1755.
1. Four prints of an Election.[1] These, by Hogarth, came out at different times, viz. Plate I. Feb. 24, 1755 (inscribed to the Right Hon. Henry Fox); Plate II. Feb. 20, 1757, (to his Excellency Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, Ambassador to the Court of Russia); Plate III. Feb. 20, 1758, (to the Hon. Sir Edward Walpole, Knight of the Bath); Plate IV. Jan. 1, 1758, (to the Hon. George Hay,[2] one of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty). The original pictures are now in the possession of Mrs. Garrick, at Hampton. The inscription on the banner, "Give us our eleven days," alludes to the alteration of the Style in 1752; in which year, from the 2d to the 14th of September, eleven days were not reckoned by act of parliament. In the election-dinner, Mr. Hogarth assured the writer of this paragraph, that there is but one at table intended for a real portrait and that is the Irish gentleman [the present Sir John Parnell, nephew to the poet, and remarkable for a very flat nose], who is diverting the company by a face drawn with a burnt cork upon the back of his hand, while he is supposed to be singing—An old woman cloathed in grey. This gentleman (then an eminent attorney) begged it as a favour; declaring, at the same time, he was so generally known, that the introduction of his face would be of service to our artist in the sale of his prints at Dublin. Notwithstanding Hogarth's assertion, the handsome candidate is pronounced to be the late Thomas Potter, esq. and the effigy, seen through the window, with the words "No Jews" about its neck, to be meant for the late Duke of Newcastle. Of yet another real personage we receive notice, from a pamphlet intituled "The last Blow, or an unanswerable vindication of the Society of Exeter College, in reply to the Vice-chancellor Dr. King, and the writers of The London Evening Post." 4to. 1755. p. 21.—"The next character, to whose merits we would do justice, is the Rev. Dr. C—ff—t (Cofferat). But as it is very difficult to delineate this fellow in colours sufficiently strong and lively, it is fortunate for us and the Doctor, that Hogarth has undertaken that task. In the print of an Election Entertainment, the publick will see the Doctor represented sitting among the freeholders, and zealously eating and drinking for the sake of the New Interest. His venerable and humane aspect will at once bespeak the dignity and benevolence of his heart. Never did alderman at Guildhall devour custard with half such an appearance of love to his country, or swallow ale with so much the air of a patriot. These circumstances the pencil of Mr. Hogarth will undoubtedly make manifest; but it is much to be lamented, that his words also cannot appear in this print, and that the artist cannot delineate that persuasive flow of eloquence which could prevail upon Copyholders to abjure their base tenures, and swear themselves Freeholders. But this oratory (far different from the balderdash of Tully and Dr. King, concerning liberty and our country) as the genius of mild ale alone could inspire, this fellow alone could deliver."—The very paper of tobacco, inscribed "Kirton's Best," has its peculiar significance. This man was a tobacconist by St. Dunstan's Church in Fleet-street, and ruined his health and constitution, as well as impaired his circumstances, by being busy in the Oxfordshire election of 1754. Plate II. In the painted cloth depending from the sign-post, the height of The Treasury is contrasted with the squat solidity of The Horse-Guards, where the arch is so low, that the state-coachman cannot pass through it with his head on; and the turret on the top is so drawn as to resemble a beer-barrel. Ware the architect very gravely remarked, on this occasion, that the chief defect would have been sufficiently pointed out by making the coachman only stoop. He was hurt by Hogarth's stroke of satire. Money is likewise thrown from The Treasury windows, to be put into a waggon, and carried into the country. George Alexander Stevens, in his celebrated "Lecture on Heads," exhibited the man with a pot of beer, explaining, with pieces of a tobacco-pipe, how Porto Bello was taken with six ships only. In Plate III. Dr. Shebbeare, with fetters on, is prompting the idiot; and in Plate IV. the old Duke of Newcastle appears at a window. A happy parody in the last of these plates may, perhaps, have escaped the notice of common observers. Le Brun, in his battle of the Granicus, has represented an eagle hovering above the laurel'd helmet of Alexander. Hogarth has painted a goose flying over the periwig'd head of the successful candidate. During the contested Oxfordshire election in 1754, an outrageous mob in the Old Interest had surrounded a post-chaise, and was about to throw it into the river; when Captain T——, within-side, shot a chimney-sweeper who was most active in the assault. The captain was tried and acquitted. To this fact Hogarth is supposed to allude in the Monkey riding on the Bear, with a cockade in his hat, and a carbine by his side, which goes off and kills the little sweep, who has clambered up on the wall. The member chaired is said to bear more than an accidental resemblance to Mr. Dodington, afterwards Lord Melcombe.
In 1759 appeared "A Poetical Description of Mr. Hogarth's Election Prints,[3] in four Cantos. Written under Mr. Hogarth's sanction and inspection," which I shall with the less scruple transcribe at large below,[4] as it was originally 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."
In the second state of the first of these plates few variations are discoverable. The perspective in the oval over the stag's horns is improved. A shadow on the wainscot, proceeding from a supposed window on the left side, is effaced; the hand of the beldam kissing the young candidate, is removed from under her apron, and now dangles by her side: a saltseller is likewise missing from the table. In the first impression also, the butcher who is pouring gin on the broken head of another man, has For our Country on his cockade; in the second we find Pro Patria in its stead. The lemons and oranges that once lay on a paper, by the tub in which the boy is making punch, are taken away; because Hogarth, in all probability, had been informed that vitriol, or cream of tartar, is commonly used, instead of vegetable acids, when a great quantity of such liquor is prepared at public houses on public occasions. In the third impression a hat is added to those before on the ground, and another on the bench. The whole plate has also lost much of its former clearness. The original inscription at one corner of it was—"Painted, and the whole engraved by Wm. Hogarth."[5] The two Words in Italicks were afterwards effaced.
I may here observe, that this performance, in its original state, is by far the most finished and laborious of all Hogarth's engravings. Having been two years on sale (from 1755 to 1757) it was considerably worn before the publication of Plate the second; and was afterwards touched and retouched till almost all the original and finer traces of the burin were either obliterated or covered by succeeding ones. In short, there is the same difference between the earliest and latest impressions, as there was between the first and second state of Sir John Cutler's stockings, which, by frequent mending, from silk degenerated into worsted.
I learn also, on the best authority, that our artist, who was always fond of trying to do what no man had ventured to do before him, resolved to finish this plate without taking a single proof from it as he proceeded in his operation. The consequence of his temerity was, that he almost spoiled his performance. When he discovered his folly, he raved, stamped, and swore he was ruined, nor could be prevailed on to think otherwise, till his passion subsided, and a brother artist assisted him in his efforts to remedy the general defect occasioned by such an attempt to perform an impossibility.
In Plate II. we meet with a fresh proof of our artist's inattention to orthography; Party-tool (used as a proper name) being here spelt parti-tool. This plate was engraved by C. Grignion, and has been retouched, as the upper-row of the lion's teeth are quite obliterated in the second impression.
Plate III. The militia (or, as Hogarth spells it, milicia) bill appearing out of the pocket of the maimed voter, is only found in the second impression. This print was engraved by Hogarth and Le Cave.[6]
The dead man, whom they are bringing up as a voter, alludes to an event of the same kind that happened during the contested election between Bosworth and Selwyn. "Why," says one of the clerks, "you have brought us here a dead man."—"Dead!" cries the bringer; "dead as you suppose him, you shall soon hear him vote for Bosworth." On this, a thump was given to the body, which, being full of wind, emitted a sound that was immediately affirmed to be a distinct, audible, and good vote for the candidate already mentioned.—This circumstance, however, might have reference to the behaviour of the late Dr. Barrowby, who persuaded a dying patient he was so much better, that he might venture with him in his chariot to go and poll for Sir George Vandeput in Covent-Garden. The unhappy voter took his physician's advice, but expired in an hour after his return from the hustings. "If Hogarth," says Mr. Walpole, "had an emblematic thought, he expressed it with wit, rather than by a symbol. Such is that of the whore setting fire to the world in The Rake's Progress. Once indeed he descended to use an allegoric personage, and was not happy in it. In one of his Election prints [plate III.] Britannia's chariot breaks down, while the coachman and footman are playing at cards on the box."
In the second impressions of Plate IV.[7] (which was engraved by W. Hogarth and F. Aviline) the shadow on the sun-dial, denoting the hour, and the word indintur (commonly spelt indenture) on the scroll hanging out at the attorney's window, are both added. The fire from the gun is also continued farther; the bars of the church-gate are darkened; and the upper sprigs of a tree, which were bare at first, are covered with leaves.
By these marks, the unskilful purchaser may distinguish the early from the later impressions. I forbear therefore to dwell on more minute variations. The ruined house adjoining to the attorney's, intimating that nothing can thrive in the neighbourhood of such vermin, is a stroke of satire that should not be overlooked.
The publick were so impatient for this set of prints, that Hogarth was perpetually hastening his coadjutors, changing some, and quarrelling with others. Three of the plates therefore were slightly executed, and soon needed the reparations they have since received.
The following curious address appeared in the Public Advertiser of Feb. 28, 1757.
"Mr. Hogarth is obliged to inform the subscribers to his Election Prints, that the three last cannot be published till about Christmas next, which delay is entirely owing to the difficulties he has met with to procure able hands to engrave the plates; but that he neither may have any more apologies to make on such an account, nor trespass any further on the indulgence of the public by encreasing a collection already sufficiently large, he intends to employ the rest of his time in portrait-painting; chiefly this notice seems more necessary, as several spurious and scandalous prints[8] have lately been published in his name.
"All Mr. Hogarth's engraved works are to be had at his house in Leicester-fields, separate or together; as also his Analysis of Beauty, in 4to. with two explanatory prints, price 15s. With which will be delivered gratis, an eighteen-penny pamphlet published by A. Miller, called The Investigator, written in opposition to the principles laid down in the above Analysis of Beauty, by A. R.,[9] a friend to Mr. Hogarth, an eminent portrait-painter now of Rome."
The foregoing advertisement appears to have been written during the influence of a fit of spleen or disappointment, for nothing else could have dictated to our artist so absurd a resolution as that of quitting a walk he had trod without a rival, to re-enter another in which he had by no means distinguished himself from the herd of common painters.
[1] I learn from The Grub-street Journal for June 13, 1734, that the same subject had been attempted by an earlier hand, under the title of The Humours of a Country Election. The description of some of the compartments of this work (which I have not seen) bears particular resemblance to the scenes represented by Hogarth. "The candidates very complaisant to a Country Clown, &c."—"The candidates making an entertainment for the electors and their wives.—At the upper end of the table the Parson of the Parish, &c."
[2] The intimate friend of Hogarth, at that time a Commissioner of the Admiralty; afterwards Sir George Hay, knight, Dean of the Arches, Judge of the Prerogative Court, and also of the High Court of Admiralty, who died October 6, 1778, aged 63. He was possessed of several of Hogarth's paintings, which are now the property of Mr. Edwards, and have been mentioned in p. [98]. Our honourable Judge has the following character in a work of great authority.
On the trial of her Grace the Duchess of Kingston, for bigamy, before the House of Lords, in April 1776, the present Lord Chancellor Thurlow (then Attorney-General) thus speaks of Sir George as a judge:—"The most loose and unconsidered notion, escaping in any manner from that able and excellent judge, should be received with respect, and certainly will; if the question were my own, with the choice of my court, I should refer it to his decision." State Trials, XI. 221.
[3] "Things unattempted yet in prose or rhime." Milton.
CANTO I.
The Humours of an Election Entertainment.
Oh, born our wonder to engage!
Hogarth, thou mirror of the age!
Permit a Bard, though screen'd his name,
To court the sanction of your fame;
Pursue your genius, taste, and art,
And knowledge of the human heart:
Just as your pencil, could my pen
But trace the various ways of men;
Express the tokens of the mind,
The humours, follies, of mankind;
Then might Thyself this verse regard,
Nor deem beneath the task the bard:
Yet, though unfit, perhaps unknown,
I supplicate thy aid alone:
Let others all the Nine inspire,
Do Thou, O Hogarth, tune my lyre!
Let o'er my thoughts thy spirit shine,
And thy vast fancy waken mine:
I feel the genuine influence now!
It glows!—my great Apollo Thou!
The Writs are issued:—to the Town
The future Members hasten down;
The merry bells their welcome sound,
And mirth and jollity abound,
The gay retinue now comes in,
The crouds, with emulative din,
Proclaim th' arrival, rend the sky,
And Court and Country's all the cry.
Each joyous house, of free access,
For patriot plebeians, more or less,
Is now reveal'd, in printed bills;
So quacks contrive to vend their pills.
So Bayes makes Earth, and Sun, and Moon,
Discourse melodiously in tune;
And, full of wit and complaisance,
Cry, "First of all we'll have a dance!"
So at Elections 'tis discreet
Still first of all to have a treat;
The pulse of every man to try,
And learn what votes they needs must buy;
No freeman well can tell his side,
Unless his belly's satisfied.
Behold the festive tables set,
The Candidates, the Voters met!
And lo, against the wainscot plac'd,
Th' escutcheon, with three guineas grac'd,
The motto and the crest explain,
Which way the gilded bait to gain.
There William's mangled portrait tells
What rage in party bosoms dwells;
And here the banner speaks the cry
For "Liberty and Loyalty."
While scratches dignify his face,
The tipsy Barber tells his case;
How well he for his Honour fought!
How many devilish knocks he got!
While, forc'd to carry on the joke,
The 'Squire's just blinded with the smoke;
And gives his hand (for all are free)
To one that's cunninger than he:
With smart cockade, and waggish laugh,
He thinks himself more wise by half.
See Crispin, and his blouzy Kate,
Attack the other Candidate!
What joy he feels her head to lug!
"Well done, my Katy! coaxing pug!"
But who is this pray?—Abel Squatt—
What has the honest Quaker got?
Why, presents for each voter's lady,
To make their interest sure and steady:
For right and well their Honours know
What things the Petticoat can do.
Discordant sounds now grate the ear,
For music's hir'd to raise the cheer;
And fiddling Nan brisk scrapes her strings,
While Thrumbo's bass loud echoing rings,
And Sawney's bagpipes squeaking trill
"God save the King," or what you will.
Music can charm the savage breast,
And lull the fiercest rage to rest;
But Sawney's face bespeaks it plain,
That vermin don't regard the strain;
A creature, well to Scotchmen known,
Now nips him by the collar-bone:
Ah, luckless louse! in ambush lie,
Or, by St. Andrew, you must die!
Ye vers'd in men and manners! tell
Why Parsons always eat so well!
Catch they the spirit from the Gown,
To cram so many plate-fulls down?
The feast is o'er with all the rest,
But Mayor and Parson still contest:
I'll hold a thousand!—Lay the bett—
The odds are on the Parson yet:
Huzza! the Black-gown wins the day!—
The Mayor with oysters dies away!—[A]
But softly, don't exult so fast,
His spirit's noble to the last;
His mouth still waters at the dish;
His hand still holds his favourite fish:
Bleed him the Barber-surgeon wou'd;
He breathes a vein, but where's the blood?
No more it flows its wonted pace,
And chilly dews spread o'er his face:
The Parson sweats; but be it told,
The sweat is more from heat than cold:
"Bring me the chafing-dish!" he cries;
'Tis brought; the savoury fumes arise:
"My last tit-bit's delicious so;
Can oysters vie with venison?"—No.
Behold, through sympathy of face,
(In life a very common case)
His Lordship gives the fidler wine!
"Come, brother Chinny! yours and mine:"
And o'er a pretty girl confest,
The Alderman, see! toasts "the best."
Ye hearty cocks! who feel the gout,
Yet briskly push the glass about,
Observe, with crutch behind his chair,
Your honest brother Chalkstone there!
His phiz declares he seems to strain;
Perhaps the gravel gives him pain:
But be it either that or this,
One thing is certain—he's at * * * *,
A wag, the merriest in the town,
Whose face was never meant to frown,
See, at his straining makes a scoff!
And, singing, takes his features off;
While clowns, with joy and wonder, stare,
"Gad-zookers! Roger, look ye there!"
The busy Clerk the Taylor plies,
"Vote for his Honour, and be wise:
These yellow-boys are all your own!"
But he, with puritanic tone,
Cries, "Satan! take thy bribes from me;
Why this were downright perjury!"
His wife, with all-sufficient tongue,
For rage and scandal glibly hung,
Replies, "Thou blockhead! gold refuse,
When here's your child in want of shoes!"
But hark! what uproar strikes the ear!
Th' opposing mob, incens'd, draw near:
Their waving tatter'd ensigns see!
Here "Liberty and Property:"
A label'd Jew up-lifted high;
There "Marry all, and multiply."
These, these, are patrotic scenes!
But not a man knows what he means.
The jordan drives their zeal to cool,
With added weight of three-legg'd stool;
But all in vain; and who can't eat,
Now sally out the foe to beat;
For glory be the battle try'd;
Huzza! my boys, the yellow side.
Observe the loyal work begin,
And stones and brick-bats enter in!
That knocks a rustic veteran down;
This cracks the Secretary's crown;
His minute-book, of special note,
For every sure, and doubtful vote,
Now tumbles; ink the table dyes,
And backward poor Pill-Garlick lies.
The Butcher, one who ne'er knew dread,
A Surgeon turns for t'other's head;
His own already broke and bound,
Yet with pro patria decked around.
Behold what wonders gin can do,
External and internal too!
He thinks a plaster but a jest;
All cure with what they like the best:
Pour'd on, it sooths the patient's pain;
Pour'd in, it makes him fight again.
His toes perchance pop out his shoe,
Yet he's a patriot through and through;
His lungs can for his party roar,
As loud as twenty men, or more.
Ye courtiers! give your Broughton praise;
The hero of your eleven days,
'Tis his to trim th'opposers round,
And bring their standard to the ground.
The waiting-boy, astonish'd, eyes
What gin the new-turn'd quack applies;
And fills a tub, that glorious punch
May make amends for blow and hunch.
But stop, my lad, put in no more,
For t'other side are near the door;
Nor will their conscience deem it sin,
To guzzle all, if once they're in.
Reader, perhaps thy peaceful mind
Is not to noise or blood inclin'd;
Then, lest some hurt should happen quick,
For see a sword! and many a stick!
We'll leave this inn, with all my heart,
And hasten to the second part.
CANTO II.
Canvassing for Votes.
Free'd from the madness of the throng,
Now, gentle Reader, come along;
A broken head's no clever joke—
Sir, welcome to The Royal Oak;
Together let us look about——
We'll find that Show-cloth's meaning out.
Satire! 'tis thine, with keenest dart,
To shoot the follies of the heart;
And, issuing from the press or stage,
Reclaim the vain, the culprit age!
From Rich's dome, of grand renown,
To thatch-torn barn, in country town;
From Garrick, monarch of his art,
To Punch, so comical and smart;
Satire delights, in every sphere,
To make men laugh at what they are:
"Walk in, the only show in town;
Punch candidate for Guzzle-down!"
There see the pile, in modern taste,
On top with tub-like turret grac'd!
Where the cramp'd entrance, like some shed,
Knocks off the royal driver's head;
Lives there a Wit but what will cry,
"An arch so low is mighty high!"
See from the Treasury flows the gold,
To shew that those who're bought are sold!
Come, Perjury, meet it on the road,
'Tis all your own; a waggon-load.
Ye party-tools, ye courtier-tribe,
Who gain no vote without a bribe,
Lavishly kind, yet insincere,
Behold in Punch yourselves appear!
And you, ye fools, who poll for pay,
Ye little great men of a day;
For whom your favourite will not care,
Observe how much bewitch'd you are!
Yet hush!—for see his Honour near;—
Truly, a pretty amorous leer:
The ladies both look pleasant too;
"Purchase some trinkets of the Jew."
One points to what she'd have him buy;
The other casts a longing eye;
And Shylock, money-loving soul,
Impatient waits to touch the cole:
But here's a Porter; what's the news?—
Ha, ha, a load of billet-doux!
Humbly to sue th' Electors' favour,
With vows of Cato-like behaviour;
And how the Borough he'll espouse,
When once a Member of the House:
Though wiser folks will lay a bet,
His promises he'll then forget.
But pray your Honour condescend
An eye on kneeling Will to lend;
Grant to the fair the toys they chuse,
And what the letter says, peruse:
"To Timothy Parti-tool, Esquire."—
Your title may in time be higher.
Ha, who stands here?—'Tis Farmer Rye,
A man of cunning, by the bye;
In times like this a mighty stirrer,—
Of some small interest in the Borough.
Which side? you ask—the question's well,
But more, as yet, than he can tell.
The hosts of either party try;
To both he casts a knowing eye.
"Sir, I'm commission'd by the 'Squire—
Your company they all desire:
My house contains near half the town—
'Tis just at hand, Sir;—'tis The Crown."
Then t'other cries, "Sure I first spoke—
This inn is mine!—The Royal Oak—
Sir, here's his Honour's invitation;
The greatest Patriot in the nation."
Which party shall the voter take,
Since both the same pretentions make?
The same?—sure not—for see each hand!
Aye, now he seems to understand:
The Crown Host fees him o'er his arm;
But t'other tips the stronger charm.
One, two, three, four—the jobb is done—
Troth, cunning Fatty, you have won;
Success in that sly glance is shown;
The honest Farmer's all your own:
But don't exult; for, being loth
To disoblige, he takes from both.
Oh, Britain! favourite Isle of Heaven,
When to thy Sons shall Peace be given?
The treachery of the Gallic shore
Makes even thy wooden lions roar.
That royal beast, who many a league
At sea hath sail'd with vengeance big!
And oft has scar'd the hostile coast,
Tho' fix'd in Inn-Yard, like a post,
Still keeps his furious power in use;
Devouring of the Flower-de-luce.
How certain those expanded paws!
How dreadful those extended jaws!
Behind him sits the Hostess fair,
Counting her cash with earned care;
While at the door the Grenadier
Inspects her with a cunning leer;
As who should say, "When we're alone,
Some part of that will be my own!"
But who are those two in the Bar?
Guttlers I fancy—that they are;
The fowl to Him's a noble feast;
He sure makes mouths, to mock the beast;
And t'other hopes to find relief,
By eating half the round of beef.
From George, who wears the British crown,
To the remotest country clown,
The love of politics extends,
And oft makes foes of nearest friends.
The Cobler and the Barber there,
That born to frown, and this to stare,
Both positive, you need not doubt,
Will argue till they both fall out.
"Well," says the Tonsor, "now we'll try,
Who's in the right, yourself or I:
One moment let your tongue be still,
Or else be judg'd by Johnny Hill:
Vernon he thought a glorious fellow,
Which made him put up Porto Bello.
I'll teach you reason, if I can—
I should though shave the Gentleman;
But never mind it, let him wait;—
These bits of pipe the case shall state"—
"Drink," cries the Cobler, "I'm adry;
Pshaw, damn your nonsense, what care I?
I told you first, and all along,
I'll lay this cole you're in the wrong;
I hope his worship will excuse,
I should, though, carry home his shoes."
"Well, well," the Barber makes reply,
"Election-time puts business by:
Only six ships our Admiral had;
A very slender force, egad;
What then? our dumplings gave them sport:—
Here stood one castle; there the fort."—
"'Sblood," cries the Cobler, "go to school,
You half-learn'd, half-starv'd, silly fool!
I tell you, Barber, 'tis not true;
Sure I can see as much as you."
But hark, what noise our ears assails!
A distant, loud huzza, prevails;
Ha, ha, they're at their wonted sport;
That was a gun, by the report:
Behold the rabble at The Crown!
"Damn, damn, th' Excise; we'll have it down."
And all the while, poor simple elves,
They little think 'twill crush themselves.
Danger again may wait our stay,
So, courteous Reader, come away.
CANTO III.
Polling at the Hustings.
Swift, reverend wag, Ierne's pride,
Who lov'd the comic rein to guide,
Has told us, "Gaolers, when they please,
Let out their flock, to rob for fees."
From this sage hint, in needful cases,
The wights, who govern other places,
Let out their crew, for private ends,
Ergo, to serve themselves and friends.
Behold, here gloriously inclin'd,
The Sick, and Lame, the Halt, and Blind!
From Workhouse, Gaol, and Hospital,
Submiss they come, true Patriots all!
But let's get nearer, while we stay,—
Good Master Constable, make way!
"Hoi! keep the passage clear and fair;—
I'll break your shins!—stand backward there;
What! won't you let the Pollers come:"—
Reader, they think us so—but mum.
Now praise and prejudice expand,
In printed bills, from hand to hand;
One tells, the 'Squire's a man of worth;
Generous and noble from his birth:
Another plainly makes appear,
"Some circumstance, in such a year."
The voice of Scandal's sure to wait,
Or true, or false, each Candidate.
Observe the waving flags applied,
To let Free-holders know their side!
Hark, at each vote exult the crew!
"Yellow! Huzza!—Huzza! the Blue!"
Whoe'er has walk'd through Chelsea town,
Which Buns and Charity renown,
Has many a College Veteran seen,
With scar-seam'd face, and batter'd mien,
But here's a theme for future story!
Survey that Son of Mars before ye!
Was ever Pensioner like him?—
What, almost robb'd of every limb!
Only one arm, one leg, one thigh;
Gods! was that man design'd to die?
Inspect his ancient, war-like face!
See, with what surly, manly grace,
He gives the Clerk to understand
His meaning, with his wooden hand!
Perhaps in Anna's glorious days,
His courage gain'd immortal praise:
Britons, a people brave and rough,
That time lov'd fighting well enough;
And, glad their native land to aid,
Leg-making was a thriving trade;
But now we from ourselves depart,
And war's conducted with new art;
Our Admirals, Generals, learn to run,
And Leg-makers are all undone.
Still he's an open, hearty blade,
Pleas'd with his sword, and gay cockade:
Unbrib'd he votes; and 'tis his pride;
He always chose the honest side.
You think he seems of man but half,
But, witty Clerk, suppress your laugh;
His heart is in its usual place,
And that same hook may claw your face.
How learnedly that Lawyer pleads!
"A vote like this, Sir, ne'er succeeds;
The naked hand should touch the book;
Observe h'as only got a hook."
"Sir," cries the other, "that's his hand;"
(Quibbles, like you, I understand)
"And be it either flesh or wood,
By Heavens! his vote is very good."
Wise Counsellor! you reason right,
You'll gain undoubted credit by't;
But please to turn your head about,
And find that Idiot's meaning out;
Dismiss the Whisperer from his chair,
'Tis quite illegal, quite unfair;
Though shackles on his legs are hung,
Those shackles can't confine his tongue;
Methinks I hear him tell the Nisey,
"Be sure to vote as I advise ye;
My writings shew I'm always right;
The nation sinks; we're ruin'd quite
America's entirely lost;
The French invade our native coast;
Our Ministers won't keep us free;—-
You know all this as well as me.
All men of parts are out of place;
'Tis mine, 'tis many a wise man's case;
And though so Cato-like I write,
I ne'er shall get a farthing by't."
Good Clerk, dispatch them quick, I pray:
How easy fools are led astray!
He thinks th' insinuation's true,
As all the race of Idiots do.
But who comes here? Ha, one just dead,
Ravish'd from out th' infirmary's bed;
Through racking follies sad and sick,
Yet to the cause he'll ever stick;
Tie the groat favour on his cap,
And die True Blue, whate'er may hap.
Oh, Vice! through life extends thy reign:
When Custom fixes thy domain,
Not Wesley's cant, nor Whitfield's art,
Can chace thee from th' envelop'd heart!
Behold that wretch! whom Venus knows
Has in her revels lost his nose;
Still with that season'd Nurse he toys;
As erst indulges sensual joys;
Can drink, and crack a bawdy joke,
And still can quid, as well as smoke.
But, Nurse, don't smile so in his face;
Sure this is not a proper place;
Take from your duggs his hand away,
And mind your sick-charge better, pray;
Consider, if his faithful side
Should hear that in their cause he died,
They'd be so much enrag'd, I vow,
They'd punish you!—the Lord knows how.
Beside, you take up too much room,
That boy-led Blind-man wants to come;
And 'scap'd from wars, and foreign clutches,
An Invalid's behind on crutches.
The man whose fortune suits his wish,
A glutton at each favourite dish;
Who, when o'er venison, ne'er will spare it,
And washes down some rounds with claret;
That man will have a portly belly,
And be of consequence, they tell ye;
Grandeur shall 'tend his air and gait,
And make him like—that Candidate:
Observe him on the hustings sit!
Fatigu'd, he sweats, or seems to sweat;
Scratching his pate, with shook-back wig,
And puffs, and blows, extremely big:
Perhaps that paper hints about
Votes, whose legality's a doubt;
And will by scrutiny be try'd,
Unless they're on the proper side.
Stiff as if Rackstraw,[B] fam'd for skill,
For genius, taste, or what you will,
With temper'd plaister, stood in haste,
From his set face to form the cast;
Resting on oak-stick stedfastly,
The other would-be Member see!
Struck with his look, so fix'd and stout,
That Wag resolves to sketch it out;
Laughing, they view the pencil'd phiz.—
"'Tis very like him—that it is."
Hark to yon hawker with her songs!
"The Gallows shall redress our wrongs!"
I warrant, wrote in humourous style;
The hearers laugh; the readers smile.
And lo, although so thick the rout,
They've room to push the glass about!
Variety her province keeps;
One Beadle watches; t'other sleeps.
But see that chariot! who rides there?
Britannia, Sir, a lady fair:
To her celestial charms are given;
Ador'd on earth, beloved in heaven;
Her frown makes nations dread a fall;
Her smile gives joy and life to all.
Too generous, merciful, and kind;
Her Servants won't their duty mind;
Neither their Mistress' call regards;
Their study's how to cheat at cards;
The reins of power, oh, indiscreet!
They trample, careless, under feet;
Th' unguided coursers neigh and spurn,
And ah, the car must overturn!
Just gods, forbid!—there's comfort yet!
For, lo, how near that saving Pitt!
Sure Heaven design'd her that resource,
To stop her venal servants course;
Her peace and safety to restore,
And keep from dangers evermore.
Ha! see, yon distant cavalcade!
Exulting crowds, and flags display'd!
Let's to the bridge our foot-steps bend—
So cheek by jole, along, my friend.
CANTO IV.
Chairing the Members.
"Huzza! the Country! not the Court!"—.
Your Honour can't have better sport;
In old arm-chair aloft you soar—
No Candidate can wish for more.
Th' election's got, the day's your own,
And be to all their member known!
Ye Moths of an exalted size!
Ye sage Historians, learn'd and wise!
Who pore on leaves of old tradition;
Vers'd in each prætor exhibition;
Tell me if, 'midst the spoils of age,
And relicks of the moulder'd page,
You e'er found why this aukward state
Must 'tend the man who'd fain be great!
When Alexander, Glory's son,
Enter'd in triumph Babylon,
Hear ancient annals make confession,
How aggrandiz'd was his procession!
But this is Skymington, I trow!——
Yet Time proclaims We must[C] do so.
It sure was meant to make folks stare,
"Like cloths hung out at country fair:
Where painted monsters rage and grin,
To draw the gaping bumpkins in."[D]
Minerva's sacred bird's an owl;
Our candidate's, behold, a fowl!
From which we readily suppose
(As now his generous Honour's chose)
His voice he'll in the Senate use;
And cackle, cackle, like—a goose.
But, hark ye! you who bear this load
Of patriot worth along the road,
Methinks you make his Honour lean;
Be careful, Sirs!—Zounds! what d' ye mean?
Off flies his hat, back leans his chair,
And dread of falling makes him stare.
His Lady, fond to see him ride,
With Nurse and Black-moor at her side,
In church-yard stands to view the sight,
And at his danger's in a fright.
"Alack, alack, she faints away!"
"The hartshorn, Ora—quick, I say!"
See, at yon house th' opposing party
Enjoy the joke, with laughter hearty!
"Well done, my boys—now let him fall;
Here's gin and porter for you all!"
But let's find whence this came about:
Ha, lo, that Thresher bold and stout!
How, like a hero, void of dread,
He aims to crack that sailor's head!
While, with the purchase of the stroke,
Behind, the bearer's pate is broke:
The sailor too resolves to drub,
Wrathful he sways the ponderous club;
Who to stir up his rage shall dare?
He'll fight for ever—for his Bear.
Sir Hudibras agreed, Bear-baiting
Was carnal, and of man's creating;
But, had he like that Thresher done,
I'll hold a wager, ten to one,
His knighthood had not kept him safe;
That Tar had trimm'd both him and Ralph.
In fighting George's glorious battles,
To save our liberties and chattels;
Commanded by some former Howe,
Ordain'd to make proud Gallia bow,
A cannon-ball took off his leg:
What then? he scorns, like some, to beg;
That muzzled beast is taught to dance,
That Ape to ape the beaux of France;
The countryfolks admire the sport,
And small collections pay him for't.
Sailors and Soldiers ne'er agree;—
There's difference twixt the Land and Sea;
He, willing not a jest shall 'scape,
In uniform riggs out his Ape:—
From which we reasonably infer
An Ape may be an Officer.
But, hey-day! more disasters still?
Turn quick thy head, bold sailor Will.
In vain that fellow, on his Ass,
Attempts to Hogs at home to pass,
The hungry Bear, who thinks no crime
To feast on guts at any time,
Arrests the garbage in the tub,
And with his snout begins to grub.
Pray is it friendly, honest brother,
That one Ass thus should ride another?
The beast seems wearied with his toil,
And, like the bear, would munch a while.
The good wife thought that every pig
Should in the wash, then coming, swig;
And went industriously to find
Her family of the hoggish kind;
But, oh, unhappy fate to tell!
Behind the Thresher down she fell:
Indeed the wonder were no more,
Had she, by chance, fall'n down before:
Away the sow affrighted runs,
Attended by her little ones:
Those gruntings to each other sounding;
This squeaking shrill, through fear of drowning.
"The lamb thou doom'st to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, wou'd he play?"[E]
And did that Bear know he'd be beat,
Would he from out that firkin eat?
The Ass's rider lifts his stick;
Take out your nose, old Bruin, quick;
A grin of vengeance arms his face,
Presaging torture, and disgrace.
The Ape, who dearly loves to ride
On Bruin's back, in martial pride,
Dejected at the sad occasion,
Looks up, with soft commiseration;
As if to speak, "Oh, spare my friend!
Avert that blow you now intend!"
'Tis complaisant, good-natur'd too;—
Much more than many Apes would do.
Observe the chimney-sweepers, there!
On gate-post, how they laugh and stare;
Those bones, and emblematic skull,
Have no effect to make them dull;
Pleas'd they adorn the death-like head
With spectacles of gingerbread.
When London city's bold train-band[F]
March, to preserve their track of land,
Each val'rous heart the French defying,
While drums are beating, colours flying,
How many accidents resound
From Tower-hill to th' Artillery-ground!
Perhaps some hog, in frisky pranks,
Unluckily breaks through their ranks,
And makes the captain storm and swear,
To form their soldiers, as they were:
Or else the wadding, which they ram,
Pop into some one's ear they jam;
Or not alert at gun and sword,
When their commander gives the word
To fire, amidst the dust and clamour,
Forget to draw their desperate rammer;
And one or two brave comrades hit,
As cooks fix larks upon a spit.
That Monkey's sure not of the reg'ment,
Yet still his arms should have abridgement;
The little, aukward, martial figure,
Will wriggle till he pulls the trigger:
'Tis done—and see the bullet fly!—
Pop down, you rogue! or else you'll die.
Survey, as merry as a grig,
The Fiddler dancing to his jig!
No goat, by good St. David rear'd,
Could ever boast more length of beard:
'Tis his to wait on Master Bruin,
And tune away to all he's doing;
You think this strange, but 'tis no more,
Than Orpheus did in days of yore;
With modern fiddlers so it fares;
They often scratch to dancing-bears.
He took to scraping in his prime,
And plays in tune, as well as time;
Elections cheer his merry heart;
Sure always then to play his part:
In toping healths as great a soaker
As executing Ally Croaker.
Tho' some Musicians scarce can touch
The strings, if drunk a glass too much;
Yet he'll tope ale, or stout October,
And scrape as well when drunk, as sober.
Lo, on yon stone which shows the way.
That travellers mayn't go astray;
And tells how many miles they lag on,
From London, in the drawling waggon,
A Soldier sits, in naked buff!
In troth, Sir, this is odd enough!
His head bound up, his sword-blade broken,
And flesh with many a bloody token,
Declare he fought extremely well;
But which had best on't, who can tell?
If he were victor, 'tis confest,
To be so maul'd makes bad the best:
What though he smart, he likes the jobb;
'Tis great to head a party-mob.
But what reward for all he did?—
Oh, Sir, he'll never want a—quid.
There's somewhat savory in the wind—
Those Courtiers, Friend, have not yet din'd:
Their true ally, grave Puzzle-cause,
A man right learned in the laws,
(Whose meagre clerk below can't venture,
And wishes damn'd the long indenture),
As custom bids, prepares the dinner,
For, though they've lost, yet he's the winner.
See, the domestic train appear!
Old England bringing up the rear!
Curse on their stomachs, who can't brook
Good English fare, from English cook!
Observe lank Monsieur, in amaze,
Upon the valiant soldier gaze!
"Morbleu! you love de fight, ve see,
But dat is no de dish for ve."
Behold, above, that azure garter—
Look, now he whispers, like a tartar;
By button fast he holds the other,
The lost election makes a pother.
"All this parade is idle stuff—
We know our interest well enough—
We still support what we espouse;
We'll bring the matter in the House."
Of some wise man, perhaps philosopher,
(If not, it flings the vice a gloss over)
I've read, who, Maudlin-like, would cry
Soon as he 'ad drunk his barrel dry:
Yon fellow, certain as a gun,
Of that Philosopher's a Son:
Long as the pot the beer could scoop,
He scorn'd, like swine, to trough to stoop;
But, now 'tis shallow, kneels devout,
Eager to suck the last drop out.
Vociferous Loyalty's a-dry,
And, lo, they bear a fresh supply!
That all the mob may roar applause,
And know they'll never starve the cause.
When grey-mare proves the better horse,
The man is mis'rable of course;
That Taylor leads a precious life—
Look at the termagant his wife,
She pays him sweetly o'er the head;—
"Get home, you dog, and get your bread;
Shall I have nothing to appear in,
While you get drunk electioneering?"
See from the Town-hall press the crowd,
While rustic Butchers ring aloud!
There, lo, their cap of liberty!
Here t'other side in effigy!
A notable device, to call
The Courtier party blockheads all:
Aloft True-Blue, their ensign, flies,
And acclamations rend the skies.
Reflect, my friend, and judge from thence.
How idle this extreme expence;
What mighty sums are thrown away,
To be the pageant of the day!
In vain Desert implores protections;
The Rich are fonder of Elections.
Th' ambitious Peer, the Knight, the 'Squire,
Can buy the Borough they desire;
Yet see, with unassisting eye,
Arts fade away, and Genius die.
Tir'd with the applauding, and the sneering,
And all that's styl'd Electioneering,
I think to take a little tour,
And likely tow'rd the Gallic shore;
The Muse, to whom we bear no malice,
Invites me to the Gate of Calais.[G]
That gate to which a knight of worth,
'Yclep'd Sir Loin, of British birth,
Advanc'd, though not in hostile plight,
And put their army in a fright.
But more it fits not, here to tell,
So, courteous Reader, fare thee well.
[A] In The European Magazine for the month of Oct. 1784, appears a letter on the subject of Painting, signed C. I. F. which contains the following extraordinary criticism on the circumstance here described.
"Our own inimitable Hogarth has, in some of his latter pieces, grossly violated this rule; and, for the sake of crowding his piece with incidents, has represented what could not happen at all.
"In his representation of an Election Feast, he has placed a man at the end of the table with an oyster still upon his fork, and his fork in his hand, though his coat must have been stripped up from his arm after he took it up, by the surgeon, who has made an ineffectual attempt to let him blood. Supposing gluttony to have so far absorbed all the persons present, even at the end of a feast, as that none of them should pay the least attention to this incident, which is, if not impossible, improbable in the highest degree, they must necessarily have been alarmed at another incident that is represented as taking place at the same moment: a great stone has just broke through the window, and knocked down one of the company, who is exhibited in the act of falling; yet every one is represented as pursuing his purpose with the utmost tranquillity."
I must entreat my reader to examine the print, before I can expect belief, when I assure him, that for this criticism there is not the slightest foundation.—The magistrate is bled in the right arm, which is bared for that purpose, by stripping the coat-sleeve from it.—It is in his left hand that he holds the fork with the oyster on it, his coat-sleeve being all the while on his left arm.—As to the attention of the company, it is earnestly engaged by different objects; and Hogarth perhaps designed to insinuate that accidents, arising from repletion or indigestion, are too common at election dinners to attract notice or excite solicitude.—The brickbat has not noisily forced its way through a window, but was thrown in at a casement already open; and a moment must have elapsed before an event so instantaneous could be perceived in an assembly, every individual of which had his distinct avocation. Of this moment our artist has availed himself. Till, therefore, the accident was discovered, he has, with the utmost propriety, left every person present to pursue his former train of thought or amusement.
[B] The ingenious artist in Fleet-street, well known to the learned and ingenious, by his excellence in taking Busts from the Life, and casts from Anatomical Dissections.
[C] See the Dial in Plate IV.
[D] See the Prologue to a farce called "The Male Coquette."
[E] See Pope's Essay on Man.
[F] This passage will, perhaps, be better illustrated by the following paragraph, printed in a daily paper called "The Citizen:"—"Saturday last, being the first day of August Old Stile, the Artillery Company marched according to custom once in three years (called Barnes's March, by which they hold an estate): they went to Sir George Whitmore's, and took a dunghill. As they were marching through Bunhill-Row, a large hog ran between a woman's legs and threw her down, by which accident the ranks were broke, which put the army in the utmost confusion before they could recover."
[5] The earliest impressions of this plate in its second state, have the same inscription.
[6] Morellon Le Cave. Mr. Walpole, in his catalogue of English engravers, (octavo edit.) professes to know no more of this artist than that he was "a scholar of Picart" and "did a head of Dr. Pococke before Twells's edition of the Doctor's works." In the year 1739, however, he engraved Captain Coram, &c. at the head of the Power of Attorney, &c. (a description of which see p. [254]. of the present work) and afterwards was Hogarth's coadjutor in this third of his Election plates. At the bottom of it he is only styled Le Cave.
[7] Some of these scenes having been reversed by the engraver, the figures in them are represented as using their left hands instead of their right.
[8] Query, what were the scandalous prints to which he alludes?
[9] This A. R. was Allan Ramsay, but having never met with his performance, I can give no account of it.