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Caos. Furia. Destrucción.
El Gran Cambio ha llegado…
JOE ABERCROMBIE
Título original: The Wisdom of Crowds
Joe Abercrombie, 2021
de la traducción: Manu Viciano, 2022
Alianza Editorial, S. A., Madrid, 2022
Para Lou,
con abrazos
lúgubres y oscuros
Séptima parte
O blind man! it was but for an instant. The trodden grass had
scarcely begun to grow again where nave and transept had been,
when the wicked world was all in a blaze; and then the very minstrels
of peace began to sharpen swords and heat shot red-hot about the
Holy Places; and then the Guards went to Gallipoli, and farther on to
Bulgaria, and farther on to Old Fort; and the news of the Alma,
Inkermann, Balaklava, the Redan, the Tchernaya, the Mamelon, the
Malakhoff came to us, hot and hot, and we were all living in the
history of England. And lo! it was very much like the history of any
other day in the year—or in the years that had gone before. The
movements of the allied forces were discussed at breakfast, over the
sipping of coffee, the munching of muffins, and the chipping of eggs.
Newspaper-writers, parliament-men, club-orators took official
bungling or military mismanagement as their cue for the smart leader
of the morrow, the stinging query to Mr. Secretary at the evening
sitting, or the bow-window exordium in the afternoon; and then
everything went on pretty much as usual. We had plenty of time and
interest to spare for the petty police case, the silly scandal, the
sniggering joke of the day. The cut of the coat and the roasting of the
mutton, the non-adhesiveness of the postage-stamp, or the
misdemeanors of the servant-maid, were matters of as relative
importance to us as the great and gloomy news of battle and
pestilence from beyond sea. At least I lived in actual history, and my
envy was cured for ever.
I have often thought that next to Asclepiades, the comic cynic,[1]
Buonaparte Smith was the greatest philosopher that ever existed. B.
Smith was by some thought to have been the original of Jeremy
Diddler. He was an inveterate borrower of small sums. On a certain
Wednesday in 1821, un sien-ami accosted him. Says the friend:
“Smith, have you heard that Buonaparte is dead?” To which retorts
the philosopher: “Buonaparte be ——!” but I disdain to quote his
irreverent expletive—“Buonaparte be somethinged. Can you lend me
ninepence?” What was the history of Europe or its eventualities to
Buonaparte Smith? The immediate possession of three-fourths of a
shilling was of far more importance to him than the death of that
tremendous exile in his eyrie in the Atlantic Ocean, thousands of
miles away. Thus, too, I daresay it was with a certain small
philosopher, who lived through a very exciting epoch of the history of
England: I mean Little Boy Hogarth. It was his fortune to see the
first famous fifteen years of the eighteenth century, when there were
victories as immense as Salamanca or Waterloo; when there was a
magnificent parallel to Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, existent,
in the person of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. I once knew a
man who had lived in Paris, and throughout the Reign of Terror, in a
second floor of the Rue St. Honoré. “What did you do?” I asked,
almost breathlessly, thinking to hear of tumbrils, Carmagnoles,
gibbet-lanterns, conventions, poissarde-revolts, and the like. “Eh!
parbleu,” he answered, “je m’occupais d’ornithologie.” This
philosopher had been quietly birdstuffing while royalty’s head was
rolling in the gutter, and Carrier was drowning his hundreds at
Nantes. To this young Hogarth of mine, what may Marlborough and
his great victories, Anne and her “silver age” of poets, statesmen,
and essayists, have been? Would the War of the Succession assist
young William in learning his accidence? Would their High
Mightinesses of the States-General of the United Provinces supply
him with that fourpence he required for purchases of marbles or
sweetmeats? What had Marshal Tallard to do with his negotiations
with the old woman who kept the apple-stall at the corner of Ship
Court? What was the Marquis de Guiscard’s murderous penknife
compared with that horn-handled, three-bladed one, which the
Hebrew youth in Duke’s Place offered him at the price of
twentypence, and which he could not purchase, faute de quoi? At
most, the rejoicings consequent on the battles of Blenheim or
Ramillies, or Oudenarde or Malplaquet, might have saved William
from a whipping promised him for the morrow; yet, even under those
circumstances, it is painful to reflect that staying out too late to see
the fireworks, or singeing his clothes at some blazing fagot, might
have brought upon him on that very morrow a castigation more
unmerciful than the one from which he had been prospectively
spared.
Every biographer of Hogarth that I have consulted—and I take this
opportunity to return my warmest thanks to the courteous book
distributor at the British Museum who, so soon as he sees me enter
the Reading Room, proceeds, knowing my errand, to overwhelm me
with folios, and heap up barricades of eighteenth century lore round
me—every one of the biographers, Nichols, Steevens, Ireland,
Trusler, Phillips, Cunningham, the author of the article “Thornhill,” in
the Biographia Britannica—the rest are mainly copyists from one
another, often handing down blunders and perpetuating errors—
every Hogarthian Dryasdust makes a clean leap from the hero’s birth
and little schoolboy noviciate to the period of his apprenticeship to
Ellis Gamble the silversmith. Refined Mr. Walpole, otherwise very
appreciative of Hogarth, flirting over the papers he got from Vertue’s
widow, indites some delicate manuscript for the typographers of his
private press at Strawberry Hill, and tells us that the artist, whom he
condescends to introduce into his Anecdotes of Painting, was bound
apprentice to a “mean engraver of arms upon plate.” I see nothing
mean in the calling which Benvenuto Cellini (they say), and Marc
Antonio Raimondi (it is certain), perhaps Albert Durer, too, followed
for a time. I have heard of great artists who did not disdain to paint
dinner plates, soup tureens, and apothecary’s jars. Not quite
unknown to the world is one Rafaelle Sanzio d’Urbino, who designed
tapestry for the Flemish weavers, or a certain Flaxman, who was of
great service to Mr. Wedgwood, when he began to think that platters
and pipkins might be brought to serve some very noble uses. Horace
Walpole, cleverest and most refined of dilettanti—who could, and did
say the coarsest of things in the most elegant of language—you
were not fit to be an Englishman. Fribble, your place was in France.
Putative son of Orford, there seems sad ground for the scandal that
some of Lord Fanny’s blood flowed in your veins; and that Carr, Lord
Hervey, was your real papa. You might have made a collection of the
great King Louis’s shoes, the heels and soles of which were painted
by Vandermeulen with pictures of Rhenish and Palatinate victories.
Mignon of arts and letters, you should have had a petite maison at
Monçeaux or at the Roule. Surrounded by your abbés au petit collet,
teacups of pâte tendre, fans of chicken-skin painted by Leleux or
Lantara, jewelled snuff-boxes, handsome chocolate girls, gems and
intaglios, the brothers to those in the Museo Borbonico at Naples,
che non si mostrano alle donne, you might have been happy. You
were good enough to admire Hogarth, but you didn’t quite
understand him. He was too vigorous, downright, virile for you; and
upon my word, Horace Walpole, I don’t think you understood
anything belonging to England—nor her customs, nor her character,
nor her constitution, nor her laws. I don’t think that you would have
been anywhere more in your element than in France, to make
epigrams and orange-flower water, and to have your head cut off in
that unsparing harvest of ’93, with many more noble heads of corn
as clever and as worthless for any purpose of human beneficence as
yours, Horace.
For you see, this poor Old Bailey schoolmaster’s son—this scion
of a line of north-country peasants and swineherds, had in him pre-
eminently that which scholiast Warton called the “ἩΘΟΣ,” the strong
sledgehammer force of Morality, not given to Walpole—not given to
you, fribbles of the present as of the past—to understand. He was
scarcely aware of the possession of this quality himself, Hogarth;
and when Warton talked pompously of the Ethos in his works, the
painter went about with a blank, bewildered face, asking his friends
what the doctor meant, and half-inclined to be angry lest the learned
scholiast should be quizzing him. It is in the probabilities, however,
that William had some little Latin. The dominie in Ship Court did
manage to drum some of his grammar disputations into him, and to
the end of his life William Hogarth preserved a seemly reverence for
classical learning. Often has his etching-needle scratched out some
old Roman motto or wise saw upon the gleaming copper. A man
need not flout and sneer at the classics because he knows them not.
He need not declare Parnassus to be a molehill, because he has lost
his alpenstock and cannot pay guides to assist him in that
tremendous ascent. There is no necessity to gird at Pyrrha, and
declare her to be a worthless jade, because she has never braided
her golden hair for you. Of Greek I imagine W. H. to have been
destitute; unless, with that ingenious special pleading, which has
been made use of to prove that Shakspeare was a lawyer,
apothecary, Scotchman, conjuror, poacher, scrivener, courtier—what
you please—we assume that Hogarth was a Hellenist because he
once sent, as a dinner invite to a friend, a card on which he had
sketched a knife, fork, and pasty, and these words, “Come and Eta
Beta Pi.” No wonder the ἩΘΟΣ puzzled him. He was not deeply
learned in anything save human nature, and of this knowledge even
he may have been half unconscious, thinking himself to be more
historical painter than philosopher. He never was a connoisseur. He
was shamefully disrespectful to the darkened daubs which the
picture-quacks palmed on the curious of the period as genuine works
of the old masters. He painted “Time smoking a picture,” and did not
think much of the collection of Sir Luke Schaub. His knowledge of
books was defective; although another scholiast (not Warton)
proved, in a most learned pamphlet, that he had illustrated, sans le
savoir, above five hundred passages in Horace, Virgil, Juvenal, and
Ovid. He had read Swift. He had illustrated and evidently understood
Hudibras. He was afraid of Pope, and only made a timid, bird-like,
solitary dash at him in one of his earliest charges; and, curiously,
Alexander the Great of Twickenham seemed to be afraid of Hogarth,
and shook not the slightest drop of his gall vial over him. What a
quarrel it might have been between the acrimonious little scorpion of
“Twitnam,” and the sturdy bluebottle of Leicester Fields! Imagine
Pope versus Hogarth, pencil against pen; not when the painter was
old and feeble, half but not quite doting indeed, as when he warred
with Wilkes and Churchill, but in the strength and pride of his
swingeing satire. Perhaps William and Alexander respected one
another; but I think there must have been some tacit “hit me and I’ll
hit you” kind of rivalry between them, as between two cocks of two
different schools who meet now and then on the public promenades
—meet with a significant half-smile and a clenching of the fist under
the cuff of the jacket.
To the end of his life Hogarth could not spell; at least, his was not
the orthography expected from educated persons in a polite age. In
almost the last plate he engraved, the famous portrait of Churchill as
a Bear, the “lies,” with which the knots of Bruin’s club are inscribed,
are all “lyes.” This may be passed over, considering how very lax
and vague were our orthographical canons not more than a century
ago, and how many ministers, divines, poets—nay, princes, and
crowned heads, and nabobs—permitted themselves greater liberties
than “lye” for “lie” in the Georgian era. At this I have elsewhere
hinted, and I think the biographers of Hogarth are somewhat harsh in
accusing him of crass ignorance, when he only wrote as My Lord
Keeper, or as Lady Betty, or as his grace the Archbishop was wont to
write. Hogarth, too, was an author. He published a book—to say
nothing of the manuscript notes of his life he left. The whole
structure, soul, and strength of the Analysis of Beauty are
undoubtedly his; although he very probably profited by the
assistance—grammatical as well as critical—of some of the clerical
dignitaries who loved the good man. That he did so has been
positively asserted; but it is forestalling matters to trot out an old
man’s hobby, when our beardless lad is not bound ’prentice yet. I
cannot, however, defend him from the charges of writing “militia,”
“milicia,” “Prussia,” “Prusia”—why didn’t he hazard “Prooshia” at
once?[2]—“knuckles,” “nuckles”—oh, fie!—“Chalcedonians,”
“Calcidonians;” “pity,” “pitty;” and “volumes,” “volumns.” It is
somewhat strange that Hogarth himself tells us that his first graphic
exercise was to “draw the alphabet with great correctness.” I am
afraid that he never succeeded in writing it very correctly. He hated
the French too sincerely to care to learn their language; and it is not
surprising that in the first shop card he engraved for his master there
should be in the French translation of Mr. Gamble’s style and titles a
trifling pleonasm: “bijouxs,” instead of “bijoux.”
No date of the apprenticeship of Hogarth is anywhere given. We
must fix it by internal evidence. He was out of his time in the South
Sea Bubble year, 1720. On the 29th of April[3] in the same year, he
started in business for himself. The neatness and dexterity of the
shop card he executed for his master forbid us to assume that he
was aught but the most industrious of apprentices. The freedom of
handling, the bold sweep of line, the honest incisive play of the
graver manifested in this performance could have been attained by
no Thomas Idle; and we must, therefore, in justice grant him his full
seven years of ’prentice servitude. Say then that William Hogarth
was bound apprentice to Mr. Ellis Gamble,[4] at the Golden Angel, in
Cranbourn Street, Leicester Fields, in the winter of the year of our
Lord, Seventeen hundred and twelve. He began to engrave arms
and cyphers on tankards, salvers, and spoons, at just about the time
that it occurred to a sapient legislature to cause certain heraldic
hieroglyphics surmounted by the Queen’s crown, and encircled by
the words “One halfpenny,” to be engraven on a metal die, the which
being the first newspaper stamp ever known to our grateful British
nation, was forthwith impressed on every single half-sheet of printed
matter issued as a newspaper or a periodical. “Have you seen the
new red stamp?” writes his reverence Doctor Swift. Grub Street is
forthwith laid desolate. Down go Observators, Examiners, Medleys,
Flying Posts, and other diurnals, and the undertakers of the
Spectator are compelled to raise the price of their entertaining
miscellany.
One of the last head Assay Masters at Goldsmith Hall told one of
Hogarth’s biographers, when a very—very old man, that he himself
had been ’prentice in Cranbourn Street, and that he remembered
very well William serving his time to Mr. Gamble. The register of the
boy’s indenture should also surely be among the archives of that
sumptuous structure behind the Post Office, where the worthy
goldsmiths have such a sideboard of massy plate, and give such
jovial banquets to ministers and city magnates. And, doubt it not,
Ellis Gamble was a freeman, albeit, ultimately, a dweller at the West-
end, and dined with his Company when the goldsmiths entertained
the ministers and magnates of those days. Yes, gentles; ministers,
magnates, kings, czars, and princes were their guests, and King
Charles the Second did not disdain to get tipsy with Sir Robert Viner,
Lord Mayor and Alderman, at Guildhall. The monarch’s boon
companion got so fond of him as to lend him, dit-on, enormous sums
of money. More than that, he set up a brazen statue of the royal
toper in the Stocks flower-market at the meeting of Lombard Street
and the Poultry. Although it must be confessed that the effigy had
originally been cast for John Sobieski trampling on the Turk. The
Polish hero had a Carlovingian periwig given to him, and the
prostrate and miscreant Moslem was “improved” into Oliver
Cromwell. [Mem.:—A pair of correctional stocks having given their
name to the flower-market; on the other hand, may not the market
have given its name to the pretty, pale, red flowers, very dear to
Cockneys, and called “stocks?”]
How was William’s premium paid when he was bound ’prentice?
Be it remembered that silver-plate engraving, albeit Mr. Walpole of
Strawberry Hill calls it “mean,” was a great and cunning art and
mystery. These engravers claimed to descend in right line from the
old ciseleurs and workers in niello of the middle ages. Benvenuto, as
I have hinted, graved as well as modelled. Marc Antonio flourished
many a cardinal’s hat and tassels on a bicchiére before he began to
cut from Rafaelle and Giulio Romano’s pictures. The engraver of
arms on plate was the same artist who executed delightful
arabesques and damascenings on suits of armour of silver and Milan
steel. They had cabalistic secrets, these workers of the precious,
these producers of the beautiful. With the smiths, “back-hammering”
and “boss-beating” were secrets;—parcel-gilding an especial
mystery; the bluish-black composition for niello a recipe only to be
imparted to adepts. With the engravers, the “cross-hatch” and the
“double cypher,” as I cursorily mentioned at the end of the last
chapter, were secrets. A certain kind of cross-hatching went out with
Albert Durer, and had since been as undiscoverable as the art of
making the real ruby tint in glass. No beggar’s brat, no parish
protégé, could be apprenticed to this delicate, artistic, and
responsible calling. For in graving deep, tiny spirals of gold and silver
curl away from the trenchant tool, and there is precious ullage in
chasing and burnishing—spirals and ullage worth money in the
market. Ask the Jews in Duke’s Place, who sweat the guineas in
horsehair bags, and clip the Jacobuses, and rasp the new-milled
money with tiny files, if there be not profit to be had from the
minutest surplusage of gold and silver.
Goldsmiths and silversmiths were proud folk. They pointed to
George Heriot, King James’s friend, and the great things he did.
They pointed to the peerage. Did not a Duke of Beaufort, in 1683,
marry a daughter of Sir Josiah Child, goldsmith and banker? Was not
Earl Tylney, his son, half-brother to Dame Elizabeth Howland,
mother of a Duchess of Bedford, one of whose daughters married
the Duke of Bridgewater, another, the Earl of Essex? Was not Sir
William Ward, goldsmith, father to Humble Ward, created Baron
Ward by Charles I.? and from him springs there not the present Lord
Dudley and Ward?[5] O you grand people who came over with the
Conqueror, where would you be now without your snug city
marriages, your comfortable alliances with Cornhill and Chepe?
Leigh of Stoneleigh comes from a lord mayor of Queen Bess’s time.
Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, married an alderman’s daughter two
years ere Hogarth was apprenticed. The ancestor to the Lords
Clifton was agent to the London Adventurers in Oliver’s time, and
acquired his estate in their service. George the Second’s Earl of
Rockingham married the daughter of Sir Henry Furnese, the money-
lender and stock-jobber. The great Duke of Argyll and Greenwich
married a lord mayor’s niece. The Earl of Denbigh’s ancestor
married the daughter of Basil Firebrace, the wine merchant.
Brewers, money-scriveners, Turkey merchants, Burgomasters of
Utrecht’s daughters,—all these married blithely into the haute pairie.
If I am wrong in my genealogies, ’tis Daniel Defoe who is to blame,
not I; for that immortal drudge of literature is my informant. Of course
such marriages never take place now. Alliances between the sacs et
parchemins are never heard of. Mayfair never meets the Mansion
House, nor Botolph Lane Belgravia, save at a Ninth of November
banquet. I question if I am not inopportune, and impertinent even, in
hinting at the dukes and belted earls who married the rich citizens’
daughters, were it not that by and by ’prentice Hogarth will paint
some scenes from a great life drama full of Warton’s ἩΘΟΣ, called
Marriage à la Mode. Ah! those two perspectives seen through the
open windows! In the first, the courtyard of the proud noble’s
mansion; in the last, busy, mercantile London Bridge: court and city,
city and court, and which the saddest picture!
Dominie Hogarth had but a hard time of it, and must have been
pinched in a gruesome manner to make both ends meet. That
dictionary of his, painfully compiled, and at last with infinite care and
labour completed, brought no grist to the mill in Ship Court. The
manuscript was placed in the hands of a bookseller, who did what
booksellers often do when one places manuscripts in their hands. He
let it drop. “The booksellers,” writes Hogarth himself, “used my father
with great cruelty.” In his loving simplicity he tells us that many of the
most eminent and learned persons in England, Ireland, and
Scotland, wrote encomiastic notices of the erudition and diligence
displayed in the work, but all to no purpose. I suppose the
bookseller’s final answer was similar to that Hogarth has scribbled in
the Manager Rich’s reply to Tom Rakewell, in the prison scene:
—“Sir, I have read your play, and it will not doo.” A dreadful,
heartrending trade was average authorship, even in the “silver age”
of Anna Augusta. A lottery, if you will: the prizeholders secretaries of
state, ambassadors, hangers-on to dukes and duchesses,
gentlemen ushers to baby princesses, commissioners of hackney
coaches or plantations; but innumerable possessors of blanks. Walla
Billa! they were in evil case. For them the garret in Grub or
Monmouth Street, or in Moorfields; for them the Welshwoman
dunning for the milkscore; for them the dirty bread flung disdainfully
by bookselling wretches like Curll. For them the shrewish landlady,
the broker’s man, the catchpole, the dedication addressed to my
lord, and which seldom got beyond his lacquey;—hold! let me mind
my Hogarth and his silver-plate engraving. Only a little may I touch
on literary woes when I come to the picture of the Distressed Poet.
For the rest, the calamities of authors have been food for the
commentaries of the wisest and most eloquent of their more modern
brethren, and my bald philosophizings thereupon can well be spared.
But this premium, this indenture money, this ’prentice fee for
young William: unde derivatur? In the beginning, as you should
know, this same ’prentice fee was but a sort of “sweetener,” peace-
offering, or pot de vin to the tradesman’s wife. The ’prentice’s mother
slipped a few pieces into madam’s hand when the boy put his finger
on the blue seal. The money was given that mistresses should be
kind to the little lads; that they should see that the trenchers they
scraped were not quite bare, nor the blackjacks they licked quite
empty; that they should give an eye to the due combing and soaping
of those young heads, and now and then extend a matronly ægis,
lest Tommy or Billy should have somewhat more cuffing and
cudgelling than was quite good for them. By degree this gift money
grew to be demanded as a right; and by-and-by comes thrifty Master
Tradesman, and pops the broad pieces into his till, calling them
premium. Poor little shopkeepers in this “silver age” will take a
’prentice from the parish for five pounds, or from an acquaintance
that is broken, for nothing perhaps, and will teach him the great arts
and mysteries of sweeping out the shop, sleeping under the counter,
fetching his master from the tavern or the mughouse when a
customer comes in, or waiting at table; but a rich silversmith or
mercer will have as much as a thousand pounds with an apprentice.
There is value received on either side. The master is, and generally
feels, bound to teach his apprentice everything he knows, else, as
worthy Master Defoe puts it, it is “somewhat like Laban’s usage to
Jacob, viz. keeping back the beloved Rachel, whom he served
seven years for, and putting him off with a blear-eyed Leah in her
stead;” and again, it is “sending him into the world like a man out of a
ship set ashore among savages, who, instead of feeding him, are
indeed more ready to eat him up and devour him.” You have little
idea of the state, pomp, and circumstance of a rich tradesman, when
the eighteenth century was young. Now-a-days, when he becomes
affluent, he sells his stock and good-will, emigrates from the shop-
world, takes a palace in Tyburnia or a villa at Florence, and denies
that he has ever been in trade at all. Retired tailors become country
squires, living at “Places” and “Priories.” Enriched ironmongers and
their families saunter about Pau, and Hombourg, and Nice, passing
for British Brahmins, from whose foreheads the yellow streak has
never been absent since the earth first stood on the elephant, and
the elephant on the tortoise, and the tortoise on nothing that I am
aware of, save the primeval mud from which you and I, and the
Great Mogul, and the legless beggar trundling himself along in a
gocart, and all humanity, sprang. But then, Anna D. G., it was
different. The tradesman was nothing away from his shop. In it he
was a hundred times more ostentatious. He may have had his
country box at Hampstead, Highgate, Edmonton, Edgeware; but his
home was in the city. Behind the hovel stuffed with rich merchandise,
sheltered by a huge timber bulk, and heralded to passers by an
enormous sheet of iron and painters’ work—his Sign—he built often
a stately mansion, with painted ceilings, with carved wainscoting or
rich tapestry and gilt leather-work, with cupboards full of rich plate,
with wide staircases, and furniture of velvet and brocade. To the
entrance of the noisome cul-de-sac, leading to the carved and
panelled door (with its tall flight of steps) of the rich tradesman’s
mansion, came his coach—yes, madam, his coach, with the
Flanders mares, to take his wife and daughters for an airing. In that
same mansion, behind the hovel of merchandise, uncompromising
Daniel Defoe accuses the tradesman of keeping servants in blue
liveries richly laced, like unto the nobility’s. In that same mansion the
tradesman holds his Christmas and Shrovetide feasts, the
anniversaries of his birthday and his wedding-day, all with much
merrymaking and junketing, and an enormous amount of eating and
drinking. In that same mansion, in the fulness of time and trade, he
dies; and in that same mansion, upon my word, he lies in state,—
yes, in state: on a lit de parade, under a plumed tester, with
flambeaux and sconces, with blacks and weepers, with the walls
hung with sable cloth, et cætera, et cætera, et cætera.[6] ’Tis not only
“Vulture Hopkins” whom a “thousand lights attend” to the tomb, but
very many wealthy tradesmen are so buried, and with such pomp
and ceremony. Not till the mid-reign of George the Third did this
custom expire.
[I should properly in a footnote, but prefer in brackets, to qualify
the expression “hovel,” as applied to London tradesmen’s shops at
this time, 1712-20. The majority, indeed, merit no better appellation:
the windows oft-times are not glazed, albeit the sign may be an
elaborate and even artistic performance, framed in curious scroll-
work, and costing not unfrequently a hundred pounds. The
exceptions to the structural poverty of the shops themselves are to
be found in the toymen’s—mostly in Fleet Street,—and the
pastrycooks’—mainly in Leadenhall. There is a mania for toys; and
the toyshop people realize fortunes. Horace Walpole bought his toy-
villa at Strawberry Hill—which he afterwards improved into a Gothic
doll’s-house—of a retired Marchand de Joujoux. The toy-merchants
dealt in other wares besides playthings. They dealt in cogged dice.
They dealt in assignations and billet-doux. They dealt in masks and
dominos. Counsellor Silvertongue may have called at the toyshop
coming from the Temple, and have there learnt what hour the
countess would be at Heidegger’s masquerade. Woe to the wicked
city! Thank Heaven we can go and purchase Noah’s arks and
flexible acrobats for our children now, without rubbing shoulders with
Counsellor Silvertongue or Lord Fanny Sporus, on their bad errands.
Frequented as they were by rank and fashion, the toyshops threw
themselves into outward decoration. Many of these shops were kept
by Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, and it has ever been the custom
of that fantastic nation to gild the outside of pills, be the inside ever
so nauseous. Next in splendour to the toyshops were the
pastrycooks. Such a bill as can be seen of the charges for fresh
furnishing one of these establishments about Twelfth Night time!
“Sash windows, all of looking-glass plates; the walls of the shop lined
up with galley-tiles in panels, finely painted in forest-work and
figures; two large branches of candlesticks; three great glass
lanterns; twenty-five sconces against the wall; fine large silver
salvers to serve sweetmeats; large high stands of rings for jellies;
painting the ceiling, and gilding the lanterns, the sashes, and the
carved work!” Think of this, Master Brook! What be your Cafés des
Mille Colonnes, your Véfours, your Vérys, your Maisons-dorées,
after this magnificence? And at what sum, think you, does the stern
censor, crying out against it meanwhile as wicked luxury and
extravagance, estimate this Arabian Nights’ pastrycookery? At three
hundred pounds sterling! Grant that the sum represents six hundred
of our money. The Lorenzos the Magnificent, of Cornhill and Regent
Street, would think little of as many thousands for the building and
ornamentation of their palaces of trade. Not for selling tarts or toys
though. The tide has taken a turn; yet some comfortable
reminiscences of the old celebrity of the city toy and tart shops linger
between Temple Bar and Leadenhall. Farley, you yet delight the
young. Holt, Birch, Button, Purssell, at your sober warehouses the
most urbane and beautiful young ladies—how pale the pasty
exhalations make them!—yet dispense the most delightful of
indigestions.]
So he must have scraped this apprenticeship money together,
Dominie Hogarth: laid it by, by cheeseparing from his meagre school
fees, borrowed it from some rich scholar who pitied his learning and
his poverty, or perhaps become acquainted with Ellis Gamble, who
may have frequented the club held at the “Eagle and Child,” in the
little Old Bailey. “A wonderful turn for limning has my son,” I think I
hear Dominie Hogarth cry, holding up some precocious cartoon of
William’s. “I doubt not, sir, that were he to study the humanities of the
Italian bustos, and the just rules of Jesuit’s perspective, and the
anatomies of the learned Albinus, that he would paint as well as
Signor Verrio, who hath lately done that noble piece in the new hall
Sir Christopher hath built for the blue-coat children in Newgate
Street.” “Plague on the Jesuits,” answers honest (and supposititious)
Mr. Ellis Gamble. “Plague on all foreigners and papists, goodman
Hogarth. If you will have your lad draw bustos and paint ceilings,
forsooth, you must get one of the great court lords to be his patron,
and send him to Italy, where he shall learn not only the cunningness
of limning, but to dance, and to dice, and to break all the
commandments, and to play on the viol-di-gamby. But if you want to
make an honest man and a fair tradesman of him, Master Hogarth,
and one who will be a loyal subject to the Queen, and hate the
French, you shall e’en bind him ’prentice to me; and I will be
answerable for all his concernments, and send him to church and
catechize, and all at small charges to you.” Might not such a
conversation have taken place? I think so. Is it not very probable that
the lad Hogarth being then some fourteen years old, was forthwith
combed his straightest, and brushed his neatest, and his bundle or
his box of needments being made up by the hands of his loving
mother and sisters, despatched westward, and with all due solemnity
of parchment and blue seal, bound ’prentice to Mr. Ellis Gamble? I
am sure, by the way in which he talks of the poor old Dominie and
the dictionary, that he was a loving son. I know he was a tender
brother. Good Ellis Gamble—the lad being industrious, quick, and
dexterous of hand—must have allowed him to earn some
journeyman’s wages during his ’prentice-time; for that probation
being out, he set not only himself, but his two sisters, Mary and Ann,
up in business. They were in some small hosiery line, and William
engraved a shop-card for them, which did not, I am afraid, prosper
with these unsubstantial spinsters any more than did the celebrated
lollipop emporium established in The House with the Seven Gables.
One sister survived him, and to her, by his will, he left an annuity of
eighty pounds.
Already have I spoken of the Leicester Square gold and silver
smith’s style and titles. It is meet that you should peruse them in full:
—
So to Cranbourn Street, Leicester Fields, is William Hogarth bound
for seven long years. Very curious is it to mark how old trades and
old types of inhabitants linger about localities. They were obliged to
pull old Cranbourn Street and Cranbourn Alley quite down before
they could get rid of the silversmiths, and even now I see them
sprouting forth again round about the familiar haunt; the latest