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 15_s._ 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.

[4]

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."

[G] See above, p. 295.

[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.

* * * * *

1756.

1. _France_ and _England_, two plates; both etched by himself. Under

them are the following verses, by Mr. _Garrick_:

PLATE I. FRANCE.

With lanthern jaws, and croaking gut,

See how the half-starv'd _Frenchmen_ strut,

And call us _English_ dogs!

But soon we'll teach these bragging foes,

That beef and beer give heavier blows

Than soup and roasted frogs.

The priests, inflam'd with righteous hopes,

Prepare their axes, wheels, and ropes,

To bend the stiff-neck'd sinner;

But, should they sink in coming over,

_Old Nick_ may fish 'twixt _France_ and _Dover_,

And catch a glorious dinner.

PLATE II. ENGLAND.

See _John_ the Soldier, _Jack_ the Tar,

With sword and pistol arm'd for war,

Should Mounseer dare come here!

The hungry slaves have smelt our food,

They long to taste our flesh and blood,

Old _England's_ beef and beer!

_Britons_, to arms! and let 'em come,

Be you but _Britons_ still, Strike home,

And lion-like attack 'em;

No power can stand the deadly stroke

That's given from hands and hearts of oak,

With Liberty to back 'em.

2. The Search Night, a copy. _J. Fielding sculp._ 21_st March_,

1756.[1] "_A very bad print, and I believe an imposition_." On this

plate are sixteen stupid verses, not worth transcribing. It was

afterwards copied again in two different sizes in miniature, and

printed off on cards, by _Darly_, in 1766. The original, in a small

oval, was an impression taken from the top of a silver tobacco-box;

engraved by _Hogarth_ for one Captain _Johnson_, and never meant for

publication.

[1] There is also a copy of this print, engraved likewise by

_Fielding_, and dated _August_ 11, 1746.

* * * * *

1758.

1. His own portrait,[1] sitting, and painting the Muse of Comedy; Head

profile, in a cap. The Analysis of Beauty on the floor. _W. Hogarth,

serjeant-painter to his Majesty._ The face engraved by _W. Hogarth_.

I should observe, that when this plate was left with the person

employed to furnish the inscription, he, taking the whole for the

production of our artist, wrote "Engraved by _W. Hogarth_" under it.

_Hogarth_, being conscious that the face only had been touched by

himself, added, with his own hand, "_The Face_" Engraved, &c.

In the second impression "The Face Engraved by _W. Hogarth_" is totally

omitted.

In the third impression "Serjeant-painter, &c." is scratched over by

the burin, but remains still sufficiently legible.

The fourth impression has "_the face retouched, but not so like as the

preceding.[2] Comedy also has the face and mask marked with black,[3]

and inscribed,_ COMEDY, 1764. _No other inscription but his name,_

William Hogarth, 1764."

The original from which this plate is taken, is in Mrs. _Hogarth's_

possession at _Chiswick_. A whole-length of herself, in the same size,

is its companion. They are both small pictures.

[1] Among the prints bequeathed by the late Mr. _Forrest_ to his

executor Mr. _Coxe_, is this head cut out of a proof, and touched up

with _Indian_ ink by _Hogarth_. Mr. _Forrest_, in an inscription on the

back of the paper to which it is affixed, observes it was a present to

him from Mrs. _Hogarth_.

With these prints are likewise several early impressions from other

plates by our artist; and in particular a March to _Finchley_

uncommonly fine, and with the original spelling of PRUSIA uncorrected

even by a pen. I am told that both the head and this, with other

engravings in the collection of the late Mr. _Forrest_, will be sold by

auction in the course of the Winter 1786.

[2] i. e. the two first.

[3] So in both the third and fourth impressions.

2. The Bench. Over the top of this plate is written in

capitals--CHARACTER. Under it "of the different meaning of the words

_Character, Caracatura,_ and _Outrè_, in painting and drawing," Then

follows a long inscription on this subject. The original painting is in

the collection of Mr. _Edwards_.

* * * * *

1759.

1. The Cockpit. _Designed and engraved by W. Hogarth._ In this plate

is a portrait of _Nan Rawlins_, a very ugly old woman (commonly called

_Deptford Nan_, sometimes the _Duchess of Deptford_), and well

remembered at _Newmarket_. She was a famous cock-feeder, and did

the honours of the _gentlemen's_ ordinary at _Northampton_; while,

in return, a single gentleman was deputed to preside at the table

appropriated to the _ladies_. The figure with a hump-back, was designed

for one _Jackson_, a once noted jockey at _Newmarket_. The blind

president is Lord _Albemarle Bertie_, who was a constant attender of

this diversion. His portrait was before discoverable in the crowd round

the bruisers in the March to _Finchley_.

By the cockpit laws, any person who cannot, or will not pay his debts

of honour, is drawn up in a basket to the roof of the building. Without

a knowledge of this circumstance, the shadow of the man who is offering

his watch would be unintelligible.

The subject of The Cockpit had been recommended to _Hogarth_ so long

ago as 1747, in the following lines, first printed in _The Gentleman's

Magazine_ of that year, p. 292.

"Where _Dudston's_[1] walks with vary'd beauties shine,

And some are pleas'd with bowling, some with wine,

Behold a generous train of Cocks repair,

To vie for glory in the toils of war;

Each hero burns to conquer or to die:

What mighty hearts in little bosoms lie!

"Come, _Hogarth_, thou whose art can best declare

What forms, what features, human passions wear,

Come, with a painter's philosophic sight,

Survey the circling judges of the fight.

Touch'd with the sport of death, while every heart

Springs to the changing face, exert thy art;

Mix with the smiles of Cruelty at pain

Whate'er looks anxious in the lust of gain;

And say, can aught that's generous, just, or kind,

Beneath this aspect, lurk within the mind?

Is lust of blood or treasure vice in all,

Abhorr'd alike on whomsoe'er it fall?

Are mighty states and gamblers still the same?

And war itself a cock-fight, and a game?

Are sieges, battles, triumphs, little things;

And armies only the game-cocks of kings?

Which fight, in Freedom's cause, still blindly bold,

Bye-battles only, and the main for gold?

"The crested bird, whose voice awakes the morn,

Whose plumage streaks of radiant gold adorn,

Proud of his birth, on fair _Salopia's_ plain,

Stalks round, and scowls defiance and disdain.

Not fiercer looks the proud _Helvetians_ wear,

Though thunder slumbers in the arms they bear:

Nor _Thracia's_ fiercer sons, a warlike race!

Display more prowess, or more martial grace.

But, lo! another comes, renown'd for might,

Renown'd for courage, and provokes the fight.

Yet what, alas! avails his furious mien,

His ruddy neck, and breast of varied green?

Soon thro' his brain the foe's bright weapon flies,

Eternal darkness shades his swimming eyes;

Prostrate he falls, and quivering spurns the ground,

While life indignant issues from the wound.

Unhappy hero, had thy humbler life

Deny'd thee fame by deeds of martial strife,

Still hadst thou crow'd, for future pleasures spar'd,

Th' exulting monarch of a farmer's yard.

"Like fate, alas! too soon th' illustrious prove,

The great by hatred fall, the fair by love;

The wise, the good, can scarce preserve a name,

Expung'd by envy from the rolls of fame.

Peace and oblivion still through life secure,

In friendly glooms, the simple, homely, poor.

And who would wish to bask in glory's ray,

To buy with peace the laurel or the bay?

What tho' the wreath defy the lightning's fire,

The bard and hero in the storm expire.

Be rest and innocence my humbler lot,

Scarce known through life, and after death forgot!"

[1] A gentleman's seat, about a mile from _Birmingham_, fitted up for

the reception of company, in imitation of _Vaux-hall Gardens_.

2. A small oval of Bishop _Hoadly_, ætat. 83. _Hogarth pinx. Sherlock

sculp._

* * * * *

1760.

1. Frontispiece to _Tristram Shandy_. Of this plate there are two

copies; in the first of which the hat and clock are omitted. _S.

Ravenet sculp._ In this plate is the portrait of Dr. _Burton_, of

_York_, the Jacobite physician and antiquary, in the character of Dr.

_Slop_.

_Sterne_ probably was indebted for these plates (especially the

first of them) to the following compliment he had paid our author in

the first volume of _Tristram Shandy_. "Such were the outlines of

Dr. _Slop's_ figure, which, if you have read _Hogarth's Analysis of

Beauty_, and, if you have not, I wish you would, you must know, may as

certainly be caracatured, and conveyed to the mind by three strokes as

three hundred."

2. Frontispiece to _Brook Taylor's_ Perspective of Architecture.[1]

With an attempt at a new order. _W. Hogarth, July_ 1760. _W. Woollet

sculp._ Lest any reader should suppose that this idea of forming a

new capital out of the Star of St. _George_, the Prince of _Wales's_

Feather,[2] and a regal Coronet, was hatched in the mind of _Hogarth_

after he had been appointed Serjeant Painter, the following passage

in the _Analysis_ will prove that many years before he had conceived

the practicability of such an attempt: see p. 40. "I am thoroughly

convinced in myself, however it may startle some, that a completely

new and harmonious order of architecture in all its parts might be

produced, &c." Again, p. 46. "Even a capital, composed of the aukward

and confined forms of hats and perriwigs, as Fig. 48. Plate I. in a

skilful hand might be made to have some beauty." Mr. _S. Ireland_ has

the original sketch.

[1] Published in two volumes, folio, 1761, by _Joshua Kirby_, Designer

in Perspective to his Majesty.--"Here is a curious frontispiece,

designed by Mr. _Hogarth_; but not in the same ludicrous style as the

former (see p. 333): it were to be wished that he had explained its

meaning; for, being symbolical, the meaning of it is not so obvious

as the other. To me it conveys the idea, which _Milton_ so poetically

describes, of the angel _Uriel_ gliding down to Paradise on a sun-beam;

but the young gentleman has dropped off before he had arrived at his

journey's end, with _Palladio's_ book of architecture on his knees.

A ray of light from the sun, rising over a distant mountain, is

directed to a scroll on the ground, on which are two or three scraps

of perspective; over which, supported by a large block of stone, is

the upper part of a sceptre, broke off; the shaft very obliquely and

absurdly inclined, somewhat resembling the _Roman_ fasces, and girt

above with the Prince of _Wales's_ coronet, as an astragal, through

which the fasces rise, and swell into a crown, adorned with embroidered

stars; this is the principal object, but most vilely drawn. The ray

passes through a round temple, at a considerable distance, which is

also falsly represented, the curves being for the distance too round,

and consequently the diminution of the columns is too great. It appears

to pass over a piece of water; on this side the ground is fertile and

luxuriant with vegetation, abounding with trees and shrubs; on the

other side it is rocky and barren.[A] What is indicated by this seems

to be, that, where the arts are encouraged by the rays of royal favour,

they will thrive and flourish; but where they are neglected, and do not

find encouragement, they will droop and languish." _Malton's_ Appendix

to his Treatise on Perspective.

[A] The idea of this contrast between fertility and barrenness is an

old one. _Hogarth_ probably took it from the engraving known by the

name of _Raffaelle's Dream_.

[2] Mr. _H. Emlyn_ has lately realised this plan, by his Proposals for

a new order of architecture, 1781.

3. Mr. _Huggins_. A small circular plate. _Hogarth pinx. Major sculp._

On the left, a bust, inscribed, "IL DIVINO ARIOSTO." "DANTE L'INFERNO,

IL PURGATORIO, IL PARADISO." Mr. _Huggins_ (of whom see p. 19.) had

this portrait engraven, to prefix to his translation of _Dante_, of

which no more than a specimen was ever published.

The bust of _Ariosto_ was inserted by the positive order of Mr.

_Huggins_ (after the plate was finished), though much against the

judgement of the engraver, who was convinced that a still ground would

have shewn the countenance of the person represented to much greater

advantage. Mr. _Major's_ charge was only three guineas, and yet eleven

years elapsed before he received even this trifling acknowledgement for

his labour. Dr. _Monkhouse_ has the plate.

* * * * *

1761.

1. Frontispiece and tail-piece to the catalogue of pictures exhibited

at _Spring Gardens. W. Hogarth inv. C. Grignion sculp._ There is a

variation of this print; a _Latin_ motto under each in the second

edition. In the earliest impressions _obit_, corrected afterwards to

_obiit_. The same mark of ignorance, however, remains unamended over

the monument of the Judge in the first plate of the _Analysis_.

2. _Time_ blackening a picture. Subscription-ticket for his

_Sigismunda_. "_This, and the preceding tail-piece, are satires on

Connoisseurs._"

3. The Five Orders of Perriwigs at the Coronation of _George_

III.[1] Many of the heads, as well as wigs, were known at the time.

The first head of the second row was designed to represent Lord

_Melcombe_; and those of Bishops _Warburton, Mawson,_ and _Squire,_

are found in the groupe. The advertisement annexed, as well as the

whole print, is said to have been a ridicule on Mr. _Stewart's_

Antiquities of _Athens_, in which, with minute accuracy, are given

the measurements of all the members of the _Greek_ Architecture.

The inscription under the print affords a plentiful crop of false

spellings--volumns--advertisment--baso--&c. The second _e_ in

advertisement was afterwards added on the neck of the female figure

just over it. The first and subsequent impressions will be known by

this distinction.

[1] A Dissertation on Mr. _Hogarth's_ print of the Order of Perriwigs,

viz. the Episcopal, Aldermanic, and Lexonic, is printed in _The

Beauties of all the Magazines_, 1761, p. 52.

4. Frontispiece to the Farmer's Return from _London_, an Interlude by

Mr. _Garrick_,[1] acted at _Drury Lane. W. Hogarth delin. J. Basire

sculp._ In Mr. _Foster's_ collection is a bad copy of this plate, no

name, the figures reversed. The original drawing was given to Mr.

_Garrick_, and is supposed to be in the possession of his widow at

_Hampton_. Mr. _S. Ireland_ has a sketch of it. An excellent copy of

this plate is sometimes sold as the original.

[1] Mr. _Garrick'_ publication was thus prefaced: "The following

interlude was prepared for the stage, merely with a view of assisting

Mrs. _Pritchard_ at her benefit; and the desire of serving so good

an actress is a better excuse for its defects, than the few days in

which it was written and represented. Notwithstanding the favourable

reception it has met with, the author would not have printed it,

had not his friend, Mr. _Hogarth_, flattered him most agreeably, by

thinking _the Farmer and his Family_ not unworthy of a sketch of his

pencil. To him, therefore, this trifle, which he has so much honoured,

is inscribed, as a faint testimony of the sincere esteem which the

writer bears him, both as a man and an artist."

5. Another frontispiece to _Tristram Shandy_ (for the second volume).

His christening. _F. Ravenet sculp._

6. The same engraved by _Ryland_. This, as I am informed, was the

first, but was too coarsely executed to suit that prepared for the

first volume of the same work.

* * * * *

1762.

1. Credulity, Superstition, and Fanaticism. "_Satire on Methodists._"

"For deep and useful satire," says Mr. _Walpole_, "the most sublime of

all his works."

This print, however, contains somewhat more than a satire on Methodism.

_Credulity_ is illustrated by the figure of the Rabbit-breeder of

_Godalming_, with her supposed progeny galloping from under her

petticoats. _St. André's_ folly furnished _Hogarth_ with matter for one

of his latest, as well as one of his earliest performances.

_Primâ dicte mihi, summâ dicende Camænâ._

2. The Times. Plate I. In one copy of this print _Henry_ VIII. is

blowing the flames; in another Mr. _Pitt_ has the same employment: As

this design is not illustrated in _Trusler's_ Account of _Hogarth's_

Works, I shall attempt its explanation, and subjoin, by way of note,

a humourous description of it, which was printed in a news-paper

immediately after it's first appearance in the world.[1]

_Europe_ on fire; _France, Germany, Spain,_ in flames, which are

extending to _Great Britain_. This desolation continued and assisted

by Mr. _Pitt_, under the figure of King _Henry_ VIII. with bellows

increasing the mischief which others are striving to abate. He is

mounted on the stilts of the populace. A _Cheshire_ cheese depends

from his neck, with 3000 _l._ on it. This alludes to what he had said

in Parliament--that he would sooner live on a _Cheshire_ cheese and a

shoulder of mutton, than submit to the enemies of _Great Britain_. Lord

_Bute_, attended by _English_ soldiers, sailors, and _Highlanders_,

manages an engine for extinguishing the flames, but is impeded by the

Duke of _Newcastle_, with a wheel-barrow full of _Monitors_ and _North

Britons_, for the purpose of feeding the blaze. The respectable body

under Mr. _Pitt_ are the aldermen of _London_, worshiping the idol

they had set up; whilst the musical King of _Prussia_, who alone is

sure to gain by the war, is amusing himself with a violin amongst his

miserable countrywomen. The picture of the _Indian_ alludes to the

advocates for retaining our _West Indian_ conquests, which, it was

said, would only increase excess and debauchery. The breaking down of

the _Newcastle_-arms, and the drawing up the patriotic ones, refer

to the resignation of that noble Duke, and the appointment of his

successor. The _Dutchman_ smoking his pipe, and a _Fox_ peeping out

behind him, and waiting the issue; the Waggon, with the treasures of

the _Hermione_; the unnecessary marching of the _Militia_, signified by

the _Norfolk_ jig; the Dove with the olive-branch, and the miseries of

war; are all obvious, and perhaps need no explication.

To those already given, however, may be added the following doggrel

verses:

Devouring flames with fury roll

Their curling spires from Pole to Pole,

Wide-spreading devastation dire,

Three kingdoms ready to expire;

Here realms convulsive pant for breath,

And quiver in the arms of death.

Ill-fated isle! _Britannia_ bleeds;

The flames her trait'rous offspring feeds:

Now, now, they seize her vital parts--

O save her from his murd'rous arts!

In air exalted high, behold!

Fierce, noisy, boisterous, and bold,

Swol'n, like the king of frogs, that fed

On mangled limbs of victims dead,

With larger bellows in his hand,

Than e'er a blacksmith's in the land,

The flames that waste the world to blow,

He points unto the mob below:

'Look, _Britons_, what a bonfire there!

Halloo, be d----'d, and rend the air.'

Aldermen, marrow-bones and cleavers,

Brokers, stock-jobbers, and coal-heavers,

_Templars_, and knaves of ev'ry station,

The dregs of _London_, and the nation;

Contractors, agents, clerks, and all

Who share the plunder, great and small,

Join in the halloo at his call.

Higher they raise the stilts that bore

The shapeless idol they adore:

He, to increase his weight, had slung

A _Mill-stone_ round his neck, which hung

With bulk enormous to the ground,

And adds thereto _Three Thousand Pound_;

That none may dare to say henceforth,

He wanted either weight or worth.

He blows,--the flames triumphant rise,

Devour the earth, and threat the skies.

When lo! in peaceful mien appears,

In bloom of life, and youthful years,

GEORGE, Prince of Men; a smile benign

That goodness looks, prognostic sign

Of soul etherial, seems to bode,

A world's deliv'rer sent from God.

Array'd in Majesty serene,

Like heav'nly spirits when they deign,

In pity to mankind, to come,

And stop avenging judgement's doom;

Behold, and bless! just not too late

T' avert a sinking nation's fate,

He comes, with friendly care to stay

Those flames that made the world their prey.

Born to reform and bless the age,

Fearless of _faction's_ madd'ning rage,

Which, with united malice, throngs,

To reap the harvest of our wrongs,

He labours to defeat our foes,

Secure our peace, and ease our woes.

Before him _Faction_ dare not shew

Her ghastly face and livid hue,

But back retires to _Temple-Bar_,

Where the spectator sees from far

Many a traitor's head erect,

To shew what traitors must expect.

Upon that _barefac'd_ figure look,

With empty scull and full peruke;

For man or statue it might pass;

_Cæsar_ would call't a golden ass.

Behold the vain malicious thing,

Squirting his poison at his king,

And pointing, with infernal art,

Th' envenom'd rancour of his heart.

Higher in parts and place appears

His venal race of Garretteers;

A starving, mercenary tribe,

That sell, for every bidder's bribe,

Their scantling wits to purchase bread

And always drive the briskest trade,

When _Faction_ sounds with loudest din,

To bring some new Pretender in.

This tribe from their ærial station,

Deluge with scandal all the nation:

Below contempt, secure from shame,

Sure not to forfeit any fame,

Indifferent what part to choose,

With nothing but their ears to lose.

Not Virtue on a throne can be

From tongues below resentment free.

Of human things such the distraction,

With Liberty we must have Faction.

But look behind the _Temple-gate_,

Near the thick, clumsy, stinking seat,

Where _London's_ pageant sits in state;

What wild, ferocious shape is there,

With raging looks and savage air?

Is that the monster without name,

Whom human art could never tame,

From _Indian_ wilds of late brought o'er,

Such as no _Briton_ saw before?

I mean the monster _P_* * * presented

To the late King, who quickly sent it,

Among his other beasts of prey,

Safe in a cage with lock and key.

Some said he was of _British_ blood,

Though taken in an _Indian_ wood.

If he should thus at large remain,

Without a keeper, cage, or chain,

Raging and roaming up and down,

He may set fire to half the town.

Has he not robb'd the _Bank?_--Behold,

In either hand, what bags of gold!

Monsters are dangerous things let loose:

Old _Cambrian_, guard thy mansion-house.

But here, what comes? A loaded car,

Stuff'd, and high pil'd, from _Temple-Bar_.

The labouring wretches hardly move

The load that totters from above.

By their wry faces, and high strains,

The cart some lumpish weight contains.

'_North Britons_--Gentlemen--come, buy,

There's no man sells so cheap as I.

Of the _North Briton_ just a score,

And twenty _Monitors_ or more,

For just one penny----

_North Britons--Monitors_--come, buy,

There's no man sells so cheap as I.'

'_North Britons! Monitors!_ be d----'d!

Is that the luggage you have cramm'd

Into your stinking cart? Be gone,

Or else I'll burn them every one.'

'Good Sir, I'm sure they are not dear,

The paper's excellent, I swear--

You can't have better any where.

Come, feel this sheet, Sir--please to choose--

They're very soft, and fit for use.

All very good, Sir, take my word--

As cheap as any can afford.

The Curate, Sir, Lord! how he'll foam!

He cannot dine 'till we get home.

The Colonel too, altho' he be

So big, so loud, so proud, d'ye see,

Will have his share as well as he.'

While on a swelling sack of cheese

The frugal _Dutchman_ sits at ease,

And smokes his pipe, and sees with joy

The flames, that all the world destroy,

Keep at a distance from his bales,

And sure thereby to raise the sales;

Good Mr. _Reynard_, wiser still,

Displays you his superior skill:

Behind the selfish miser's back,

He cuts a hole into the sack,

His paunch well cramm'd, he snugly lies,

And with himself the place supplies;

And now and then his head pops out,

To see how things go round about;

Prepar'd to run, or stand the fire,

Just as occasion may require,

But willing in the sack to stay,

And cram his belly while he may,

Regardless of the babbling town,

And every interest but his own.

On yonder plain behold a riddle,

That mighty warrior with his fiddle,

With sneering nose, and brow so arch,

A-scraping out the _German_ march;

_Bellona_ leading up the dance,

With flaming torch, and pointed lance,

And all the _Furies_ in her train,

Exulting at the martial strain;

Pale _Famine_ bringing up the rear,

To crown with woe the wasteful year.

There's nought but scenes of wretchedness.

Horror and death, and dire distress,

To mark their footsteps o'er the plains,

And teach the world what mighty gains

From _German_ victories accrue

To th' vanquish'd and the victors too.

The fidler, at his ease reclin'd,

Enjoys the woes of human kind;

Pursues his trade, destroys by rules,

And reaps the spoils of Knaves and Fools.

* * * * _Multa desunt._

The first impressions of this print may be known by the following

distinction. The smoke just over the Dove is left white; and the whole

of the composition has a brilliancy and clearness not to be found in

the copies worked off after the plate was retouched.

I am told that _Hogarth_ did not undertake this political print merely

_ex officio_, but through a hope the salary of his appointment as

Serjeant Painter would be increased by such a show of zeal for the

reigning Ministry.

He left behind him a second part, on the same subject; but hitherto

it has been withheld from the public. The finished Plate is in the

possession of Mrs. _Hogarth_.

There seems, however, no reason why this design should be suppressed.

The widow of our artist is happily independent of a court; nor can

aught relative to the politics of the year 1762 be of consequence to

any party now existing. Our Monarch also, as the patron of arts, would

rather encourage than prevent the publication of a work by _Hogarth_,

even though it should recall the disagreeable ideas of faction

triumphant, and a favourite in disgrace.

[1] The principal figure in the character of _Henry_ VIII. appears to

be not Mr. _P._ but another person whose power is signified by his

bulk of carcase, treading on Mr. _P._ represented by 3000 _l._ The

bellows may signify his well-meaning, though ineffectual, endeavours

to extinguish the fire by wind, which, though it will put out a small

flame, will cherish a large one. The guider of the engine-pipe, I

should think, can only mean his M------, who unweariedly tries, by a

more proper method, to stop the flames of war, in which he is assisted

by all his good subjects, both by sea and land, notwithstanding any

interruption from _Auditors_ or _Britons, Monitors_ or _North Britons_.

The respectable body at the bottom can never mean the magistrates of

_London_; Mr. _H._ has more sense than to abuse so respectable a body;

much less can it mean the judges. I think it may as likely be the Court

of Session in _Scotland_, either in the attitude of adoration, or with

outspread arms intending to catch their patron, should his stilts give

way. The _Frenchman_ may very well sit at his ease among his miserable

countrywomen, as he is not unacquainted that _France_ has always

gained by negociating what she lost in fighting. The fine gentleman

at the window with his garretteers, and the barrow of periodical

papers, refer to the present contending parties of every denomination.

The breaking of the _Newcastle_ arms alludes to the resignation of a

great personage; and the replacing of them, by the sign of the four

clenched fists, may be thought emblematical of the great œconomy of

his successor. The _Norfolk_ jig signifies, in a lively manner, the

alacrity of all his Majesty's forces during the war; and _G. T. [George

Townshend] fecit_, is an opportune compliment paid to Lord _Townshend_,

who, in conjunction with Mr. _Windham_, published "A Plan of Discipline

for the Use of the _Norfolk_ Militia," 4to. and had been the greatest

advocate for the establishment of our present militia. The picture of

the _Indian_ alive from _America_ is a satire on our late uncivilized

behaviour to the three chiefs of the _Cherokee_ nation, who were lately

in this kingdom; and the bags of money set this in a still clearer

point of view, signifying the sums gained by shewing them at our public

gardens. The sly _Dutchman_, with his pipe, seems pleased with the

combustion, from which he thinks he shall be a gainer. And the Duke of

_Nivernois_, under the figure of a dove, is coming from _France_ to

give a cessation of hostilities to _Europe_.

3. _T. Morell_, S. T. P., S. S. A. _W. Hogarth delin. James Basire

sculp._ From a drawing returned to Mr. _Hogarth_. Of this plate there

is an admirable copy, though it has not yet been extensively circulated.

4. _Henry Fielding_, ætatis 48. _W. Hogarth delin. James Basire sculp._

From a drawing with a pen made after the death of Mr. _Fielding_.

"That gentleman," says Mr. _Murphy_, "had often promised to sit to

his friend _Hogarth_, for whose good qualities and excellent genius

he always entertained so high an esteem, that he has left us in his

writings many beautiful memorials of his affection. Unluckily, however,

it so fell out that no picture of him was ever drawn; but yet, as

if it was intended that some traces of his countenance should be

perpetuated, and that too by the very artist whom our author preferred

to all others, after Mr. _Hogarth_ had long laboured to try if he

could bring out any likeness of him from images existing in his own

fancy, and just as he was despairing of success, for want of some

rules to go by in the dimensions and outlines of the face, Fortune

threw the grand _desideratum_ in the way. A lady, with a pair of

scissars, had cut a profile, which gave the distances and proportions

of his face sufficiently to restore his lost ideas of him. Glad of

an opportunity of paying his last tribute to the memory of an author

whom he admired, Mr. _Hogarth_ caught at this outline with pleasure,

and worked, with all the attachment of friendship, till he finished

that excellent drawing which stands at the head of this work, and

recalls to all, who have seen the original, a corresponding image of

the man." Notwithstanding this authentic relation of Mr. _Murphy_, a

different account of the portrait has been lately given in one of the

news-papers. Mr. _Garrick_, it is there said, dressed himself in a

suit of his old friend's cloaths, and presented himself to the painter

in the attitude, and with the features, of _Fielding_. Our _Roscius_,

however, I can assert, interfered no farther in this business than by

urging _Hogarth_ to attempt the likeness, as a necessary adjunct to the

edition of _Fielding's_ works. I am assured that our artist began and

finished the head in the presence of his wife and another lady. He had

no assistance but from his own memory, which, on such occasions, was

remarkably tenacious.[1]

[1] To this sketch so great justice was done by the engraver, that Mr.

_Hogarth_ declared he did not know his own drawing from a proof of

the plate before the ornaments were added. This proof is now in the

collection of Mr. _Steevens_.

* * * * *

1763.

1. _John Wilkes_, Esq. _Drawn from the life, and etched in aquafortis

by Wm. Hogarth._ Price 1_s_. 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.