If the pictorial satirist William Hogarth was the grandfather of the political cartoon, then James Gillray and Thomas Rowlandson were its founding fathers. No portly squire, bawdy courtesan, politician or prince was safe from their pen and pot of ink in Georgian Britain. From royal scandals to seismic geopolitical shifts and the rise of modern celebrity culture, the era served up a cast of characters on a silver platter, just waiting to be skewered.

Through capturing the pomp, pageantry, and debauchery of this era, Gillray (1756–1815) and Rowlandson (1757–1827) made this a golden age of caricature with drawings as salacious as the gossip they must have fuelled – if Bridgerton's Lady Whistledown had illustrated her scandal sheets, we can imagine who she would have commissioned. Their prints, often displayed in shop windows and coffeehouses, provided a running commentary on society's foibles and are an invaluable insight into this period.

Hogarth (1697–1764) had laid the groundwork for this visual satire through his 'modern moral tales', as seen in A Rake's Progress, a cautionary tale of aristocratic excess embodied by its doomed protagonist, Tom Rakewell, who inherits a fortune and squanders it on vices, leading to eventual confinement in the Bedlam asylum. Hogarth's prints played out the sins of eighteenth-century London in a kind of visual theatre that was novel and provocative.

A Rake's Progress: 1 – The Rake Taking Possession of the Estate

While Hogarth pioneered narrative satire, it was Gillray who sharpened the pen into a political weapon. Gillray shared in Hogarth's belief that graphic art could exert moral and political influence, but he was far more reactive and unsparing when satirising figures such as George III, Napoleon, prime ministers, and generals.

During his thirty-year career, Gillray produced over a thousand satirical prints. His style was characterised by fluid caricature, speech balloons and a technical ability to use etching, aquatint and stipple techniques to exaggerate, often drawing pudgy bodies, pointy noses, fangs for teeth and animalistic faces. These techniques and traits have since become staples for political cartoonists.

Among his most celebrated works is The Plumb Pudding in Danger (1805), hailed as one of the greatest political cartoons ever created.

The Plumb-Pudding in Danger – or – State Epicures Taking un Petit Souper

In the cartoon, British Prime Minister William Pitt the Younger and Napoleon Bonaparte are seated at a table, carving up a globe-shaped pudding – a visually slick metaphor for their empires' geopolitical tug-of-war and how they will fight to the finish and until the very last crumb.

The contemporary British artist Cold War Steve used a similar motif, and obvious aesthetic references to Georgian satire, in his recent cartoon of Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, and Elon Musk carving up Ukraine.

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Gillray's brilliance lay in his ability to blend mockery with occasional prophecy. Pitt, gaunt and towering, wields a trident to assert Britain's naval dominance, while a manic Napoleon hacks away at Europe. Gillray's vision proved prescient: later that year, the Battle of Trafalgar cemented Britain's naval supremacy, while Napoleon's victories at Ulm and Austerlitz solidified his grip on the continent. It's one thing to make a joke; it's another to predict world affairs with a few strokes of ink.

Initially sympathetic to the French Revolution, Gillray's views turned towards the monarchy as the movement grew more violent. During this period, he produced many maritime-themed prints as responses, often equating French liberty with starvation, portraying the allegorical figure of Liberty as the Greek Fury Alecto.

...-or-The recruiting sarjeant enlisting John-Bull, into the Revolution Service, 1791, hand-coloured etching by James Gillray (1756–1815)

In the drawing Design for the Naval Pillar (1800), he celebrated Britain's naval victories against France. He depicts Britannia as an unshakable pillar amidst stormy seas, with bloodstained French soldiers dangling from it. As a sign of support to the British Government, the pillar is covered in satirical French Revolutionary emblems such as culottes, clogs, and the guillotine. It is rather odd to think of a satirist producing a pro-government image.

Still, while Gillray occasionally celebrated the British Navy and its leaders, he was simultaneously critical of the political climate and the ruling elite's pretensions. This drawing, in particular, demonstrated his ability to deftly navigate between being a satirist and a commentator on national identity and pride during a time of war.

Thomas Rowlandson was a close friend and contemporary with whom Gillray caroused in the pubs of London. Rowlandson, who was nearing bankruptcy, was egged on by Gillray to focus on caricature so he could finally achieve commercial success. Like Gillray, he sought to expose the hypocrisies of the elite and the absurdities of daily life albeit with much softer, more fluid caricatures. Rowlandson often found inspiration in racecourses, theatres, balls and taverns, chronicling the spectacle of daily life with his sensitive but signature rapier wit.

His output was staggering – reportedly leaving behind as many as 10,000 watercolours, drawings and prints, with an 1827 obituary even claiming his drawings could have papered the walls of China. As a schoolboy, Rowlandson's books were littered with caricatures inspired by Hogarth and Giovanni della Porta. He was a student at the Royal Academy, where Rowlandson chose not to work with oils (very unusual for the time) but instead gravitated towards sketches and etchings.

Rowlandson's career breakthrough came during the Westminster election of 1784 when he satirised the rivalry between Fox and Pitt and the misdemeanours of the young prince of Wales (and future George IV). As any cartoonist worth their salt, he took no sides and mercilessly depicted the two figures with equal fervour, portraying the burly Fox in increasingly comical poses while contrasting him with the emaciated-looking Pitt.

In Two New Sliders for The State Magic Lantern (1783), Rowlandson presented a narrative in ten sequences, each scene framed with descriptions.

1783, hand-coloured etching by Thomas Rowlandson (1757–1827)

Not only can you see his lithe draughtsmanship in full flow, but it also serves as an early precursor to what we now know as the modern comic strip. As in this cartoon where Lord Fox is depicted as an actual fox, Rowlandson frequently compared humans and animals in his drawings either through direct juxtapositions like this or through more oblique associations in narrative scenes.

It also expanded on the artistic idea that an individual's character can be determined by studying physical appearances – a theory derived from Renaissance treaties such as Giovanni della Porta's De humana physiogomonia libri IIII (1586), which drew parallels between man and animal.

This is best seen in Rowlandson's watercolour drawings, Caricature of Two Human Faces, Related to a Donkey and a Pig and Comparative Studies of Human and Animal Heads. His figures were often stout and exaggerated – engorged chins, snout and beak-like noses, colossal teeth and ruddy complexions. This visual parallel continues today – The Times cartoonist Peter Brookes' Nature Notes series often critiques politicians' characters by transfiguring them into animals.

Comparative Studies of Human and Animal Heads

Gillray and Rowlandson's caricatures were typically produced via copperplate etching, allowing for rapid, reactive commentary. Limited print runs of around 500 copies sold for a few shillings each, making them too costly for most of the working class. However, they were soon displayed in shop windows, coffeehouses and taverns – out in the open for all to see.

By the early nineteenth century, advances in industrial printing had brought satirical images to wider audiences through newspapers, pamphlets and broadsides. Publications like The Repository of Arts helped popularise the term 'cartoon', paving the way for caricature magazines like Punch and Private Eye.

After Gillray and Rowlandson, the baton passed to George Cruikshank, whose political prints gained notoriety for attacking the royal family and politicians. In 1820, Cruikshank even received a royal bribe of £100 to stop caricaturing George IV in indecent and immoral situations.

Rowlandson and Gillray's work provided an invaluable, salacious snapshot of Georgian society and set the gold standard for satire. 'Man is the only creature endowed with the power of laughter,' reads a scrawled caption beneath Rowlandson's Doctor Convex and Lady Concave (1802). 'Is he not also the one who deserves to be laughed at?'

1802, hand-coloured etching by Thomas Rowlandson (1757–1827)

It's a sentiment that has endured among cartoonists: how important it is to laugh in the face of danger and that nothing and no one, should be spared. Their legacy also serves as a potent reminder that the sharpest satire comes from sharp eyes, sharp wits – and even sharper pens.

Saffron Swire, writer

This content was funded by the Bridget Riley Art Foundation

An exhibition, 'Mirror of Mirth: Satire in Georgian Bath', is at the Victoria Art Gallery in Bath from 24th January to 21st April 2025 and offers a chance to enter this scandalous world with works currently displayed by Rowlandson and John Nixon.