave the caricatures which laugh with her—especially Rowlandson's—and look at Cruikshank's tormented John Bull. The most pathetic is perhaps John Bull's Three Stages (1815). In the last stage (Peace with all the World) his child, once pressed to eat after repletion, says, "Give me some more bone." The hand that drew the earlier plates of The Bottle is unmistakable in this etching.
It was seemingly in 1819 that Cruikshank first realised his great powers as a critic in caricature. To that period belongs what a pamphleteer called "Satan's Bank Note":—
"Notes which a 'prentice boy could make
At fifteen for a shilling."
The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street earned thereby the sobriquet of Hangland's Bank, and her victims included two women on a day when Cruikshank looked at the gibbet of the Old Bailey. They were hanged for passing forged one pound notes. Cruikshank thereupon drew his famous Bank Restriction Note, signed by Jack Ketch, and with a vignette of Britannia devouring her children above an L of rope. Hone issued this note (of which there are three varieties) from his shop on Ludgate Hill, a stone's throw from the gibbet; the public flocked to see and buy it, and the moral was not lost upon the Bank of England, who thereafter sent forth no more one pound notes. The pathos as distinct from the tragedy of the condition thus relieved is well recalled by the caricature invented by Yedis and drawn by Cruikshank entitled Johnny Bull and his Forged Notes (January 7, 1819).
