Whose rocky shores beat back the envious siege
Of wat'ry Neptune."
Instead of the forlorn and famished party who were represented in the last plate, we here see a company of well-fed and high-spirited Britons, marked with all the hardihood of ancient times, and eager to defend their country.
In the first group, a young peasant who aspires to a niche in the Temple of Fame, preferring the service of Mars to that of Ceres, and the dignified appellation of soldier to the plebeian name of farmer, offers to enlist. Standing with his back against the halberd to ascertain his height, and finding he is rather under the mark,[97] he endeavours to reach it by rising on tiptoe. This artifice, to which he is impelled by towering ambition, the sergeant seems disposed to connive at—and the sergeant is a hero, and a great man in his way; "your hero always must be tall, you know."
To evince that the polite arts were then in a flourishing state, and cultivated by more than the immediate professors, a gentleman artist, who to common eyes must pass for a grenadier, is making a caricature of le Grand Monarque. The sovereign of France was in that day as general a subject for copper satire as Mr. Fox is in this. I have seen engravings, where his Gallic Majesty made one of the party, that were not a degree better than the grenadier's drawing, where, to render the meaning obvious, and supply the want of character, or story, every figure had a label hanging to its mouth. That given to this king of shreds and patches is worthy the speaker, and worthy observation: "You take a my fine ships: you be de pirate; you be de teef: me send my grand armies, and hang you all."
The action is suited to the word, for with his left hand this most Christian potentate grasps his sword, and in his right poises a gibbet. The figure and motto united, produce a roar of approbation from the soldier and sailor, who are criticising the work. It is so natural, that the Helen and Briseis of the camp contemplate the performance with apparent delight; and while one of them with her apron measures the breadth of this Herculean painter's shoulders, the other, to show that the performance has some point, places her forefinger against the prongs of a fork. The little fifer, playing that animated and inspiring tune "God save the King," is an old acquaintance: we recollect him in "The March to Finchley." In the background is a sergeant teaching a company of young recruits their manual exercise.
This military meeting is held at the sign of the gallant Duke of Cumberland, who is mounted upon a prancing charger,
"As if an angel dropt down from the clouds,