Hogarth's Works, with life and anecdotal descriptions of his pictures. Volume 1 (of 3)

For those who delight in pointing out examples of Hogarth's bad spelling, this print affords a fine field. The name of Cibber is spelt with only one b. In the Fall of Bajazet, the z appears to have been originally an s. "We'l starve them out." The e final in waxworke, these syllable dissectors may perhaps deign to acknowledge was then customary.

In my enumeration of some of the actors who appear on the show-cloth, etc., I may sometimes be wrong: let it be received as conjecture founded on the best information I could obtain; and let it be remembered, that to procure positive information of circumstances which happened near fifty years ago is not easy. The memoranda to be found in magazines, and other perishable prints of the day, are not always to be depended upon. Even now these authentic documents sometimes lead those who implicitly believe them into error.[113]

A MIDNIGHT MODERN CONVERSATION.

Notwithstanding this inscription, which was engraved on the plate some time after its publication, it is very certain that most of these figures were intended for individual portraits; but Mr. Hogarth, not wishing to be considered as a personal satirist, and fearful of making enemies among his contemporaries, would never acknowledge who were the characters. Some of them the world might perhaps mistake; for though the author was faithful in delineating whatever he intended to portray, complete intoxication so far caricatures the countenance, that, according to the old though trite proverb, "the man is not himself." His portrait, though given with the utmost fidelity, will scarcely be known by his most intimate friends, unless they have previously seen him in this degrading disguise. Hence it becomes difficult to identify men whom the painter did not choose to point out at the time; and sixty years having elapsed, it becomes impossible,—for all who composed the group, with the artist by whom it was delineated,

Mrs. Piozzi told me that the divine with a corkscrew,[114] occasionally used as a tobacco-stopper, hanging upon his little finger, was the portrait of Parson Ford, Dr. Johnson's uncle; though upon the authority of Sir John Hawkins, of anecdotish memory, it has been generally supposed to be intended for Orator Henley.[115] As I have been told that both these worthies were distinguished by that clerical rubicundity of face with which it is marked, the reader may decree the honour of a sitting to which he pleases. We may say of either one or the other:

The roaring Bacchanalian who stands next him, waving his glass in the air, has pulled off his wig, and in the zeal of his friendship crowns the divine's head. He is evidently drinking destruction to fanatics and success to Mother Church, or a mitre to the jolly parson whom he addresses.

The lawyer who sits near him is a portrait of one Kettleby, a vociferous bar-orator, who, though an utter barrister, chose to distinguish himself by wearing an enormous full-bottom wig, in which he is here represented. He was further remarkable for a diabolical squint and a Satanic smile. In the Causidicade are a number of lines dedicated to the honour of this amiable person. They begin with—

A poor maudlin miserable who is addressing him, when sober, must be a fool; but, in this state, it would puzzle Lavater to assign him a proper class. He seems endeavouring to demonstrate to the lawyer that in a poi—poi—point of law he has been most cruelly cheated, and lost a cau—cau—cause that he ought to have got,—and all this was owing to his attorney being an infernal villain. This may very probably be true; for the poor man's tears show that, like the person relieved by the good Samaritan, he has been among thieves. The barrister grins horribly at his misfortunes, and tells him he is properly punished for not employing a gentleman.

Next to him sits a gentleman in a black periwig. He politely turns his back to the company, that he may have the pleasure of smoking a sociable pipe.

The justice, "in fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,"—the justice, having hung up his hat, wig, and cloak, puts on his nightcap, and with a goblet of superior capacity before him, sits in solemn cogitation. Meditating severe punishments on the dissolute peasant who tipples ale or viler liquors, he resolves for the future to act with magisterial harshness, that he may convince his neighbours of his zeal for the law, and detestation of drunkenness. His left elbow supported by the table and his right by a chair, with a pipe in one hand and a stopper in the other, he puffs out the bland vapour with the dignity of an alderman, and fancies himself as great as Jupiter seated upon the summit of Mount Olympus, enveloped by the thick cloud which his own breath has created.

With folded arms and open mouth another leans back in his chair.[117] His wig is dropped from his head, and he is asleep: but though speechless, he is sonorous; for you clearly perceive that where nasal sounds are the music, he is qualified to be leader of the band.

The fallen hero, who with his chair and goblet has tumbled to the floor, by the cockade in his hat we suppose to be an officer. His forehead is marked, perhaps with honourable scars. To wash his wounds and cool his head, the staggering apothecary bathes it with brandy.

A gentleman in the corner, who, from having the Craftsman and London Evening in his pocket, we determine to be a politician, very unluckily mistakes his ruffle for the bowl of his pipe, and sets fire to it.

The person in a bag-wig and solitaire, with his hand upon his head,[118] would not now pass for a fine gentleman, but in the year 1735 was a complete beau. Unaccustomed to such joyous company, he appears to have drank rather more than agrees with him.

The company consists of eleven,[119] and on the chimney-piece, floor, and table, are three-and-twenty empty flasks. These, added to a bottle which the apothecary holds in his hand, prove that this select society have not lost a moment. The overflowing bowl, full goblets, and charged glasses, prove that they think "'tis too early to part," though the dial points to four in the morning!

The clock, like the company, is irregular; for the minute finger and hour hand do not agree. Over the chimney-piece is a picture, of which we can discover enough to guess that it has once been a landscape; but, like the understandings of the gentlemen present, is so obscured by smoke and vapour as to appear a mere chaos, without one clear and distinct form. The fumes of punch, the smoke of pipes, and effluvia of candles sunk into the sockets, must render the air delightfully balmy, and produce ambrosial fragrance.

The different degrees of drunkenness are well discriminated, and its effects admirably described. The poor simpleton who is weeping out his woes to honest lawyer Kettleby, it makes mawkish; the beau it makes sick; and the politician it stupifies. One is excited to roaring, and another lulled to sleep. It half closes the eyes of justice, renders the footing of physic unsure, and lays prostrate the glory of his country and the pride of war.

On the 22d of March 1742, for the benefit of Mr. Hippisley, was acted at Covent Garden Theatre a new scene, called A Modern Midnight Conversation, taken from Hogarth's print, in which was introduced Hippisley's Drunken Man, with a comic tale of what really passed between him and his old aunt, at her house on Mendip Hills, in Somersetshire.

Having described the individuals of which this print is composed, let us for a moment reflect upon the vice it is intended to satirize; and considered in a moral point of view, it may have as good an effect as the sight of an intoxicated slave had upon the young men of Sparta. This people sometimes made a slave drunk, that their sons, disgusted by the sight, might avoid the practice.

In a book published about a century and a half ago, I remember to have read a tale, which recounteth that, "Once uponne a tyme, the Divelle was permitted to tempte a yonge manne. Sathanne had noe sooner power gyven hym, than hee didde appeere in the guyze of a grave bencher of Graie's Inne, and didde tell himme that hee was impoweryd to compelle hys doing one of these three thynges: eyther he shoulde morthere his fathere, lie wythe his mothere, or gette dronke. The young manne," saith my author, "shockyd atte the two first proposycyons, didde ymbrace the laste. He gotte verie dronke, and in thatte state, havying neyther the use of reasonne nor the dredde of sinne, hee was guyltie offe bothe the unaturalle deedes hee hadde before soe shudderydde atte, and for hys naughtinesse and wyckednesse hee was hangydde."

I have been told that the original picture was some years since found at an inn in Gloucestershire, and is now in the possession of J. Calverley, Esq., of Leeds, in Yorkshire.

THE SLEEPING CONGREGATION.

The shepherd is not much more awake than his sleeping flock, whose appearance convinces us that, though there is no organ, there is much melody. The nasal music of the congregation, joined to the languid monotony of the preacher,[120] which sounds like the drowsy hum of a drone bee, must form such a concert as neither Tubal Cain nor Sir John Hawkins ever dreamed of. The text is perfectly applicable to the audience, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." His parishioners have not troubled themselves much about the Greek version; good, easy men, they take these words in their literal sense, and, after the toil of six days, find the church a comfortable and convenient dormitory. By the preacher's aspect and attitude, we are convinced that he would lull to soft repose the most lively assembly that ever congregated in the capital. How, then, must his manner operate here? As an opiate more powerful than poppies. It is as composing as are the very descriptive lines that conclude the second book of Pope's Dunciad; which are so perfectly an echo to the sense, that they ought to be inscribed on the front of the first temple which is dedicated to Somnus. He

The clerk,[121] infinitely more important than the divine, is kept awake by contemplating the charms of a voluptuously blooming damsel, who, in studying the Service of Matrimony, has sighed her soul to rest. The eyes of this pronouncer of Amen are visibly directed to her.

In the pew opposite are five swains of the village;

To render this rural scene more pastoral, they are accompanied by two women who have once been shepherdesses, and perhaps celebrated by some neighbouring Theocritus as the Chloe and Daphne of their day. Being now in the wane of their charms, poetical justice will not allow us to give them any other appellation than old women. They are awake. Whether the artist intended by this to show that they are actuated by the spirit of contradiction, for the preacher entreats them to go to rest, or meant it as a compliment to the softer sex, as being more attentive than men, I cannot tell; let those who have studied their characters more than I have, determine as seemeth best in their eyes.

In the gallery are two men joining in chorus with the band below. One of them has the decency to hide his face; but the other is evidently in full song.

The heavy architecture and grotesque decorations lead us to conjecture that this now venerable edifice was once the cottage of Baucis and Philemon, so exquisitely described by Swift:

The "Children in the Wood" are now exalted above the Gothic windows. One of them we see transformed to an angel; which, to prove its being of a more exalted species, and no longer a mere mortal, has four thighs.

have undergone a transmigration much to their advantage. It has somewhat sullied their plumage, but they have assumed a more important appearance, and the loss of beauty is compensated by an abundant increase in bulk and dignity. Exalted to the upper part of a fluted pillar, and seated in heraldic state, they seem to mortal eyes the emblems of wisdom, the symbols of Minerva.[122]

A lion and companion unicorn, concealed by the pillar, was originally an headpiece to that excellent old ballad, beginning with

With jaws extended wide enough to swallow a bed of lilies, he is one of the supporters to the king's arms.

The pews carry evident marks of having been once a Gothic bedstead. The cumbrous load of oak with which it was canopied, still supported by large square posts, is become a gallery. The lower part retains much of its original form, and answers its original purpose; but why should I attempt to describe that which is already described by the Dean?

The pulpit in which our dozing divine is groaning out the gospel, was once a groaning-chair for the good wife of the cottage. The cushion on which she sat for many a winter's eve is now ornamented with tassels. The arm still retains its original form, though somewhat more upright than when it served for a rest to the old dame's elbow. Swift describes the exact manner of the metamorphosis:

The crutches, which erst supported Dame Baucis, now prop the clerk's reading-desk.

The triangle, environed by a glory, was placed in the church by old Philemon. In his youth he had been a very good carpenter, and, when become a divine, retained so much of his original disposition as to suppose he could explain an awful mystery by a mechanical representation. The only misfortune which attended this curious delineation was, that not one of his parishioners could understand it: they however, were silent; they thought it too serious an affair to dispute or call names about. It would perhaps have been as well if many of our learned and right grave divines had been silent upon this subject on the same principle.

Swift says that the jack was turned to a clock; in this circumstance he must have been mistaken, for the hour-glass, which was the constant companion of Dame Baucis at her wheel, retains its old form, and is placed at the parson's left hand.[123] Underneath it is the following applicable inscription from St. Paul's Epistle to the Galatians: "I am afraid of you, lest I have bestowed upon you labour in vain."

The windows are evidently intended for companions, but there is a considerable difference in their proportions, panes of glass, etc. At the time this massy temple was erected, our countrymen neither studied Vitruvius, nor considered uniformity as a requisite in architecture.

This print was published on the 26th of October 1736; but we learn, by an inscription on the sinister side of the plate, that on the 21st April 1762 it was retouched and improved by the author.

There is a printed copy, tolerably executed, but not quite so large, nor has it any price affixed beneath.

The original picture was in Sir Edward Walpole's collection; who is the present proprietor I do not know. There are some variations in it; the face of the clerk is different from the print, and he does not appear leering at the girl, but, to keep in unison with the rest of the congregation, is half asleep.

THE DISTRESSED POET.

Such is the fate of many a miserable scribbler who usurps the sacred name of a poet. Parnassus must be peopled, and the fashionable versifiers that have no other aim than feeding on the mountain have sometimes cropped better pasturage at the foot of the hill than has been found by those hallowed bards who have attained the summit. Of gentle readers that demand the strains of gentle writers, there are in this our city an innumerable host. They are sober and well-disposed persons, good subjects to their king, and useful members of the community; but being by their various avocations confined to a smoky town, are debarred from the cheering prospects of purling streams, waving woods, and shady groves. They have nevertheless great comfort and delectation in reading descriptions of scenes so profusely beautified with the amenities of nature. Happily for such admirers of rural simplicity, there is a band of pastoral poets who make the press groan with description. Seated like this unfortunate labourer of the Muses in their attic storey, and scarcely ever seeing a green tree except in the Moorfields Mall, they daily present the public with amplifications of verdant meads, glistening dew-drops, and liquid rains. In the sublime strains of these gentlemen,

Upon the same principle with our town-made rhymers, who have generally written about things which they have neither seen, felt, heard, nor understood, this our distressed poet is now spinning a poem upon riches. Of their use he probably knoweth little; and of their abuse, if judgment can be formed from externals, certes he knoweth less.

Seated upon the side of his bed, without a shirt, but wrapped in an old night-gown,—enchanted, impressed, inspired with his subject,—he is disturbed by a nymph of the Lactarium. Her shrill sounding voice awakes one of the little loves, whose chorus disturbs his meditations. A link of the golden chain is broken!—a thought is lost! To recover it, his hand becomes a substitute for the barber's comb: enraged at the noise, he tortures his head for the fleeting idea; but, ah! no thought is there!

Proudly conscious that the lines already written are sterling, he possesses by anticipation the mines of Peru, a view of which hangs over his head. Upon the table we see Byshe's Art of Poetry;[125] for, like the packhorse who cannot travel without his bells, he cannot climb the hill of Parnassus without his jingling-book. On the floor lies the Grub Street Journal,[126] to which valuable repository of genius and taste he is probably a contributor. To show that he is a master of the profound, and will envelope his subject in a cloud, his pipe and tobacco-box—those friends to cogitation deep—are close to him.

His wife, mending that part of his dress in the pockets of which the affluent keep their gold, is worthy of a better fate. Her figure is peculiarly interesting.[127] Her face, softened by adversity, and marked with domestic care, is at this moment agitated by the appearance of a boisterous woman, insolently demanding payment of the milk-tally. In the excuse she returns, there is a mixture of concern, complacency, and mortification. As an addition to the distresses of this poor family, a dog is stealing the remnant of mutton incautiously left upon a chair.

The sloping roof and projecting chimney prove the throne of this inspired bard to be high above the crowd;—it is a garret. The chimney is ornamented with a dare for larks; and a book, a loaf, the tea-equipage, and a saucepan, decorate the shelf. Before the fire hangs half a shirt and a pair of ruffled sleeves. His sword lies on the floor; for though our professor of poetry waged no war, except with words, a sword was in the year 1740 a necessary appendage to every thing which called itself gentleman. At the feet of his domestic seamstress, the full-dress coat is become the resting-place of a cat and two kittens: in the same situation is one stocking; the other is half immersed in the washing-pan. The broom, bellows, and mop are scattered round the room. The open door shows us that their cupboard is unfurnished, and tenanted by an hungry and solitary mouse. In the corner hangs a long cloak, well calculated to conceal the threadbare wardrobe of its fair owner.

Mr. Hogarth's strict attention to propriety of scenery is evinced by the cracked plastering of the walls, broken window, and uneven floor, in the miserable habitation of this poor weaver of madrigals.[128]

The original picture is in the collection of Lord Grosvenor.

THE ENRAGED MUSICIAN.

Rapt in Elysium at the divine symphony, he is awakened from his beatific vision by noises that distract him:

Confounded with the din, and enraged by the interruption, our modern Terpander starts from his seat, and opens the window. This operates as air to a kindling fire; and such a combination of noises burst upon the auricular nerve that he is compelled to stop his ears,—but to stop the torrent is impossible!

In this situation he is delineated; and those who for a moment contemplate the figures before him, cannot wonder at his rage:

Of the dramatis personæ who perform the vocal parts, the first is a fellow in a tone that would rend hell's concave, bawling, "Dust, ho! dust, ho! dust!" Next to him, an amphibious animal, who nightly pillows his head on the sedgy bosom of old Thames, in a voice that emulates the rush of many waters, or the roaring of a cataract, is bellowing, "Flounda-a-a-rs!" A daughter of May-day, who dispenses what in London is called milk, and is consequently a milkmaid, in a note pitched at the very top of her voice, is crying, "Be-louw!" While a ballad-singer dolefully drawls out The Ladie's Fall, an infant in her arms joins its treble pipe in chorus with the screaming parrot, which is on a lamp-iron over her head. On the roof of an opposite house are two cats, performing what an amateur of music might perhaps call a bravura duet; near them appears

A little French drummer, singing to his rub-a-dub, and the agreeable yell of a dog, complete the vocal performers.

Of the instrumental, a fellow blowing a horn with a violence that would have almost shaken down the walls of Jericho claims the first notice; next to him, the dustman rattles his bell with ceaseless clangour, until the air reverberates the sound.

The intervals are filled up by a pavior, who to every stroke of his rammer adds a loud, distinct, and echoing "Haugh!" The pedestrian cutler is grinding a butcher's cleaver with such earnestness and force, that it elicits sparks of fire. This, added to the agonizing howls of his unfortunate dog, must afford a perfect specimen of the ancient chromatic. The poor animal,[129] between a man and a monkey, piping harsh discords upon a hautboy, the girl whirling her crepitaculum, or rattle, and the boy beating his drum, conclude the catalogue of this harmonious band.

Thus much we may be almost said to hear; and we see, by the flag displayed at the church, that the fanciers of corals for grown gentlemen are performing a round of double bob-majors in the belfry. "John Long, pewterer," is inscribed over a door, and intimates the business going on in the house, where the strokes of some thirty or forty hammers ringing incessantly upon pewter, produce a sound more sonorous than that which is echoed from the forge of Vulcan.

This delineation originated in a story which was told to Hogarth by the late Mr. John Festin,[130] who is the hero of the print. He was eminent for his skill in playing upon the German flute and hautboy, and much employed as a teacher of music. To each of his scholars he devoted one hour each day. "At nine o'clock in the morning," said he, "I once waited upon my Lord Spencer; but his lordship being out of town, from him I went to Mr. V——n, now Lord V——n. It was so early, that he was not arisen. I went into his chamber, and, opening a shutter, sat down in the window-seat. Before the rails was a fellow playing upon the hautboy. A man with a barrow full of onions offered the piper an onion if he would play him a tune. That ended, he offered a second onion for a second tune; the same for a third, and was going on: but this was too much,—I could not bear it,—it angered my very soul—'Zounds!' said I, 'stop here! This fellow is ridiculing my profession—he is playing on the hautboy for onions!'"

The whole of this bravura scene is admirably represented. A person quaintly enough observed that it deafens one to look at it.

The roar of the fisherman, with one hand so placed as to become a sort of sounding-board, and give reverberation, is admirably depicted. You perceive that he has, professionally speaking, not merely a volume, but a folio volume of voice. As well as that of the dustman, it is a thorough bass; and, added to the tenor and treble of the other performers, must form a concert, though not quite so harmonious, yet nearly as loud, as those which have been graced with the royal presence in Westminster Abbey.

The scene seems to be taken from the lower part of St. Martin's Lane; it is certainly intended to represent the steeple of St. Martin's Church.

A heap of bricks, scientifically piled up close to the little girl, have been said to be a contrivance of some boy to catch birds. Is it not more likely that the modern architecture of this little Babel, as well as the adjoining plantation and pond, originated in the united efforts of the young lady and young gentleman in a corner cap? The latter has been dragging a slate fastened to a string, and tied round his waist, over a rough pavement, that he also might make a pretty noise.

A play-bill on the wall describes the unaccountable run of that very popular and pernicious performance, The Beggar's Opera, to have been sixty-two nights. In a copy of this opera, published in 1729, the dramatis personæ are printed as here written; and the good fortune which followed Miss Fenton's attractions in Polly are universally known.

The figures are well grouped and judiciously characterized: those in the background have great force; but the boy with a drum is ill drawn, and the milk-pail is too large.

In the London Daily Post for November 24, 1740, is the following advertisement:—"Shortly will be published, a new print, called The Provoked Musician, designed and engraved by Mr. William Hogarth; being a companion to a print representing a Distressed Poet, published some time since. To which will be added, a third on painting, which will complete the set; but as this subject may turn upon an affair depending between the Right Hon. the Lord Mayor and the author, it may be retarded for some time."

Humphry Parsons was at that time Lord Mayor; but the business alluded to not being in the city records, must remain obscure until some one who knows more about it than I do shall explain it.

In Dr. Beattie's Essay on Laughter and Ludicrous Composition, quarto edition, p. 608, speaking of the modes of combination by which incongruous qualities may be presented to the eye or the fancy, so as to provoke laughter, he observes, that "this extraordinary group form a very comical mixture of incongruity and relation: of incongruity, owing to the dissimilar employment and appearances of the several persons, and to the variety of dissonance of their respective noises; and of relation, owing to their being all united in the same place, and for the same purpose of tormenting the poor fiddler. From the various sounds co-operating to this one end, the piece becomes more laughable than if their meeting were conceived to be without any particular destination; for the greater number of relations, as well as of contrarieties, that take place in any ludicrous assembly, the more ludicrous it will generally appear. Yet though this group comprehends not any mixture of meanness and dignity, it would, I think, be allowed to be laughable to a certain degree, merely from the juxtaposition of the objects, even though it were supposed to be accidental."

Of the immense fortunes realized by the Italian professors of music, we have many examples in this island; but the success of Lully, in France, was greater than any of his countrymen ever experienced here. He was by birth a Florentine. By his fiddle and his impudence, he raised himself from the Queen of France's kitchen to be chief of the band of music, and carried the art to a degree of perfection hitherto unknown in that kingdom. Louis XIV. gave him letters of nobility, and on his account enacted that the profession of music should consist with the quality of a gentleman. He died by excessive drinking, and left an immense fortune. The nobleman who had entertained him when he drank what proved his quietus, paying him a visit, "Ah! my lord," said his wife, with a deep sigh, "you are the last who made my husband drunk." Lully, who was dying, heard the remark, and had just voice enough left to add, "He shall be the first who makes me so again, when I get upon my legs!"

THE FOUR TIMES OF THE DAY.

In the "Progress of an Harlot," and the "Adventures of a Rake," Mr. Hogarth displayed his powers of painting history. Holding the mirror up to Nature, he shows

"Virtue her own feature, Vice her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure."

Had he exhibited no other specimen of his art, these fourteen prints would have given him a right to the title of a moral painter; and thus was he denominated by the late Mr. Fielding, in his Adventures of Joseph Andrews.

In the series before us he treads poetic ground. A description of the day, particularly the morning, has been generally deemed the bard's peculiar province. Considering Homer as the father of poesy, the whole family of Apollo have echoed his notes, and run their divisions of fancy upon his scale. With one of them,

With another, she "sows the earth with orient pearl." At one time, with a star as her gentleman usher, she

is now the grey Aurora, then the meek-ey'd morn, array'd in a dewy robe, with saffron streamers, placed in a glittering chariot, and drawn by etherial coursers, where, holding the reins with her red hands, she drives the day.

These heathenish descriptions may be very beautiful in their way; but hear our own Shakspeare: