"Although bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour,--'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way,
And he will best succeed who best can pay."
[Illustration: THE ELECTION, PLATE II. CANVASSING FOR VOTES.]
The centre group in this print represents a rustic freeholder between
two innkeepers, each of whom, as agents for their respective parties,
are dropping money into his hands. From the arch and significant
cast of his eye, we see that though interest induces him to take
all that either of them will give, _conscience_ obliges him to vote
for the best paymaster.[69] One of the candidates, considering how
necessary it is to conciliate the favour of the fair, is purchasing
trinkets from a Jew pedlar for two ladies, who express their virtuous
wishes in a balcony. Though neither of them have votes, their
interest may be very extensive. By the direction upon a letter which
a porter, in the hope of a more liberal gratuity, delivers with a
bended knee, we perceive that this gentleman is of the numerous and
ancient family of the party tools, who have flourished in this
island ever since the Revolution. A packet on the ground consists of
printed bills to be dispersed among the electors, intimating that
Punch's theatre is opened,[70] the company of the worthy electors
humbly[71] and earnestly requested, etc. etc. In election business,
eating is a leading article; of this, two hungry countrymen in the
Royal Oak larder seem perfectly sensible. One of them is voraciously
devouring a fowl, and the other slashing away a round of beef.
Seated upon an old stern of a ship, which is placed as a kind of
national trophy at the inn door, and represents the British lion
swallowing the lily of France, is the buxom landlady (at this time a
very important personage), counting the money she has received for
_her_ interest in the borough; a grenadier watches her with that
kind of eagerness which seems to intimate a desire of dividing the
spoil. Settling the nation while they drink their ale, a barber and
a cobbler are engaged in a dispute upon politics at the door of the
Portobello[72] alehouse. The former seems describing, with pieces
of broken tobacco-pipes, the great exploits of Admiral Vernon with
six ships only. In the progress of this voluble harangue he has
advanced something contrary to the cobbler's creed, and Crispin,
being no great orator, offers to back his opinion by a wager. This
the eloquent flourisher of a razor is either unwilling or unable
to answer, and the self-important mender of bad soles triumphantly
sweeps his cash from the table to his pocket. A fellow mounted on
a cross-beam at the end of the Crown signpost deserves particular
notice. Eagerly exercising his hand-saw, he strains every nerve to
cut through the beam, totally negligent of his own situation, and
forgetting that when the Crown drops--he must fall. To accelerate
this operation, and bring the business to a more speedy crisis, two
zealous coadjutors are exerting all their strength in pulling at a
rope which is tied round the beam. This is one of the neatest pieces
of allegory that Hogarth has delineated.
The crowd beneath are a fair representation of what we had occasion
to notice before--the majesty of the people. Delighting in
devastation, and blind to its consequences, they with one voice "cry
havoc, and let slip the dogs of war." The landlord, enraged at this
wanton attack upon his _castle_, opens his window and discharges a
blunderbuss amongst the assailants. Painted on the upper part of a
show-cloth, and hung before the sign of the Royal Oak,[73] is a view
of the Treasury, out of which a stream of gold is poured into a bag,
which, when filled, will be hoisted into a large waggon now loading
with guineas to defray the expense of the approaching elections.
Next to this is a view of that _solid_ specimen of Mr. Ware's taste
and talents in architecture, the Horse Guards. To the cupola of this
ponderous pile the artist has, with very little exaggeration, given
the form of a beer barrel. In the centre arch the builder forgot
proportion and neglected utility, so that the state coach could not
pass through until the ground was lowered. To satirize this violation
of the laws of Palladio, and inattention to the dictates of common
sense, Hogarth has represented the royal carriage on the point of
entering the arch, and the king's _body-coachman_ without a head.[74]
Beneath is delineated that ancient favourite of a puppet-show, the
facetious Mr. Punch, with a barrow full of guineas, which, with a
wooden ladle, he tosses up and scatters in the air, to the great
delight of two sylvan freeholders who attempt to catch them in their
hats. One of these _simple_ swains,[75] having had his head broken
with the gold, endeavours to guard his _caput_ from future mishaps.
An old woman standing behind them with a magic wand, I suppose to
be Mrs. Punch. Underneath is a very applicable inscription, "Punch,
a candidate for Guzzledown." A view in the background, between
the Crown and Portobello, of a cottage embosomed in a wood, and
a village in the distance, is highly picturesque. The tree, which
spreads its foliage before the walls of the Royal Oak, has one
withered bough; and enveloped by the luxuriant branches of a vine,
hangs a wooden bunch of grapes.
The characters are admirable. Nothing can be superior to the haughty
and oracular self-importance of the cobbler; the barber has all his
professional volubility; and the leer of the countryman lets you into
his whole soul. It is evidently directed to mine host of the Oak,[76]
who, added to his superior weight of _metal_, has a superior weight
of body, and a much more persuasive aspect. The Jew has the true
countenance of his tribe. Of his customer, we may say in the language
of Shylock,
"How like a fawning publican he looks!"