I, Hogarth

by Michael Dean

  The gin was ladled out of the wheelbarrow off into cooking pots, leaving the wheelbarrow free for its journey to Smithfield Market, where I was to search for beef fat. I felt like a character in a fairy story – Jack, say, from ‘Jack the Giant Killer’ – as I wheeled my way to the slaughterhouse.

  Over the familiar lowing of cattle and sheep at the end of their lives, I made my wants known to men who knew my family. The slaughtermen told me I could scrape as much fat off as many carcasses as I wished, with no charge.

  My mother now had all the ingredients she needed for the family business. Helped by Mary and even little Anne, she began to fabricate the ointment, coughing all the time. I offered to help but, as soon as a few pots were ready, she told me to get out and sell them.

  ‘How much for?’

  ‘Sixpence the jar.’

  I nodded, saying nothing but resolving to sell each jar for half a crown. The more expensive it was, I thought, the more efficacious it will be, at least in the eye of the purchaser, and that is all that matters. I have found this principle to be applied with great success by the foreign painters who from time to time visit our shores. The more they charge for their second-rate works, the more merit is perceived in them.

  7

  MOTHER, Mary and little Anne produced gripe ointment as fast as I could provide the pots, while father worked at his play, complaining at every noise or distraction, constantly appealing to us not to talk.

  As for me, I would emerge from our quarters in Black and White Court every morning with a wheelbarrow full of Mrs Hogarth’s Patent Gripe Ointment – a most noble and very safe medicine! My sales perambulation began at Newgate Market, but then I would bend my route to walk down Paternoster Row, standing as a mute dot beneath the wonder of St Paul’s, staring up at the highest stone on the cupola, newly laid by the great Sir Christopher Wren in person.

  Then on, drawing lines in my mind from the premises of one apothecary to the next, with some toyshops, too. And I was not above bawling my wares, as I trundled them along.

  ‘Gripe ointment! Cures the gripes in young children! Prevents fits! One half-crown pot and your child is past all danger!’

  I kept a weather eye out for footpads, who would no doubt delight in robbing me of my wares, as well as the money from them. Just once, I saw a bunch of them up ahead, but resolved to brazen it out.

  ‘Good morrow, gentlemen,’ I cried, looking them in the eyes as I trundled my wheelbarrow past them.

  ‘What you got there, little man?’ said one of them, a gnarled old fellow.

  ‘Ointment,’ said I, without breaking my stride. ‘Cure you of your gripes.’

  That started all the footpads laughing. They left me in peace, so I learned early the lesson that a droll little fellow who weakens and disarms his enemies by making them laugh comes through all right.

  I quickly found the spots where the gentry would wait for a hackney, from the bottom of Ludgate Hill to the Puddle Dock stairs. From here, the lighters put out to the billowing ships moored in the middle of the river. Sometimes, on fine summer days, I followed the curves of the Thames, just for fun, taking sales of my medicine as they came on the stitches lining the river bank.

  Father sat at his table in his shabby dressing gown, wig awry, surrounded by books, unsharpened quills and three quires of white paper, far more than he needed. In front of him, screwed up once and opening out of its own will, as if to mock him, was a letter. It said, ‘Sir, I have read your play and find it will not do.’ It was the fifth such letter he had received. There are five theatres in London.

  Mother shrugged, sniffed, coughed and fidgeted while mending his holey hose. She was a mass of tiny movements, forever in motion, forever uncomfortable, forever making me uncomfortable. Why do we love one parent more than the other? I know of nobody who has achieved symmetry, so to speak, in this regard. And often enough there is no rhyme or reason behind love’s alighting on one of the two in this way. Whatever mother did on this earth, I would love father more.

  Our benefactor, Mr da Costa, paid for an advertisement in the Daily Courant, so that purchasers could come to our room in Black and White Court for their medicine. I was amazed at how powerful this advertisement was to prove. A stream of purchasers appeared, leaving us merely to take their money and give them a pot of ointment. How simple! I learned another lesson: that advertisements influence men.

  Mr da Costa also told me of a chamber pot maker who could supply us with small pewter pots. Until now, the finding and purchasing of pots had been the biggest problem with our venture.

  My father was pacing the tiny confines of our room, animatedly explaining a letter he had written. He spoke in the strange staccato style he had lately adopted, so quickly we could barely follow him.

  ‘My situation, you see, is a microcosm of that of the country,’ he flung his arm out at an odd angle, like a drowning orator. ‘The country is bowed under a huge national debt, as am I. In both cases undeserved, but that is not the meat of it.’

  He stopped in the middle of the room, staring at us wild-eyed.

  ‘Who is your letter addressed to, father?’ I asked him.

  ‘Why, to Harley, who else? Robert Harley, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. I am sharing my solutions with him. All the Crown needs to do, you see, is to make and sell its own products to pay off the national debt, as we have done. For our debt, I have included some details and ideas and assistance of a practical nature. Here …’ he hit the letter, ‘I say, for example …’

  ‘You are ripe for Bedlam,’ mother said, matter-of-factly.

  I glanced at my sisters. Mary looked worried, little Anne merely curious.

  I sighed. ‘Why don’t you send the letter, father?’ I said. ‘Here, give it to me. I will give it to the turnkey, to ensure it is sent in good time.’

  I did this, and similarly with the next letter to Robert Harley, and the next. Father insisted on reading them all aloud to us, as they grew more and more intemperate. The later letters were in Latin, as he was convinced that people at court were stealing his ideas, but he translated them to us, always pacing the length of our tiny room, the while.

  ‘I would run to you through the window if I could, but I cannot, so I beg for your pity. Ignorant butchers and cobblers are stealing my ideas, but I know you will treat these criminals with the disdain they deserve.’

  By now, I was the only one of his possible audience still listening; the women were all busying themselves making the gripe ointment, completely ignoring him.

  ‘Here I am gaoled by perverse misfortune and my soul wastes away under the weight of those twenty-two children, those borne to me, those entrusted to me and still living.’

  My mother looked up at that, her face an angry mask. Twenty-two? How many of my brothers and sisters had died? I knew some had. There was a Richard. Another Anne. But not that many surely? Did he mean his books were his children?

  ‘Give me the letter, father,’ I said. ‘I will see it safely on its way, as I have done with the others.’

  I went to see Mr da Costa the next day. My head was full of my family’s business but my body was rigid, breathing shallow, with dreams of Kate and the hope of seeing her again. There was no trace of her, though, and of course I did not dare ask after her. Business it was then, in Mr da Costa’s magnificent parlour.

  ‘We need to lighten your family’s load,’ he said. ‘William, have you ever thought about your own future?’

  ‘You mean an apprenticeship, sir?’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean,’ said Moses da Costa, gravely.

  ‘Well, sir, my talent is for drawing. So I could be apprenticed to an engraver, where I could earn some money from the skill.’

  ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘Sixteen, sir.’

  ‘High time, then. I will find you one.’

  It was soon arranged that I was to become the apprentice of one Ellis Gamble, engraver. Mr da Costa then found a milliner’s shop in the Cloisters in St Bar
tholomew’s, where my sisters were to work before taking it over completely with Mr da Costa’s finance, when they were old enough and had learned the trade.

  Soon after this plan was put into action, my father faded into nothingness peacefully, still sound of mind, though only just: made tranquil by the securing of his children’s future. He died at his table, working on a new play and with an unfinished letter to Robert Harley, Chancellor of the Exchequer, clutched in his fist.

  I showed little reaction, outwardly, to the world. But this I knew with full certainty – the storm cut its groove in my head for all to see, but my dear father’s death cut a groove in my heart which nobody could see, and which never stopped bleeding.

  Part II

  From Gamble to Rich

  1714–32

  1

  AN APPRENTICE! I was an ap-PREN-tice! Oh, what a fine fellow I was as I strutted and swaggered my way, shoulders swinging, along the Hay Market and then James Street en route to Blue Cross Street, hard by Leicester Fields. Apprentices started most of the riots in London, and finished the rest. Slit your nose soon as look at you, me! I glared down the length of James Street, hoping for a riot I could join.

  No luck yet, but perhaps it was too early in the morning. The bells of the French Church had not yet chimed out five, which was as well because that was the time I was to report for my work. I shifted my box, with its leather handle, from one hand to the other. The box contained my clothes and books, plus some food my sisters packed for me. All my earthly possessions, ready to be transferred to the home of the man to whom I had assigned my life for the next five years. My master, so to speak.

  In Blue Cross Street I glanced at the advertisements festooning the walls. A drawing of a bear advertising a nearby beargarden was especially fine; so too a portrait of the boxer James Figg, advertising his famous amphitheatre, where Soho met the Oxford Road.

  Ahead of me, there, hung the sign of my master; below a huge winged figure, against a cerulean sky with creamy clouds there was the legend ‘Ellis Gamble, Goldsmith. At the sign of the Angel, Blue Cross Street. Makes, buys and sells all sorts of plates, rings and jewels, etc.’ The sign was swaying slightly as a breeze blew down the street.

  I ducked under the sign and went in. I was breathless and half-tumescent from thoughts of Kate, the bawd at da Costa’s, as I heaved my box onto my shoulder, the more to give an impression of manly strength. I announced myself:

  ‘Here I am,’ I said. ‘William Hogarth. Apprentice.’

  I had met Ellis Gamble once before, when I visited Anthony da Costa’s establishment to sign papers of indenture, which had been torn in half thereafter, I keeping my half, now tucked away at the bottom of my box, Ellis Gamble taking the other half. The bargain was signed and sealed with a handshake and a glass of sherry.

  Even then, at that first meeting, I had called my master ‘Stout Gamble’ in my head. I don’t know why, except that he was moderately stout, though not excessively so. Like many people who mimic others’ voices, I was much given to nicknames. Some of these names I never gave voice to, they lived in a silent place in my head. Other names I said aloud, but to the fellow’s face, always to his face. I have always prided myself on saying nothing behind a man’s back that I would not look him in the eye and say.

  Stout Gamble was not more than a dozen years older than me. He greeted me warmly and promptly introduced me to the other two apprentices in his care. I had been looking forward to this moment, as I was by nature a sociable soul, growing itchily restless and gloomy when too much alone.

  ‘This here’s Bill,’ said Stout Gamble, as I laid the burden of my possessions on the floor, the better to shake hands. ‘He’s Bill Hogarth. Come to join us.’

  I felt a stab of wary fear, puncturing the bubble of my pleasure at meeting them. They were young! Younger than me. That meant they were ahead of me. Ahead of me already and I had only just arrived …

  ‘This here’s Stephen,’ Stout Gamble continued the introductions: Stephen Fowler, a genial youth with an interestingly large nose and sticking-out red ears. Stephen, soon to be known as Birdcatcher, turned at his desk and smiled at me. ‘Hello Bill.’ We shook hands.

  ‘And this ’ere’s Felix Pellett. ’Ee’s French, but we don’t ’old that against ’im, do we Felix?’

  Felix nodded to me from his desk at the far end of the room. ‘You got no choice,’ he said, speaking directly to me, ignoring Stout Gamble. ‘All the best engravers are French.’ He laughed. He had laughter and smile lines round his mouth and grooved in his cheeks, in a handsome, attractive face.

  ‘Will you teach me French, please, Felix?’ I said.

  Felix looked surprised, his fine face appearing smaller as it creased. He hesitated a second, then said ‘Avec plaisir, mon brave.’

  ‘Does that mean “with pleasure”?’

  Felix looked solemn. ‘Yes, it does. You are a quick learner, Bill. I’ll teach you engraving as well, if you like.’

  ‘Big ’ead!’ said Stout Gamble, genially.

  Felix stuck his tongue out at him and, to my amazement, put his thumbs to his ears and wiggled his fingers; a gesture I had not seen before. Birdcatcher, the Fowler boy, weighed in with a farting noise, which may possibly have come from a genuine fart.

  The other two apprentices were also living at the Gamble establishment, so we would be together night and day.

  ‘Tell ’im the rules, Stephen,’ said Stout Gamble, rubbing a hand round his stomach.

  ‘Work from five in the morning till seven at night,’ Birdcatcher said. ‘No dice, no cards, no football, no mumming and dancing …’

  ‘What about going to the theatre?’ I said, staring Stout Gamble in the eye.

  Gamble shrugged. ‘Tha’s all right. If you got nothing better to do.’

  ‘I like theatre.’

  Stout Gamble looked serious. ‘We don’t have flash dressers here,’ he said, with a nod at my mustard-yellow waistcoat. ‘And get your ’air cut.’

  ‘Can’t afford it.’

  A moment’s silence. Then … ‘I’ll do it for you.’ It’s Felix Pellett.

  ‘Thanks Felix,’ I said, with an air of studied nonchalance, which made everyone laugh.

  Amid further hilarity, centring on disrespect for Stout Gamble, which did not seem to worry him greatly, I was shown to my new desk.

  I had light coming in from the left, via 5 by 5 panes of mullioned glass, and light came in straight ahead through a plain glass Dutch sash window. A sloping mirror, burnished to perfection, was tied to the top of the sash window by a cord. The other two apprentices were engraving at such a mirror when I came in. On the oak work desk were a range of engraving tools, some of which I recognised and some not, and a vice.

  I sat at my new place of work, perfectly content, leaning forwards a little: the better to admire myself in my new sloping mirror. Gamble and the two apprentices burst out laughing at my vanity. I joined in.

  ‘Let’s see what you can do, then.’ Gamble spoke casually enough, but this was my first piece of work. Felix Pellett and Stephen Fowler were silent, the atmosphere gathering with tension.

  The silversmith had already cast the plate, which sat in front of me, beautiful and baleful, reflected in my mirror. The outline of the shield had already been engraved on the silver, as had the ornate rectangle which would carry the motto. I was to subdivide the shield into four quadrants: one line down, one line across.

  I remembered my drawing lessons with John Dalton, the painter, and all the gods and goddesses we reproduced, both Roman and Greek. But I also remembered how he always corrected my line afterwards. No correction here; the engraved line would be carved in silver, as fixed as the groove in my head.

  I saw my thick, stubby fingers, sausages, not the elegant cords that Felix Pellett had. Even my short, thick, sturdy body was wrong. Oh, I was cast wrong for this! I shut my eyes, drew breath, opened my eyes again and began the downward cut.

  ‘Good boy,’ Felix said. He had appeared b
ehind me. ‘Just a little harder, that’s all.’

  Could this new life have been wrong for me? I gritted my teeth and made once-and-for-all cuts, as fixed as God’s design for sinners. I felt my father watching me.

  ‘That’ll do,’ grunted Stout Gamble, as I fell back in my seat, exhausted by the scraping of two lines. ‘Not the best I’ve ever seen, but not the worst either.’

  Mediocrity? I would take it then, and with gratitude.

  Over the next few weeks, I learned that the very mechanical repetition of the work held the key to competence, if not excellence. For the lifeless griffin of heraldry remained the same when scratched into the handles of a hundred different tankards, salvers, knives, forks and spoons. Copying was merely pouring water out of one vessel into another. So, needs must, I mastered the griffin per fess argent; I mastered the wyvern gulles collared.

  Yes, Felix was still more precise, elegantly so, and Stephen the Birdcatcher faster. But I was not so far behind. I could chase and burnish; I could do the cross-hatch; I could do the double cypher. I had mastered the mechanics of my trade, but I found it a barren and unprofitable study.

  Stout Gamble disappeared every day to the tavern or the mughouse: a vote of confidence in its way. We apprentices worked alone. But they were younger than me! I was still haunted by that. Felix and Stephen. They were YOUNGER than me!

  And I was falling to earth faster than Icarus; Stout Gamble said I was ‘too quick, too rough’ with my little fat fingers. I could not manage the delicate tintos; I could not manage the proper reticulations of scroll foliage. All of this stuff had to be passed to Felix, and when he was busy, to Stephen. This was always to be so. My younger companions were to remain fixed ahead of me. This squat tortoise was never to catch the elegant hares. It was mortifying, let me tell you. Mortifying!

  I took refuge in drawing. I drew Mrs Stout Gamble in her Oudenarde attire. I drew laughing griffins and dancing lions. I took revenge on my dead subjects by making them live. My gambadoes on their hind legs made Stephen and Felix laugh.