Biographical Anecdotes of William Hogarth, With a Catalogue of His Works

by John Nichols

1763.

1. John Wilkes, Esq. Drawn from the life, and etched in aquafortis by Wm. Hogarth. Price 1s. It was published with the following oblique note. This is "a direct contrast to a print of Simon Lord Lovat."[1]

Mr. Wilkes, with his usual good humour, has been heard to observe, that he is every day growing more and more like his portrait by Hogarth.

In the second impressions of this plate there are a few slight variations, sufficient at least to shew that the face of the person represented had been retouched. I have been told, by a copper-plate printer, that near 4000 copies of this caricature were worked off on its first publication. Being kept up for two or three following nights on the occasion, he has reason to remember it.

[1] The original drawing, which was thrown by Hogarth into the fire, was snatched out of it by Mrs. Lewis, and is now in the possession of Mr. S. Ireland.

2. The Bruiser C. Churchill,[1] in the character of a Russian Hercules, &c. The Russian Hercules was thus explained, in August, 1763, by an admirer of Hogarth: "The principal figure is a Russian Bear (i. e. Mr. Churchill) with a club in his left paw, which he hugs to his side, and which is intended to denote his friendship to Mr. Wilkes: on the notches of the club are wrote, Lye 1, Lye 2, &c. signifying the falsities in The North Briton: in his other paw is a gallon pot of porter, of which (being very hot) he seems going to drink: round his neck is a clergyman's band, which is torn, and seems intended to denote the bruiser. The other figure is a Pug-dog, which is supposed to mean Mr. Hogarth himself, pissing with the greatest contempt on the epistle wrote to him by C. Churchill. In the centre is a prison begging-box, standing on a folio, the title of which is, Great George-Street. A list of the Subscribers to the North Briton: underneath is another book, the title of which is, A New Way to pay Old Debts, a Comedy, by Massinger. All of which allude to Mr. Wilkes's debts, to be defrayed by the subscriptions to The North Briton."

The same design is thus illustrated by a person who thought somewhat differently of our artist: "The Bear, with the shattered band, represents the former strength and abilities of Mr. Hogarth: the full pot of beer likewise shews that he was in a land of plenty. The stump of a headless tree with the notches, and on them wrote Lye, Signifies Mr. Hogarth's former art, and the many productions thereof, wherein he has excelled even Nature itself, and which of course must be but lies, flattery, and fallacy, the Painter's Prerogative; and the stump of the tree only being left, shews that there can be no more fruit expected from thence, but that it only stands as a record of his former services. The Butcher's Dog pissing upon Mr. Churchill's epistle, alludes to the present state of Mr. Hogarth; that he is arrived at such an age to be reduced so low, as, from the strength of a Bear, to a blind Butcher's Dog, not able to distinguish, but pissing upon his best friend; or, perhaps, giving the public a hint to read that Epistle, where his case is more fully laid before them. The next matter to be explained is the subscription-box, and under it is a book said to contain a list of the Subscribers to the North Briton, as well as one of a New Way to pay Old Debts. Mr. Hogarth mentioned The North Briton, to avoid the censure of the rabble in the street, who, he knew, would neither pity nor relieve him; and as Mr. Churchill was reputed to be the writer of that paper, it would seem to give a colour in their eyes of its being intended against Mr. Churchill. Mr. Hogarth meant only to shew his necessity, and that a book, entitled A List of the Subscribers to the North Briton, contained, in fact, a list of those who should contribute to the support of Mr. Hogarth in old age. By the book entitled A New Way to pay Old Debts, he can only mean this, that when a man is become disabled to get his livelihood, and much in debt, the only shift he has left is, to go a-begging to his creditors.

"There are likewise some of his old tools in this print, without any hand to use them."

On the same occasion were published the following verses, "on Mr. Hogarth's last delicate performance:"

"What Merit could from native Genius boast,
To civilize the age, and please us most,
In lasting images each scene to grace,
And all the soul to gather in the face,
In one small sheet a volume to conceal,
Yet all the story finely to reveal,
Was once the glory of our Hogarth's name;
But see, the short-liv'd eminence of fame
Now dwindles like the exit of a flame,
From which when once the unctuous juice is fled,
A stinking vapour rises in its stead:
So drops our Painter in his later day,
His former virtue worn, alas! away,
What busy dæmon, for thy cursed design'd,
Could thus induce the rancour of thy mind
To strike so boldly, with an impious hand,
Against the blessings of thy native land?
Open and unabash'd thy fury flies,
And all regard for liberty denies.
"When Catiline, with more than human hate,
Resolv'd the ruin of the Roman state,
In secret he pursu'd the hellish plan,
Nor did his wickedness survive the man.
His cruel arts are all by others shown,
And thou the brave assertor of thy own:
Nay, thy grim sheets thy principles will show,
When Charon wafts thee to the realms below,
Where all like thee shall unlamented go."

And also what the writer called,

"A Slap at Both Sides."
"Whilst Bruin and Pug contend for the prize
Of merit in scandal, would parties be wise,
And with honest derision contemn the dispute,
The Bear would not roar, and the Dog would be mute:
For they equally both their patrons betray,
No sense of Conviction their reasons convey;
So neither may hope one convert to gain,
For the Rhime makes me sick, and the Print gives me pain."[2]

This plate, however, originally contained our artist's own portrait (see p. [295]). To shew the contempt in which he held the "Poetical Epistle to Hogarth,[3] he makes the pug-dog water on it, but in a manner by no means natural to his species. Perhaps there is the same error relative to the Monkey in the print of the Strollers. This kind of evacuation, however, appears to have been regarded by Hogarth as a never-failing joke. On the palette he exhibits the North Britons, and a begging-box to collect subscriptions for them. Designed and engraved by W. Hogarth.

In the first impression of this print three of the upper knots on the club or ragged staff (viz. 1. 3. 5.) are left white. In the second impression they are completely shaded; the ruffle on the hand that clasps the pot of porter is likewise hatched over, and the shoulder of the animal made rounder. Minute differences occur in the other knots, &c. The inscription, instead of Russian, reads Modern Hercules.

[1] In a letter written to his friend Mr. Wilkes, dated Aug. 3, 1763, Churchill says: "I take it for granted you have seen Hogarth's Print against me. Was ever any thing so contemptible? I think he is fairly felo de se—I think not to let him off in that manner, although I might safely leave him to your notes. He has broke into my pale of private life, and set that example of illiberality which I wished—of that kind of attack which is ungenerous in the first instance, but justice in return. I intend an Elegy on him, supposing him dead; but * * tells me with a kiss, he will be really dead before it comes out: that I have already killed him, &c. How sweet is flattery from the woman we love! and how weak is our boasted strength when opposed to beauty and good sense with good nature!"—In Mr. Churchill's will is the following passage: "I desire my dear friend, John Wilkes, Esq. to collect and publish my Works, with the Remarks and Explanations he has prepared, and any others he thinks proper to make."

[2] In a few days after, the following Advertisement, for a satirical Print on Hogarth, was published:

Tara, Tan, Tara! Tara, Tan, Tara!

This Day made its appearance at the noted SUMPTER's Political Booth, next door to The Brazen Head, near Shoe-Lane, Fleet-street, which began precisely at twelve at noon, a new humourous performance, entitled, The BRUISER TRIUMPHANT: or, The Whole Farce of the Leicester-fields Pannel Painter. The principal parts by Mr. H[ogarth], Mr. W[ilkes], Mr. C[hurchill], &c. &c. &c. Walk in, Gentlemen, walk in! No more than 6 d. a-piece!

[3] The reader shall judge for himself of this Epistle's "power to hurt."

"Amongst the sons of men, how few are known
Who dare be just to merit not their own!
Superior virtue, and superior sense,
To knaves and fools will always give offence;
Nay, men of real worth can scarcely bear,
So nice is Jealousy, a rival there.
"Be wicked as thou wilt, do all that's base,
Proclaim thyself the monster of thy race;
Let Vice and Folly thy Black Soul divide,
Be proud with meanness, and be mean with pride!
Deaf to the voice of Faith and Honour, fall
From side to side, yet be of none at all;
Spurn all those charities, those sacred ties,
Which Nature in her bounty, good as wise,
To work our safety, and ensure her plan,
Contriv'd to bind, and rivet man to man;
Lift against Virtue Power's oppressive rod,
Betray thy Country, and deny thy God;
And, in one general comprehensive line,
To group, which volumes scarcely could define,
Whate'er of Sin and Dulness can be said.
Join to a F——'s heart a D——'s head.
Yet mayst thou pass unnotic'd in the throng,
And, free from Envy, safely sneak along.
The rigid Saint, by whom no mercy's shewn
To Saints whose lives are better than his own,
Shall spare thy crimes; and Wit, who never once
Forgave a Brother, shall forgive a Dunce."

After this nervous introduction, our satirist proceeds:

"Hogarth—I take thee, Candour, at thy word,
Accept thy proffer'd terms, and will be heard;
Thee have I heard with virulence declaim,
Nothing retain'd of Candour but the name;
By thee have I been charg'd in angry strains
With that mean falshood which my soul disdains—
Hogarth, stand forth—Nay hang not thus aloof—
Now, Candour, now Thou shalt receive such proof—
Such damning proof, that henceforth Thou shalt fear
To tax my wrath, and own my conduct clear—
HOGARTH stand forth—I dare thee to be tried
In that great Court, where Conscience must preside;
At that most solemn bar hold up thy hand;
Think before whom, on what account you stand—-
Speak, but consider well—from first to last
Review thy life, weigh every action past—
Nay, you shall have no reason to complain—
Take longer time, and view them o'er again—
Canst Thou remember from thy earliest youth,
And as thy God must judge Thee, speak the truth,
A single instance where, Self laid aside,
And Justice taking place of fear and pride,
Thou with an equal eye didst Genius view,
And give to Merit what was Merit's due?
Genius and Merit are a sure offence,
And thy soul sickens at the name of Sense.
Is any one so foolish to succeed?
On Envy's altar he is doom'd to bleed.
Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes,
The place of Executioner supplies.
See how he glotes, enjoys the sacred feast,
And proves himself by cruelty a priest.
"Whilst the weak Artist, to thy whims a slave,
Would bury all those powers which Nature gave,
Would suffer blank concealment to obscure
Those rays, thy Jealousy could not endure;
To feed thy vanity would rust unknown,
And to secure thy credit blast his own,
In Hogarth he was sure to find a friend;
He could not fear, and therefore might commend.
But when his Spirit, rous'd by honest Shame,
Shook off that Lethargy, and soar'd to Fame,
When, with the pride of Man, resolv'd and strong,
He scorn'd those fears which did his Honour wrong,
And, on himself determin'd to rely,
Brought forth his labours to the public eye,
No Friend in Thee, could such a Rebel know;
He had desert, and Hogarth was his foe.
"Souls of a timorous cast, of petty name
In Envy's court, not yet quite dead to shame,
May some Remorse, some qualms of Conscience feel,
And suffer Honour to abate their Zeal:
But the Man, truly and compleatly great,
Allows no rule of action but his hate;
Through every bar he bravely breaks his way,
Passion his Principle, and Parts his prey.
Mediums in Vice and Virtue speak a mind
Within the pale of Temperance confin'd;
The daring Spirit scorns her narrow schemes,
And, good or bad, is always in extremes.
"Man's practice duly weigh'd, through every age
On the same plan hath Envy form'd her rage.
'Gainst those whom Fortune hath our rivals made
In way of Science, and in way of Trade,
Stung with mean Jealousy she arms her spite,
First works, then views their ruin with delight.
Our Hogarth here a grand improver shines,
And nobly on the general plan refines;
He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound;
Worth is his mark, wherever Worth is found.
Should Painters only his vast wrath suffice?
Genius in every walk is Lawful Prize.
'Tis a gross insult to his o'ergrown state:
His love to merit is to feel his hate.
"When Wilkes, our Countryman, our common friend,
Arose, his King, his Country to defend,
When tools of power he bar'd to public view,
And from their holes the sneaking cowards drew;
When Rancour found it far beyond her reach
To soil his honour, and his truth impeach,
What could induce Thee, at a time and place,
Where manly Foes had blush'd to shew their face,
To make that effort, which must damn thy name,
And sink Thee deep, deep in thy grave with shame?
Did Virtue move Thee? no, 'twas Pride, rank Pride,
And if thou hadst not done it, Thou hadst dy'd.
Malice (who, disappointed of her end,
Whether to work the bane of Foe or Friend,
Preys on herself, and, driven to the Stake,
Gives Virtue that revenge she scorns to take)
Had kill'd Thee, tottering on life's utmost verge,
Had Wilkes and Liberty escap'd thy scourge.
"When that Great Charter, which our Fathers bought
With their best blood, was into question brought;
When, big with ruin, o'er each English head
Vile Slavery hung suspended by a thread;
When Liberty, all trembling and aghast,
Fear'd for the future, knowing what was past:
When every breast was chill'd with deep despair,
Till Reason pointed out that Pratt was there;
Lurking, most Ruffian-like, behind a screen,
So plac'd all things to see, himself unseen,
Virtue, with due contempt, saw Hogarth stand,
The murderous pencil in his palsied hand.
What was the cause of Liberty to him,
Or what was Honour? Let them sink or swim,
So he may gratify, without controul,
The mean resentments of his selfish soul.
Let Freedom perish, if, to Freedom true,
In the same ruin Wilkes may perish too.
"With all the symptoms of assur'd decay,
With age and sickness pinch'd, and worn away,
Pale quivering lips, lank cheeks, and faultering tongue,
The spirits out of tune, the nerves unstrung,
The body shrivel'd up, the dim eyes sunk
Within their sockets deep, the weak hams shrunk
The body's weight unable to sustain,
The stream of life scarce trembling through the vein,
More than half-kill'd by honest truths, which fell,
Through thy own fault, from men who wish'd thee well;
Canst thou, e'en thus, thy thoughts to vengeance give,
And, dead to all things else, to Malice live?
Hence, Dotard, to thy closet, shut thee in,
By deep repentance wash away thy sin,
From haunts of men to shame and sorrow fly,
And, on the verge of death, learn how to die.
"Vain exhortation! wash the Ethiop white,
Discharge the leopard's spots, turn day to night,
Controul the course of Nature, bid the deep
Hush at thy Pygmy voice her waves to sleep,
Perform things passing strange, yet own thy art
Too weak to work a change in such a heart.
That Envy, which was woven in thy frame
At first, will to the last remain the same.
Reason may droop, may die; but Envy's rage
Improves by time, and gathers strength from age,
Some, and not few, vain triflers with the pen,
Unread, unpractis'd in the ways of men,
Tell us that Envy, who with giant stride
Stalks through the vale of life by Virtue's side,
Retreats when she hath drawn her latest breath,
And calmly hears her praises after death.
To such observers Hogarth gives the lie;
Worth may be hears'd, but Envy cannot die;
Within the mansion of his gloomy breast,
A mansion suited well to such a guest,
Immortal, unimpair'd, she rears her head,
And damns alike the living and the dead.
"Oft have I known Thee, Hogarth, weak and vain,
Thyself the idol of thy aukward strain,
Through the dull measure of a summer's day,
In phrase most vile, prate long, long hours away,
Whilst Friends with Friends, all gaping sit, and gaze
To hear a Hogarth babble Hogarth's praise.
But if athwart thee Interruption came,
And mention'd with respect some Ancient's name,
Some Ancient's name, who in the days of yore
The crown of Art with greatest honour wore,
How have I seen thy coward cheek turn pale,
And blank confusion seize thy mangled tale!
How hath thy Jealousy to madness grown,
And deem'd his praise injurious to thy own!
Then without mercy did thy wrath make way,
And Arts and Artists all became thy prey;
Then didst Thou trample on establish'd rules,
And proudly level'd all the ancient schools;
Condemn'd those works, with praise through ages grac'd,
Which you had never seen, or could not taste.
'But would mankind have true Perfection shewn,
It must be found in labours of my own.
I dare to challenge in one single piece,
Th' united force of Italy and Greece.'
Thy eager hand the curtain then undrew,
And brought the boasted Master-piece to view.
Spare thy remarks—say not a single word—
The Picture seen, why is the Painter heard?
Call not up Shame and Anger in our cheeks:
Without a Comment Sigismunda speaks.
"Poor Sigismunda! what a Fate is thine!
Dryden, the great High-Priest of all the Nine,
Reviv'd thy name, gave what a Muse could give,
And in his Numbers bade thy Memory live;
Gave thee those soft sensations, which might move
And warm the coldest Anchorite to Love;
Gave thee that Virtue, which could curb desire,
Refine and consecrate Love's headstrong fire;
Gave thee those griefs, which made the Stoic feel,
And call'd compassion forth from hearts of steel;
Gave thee that firmness, which our Sex may shame,
And make Man bow to Woman's juster claim,
So that our tears, which from compassion flow,
Seem to debase thy dignity of woe!
But O, how much unlike! how fall'n! how chang'd!
How much from Nature and herself estrang'd!
How totally depriv'd of all the powers
To shew her feelings, and awaken ours,
Doth Sigismunda now devoted stand,
The helpless victim of a Dauber's hand!
"But why, my Hogarth, such a progress made,
So rare a Pattern for the sign-post trade,
In the full force and whirlwind of thy pride,
Why was Heroic Painting laid aside?
Why is It not resum'd? Thy Friends at Court,
Men all in place and power, crave thy support;
Be grateful then for once, and, through the field
Of Politics, thy Epic Pencil wield;
Maintain the cause, which they, good lack! avow,
And would maintain too, but they know not how.
"Through ev'ry Pannel let thy Virtue tell
How Bute prevail'd, how Pitt and Temple fell!
How England's sons (whom they conspir'd to bless
Against our Will, with insolent success)
Approve their fall, and with addresses run,
How got, God knows, to hail the Scottish Sun!
Point out our fame in war, when Vengeance, hurl'd
From the strong arm of Justice, shook the world;
Thine, and thy Country's honour to increase,
Point out the honours of succeeding Peace;
Our Moderation, Christian-like, display,
Shew, what we got, and what we gave away.
In Colours, dull and heavy as the tale,
Let a State-Chaos through the whole prevail.
"But, of events regardless, whilst the Muse,
Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues;
Whilst her quick Spirits rouze at Freedom's call,
And every drop of blood is turn'd to gall,
Whilst a dear Country, and an injur'd Friend,
Urge my strong anger to the bitterest end,
Whilst honest trophies to Revenge are rais'd,
Let not One real Virtue pass unprais'd.
Justice with equal course bids Satire flow,
And loves the Virtue of her greatest foe.
"O! that I here could that rare Virtue mean,
Which scorns the rule of Envy, Pride and Spleen,
Which springs not from the labour'd Works of Art,
But hath its rise from Nature in the heart,
Which in itself with happiness is crown'd,
And spreads with joy the blessing all around!
But truth forbids, and in these simple lays
Contented with a different kind of Praise,
Must Hogarth stand; that Praise which Genius gives;
In Which to latest time the Artist lives,
But not the Man; which, rightly understood,
May make us great, but cannot make us good,
That Praise be Hogarth's; freely let him wear
The Wreath which Genius wove, and planted there.
Foe as I am, should Envy tear it down,
Myself would labour to replace the Crown.
"In walks of Humour, in that cast of Style,
Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us smile;
In Comedy, his nat'ral road to fame,
Nor let me call it by a meaner name,
Where a beginning, middle, and an end,
Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend,
Each made for each, as bodies for their soul,
So as to form one true and perfect whole,
Where a plain Story to the eye is told,
Which we conceive the moment we behold,
Hogarth unrival'd stands, and shall engage
Unrival'd praise to the most distant age.
"How could'st Thou then to shame perversely run,
And tread that path which Nature bade Thee shun?
Why did Ambition overleap her rules,
And thy vast parts become the Sport of Fools?
By different methods different Men excell,
But where is He who can do all things well?
Humour thy Province, for some monstrous crime
Pride struck Thee with the frenzy of Sublime.
But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mind
So partial be, and to herself so blind,
What with Contempt All view'd, to view with awe,
Nor see those faults which every Blockhead saw?
Blush, Thou vain Man, and if desire of Fame,
Founded on real Art, thy thoughts inflame,
To quick destruction Sigismunda give,
And let her memory die, that thine may live.
"But should fond Candour, for her Mercy's sake,
With pity view, and pardon this mistake;
Or should Oblivion, to thy wish most kind,
Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind;
Of Arts despis'd, of Artists by thy frown
Aw'd from just hopes, of rising worth kept down,
Of all thy meanness through this mortal race,
Canst Thou the living memory erase?
Or shall not Vengeance follow to the grave,
And give back just that measure which You gave?
With so much merit, and so much success,
With so much power to curse, so much to bless,
Would He have been Man's friend, instead of foe,
Hogarth had been a little God below.
Why then, like savage Giants, fam'd of old,
Of whom in Scripture Story we are told,
Dost Thou in cruelty that strength employ,
Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy?
Why dost Thou, all in horrid pomp array'd,
Sit grinning o'er the ruins Thou hast made?
Most rank ill-nature must applaud thy art;
But even Candour must condemn thy heart.
"For Me, who, warm and zealous for my Friend,
In spite of railing thousands, will commend,
And, no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes,
Spite of commending thousands, will oppose,
I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage,
But with an eye of Pity view thy Age;
Thy feeble Age, in which, as in a glass,
We see how men to dissolution pass.
Thou wretched Being, whom, on Reason's plan,
So chang'd, so lost, I cannot call a Man,
What could persuade Thee, at this time of life,
To launch afresh into the Sea of Strife?
Better for Thee, scarce crawling on the earth,
Almost as much a child as at thy birth,
To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath,
And sunk unnotic'd in the arms of Death.
Why would thy grey, grey hairs, resentment brave,
Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave?
Now, by my Soul, it makes me blush to know
My Spirits could descend to such a foe.
Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke,
It seems rank Cowardice to give the stroke.
"Sure 'tis a curse which angry Fates impose,
To fortify man's arrogance, that those,
Who're fashion'd of some better sort of clay,
Much sooner than the common herd decay.
What bitter pangs must humbled Genius feel!
In their last hours, to view a Swift and Steele!
How much ill-boding horrors fill her breast
When She beholds Men, mark'd above the rest
For qualities most dear, plung'd from that height,
And sunk, deep sunk, in second Childhood's night!
Are Men, indeed, such things, and are the best
More subject to this evil than the rest,
To drivel out whole years of Ideot Breath,
And sit the Monuments of living Death?
O, galling circumstance to human pride!
Abasing Thought, but not to be denied!
With curious Art the Brain, too finely wrought;
Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by Thought.
Constant Attention wears the active mind,
Blots out her powers, and leaves a blank behind.
But let not Youth, to insolence allied,
In heat of blood, in full career of pride,
Possess'd of Genius, with unhallow'd rage,
Mock the infirmities of reverend age.
The greatest Genius to this Fate may bow,
Reynolds, in time, may be like Hogarth now."

3. The same; but on the palette is introduced the political print described in p. [91]. In the second impressions of the plate thus altered,[1] we find the letters N B added on the club, as well as the epithet infamous prefixed to the word Fallacy. The shadows on the political print are likewise changed, and deepened; and the words "Dragon of Wantley" are added at the end of "I warrant ye."

[1] The first was price 1s.; the second price 1s. 6d.

4. Print Of the Weighing-house to "Clubbe's Physiognomy;" a humourous pamphlet in quarto, published in 1763, by Mr. Clubbe[1] (editor of the History and Antiquities of Wheatfield in Suffolk), and dedicated to Hogarth. W. Hogarth del. L. Sullivan sculp. It was likewise printed in a collection of this author's works, published at Ipswich, 2 vols. 12mo. no date, with a new engraving of the plate. There is also a third engraving of the same design, perhaps executed in the country, for some octavo edition of Mr. Clubbe's pamphlet.

[1] I had said in my first edition, that Mr. Clubbe was drowned in the moat that surrounded his house at Wheatfield; but readily retract that assertion, having been since informed, that he died a natural death, of old age and infirmities.

5. Frontispiece to a pamphlet written by Dr. Gregory Sharpe, Master of The Temple, against the Hutchinsonians, but never published. "It represents a witch sitting on the moon, and watering on a mountain, whence issue mice, who are devouring Sir Isaac Newton's Optics; one mouse lies dead on Hutchinson's works, probably to imply being choaked. The conundrum signifies, Front-is-piss." The few impressions from this plate that have strayed into the hands of dealers, were originally presents from Dr. Sharpe to his friends.

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