in many forms. Although there is a
little occasional satire at the expense of the
volunteers, and an outbreak of grumbling now
and then at the taxes, the sentiment, on the
whole, is strongly on the side of loyalty.
Buonaparte is depicted as a braggart, coward,
and imbecile little manikin. The amount of
national self-esteem which was thus encouraged,
looks half-ludicrous, half-pitiable, at this
distance of time. A debased and clap-trap spirit
came over the comic art of the period, and it is
impossible to glance back at it with any
sentiment of satisfaction. In one of Gillray's
sketches, George the Third appears as the King
of Brobdingnag, holding in his hand the
diminutive figure of Buonaparte, whom he is
scanning through an opera-glass, and addressing
in these words, slightly altered from
Swift's text: "My little friend Grildrig, you
have made a most admirable panegyric upon
yourself and country; but, from what I can
gather from your own relation, and the
answers I have with much pains wring'd (sic)
and extorted from you, I cannot but conclude
you to be one of the most pernicious little
odious reptiles that Nature ever suffered to
crawl upon the surface of the earth." The
likeness of George in this print is very good;
but the portrait of Napoleon presents quite the
reverse of his real appearance. He is drawn
with the lantern jaws and approximating nose
and chin of a very old man—though he was
then young—and his hair is carroty red! The
personal appearance of the great general could
not then have been much known in England;
but some of the later sketches are better. It is
remarkable, by the way, that the popular ideal
of John Bull, continued, even to the early
years of the present century, very different
from that which is now accepted, as if it had
come down to us from time immemorial. The
costume, wig included, is that of the eighteenth
century; shoes and buckles occupy the place
of the now familiar top-boots; and the type of
face is rather German or Dutch, than English.
The modern John Bull must have come up
after the peace of 1815.

Mr. Wright's volume concludes with the
death of George the Third, in January, 1820,
and its final pages are occupied with some of
the fashionable oddities, in the way of male
and female dress, of the concluding years of
that long reign. The dandies and dandizettes
of 1819-20 must have been a strange race.
"Dandizette" was a term applied to the feminine
devotees to dress, and their absurdities
were fully equal to those of the dandies. We
are now, however, touching upon our own
day. The rising race of caricaturists were men
whose works and lives bring us down to the
present moment; for the most remarkable of
them is still alive. George Cruikshank
connects the age of Gillray, Rowlandson, and
Sayer, with that of the elder Doyle, Leech,
the younger Doyle, and Tenniel. The Georgian
and the Victorian eras are linked together by
the genius of this admirable humourist, who
was a pictorial reformer in the evil days of the
Regency, and who still survives to employ his
pencil on social topics in the better times which
have ensued.

FATAL ZERO.

A DIARY KEPT AT HOMBURG: A SHORT SERIAL STORY.

CHAPTER XIII.

TUESDAY.—- At the same time looking over
what I have written, I should not perhaps,
in strict justice, whelm all in indiscriminate
censure—- I mean the subordinates downwards
—- since seeing this croupier in the
church, and who was saying his prayers.
He may have come to think it a mere
mechanical function—- a simple clerkship in
a bank; and certainly association and
habit blunt the soul. But are there not
clergy here, good men, as I know, to tell
him, that all who touch pitch must be
defiled, to thunder in his ears that evil got
moneys must not be handled on any
pretext, to ring out the awful words of Scripture
against gamesters and others—to tell
him he must give up all rather than be
connected with such sin? I felt an interest in
the man and would almost be tempted
myself——but this is mere folly and quixotism,
and I am so carried away by pity for the
victims, that I begin to talk nonsense and
impossibilities. What could poor I do? I
must say, I admire Grainger for his
self-denial, I never see him in the rooms.
Sometimes, indeed, he comes, drawn in by the
irresistible temptation; but when he sees
my warning finger his head droops, and
he slips away quietly......

Such an adventure this evening. Surely
this is the place for disciplining the mind.
I had strolled into the rooms about ten
o'clock, the most delightful hour of the
night, to have what I call "my quiet game
at humanity." I had my card—the menials
are beginning to know me and ply me with
large corking pins, of which I have a
supply for my pet—when I saw
D'Eyncourt's face opposite. He was with a lady
—- a young girl, French or English, decent or
otherwise, for no one can tell here. I have
done some charming country English girls
cruel injustice by mistaking them for what
they were not; and en revanche, I have
done other creatures too much honour by
taking them for what they were certainly
not. But everything seems inverted here.
I see a scrubby, dowdy, schoolmaster-looking
man, with a shambling walk, and
wonder what business he has dining in the
grand Kursaal, when he is revealed as Lord
———, who has the palace at the corner