ter Boney. How Pitt used to defy him! How
good old George, King of Brobdingnag, laughed at Gulliver-Boney, sailing
about in his tank to make sport for their Majesties! This little fiend,
this beggar's brat, cowardly, murderous, and atheistic as he was (we
remember, in those old portfolios, pictures representing Boney and his
family in rags, gnawing raw bones in a Corsican hut; Boney murdering the
sick at Jaffa; Boney with a hookah and a large turban, having adopted
the Turkish religion, &c.)--this Corsican monster, nevertheless, had
some devoted friends in England, according to the Gilray chronicle,--a
set of villains who loved atheism, tyranny, plunder, and wickedness in
general, like their French friend. In the pictures these men were all
represented as dwarfs, like their ally. The miscreants got into power
at one time, and, if we remember right, were called the Broad-backed
Administration. One with shaggy eyebrows and a bristly beard, the
hirsute ringleader of the rascals, was, it appears, called Charles
James Fox; another miscreant, with a blotched countenance, was a certain
Sheridan; other imps were hight Erskine, Norfolk (Jockey of), Moira,
Henry Petty. As in our childish, innocence we used to look at these
demons, now sprawling and tipsy in their cups; now scaling heaven, from
which the angelic Pitt hurled them down; now cursing the light (their
atrocious ringleader Fox was represented with hairy cloven feet, and a
tail and horns); now kissing Boney's boot, but inevitably discomfited by
Pitt and the other good angels: we hated these vicious wretches, as good
children should; we were on the side of Virtue and Pitt and Grandpapa.
But if our sisters wanted to look at the portfolios, the good old
grandfather used to hesitate. There were some prints among them very odd
indeed; some that girls could not understand; some that boys, indeed,
had best not see. We swiftly turn over those prohibited pages. How many
of them there were in the wild, coarse, reckless, ribald, generous book
of old English humor!

How savage the satire was--how fierce the assault--what garbage hurled
at opponents--what foul blows were hit--what language of Billingsgate
flung! Fancy a party in a country-house now looking over Woodward's
facetiae or some of the Gilray comicalities, or the slatternly
Saturnalia of Rowlandson! Whilst we live we must laugh, and have folks
to make us laugh. We cannot afford to lose Satyr with his pipe and
dances and gam