Quarter Day, or Clearing the Premises without Consulting Your Landlord - Thomas Rowlandson

Rowlandson inherited seven thousand pounds from his aunt and gambled it away. He was known to sit at gaming tables for thirty-six hours at a stretch. The loss is the reason he produced over ten thousand drawings and prints in his lifetime: the volume had more to do with debts than with artistic ambition.

He trained at the Royal Academy Schools in London and may have spent time in Paris, though the often-quoted two years at a Parisian academy has been narrowed by recent scholarship to a few weeks at most. His technique was fast, fluent, and populated by figures who bulge, lurch, stumble and grope their way through Georgian England. The line is always in motion. Fat men eat. Thin women flirt. Horses rear. Coaches overturn. The world in a Rowlandson drawing is always on the verge of falling over.

He drew for the satirical press, illustrated books (including the Dr Syntax series, which sold well enough to keep him solvent for several years), and produced erotica for a private clientele that was never published in his lifetime. Unlike James Gillray, whose satire was ferocious and politically targeted, Rowlandson's humour was broader and warmer. He drew human beings as comic animals: vain, greedy, amorous and fundamentally absurd.

His subjects included Vauxhall Gardens, the races at Brighton, country fairs, and the particular chaos of London streets. He drew the city as a place where everyone is either trying to sell something, steal something, or seduce someone, often simultaneously. He died in 1827, aged seventy, having drawn everything he saw and gambled most of what he earned.