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cially announced that a heavy addition to the assessed taxes would be made. In December, a print appeared, entitled "More Visitors to John Bull; or, The Assessed Taxes." These troublesome visitors are represented as introducing themselves to John Bull in a corporeal and appropriate form. John, surprised and alarmed, inquires, "What do you want, you little devils? ain't I plagued with enough of you already? More pickpockets' work, I suppose?

"

Blandly and courteously the imps make answer, "Please your honour, we are the Assessed Taxes."

The man who designed this plate was a true genius. To clothe "the palpable and the familiar," the too palpable, the too familiar, -in" a mortal paradise of such sweet flesh," argues a poetical soul of the highest order.

Taxation was not much lightened between 1797 and 1805. Pitt's budget for the latter year called forth very severe strictures, and a heavily increased duty on salt, created universal discontent, People said that the genius of taxation, having traversed the rest of the house, had now descended into the kitchen; and a caricature depicts the premier in the act of scaring the cook, by suddenly pop

ping his head out of the salt-box, with the unlooked-for greeting,— "How do you do, cookey?" "Curse the fellow," says the cook, "how he has frightened me! I think, in my heart, he is getting in everywhere! Who the deuce would have thought of finding him in the salt-box?"

A later caricature (for 1816) given by Mr.Wright, celebrating Mr. Vansittart's tax on soap, is very similar in conception, and is undoubtedly from the hand of George Cruikshank.

The successes of the British Navy in 1798 gave rise to a variety

of caricatures. Amongst others published by Gillray is one entitled "John Bull taking a Luncheon; or, British cooks cramming old Grumble-gizzard with bon chère." John, seated at table, is almost overwhelmed by the solicitous attentions of his naval cooks, Nelson, Howe, Warren, Duncan, Vincent, Bridport, Gardiner, &c. John is swallowing a frigate at a mouthful, and is evidently improving under

his new regimen. "What! more fricasees!" he exclaims; "why, you rogues, you, where do you think I shall find room to stow all you bring in?" A pot of stout to wash his food down stands by his side; a picture of "Buonaparte in Egypt," hanging from the wall, is partly concealed by Nelson's hat, and Fox and Sheridan (suspected of sympathy with the French) are seen through the window running away in terror at John Bull's voracity.

The threatened invasion of England by Buonaparte, in 1803, was ridiculed by Gillray in a caricature, published on the 26th June,

and called "The King of Brobdignag and Gulliver." George III. as the King of Brobdignag is represented as eying through his glass his pigmy enemy with contemptuous curiosity.

This is one of Gillray's finest conceptions, and mightily pleased the King, who had never before seen himself presented in so magnanimous a light. It was sold by thousands, and had no small share in sustaining the national spirit.

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DR. DODGE.

A

SCHOOL ECLOGUE.

BY LEECH.

WITH AN

VOL. XXIV.

ILLUSTRATION

"Facilis descensus Averni," &c.—VIRGIL.

NEAR Wimbledon, not long ago,

There lived one Dr. Dodge,

Above whose porch a board did show

These letters," Homer Lodge."

On either gate a griffin scowled
With stern ironic grin,

Their jaws did seem to shake, when howled
Unquiet souls within.

Now Dodge did love school husbandry,
His youthful soil was light;

'T was always Harvest, so that he
Could thrash from morn till night.

In school, at morning's earliest beam,
His classic seed he'd sow,

From six A. M. his youthful team

Well knew the sound of "woe."

The boys wished Dodge, and none said nay,
No harder fate than this,

"That he might plumb, and sans delay,
The bottomless abyss."

One day the doctor, full of doubt,

Addressed his loving wife,

"Who steals the fruit I can't make out

I can't, upon my life!

"I've flogged Jones, whom we always flog
When evil we suspect,—

The rack with such a stubborn dog

Would have as much effect.

"These three last nights I've been upon

The watch till crow of cock,

Just fifteen hours counted on

The never merry clock.

“And though no sound surprised my ear,

That precious Yorkshire ham

You so much loved, did disappear,

With sundry pots of jam.

"Methinks the birch might put to rights
E'en spiritual nerves,

At least, I'll prove it on the sprites
That poach on your preserves.

"This very night within the store-
Room's shade I'll hide myself,
The twigs that never failed before,
Shall exorcise the elf."

ΙΙ

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