FOUR PRINTS OF AN ELECTION.
I think it is Voltaire who observes that the English nation are mad every seven years: he might have added that there are local fits which seize some parts of the country at other times; but this madness, like the fermentation of liquors, proves the spirit of the people.
In the following series of prints Mr. Hogarth has delineated the progress of this malady, in four of its most remarkable stages, with that broad and characteristic humour peculiar to himself. He has presented us with the mirror of a contested election, the British Saturnalia; in which is displayed what Abbé Raynal most emphatically calls "the majesty of the people!"—an expression, says the same writer, "which would alone consecrate a language."
The first print was published February 24, 1755, and inscribed to the Right Hon. Henry Fox.—Plate II., February 20, 1757, to Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, Ambassador to the Court of Russia.—Plate III., February 20, 1758, to the Hon. Sir Edward Walpole, Knight of the Bath.—Plate IV., January 1, 1759, to the Hon. George Hay, one of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.
The original pictures are now in the possession of Mrs. Garrick, at Hampton.
It appears from the Grub Street Journal of June 13, 1734, that the same subject had been previously attempted by another artist, under the title of "The Humours of a Country Election." It must be acknowledged that the inscriptions to some of the compartments have a striking similarity to the scenes represented by Hogarth. "The candidates very complaisant to a country clown," etc. "The candidates making an entertainment for the electors and their wives; at the upper end of the table the parson of the parish," etc.
In 1759 was published, in four cantos, a poetical description of these prints, introduced by the following remarkable advertisement, dated
"Cheapside, March 1, 1759.
"For the satisfaction of the reader, and in justice to the concealed author, I take the liberty, with the permission of Mr. Hogarth, to insert in this manner that gentleman's opinion of the following cantos, which is—That the thoughts entirely coincide with his own; that there is a well-adapted vein of humour preserved through the whole; and that though some of his works have been formerly explained by other hands, yet none ever gave him so much satisfaction as the present performance.
"John Smith."
Had Mr. Hogarth's taste for poetry been in any degree equal to his skill in painting, he would scarcely have given so strong a sanction to this wretched attempt at Hudibrastic humour, which is coarse, dull, mean, and very unworthy of the scenes which it professes to celebrate.[57]
PLATE I.
AN ELECTION ENTERTAINMENT.
"Here tumult wild and rude confusion reign,
And hoodwink'd party heads the senseless train;
Here meets her motley tribe—here holds her court,
For pamper'd Gluttony, the grand resort.
From orgies so profane—stern Freedom flown,
Corruption mounts her abdicated throne.
Unhappy Britain—thy degenerate tribe,
Like Esau, barter birthright for a bribe."—E.
THE ELECTION, PLATE I. THE ENTERTAINMENT.
The first act of this popular farce is very properly a dinner, which in all public transactions ought to precede every other business.[58] The scene is laid in a country town, at an inn, which in these piping times of peace is kept open for the friends of the Court candidate. All the party, except the divine and the mayor, have ended their repast; but episcopal dignity, or prætorian distinction, gives a right to more indulgence than is allowed to the unhallowed multitude.
The highly polished and accomplished gentleman[59] who aspires to the honour of a seat in the British senate demands our first notice. He has what an Hibernian would call a face of much promise. His dress, air, and grace proclaim that he has travelled. Pope has described him exactly as if he had sat for the picture:
"He saunter'd Europe round,
And gathered every vice on Christian ground,
Saw every court, heard every king declare
His royal sense of operas, or the fair.—
See now half-cured, and perfectly well-bred,
With nothing but a solo in his head,
As much estate, and principle, and wit,
As Jansen, Fleetwood, Cibber, shall think fit;
Stol'n from a duel, follow'd by a nun,
And if a Borough choose him,—not undone," etc.
At this time of general equality and universal levelling, when knight and vassal, esquire and mechanic, are of equal rank, our paragon of politeness is lending an attentive ear to a disgusting old beldam, who from her rotundity may be a descendant of Sir John Falstaff's. In her hand, which is behind him, she holds a letter directed to Sir Commodity Taxem; this we may naturally suppose contains either a request of a favour or an offer of a service, in the sure and certain hope of a return to it. Be that as it may, the gallant knight shows her every attention, and has stretched his long arm half round her ample waist:
"Thus the bold eagle leaves his azure way,
And takes the carrion carcase for his prey;
There dips his beak—but when the banquet's done,
Replumes his wings, and rises to the sun."
While a little girl dazzled with the splendour of his brilliant ring attempts to make it a prize, a fellow who stands upon a chair behind him, with all that easy familiarity which the time warrants, strikes the Baronet's head against that of the old woman, and shakes the ashes out of his tobacco-pipe upon his powdered hair. This is election wit.
The next group form a trio, and are made up by a grinning cobbler, a dirty-faced barber, and a mawkish gentleman, whose hand the son of St. Crispin grasps with an energy that almost cracks the bones. The barber, equally friendly, pinches his arm, and resting one hand upon his shoulder blows the hot fumes from a short tobacco-pipe into his eye. This also is election wit.
A pyramidical group behind is composed of an officer, a drunken counsellor, and a pleasing young woman, over whose head the maudlin advocate, flourishing a bumper of wine, roars out an obscene toast. This is the third and most finished specimen of election wit. At a table a little beneath, stewing "the last lov'd remnant of the forest haunch," sits an oily divine,[60] holding his canonical periwig in his right hand, and wiping his forehead with the left. Behind him is a Scotch bagpiper, who, at the same time that he is pressing out his harsh and unmusical tones, enjoys the royal luxury of scratching.[61] A female player on the violin,[62] and a most consequential performer on the bass viol, when aided by the Caledonian pipe, must form a most melodious concert.
A fourth votary of St. Cecilia holds his musical instrument under his arm, ceasing all dulcet sounds, while he drinks a glass of Burgundy with a gentleman who seems much gratified at seeing a chin of more extravagant length than his own. Adjoining are two country fellows delighted beyond measure at a person[63] making the representation of a face by wrapping a napkin round his hand, and singing, "An old woman clothed in grey," etc. This face, ingeniously designed with charcoal blots for eyes and mouth, bears a strong resemblance to the poor gouty old fellow on his left hand, whose violent contortions lead us to suspect that he feels some disagreeable internal emotion. Behind, is a fellow pouring the contents of a vessel through a window amongst a crowd made up of the opposite party, in return for a shower of stones they are hurling into the room. To annoy and repel these troublesome assailants, a man at the opposite corner throws out a three-legged stool. At the upper end of the table sits a gentleman in a tye-wig, whom we presume to be the Right Worshipful Mr. Mayor. He has ate oysters until his breath is stopped, and is now under the hands of a barber-surgeon. This village Sangrado attempts to breathe a vein; "But ah! the purple tide no more will flow."
Notwithstanding this suspension of vital powers, our absolute monarch of his own corporation, true to the cause, and actuated by his ruling passion, even in death, grasps a fork, on which he has impaled an oyster. Immediately behind him an electioneering agent offers a bribe to a puritanic tailor; but this conscientious wielder of the needle, lifting up his eyes with horror, refuses the money, maugre the terrific threats of his amiable wife, who, while she raises her right fist in a menacing style, rests her left hand on the head of their barefooted boy.
On an opposite chair is an unfortunate man of the law, who, intent on casting up the sure and doubtful votes, is, like the mighty Goliah, struck in the forehead with a stone, and falls prostrate to the floor. "Where be his quirks and quiddits now?"
A champion of the same party, generally called a bludgeon-man,[64] having met with a similar accident in the cause of his country, is taken in hand by a patriotic butcher, who, assuming the office of surgeon, pours gin into the wound. A little boy filling a mashing-tub with punch,[65] and a trading Quaker reading a promissory note, conclude the catalogue. This note is from the candidate to Mr. Abel Squat for fifty pounds, payable six months after date, and probably offered in payment for ribands, gloves, etc., which are to be presented to the electors' wives and daughters. With this note honest Abel is much dissatisfied; and by the manner one hand is laid upon his little bale of goods, it does not seem probable that he will part with them for paper security.
Coming in at the door we see a band of assailants from the opposite party, determined to attack the enemy in their entrenchments; most of them flourish their cudgels, but one of the heroes brandishes a sword. The stag's horns over the door may perhaps be intended to convey some allusion to the trembling Puritan. A party, whom their enemies at that time distinguished by the name of Jacobites, to show their respect for Revolution principles, have mangled the portrait of King William the Third. The escutcheon with the Elector's arms, A CHEVRON SABLE BETWEEN THREE GUINEAS OR, with the crest of a gaping mouth, and motto "Speak and Have," is very applicable to a parliamentary canvas. The landscape over the candidate's head may, it has been observed, be intended as a representation of the town where this business is transacting. On the flag, which is entwined with laurels, is inscribed "Liberty and Loyalty," which cabalistic words, like the Abracadabra, are a sort of charm to the eyes of your Englishman. On another flag, which lies upon the ground, is written, "Give us our Eleven Days."[66] In the tobacco tray is a paper of Kirton's best,[67] and a slip from the Act against Bribery and Corruption is torn to light pipes with. A lobster appears to be creeping towards a mutton chop, which lies unheeded in a corner. A procession in the street are following an effigy,[68] on the breast of which is inscribed, "No Jews." The mottoes on their flags are equally curious: "Liberty and Property, and no Excise;" and, "Marry and Multiply, in spite of the devil."
An inscription on the butcher's cockade is infinitely more classical and elegant: "Pro Patriæ" has a chance of general admiration, because it is not generally understood.
As to the characters of the dramatis personæ. The face and air of the Baronet are perfectly of Lord Chesterfield's school; a fellow scattering ashes on his head, and the cobbler at the table, are marked with mischief. The fat old woman is of Mother Cole's family; and the divine has the corpulence and consequence of a bishop. He must "lard the lean earth as he walks along." The two country fellows looking with delighted eyes at Mr. Parnell, and an old man tortured by the gout, are admirably discriminated. The barber-surgeon and his brother butcher have so much sang froid, and display so little feeling for their suffering patients, that we naturally infer each of them is in great practice.
Hogarth was fond of making experiments; and it has been said, that when engraving this plate he determined to attempt what no artist had ever performed, i.e. to finish the plate without taking a single proof during the process. The consequence was such as might be expected; he made some mistakes that it was scarcely possible to rectify, and on discovering the errors, violently exclaimed that he was ruined. On his passion subsiding, a brother engraver assisted him to correct the faults occasioned by trying to perform an impossibility. It is, however, the highest finished print he ever engraved.
In the first state of the plate were some lemons and oranges lying on a paper by the side of the tub; but Hogarth being informed that vitriol and cream of tartar are the usual acids in election punch, erased them from the copper.
PLATE II.
CANVASSING FOR VOTES.
"Although bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour,—'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way,
And he will best succeed who best can pay."
THE ELECTION, PLATE II. CANVASSING FOR VOTES.
The centre group in this print represents a rustic freeholder between two innkeepers, each of whom, as agents for their respective parties, are dropping money into his hands. From the arch and significant cast of his eye, we see that though interest induces him to take all that either of them will give, conscience obliges him to vote for the best paymaster.[69] One of the candidates, considering how necessary it is to conciliate the favour of the fair, is purchasing trinkets from a Jew pedlar for two ladies, who express their virtuous wishes in a balcony. Though neither of them have votes, their interest may be very extensive. By the direction upon a letter which a porter, in the hope of a more liberal gratuity, delivers with a bended knee, we perceive that this gentleman is of the numerous and ancient family of the party tools, who have flourished in this island ever since the Revolution. A packet on the ground consists of printed bills to be dispersed among the electors, intimating that Punch's theatre is opened,[70] the company of the worthy electors humbly[71] and earnestly requested, etc. etc. In election business, eating is a leading article; of this, two hungry countrymen in the Royal Oak larder seem perfectly sensible. One of them is voraciously devouring a fowl, and the other slashing away a round of beef. Seated upon an old stern of a ship, which is placed as a kind of national trophy at the inn door, and represents the British lion swallowing the lily of France, is the buxom landlady (at this time a very important personage), counting the money she has received for her interest in the borough; a grenadier watches her with that kind of eagerness which seems to intimate a desire of dividing the spoil. Settling the nation while they drink their ale, a barber and a cobbler are engaged in a dispute upon politics at the door of the Portobello[72] alehouse. The former seems describing, with pieces of broken tobacco-pipes, the great exploits of Admiral Vernon with six ships only. In the progress of this voluble harangue he has advanced something contrary to the cobbler's creed, and Crispin, being no great orator, offers to back his opinion by a wager. This the eloquent flourisher of a razor is either unwilling or unable to answer, and the self-important mender of bad soles triumphantly sweeps his cash from the table to his pocket. A fellow mounted on a cross-beam at the end of the Crown signpost deserves particular notice. Eagerly exercising his hand-saw, he strains every nerve to cut through the beam, totally negligent of his own situation, and forgetting that when the Crown drops—he must fall. To accelerate this operation, and bring the business to a more speedy crisis, two zealous coadjutors are exerting all their strength in pulling at a rope which is tied round the beam. This is one of the neatest pieces of allegory that Hogarth has delineated.
The crowd beneath are a fair representation of what we had occasion to notice before—the majesty of the people. Delighting in devastation, and blind to its consequences, they with one voice "cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war." The landlord, enraged at this wanton attack upon his castle, opens his window and discharges a blunderbuss amongst the assailants. Painted on the upper part of a show-cloth, and hung before the sign of the Royal Oak,[73] is a view of the Treasury, out of which a stream of gold is poured into a bag, which, when filled, will be hoisted into a large waggon now loading with guineas to defray the expense of the approaching elections. Next to this is a view of that solid specimen of Mr. Ware's taste and talents in architecture, the Horse Guards. To the cupola of this ponderous pile the artist has, with very little exaggeration, given the form of a beer barrel. In the centre arch the builder forgot proportion and neglected utility, so that the state coach could not pass through until the ground was lowered. To satirize this violation of the laws of Palladio, and inattention to the dictates of common sense, Hogarth has represented the royal carriage on the point of entering the arch, and the king's body-coachman without a head.[74] Beneath is delineated that ancient favourite of a puppet-show, the facetious Mr. Punch, with a barrow full of guineas, which, with a wooden ladle, he tosses up and scatters in the air, to the great delight of two sylvan freeholders who attempt to catch them in their hats. One of these simple swains,[75] having had his head broken with the gold, endeavours to guard his caput from future mishaps. An old woman standing behind them with a magic wand, I suppose to be Mrs. Punch. Underneath is a very applicable inscription, "Punch, a candidate for Guzzledown." A view in the background, between the Crown and Portobello, of a cottage embosomed in a wood, and a village in the distance, is highly picturesque. The tree, which spreads its foliage before the walls of the Royal Oak, has one withered bough; and enveloped by the luxuriant branches of a vine, hangs a wooden bunch of grapes.
The characters are admirable. Nothing can be superior to the haughty and oracular self-importance of the cobbler; the barber has all his professional volubility; and the leer of the countryman lets you into his whole soul. It is evidently directed to mine host of the Oak,[76] who, added to his superior weight of metal, has a superior weight of body, and a much more persuasive aspect. The Jew has the true countenance of his tribe. Of his customer, we may say in the language of Shylock,
"How like a fawning publican he looks!"
PLATE III.
THE POLLING.
"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.
THE ELECTION, PLATE III. THE POLLING.
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 ELECTION, PLATE IV. CHAIRING THE MEMBERS.
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.
