An Exquisite – how Dandy!

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May 202013
 

In the Regency period another word for ‘a dandy’ was ‘an exquisite’ and whatever the name, caricaturists simply loved to mock them!

Here are a few, linked by their titles, appearing courtesy of the Lewis Walpole Library site. The first is entitled “An exquisite alias dandy in distress!” and shows our hero, thin as a rake, trying to retrieve his handkerchief despite the tightness of his trousers!

 It was published in 1819.

Another one, called simply “An Exquisite” from G M Woodward’s Hudibrastic Mirror, shows our hero admiring himself in the cheval glass:

Another reflective image is this one from 1818:

A  common theme in  these lampoons is that these precious dears are prone to a fit of the vapours and likely to be blown over in a breeze. Here we have Robert Cruikshank’s ‘A dandy fainting, or, An exquisite in fits : scene a private box opera’ from 1835

The gentleman on the left  declares “I must draw the curtain or his screams will alarm the house – you have no fello feeling my dear fellos, pray unlace the dear one’s stays, and lay him on the couch” Next to him a dandy remarks “I am so frightened I can hardly stand” while his colleague urges “Mind you don’t soil the Dear’s linen.” The next man comments “I dread the consequences! That last Air of Signeur Nonballinas has thrown him in such raptures we must call in Dr —– immediately” as he wafts a phial of Eau de Cologne under his nostrils.

Ah Beau Brummel, it may not have been what you wanted, but it is what you led to!

The Royal Diary, 15th May 1800

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May 152013
 

“Rose, dressed and took breakfast and then ordered the carriage to take one to Drury Lane Theatre Royal. Arrived at three o’clock for the Royal Command Performance of ‘She would and She wouldn’t’; got shot (twice) by some madman, watched most of the play but fell asleep towards the end; went home.”

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So, to paraphrase the diaries of our dear King George III, might the monarch have written up the story of his day 213 years ago.

He had arrived at the theatre to a packed audience, who all stood for the playing of “God Save the King”. In the audience was a deranged former soldier who believed that, by dying, he would herald Christ’s Second Coming. His cunning plan to bring about his own death: shoot the king and be sent to the gallows for treason.

The man’s name was James Hadfield. The story goes that he had suffered a number of severe sabre wounds to the head while serving in the British army. Whatever the cause, he was clearly a total nutter, and not a very good shot. One of the slugs missed its target by 14 inches, the other brought down flakes of plaster from the ceiling of the Royal Box. Luckily one member of the audience – a David Moses Dyte – had the presence of mind to disarm the assailant before he could do any more damage to the building – or the King. Dyte’s reward? He was eventually made up to the exalted position of  ’Purveyor of Pens and Quills to the Royal Household’. Now that’s what I call gratitude!

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An etching entitled Strong Symptoms of Loyalty courtesy of the Lewis Walpole Library appeared shortly after the incident. It shows an imaginary scene before Hadfield was bundled over the rails and into the orchestra pit and dragged away to the music room. Charles James Fox grapples with Hadfield and shouts: “Shoot him, Kill him, Hang him, D—n him, Assassin – oh words where are you fled!!”

Theatre manager Sheridan exclaims “You D-d Jacobin scoundrel – Democratic Villain – You Republican Rascal, you Regicide you Traitor, you – you – Oh Heaven I fail for lack of words to Express my rage – to attempt – oh Devil – Fiend – A Monarch whom we love, A King whom we adore”

On the right, the snuff-taking George Tierney looks on unconcernedly. He casually remarks “Why, D-n me, you are as bad a Shot as I am.”

What actually happened was that  Sheridan came into the music room with the Duke of York and the prisoner apparently told the Duke “God bless your Royal Highness, I like you very well; you are a good fellow. This is not the worst that is brewing.”

It turns out that Hadfield had been an orderly working for the Duke, and he admired the Duke greatly. Hadfield was taken away and later charged with High Treason. To the great admiration of all present,the King insisted that ‘the show must go on.’ He apparently enjoyed the play so much he fell asleep in the second half…

Thomas Rowlandson: An audience watching a play at Drury Lane Theatre, 1785

Thomas Rowlandson: An audience watching a play at Drury Lane Theatre, 1785

The case against Hadfield came to trial in the Court of King’s Bench in June 1800. Various members of the public were called to give evidence as to what happened – the pistol was produced by a Mr Wright, who had picked it up off the floor. The Duke of York was called, which must have been a little embarrassing for him, with questions along the lines of “Do you normally employ complete madmen as your orderly?”

Erskine by Thomas Lawrence

Erskine by Thomas Lawrence

The questioner was the great barrister Thomas Erskine. He had a field day defending his client, who had pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity. The problem was that in all other respects the prisoner appeared perfectly normal. According to the Newgate Calendar, seeing the Duke in court upset the prisoner greatly, causing him to exclaim in great agitation “God bless the Duke, I love him!” The Court immediately gave directions that he should be permitted to sit down; and Mr Kirby, the keeper of Newgate (who all the time sat next him), told him he had the permission of the Court to sit down, which he did, and remained composed during the remainder of the trial. The Newgate Calendar continues ‘When the prisoner was asked what could have induced him to commit so atrocious an act, he said he was tired of life, and thought he should have been killed’.

Erskine called various medicos to attest to the meaning of insanity and insane delusions, the problem being that up until that time the defence of insanity was only available if the insanity was so total that the accused was utterly irrational and had no control over his actions. That was clearly not the case here – Hadfield obviously intended to kill the King, and had brought along his pistol for the express purpose of firing it at the monarch. Eventually the judge halted the trial saying that the medical evidence meant that the verdict would inevitably mean an acquittal, because it was quite obvious that the guy was as mad as a hatter. But he added that “the prisoner, for his own sake, and for the sake of society at large, must not be discharged”.

The difficulty here was that in the past, the criminally insane were often handed back to the families to be looked after, but Hadfield could hardly be let loose to wander the streets. Parliament quickly passed new laws – the Treason Act and the Criminal Lunatics Act (both in 1800). The latter enabled prisoners who were found to be criminally insane to be locked up indefinitely, and Hadfield was carted off to Bedlam, or more correctly, Bethlem Royal Hospital.

bedlam st georges fields southwark

When the asylum was rebuilt in 1815 (which involved moving it to St George’s Fields, Southwark) Hadfield moved too. Apart from one time when he escaped and headed for Dover, intent on catching a ferry to France, he finished his days in the asylum, eventually dying of tuberculosis in 1841.

Sheridan, painted by Reynolds.

Sheridan, painted by Reynolds.

Poor Sheridan: he was already stretched financially by the cost of building the new theatre, and running it was an expensive business.In 1809 disaster struck and the theatre was burned to the ground. It gave rise to the famous remark by Sheridan, when he was encountered wandering around with a wine glass in his hand, watching the flames destroy his project:  “A man may surely be allowed to take a glass of wine by his own fireside.”

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The loss of the theatre completed his financial ruin – he died in poverty in 1816 and was buried in Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey.

Abstinence in the Eighteenth Century? You must be joking!

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May 082013
 

When my great grandfather Benjamin Hall died in 1936 (a wealthy man with a huge wine cellar) his two dreary sisters came to the funeral from their home in Mid-Wales. The fact that they were coke-heads (i.e.cocaine addicts) did not stop them from being teetotal (in other words they had “taken the pledge” to abstain from alcohol. Never a drop of the demon drink did pass their lips, but then, from all reports they were generally stoned out of their minds anyway…).

The story goes that after the funeral they traipsed back to the family home and set to with a fervent zeal, destroying every single bottle of wine to be found in the cellars. The whole lot was opened and poured down the drain.

I tell the story to indicate that the family may be weird, but we are not all the same! But what I like about the 18th Century is that it was a century of excess, not of moderation. The Temperance Movement really didn’t get going until 1833 when the word ‘teetotal’ was coined, and then had a renewed lease of life in the 1880’s. But none of their killjoy activities impinged upon the century which saw Hogarth rail against Gin, (as in Gin Lane) but condone and promote the consumption of beer (as in Beer Street). The earliest cartoon I can find giving a temperance view of the world is this one from 1828. It is entitled “The two fishermen : a dedication to the temperance society” and is by A Ducôte. It appears on the Lewis Walpole Library site.

On the left, under the banner of Habitual Drunkenness, the fisherman is in a spot of bother: his kids are fighting, his front door is falling off its hinges, his wife is embracing another man, and he has caught a fish marked ‘Sickness’. He cries out “The Devil”. Other fish in the sea are identified as Starvation, Hatred, Murder, Malice, Discontent ,Seduction, Rebellion, Atheism, Beggary and Enormous Taxation.

Contrast this unhappy scene with the prosperous happy family on the right blessed with Constant Sobriety, catching fish for their dinner. The waters abound with such delights as Civil and Religious Liberty, Peace & Quietness, Chastity, Happiness, Health, Wealth, Moderate Taxation, Cheap Bread and Contentment.

Just in case we haven’t got the message, the man on the left fishes in Gin, and on the right the supercilious young man with two ghastly children fishes in Water. The moral to me is quite clear: if you want ghastly kids and cheap bread, try being abstemious; if you want a bit of fun before you die, take another slug from the bottle.

For my distant ancestor Richard Hall, being a devout Baptist never seemed to prevent him from enjoying a prodigious quantity of wine (his tipple of choice). But he also brewed beer, and cider, as well as bringing a quarter Pipe of Port down from London whenever supplies ran short.

Late 18thCentury wine bottles – courtesy of Christies.com

But where I find his stamina truly remarkable is where he lists his household expenses for 1797 (when he was 68 years old). His account books show that he was spending roughly three times the amount on wine as he did on taxation. Way to go, Richard!

 

Bachelor’s Fare – or Bread and Cheese with kisses

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May 052013
 

“Bachelor’s Fare – or Bread and Cheese with kisses”  – a quotation from Jonathan Swift.

The quotation gave rise to a number of Eighteenth Century illustrations, and here are three:

The first one, by John Collet, appears on the Port Cities site and was first published in November 1773. The original is with the National Martime Museum.

It shows an apparently innocent scene of a couple sitting at a table eating bread and cheese. Things start to get amorous, and the sailor is slipping coins into the lady’s pocket – buying her favours. In the background on the wall a picture of two ships side by side has the caption “The Free Briton closely engaged with the charming Sally”.

Version Number Two appears on the Library of Congress site:

The site gives the explanation:

“Print shows a man, seated at a table, embracing and kissing a woman; around the table are seated three women; a fourth, carrying a tankard of beer, enters through a door on the right; on the table are bread and cheese, a visual reference to a quote by Jonathan Swift, ‘Bachelors fare; bread and cheese, and kisses.’ Two illustrations are on the wall in the background, one of a church, and the other of a swarm of bees around a hive”.

My favourite, with a fascinating amount of detail of the interior of an Eighteenth Century tavern, is the final one, a cartoon by Rowlandson. It appears on the Lewis Walpole site and was first published in 1813, but is an almost mirror-image of his earlier version entitled “A kiss in the kitchen”.

The site describes the scene as  ”A young man with a grotesquely long chin sits in a high back chair, kissing a pretty young woman who stands between his legs. Behind him a dog has his paws on the cloth-covered table on which is laid cheese and bread; a cat drinks from a pitcher on the ground. Through the door on the right, a fat older man sits on a stool, smoking his pipe as he looks up at another pretty girl. On the wall hangs his gun and game; above them hangs a bird in a cage”.

The young man with the grotesquely long chin reminds me of a younger Bruce Forsyth (surely he wasnt around THAT long ago!).

Sir Francis Burdett, a much maligned politician (1770-1844).

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May 032013
 

An intriguing fellow, was Francis Burdett. Born on 25th January 1770 in Wiltshire, he was the  grandson of the Baronet of Foremark. He was educated at Westminster School and Oxford University and after completing his education, he did what was expected of him – he went off on his Grand Tour through Europe. Back he came in 1793 and soon married Sophia Coutts, the daughter of the banker, Thomas Coutts. Her dowry was a staggering £25,000, making young Francis a very rich man. In 1797 Coutts purchased the rotten borough of Boroughbridge from the Duke of Newcastle for £4,000; he gave the seat to his ambitious son-in-law and Francis became an independent MP.

He declined to join either the Whigs or the Tories and in his maiden speech on the thorny topic of Ireland he upset nearly all his parliamentary colleagues by declaring that that the government was guilty of the “oppression of an enslaved and impoverished people”.

In 1797 he became the Fifth Baron of Foremark following his grandfather’s death that year.

Burdett strongly opposed William Pitt’s suspension of the writ of Habeas Corpus in 1796 and was highly critical of the government’s efforts to suppress the rights of the individual. As he himself later declared “The best part of my character is a strong feeling of indignation at injustice & oppression and a lively sympathy with the sufferings of my fellows.” A less endearing quality was his melancholia, pedantry, and quick temper. Also, despite fathering six children by his long suffering wife he appears to have had several more by his mistress Lady Oxford.

Burdett denounced Great Britain’s war with France, and was one of the few members of the House of Commons who supported the idea of parliamentary reform in the early years of the 19th Century.

In 1802 he was elected to Parliament as Member for Middlesex but later elections were rigged against him and Burdett spent a fortune (estimated at £100,000) successfully contesting the results. In 1807, following the death of Charles James Fox he stood for Westminster on a Reform ticket and was returned with a huge majority – gaining more votes than all the other candidates put together.

In 1810 he spoke in the House against the imprisonment of a radical by the name of John Gale Jones and then compounded his unpopularity with the government by “leaking” the entire speech to  William Cobbett’s Weekly Political Register (a clear breach of Parliamentary privilege). The authorities were outraged. He was arrested, charged, and ordered to be imprisoned in the Tower of London. He responded by barricading himself in his home for two days. Soldiers forced their way in and carted him off to prison. Later (1820) he was charged with seditious libel, heavily fined and again imprisoned for criticising the government’s handling of the Peterloo Massacre (in which eleven people died and hundreds were injured when the army fired shots into a crowd of activists).

Burdett campaigned for parliamentary reform and in particular called for universal male suffrage. He wanted reform of the Parliament so that all constituencies had the same number of voters. He opposed corporal punishment in the army, sought strenuously to stamp out corruption and nepotism, and supported the abolition of the Slave Trade. He also supported Catholic Emancipation. But as he got older his enthusiasm for radical ideas started to fade, and he ended up representing the Tories as MP for North Wiltshire until his death.

His wife, Lady Burdett, to whom he had eventually become devoted, died on 13 January 1844. Sir Francis simply lost the will to live – gave up eating and drinking, and died ten days later just two days short of his 74th birthday. He and his wife were buried at the same time in the same vault at Ramsbury Church, Wiltshire.

The man was certainly a thorn in the side to the Government on many issues, and his opponents  did all they could to smear his name and ridicule his ideas. Take this caricature from 1810:

 

“A Rough Sketch of the Times as Deleniated by Sir Francis Burdett” appears courtesy of the Lewis Walpole Library site and invites the viewer to decide whether the true character of Frances Burdett is the fine upstanding gentleman on the left, or the duplicitous rogue on the right. The figure on the left is described as The Genius of Honour and Integrity and sports such attributes as:

A sound mind, an eye ever watchful to the welfare of his fellow citizen, a tongue that never belied a good heart. He bends a knee to religion, is a staunch supporter of the Bill of Rights, an advocate of fair representation for the people [well, the males at any rate] and is a lover of peace.

Contrast that with his alter ego wearing the collar of corruption, with hands of extortion holding a bag containing Pensions Reversions and Perquisites of Office. He carries secret service money in his back pocket and has a cringing soul, while sitting for a rotten borough. He has an eye to interest and a pampered appetite, legs of luxury and goes under the heading The Monster of Corruption.

Take  your pick!

Three caricatures on the subject of hosiers and hosiery in the Georgian era.

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Apr 152013
 

My ancestor Richard Hall was a hosier – he made silk stockings, so I was intrigued to see what the excellent Lewis Walpole Library  site had on the topic of stockings. Here are three which caught my eye:

This first one, from 1799 is by G Woodward and is entitled ‘A leg of lamb.’  It shows a servant in startled alarm at the sight of the ankles (nay, even the knee, Shock! Horror!) of the Mistress of the house. So perturbed is he that the tea cup and saucer go flying.

This next one is also by Woodward, from August 1797 and is entitled ‘An Enquiry concerning the Clock Tax’. It shows a hosier approaching William Pitt to enquire whether the recently-introduced  clock tax also applied to… the decorative features known as clocks embroidered above the ankle on the stocking. The hosier asks “Please your Honor – I am a Delegate from the worthy and reputable Society of Hosiers, to know whether your Honor means to extend the new Tax to Clocks upon Stockings”

The third one is in dubious taste and is by Charles Hunt. I have included it because it just goes to show how what we regard as acceptable has changed. Not only does the shopkeeper speak with a mocking accent, but he comes up with  a feeble racist joke. This was however the non-P.C. world in which my ancestor lived, so I make no apology for including it. I particularly like the sight of stockings festooned in the window – there is a fair bet that this would haver been echoed in the corner windows of Richard’s shop premises at Number One London Bridge.

 She asks “Have you any Flesh coloured Silk Stockings young Man?” and gets the response “Oui Madame! here is von pair of de first qualite!” -  holding up a pair of black stockings.

No, not particularly funny or subtle, but interesting as a way of seeing how attitudes to racial humour have changed!

Vicars and tarts, a perfect 18th Century combination!

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Apr 082013
 

It has dawned on me that I have featured caricatures poking fun at most of the professions, with the exception of the Church. It is high time that this was remedied!

First up, a gentle poke at hypocrisy with this etching by G M Woodward dated 1799 entitled ‘A Divine in  his Glory!!’ It appears courtesy of the Lewis Walpole Library.

It shows a singularly corpulent parson with a courtesan balanced on each knee, and the verse underneath reads: ‘The business of his church he did by proxy and loved all doxies but the ortho-doxy.’

Continuing the overweight, hedonist, theme here we have a Rowlandson caricature from the same year, titled ‘Vicar.’ The fat vicar wearing a night-cap has fallen asleep with his feet resting on a somnolent dog; his companion helps himself to two generous glasses of port from a full decanter and utters the question “What is life without the enjoyment of a friend”.

The 18 year old Richard Newton did a lovely Clerical Calendar in 1795 showing  clergy in various degrees of ridicule:

 Space doesn’t really allow close-ups of all the letters but use the ever-helpful Lewis Walpole Library’s Zoomify feature here and you can see each individual caricature.

I have always been a fan of Newton so I was pleased to see that parsons were a regular target for the young man whose life ended at the tragically early age of twenty-three. Here is a splendid one, again via Lewis Walpole Library, entitled ‘Which way shall I turn me?’  from 1794 showing the plight of the parson torn between the pleasures of the flesh and  …. the pleasures of the flesh!

Another caricature by Newton from the same source, dated 1795, under the title of ‘Fast Day’ shows four clerics drooling over the turkey which they are about to consume ravenously. One says “Here’s our old friend” to which his colleague replies “You mean the Church, I suppose”

Finally two Newton cartoons from the British Museum site. The first is entitled ‘A Priestridden Village’ and shows a plethora of parsons supported by the parish – literally.

And to end with, one  entitled ‘Parsons Drowning Care.’   Irreverence for  Reverends - I love it!

The Night Mare, the nightmare, and the Night Mayor.

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Mar 262013
 

I like the way that similar themes are re-worked by different caricaturists over the years, often using the same pun or a variation on a theme. Take this etching from 1783. It is apparently based upon a poem of Erasmus Darwin called ‘Botanical Garden’

“On his Night-Mare, thro the evening fog,
Flits the squab fiend o’er fen, and lake, and bog,
Seeks some love-wilder’d maid, by sleep opprest,
Alights, and grinning, sits upon her breast.”

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The ever-excellent Lewis  Walpole Library site describes the scene thus: ”An incubus squatting on a sleeping woman, her head and arms falling over the side of the bed at right, with a wild horse behind curtains in the background and a small table with jug and pots beside the bed at left; after the painting by Fuseli”

The following year saw Thomas Rowlandson with his take on Fuseli’s painting:

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It shows Charles James Fox lying naked on the bed, with the demon sitting on his chest and with the bulging-eyed  horse peering in through the window.

By 1795 the horse had disappeared to be replaced by  a ghastly vision of a French revolutionary at the window, and with Pitt sititing on the chest of the unfortunate figure of John Bull.

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The Lewis Walpole explanation says “John Bull lies on his back in bed, his mouth gaping; Pitt, a goblin creature, sits on his chest in profile to the right, holding above his upturned head a loaf inscribed ’13 Pence’. Pitt has a huge head, much caricatured, with starting eyeballs; his hair stands up and the bag of his queue, inscribed ‘Taxes’, flies out behind him. Through a casement window (left) looks a fantastic French republican, with bulging eyeballs and fang-like teeth, glaring at John Bull; from his neck hangs the model of a guillotine. Behind his head is a waning moon. Beside him are the words: ‘Republic War and Famine for Ever.’ Beneath the bed is a chamber-pot inscribed ‘John Bull’; beside it is a chair on which stands a candle.

A year earlier (1794) Richard Newton had set to work on the theme - we still had the mare’s head at the open window, and it looked like this:

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The terrified man wakes up to see the devilish figure sitting on the chest of his sleeping wife, holding a lantern while the night mare surveys the scene from the open window.

A few years later caricaturists were still playing with the pun, and George Cruikshank came up with the Night Mayor:

NM5 Geo Cruikshank

The caption underneath reads:

“The Night Mayor flitting on the evening fogs,                                                                                                  Traverses alleys, streets lanes and bogs.                                                                                                               Seeking some Love bewildered Maid by Gin appeared.                                                                                       Alights and ogling sits upon her downy breast”

And the pictures on the wall shows what the naughty girl has been up to to get nightmares – there is a three-in-a-bed scene, and a naked satyr. Peeping from under her voluminous bloomers a bewigged judge gleefully announces that “The deeds shall be recorded”

And finally, still on the theme of nightmares but without any dreadful puns, we have a Victorian stab at the tradition with “The effects of a Crab Supper”:

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Good old Fuseli inspired them all….

Get your skates on! A history of Skeelers, Volitos and In-liners..

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Mar 082013
 

Growing up in the Fifties I remember getting my first pair of roller skates when I was seven. They were “traditional” skates, each  with four metal wheels, and the contraption strapped on over your shoe.

Years later a craze for in-lining developed and I assumed that this was a new invention, so I was amazed to discover that in-lining was started nearly two centuries ago.

Here is a splendid engraving showing three elegantly attired gentleman speeding around on their ‘volitos’ (sometimes they are called ‘rolitos’). Their speed enables them to evade the attempt by the Fuzz to hand one of them a warrant. The first man (on the left) shouts back “You’ll have to double your speed or you’ll never catch me!”  Another says “You had better get a pair of Volitos. They would be a great advantage in your profession.” The officer orders them to stop - ”You are wanted” while his assistant shouts “Tis no use Master. The fellow has wings on his heels”

The central caption underneath reads:

“THE VOLITO, or Summer and Winter Skait. For Amusement in cold weather without Ice and is equally useful on stones, boards, roads etc. NB the three different wheels fit into the same skait.”

The date is 1823 and the print is shown courtesy of the Lewis Walpole Library. The idea of putting wheels of different sizes under the wooden platform on which the  skaters stood enabled the user to execute turns much more easily, simply by shifting the weight onto either the front or back wheels. The central wheel was larger than its neighbours, with the front and rear wheels smaller still.The spare pairs of skates on the left (foreground) shows how they were strapped on. A metal bar front and back gave an element of control for braking.

Adapting skates for summer use was common in Holland in the early 1700′s. Early “skeelers” as they were called, consisted of wooden spools nailed on to the underside of a piece of wood, onto which the normal shoes were strapped. In 1743 an (anonymous) actor apparently glided onto the London stage wearing a pair of skeelers to great admiration and effect. A later development is attributed to the Belgian inventor John Joseph Merlin who developed a skate with iron wheels (but unfortunately for him, without a brake mechanism. See Horrible Histories.)

The first patent seems to have been taken out in 1819 by a Frenchman. Monsieur Petitbled  invented a brand-new roller skate design using three wheels, made of either wood or iron, or indeed ivory. These didn’t catch on (the wheels kept slipping on any hard surface) and it wasn’t until 1823 that an Englishman called John Tyers came up with the five-wheeled “Volito”. The rest, as they say, is History.

There really isn’t all that much difference in the modern in-liners (a bit more stylish, I give you!).

Do we want our Royals to be extravagent or miserly? An 18th Century conundrum.

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Mar 042013
 

Here’s a caricature which resonates with the discussions which still take place about Prince Charles and his income from the Duchy of Cornwall (Ah, Duchy Originals! All those expensive but yummy biscuits and fancy foodstuffs!).

A visit to the Lewis Walpole  Library site reveals this cartoon entitled “The Royal Dairy, or  George Split-Farthing selling his skim milk.” It is by Isaac Cruikshank and appeared in 1792.

Seated on the left is the Queen, portrayed with the usual savage cruelty we expect from Cruikshank! Just as a comparison, here is a close-up from the portrait of the Queen done a couple of years earlier by Thomas Lawrence:

The Queen has presumably just taken off the milkmaids yoke which lies on the floor. The King dispenses milk into a container held out by one of a handful of people in a queue. The Queen says “Come Come Come. Give me the money my bags are not full yet and I am afraid they never will – you give those lubbers too much Measure” as  she shoves coins into her bag using her right hand.

Her husband George III mutters “What What What! Come my Lads hold up your Pitchers, it have only been skim’d once. I have made a good breakfast of it myself. Sugar is so Dear”

One of those queuing is aghast at the sight, and exclaims “Oh Lud, Oh Lud, he is nothing but a man” to which another adds, “Let me See” and another” Let me to(o)”.

Remember, this was the time of revolutionary activity in France, and to view the monarch as a mere man was strong stuff!

Frankly the more the monarch was portrayed as a frugal human being the more I like him. I for one do not want my taxes used to fund the antics of ‘Air Miles Andy’ (or his predecessor the Prince Regent). So, good on you Farmer George, I salute your thrift, just as I salute your mean harpie of a wife!

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