Part 6

"Time was,--our freeholders, a stout rustic band, Inhal'd the fresh breeze as they till'd their own land; Their hearts beam'd with honour, their faces with health, Their toil gave them strength, and their diligence wealth. But these sons of misery, disfranchis'd by fate, Resemble a group at an hospital gate, All huddled together in one little clan, To display the calamities common to man. Yet deaf, blind, or lame, we must trust to their choice; _Sans_ ears, eyes, or hands,--each may have a good voice. And--gasping for breath,--it deserves special note, The _expiring Elector_ is deem'd a _dead vote_."--E.

With the glorious ambition of serving their country, added to an eagerness of displaying their own importance, the maimed, the lame, the blind, the deaf, and the sick, hasten to the hustings to give their _independent_ votes.[77] The contending candidates, seated at the back of the booth, anticipate the event. One of them, coolly resting upon his cane in a state of stupid satisfaction, appears to be as happy as his nature will admit, in the certainty of success. Very different are the feelings of his opponent, who, rubbing his head with every mark of apprehensive agitation, contemplates the state of the poll, and shudders at the heavy expense of a contest in which he is likely to be the loser. Such are the cares of a candidate.

"A man, when once he's safely chose, May laugh at all his furious foes, Nor think of former evil: Yet good has its attendant ill, A seat is no bad thing,--but still, A contest is the Devil."

The first person that tenders his oath to the swearing clerk is an old soldier, and probably a brave one, for he has lost a leg, an arm, and a hand, in the service of his country. They were severed by the sword of an enemy, but the trunk and heart remain entire, and are entitled to more respect than is paid them by the brawling advocate, who, with that loud and overbearing loquacity for which Billingsgate and the bar are so deservedly eminent, puts in a protest against his vote. The objection is not founded upon this heroic remnant of war having forfeited his franchise by any improper conduct, but upon the letter, the black letter of the law, "which," says our quibbling counsellor, "ordains, 'that the person who makes an affidavit shall lay his right hand upon the book.' Now, this man having had his right hand severed from his arm, and, as he informs us, left it in Flanders, cannot comply with the letter of the law, and therefore is not competent to make an affidavit; that being once admitted, which I do contend must be admitted, he cannot be deemed competent to vote." "That," replies another gentleman of the black robe, "I most pointedly deny; for though this valiant veteran, who is an half-pay officer, has lost much of his blood and three of his limbs in the service of his king, and defence of his fellow-subjects, yet the sword which deprived him of his hand has not deprived him of his birthright. God forbid it should! It might as well be argued and asserted, that this gentleman is excluded from the rites of matrimony because he cannot pledge his hand. Thanks to our religion and our constitution, neither law nor gospel holds such language, and it is beneath me to waste any more words in the confutation of it. I will only add,--and I do insist upon my opinion being confirmed by every statute upon the case,--that the law must and will consider this substitute for a hand to be as good as the hand itself; and his laying that upon the book is all which the law ought to require,--all the law can require,--all the law does require."

Leaving these two bright luminaries of their profession to throw dust, and render that obscure which without their explanation would have been perfectly clear, let us attend to the son of Solomon, who is fastened in his chair and brought to give his voice for a fit person to represent _him_ in Parliament. This is evidently a deaf idiot, but he is attended by a man in fetters,[78] very capable of prompting him, who is at this moment roaring in his ear the name of the gentleman for whom he is to vote. Behind him are two fellows carrying a man wrapped in a blanket, apparently in so languid a state, that he cannot be supposed to feel much interest in the concerns of a world he is on the point of leaving.[79] The catalogue of this motley group of electors is concluded by a blind man and a cripple, who are slowly and cautiously ascending the steps that lead to the hustings. In the group an artist is drawing a profile of one of the candidates, and in both air and character this Sayers of his day has given a very striking resemblance of his original. The constable, fatigued by double duty, is at peace with all mankind--a deep sleep is upon him. Many of the crowd are attentively listening to the soft sounds of a female siren, warbling forth a brown paper libel on one of the candidates in that universal language which those that cannot read may yet understand,--the hero of this satire being delineated as suspended to a gibbet on the top of the ballad.

In the sinister corner is a view of Britannia's chariot oversetting, while the coachman and footman are playing at cards on the box. Here is one of the few instances where Hogarth has mounted into the cloudy heights of allegory; and here, as Mr. Walpole justly observes, he is not happy: it is a dark and dangerous region, in which almost every aeronaut of the arts has lost himself, and confused his earth-born admirers. On a bridge in the background is a carriage, with colours flying, and a cavalcade composed of worthy and independent freeholders advancing to give their suffrages with all possible _éclat_.

The village in the distance has a pretty effect. Of the church we may fairly say, as Charles the Second did of that at Harrow on the Hill, "It is the _visible_ church."

Part of this plate was engraved by Morrilon le Cave, who was a scholar of Picart's. In the year 1733, he engraved from Hogarth's design a small print of Captain Coram, etc., as the headpiece to a power of attorney for the Governors of the Foundling Hospital: he also engraved a head of Doctor Pococke, which is the frontispiece to Twell's edition of the Doctor's works.

PLATE IV.

CHAIRING THE MEMBER.

When Philip's warlike and victorious son A kingdom conquer'd or a battle won, His legions bow'd the head, and bent the knee, And cried, exulting,--Lo, a Deity! Bore him triumphant in a glittering car, While thundering plaudits rent the echoing air. So,--the Election being finish'd, His borough gain'd, his coin diminish'd, Our Knight in mock heroic state Is now exalted,--but not great. Beyond all doubt the people's choice, Ah!--could he check the people's voice? For some exclaim,--A venal knave! And others,--A time-serving slave! While this roars out,--A party tool! That, sneering cries,--A party fool! These are hard words, and grating tones; But what are words to broken bones? And broken bones he'll soon bewail, For there's no fence against a flail. Oh hapless wight!--ah, luckless fray, Down drops this pageant of the day. Thus, he most raised above his fellows, By one rude blast from Fortune's bellows, Falls, like a tempest-riven tower, From pomp, pride, circumstance, and power.--E.

The polling being concluded, the books cast up, and the returning-officer having declared our candidate[80] duly elected, he is now exhibited in triumph. Seated in an arm-chair, and exalted upon the shoulders of four tried supporters of the constitution, he is borne through the principal streets, which are promiscuously crowded with enemies as well as friends. In this aerostatic voyage there seems to be some danger of a wreck; for a thresher having received an insult from a sailor, in the act of revenging it flourishes his flail in as extensive an orbit as if he were in his own barn. The end of this destructive instrument coming in contact with the skull of a bearer of our new-made member, the fellow's head rings with the blow, his eyes swim, his limbs refuse their office, and at this inauspicious moment the effects of the stroke, like an electric shock, extend to the exalted senator. He trembles in every joint; the hat flies from his head--and--without the intervention of Juno or Minerva, he must fall from the seat of honour to the bed of stone. Terrified at his impending danger, a nervous lady, who with her attendants is in the churchyard, falls back in a swoon. Regardless of her distress, two little chimney-sweepers upon the gate-post are placing a pair of gingerbread spectacles on a death's head. Their sportive tricks are likely to be interrupted by a monkey beneath, who, arrayed _en militaire_, is mounted upon a bear's back. The firelock slung over this little animal's shoulder, in a fray between the bear and a biped, is accidentally discharged in a direction that, if loaded, must carry leaden death to one of the gibing soot merchants above.[81]

The venerable musician, delighted with his own harmony, neither takes a part nor feels an interest in the business of the day. Let not his neutrality be attributed to a wrong cause; nor be it supposed that, in a country where every good citizen must espouse some party,[82] this ancient personage would remain an indifferent spectator were he not totally blind. At an opposite corner a naked soldier is taking a few refreshing grains of best Virginia, and preparing to dress himself after the performance of a pugilistic duet. On the other side of the rails a half-starved French cook, a half-bred English cook, and a half-roasted woman cook, are carrying three covers for the lawyers' table. Near them is a cooper inspecting a vessel that had been reported leaky, and must speedily be filled with home-brewed ale for the gratification of the populace. Two fellows are forcing their way through the crowd in the background with a barrel of the same liquor. Coming out of a street behind them, a procession of triumphant electors hail the other successful candidate, whose shadow appears on the wall of the court-house. In Mr. Attorney's[83] first floor are a group of the defeated party glorying in their security, and highly delighted with the confusion below. One of these, distinguished by a riband, is said to be intended for the late Duke of Newcastle, who was eminently active on these occasions. A poor old lady is unfortunately thrown down by a litter of pigs, which, followed by their _mamma_, rush through the crowd with as much impetuosity as if the whole herd were possessed. One of this agreeable party has leaped, not into the ocean, but the brook, and the whole family are on the point of following its example.

Hogarth had surely some antipathy to tailors; in the background he has introduced one of these knights of the needle disciplined by his wife for having quitted the shop-board to look at the gentlemen. In Le Brun's "Battle of the Granicus," an eagle is represented as hovering over the plumed helmet of Alexander; this thought is very happily parodied in a goose,[84] flying immediately over the tye-wig of our exalted candidate.

Mr. Nichols, in his _Anecdotes of Hogarth_, very shrewdly observes that "the ruined house adjoining to the attorney's is a stroke of satire that should not be overlooked, because," adds the same writer, "it intimates that nothing can thrive in the neighbourhood of such vermin."[85] In this inference I most sincerely join, but am afraid that in the present instance we cannot establish our data. The house is not in ruins from the inhabitant having been unable to keep it in repair, neither has it been torn by the teeth of time; for it is apparently the wreck of a modern edifice, which has been thus destroyed by a riotous mob, because it belonged to one of the opposite party.

An inscription on the sun-dial, when joined to the mortuary representation on the church gate-post, has been supposed to imply a pun hardly worthy of Hogarth, but which yet I am inclined to suspect he intended. "We must,"[86] on the sun-dial, say some of his illustrators, means--We must die all (_dial_).

All the incidents in this very whimsical plate are naturally and yet skilfully combined: the whole is in the highest degree laughable, and every figure stamped with its proper character. The apprehensive terror of the unwieldy member, the Herculean strength of the exasperated thresher, and the energetic attitude of the maimed sailor, deserve peculiar praise.

Previous to the publication of this series, Mr. Hogarth's satire was generally aimed at the follies and vices of individuals. He has here ventured to dip his pencil in the ocean of politics, and delineated the corrupt and venal conduct of our electors in the choice of their representatives. That these four plates display a picture in any degree applicable to the present times must not be asserted, because it might, by the help of _innuendo_, be construed into a libel on the present upright and independent House of Commons: but from the floating memorials of some little transactions that took place some thirty or forty years ago, there is reason to think that the people of Great Britain were so far from being influenced by a reverence for public virtue, that they began to suspect it had no existence. Their faith in violent professions of the _amor patriæ_ had been staggered by several recent instances of political depravity. They had a few years before seen a William Pulteney, the champion of patriots, the idol of the people, the dread of ministers, desert from the party of which he was a leader, quit the cause for which he had been the most violent advocate, and accept a peerage. This, and some similar circumstances, gave an example and an apology for universal venality.

How different was the spirit which actuated the Earl of Bath, from that independent dignity, that patriotic ardour, that holy enthusiasm, which has emblazoned the name of Andrew Marvel[87] with a saint-like glory! Let his name be consecrated by the reverence and the gratitude of every Englishman, and may we live to see a band of senators who will emulate his virtues! Could we have faith in speeches, many which we have heard and read are of much promise; let us hope that the day of performance is at hand.

THE MARCH TO FINCHLEY.

"Now I behold the chiefs in the pride of their former deeds; their souls are kindled at the battles of old, and the actions of other times. Their eyes are like flames of fire, and roll in search of the foes of the land. Their mighty hands are on their swords, and lightning pours from their sides of steel. They came like streams from the mountains; each rushed roaring from his hill. Bright are the chiefs of battle in the arms of their fathers."[88]--FINGAL, Book I. p. 7.

That so admirable a representation of the manners of England should be dedicated to the King of Prussia,[89] is one of those odd circumstances which must surprise a man who is not acquainted with the history of the plate. Before publication it was inscribed to his late Majesty, and the picture taken to St. James's, in the hope of royal approbation. George the Second was an honest man and a soldier, but not a judge of either a work of humour or a work of art. The corporal or sergeant he considered as employed in a way which dignified their nature, and gave them a title to the name and rank of gentlemen. The painter or engraver, however exquisite their skill, however elevated their conceptions, were on the King's scale mere mechanics.

When told that Hogarth had painted a picture of the Guards on their march to Finchley, and meant to dedicate a print engraved from it to the King of Great Britain, his Majesty probably expected to see an allegorical representation of an army of heroes devoting their lives to the service of their country; and their sovereign, habited like "the mailed Mars," seated upon a cloud, where he might,

"With a commanding voice, Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war."

If such was his expectation, we may readily conceive his disappointment on viewing this delineation. His first question was addressed to a nobleman-in-waiting: "Pray, who is this Hogarth?" "A painter, my liege." "I hate _bainting_; and _boetry_ too! neither the one nor the other ever did any good! Does the fellow mean to laugh at my Guards?" "The picture, an please your Majesty, must undoubtedly be considered as a burlesque." "What! a _bainter_ burlesque a soldier? he deserves to be picketed for his insolence! Take his trumpery out of my sight."

The print was returned to the artist, who, completely mortified at such a reception of what he very properly considered as his first work, immediately altered the inscription, inserting, instead of the King of England, the King of Prussia (as an encourager of the arts).

Though the fine arts were never much encouraged in Prussia, the painter received a handsome acknowledgment for his dedication, and afterwards circulated proposals for publishing his print by subscription. Thus was it announced in the _General Advertiser_ of April 14, 1750:--"Mr. Hogarth is publishing by subscription a print, representing 'The March to Finchley' in the year 1746; engraved on a copperplate 22 inches by 17: the price, 7s. 6d.

"Subscriptions are taken in at the Golden Head, in Leicester Fields, till the 30th of this instant, and no longer, to the end that the engraving may not be retarded.

"_Note._--Each print will be half a guinea after the subscription is over.

"In the subscription-book are the particulars of a proposal, whereby each subscriber of three shillings over and above the said seven shillings and sixpence for the print will, in consideration thereof, be entitled to a chance of having the original picture, which shall be delivered to the winning subscriber as soon as the engraving is finished."

_General Advertiser_, May 1, 1750.--"Yesterday Mr. Hogarth's subscription was closed: eighteen hundred and forty-three chances being subscribed for, Mr. Hogarth gave the remaining hundred and sixty-seven chances to the Foundling Hospital, and the same night delivered the picture to the Governors."

By the fortunate number being among those presented to a charity which he so much wished to serve, the artist was highly gratified. In a private house it would have been in a degree secluded from the public, and by the lapse of time have been transferred to those who could not appreciate its merit, and from either negligence or ignorance, might have been destroyed by damp walls, or effaced from the canvas by picture-cleaners. Here, it was likely to remain a permanent and honourable testimony of his talents and liberality. Notwithstanding all this, Hogarth soon after waited upon the treasurer of the hospital, and acquainted him, that if the trustees thought proper, they were at liberty to dispose of the picture by auction. His motives for giving this permission it is not easy to assign. They might have their origin in his desire to enrich a foundation which had his warmest wishes, or a natural though ill-judged ambition to have his greatest work in the possession of some one who had a collection of the old masters, with whom he in no degree dreaded a competition. Whether his mind was actuated by these or other causes is not important; certain it is that his opinion changed--he requested the trustees would not dispose of it, and never afterwards consented to the measure he himself had originally proposed. The late Duke of Ancaster's father wished to become a purchaser, and once offered the trustees three hundred pounds for it. I have been told that a much larger sum was since proffered by another gentleman.

The scene is laid before the Adam and Eve, in Tottenham Court Road, and entitled, "A Representation of the March of the Guards towards Scotland in the year 1745."

A handsome young grenadier has been denominated the principal figure, but may with more propriety be called the principal figure of the principal group. His countenance exhibits a strong contest between affection and duty; for the manner in which his Irish helpmate clings to his arm, and at the same time with threatening aspect lifts up her right hand grasping the _Remembrancer_,[90] proves to a moral certainty that to her he has made a matrimonial vow; while the tender, entreating distress of the poor girl at his right hand, seems to intimate that, though she possesses his heart, she can make no claim except to his gratitude and affection, both of which her present situation seems to demand. Her face forms a strong contrast to that of the fury who is on the other side; for while one is marked with grief and tender regret, the other has all the savage ferocity of an unchained tiger: she is an accomplished masculine tramp, perfectly qualified to follow a regiment, and would be as ready to plunder those that are slaughtered as to scold those who escape: being by no means of the class described by Dr. Johnson when, speaking of superfluous epithets, he says, "they are like the valets and washerwomen that follow an army, who add to the number without increasing the force." The papers of which these two claimants are the vendors determine their principles. The mild-tempered, soft-featured _gentlewoman_ with a cross upon a cloak, is evidently a hawker of the _Jacobites' Journal_, _Remembrancer_, and _London Evening Post_, papers remarkable for their inflammatory tendency; while a portrait of the gallant Duke of Cumberland, and the now popular ballad of _God save the King_, hang upon the basket of her rival.

An old woman immediately behind, with a pipe in her mouth and a child on her back, appears to have grown rather ancient in the service; but notwithstanding her load and her poverty, puffs away care, and carries a cheerful countenance.

Near the child's head a meagre Frenchman is whispering an old fellow, whom Mr. Thornton in his description of the plate calls an Independent; but as in the original painting part of a plaid appears under his greatcoat, the artist most probably intended it for an old Highlander in disguise. Rouquet, who perhaps had his explanation from Hogarth, describes it as follows:--

"A droite du principal group paroit une figure de François, qu'on a voulu représenter comme un homme de quelque importance, afin de lui donner plus de ridicule; il parle à un homme dont la nation est indiquée par l'étoffe de sa veste, qui est celui dont s'habillent les habitans des montagnes d'Ecosse: le François semble communiquer à l'Ecossois des lettres qu'il vient de recevoir, et qui ont rapport à l'évenement qui donne lieu à cette marche. Les Anglois ne se réjouissent jamais bien sans qu'il en coute quelque chose aux François: leur théatre, leur conversation, leurs tableaux, et sur tout ceux de notre peintre, portent toujours cette glorieuse marque de l'amour de la patrie: les Romans même sont ornés de traits amusans sur cet ancien sujet; l'excellent auteur de _Tom Jones_, a voulu aussi lâcher les siens. Mais le prétendu mépris pour les François dont le peuple de ce pais-ci fait profession, s'explique selon moi d'une façon fort équivoque. Le mépris suppose l'oubli; mais un objet dont on médit perpétuellement occupé: la satire constitue une attention qui me feroit soupçonner qu'on fait aux François l'honneur de les haïr un peu."