‘Contemptuous and impious’ – Gillray in the dock

The Presentation – or – The Wise Mens Offering may not have been among James Gillray’s more memorable caricatures but it was perhaps one of his most controversial. Of the hundreds of satirical images that Gillray produced in his lifetime, it is said to have been this print more than any other that brought him closest to being prosecuted on a charge of blasphemous libel. It seems that the church authorities took particular exception to Gillray’s use of a scriptural reference to the birth of Our Lord as the title for an image of an infant having its backside kissed and planned to haul the caricaturist in front of an ecclesiastical court to answer for his crimes.

In fact the print was never intended to be a satire on religion, but rather an attack upon the political alliance between the Prince of Wales and the coterie of Whig MPs that clustered around Charles James Fox. It was an arrangement which dated back the Regency Crisis of the late 1780s, when the Prince and the Whigs had come together in an attempt to drive a bill through Parliament which would have made George king in all but name and put Fox in office as his new Prime Minister. The attempted power-grab ultimately ended in failure but the two men remained close allies and fast friends in the years that followed, giving rise to a ridiculous situation in which the aristocratic Prince George flirted with the notion that he was a liberal reformer, and the self-styled ‘friends of the people’ were using their votes in Parliament to defend the prerogatives of a prince whose profligacy with the public purse was legendary.

The print was published on 9th January 1796, two days after news of the arrival of George’s newborn daughter had provoked a slew of fawning tributes from the Whig benches in the Commons. Gillray imagines a fantastically comical scene in which the Whig party has assembled in a reception room at Carleton House in order to prostrate themselves before the new princess and the disgustingly louche figure of her father. George comes crashing into the image from a door on the right, his arms thrown open in a gesture of greeting and his dress in an extreme state of disarray, a convention commonly used to suggest either intoxication or the recent interruption of some illicit tryst. A stout midwife stands before him holding the little Princess Charlotte, whose backside is being presented to be kissed by the grovelling figures of Charles James Fox and Richard Brinsley Sheridan. The loosely sketched forms of their colleagues can be seen in the background, sipping tea and patiently waiting their turn to offer similar congratulations to the future king.

The humour is certainly blunt but is by no means Gillray’s most offensive or grotesque design, so why did it seemingly bring its creator to the brink of criminal prosecution? The only contemporary source we have to verify the claim that Gillray had been threatened with legal proceedings comes from a letter which was written by the engraver John Landseer to the  Athenaeum magazine in 1831. Landseer had been one of the great caricaturist’s few close acquaintances and was moved to write in response to an article that had appeared in the previous edition, which criticised the caricaturist in the strongest possible terms for his decision to accept a pension from Pitt’s government. Landseer claimed that he did not “desert to the Tories but was pressed into their service… He had unluckily got himself into the Ecclesiastical Court for producing a politico-scriptural caricature, which he had entitled ‘The Presentation of the Wise Men’s Offering’; and while threatened on the one hand with pains and penalties, he was bribed by the Pitt party on the other with the offer of a pension, to be accompanied by absolution and the offer of a pension, to be accompanied by absolution and remission of sins both political and religious, and by the cessation of the pending prosecution. Thus situated, he found, or fancied, himself obliged to capitulate.”

So what should we make of this account? There is certainly no hard evidence which categorically supports his version of events, but then one would hardly expect government officials to preserve documentary evidence that linked them to blackmail. Perhaps Gillray was coerced into taking a Tory pension, or maybe he simply fabricated the story in an attempt to justify a decision of which his friend had profoundly disapproved. It’s also perfectly possible that Landseer made the whole thing up in order to try and protect Gillray’s posthumous reputation. We will probably never know for certain, but we can least verify that some of the controversy surrounding this print was real. Three weeks after its publication the following news item appeared in a number of newspapers in both England and Scotland:

Public Office, Bow Street. Before W. Addington, Esq. Mr Fores, the proprietor of a print-shop in Piccadilly, was on Friday taken into custody, on a warrant issued against him by the above magistrate, wherein he stands charged with contemptuously and impiously exposing to public sale a certain print, entitled, “The Presentation, or the Wise Mens Offering,” which is considered… as a burlesque on the scripture picture of the Wise Mens Offering to our Saviour, but is supposed to relate to a recent event at Carleton House. The offence being proved by the production of one of the prints, purchased at Mr Fores’ shop, he was ordered to find bail to answer the complaint at the next sessions for Westminster. Phillips, shopman to Mr Aitken, printseller in Castle Street, Leicester Fields, was accused of same offence, and also ordered to find bail for his appearance.

We don’t know whether Gillray was also involved in these events, or whether he or Landseer merely used them as a the basis of a story which was concocted to justify the taking of government money. What is perhaps more interesting from the point of view of this blog, is the questions this episode raises about the distribution and sale of Gillray’s works during this period. It is commonly assumed that by the time this print was published in 1796, Gillray was working exclusively for the printseller Hannah Humphrey and that her shop in 37 New Bond Street (later relocated to St James’s Street) was the only place in London from which one could purchase his prints. This source clearly contradicts that interpretation and indicates that while Humphrey may have monopolised the production of Gillray’s designs, she was still willing to sell quantities of finished prints to her rivals under wholesale terms that were generous enough to make it worth their while to sell the prints on. This arrangement must have continued until at least the middle of the following decade, because it is not until then that printsellers such as S.W. Fores began to employ lesser caricaturists to produce detailed copies of Gillray’s works.

Finally, it seems somewhat unusual that Humphrey herself does not appear to have been implicated in these events. After all, the print in question carried her name and address in its publication line and we would therefore have assumed that the authorities would have struck at the source of the libel, rather than merely at those responsible for passing it on. There may be two possible explanations for this: Firstly, that Humphrey was more discreet than her competitors and that as cases involving the prosecution of seditious or blasphemous libels often revolved around the issue of displaying such materials to the view of the ignorant and uneducated masses, she was not deemed to have been culpable in the crime. A second and far more speculative interpretation is that there may indeed have been some deal struck with the authorities to ensure that Gillray and his publisher were given immunity from prosecution, while the axe was left to fall on S.W. Fores and an unfortunate employee of James Aitken. As with so much of the history that surrounds caricature prints, it is a puzzle which we will in all probability never be able to solve satisfactorily.

Going to a Fight, Isaac Robert Cruikshank, 1819

Curious Sporting Advertisement

A Picture of the Fancy going to a Fight at Moulsey Hurst, (measuring nearly 14 feet in length) containing numerous Original Characters, many of them Portraits; in which all the Frolic, Fun, Lark, Gig, Life, Gammon and Trying-it-on, are depicted, incident to the pursuit of a Prize Mill: dedicated, by permission, to Mr Jackson, and the Noblemen and Gentlemen composing the Pugilistic Club… Throughout the Picture, not a Pink has been overlooked, nor an Out-and-Outer forgotten: the whole forming ‘A bit of good Truth!’

Sporting Anecdotes, Philadelphia, 1822.

This was how the sporting journalist and raconteur Pierce Egan chose to describe Robert Cruikshank’s Going to a Fight to the American readers of his journal Sporting Anecdotes in 1822. The print had first appeared in England three years earlier and was the latest in a long line of collaborative projects between Egan and the elder Cruikshank. Egan had known Robert and his younger brother George since 1812, when he had employed both young men to provide illustrations of famous pugilists to decorate the early editions of Boxiana. A friendship seems to have been formed, spurred on no doubt by a shared love of carousing, gambling and sports. It’s may be possible that the Cruikshanks even saw something in Egan which reminded them of their late father Isaac, a man who had felt equally at home in low taverns and gambling dens. The journalist was also something of a minor celebrity in sporting circles, so much so that it was said that his “presence was understood to confer respectability on any meeting convened for the furtherance of bullbaiting, cockfighting, cudgeling, wrestling, boxing and all that comes within the category of ‘manly sports'”. Egan would therefore have been able to introduce his young friends to the leading boxers of the day and ensure that they could rub shoulders with aristocratic followers of the ring and the turf as easily as they could with the denizens of a St Giles drinking pit.

Going to a Fight was evidently conceived as a joint project between Egan and Cruikshank Senior. Robert provided the artistic skills necessary to convey the anticipation and excitement of a big prize fight, while Egan used his knowledge of the sport to write out a detailed key explaining the narrative behind such a lengthy composition. It also seems safe to assume that Egan was also behind the plan to include portraits of well-known followers of the sport in the design, ensuring a ready audience for the finished print among London’s well-to-do sports fans. The decision to portray a real fight, which had taken place on 3rd April 1817, and the endorsement of John Jackson’s Pugilistic Club also helped convey a sense of realism and authority upon the project. Going to a Fight was published by the company of Sherwood & Jones on September 1st 1819 and issued in two formats – either packaged in a custom-made mahogany box from which the print could be gradually unreeled, price 14s plain and £1 coloured, or it could be cut into lengths and mounted in a frames at a cost of £1 12s plain and £1 18s coloured.

But without further ado, let’s join Mr Cruikshank and Mr Egan as they prepare to take us off to Moulsey Hurst to enjoy a bout between the acclaimed London-Irish boxer Jack Randall and his opponent Richard West, otherwise known as West Country Dick.

We arrive in Regency London on a warm spring evening in 1817 and are immediately ushered into the Long Room at the rear of the Castle Tavern in Holborn. The Castle was home to London’s boxing fraternity and boasted a prize ring of its own. Tonight the barroom is crowded with the raucous members of the Daffy Club, a society formed under the leadership of Mr James Soares and dedicated to the enjoyment of the twin pleasures of drinking and sports. The members gather around the table and over tumblers of ‘daffy’ (gin), begin to discuss and place bets on the outcome of tomorrow’s fight. Behind them on the walls are arrayed portraits of other famous pugilists, including Mendoza, Humphreys, Jem Belcher and even Jem Belcher’s dog, Trusty, who was himself a champion of the dog-fighting rings and thus considered worthy of a place among such august company.

With a few mugs of gin in our bellies and our bets safely recorded in the Club’s book, we move on to morning of the big fight itself. The common at Moulsey Hurst is well-known venue for prize-fights and cricket matches but it lies about 15 miles to the south-west of London and an early start will unfortunately be necessary to secure a decent pitch by the ring-side. The roads out of town are thronged with traffic and we see smartly liveried coaches competing with modest gigs and the wagons of tradesmen, to be the first through the turnpike at Hyde Park Corner and off onto the open road. Numerous pedestrians walk along by the roadside, some are also setting out early with the intention of watching the fight, while others are intent on taking the opportunity to make a profit, by fair means or foul, from the crowds. As we near the turnpike, we notice a pair of effeminate dandies mingling with the crowds. Unfortunately, they appear to be so deeply engrossed in a conversation about the merits of buff-coloured breaches or some such nonsense, that they’ve failed spot a young urchin who has snuck up on them and stolen their pocket books. Further down the road we come across another member of the maligned dandy species, being given a short, sharp, lesson in manliness by a gang of roughs. It appears as though this foppish fellow will have to colour-coordinate his cravat with a black-eye when he gets dressed tomorrow.

We drive onwards, past Hyde Park Barracks and out into the open country surrounding London. Past dust carts laden with rubbish, farmers driving their cows to market and even a group of fellow travelers who have fallen into an argument and are brawling at the roadside. The roads are packed and the air is thick with dust. As we fly by market gardens, commons and farmland, we pass overladen carriages which have collapsed under the weight of so many passengers, accidents involving the notoriously dangerous phaeton carriage and all manner of other traffic. Indeed, it seems at times as though all of London has upped-sticks and left town for the day. As we arrive in the town of Hampton we pause briefly and join the large crowd of boxing enthusiasts who have stopped to wet their whistles at the Red Lion Inn in the market square. Feeling suitably refreshed, we resume are journey with renewed vigour.

The spirits of our fellow travelers are evidently up by the time we reach Bushy Park and we join a number of carriages and gigs in a hell for leather dash across the open parkland for the banks of the River Thames. On arriving there we wait patiently to scramble aboard one of the many small boats and barges that will finally carry us all across the river onto the hallowed sporting turf of Moulsey Hurst.

We make our way across the field, past the circle of wagons which has been drawn up to act as a viewing platform for those standing near the back and through the huge crowd that is gathered around the makeshift boxing ring. From here we have a perfect view of the proceedings and can clearly see the noted members of the Pugilistic Club, dressed in their distinctive uniform of blue coat, yellow waistcoat and specially commissioned ‘PC’ buttons, taking up their places at the ringside. The members of the Club are able to confer this honour upon themselves as both the organisers of the fight and the providers of the twenty-five guinea prize pot which will be awarded to the victor. The umpires arrive next and take up their positions at opposite corners of the ring. And finally, here come the fighters.

Tents selling beer, spirits and other refreshments have been pitched on the common since the morning and consequently the crowd is already thoroughly well lubricated by the time the fight starts at 2pm. A raucous wave of cheers, hoots and catcalls greets the boxers as they emerge onto the field, accompanied by their seconds and a bottle-carrier who will provide water, or whatever other restorative liquids are required during the course of the bout. The cheers are justified, Randall and West Country Dick are highly rated fighters and both are hitherto undefeated. Randall is the more experienced of the two but Dick has quickly acquired a reputation for both his stoicism and a deadly right-hand. It looks as though we’re in for a good fight.

The fight begins in earnest immediately and from the outset it is clear that Randall is the superior of the two boxers. He goes in close, steering clear of Dick’s dreaded right-hook and keeps his opponent on the ropes, sending him down in the second round with a fierce blow to the head. Randall and West Country Dick go at it in a spirited but inconclusive fashion for a further four rounds, until Randall suddenly catches hold of Dick’s throat and delivers a rapid succession of blows to his face, sending him tumbling to the ground in a shower of blood and prompting roars and cheers of “Bravo Paddy!” from the crowd. The West Country lad is stunned for a moment but proves his reputation for bravery is well-founded by rising to his feet and proceeding to battle on for a further seventeen rounds. It’s a valiant effort but the outcome now seems to be something of a foregone conclusion; Dick lands a few keen blows to Randall’s face and body, knocking him down on a number of occasions but is otherwise being comprehensively out-fought. The fight is finally called to a halt in the twenty-third round, when Randall lands a thundering upper cut in Dick’s stomach, which leaves him rolling on the floor winded and gasping for breath. The umpires declare the Irishman the winner and when West Country Dick is finally helped back to his feet, the two men shake hands and leave the ring.

Jubilation and scorn in equal measure from among the crowd! The wooden scaffold carrying the betting stall is immediately overrun by the ebullient followers of Jack Randall, while West Country Dick’s fans console themselves with another mug of ale as they contemplate the long walk home to London. The day isn’t over just yet though, and Moulsey Hurst now takes on something of the atmosphere of a country fair. For those sporting fans whose appetite for blood has still yet to sated, there is a bull-baiting contest taking place in one part of the field. A prize bull is tethered to a chain in the ground and then set on by a specially bred bulldogs. The winner, being the owner of the dog which can hang onto the angry bull’s snout for a sufficiently long amount of time, will be awarded with a dog collar cast from solid silver. We linger by this scene for a few moments but turn to leave just as the poor old bull is fortunate enough to exact its vengeance on a dog and its owner who have strayed too close. With the sun slowly setting behind us, we join the tired but thoroughly happy crowds on the road back to town.

Our old friends the Daffys have declared tomorrow to be the “settling day” for the fight and that members will convene at the usual time and place to settle their bets over a drink or two. The business of settling day is always transacted at Tattersall’s horse auctioneers, which is located just off Hyde Park Corner. We arrive there on a fine afternoon to find that a sale of prime bloodstock is already underway and various Daffys are to be found lounging around the elaborate neo-classical water pump in the centre of the courtyard. Money changes hands, drinks are drunk and yesterday’s fight is picked over in detail by these aficionados of the ring. And it is unfortunately here, in the convivial surroundings of Tattersall’s, that we must finally part company with the Daffys, Robert Cruikshank and Pierce Egan, leaving them to enjoy what’s left of a pleasant spring day in Regency London.