"Time was,--our freeholders, a stout rustic band,
Inhal'd the fresh breeze as they till'd their own land;
Their hearts beam'd with honour, their faces with health,
Their toil gave them strength, and their diligence wealth.
But these sons of misery, disfranchis'd by fate,
Resemble a group at an hospital gate,
All huddled together in one little clan,
To display the calamities common to man.
Yet deaf, blind, or lame, we must trust to their choice;
_Sans_ ears, eyes, or hands,--each may have a good voice.
And--gasping for breath,--it deserves special note,
The _expiring Elector_ is deem'd a _dead vote_."--E.
[Illustration: THE ELECTION, PLATE III. THE POLLING.]
With the glorious ambition of serving their country, added to an
eagerness of displaying their own importance, the maimed, the lame,
the blind, the deaf, and the sick, hasten to the hustings to give
their _independent_ votes.[77] The contending candidates, seated at
the back of the booth, anticipate the event. One of them, coolly
resting upon his cane in a state of stupid satisfaction, appears to
be as happy as his nature will admit, in the certainty of success.
Very different are the feelings of his opponent, who, rubbing his
head with every mark of apprehensive agitation, contemplates the
state of the poll, and shudders at the heavy expense of a contest in
which he is likely to be the loser. Such are the cares of a candidate.
"A man, when once he's safely chose,
May laugh at all his furious foes,
Nor think of former evil:
Yet good has its attendant ill,
A seat is no bad thing,--but still,
A contest is the Devil."
The first person that tenders his oath to the swearing clerk is an
old soldier, and probably a brave one, for he has lost a leg, an arm,
and a hand, in the service of his country. They were severed by the
sword of an enemy, but the trunk and heart remain entire, and are
entitled to more respect than is paid them by the brawling advocate,
who, with that loud and overbearing loquacity for which Billingsgate
and the bar are so deservedly eminent, puts in a protest against his
vote. The objection is not founded upon this heroic remnant of war
having forfeited his franchise by any improper conduct, but upon
the letter, the black letter of the law, "which," says our quibbling
counsellor, "ordains, 'that the person who makes an affidavit shall
lay his right hand upon the book.' Now, this man having had his
right hand severed from his arm, and, as he informs us, left it in
Flanders, cannot comply with the letter of the law, and therefore
is not competent to make an affidavit; that being once admitted,
which I do contend must be admitted, he cannot be deemed competent
to vote." "That," replies another gentleman of the black robe, "I
most pointedly deny; for though this valiant veteran, who is an
half-pay officer, has lost much of his blood and three of his limbs
in the service of his king, and defence of his fellow-subjects, yet
the sword which deprived him of his hand has not deprived him of his
birthright. God forbid it should! It might as well be argued and
asserted, that this gentleman is excluded from the rites of matrimony
because he cannot pledge his hand. Thanks to our religion and our
constitution, neither law nor gospel holds such language, and it
is beneath me to waste any more words in the confutation of it. I
will only add,--and I do insist upon my opinion being confirmed by
every statute upon the case,--that the law must and will consider
this substitute for a hand to be as good as the hand itself; and
his laying that upon the book is all which the law ought to
require,--all the law can require,--all the law does require."
Leaving these two bright luminaries of their profession to throw
dust, and render that obscure which without their explanation would
have been perfectly clear, let us attend to the son of Solomon, who
is fastened in his chair and brought to give his voice for a fit
person to represent _him_ in Parliament. This is evidently a deaf
idiot, but he is attended by a man in fetters,[78] very capable of
prompting him, who is at this moment roaring in his ear the name of
the gentleman for whom he is to vote. Behind him are two fellows
carrying a man wrapped in a blanket, apparently in so languid a
state, that he cannot be supposed to feel much interest in the
concerns of a world he is on the point of leaving.[79] The catalogue
of this motley group of electors is concluded by a blind man and
a cripple, who are slowly and cautiously ascending the steps that
lead to the hustings. In the group an artist is drawing a profile of
one of the candidates, and in both air and character this Sayers of
his day has given a very striking resemblance of his original. The
constable, fatigued by double duty, is at peace with all mankind--a
deep sleep is upon him. Many of the crowd are attentively listening
to the soft sounds of a female siren, warbling forth a brown paper
libel on one of the candidates in that universal language which those
that cannot read may yet understand,--the hero of this satire being
delineated as suspended to a gibbet on the top of the ballad.
In the sinister corner is a view of Britannia's chariot oversetting,
while the coachman and footman are playing at cards on the box. Here
is one of the few instances where Hogarth has mounted into the cloudy
heights of allegory; and here, as Mr. Walpole justly observes, he is
not happy: it is a dark and dangerous region, in which almost every
aeronaut of the arts has lost himself, and confused his earth-born
admirers. On a bridge in the background is a carriage, with
colours flying, and a cavalcade composed of worthy and independent
freeholders advancing to give their suffrages with all possible
_éclat_.
The village in the distance has a pretty effect. Of the church we may
fairly say, as Charles the Second did of that at Harrow on the Hill,
"It is the _visible_ church."
Part of this plate was engraved by Morrilon le Cave, who was a
scholar of Picart's. In the year 1733, he engraved from Hogarth's
design a small print of Captain Coram, etc., as the headpiece to a
power of attorney for the Governors of the Foundling Hospital: he
also engraved a head of Doctor Pococke, which is the frontispiece to
Twell's edition of the Doctor's works.