The Works of William Hogarth: In a Series of Engravings Part 12

The scene is probably laid at Newmarket, and in this motley group of peers,--pick-pockets,--butchers,--jockies,--rat-catchers,--gentlemen, --gamblers of every denomination, Lord Albemarle Bertie, being the princ.i.p.al figure, is ent.i.tled to precedence. In the March to Finchley, we see him an attendant at a boxing match; and here he is president of a most respectable society a.s.sembled at a c.o.c.kpit. What rendered his lords.h.i.+p's pa.s.sion for amus.e.m.e.nts of this nature very singular, was his being totally blind. In this place he is beset by seven steady friends, five of whom at the same instant offer to bet with him on the event of the battle. One of them, a lineal descendant of Filch, taking advantage of his blindness and negligence, endeavours to convey a bank note, deposited in our dignified gambler's hat, to his own pocket. Of this ungentlemanlike attempt his lords.h.i.+p is apprised by a ragged post-boy, and an honest butcher: but he is so much engaged in the p.r.o.nunciation of those important words, Done! Done! Done! Done! and the arrangement of his bets, that he cannot attend to their hints; and it seems more than probable that the stock will be transferred, and the note negociated in a few seconds.

A very curious group surround the old n.o.bleman, who is adorned with a riband, a star, and a pair of spectacles. The whole weight of an overgrown carpenter being laid upon his shoulder, forces our ill.u.s.trious personage upon a man beneath; who being thus driven downward, falls upon a fourth, and the fourth, by the acc.u.mulated pressure of this ponderous trio, composed of the upper and lower house, loses his balance, and tumbling against the edge of the part.i.tion, his head is broke, and his wig, shook from the seat of reason, falls into the c.o.c.kpit.

A man adjoining enters into the spirit of the battle,--his whole soul is engaged. From his distorted countenance, and clasped hands, we see that he feels every stroke given to his favourite bird in his heart's core,--ay, in his heart of hearts! A person at the old peer's left hand is likely to be a loser. Ill-humour, vexation, and disappointment are painted in his countenance. The chimney-sweeper above, is the very quintessence of affectation. He has all the airs and graces of a boarding-school miss. The sanctified quaker adjoining, and the fellow beneath, who, by the way, is a very similar figure to Captain Stab, in the Rake's Progress, are finely contrasted.

A French marquis on the other side, astonished at this being called amus.e.m.e.nt, is exclaiming Sauvages! Sauvages! Sauvages!--Engrossed by the scene, and opening his snuff-box rather carelessly, its contents fall into the eyes of a man below, who, sneezing and swearing alternately, imprecates bitter curses on this devil's dust, that extorts from his inflamed eyes, "A sea of melting pearls, which some call tears."

Adjoining is an old cripple, with a trumpet at his ear, and in this trumpet a person in a bag-wig roars in a manner that cannot much gratify the auricular nerves of his companions; but as for the object to whom the voice is directed, he seems totally insensible to sounds, and if judgment can be formed from appearances, might very composedly stand close to the clock of St. Paul's Cathedral, when it was striking twelve.

The figure with a c.o.c.k peeping out of a bag, is said to be intended for Jackson, a jockey; the gravity of this experienced veteran, and the cool sedateness of a man registering the wagers, are well opposed by the grinning woman behind, and the heated impetuosity of a fellow, stripped to his s.h.i.+rt, throwing his coin upon the c.o.c.kpit, and offering to back Ginger against Pye for a guinea.

On the lower side, where there is only one tier of figures, a sort of an apothecary, and a jockey, are stretching out their arms, and striking together the handles of their whips, in token of a bet. An hiccuping votary of Bacchus, displaying a half-emptied purse, is not likely to possess it long, for an adroit professor of legerdemain has taken aim with a hooked stick, and by one slight jerk, will convey it to his own pocket. The profession of a gentleman in a round wig is determined by a gibbet chalked upon his coat. An enraged barber, who lifts up his stick in the corner, has probably been refused payment of a wager, by the man at whom he is striking.

A cloud-capt philosopher at the top of the print, coolly smoking his pipe, unmoved by this crash of matter, and wreck of property, must not be overlooked: neither should his dog be neglected; for the dog, gravely resting his fore paws upon the part.i.tion, and contemplating the company, seems more interested in the event of the battle than his master.

Like the tremendous Gog, and terrific Magog, of Guildhall, stand the two c.o.c.k-feeders; a foot of each of these consequential purveyors is seen at the two extremities of the pit.

As to the birds, whose attractive powers have drawn this admiring throng together, they deserved earlier notice:

Each hero burns to conquer or to die, What mighty hearts in little bosoms lie!

Having disposed of the substances, let us now attend to the shadow on the c.o.c.kpit, and this it seems is the reflection of a man drawn up to the ceiling in a basket, and there suspended, as a punishment for having betted more money than he can pay. Though suspended, he is not reclaimed; though exposed, not abashed; for in this degrading situation he offers to stake his watch against money, in another wager on his favourite champion.

The decorations of this curious theatre are, a portrait of Nan Rawlins, and the King's arms.

In the margin at the bottom of the print is an oval, with a fighting c.o.c.k, inscribed ROYAL SPORT.

Of the characteristic distinctions in this heterogeneous a.s.sembly, it is not easy to speak with sufficient praise. The chimney-sweeper's absurd affectation sets the similar airs of the Frenchman in a most ridiculous point of view. The old fellow with a trumpet at his ear, has a degree of deafness that I never before saw delineated; he might have lived in the same apartment with Xantippe, or slept comfortably in Alexander the copper-smith's first floor. As to the n.o.bleman in the centre, in the language of the turf, he is a mere pigeon; and the peer, with a star and garter, in the language of Cambridge, we must cla.s.s as--a mere quiz. The man sneezing,--you absolutely hear; and the fellow stealing a bank note,--has all the outward and visible marks of a perfect and accomplished pick-pocket; Mercury himself could not do that business in a more masterly style.

Tyers tells us that "Pope, while living with his father at Chiswick, before he went to Binfield, took great delight in c.o.c.k-fighting, and laid out all his school-boy money, and little perhaps it was, in buying fighting c.o.c.ks." Lord Orrery observes, "If we may judge of Mr. Pope from his works, his chief aim was to be esteemed a man of virtue." When actions can be clearly ascertained, it is not necessary to seek the mind's construction in the writings: and we must regret being compelled to believe that some of Mr. Pope's actions, at the same time that they prove him to be querulous and petulant, lead us to suspect that he was also envious, malignant, and cruel. How far this will tend to confirm the a.s.sertion, that when a boy, he was an amateur of this royal sport, I do, says Mr. Ireland, not pretend to decide: but were a child, in whom I had any interest, cursed with such a propensity, my first object would be to correct it: if that were impracticable, and he retained a fondness for the c.o.c.kpit, and the still more detestable amus.e.m.e.nt of Shrove Tuesday, I should hardly dare to flatter myself that he could become a merciful man.--The subject has carried me farther than I intended: I will, however, take the freedom of proposing one query to the consideration of the clergy,--Might it not have a tendency to check that barbarous spirit, which has more frequently its source in an early acquired habit, arising from the prevalence of example, than in natural depravity, if every divine in Great Britain were to preach at least one sermon every twelve months, on our universal insensibility to the sufferings of the brute creation?

Wilt thou draw near the nature of the G.o.ds, Draw near them then in being merciful; Sweet mercy is n.o.bility's true badge.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE c.o.c.k PIT.]

CAPTAIN THOMAS CORAM.

Captain Coram was born in the year 1668, bred to the sea, and pa.s.sed the first part of his life as master of a vessel trading to the colonies.

While he resided in the vicinity of Rotherhithe, his avocations obliging him to go early into the city and return late, he frequently saw deserted infants exposed to the inclemencies of the seasons, and through the indigence or cruelty of their parents left to casual relief, or untimely death. This naturally excited his compa.s.sion, and led him to project the establishment of an hospital for the reception of exposed and deserted young children; in which humane design he laboured more than seventeen years, and at last, by his unwearied application, obtained the royal charter, bearing date the 17th of October, 1739, for its incorporation.

He was highly instrumental in promoting another good design, viz. the procuring a bounty upon naval stores imported from the colonies to Georgia and Nova Scotia. But the charitable plan which he lived to make some progress in, though not to complete, was a scheme for uniting the Indians in North America more closely with the British Government, by an establishment for the education of Indian girls. Indeed he spent a great part of his life in serving the public, and with so total a disregard to his private interest, that in his old age he was himself supported by a pension of somewhat more than a hundred pounds a year, raised for him at the solicitation of Sir Sampson Gideon and Dr. Brocklesby, by the voluntary subscriptions of public-spirited persons, at the head of whom was the Prince of Wales. On application being made to this venerable and good old man, to know whether a subscription being opened for his benefit would not offend him, he gave this n.o.ble answer: "I have not wasted the little wealth of which I was formerly possessed in self-indulgence or vain expenses, and am not ashamed to confess, that in this my old age I am poor."

This singularly humane, persevering, and memorable man died at his lodgings near Leicester-square, March 29, 1751, and was interred, pursuant to his own desire, in the vault under the chapel of the Foundling Hospital, where an historic epitaph records his virtues, as Hogarth's portrait has preserved his honest countenance.

"The portrait which I painted with most pleasure," says Hogarth, "and in which I particularly wished to excel, was that of Captain Coram for the Foundling Hospital; and if I am so wretched an artist as my enemies a.s.sert, it is somewhat strange that this, which was one of the first I painted the size of life, should stand the test of twenty years'

compet.i.tion, and be generally thought the best portrait in the place, notwithstanding the first painters in the kingdom exerted all their talents to vie with it.

"For the portrait of Mr. Garrick in Richard III. I was paid two hundred pounds, (which was more than any English artist ever received for a single portrait,) and that too by the sanction of several painters who had been previously consulted about the price, which was not given without mature consideration.

"Notwithstanding all this, the current remark was, that portraits were not my province; and I was tempted to abandon the only lucrative branch of my art, for the practice brought the whole nest of phyzmongers on my back, where they buzzed like so many hornets. All these people have their friends, whom they incessantly teach to call my women harlots, my Essay on Beauty borrowed, and my composition and engraving contemptible.

"This so much disgusted me, that I sometimes declared I would never paint another portrait, and frequently refused when applied to; for I found by mortifying experience, that whoever would succeed in this branch, must adopt the mode recommended in one of Gay's fables, and make divinities of all who sit to him. Whether or not this childish affectation will ever be done away is a doubtful question; none of those who have attempted to reform it have yet succeeded; nor, unless portrait painters in general become more honest, and their customers less vain, is there much reason to expect they ever will."

Though thus in a state of warfare with his brother artists, he was occasionally gratified by the praise of men whose judgment was universally acknowledged, and whose sanction became a higher honour, from its being neither lightly nor indiscriminately given.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CAPTAIN THOMAS CORAM.]

THE COUNTRY INN YARD; OR, THE STAGE COACH.

The poet's adage, ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE, Has stood the test of each revolving age; Another simile perhaps will bear, 'Tis a STAGE COACH, where all must pay the fare; Where each his entrance and his exit makes, And o'er life's rugged road his journey takes.

Some unprotected must their tour perform, And bide the pelting of the pitiless storm; While others, free from elemental jars, By fortune favour'd and propitious stars, Secure from storms, enjoy their little hour, Despise the whirlwind, and defy the shower.

Such is our life--in suns.h.i.+ne or in shade, From evil shelter'd, or by woe a.s.say'd: Whether we sit, like Niobe, all tears, Or calmly sink into the vale of years; With houseless, naked Edgar sleep on straw, Or keep, like Caesar, subject worlds in awe-- To the same port our devious journeys tend, Where airy hopes and sickening sorrows end; Sunk every eye, and languid every breast, Each wearied pilgrim sighs and sinks to rest.

E.

Among the writers of English novels, Henry Fielding holds the first rank; he was the novelist of nature, and has described some scenes which bear a strong resemblance to that which is here delineated. The artist, like the author, has taken truth for his guide, and given such characters as are familiar to all our minds. The scene is a country inn yard, at the time pa.s.sengers are getting into a stage-coach, and an election procession pa.s.sing in the back-ground. Nothing can be better described; we become of the party. The vulgar roar of our landlady is no less apparent than the grave, insinuating, imposing countenance of mine host. Boniface solemnly protests that a bill he is presenting to an old gentleman in a laced hat is extremely moderate. This does not satisfy the paymaster, whose countenance shows that he considers it as a palpable fraud, though the act against bribery, which he carries in his pocket, designates him to be of a profession not very liable to suffer imposition. They are in general less sinned against than sinning. An ancient lady, getting into the coach, is from her breadth a very inconvenient companion in such a vehicle; but to atone for her rotundity, an old maid of a spare appearance, and in a most grotesque habit, is advancing towards the steps.

A portly gentleman, with a sword and cane in one hand, is deaf to the entreaties of a poor little deformed postilion, who solicits his customary fee. The old woman smoking her short pipe in the basket, pays very little attention to what is pa.s.sing around her: cheered by the fumes of her tube, she lets the vanities of the world go their own way.

Two pa.s.sengers on the roof of the coach afford a good specimen of French and English manners. Ben Block, of the Centurion, surveys the subject of La Grande Monarque with ineffable contempt.

In the window are a very curious pair; one of them blowing a French-horn, and the other endeavouring, but without effect, to smoke away a little sickness, which he feels from the fumes of his last night's punch. Beneath them is a traveller taking a tender farewell of the chambermaid, who is not to be moved by the clangour of the great bar bell, or the more thundering sound of her mistress's voice.

The back-ground is crowded with a procession of active citizens; they have chaired a figure with a horn-book, a bib, and a rattle, intended to represent Child, Lord Castlemain, afterwards Lord Tylney, who, in a violent contest for the county of Ess.e.x, opposed Sir Robert Abdy and Mr.

Bramston. The horn-book, bib, and rattle are evidently displayed as punningly allusive to his name.[4]

Some pains have been taken to discover in what part of Ess.e.x this scene is laid; but from the many alterations made by rebuilding, removal, &c.

it has not been positively ascertained, though it is probably Chelmsford.

[Ill.u.s.tration: COUNTRY INN YARD.]

FOOTNOTE:

[4] At this election a man was placed on a bulk, with a figure representing a child in his arms: as he whipped it he exclaimed, "What, you little child, must you be a member?" This election being disputed, it appeared from the register-book of the parish where Lord Castlemain was born, that he was but twenty years of age when he offered himself a candidate.

INDUSTRY AND IDLENESS.