"In the year 1746, when the Guards were ordered to march to Finchley on the most important service they could be employed in,—the extinguishing a Scottish rebellion which threatened the entire ruin of the illustrious family on the throne, and, in consequence, of our liberties,—Mr. Hogarth came out with a print to make them ridiculous[133] to their countrymen, and to all Europe; or, perhaps, it rather was to tell the Scots, in his way, how little the Guards were to be feared, and that they might safely advance. That the ridicule might not stop here, and that it might be as offensive as possible to his own sovereign, he dedicated the print to the King of Prussia, as an encourager of arts. Is this patriotism? In old Rome, or in any of the Grecian States, he would have been punished as a profligate citizen, totally devoid of all principle."
These are heavy charges; but mark how a plain tale shall put them down. From the effects which are described as likely to result from this most seditious print, we are tempted to think it must have been designed, etched, engraved, printed off, and dispersed with so much expedition as to arrive in Scotland before the Guards whom it holds up to ridicule; for one of its designs was "to tell the Scots, in his way, how little the Guards were to be feared, and that they might safely advance." The march was in 1746, and the publication of this print in 1750; therefore[134] it could not have these most direful and dangerous effects! That he dedicated it to the King of Prussia, as an encourager of arts, is true; but this dedication was not inserted until another had been rejected, because it was misunderstood by the King of England; and George the Second, with all his virtues, was neither a judge of humour nor an encourager of the arts. These premises granted, I think we may fairly draw this conclusion: Had old Hogarth been a citizen of old Rome, or a member of any of the Grecian States, and published such a representation of his own times, he would not have been punished as a profligate citizen: he would neither have been flagellated, impaled, decollated, nor thrown from the Tarpeian rock; but his print would have been laughed at by every member of the State who had the least ray of humour, though—as in some cases that we have seen—the length of a grave orator's beard might hide the risible emotions of his muscles, and the amplitude of his robe conceal the shaking of his sides.
To detail the conclusion of this paper, about the dishonour of his being appointed pannel-painter to the King, never suffered to caricature any of the royal family, etc., is scarcely necessary. If the appointment was less respectable than his merits demanded, the disgrace did not fall upon him; but be it remarked, that the office was afterwards held by Sir Joshua Reynolds; and however elevated his taste, however superior his talents, his genius was long distinguished and admired by the public before he had the honour of taking the portraits of their Majesties.
Trusting that Hogarth's own works will sufficiently ascertain his character, I shall not attempt his further vindication, but proceed to the print.
A globe, which must here be considered as the world, though it appears to be no more than a tavern sign, is represented on fire, and Mr. Pitt, exalted on stilts, which are held by the surrounding multitude, blowing up the flames with a pair of large bellows.[135] His attendants are composed of butchers, with marrow-bones and cleavers, an hallooing mob armed with clubs, and a trio of London aldermen in the act of adoration. From the neck of this idol of the populace is suspended a millstone, on which is inscribed £3000 per annum, allusive to his pension, and intimating that so ponderous a load must in time sink his popularity.[136] While he is thus increasing the conflagration, a number of Highlanders,[137] grenadiers, sailors, etc., are busily working a fire-engine to extinguish it. The pipe is guided by a Union Office fireman at the top. Defended by an iron cap, and decorated with a badge inscribed "G. R.," this intrepid engineer pays no regard to three streams of water which are furiously driven at his rear from the windows of the Temple Coffeehouse. The Liliputian engines, through which these tiny showers descend, are directed by a nobleman and two garretteers. An inscription over the door determines the title of the former, who is delineated without features: the two gentlemen in the attic were, I believe, originally intended for Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Churchill, but previous to publication the faces were altered.[138] A surplice is still left on the figure over Lord Temple, and the Colonel's coat is lapelled. Upon a sign-iron beneath them is a slaughterman,[139] with a lighted candle in his hat, and a large knife in his pocket; thus intimating that he is ready either to fire a city or murder a citizen. Mounted to the situation he now occupies by a ladder, he is drawing up a sign of the Patriot's Arms, and in this good work is assisted by two strong-sinewed coadjutors, who are dragging the ropes to which it is suspended. The blazonry is four clenched fists in opposition to each other; the date, 1762.[140] This curious delineation will be placed in the front of the Temple Coffeehouse, for the world to wonder at. The Newcastle Arms, nearly broken down, bears allusion to the Duke's resignation.[141] A Highlander, carrying two buckets of water from the fire-plug to the engine, is likely to be impeded by a fellow with a wheelbarrow full of political papers, which are intended to feed the flames. This type of the distressed poet, said to be intended as a representative of the Duke of Newcastle, endeavours to overset the Scot, and burst the engine-pipe by the same operation.
Wholly engrossed by avarice, the crafty Dutchman, with a hand in each pocket and a pipe in his mouth, sits on his bales of goods, and laughs at the destruction raging around him. A fox, fair emblem of his cunning, is creeping out of a kennel beneath.
Close to him is a patriotic trumpeter, blowing the spirit-stirring tube, and pointing to a show-cloth, on which is painted a wild Indian. By the magisterial robe in which this trumpeter is arrayed, and the city arms on the banner of his windy instrument, he is decisively intended to personify Mr. Alderman Beckford, thrice Lord Mayor of London. Beneath the savage to whom he points, is written, "Alive from America." This grotesque figure is placed before two tobacco hogsheads, grasps in each hand a purse inscribed "£1000," and has tied round him, so as to form a sort of Indian dress, eight or ten little bags equally well filled. His countenance leads us to judge that he delights in the devastation by which he is a gainer; and seems to imply that our American brethren, like our Amsterdam allies, were eager to furnish friend or foe with the product of their respective countries. It may further intimate the Alderman's immense riches, and that a leading article of his trade was tobacco.
A table clock, inscribed "Airs by Harrington," representing a company of soldiers in a regular march, has an evident allusion to the military doctrine of man being a machine. "The Norfolk jig, G. T. fecit," hints at the Norfolk Militia, and Mr. George Townshend, who paid unremitting attention to the discipline and appearance of the corps raised in Norfolk.
"The Post Office," painted on a cracked board fastened against the wall, may possibly signify the office of Postmaster-General being then divided.[142]