‘Subjects I consider’d as Writers do’ – Hogarth
There’s a well known connection between Hogarth and the writer John Gay, in terms of illustrations to Gay’s highly successful play The Beggar’s Opera. Rather less well known are the connections between Hogarth and Gay’s poem Trivia, published in 1716, about the art of walking the streets of London. Hogarth didn’t illustrate this, there’s no evidence he read it, and I don’t claim that the poem is an influence. Rather, I think the relationship between Gay’s poem and some of Hogarth’s work is worth exploring, and for two reasons. The first is that if we think in terms of influences, we lose sight of affinities. Gay may or may not be a source for some of Hogarth’s ideas, but his poem was a text which helped shape the depiction of cityscapes: almost certainly Hogarth knew it. Rather than talk of an influence, I think we can talk of a confluence. The second reason is that in the eighteenth century, if we think of poetry, drama, painting and so on as separate arts, we miss their interdependence, and what they share. Engravings in the period are often very textual; poetry is often pictorially descriptive, and both visual and written satires are staged in terms of scenes and characters, sharing types and techniques. Peter Wagner suggests we should think in terms of a common genre, what he calls ‘iconotexts’, to stress the mutual interdependence between word and image. ‘Reading’ is a term common to both modes, and one used by admirers of Hogarth nearer to his own time than us. So Charles Lamb argued, ‘His graphic representations are indeed books: they have the teeming, fruitful, suggestive meaning of words. Other pictures we look at –- his prints we read.’ Usually critics invoke the eighteenth-century novel as analogue, but we should not forget poets too –- like Samuel Butler, whose poem Hudibras Hogarth did illustrate, and Swift, among the volumes on which Hogarth leans in his self-portrait of 1745, and Gay. When Henry Fielding praised Hogarth in his 1749 novel Tom Jones, as the master of gradations between character and caricature, he was celebrating Hogarth not so much as a progenitor as the best enabler of a mutual comic language, to which Gay was also a contributor. As Hogarth wrote on A Midnight Modern Conversation, ‘Prints should be priz’d as Authors should be read,/ We sharply smile prevailing Folly dead’.
Gay’s biographer David Nokes argues ‘The interpenetration of the mundane and the heroic, so characteristic of eighteenth-century art, is … there in Hogarth’s painting[s]. When these are at their most realistic, they are also often at their most allusive; the cunningly observed domestic detail or street incident, taking ironic force from its recollection of an Old Master model.’ What he calls ‘this permeation of the real with the imaginary’ is shared by Gay and Hogarth in their depiction of London, in numerous ways. I want to discuss a selection, and suggest some ways in which Gay and Hogarth represent London as seductive, alarming and seductively alarming.
Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London was published in 1716. Gay hoped it would make him some money, and indeed it sold reasonably well, in a second edition the same year. The poem is organised into three books; the narrative combines sections of walking around London with some digressive episodes – one about the invention of the patten, an iron-ringed shoe which lifted its wearer a little above the mud, and one about a comic amour between Cloacina, goddess of the sewers, with a soil-remover, producing a lad who becomes the first boot-boy and cleans shoes at Charing Cross. There’s much about real London in the poem, but also unreal London, or London as a site of myths, a revenant of Rome, especially the Rome of Juvenal and Horace, whose satires inform some of the poem’s jokes, pastiches and parodies. The first book treats of the weather, and proper clothes to be worn –- overcoats, hats, umbrellas, stout shoes; the second, of city signs and life on the streets; the third, night-time traffic, shady activities, a scene of fire. Throughout Gay makes a joke out of advice literature, though some readers evidently absorbed straight the poem’s account of how to walk along crowded streets, what hazards to avoid, and how best to stay safe. The thread of danger and anxiety that runs through the poem is not all ironic or light –- to be seduced by the city may be a very real danger, however much that reality is treated with poetic licence. The dangers are found especially in two types of threat –- one from traffic, the other from people, in particular those who scratch a living off the streets, in the form of beggars, street-sellers and prostitutes. The poem’s protagonist is a little elusive –- male, seemingly on leisure rather than business, he negotiates the pitfalls of literal stumbles and faux pas as he walks around the Strand, Covent Garden, Holborn Hill and Pall Mall. Like Mr Spectator he observes; like a proto-flaneur, he listens. But for all the reality content of the poem, Gay treats much city life as literary –- sights and sounds are highly stylised, and events organised with reference to Virgil as much as 1716. The poem has been called an urban georgic, as if in the early eighteenth century the seduction of the city was able to displace that of the countryside.
The city seductions in Trivia are several. The most literal predictably concerns women. London was the active centre of sexual commerce, as well as all other kinds. Gay invokes sexual anxiety through innuendo, for instance in describing an oyster-wench: III 193-4 ‘The Damsel’s Knife the gaping Shell commands,/ While the salt Liquor streams between her Hands.’ Holes in the pavement take on the dangers of sexual entrapment: III 121-2, ‘Let not thy vent’rous Steps approach too nigh,/ Where gaping wide, low, steepy Cellars lie.’ These dangers occur across town, but particularly threatening is the area around Drury Lane, where prostitutes sought out customers:
‘Tis She who nightly strowls with saunter’ring Pace,
No stubborn Stays her yielding Shape embrace;
Beneath the Lamp her tawdry Ribbons glare,
The new-scoure’d Manteau, and the slattern Air;
High-draggled Petticoats her Travels show,
And hollow Cheeks with artful Blushes glow;
With flatt’ring Sounds she soothes the cred’lous Ear,
My noble Captain! Charmer! Love! my Dear!
In Riding-hood, near Tavern-Doors she plies,
Or muffled Pinners hide her livid Eyes.
With empty Bandbox she delights to range,
And feigns a distant Errand from the ‘Change;
Nay, she will oft the Quaker’s Hood prophane,
And trudge demure the Rounds of Drury Lane.
She darts from Sarsnet Ambush wily Leers,
Twitches thy Sleeve, or with familiar Airs,
Her Fan will pat thy Cheek; these Snares disdain,
Nor gaze behind thee, when she turns again.
Gay’s harlot is a shape-shifter, nearly witch-like, not to be looked back upon lest enchantment entrap the male spectator. Her clothes deceive, yet tell the truth: modest hat or hood do and do not disguise her, like the bandbox which conceals her predatory purpose via a respectable symbol. Her body language, words and dress can all be read as duplicitous; to stress the point, Gay adds a side heading, emphatically: How to Know a Whore. Enter an honest yeoman, from Devon (Gay’s home county) who arrives in town with money from selling his herd. He comes across a fraudful nymph, ie whore: ‘She leads the willing Victim to his Doom,/ Through winding Alleys to her Cobweb Room’ (III 291-2), where the wine-fuddled yeoman is then robbed and arrested, his disgrace completed by the visible shame of catching syphilis, as if from Hogarth’s syphilis-infected harlot.
Early modern satire made use of an old paradigm for disorder, especially behavioural disorder: the World turned upside down. Eighteenth-century metaphors were generally less literal — Lord Chesterfield uses ‘turn over’ as a euphemism for sex — but there are traces of the old expression in both Trivia and Hogarth’s works. In the Harlot’s Progress, four out of the six plates show something overturned (the two that do not are Moll beating hemp in Bridewell, and Moll in her coffin) –- plates 2 and 5 show an overturned table centre stage, to emphasise upside down moral values. ‘Disorder of dress’ was a common, obvious and legible sign of sexual activity, often in conjunction with drinking — as in Hogarth’s pair of outdoor paintings, Before and After: you supply a narrative of sex entirely from the language of clothes, body language and expressions. (A pair of indoor prints on the same subject also has, yes, tumbling furniture!) But the most common and extreme form of disorder in Trivia concerns street life. The principal streets of London were at their best well laid out. (see, for example, the depiction of Ironmongers Hall, London in 1753 ). Some had gutters running down the edge; some had a kennel or ditch in the middle. They had pavements, laid by pavers, and a series of posts that separated pedestrians from wheeled traffic. Between the posts and the wall people jostled along. To be next to the wall was best, because you were protected from carts, coaches, coachmen’s whips and mud. (Compare the iconicity of a twentieth-century image of people at bus-stops, soaked by vehicles’ spray.) Precedence was not strictly according to rank –- a baker might barge past an aristocrat — and part of Trivia Book II is given over to instructions, not all ironic, about who should give way to whom.
Let due Civilities be strictly paid,
The Wall surrender to the hooded Maid;
Nor let thy sturdy Elbow’s hasty rage
Jostle the feeble Steps of trembling Age. (II 45-7)
Some surrenders are pragmatic:
You’ll sometimes meet a Fop, of nicest Tread,
Whose mantling Peruke veils his empty Head,
At ev’ry Step he dreads the Wall to lose,
And risques, to save a Coach, his red-heel’d Shoes;
Him, like the Miller, pass with Caution by,
Lest from his Shoulder Clouds of Powder fly. (II 53-9)
There were dangers on the wall side too –- fresh paint, soot, and roadworks, indicated by twine tied with wisps of straw, like our red-and-white-stripe plastic strips. Then there were alleys, twisty, unsigned, dark even in day. Trivia has a peasant who gets lost at Seven Dials in Covent Garden; the poet advises ‘Be sure observe the Signs, for Signs remain,/Like faithful Land-marks to the walking Train.’ (II 67-8) Book III of Trivia is preoccupied with the dangers of night, literal and figurative. One person’s seduction is another’s opportunity; Hogarth’s Rake, enjoying a midnight debauch in Plate 3 of his Progress, is caressed by a prostitute who is also pick pocketing his watch.
Here dives the skulking Thief, with practis’d Slight,
And unfelt Fingers make thy Pocket light.
Where’s now thy watch, with all its Trinkets, flown?
And thy late Snuff-Box is no more thy own. (III 59-62)
The best defence was safe walking, a joke Gay makes with allusion to a religious trope of safe walking, comically applied not to the paths of the lord but to literal muddy London streets:
Let constant Vigilance thy Footsteps guide,
And wary Circumspection guard thy Side;
Then shalt thou walk unharm’d the dang’rous Night,
Nor need th’officious Link-Boy’s smoaky Light. (III 111-114).
Crossing the road becomes like an epic battle, the Trojan war, with pastiche flying about like mud. Gay’s city at night is comically fearful rather than seductive: you have to negotiate the surge of pedestrians, the throng of carts, in ill-lit, uneven streets full of drunk people. Hogarth’s Night, with a little link boy bottom left, next to huddled poor people, shows a coach accident behind a drunk senior mason, Sir Thomas de Veil, who was being helped home by an equally bloody and dishevelled brother mason. The sign shows a Rummer, the squarish glass, and Grapes, the name of a pub in Channel Row, Westminster where one of the four London Masonic Lodges met. (Hogarth became a freemason in 1725.) The coach passengers scramble out; one’s gun goes off, mayhem reigns above and over the road where the barber-surgeon has just cut a customer. You can’t read historical fact off either Hogarth or Gay, but they both testify to the city as riotous in alarming and unpleasant ways. Modern use of the word ‘riot’ tends to assume several persons; in the eighteenth-century, one person could be riotous and the word was especially associated with drunk behaviours. Urban theorists suggest that urban experience can sensitise us to touch, in seductive and phobic ways. It’s been suggested that literature’s representation of urban space offers readers the pleasure of exploring, of practicing a relation to space otherwise confined to childhood. So Michel de Certeau argues that ‘Travel (like walking) is a substitute for the legends that used to open up space to something different’. Against this, other commentators define the urban condition as unpleasant because it imposes involuntary touch. Elias Canetti argues in Crowds and Power: ‘The repugnance of being touched remains with us when we go about among people; the way we move in a busy street…is governed by it’. Urban touch is unpredictable and random, disturbing because it returns us to polymorphous perversity, according to Freud, the condition of universalised sensual pleasure experienced by infants before they focus on genitals. Touch threatens in a city and sight is no defence; as de Certeau puts it, urban experience is ‘prey to contradictory movements that counterbalance and combine themselves outside the reach of panoptic power.’
Sight is a limited sense in the city; ‘lower’ senses — smell, touch, hearing — express the city just as well if not better. Compare how cinema reorders the senses through the blur of neon and wail of sirens and saxophones which represent the modern city, epitomised in Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (1982). One can see in eighteenth-century texts like Trivia that sight has to work for its position as the most privileged of the senses, in Freud’s words, and that in Hogarth’s work, other senses are written in. One aspect of the city that fascinates both Gay and Hogarth is that of soundscapes. The Spectator’s Sir Roger de Coverley joked he couldn’t sleep for the in London, thanks to street noise: ‘A Freeman of London has the Privilege of disturbing a whole Street for an Hour together, with the Twanking of a Brass-Kettle or a Frying-Pan. The Watchman’s Thump at Midnight startles us in our beds, as much as the Breaking in of a Thief.’ (Sp. 251) Even more disturbing were ‘Vocal Cries … so full of Incongruities and Barbarisms, that we appear a distracted City to Foreigners, who do not comprehend the Meaning of such enormous Outcries.’ Sellers of milk, matches, coal, turnips, pastries, apples, gingerbread, washballs and pickled cucumbers competed in cacophony with bellows-menders, knife-grinders, and corn-cutters, according to the Spectator. It is a measure of the variety of goods for sale on London streets that Gay extends the list -– ‘Successive Crys the Seasons Change declare,/And mark the Monthly Progress of the Year’ (II 425-6) — including oysters, nettles, mackerel, walnuts, rosemary and oranges. Engravings which depicted these street sellers, collectively known as The Cries of London, fascinated artists, rather oddly because although one might see in them a picturesque typology of the urban poor, you can’t hear the cries themselves: what Philip Cottrell calls ‘The Art of Noise’ appears silently on the page. Perhaps some of the attraction of prints of London cries was precisely that prints isolated a cry and gave it intelligible words, usually printed below the individuated figure. The most popular series was done by Marcellus Laroon in 1678, much reprinted and published in 1740 as a set of 72 images . Paul Sandby, Hogarth’s opponent, did another series in the 1760s. (Sandby’s, ‘Rare Mackerel’, is reproduced online at the British Museum) . Hogarth himself didn’t, unless you count his ‘Shrimp Girl’, also c.1740, treated to a portrait in oils rather than an engraving, and said by his widow to prove to detractors that he could paint flesh. But Hogarth did pay attention to London sounds, calling up an auditory imagination through all kinds of cries, noise and music. Henry Fielding wrote that his print The Enraged Musician (1741) ‘is enough to make a man deaf to look at.’ Outside the window is a poster for The Beggar’s Opera, whose native hybridity is to be preferred to the street orchestra headed by a foreign violinist. The print’s discordancy mixes street cries –- ballad seller, fishmonger, chimney sweep, milkmaid, sow-gelder (with horn), dustman (with bell) — with noisy children and animals –- barking dog, yowling cat, screeching parrot –- while a paver thumps away. Gay also writes of city noise, starting with a wedding party (I 17-24):
Here Rows of Drummers stand in martial File,
And with their Vellom-Thunder shake the Pile,
To greet the new-made Bride. Are Sounds like these,
The proper Prelude to a State of Peace?
Now Industry awakes her busy Sons,
Full charg’d with News the breathless Hawker runs,
Shops open, Coaches roll, Carts shake the Ground,
And all the Streets with passing Cries resound.
Gay’s elegant couplets contain and structure the disorder: chaos is organised into energy. So are the wedding musicians who appear in plate 6 of Hogarth’s Industry and Idleness. Cacophony contains commercial purpose, competition in the city for commodities made available by enterprise. Part of city life, semi-seductive, is that all these goods come to your door. The downside is they come unasked. Noise is the most intrusive disturber of the peace, and both literature and art make ‘serious comedy’ of it, to borrow David Bindman’s description of Hogarth’s work.
One of the clearest ways in which Hogarth’s city and Gay’s intersect is unexpectedly that of season. Very unusually, Trivia is set in winter (II 319):
Winter my Theme confines; whose nitry Wind
Shall crust the slabby Mire, and Kennels bind;
She bids the Snow descend in flaky Sheets,
And in her hoary Mantle cloathe the Streets.
Even more unusually, unlike other early eighteenth-century poets, Gay does not use winter weather as a metaphor for art, through the sparkling transformations of snow, ice and frost. His winter is wet, windy and muddy, with dark skies of snow and rain (I 179) that churn up the streets and make people shiver with cold. Trivia Book II makes much of winter scenes in and around Covent Garden, including a sempstress huddled over a stove, boys throwing snowballs and luring respectable matrons into snow-disguised kennels, and a window-smashing game of football.
Where Covent Garden’s famous Temple stands,
That boasts the Work of Jones’ immortal Hands;
Columns, with plain Magnificence appear,
And graceful Porches lead along the Square,
Here oft’ my Course I bend (II 343-6)
says Gay’s persona. Covent Garden was a melting pot of persons and activities: Inigo Jones’s grand church at one end was counterbalanced and unbalanced by adjacency to coffeehouses, theatres, brothels and houses round the rest of the square, which also held stalls selling everything from food to pornography. Jenny Uglow thinks ‘In his prints, Hogarth would follow the lead of ‘Trivia’ in linking incidents with specific places in the city, and in creating sharp, personalised portraits in dark corners. Gay’s walker, eschewing the decadence of the beaux in their carriages, was poised between rich and poor, observing both, and Hogarth took the same stance.’ Hogarth’s print Morning is both snowy and set in Covent Garden. It upends many of the Times of Day conventions, not least by depicting Aurora, goddess of the dawn, as a prude on her way to church impeded by assorted people with their minds on lower things; those spilling out of Tom’s coffee house show an ongoing revel at odds with the sequencing of time into morning. Like Gay, Hogarth uses comic contrast, between revelry and moral frostiness; between warm passions and cold looks; between literally cold, outstretched hands and virtue hugged to itself. Details like the icicles and imprints of pattens link directly to the wintry world of Trivia. Gay’s ironies also drift like snow towards sex: his sempstress who is too cold to sew has a stove under her which keeps other parts warm (II 337-42), like the ‘Flame of Love’. Like all Hogarth’s work, Morning is open to complex readings — sometimes too complex? –- but one can easily agree with Sean Shesgreen’s claim that ‘Hogarth’s many-sided technique is analogous to certain satirical methods not common in the visual arts, but in literature.’
I want to end with discussion of a city within a city – the frost fairs that sprung up when the Thames froze over, as it did 23 times between 1309 and 1814. The frost fairs of 1715 attracted Gay and Hogarth
When hoary Thames, with frosted Oziers crown’d,
Was three long Moons in icy Fetters bound. …
Here the fat Cook piles high the blazing Fire,
And scarce the Spit can turn the Steer entire.
Booths sudden hide the Thames, long Streets appear,
And num’rous Games proclaim the crouded Fair.
So when a Gen’ral bids the martial Train
Spread their Encampment o’er the spatious Plain;
Thick-rising Tents a Canvas City build,
And the loud Dice resound thro’ all the Field. (II 357-74)
Rather like the skating rinks that over the last few years have become a regular fixture of winter London at Somerset House and the Natural History Museum, frost fairs represented play and indulgence. The most regular treats on offer were games of skill, ox-roasting, and tents selling hot mutton pies, beer and punch. One fixture new to the eighteenth-century was the frost fair printing press, at which visitors to the ice could buy souvenir cards, printed with their name. Hogarth went to the frost fair of 1739, and amusingly bought a card for his dog, a pug called Trump whose name was duly inscribed –- hence what one can only call a Trump Card. The frost fair was a city within a city –- not without dangers, because accidents did happen as people slithered uncertainly across the ice, and they replicated the usual risky business of urban transactions, of profit and loss, assignation, cheat and fraud. Gay uses the frost fair as an occasion for stylised mythology: Doll the apple seller falls and is beheaded by a sheet of ice; in a grotesque modern version of the Orpheus myth, her singing head bounces along: ‘Pippins she cry’d, but Death her Voice confounds,/ And Pip-Pip-Pip along the Ice resounds.’ (II 391-2).
Exhibition notes say Hogarth’s works show urban modernity. There’s been much discussion of whether eighteenth century London is best described in relation to early modern thought, or modern thought. If the latter, quite when and how is that change is made? Jenny Uglow suggests that ‘Londoners learned to read their city visually, skating over an iconographic language as rich and ancient and endlessly reworked as the foundations beneath their feet. The cluttered and fantastic detail of Hogarth’s prints was no odder than the streets they walked through, or the shows they watched.’ In Gay’s Trivia and prints like Hogarth’s Morning, one sees how the city is perceived through movement, energy, collisions and clashes of values. Disorder is human; so is humour, which may also be cruel. That’s neither early modern nor modern: it’s eighteenth-century, and I think that’s the best way to understand how eighteenth-century writers and artists were seduced by the city.
List of Pictures
1. Marcellus Laroon, ‘London Curtezan’, in Clare Brant and Susan E. Whyman eds., Walking the Streets of Eighteenth-Century London: John Gay’s Trivia (1716), Oxford University Press, 2007, 79.
2. Hogarth, Harlot’s Progress, available online: http://www.tate.org.uk/britain/exhibitions/hogarth/modernmorals/harlotsprogress.shtm, date accessed. 1.3.2008.
3.Thomas Bowles after John Donowell, ‘Ironmongers’ Hall with a View of Fenchurch Street’, c.1749. reprinted in Sheila O’Connell, London 1753 British Museum Press /David R. Godine Publisher, 2003, 59.
4. Hogarth, ‘Night’, available online: http://opal.ukc.ac.uk/cartoonx-cgi/ccc.py?mode=single&start=70&search=William%20Hogarth date accessed. 1.3.2008.
5. Sandby, ‘Rare Mackerel’, available online: http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/highlights/highlight_objects/pd/p/paul_sandby,_street_crier_7_r.aspx, date accessed. 1.3.2008.
6. Hogarth, ‘Enraged Musician’, available online: http://www.tate.org.uk/britain/exhibitions/hogarth/rooms/room5.shtm, date accessed. 1.3.2008
7. Hogarth, Industry and Idleness, available online: http://www.tate.org.uk/britain/exhibitions/hogarth/modernmorals/industryidleness.shtm, date accessed. 1.3.2008
 Peter Wagner, Reading Iconotexts: from Swift to the French Revolution. Reaktion Books, 1995.
 Charles Lamb, ‘On the Genius and Character of Hogarth; with some Remarks on a Passage in the Writings of the Late Mr. Barry’ (1811), The Reflector, II, no. 3, 61-77, 61.
 David Nokes, John Gay: A Profession of Friendship, Oxford University Press, 1995, 212.
 C.f. Marcellus Laroon, ‘London Curtezan’, in Clare Brant and Susan E. Whyman eds., Walking the Streets of Eighteenth-Century London: John Gay’s Trivia (1716) Oxford University Press, 2007, 79.
 Thomas Bowles after John Donowell, ‘Ironmongers’ Hall with a View of Fenchurch Street’, c.1749. reprinted in Sheila O’Connell, London 1753 (British Museum Press /David R. Godine Publisher, 2003, 59.
 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Rendall, University of California Press, 1984, 106-7.
 Elias Canetti, Crowds and Power, trans. Carol Stewart, Farrar Straus Giroux, 1984, 15.
 The Practice of Everyday Life, p.95. De Certeau argues that the here-there of walking evokes that phatic function which is the first verbal function acquired by children (99). One might also note how this echoes the fort-da game explained by Freud as a child’s taking control over his mother’s comings and goings. The perambulations open to adults are closed to the less mobile child — though again one should note that the term for an infant carriage, a pram, is a contraction of the word perambulation. Pushed about in a pram, small children can participate in the art of walking. Compare the late twentieth-century ‘stroller’ for children too young to walk far. Though discussions of walking as an urban experience now consider gender — thus Elizabeth Wilson, ‘The Invisible Flaneur’ in The Contradictions of Culture: Cities, Culture, Women (Sage Publications, 2000), 72-9 — few (any?) consider it from other than an adult, able-bodied perspective.
 Philip Cottrell, ‘The Art of Noise: The Cries of London and Dublin’, Eighteenth-Century Studies vol. 37.
 Marcellus Laroon, ‘London Curtezan’, in Clare Brant and Susan E. Whyman eds., Walking the Streets of Eighteenth-Century London: John Gay’s Trivia (1716) ,Oxford University Press, 2007, 79.
 Paul Sandby, ‘Twelve London Cries Done from the Life, Part 1st, 1760’, (selection from ) in Sheila O’Connell London 1753 ,British Museum Press/ David R. Godine Publisher, 2003, 77-81.
 See Jeremy Barlow, The Enraged Musician: Hogarth’s Musical Imagery, Ashgate, 2005.
 Jenny Uglow, Hogarth: A Life and a World, Faber & Faber, 1997, 38.
 Sean Shesgreen, Hogarth and the Times-of-Day Tradition, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1983, 151.
 Nicholas Reed, Frost Fairs on the Frozen Thames, Lilbourne Press, 2002, 27.
 Uglow, Hogarth, p.40.
 See Vic Gattrell, City of Laughter: Sex and Satire in Eighteenth-Century London , Atlantic Books 2006, passim.
To Cite This Article:
Clare Brant, ‘Seduced by the City: Gay’s Trivia and Hogarth’. Literary London: Interdisciplinary Studies in the Representation of London, Volume 6 Number 1 (March 2008). Online at http://www.literarylondon.org/london-journal/march2008/brant.html. Accessed on [date of access]