Board games

At the moment, I am cataloguing Douce’s prints of games, sports, and popular pastimes. The reason why Douce collected these images can be found in the introduction to his friend Joseph Strutt’s The Sports and Pastimes of the People of England (London, 1801):

In order to form a just estimation of the character of any particular people, it is absolutely necessary to investigate the Sports and Pastimes more generally prevalent among them. War, policy, and other contingent circumstances, may effectually place men, at different times, in different points of view, but, when we follow them into their retirements, where no disguise is necessary, we are most likely to see them in their true state, and may best judge of their natural dispositions.

Most of the prints acquired by Douce are depictions of people playing games. Some, however, are actual game-boards, like this seventeenth-century etching used to play the Gioco del Gambaro (or ‘Game of the Prawn’) and published by Francesco de Paoli in Rome:

Many of these game-boards probably reproduce earlier designs, as can be seen in the Game of the Owl below. This woodcut was published in Antwerp in the second half of the eighteenth century, but the costumes worn by the figures drinking and laughing in the corners suggest that an older woodblock could have been used:

Similarly, the eighteenth-century Diletevole Gioco del’Ocha (Game of the Goose) below might be based on earlier models:

The British Museum owns a very similar woodcut from Lady Charlotte Schreiber’s collection (inv. no. 1893,0331.49). According to the annotation in black ink that can be seen in reverse at the bottom of the Ashmolean print, it belonged to Giuseppe Storck (1766-1836), a Milanese dealer and collector. Douce possibly acquired it through the dealer Samuel Woodburn, who bought many prints and drawings from Storck’s collection.

While Douce considered this print primarily as an example of Italian game-boards and he classified it as such, the location of Storck’s mark indicates that the latter valued it rather for the following image printed on the verso:

The female warrior on horseback is named in the inscription as ‘Marfisa Bizara’. This could allude to the title of the romance in verse by Giovan Battista Dragoncino da Fano, published in 1531. Alternatively, it could refer to the character in Lodovico Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso and have been printed as part of an unidentified series of celebrated women, like the ‘Marfisa Guerriera’ etched by Antonio Tempesta.

It is also possible, however, to identify the character depicted in the woodcut with yet another ‘Marfisa Bizzarra’: this was the title of a ‘facetious poem’ published by Carlo Gozzi in 1766. Gozzi’s work, in which the figure of the female warrior becomes an object of ridicule, has been included by Franco Fido in a study of what this author calls the ‘cultura del gioco’ (La serietà del gioco. Svaghi letterari e teatrali nel Settecento, Lucca, 1998). He refers specifically to the wit and playfulness that have long been associated with the eighteenth century when, as Robert Bufalini writes in his review of Fido’s book, ‘one finds the least distance between “culture” and “play”.

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Dickens Year

We are in Dickens Year: on 7 February, we will be celebrating the 200th anniversary of his birth. A copy of Douce’s The Dance of Death bearing the bookplate of Charles Dickens can be found in the Special Collections of the University of Glasgow:

University of Glasgow Special Collections

Douce published his study of ‘the extremely popular subject of the Dance of Death’ in 1833. The popularity to which Douce referred is attested by the success of Thomas Rowlandson’s The English Dance of Death (1814-16). Douce owned several related drawings, and a watercolour of a similar subject with the ominous inscription ‘Sooner or later the luck turns’:

Thomas Rowlandson, Death in the Bowl (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)

 

Douce’s The Dance of Death focuses on Hans Holbein’s series of ‘elegant emblems of human mortality’, which he had reproduced by the wood-engravers George Wilmot Bonner and John Byfield. But Douce also drew on other works from his own collection to study the representation of this theme throughout the centuries. The images to which he referred in his introductory essay are still kept together in one of Douce’s original wooden boxes, labelled N.6.

The arrangement of the prints by subjects regardless of artists, periods or schools is characteristic of Douce’s collection. An etching entitled The Dance of Death and published by Robert Walton around 1666-67:

can be found next to this album of hand-coloured lithographs by J. J. Grandville published in 1830:

Grandville’s update of the theme of the Dance of Death was praised by Honoré de Balzac in La Silhouette and mentioned by Alexandre Dumas père in his Mémoires. In his account of the creative process from which Grandville’s plates sprung, Dumas described the results as ‘a world more fantastic than that of Callot’s Temptations and Brueghel’s Diableries’ (‘un monde plus fantastique que les tentations de Callot et les diableries de Breughel’). Douce owned examples of both.

Dickens explicitly referred to the subject of the Dance of Death in the Pickwick Papers and in Nicholas Nickleby. His use of this theme as a metaphor evinces how his constant crossing and blurring of the boundaries between wealth and poverty, life and death, stand in a long tradition, the origins of which may be traced back to the early modern prints collected by Douce.

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Christmas gambols

On 23 December 1826, the author of an anonymous piece entitled ‘Christmas customs’ and published in The Mirror thus reflected:

It is a season the most cheerles; the clouds and vapours increasing, and the chilliness of winter’s near approach, accelerating not the most enlivened ideas, we have the greater relish for Christmas gambols.

The article included reminiscences about ‘the merry and generous practices of our “gone-by” brethen’ and an explanation of the origins of waits, carol-singing, mince pies, and the use of evergreens, such as mistletoe. The Mirror‘s contributor cited the same verses that appear in this Christmas card after the Victorian painter Frank Dadd, who casts a nostalgic eye back to the eighteenth century:

After Frank Dadd, Christmas card, c. 1911 (The British Museum)

In Douce’s prints, however, Christmas are boisterous, noisy, and messy. His repertory of ‘Christmas customs’ includes this fight under the mistletoe:

Christmas gambols, or a kiss under the mistletoe, 1794, etching published by Laurie & Whittle (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)

Practical jokes involving the scalding of the cat:

Christmas gambolls, mid-18th century, etching published by P. Griffin (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)

And some subreptitious flirting around the Epiphany cake:

Isaac Cruikshank, Twelfth Night, 1794, stipple and etching (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)

The kind of prints in which Douce was interested rendered his collection a very useful resource for his friend William Hone, whose Every-day book was published as a sort of almanac for 1825-6. Hone’s work provided information ‘on antiquarian lore and popular culture’ for each day of the year, as Kyle Grimes notes in his introduction to the electronic edition.

Douce is mentioned twice in Hone’s essay on Christmas Eve, first as the translator of an Anglo-Norman carol that Hone reproduced and, secondly, as the source of ‘a specimen of the carol sung by the shepherds, on the birth of Christ, in one of the Coventry plays’, which had been published in his Illustrations of Shakespeare.

Hone also referred to the woodcuts that often illustrate carol sheets in a few evocative lines that could have been written by Dickens who, according to Grimes, ‘owned and annotated a copy’ of the Every-day Book:

In the rage for “collecting” almost every thing, it is surprising that “collectors” have almost overlooked carols, as a class of popular poetry. To me they have been objects of interest from circumstances which occasionally determine the direction of pursuit. The wood-cuts round the annual sheets, and the melody of “God rest you merry gentlemen,” delighted my childhood; and I still listen with pleasure to the shivering carolist’s evening chant towards the clean kitchen window decked with holly, the flaring fire showing the whitened hearth, and reflecting gleams of light from the surfaces of the dresser utensils.

George Cruikshank, German Stories, 1826, etching

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Douce’s winter collection

The first snow this year fell in Oxford last night!

Douce’s winter print collection has everything one may need to make the most of this season. From how to travel in style…

After Peter Rollos I, A couple on a sleigh, c. 1680, etching (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)

… to what to wear to enjoy winter sports:

Romeyn de Hooghe, Skater playing kolf, c. 1682-1702, etching (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)

And how to have fun in an ice rink:

Frans Huys after Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Skaters before St George's Gate in Antwerp (detail), 1625-70, engraving (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)

The impression of this print after Bruegel owned by Douce bears an inscription in Latin, French, and Dutch that refers to the ‘slipperiness of human existence’, which lends some gravity to this humorous image of everyday life.

 

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Knavery stalks through the land

Douce’s interest in images of fools and jesters was not limited to his research for the ‘Dissertation on the Clowns and Fools of Shakspeare’, published as part of his Illustrations of Shakespeare and of ancient manners (London, 1807). Plates like the one below evince how Douce drew upon his own collection to supply the wood-engraver John Berryman with materials for this publication:

John Berryman, Illustrations of Shakespeare, 1807.

 

But Douce had started gathering representations of fools much earlier -the following note, kept among his prints, states that, by 1793, he had ‘collected nearly all the prints of Fools that were to be met with, amounting to upwards of two hundred’:

Douce kept collecting foolscaps and referring to them whenever he wanted to satirize or to ridicule contemporary public figures, and to show his despair at the turn taken by current affairs, as can be seen in his correspondence:

My fools caps numerous as they are will not be sufficient for the ten thousandth part of those who want them, & who are scarcely inferior in number to the knaves who are constantly gulling them. Knavery stalks through the land; not as heretofore in masquerade, but barefaced, and with bold and open defiance of every thing in the shape of virtue or honesty.

(Letter to George Cumberland, 3 April 1813)

He probably found his reflection on the universality and pervasiveness of human folly corroborated by this Fool’s Cap Map of the World, which might be the same ‘curious old print of the world as a fool’s head’ recorded in 1811 in his ‘Collecta’ as a gift from the antiquary Thomas Sharp:

Anonymous, Fool's Cap Map of the World, c. 1590, hand-coloured engraving (The Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)

The same motif was used by William Heath in this satirical print concerning Wellington’s increasing unpopularity as Prime Minister before his resignation in 1830:

 

William Heath, The Lord of Misrule!!!, 1830, etching (The British Museum)

 

Or, as Douce said,

Fools caps I have in plenty, enough to fit all the noddles that have governed, do govern, & shall govern us for some time to come, but they are not of the letter paper kind & so you are better off as to my garruling in a common 4to.

(Letter to George Cumberland, 19 December 1824)

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Douce’s ‘Portraits of English literati’

Douce’s collection also includes a large number of portraits, most of which seem to have been either given to him by friends and acquaintances, or cut from newspapers and magazines. As Douce knew many of the sitters personally, sometimes he couldn’t help adding comments to the images. This is the case of an etching published by William Staden Blake and reprinted in William Granger’s The New Wonderful Museum, and extraordinary magazine, filed by Douce under ‘English literati’:

Portrait of Josh Capper Esqr of the Horns Kennington, 1804 (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford)

Nothing in the entertaining account of Joseph Capper’s life provided by Granger explains what his claims to the title of man of letters were, and the DNB gives ‘eccentric’ as his main occupation. Douce was not amused, and he wrote on the verso:

This square faced old fellow dined for a considerable time at the tavern next door to the Grays Inn coffee house where he had a table spread for him in the middle of the room. He sat alone & spoke to nobody. I used to be much disgusted with his silly consequence.

Another portrait including additional details of Capper’s dwellings and attire (a cat and a pair of striped stockings) can be found in the collection of the National Portrait Gallery:

Joseph Capper at the NPG

Joseph Capper in the DNB

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Modern life is rubbish

The quadrille-craze mentioned in my previous post on William Hawkes Smith’s music-sheet was also one of the subjects depicted by George and Isaac Robert Cruikshank in their illustrations to Pierce Egan’s Life in London (1821). In Egan’s social comedy, the quadrille appears associated with ‘Highest life in London’, as explained by the title of the plate showing ‘Tom & Jerry “sporting a toe”, among the Corinthians, at Almacks in the West’:

This publication was so popular that a theatre play ensued, and the two main characters became part of everyday language, as can be seen in this invective against modern life that Douce wrote in a letter to his friend George Cumberland, dated 30 October 1824:

Be assured, my dear sir, that nothing will alter the habits I have formed. It is not only too late in life, but I have a great aversion to modern life, or as that drole blackguard Egan called it in his humorous work, “Life in London” -Weston’s old housekeeper said to me the other day “Lord Sir, there are no people now that can talk on rational [matters] with you & my master, they are all Toms & Jerries” from whom I say “Good Lord deliver me”.

In a recent article, Sambudha Sen has discussed how Egan has recourse to ‘the discursive scheme of the urban high-low contrast’ to make his readers participant in low-life scenes and entertainments. The prints allow the reader seeing without being seen and ‘visiting’ East-End taverns, Covent Garden masquerades, and the Westminster pits without having to justify their presence there:

George and Isaac Robert Cruikshank, Lowest "life in London" - Tom, Jerry and Logic, among the unsophisticated sons and daughters of nature, at "All Max" in the East, 1821 (The British Museum)


Sen considers Egan’s work as pertaining to the same tradition as Hogarth’s ‘progresses’ and Dickens’s novels. By leafing through the plates, the reader may move up and down the social ladder without having to acknowledge any specific position within it -a detachment that has been linked both to ‘the snugness of the camera-obscura viewer’ and to the ‘externality’ of the flâneur (much better explained in Lauster, 2007).

As David Kunzle notices, the great popularity of Egan’s publications was actually a ‘multimedia success’, not limited to the relatively expensive hand-coloured plates of Life in London: in 1822, the popular print publisher James Catnach produced this ‘twopence’ broadside, in which George Cruikshank’s scenes were copied (‘pirated’, according to Egan) and printed as woodcuts:

After George Cruikshank, Life in London; or, The Sprees of Tom and Jerry; attempted in cuts and verse, 1822 (The British Museum)

 

But what did Douce mean by ‘modern life’? Although he seemed to identify ‘modern’ with ‘urban’, in another paragraph from the same letter to Cumberland he elaborated on this subject: what he thoroughly disliked was, actually, the Industrial Revolution:

I hate gas lights, canals & steam boats altogether: you know the French hoax, viz. that they made brass parsons at Birmingham & caused them to preach by steam.

 

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Douce trivia

In 1818, Francis Douce’s sister-in-law, Maria, widow of Charles Luther Watson, married Christopher Salter, from West End House in Buckinghamshire. The Salter family had owned West End House in Stoke Poges since the early eighteenth-century, when it was let to Jonathan Rogers, who happened to be the uncle of Thomas Gray:

William Henshaw, Mr Gray, etching and drypoint, The British Museum.

Gray’s ‘Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College’ is said to refer to the view from a summer-house overlooking the Thames valley on the grounds of West End House:

Stoke Court (formerly West End House), Stoke Poges, Buckinghamshire (photo: Jim Win).

Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College

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Witches and goblins

Witchcraft is an important theme in Douce’s collection of prints and drawings. It has not been difficult, therefore, to find a few appropriate prints among his many images of witches, diableries, ghosts and goblins to celebrate Halloween:

This etching, which shows a startled man discovering three grumpy-looking goblins in a graveyard, is part of a series of six. Albeit undated and unsigned, they recall Richard Newton’s treatment of the same subject in a number of prints published the 1790s. I have not been able to match Douce’s with anything in David Alexander’s catalogue yet -but this is still work in progress. Rather than spooky, they are quite comic and light-hearted:

Although this does not look like a lot of fun:

The mischievous little demon has been replaced by a seriously scary flying monster, very similar to the hybrid creatures that populate witches’ sabbaths and images of the temptations of St Antony, of which Douce collected many examples. Moreover, he owned two sets of Goya’s Caprichos (1799), which include the following plate entitled Bon Voyage:

Francisco Goya, Buen Viaje, 1799, etching, burnished aquatint and burin (The British Museum, London).

Goya’s disturbing images may derive from the sensationalist accounts of witches’ activities published in popular prints and in chap-books, like the one from which Douce probably took these two -rather sweet- woodcuts:

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Quadrilling

This music-sheet kept among Douce’s prints on dancing is not just an example of popular music in the age of bonnets, but also a clever and mildly amusing satire on contemporary mores:

William Hawkes Smith, Quadrilling, 1821, Lithograph (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford).

Under the title Quadrille; a favourite song, the author has recourse to the conventions of the music-sheet for comic effect. By referring to the quadrille craze that took London by storm around the date of the publication of Thomas Wilson’s The Quadrille Instructor (1817), to which he alludes in his verses, Hawkes Smith ridicules a society in which ‘Order and Sobriety are dos à dos’ (an opinion that Douce surely shared):

Kings and kitchen maids, baronets and tradesmen, lawyers and soldiers dance betweeen the staves:

The satire is, however, rather good-natured, and the song concludes with a chain of gallant soldiers and pretty maidens dancing towards the church among garlands and cupids -it is almost like the happy ending of a Jane Austen adaptation:

The addition of a cheerful final stanza to his satire shows how commercially savvy William Hawkes Smith was. Such impression is reinforced by his use of lithography, a technique that allowed the Birmingham-based printmaker to print simultaneously music, illustrations and text; by 1821, lithography was probably as fashionable as the quadrille. Moreover, in his British Music Publishers, Printers, and Engravers (London, 1900?), Frank Kidson mentions another sheet song by Hawkes Smith entitled Washing Day; a proper new ballad for wet weather published in the same years; in the late nineteenth-century it was re-issued to advertise soap:

http://vads.ahds.ac.uk/large.php?uid=64343

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