Part 11

"The mandate issued, see the tour begun, And all the flock set out for Islington. Now the broad sun, refulgent lamp of day, To rest with Thetis, slopes his western way, O'er every tree embrowning dust is spread, And tipt with gold is Hampstead's lofty head. The passive husband, in his nature mild, To wife consigns his hat, and takes the child; But she,--a day like this hath never felt-- 'Oh! that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!'-- Such monstrous heat--dear me!--she never knew. 'Adown her innocent and beauteous face, The big, round pearly drops each other chase;' Thence trickling to those hills, erst white as snow, That now like Ætna's mighty mountains glow, They hang like dew-drops on the full-blown rose, And to the ambient air their sweets disclose. Fever'd with pleasure, thus she drags along; Nor dares her antler'd husband say 'tis wrong; The blooming offspring of this blissful pair, In all their parents' attic pleasures share. Sophy the soft, the mother's earliest joy, Demands her froward brother's tinsell'd toy; But he, enrag'd, denies the glittering prize, And rends the air with loud and piteous cries. Thus far we see the party on their way; What dire disasters mark'd the close of day, 'Twere tedious, tiresome, endless to obtrude: Imagination must the scene conclude."--E.

It is not easy to imagine fatigue better delineated than in the appearance of this amiable pair. In a few of the earliest impressions, Mr. Hogarth printed the hands of the man in blue, to show that he was a dyer, and the face and neck of the woman in red, to intimate her extreme heat.[140] The lady's aspect lets us at once into her character; we are certain that she was born to command. As to her husband, "God made him, and he must pass for a man;" what his wife has made him is indicated by the cow's horns, which are so placed as to become his own. The hope of the family, with a cockade in his hat, and riding upon papa's cane, seems much dissatisfied with female sway. A face with more of the shrew in embryo than that of the girl, it is scarcely possible to conceive. Upon such a character, the most casual observer pronounces with the decision of a Lavater.

Nothing can be better imagined than the group in the alehouse. They have taken a refreshing walk into the country, and, being determined to have a cooling pipe, seat themselves in a chair-lumbered closet with a low ceiling; where every man pulling off his wig, and throwing a pocket-handkerchief over his head, inhales the fume of hot punch, the smoke of half a dozen pipes, and the dust from the road. If this is not rural felicity, what is? The old gentleman in a black bag-wig, and the two women near him, sensibly enough, take their seats in the open air.

From a woman milking a cow, we conjecture the hour to be about five in the afternoon; and from the same circumstance, I am inclined to think this agreeable party are going to their pastoral bower rather than returning from it.

The cow and dog appear as much inconvenienced by heat as any of the party: the former is whisking off the flies; and the latter creeps unwillingly along, and casts a longing look at the crystal river in which he sees his own shadow. A remarkably hot summer is intimated by the luxuriant state of a vine creeping over an alehouse window. On the side of the New River, where the scene is laid, lies one of the wooden pipes employed in the waterworks. Opposite Sadler's Wells there still remains a sign[141] of Sir Hugh Middleton's head, which is here represented.

This print is engraved by Baron, but some touches of Mr. Hogarth's _burin_ are visible on the faces.

Dr. Johnson, I think it is, who observes, that an ardent pursuit of pleasure generally defeats its own purpose; for when we have wasted days and nights, and exhausted our strength in the chase, it eludes our grasp, and vanishes from our view.

NIGHT.

"Now burst the blazing bonfires on the sight, Through the wide air their coruscations play; The windows beam with artificial light, And all the region emulates the day.

"The moping mason, from yon tavern led, In mystic words doth to the moon complain That unsound port distracts his aching head, And o'er the waiter waves his clouded cane."--E.

Mr. Walpole very truly observes, that this print is inferior to the three others; there is, however, broad humour in some of the figures.

The wounded freemason, who, in zeal of brotherly love, has drank his bumpers to the craft till he is unable to find his way home, is under the guidance of a waiter. This has been generally considered as intended for Sir Thomas de Veil, and, from an authenticated portrait which I have seen, I am inclined to think it is, notwithstanding Sir John Hawkins asserts that "he could discover no resemblance." When the knight saw him in his magisterial capacity, he was probably sober and sedate: here he is represented a little disguised. The British Xantippe showering her favours from the window upon his head, may have its source in that respect which the inmates of such houses as the Rummer Tavern had for a justice of peace.[142]

The waiter who supports his worship seems, from the patch upon his forehead, to have been in a recent affray; but what use he can have for a lantern it is not easy to divine, unless he is conducting his charge to some place where there is neither moonlight nor illumination.

The Salisbury flying coach oversetting and broken, by passing through the bonfire, is said to be an intended burlesque upon a right honourable peer, who was accustomed to drive his own carriage over hedges, ditches, and rivers; and has been sometimes known to drive three or four of his maid-servants into a deep water, and there leave them in the coach to shift for themselves.

The butcher and little fellow who are assisting the terrified passengers, are possibly _free_ and _accepted_ masons. One of them seems to have a mop in his hand;--the pail is out of sight!

To crown the joys of the populace, a man with a pipe in his mouth is filling a capacious hogshead with British Burgundy.

The joint operation of shaving and bleeding, performed by a drunken 'prentice on a greasy oilman, does not seem a very natural exhibition on a rejoicing night.

The poor wretches under the barber's bench display a prospect of penury and wretchedness which I hope is not so common now as it was then.

In the distance is a cart laden with furniture, which some unfortunate tenant is removing out of the reach of his landlord's execution.

There is humour in the barber's sign and inscription: "Shaving, bleeding, and teeth drawn with a touch. _Ecce signum!_"

The Rummer Tavern still retains its old situation. It was then quaintly distinguished as the NEW BAGNIO.

By the oaken boughs on the sign, and the oak leaves in the freemasons' hats, it seems that this rejoicing night is the 29th of May, the anniversary of our second Charles's restoration; that happy day when, according to our excellent old ballad, "the king enjoyed his own again." This might be one reason for the artist choosing a scene contiguous to the beautiful equestrian statue[143] of Charles I.

In the distance we see a house on fire,--an accident very likely to happen on such a night as this.

The original pictures of "Morning" and "Noon" were sold to the Duke of Ancaster for fifty-seven guineas; "Evening" and "Night" to Sir William Heathcote for sixty-four guineas.

STROLLING PLAYERS.

As the Act prohibiting performance of any play or interlude which was not sanctioned by the Lord Chamberlain passed about the time that this print was published, and is particularly referred to in the engraving, a short view of the English drama, and the circumstances which occasioned the Bill's being brought into the House of Commons, seems immediately connected with the subject.

Our first theatrical exhibitions had a religious tendency;[144] they were under the direction of the clergy, represented a story compiled from the Bible, or some legendary tale of a canonized saint, and were denominated mysteries. In the year 1378, the scholars of Paul's School presented a petition to Richard II., praying his Majesty to prohibit some unexpert people from presenting the History of the Old Testament, to the great prejudice of the clergy, who had been at much expense in order to represent it publicly at Christmas. In 1390, interludes were played at Skinner's Well; and again, in 1409, the parish clerks of London performed plays for eight days successively at Clerkenwell, which took its name from these right learned and worthy performers. Their play had for its subject the creation of the world, and was honoured with the presence of most of the nobility in the kingdom, and very many gentry also attended. This unenlightened period has been properly called "the dead sleep of the Muses." They did not presently awake: the moralities which followed were produced in a kind of morning dream. They, however, had some shadow of meaning, which is more than can be said of the exhibitions which preceded them. The mysteries represented, in a confused and senseless manner, some incredible tale; but in the moralities a plan was aimed at, and something like poetry was attempted. The virtues, vices, and affections of the mind were frequently personified; good actions were rewarded, and wickedness chastised. Religion was at that time professed to be the leading object, and even their amusements had a tendency to promote it: were moralities performed now, they would unquestionably turn upon politics.

In the reign of that _most righteous_ prince Henry VIII., very properly distinguished from the monarchs who preceded him as "Defender of the Faith," and so forth, an Act was made for the promoting of true religion. In this Act a clause is inserted, "restraining all rimours or plaiers from singing in songs, or playing in interludes, anything that should contradict the acknowledged doctrines."

It was customary at this time to enact these moral and religious dramas in private houses; and the _dramatis personæ_ were so contrived, that five or six actors might represent twenty characters. "Players," says honest John Stowe, "were in former times retainers to noblemen; and none had the privilege to act plays but such as were so retained. These divertissements were then a recreation, and used, therefore, now and then occasionally; but afterwards, by abuse, they became a trade and calling, and so remain unto this day."

In 1574, Sir James Hawes being Mayor, the Common Council of London passed an Act, wherein it was ordained that no play should be openly acted within the liberties of the city, wherein should be uttered any words, examples, or doings, of any unchastity, sedition, or such like unfit or uncomely matters, under the penalty of five pounds, and fourteen days' imprisonment. And further, that no plays should be acted till first perused and allowed by the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen. But even these sagacious and judicious laws failed in their effect, for the drama remained not only dead, dull, and unprofitable, but depraved; when, like the sun bursting through a cloud,

"Immortal Shakspeare rose; Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting Time toil'd after him in vain: His pow'rful strokes presiding truth confess'd, And unresisted passion storm'd the breast."

From that period to this, theatrical amusements have undergone many changes, which do not come into my plan to relate, and the Legislature have passed many Acts to check their licentiousness, which it is not my province to enumerate.

A short time previous to the publication of this print, our dramatic writers thought proper to dip their pens in the sea of politics. To check this growing evil, it has been said that the minister contrived to have a very indecent performance (fabricated for the express purpose of showing the enormities of writers for the theatre) presented to one of the managers. It was brought from the manager to the minister, shown to a number of persons in power, and made a pretence for bringing in a Bill to prohibit the performance of any play or interlude until it had been perused and received the sanction of the Lord Chamberlain for the time being. By the friends of the ministers of that day this account has been contradicted. They assert that a piece called the _Golden Rump_, containing much personal abuse of George II. and Queen Caroline, was on the point of being acted at the theatre in the Haymarket. Sir Robert Walpole having notice of it, procured a copy, in consequence of which the performance was stopped, and the Act passed. It was introduced as intended to explain, amend, and enforce so much of an Act made in the twelfth year of the reign of Queen Anne as related to rogues, vagabonds, and common players of interludes.

Lord Chesterfield, in a very long speech, reprobated the principle upon which it was founded, and exerted all his eloquence to prevent its passing into a law. This oration gave a temporary popularity to the speaker, but did not serve the cause for which it was made. The Bill passed; but the people were so irritated that the power which it gave the Lord Chamberlain should be exerted in favour of foreigners, that in the year 1738, when some French actors, authorized by his licence, attempted to perform a French play at the Haymarket, a mob in the street broke the windows, and attempted to pull down the house, though many persons of high rank, and the French ambassador, were in the boxes.

The print to which this little account is introductory, receives a title from its female performers only; and yet in this theatrical house of _commons_ we discover at least four representatives of the other sex, viz. Apollo, Cupid, and two male devils.

STROLLING ACTRESSES DRESSING IN A BARN.

"Since Thespis, mighty father of the art, Declaim'd, and rav'd, and ranted in a cart, His wandering offspring, to their parent true, Have kept their great original in view: Patents they scorn, as modern innovation, And here have humbly made a barn their station: A barn!--in which though time has made a breach, They cleave the general air with horrid speech.

"The wearied rustic now the flail suspends, And the drum's thunder all the region rends; Where erst the reapers sung their Harvest Home, The martial trumpet echoes through the dome; Remov'd, the chaff-dispersing, winnowing fly, Lo! the Norwegian banners flout the sky:[145] Where perch'd the moping owl, we now behold The Roman eagle wave his wings in gold; And where the circling bat each night was seen, Medea's dragons draw their barbarous queen: On that oak floor, once pil'd with sheaves of corn, See Juliet's bier in sad procession borne; Where the sleek rat was wont to pilfer grain, The fiery Tibbald falls, and Hamlet's slain! And where each night the cunning weazel crept, Richard has roar'd, and Desdemona wept."--E.

Mr. Horace Walpole thinks that this print, for wit and imagination, without any other end, ought to be ranked as the first of Hogarth's works; and Rouquet, in the only mention he makes of it, says: "Les comédiens de campagne sont représentés dans une grange, au milieu d'un mélange ridicule de misere et de pompe théatrale, se préparant à jouer une tragédie."

The scene is laid in a barn,[146] and intended to represent the state dressing-room of a strolling company. Here at one hour the gallant Hotspur laces on his leathern armour, and at another the lively Beatrice laces on her stays. The time is evening, and the actors from the London theatres are preparing to perform a farce, which, by the play-bill, is declared to be _The Devil to pay in Heaven_. The _dramatis personæ_ are principally deities, and deities of the first order. On the bill are the names of Jupiter, Juno, Diana, Flora, Night, Siren, Aurora, Eagle, Cupid, two devils, a ghost, and attendants. To this divine catalogue is added rope-dancing, tumbling, etc. The inferior performers are: two musical kittens, a pair of fiery dragons, one Roman eagle, and though last mentioned, not least in consequence, a venerable monkey.

Seated upon an inverted wheel-barrow, which may occasionally serve for a triumphal car, a lady, who by her haughty demeanour and imperial crown we know to be the ox-eyed Juno, is majestically stretching out her leg, and pathetically rehearsing her part. Descended from her ebon car, with a sooty face, and star-bespangled robe sweeping the ground, the sable goddess Night is mending her majesty's stocking. The Star of Evening, which sheds its sober light above her head, is apparently formed of a brass instrument used in making pastry. A venerable female, with one eye, who by the dagger in her mantle we conjecture to be the Tragic Muse,[147] is cutting off a cat's tail, in order to extract a sanguine stream for some murderous representation, or that

"The mailed Mars may on his altar sit Up to the ears in blood."

But this savage amputation, which seems to excite no emotion in the operator, is warmly resented by the feline sufferer, who, enraged at the pain, revenges this barbarous indignity by tearing, with teeth and talons, the female tumbler who holds her; and, could she speak, would vehemently exclaim, in the words of Shakspeare,

"Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence."

Two little devils, with horns just budded, are eagerly contesting the right in a flagon of ale, out of which one is drinking, and seems determined to get to the bottom, if it were a mile. The flagon has been placed on a Grecian altar, with a loaf of bread and a pipe of tobacco, which being still lighted, the smoke ascends in curling eddies; the grateful incense is inhaled by all present,

"And heavenly fragrance fills the circuit wide."

The fascinating female stripped to her chemise, her head decorated with feathers and flowers, is marked by her crescent to be the goddess of the silver bow--the chaste Diana. A principal figure in the picture, with one foot resting upon her hoop, the other behind the altar,

"She stands like feather'd Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;"

impressed with the dignity of her character, and inspired with divine fervour, she is rehearsing her part. At her right hand the blooming Flora is seated at her toilet: and the toilet of Flora is a wicker hamper, to which is appended a label inscribed _Jewels_; from whence we may naturally infer that it contains the glittering regalia of the company. "Her robe of various dyes" is carelessly thrown over it as a veil; and placed upon it is somewhat like part of a coffee-mill with a candle in it, a broken looking-glass, a broken ivory comb, and an oyster-shell, containing what Mr. Warren emphatically calls "love-inspiring rouge," "to dye the white rose to a bloody red." One hand holds a candle, with which she delicately pastes up her hair--"sweets to the sweet!" the other grasps a dredger to powder her head.

Apollo and Cupid are jointly engaged in reaching down a pair of stockings that are hung to dry on a cloud. The little archer--

"Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents"--

the little archer has wings, but they will not exalt him to the clouded canopy; he is obliged to mount a ladder.

On the ground, beneath him, is Aurora, designated by "the bright morning star, day's harbinger," glittering in her hair. Her rosy fingers are employed in the service of the charming though intoxicated siren, who offers the hero (that is perhaps intended to personate Ganymede) a glass of spirits. This the cupbearer of Jupiter very gladly accepts, in the hope of relief from an aching tooth, the agony of which is intimated by his countenance, and the handkerchief, which was once lost by the chaste Desdemona, being held up to his face:

"There was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently; However they have writ the style of gods, And made a pish at chance and sufferance."

In one corner a lady, who personates Jove's eagle, is feeding a child.

"Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king,"

is placed a tin saucepan with the infant's food. The child, terrified with the enormous beak hanging over its head, refuses the proffered nourishment. This crown once pressed the brow of haughty Bolingbroke:

"And when young Harry did the crown purloin, He wept--because it was not current coin."

In the other corner, a monkey, in a long cloak, a bag-wig, and solitaire, is degrading the plumed helmet of Alexander.

Two kittens seem happily engaged: one of them, in a style that shows she has a fine finger, "touches the trembling lyre;" the other rolls an orb imperial. Near them are a number of balls,[148] and two cups; which intimate that this company of comedians practise sleight of hand, and to fill their house will sometimes condescend to play legerdemain tricks. In the same part of the print are three emblems of the law--two judges' periwigs, and a halter.

A mitre filled with tragedies and farces, and a dark lantern, are placed upon a pulpit-cushion. Whether the artist intended these for symbols of the church, and designed to hint at the dark cloud which long enveloped the mysteries of religion, or had any other meaning, must be determined by those who have studied polemic divinity, and considered ecclesiastical history.

A trunk, which has occasionally served for the concealment of Iachimo, and been displayed as the coffin of Juliet, is now placed with the end upwards, and become the reading-desk of the ox-eyed Juno. Upon it is a tinder-box, and the thunderbolt of Jove, a salt-box, and a rolling-pin. The two last articles have much importance in the catalogue of the properties of their orchestra. Their leading musical instrument, the sonorous bass-viol, leans against the altar, and the sweet-sounding lyre lies on the floor.

Ten small tallow candles, stuck in clay, will be fastened to a hoop, which, suspended by a packthread over the centre of the stage, must form a most magnificent chandelier.

On that bed which has been pressed by the gentle Desdemona, and softened the sleep of beauteous Imogen, are two play-bills and four eggs. One of the eggs is broken: the others may perhaps be intended to render the silver-toned siren's voice more softly musical.

Two sets of waves, which gave the tempest-tossed vessel an appearance of being suspended

"'Twixt the green sea and cloudy canopy Of o'er-arching heaven,"

are in a dead calm, resting against the wall. One of them is become the roosting place of a hen and chickens.

The frieze, festooned column, and arched door, form part of their grand scene; but they, as well as the vase with flowers, are in too elegant a style for their accompaniments.

The spirit-stirring drum, martial trumpet, and enchanted besom, make an admirable trophy. The two first may serve to call the shallow Richmond to arms, or rouse Macbeth to more than mortal deeds; the latter is unquestionably used in the incantations of Hecate, and may be sometimes bestrid by one of the weird sisters, to "ride in the whirlwind, and direct the storm."