Burlington Gate, No. 1, was published in 1723. Hogarth seems to have admired Lord Burlington’s love for art, though he might have paid him a better compliment than to have placarded the gate of his palace with an orthographical blunder. There is in the engraving “accademy” for academy. The execution is far superior to that of the South Sea, and the figures are drawn with much verve and decision. In the centre stand three little figures, said to represent Lord Burlington, Campbell, the architect, and his lordship’s “postilion.” This is evidently a blunder on the part of the first commentator. The figure is in cocked hat, wide cuffs, and buckled shoes, and is no more like a postilion than I to Hercules. Is it the earl’s “poet,” and not his “postilion,” that is meant? To the right (using showman’s language), sentinels in the peaked shakoes of the time, and with oh! such clumsy, big-stocked brown-besses in their hands, guard the entrance to the fane where the pantomime of Doctor Faustus is being performed. From the balcony above Harlequin looks out. Faustus was first brought out at the theatre, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in ’23. It had so prodigious a run, and came into such vogue, that after much grumbling about the “legitimate” and invocations of “Ben Jonson’s ghost” (Hogarth calls him Ben Johnson), the rival Covent Garden managers were compelled to follow suit, and in ’25 came out with their Doctor Faustus—a kind of saraband of infernal persons contrived by Thurmond the dancing-master. He, too, was the deviser of “Harleykin Sheppard” (or Shepherd), in which the dauntless thief who escaped from the Middle Stone-room at Newgate in so remarkable a manner received a pantomimic apotheosis. Quick-witted Hogarth satirized this felony-mania in the caricature of Wilks, Booth, and Cibber, conjuring up “Scaramouch Jack Hall.” To return to Burlington Gate. In the centre, Shakspeare and Jonson’s works are being carted away for waste paper. To the left you see a huge projecting sign or show-cloth, containing portraits of his sacred Majesty George the Second in the act of presenting the management of the Italian Opera with one thousand pounds; also of the famous Mordaunt Earl of Peterborough and sometime general of the armies in Spain. He kneels, and in the handsomest manner, to Signora Cuzzoni the singer, saying (in a long apothecary’s label), “Please accept eight thousand pounds!” but the Cuzzoni spurns at him. Beneath is the entrance to the Opera. Infernal persons with very long tails are entering thereto with joyful countenances. The infernal persons are unmistakeable reminiscences of Callot’s demons in the Tentation de St. Antoine. There is likewise a placard relating to “Faux’s Long-room,” and his “dexterity of hand.”

In 1724, Hogarth produced another allegory called the Inhabitants of the Moon, in which there are some covert and not very complimentary allusions to the “dummy” character of royalty, and a whimsical fancy of inanimate objects, songs, hammers, pieces of money, and the like, being built up into imitation of human beings, all very ingeniously worked out. By this time, Hogarth, too, had begun to work, not only for the ephemeral pictorial squib-vendors of Westminster Hall—those squibs came in with him, culminated in Gillray, and went out with H. B.; or were rather absorbed and amalgamated into the admirable Punch cartoons of Mr. Leech—but also for the regular booksellers. For Aubry de la Mottraye’s Travels (a dull, pretentious book) he executed some engravings, among which I note A woman of Smyrna in the habit of the country—the woman’s face very graceful, and the Dance, the Pyrrhic dance of the Greek islands, and the oddest fandango that ever was seen. One commentator says that the term “as merry as a grig” came from the fondness of the inhabitants of those isles of eternal summer for dancing, and that it should be properly “as merry as a Greek.” Quien sabe? I know that lately in the Sessions papers I stumbled over the examination of one Levi Solomon, alias Cockleput, who stated that he lived in Sweet Apple Court, and that he “went a-grigging for his living.” I have no Lexicon Balatronicum at hand; but from early researches into the vocabulary of the “High Mung” I have an indistinct impression that “griggers” were agile vagabonds who danced, and went through elementary feats of posture-mastery in taverns.

In ’24, Hogarth illustrated a translation of the Golden Ass of Apuleius. The plates are coarse and clumsy; show no humour; were mere pot-boilers, gagne-pains, thrusts with the burin at the wolf looking in at the Hogarthian door, I imagine. Then came five frontispieces for a translation of Cassandra. These I have not seen. Then fifteen head-pieces for Beaver’s Military Punishments of the Ancients, narrow little slips full of figures in chiaroscuro, many drawn from Callot’s curious martyrology, Les Saincts et Sainctes de l’Année, about three hundred graphic illustrations of human torture! There was also a frontispiece to the Happy Ascetic, and one to the Oxford squib of Terræ Filius, in 1724, but of the joyous recluse in question I have no cognizance.

In 1722 (you see I am wandering up and down the years as well as the streets), London saw a show—and Hogarth doubtless was there to see—which merits some lines of mention. The drivelling, avaricious dotard, who, crossing a room and looking at himself in a mirror, sighed and mumbled, “That was once a man:”—this poor wreck of mortality died, and became in an instant, and once more, John the great Duke of Marlborough. On the 9th of August, 1722, he was buried with extraordinary pomp in Westminster Abbey. The saloons of Marlborough House, where the corpse lay in state, were hung with fine black cloth, and garnished with bays and cypress. In the death-chamber was a chair of state surmounted by a “majesty scutcheon.” The coffin was on a bed of state, covered with a “fine holland sheet,” over that a complete suit of armour, gilt, but empty. Twenty years before, there would have been a waxen image in the dead man’s likeness within the armour, but this hideous fantasy of Tussaud-tombstone effigies had in 1722 fallen into desuetude.[8] The garter was buckled round the steel leg of this suit of war-harness; one listless gauntlet held a general’s truncheon; above the vacuous helmet with its unstirred plumes was the cap of a Prince of the Empire. The procession, lengthy and splendid, passed from Marlborough House through St. James’s Park to Hyde Park Corner, then through Piccadilly, down St. James’s Street, along Pall Mall, and by King Street, Westminster, to the Abbey. Fifteen pieces of cannon rambled in this show. Chelsea pensioners, to the number of the years of the age of the deceased, preceded the car. The colours were wreathed in crape and cypress. Guidon was there, and the great standard, and many bannerols and achievements of arms. “The mourning horse with trophies and plumades” was gorgeous. There was a horse of state and a mourning horse, sadly led by the dead duke’s equerries. And pray note: the minutest details of the procession were copied from the programme of the Duke of Albemarle’s funeral (Monk); which, again, was a copy of Oliver Cromwell’s—which, again, was a reproduction, on a more splendid scale, of the obsequies of Sir Philip Sidney, killed at Zutphen. Who among us saw not the great scarlet and black show of 1852, the funeral of the Duke of Wellington? Don’t you remember the eighty-four tottering old Pensioners, corresponding in number with the years of our heroic brother departed? When gentle Philip Sidney was borne to the tomb, thirty-one poor men followed the hearse. The brave soldier, the gallant gentleman, the ripe scholar, the accomplished writer was so young. Arthur and Philip! And so century shakes hand with century, and the new is ever old, and the last novelty is the earliest fashion, and old Egypt leers from a glass-case, or a four thousand year old fresco, and whispers to Sir Plume, “I, too, wore a curled periwig, and used tweezers to remove superfluous hairs.”

In 1726, Hogarth executed a series of plates for Blackwell’s Military Figures, representing the drill and manœuvres of the Honourable Artillery Company. The pike and half-pike exercise are very carefully and curiously illustrated; the figures evidently drawn from life; the attitudes very easy. The young man was improving in his drawing; for in 1724, Thornhill had started an academy for studying from the round and from life at his own house, in Covent Garden Piazza; and Hogarth—who himself tells us that his head was filled with the paintings at Greenwich and St. Paul’s, and to whose utmost ambition of scratching copper, there was now probably added the secret longing to be a historico-allegorico-scriptural painter I have hinted at, and who hoped some day to make Angels sprawl on coved ceilings, and Fames blast their trumpets on grand staircases—was one of the earliest students at the academy of the king’s sergeant painter, and member of parliament for Weymouth. Already William had ventured an opinion, bien tranchée, on high art. In those days there flourished—yes, flourished is the word—a now forgotten celebrity, Kent the architect, gardener, painter, decorator, upholsterer, friend of the great, and a hundred things besides. This artistic jack-of-all-trades became so outrageously popular, and gained such a reputation for taste—if a man have strong lungs, and persists in crying out that he is a genius, the public are sure to believe him at last—that he was consulted on almost every tasteful topic, and was teased to furnish designs for the most incongruous objects. He was consulted for picture-frames, drinking-glasses, barges, dining-room tables, garden-chairs, cradles, and birth-day gowns. One lady he dressed in a petticoat ornamented with columns of the five orders; to another he prescribed a copper-coloured skirt, with gold ornaments. The man was at best but a wretched sciolist; but he for a long period directed the “taste of the town.” He had at last the presumption to paint an altar-piece for the church of St. Clement Danes. The worthy parishioners, men of no taste at all, burst into a yell of derision and horror at this astounding croûte. Forthwith, irreverent young Mr. Hogarth lunged full butt with his graver at the daub. He produced an engraving of Kent’s Masterpiece, which was generally considered to be an unmerciful caricature; but which he himself declared to be an accurate representation of the picture. ’Twas the first declaration of his guerra al cuchillo against the connoisseurs. The caricature, or copy, whichever it was, made a noise; the tasteless parishioners grew more vehement, and, at last, Gibson, Bishop of London (whose brother, by the way, had paid his first visit to London in the company of Dominie Hogarth), interfered, and ordered the removal of the obnoxious canvas. “Kent’s masterpiece” subsided into an ornament for a tavern-room. For many years it was to be seen (together with the landlord’s portrait, I presume) at the “Crown and Anchor,” in the Strand. Then it disappeared, and faded away from the visible things extant.

With another bookseller’s commission, I arrive at another halting-place in the career of William Hogarth. In 1726-7 appeared his eighteen illustrations to Butler’s Hudibras. They are of considerable size, broadly and vigorously executed, and display a liberal instalment of the vis comica, of which William was subsequently to be so lavish. Ralpho is smug and sanctified to a nicety. Hudibras is a marvellously droll-looking figure, but he is not human, is generally execrably drawn, and has a head preternaturally small, and so pressed down between the clavicles, that you might imagine him to be of the family of the anthropophagi, whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. There is a rare constable, the perfection of Dogberryism-cum-Bumbledom, in the tableau of Hudibras in the stocks. The widow is graceful and beautiful to look at. Unlike Wilkie, Hogarth could draw pretty women;[9] the rogue who chucks the widow’s attendant under the chin is incomparable, and Trulla is a most truculent brimstone. The “committee” is a character full study of sour faces. The procession of the “Skimmington” is full of life and animation; and the concluding tableau, “Burning rumps at Temple Bar,” is a wondrous street-scene, worthy of the ripe Hogarthian epoch of The Progresses, The Election, Beer Street and Gin Lane. This edition of Butler’s immortal satire had a great run; and the artist often regretted that he had parted absolutely, and at once, with his property in the plates.

So now then, William Hogarth, we part once more, but soon to meet again. Next shall the moderns know thee—student at Thornhill’s Academy—as a painter as well as an engraver. A philosopher—quoique tu n’en doutais guère—thou hast been all along.