The History of the Nineteenth Century in Caricature

As was but natural, the Anglo-French alliance against Russia is alluded to in more than one of Mr. Punch's Crimean War cartoons. One of the earliest is a drawing by Tenniel of England and France typified by two fine specimens of Guards of both nations standing back to back in friendly rivalry of height, and Mr. Spielmann records in his "History of Punch" that the cut proved so popular that under its title of "The United Service:" it was reproduced broadcast on many articles of current use and even served as a decoration for the backs of playing cards. Still another cartoon, entitled "The Split Crow in the Crimea," represents England and France as two huntsmen, hard on the track of a wounded and fleeing two-headed bird! "He's hit hard!—follow him up!" exclaimed the huntsmen. In a French reproduction of this cartoon, which is to be found in Armand Dayot's "Le Second Empire," "Crow" is amusingly translated as couronne (crown), and the publishers of Punch are given as "MM. Breadburg, Agnew, et Cie." Another cartoon of the same period is called "Brothers in Arms." It shows a British soldier carrying on his back a wounded French soldier, and a French soldier carrying on his back a wounded Englishman. The two wounded men are clasping hands. There is no better evidence of the utter dearth of French caricature at this period than the fact that M. Dayot, whose indefatigable research has brought together a highly interesting collection of pictorial documents of all classes upon this period of French history, could find nothing in the way of a cartoon in his own country and was forced to borrow from Punch the few that he reproduces.

On the other side the Russian cartoonists were by no means backward in recording the events of the war and holding up the efforts of the Allies to pictorial derision. The Russian point of view has come down to us in a series of excellent prints published in St. Petersburg during the months of the conflict. In this warfare the Russians may be said to have borrowed from their enemies, for this series is essentially French in method and execution. All through this series England and France are shown buffeted about from pillar to post by the Conquering Bear. A description of one of these cartoons will give a fair general idea of the entire series. Sir Charles Napier, at a dinner given in his honor in London just before the departure of the Allied fleet for Kronstadt, has made the foolish boast that he would soon invite his hosts to dine with him in St. Petersburg. Of course the fleet never reached St. Petersburg, and the Russian artist satirically summed up the situation by depicting Sir Charles at the top of the mast, endeavoring by the aid of a large spy-glass to catch a sight of the Czar's capital.

Among the crude American lithographs of this period the Crimean War was not forgotten. A rather rare cartoon, entitled "Turkey, John Bull and M. Frog-Eater in a Bad Fix," is especially interesting as an evidence that American sympathy during the war was in a measure on the Russian side. The Russian General Menshikoff is standing on the heights of Sebastopol looking down smilingly and serenely on the discomfited allies, saying: "How do you do, gentlemen? Very happy to see you. You must be tired. Won't you walk in and take something?" John Bull, seriously wounded, is lying prostrate, bawling out: "Come, come, Turk, no dodging. Hulloa there! Is that the way you stick to your friends? The coat of my stomach is ruined, my wind nearly gone. I won't be able to blow for a month. Pull me out of this at any price! The devil take one party and his dam the other. I am getting sick of this business." By his side is the figure of a Frenchman just hit by a cannon-ball from one of the Russian guns, and crying out: "O! By damn! I not like such treat. I come tousand mile and spend ver much money to take someting from wid you, and you treat me as I vas van Villin! Scoundrel! Robbare!!"

In closing the subject of the Crimean War, it is worth while to call attention to one curious phase of the war as contained in the programme of a theatrical entertainment given by the French soldiers in the trenches of Sebastopol, December 23, 1855. The programme is headed "The Little Comic Review of the Crimea." It contains the announcement of the Tchernaia Theater, which four days later is to present three dramatic pieces. The drawing is by Lucien Salmont.

One final echo of the struggle in the Crimea is found in another of Tenniel's graphic animal pictures, "The British Lion Smells a Rat," which depicts an angry lion sniffing suspiciously at the crack of a door, behind which is being held the conference which followed the fall of Sebastopol. But by far the most famous instance of Tenniel's work is his series of Cawnpore cartoons, the series bearing upon the Indian mutiny of 1857; and one of the finest, if not the very finest, of them all is that entitled "The British Lion's Vengeance on the Bengal Tiger." It represents in the life work of Tenniel what "General Février Turned Traitor" stands for in the life work of John Leech. The subject was suggested to Tenniel by Shirley Brooks. It summed up all the horror and thirst for revenge which animated England when the news came of the treacherous atrocities of the Sepoy rebels. The Cawnpore massacre of women and children ordered by the infamous Nana Sahib had taken place in June, and when this cartoon appeared in Punch, August 22, 1857, England had just sent thirty thousand troops to India. In the picture the British lion is springing at the throat of the Bengal tiger, which is standing over the prostrate bodies of a woman and a child. The tiger, fearful of being robbed of its prey, is snarling at the avenging lion. Another of the famous Cawnpore cartoons of Tenniel is descriptive of British vengeance on the Sepoy mutineers. The English troops were simply wild for revenge when the stories came to them of the atrocities which had been perpetrated on English women and children, and their vengeance knew no bounds. The Sepoys were blown from the mouths of the English cannon. It was the custom of the English soldiers to pile up a heap of Sepoys, dead or wounded, pour oil over them, and then set fire to the pile. The Tenniel cartoon, entitled "Justice," published September 12, 1857, shows the figure of Justice with sword and shield cutting down the mutineers, while behind her are the British troops working destruction with their bayonets.

No sooner had the English-French alliance against Russia come to an end than Punch once more began to give expression to his disapproval of Napoleon. A hostile spirit toward Frenchmen was ingrained in the very nature of John Leech, and he vented it freely in such cartoons as his celebrated "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" in which the French cock, clad in the uniform of a colonel, is crowing lustily over the results of a war of which Great Britain had borne the brunt. Or again, in "Some Foreign Produce that Mr. Bull can very well Spare," a cut which includes French conspirators, vile Frenchwomen, organ-grinders (Mr. Leech was abnormally sensitive to street noises), and other objectionable foreign refuse. It is interesting in this connection to note that Leech's hostility to Louis Napoleon was the direct cause of Thackeray's resignation from the staff of Punch in the winter of 1854. In the letter written in the following March, Thackeray explains that he had had some serious differences regarding the editorial policy of Punch, and more specifically about the abuse of Louis Napoleon which, he says, "I think and thought was writing unjustly at that time, and dangerously for the welfare and peace of the country:" and he then adds the specific instance which prompted him to sever his connections: "Coming from Edinburgh, I bought a Punch containing a picture of a beggar on horseback, in which the emperor was represented galloping to hell with a sword reeking with blood. As soon as ever I could, after my return, I went to Bouverie Street and gave in my resignation." Thackeray's act had no influence upon the policy of Punch. Leech's cartoons grew steadily more incisive in character. One of the most extraordinary is that known as "The French Porcupine." It represents Napoleon III. as a porcupine, bristling with French bayonets in place of quills. One of Napoleon's favorite sayings was "L'Empire c'est la paix." But this saying was very often contradicted by events, and the first ten years of his occupation of the French throne showed France embroiled in the Crimean War and the war with Austria. In preparation for the latter conflict a large increase was being made in the French military armament; and Leech seized upon the emperor's dictum only to express his skepticism. The cartoon appeared in March, 1859. As a matter of fact, the idea in this cartoon had previously been used in another called "The Puppet Show," published in June, 1854, depicting the Czar Nicholas in a manner closely similar; yet Mr. Spielmann, who notes this fact, adds that Mr. Leech had probably never seen, or else had forgotten, the earlier caricature. This "French Porcupine" is cited as an instance of Leech's extraordinary speed in executing a cartoon directly upon the wooden block. The regular Punch dinner had that week been held a day late. "Every moment was precious, and Leech proposed the idea for the cartoon, drew it in two hours, and caught his midday train on the following day, speeding away into the country with John Tenniel for their usual Saturday hunt." It was during this same year, 1859, at the close of the war which humbled Austria and forced her to surrender Venetia to Sardinia, that Leech voiced the suspicion that Louis was casting longing eyes upon Italian territory in a cartoon entitled "A Scene from the New Pantomime." Napoleon III, here figures as a clown, a revolver in his hand, a goose labeled Italy protruding from his capacious pocket. He is earnestly assuring Britannia, represented as a stout, elderly woman, eyeing him suspiciously, that his intentions are strictly honorable.

PART III
THE CIVIL AND FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WARS

CHAPTER XVI
THE MEXICAN WAR AND SLAVERY

In this country the political cartoon, which practically began with William Charles's parodies upon Gillray, developed in a fitful and spasmodic fashion until about the middle of the century. Their basis was the Gillray group of many figures, and they had also much of the Gillray coarseness and indecency, with a minimum of artistic skill. They were mostly lithographs of the crudest sort, designed to pass from hand to hand, or to be tacked up on the wall. It was not until the first administration of Andrew Jackson that a school of distinctly American political caricature can be said to have existed. It was in 1848 that the firm of Currier & Ives, with an office in Nassau Street, in New York City, began the publication of a series of campaign caricatures of sufficient merit to have been a serious factor in influencing public opinion. Crude as they are, these lithographs are exceedingly interesting to study in detail. They tell their story very plainly, even apart from the legends inclosed in the huge balloon-like loops issuing from the lips of each member of the group—loops that suggest a grotesque resemblance to a soap-bubble party on a large scale. There is an amusing stiffness about the figures. They stand in such painfully precise attitudes that at a little distance they might readily be mistaken for some antiquated fashion plates. The faces, however, are in most cases excellent likenesses; they are neither distorted nor exaggerated. The artists, while sadly behind the times in retaining the use of the loop which Continental cartoonists discarded much earlier, were in other respects quite up-to-date, especially in adopting the method of the elder Doyle, whose great contribution to caricature was that of drawing absolutely faithful likenesses of the statesmen he wished to ridicule, relying for the humor of the cartoon upon the situation in which he placed them. It was only natural that the events of the Mexican War should have inspired a number of cartoons. One of these is entitled "Uncle Sam's Taylorifics," and shows a complacent Yankee coolly snipping a Mexican in two with a huge pair of shears. One blade bears the inscription "Volunteers," and the other "General Taylor." The Yankee's left arm is labeled "Eastern States," the tail of his coat "Oregon," his belt "Union," his left leg "Western States," and his right leg, which he is using vigorously on the Mexican, "Southern States," and the boot "Texas." Below the discomfited Mexican yawns the Rio Grande. Behind the Yankee's back John Bull—a John Bull of the type introduced by William Charles during the War of 1812—is looking on enviously.

American national feeling on the subject of the European Powers deriving benefit from the discovery of gold in California is illustrated by a cartoon which shows the United States ready to defend her possessions by force of arms. The various Powers have crossed the sea and are very near to our coast. Queen Victoria, mounted on a bull, is in the lead. She is saying: "Oh, dear Albert, don't you cry for me. I'm off for California with my shovel on my knee." Behind her is the figure of Russia, saying: "As something is Bruin, I'll put in my paw, while the nations around me are making a Jaw." Louis Napoleon, who at the time had just been elected President of the French, is drawn in the form of a bird. He is flying over the heads of Victoria and Russia, and singing: "As you have gold for all creation, den please give some to La Grand Nation. I have just become de President, and back I shall not like to went." In the distance may be seen Spain, and beyond the United States fleet. Along the shore stretch the tents of an American army. Ominously coiled up on the rocks is the American rattlesnake with the head of President Taylor. Back of the camp is a battery of American guns directed by the American eagle, which wears the head of General Scott, saying: "Retreat, you poor d——s! Nor a squabble engender, for our Gold unto you we will never surrender. Right about face! Double quick to the rear! And back to your keepers all hands of you steer."

The Presidential election of 1852 was cartooned under the title "Great Foot Race for the Presidential Purse ($100,000 and Pickings) Over the Union Course, 1852." The Whigs, encouraged by their success with General Taylor, put forth another military officer, General Scott, as their candidate, but in this cartoon Daniel Webster is shown to be well in the lead and receiving the plaudits of most of the spectators. Behind him is Scott, and a little way back is Franklin Pierce, who proved the ultimate winner. "I can beat you both, and walk in at that, although you had a hundred yards the start of me," is Webster's conviction. "Confound Webster!" cries Scott. "What does he want to get right in my way for? If he don't give out, or Pierce don't faint, I shall be beaten." "No, no, old Fuss and Feathers," retorts Pierce, "you don't catch this child fainting now. I am going to make good time! Whether I win or not, Legs, do your duty."

The cartoon "Practical Illustration of the Fugitive Slave Law" sums up very completely Abolitionist sentiment on the subject. The slaveholder, with a noose in one hand and a chain in the other, a cigar in his mouth and his top-hat decorated with the single star, which was the sign of the Southern Confederacy, is astride of the back of Daniel Webster, who is crawling on all-fours. In Webster's left hand is the Constitution. "Don't back out, Webster," says the slaveholder. "If you do, we're ruined." The slave-woman who is being pursued has taken refuge with William Lloyd Garrison, of the Boston Liberator, who is saying: "Don't be alarmed, Susanna, you're safe enough." One of Garrison's arms is encircling the negress's waist, at the end of the other is a pistol. In the back of the picture is the Temple of Liberty, over which two flags are flying. On one flag we read: "All men are born free and equal;" on the other, "A day, an hour, of virtuous Liberty is worth an Age of servitude."

CHAPTER XVII
NEGLECTED OPPORTUNITIES

Down to the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the history of American political caricature is a history of lost opportunities. Revolution and war have always been the great harvest times of the cartoonist. Gillray and Rowlandson owe their fame to the Napoleonic wars; Philipon and Daumier, to the overthrow of Louis Philippe; Leech and Tenniel reached their zenith in the days of the Crimean War and the Sepoy Mutiny. It is not the election cartoon, or the tariff cartoon, or the cartoon of local politics, it is the war cartoon that is most widely hailed and longest remembered. Yet of all the wars in which the United States has been engaged, not one has given birth to a great satiric genius, and none but the latest, our recent war with Spain, has received comprehensive treatment in the form of caricature. It is not strange that the Revolutionary War and that of 1812 failed to inspire any worthier efforts than William Charles's crude imitations of Gillray. The mechanical processes of printing and engraving, the methods of distribution, the standards of public taste, were all still too primitive. The Mexican War was commemorated in a number of the popular lithographs of the day; but it was not a prolonged struggle, nor one calculated to stir the public mind profoundly. With the Civil War the case was radically different. Here was a struggle which threatened not only national honor, but national existence—a struggle which prolonged itself grimly, month after month, and was borne home to a great majority of American families with the force of personal tragedy, arraying friend against friend, and father against son, and offering no brighter hope for the future than the vista of a steadily lengthening death-roll. There was never a time in the history of the nation when the public mind, from one end of the country to the other, was in such a state of tension; never, since the days of Napoleon, had there been such an opportunity for a real master of satiric art. It seems amazing, as one looks back over the pictorial records of these four years, that the magnitude of the events did not galvanize into activity some unknown genius of the pencil, and found then and there a new school of American caricature commensurate with the fever-heat of public sentiment. The existing school of caricature seems to have been absurdly inadequate. The prevailing types were a sort of fashion-plate lithograph—groups of public men in mildly humorous situations, their features fixed in the solemn repose of the daguerreotypes upon which they were probably modeled; or else the conventional election steeplechase, in which the contestants, with long, balloon-like loops trailing from their mouths, suggest an absurd semblance to the cowboys of a Wild West show, all engaged in a vain attempt to lasso and pull in their own idle words. Many of the cartoons actually issued at the outbreak of the Civil War impress one with a sense of indecorum, of ill-timed levity. What was wanted was not the ineptitude of feeble humor, but the rancor and venom of a Gillray, the stinging irony of a Daumier, the grim dignity of a Tenniel. And it was not forthcoming. The one living American who might have produced work of a high order was Thomas Nast; but although Nast's pencil was dedicated to the cause of the Union from the beginning to the end, in the series of powerful emblematic pictures that appeared in Harper's Weekly, his work as a caricaturist did not begin until the close of the war.

It is interesting to conjecture what the great masters of caricature would have made of such an opportunity. The issues of the war were so clear-cut, their ethical significance so momentous, that an American Gillray, a Unionist Gillray, would have found material for a series of cartoons of eloquent and grewsome power. It is easy to imagine what form they would have taken: an Uncle Sam, writhing in agony, his limbs shackled with the chains of slavery, his lips gagged with the Fugitive Slave Law, slowly being sawn asunder, while Abolition and Secession guide the opposite ends of the saw, or else the American Eagle being worried and torn limb from limb by Southern bloodhounds and stung by copperheads, while the British Lion and the rest of the European menagerie look on, wistfully licking their chops and with difficulty restraining themselves from participating in the feast. Such a cartoonist would have found a mine of suggestion in "Uncle Tom's Cabin"; he would have crowded his plates with Legrees and Topsies, Uncle Toms and Sambos and Quimbos, fearful and wonderful to look upon, brutal, distorted, and unforgettable.

It is equally easy to imagine what a Daumier might have done with the material afforded by the Civil War. Some types of faces seem to defy the best efforts of the caricaturist—smooth, regular-featured faces, like that of Lord Rosebery, over which the pencil of satire seems to slip without leaving any effective mark. Other faces, strong, rugged, salient, seem to invite the caricaturist's efforts; and these were the types that predominated among the leaders of the struggle for the Union. Daumier's genius lay in his ability to caricature the human face, to seize upon a minimum of lines and points, to catch some absurd semblance to an inanimate object, some symbolic suggestion. And when once found, he would harp upon it, ringing all possible changes, keeping it insistently, mercilessly before the public. One can fancy with what avidity he would have seized upon the stolid, indomitable figure of Grant, intrenched behind his big, black, ubiquitous cigar. That cigar would have become the center of interest, the portentous symbol of Grant's dogged, taciturn persistence. Gradually that cigar would have grown and grown, its thickening smoke spreading in a dense war cloud over the whole series of cartoons, until finally it became the black, shining muzzle of a cannon, belching forth the powder and fire and ammunition that was to decide the issue of the war. What Tenniel would have done is evidenced by what he actually did in Punch. The great tragedies of those four years, Gettysburg and Bull Run and the Battle of the Wilderness, would have been pictured with the tragic dignity that stamps his famous cartoon in which he commemorated the assassination of Lincoln.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE SOUTH SECEDES

In view of what might have been done, it is somewhat exasperating to look over the actual cartoons of the war as they have come down to us. Even when a clever idea was evolved none seemed to have the cleverness or the enterprise to develop it. As all the modern cartoonists realize, nothing is more effective than a well-planned series. It is like the constant dropping that wears away the stone. The most potent pictorial satire has always been the gradual elaboration of some clever idea—the periodic reappearance of the same characters in slightly modified environment, like the successive chapters of a serial story. The public learn to look forward to them, and hail each reappearance with a renewed burst of enthusiasm. The cartoonists of the Civil War do not seem to have grasped this idea. A single example will serve as an illustration. A clever cartoon, entitled "Virginia Pausing," appeared just at the time that Virginia, the last of the States to secede, joined the Confederacy. The several Southern States, represented as young rats, are gayly scampering off, in the order in which they seceded, South Carolina heading the procession. Virginia straggling in the rear finds herself under the paw of "Uncle Abe," represented as a watchful and alert old mouser, and has paused, despite herself, to consider her next step. The Union, personified as the mother rat of the brood, lies stark and stiff on her back, with the Stars and Stripes waving over her corpse, and underneath, the legend, "The Union must and shall be preserved." Now this idea of the Southern States as a brood of "Secession rats" was capable of infinite elaboration. It might have been carried on throughout the entire four years of the struggle, the procession preserving the same significant order, with South Carolina in the lead, Virginia bringing up the rear, and Lincoln, as a wise and resourceful mouser, ever in pursuit. It could have shown the rats at bay, cornered, entrapped—in short, the whole history of the war in a form of genial allegory. But if the initial cartoon, "Virginia Pausing," ever had a sequel, it perished in the general wreckage of the Confederacy.

It is not surprising to find that Lincoln throughout the struggle was a favorite subject for the caricaturist. His tall, ungainly, loose-knit figure, his homely features, full of noble resolve, seemed to offer a standing challenge to the cartoonist, who usually treated him with indulgent kindness. The exceptions are all the more conspicuous. A case in point is the cartoon commemorating Lincoln's first call for volunteers for three months—a period then supposed to be ample for crushing out the rebellion. The artist has represented Lincoln as the image of imbecilic dismay, while a Union soldier with a sternly questioning gaze relentlessly presents to him a promissory note indorsed, "I promise to subdue the South in 90 days. Abe Lincoln." A much more typical and kindly cartoon of Lincoln is the one representing him as emulating the feat of Blondin and crossing the rapids of Niagara on a tight-rope, bearing the negro problem on his shoulders, and sustaining his equipoise with the aid of a balancing pole labeled "Constitution."

The really clever cartoons of this period are so few in number, and stand out so prominently from a mass of second-rate material, that there is real danger of attaching undue importance to them. Such a plate as "The Southern Confederacy a Fact! Acknowledged by a Mighty Prince and Faithful Ally," which was issued by a Philadelphia publisher in 1861, although crudely drawn, is one of the very few that show the influence of the early English school. It represents the Devil and his assembled Cabinet in solemn conclave, receiving the envoys of the Southern Confederacy. The latter includes, among others, Jeff Davis, General Beauregard, and a personification of "Mr. Mob Law, Chief Justice." They are bearers of credentials setting forth the fundamental principles of the government, as "Treason, Rebellion, Murder, Robbery, Incendiarism, Theft, etc." Satan, interested in spite of himself, is murmuring to his companions, "I am afraid in Rascality they will beat us."

An effective allegorical cartoon, which appeared at a time when the cause of the Union seemed almost hopeless, pictures Justice on the rock of the Constitution dressed in the Stars and Stripes and waving an American flag toward a happier scene, where the sun of Universal Freedom is brightly shining. Behind her are hideous scenes of disorder and national disaster. A loathsome serpent, of which the head is called "Peace Compromise," the body, "Mason and Dixon's Line," and the tail "Copperhead," is crawling up the rock seeking to destroy her. In one of its coils it is crushing out the lives of a number of black women and children. In one corner of the cartoon the figure of a winged Satan is hovering gleefully over a mob which is hanging a negro to a lamp-post—an allusion to the Draft Riots in New York. Some of the mob are bearing banners with the words "Black Men have no Rights." In the shadowy background of the picture a slaveholder is lashing his slave, tied to a post, with a whip called "Lawful Stimulant." An unctuous capitalist is talking with a group of Secessionists, seated on a rock called "State Rights." In contrast with the dark picture on which Justice has turned her back is the bright vista of the future, "The Union as it will be," into which she is looking. There we see a broad river and a prosperous city. A negress, free and happy, is sewing by her cabin door, her child reading a book upon her knee.

CHAPTER XIX
THE FOUR-YEARS' STRUGGLE

Many of the best cartoons of the period revolve around the rivalry between General McClellan and General Grant, and the incidents of the McClellan-Lincoln campaign of 1864. "The Old Bull-dog on the Right Track" is one of the best products of the war cartoonists. It represents Grant as a thoroughbred bulldog, seated in dogged tenacity of purpose on the "Weldon Railroad," and preparing to fight it out on that line, if it takes all summer. At the end of the line is a kennel, labeled "Richmond," and occupied by a pack of lean, cowardly hounds, Lee, Davis, and Beauregard among the number, who are yelping: "You aint got the kennel yet, old fellow!" A bellicose little dwarf, McClellan, is advising the bulldog's master: "Uncle Abraham, don't you think you had better call the old dog off now? I'm afraid he'll hurt these other dogs, if he catches hold of them!" To which President Lincoln serenely rejoins: "Why, little Mac, that's the same pack of curs that chased you aboard of the gunboat two years ago. They are pretty nearly used up now, and I think it's best to go in and finish them."

The conservative policy which marked the military career of General McClellan and his candidacy for the Presidency in 1864 is ridiculed in a cartoon entitled "Little Mac, in His Great Two-Horse Act, in the Presidential Canvass of 1864." Here McClellan is pictured as a circus rider about to come to grief, owing to the unwillingness of his two steeds to pull together in harmony. A fiery and stalwart horse represents "war"; while peace is depicted as a worthless and broken-down hack. Little Mac is saying, "Curse them balky horses—I can't manage the Act nohow. One threw me in Virginia, and the other is bound the wrong way." In the background is the figure of Lincoln attired as a clown. "You tried to ride them two horses on the Peninsula for two years, Mac," he calls out, "but it wouldn't work."

Another striking cartoon of this Presidential campaign depicts the Republican leaders burying the War Democracy. The cartoon is called "The Grave of the Union," and was drawn by Zeke. The hearse is being driven by Secretary Stanton, who commenced, "My jackasses had a load, but they pulled it through bravely." In harness and attached to the bodies of jackasses are the heads of Cochrane, Butler, Meagher, and Dickinson. At the head of the grave, a sort of master of ceremonies, is the familiar figure of Horace Greeley, saying, "I guess we'll bury it so deep that it will never get up again." By his side is Lincoln, who is inquiring, "Chase, will it stay down?" to which Chase replies, "My God, it must stay down, or we shall go up." The funeral service is being conducted by Henry Ward Beecher, who is carrying a little negro in his arms. "Not thy will, O Lord, but mine be done." Beecher is reading from the book before him. The coffins about to be lowered into the grave are marked respectively "Free Speech and Free Press," "Habeas Corpus," and "Union."

One of the most striking caricatures suggested by the contest between Lincoln and McClellan for the Presidency of 1864 is entitled "The Abolition Catastrophe; or, the November Smash-up." It is really nothing more than the old hackneyed idea of the "Presidential Steeplechase" presented in a new guise. The artist, however, proved himself to be a false prophet. It shows a race to the White House between two trains, in which the one on which Lincoln is serving as engineer has just come to destruction on the rocks of "Emancipation," "Confiscation," and "$400,000,000,000 Public Debt." The train in the charge of General McClellan, its locomotive flying the flag "Constitution," is running along smoothly and rapidly and is just turning the curve leading up to the door of the White House. McClellan, watching from his cab the discomfiture of his foe, calls derisively, "Wouldn't you like to swap horses now, Lincoln?" In the coaches behind are the elated passengers of the Democratic train. In striking contrast is the plight in which the Republican Party is shown. Lincoln, thrown up in the air by the shock of the collision, calls back to his rival, "Don't mention it, Mac, this reminds me of a"—an allusion to the President's fondness for illustrating every argument with a story. From the debris of the wreck of the locomotive peer out the faces of the firemen—two very black negroes. One is calling, "War's de rest ob dis ole darky? Dis wot yer call 'mancipation?" And the other, "Lor' A'mighty! Massa Lincum, is dis wot yer call Elewating de Nigger?" The passengers behind are in an equally unhappy strait. Secretary Stanton, pinned under the wheels of the first coach, is crying, "Oh, dear! If I could telegraph this to Dix I'd make it out a victory." Among the passengers may be recognized the countenances of Beecher, Butler, and Seward, while blown up in the air is Horace Greeley, calling out to Lincoln that the disaster only verifies the prediction which had been printed in the Tribune. Popular discontent at the unreliability of news of the war found utterance in a skit representing Lincoln as a bartender occupied in concocting a mixed drink, called "New York Press," which he is dexterously pouring back and forth between two tumblers, labeled respectively "Victory" and "Defeat." The ingredients are taken from bottles of "Bunkum," "Bosh," "Brag," and "Soft Sawder."