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,