When Philip's warlike and victorious son
A kingdom conquer'd or a battle won,
His legions bow'd the head, and bent the knee,
And cried, exulting,--Lo, a Deity!
Bore him triumphant in a glittering car,
While thundering plaudits rent the echoing air.
So,--the Election being finish'd,
His borough gain'd, his coin diminish'd,
Our Knight in mock heroic state
Is now exalted,--but not great.
Beyond all doubt the people's choice,
Ah!--could he check the people's voice?
For some exclaim,--A venal knave!
And others,--A time-serving slave!
While this roars out,--A party tool!
That, sneering cries,--A party fool!
These are hard words, and grating tones;
But what are words to broken bones?
And broken bones he'll soon bewail,
For there's no fence against a flail.
Oh hapless wight!--ah, luckless fray,
Down drops this pageant of the day.
Thus, he most raised above his fellows,
By one rude blast from Fortune's bellows,
Falls, like a tempest-riven tower,
From pomp, pride, circumstance, and power.--E.
[Illustration: THE ELECTION, PLATE IV. CHAIRING THE MEMBERS.]
The polling being concluded, the books cast up, and the
returning-officer having declared our candidate[80] duly elected, he
is now exhibited in triumph. Seated in an arm-chair, and exalted upon
the shoulders of four tried supporters of the constitution, he is
borne through the principal streets, which are promiscuously crowded
with enemies as well as friends. In this aerostatic voyage there
seems to be some danger of a wreck; for a thresher having received
an insult from a sailor, in the act of revenging it flourishes his
flail in as extensive an orbit as if he were in his own barn. The
end of this destructive instrument coming in contact with the skull
of a bearer of our new-made member, the fellow's head rings with
the blow, his eyes swim, his limbs refuse their office, and at this
inauspicious moment the effects of the stroke, like an electric
shock, extend to the exalted senator. He trembles in every joint; the
hat flies from his head--and--without the intervention of Juno or
Minerva, he must fall from the seat of honour to the bed of stone.
Terrified at his impending danger, a nervous lady, who with her
attendants is in the churchyard, falls back in a swoon. Regardless
of her distress, two little chimney-sweepers upon the gate-post are
placing a pair of gingerbread spectacles on a death's head. Their
sportive tricks are likely to be interrupted by a monkey beneath,
who, arrayed _en militaire_, is mounted upon a bear's back. The
firelock slung over this little animal's shoulder, in a fray between
the bear and a biped, is accidentally discharged in a direction
that, if loaded, must carry leaden death to one of the gibing soot
merchants above.[81]
The venerable musician, delighted with his own harmony, neither takes
a part nor feels an interest in the business of the day. Let not his
neutrality be attributed to a wrong cause; nor be it supposed that,
in a country where every good citizen must espouse some party,[82]
this ancient personage would remain an indifferent spectator were he
not totally blind. At an opposite corner a naked soldier is taking
a few refreshing grains of best Virginia, and preparing to dress
himself after the performance of a pugilistic duet. On the other side
of the rails a half-starved French cook, a half-bred English cook,
and a half-roasted woman cook, are carrying three covers for the
lawyers' table. Near them is a cooper inspecting a vessel that had
been reported leaky, and must speedily be filled with home-brewed
ale for the gratification of the populace. Two fellows are forcing
their way through the crowd in the background with a barrel of
the same liquor. Coming out of a street behind them, a procession
of triumphant electors hail the other successful candidate, whose
shadow appears on the wall of the court-house. In Mr. Attorney's[83]
first floor are a group of the defeated party glorying in their
security, and highly delighted with the confusion below. One of
these, distinguished by a riband, is said to be intended for the
late Duke of Newcastle, who was eminently active on these occasions.
A poor old lady is unfortunately thrown down by a litter of pigs,
which, followed by their _mamma_, rush through the crowd with as
much impetuosity as if the whole herd were possessed. One of this
agreeable party has leaped, not into the ocean, but the brook, and
the whole family are on the point of following its example.
Hogarth had surely some antipathy to tailors; in the background he
has introduced one of these knights of the needle disciplined by his
wife for having quitted the shop-board to look at the gentlemen.
In Le Brun's "Battle of the Granicus," an eagle is represented as
hovering over the plumed helmet of Alexander; this thought is very
happily parodied in a goose,[84] flying immediately over the tye-wig
of our exalted candidate.
Mr. Nichols, in his _Anecdotes of Hogarth_, very shrewdly observes
that "the ruined house adjoining to the attorney's is a stroke
of satire that should not be overlooked, because," adds the same
writer, "it intimates that nothing can thrive in the neighbourhood
of such vermin."[85] In this inference I most sincerely join, but am
afraid that in the present instance we cannot establish our data.
The house is not in ruins from the inhabitant having been unable to
keep it in repair, neither has it been torn by the teeth of time;
for it is apparently the wreck of a modern edifice, which has been
thus destroyed by a riotous mob, because it belonged to one of the
opposite party.
An inscription on the sun-dial, when joined to the mortuary
representation on the church gate-post, has been supposed to imply
a pun hardly worthy of Hogarth, but which yet I am inclined to
suspect he intended. "We must,"[86] on the sun-dial, say some of his
illustrators, means--We must die all (_dial_).
All the incidents in this very whimsical plate are naturally and yet
skilfully combined: the whole is in the highest degree laughable,
and every figure stamped with its proper character. The apprehensive
terror of the unwieldy member, the Herculean strength of the
exasperated thresher, and the energetic attitude of the maimed
sailor, deserve peculiar praise.
Previous to the publication of this series, Mr. Hogarth's satire was
generally aimed at the follies and vices of individuals. He has here
ventured to dip his pencil in the ocean of politics, and delineated
the corrupt and venal conduct of our electors in the choice of their
representatives. That these four plates display a picture in any
degree applicable to the present times must not be asserted, because
it might, by the help of _innuendo_, be construed into a libel on
the present upright and independent House of Commons: but from the
floating memorials of some little transactions that took place some
thirty or forty years ago, there is reason to think that the people
of Great Britain were so far from being influenced by a reverence for
public virtue, that they began to suspect it had no existence. Their
faith in violent professions of the _amor patriæ_ had been staggered
by several recent instances of political depravity. They had a few
years before seen a William Pulteney, the champion of patriots, the
idol of the people, the dread of ministers, desert from the party
of which he was a leader, quit the cause for which he had been the
most violent advocate, and accept a peerage. This, and some similar
circumstances, gave an example and an apology for universal venality.
How different was the spirit which actuated the Earl of Bath,
from that independent dignity, that patriotic ardour, that holy
enthusiasm, which has emblazoned the name of Andrew Marvel[87] with
a saint-like glory! Let his name be consecrated by the reverence and
the gratitude of every Englishman, and may we live to see a band
of senators who will emulate his virtues! Could we have faith in
speeches, many which we have heard and read are of much promise; let
us hope that the day of performance is at hand.
[Illustration: (end of chapter floral icon)]