Manly beauty: what can boxers tell us about 18th century masculinity? Part III


The other men in William Hogarth’s March of the Guards to Finchley (1750) that I want to talk about are the boxers. In the painting, so evocatively displayed at London Museum, a bare-knuckle prize-fight takes place in the middle-ground. This was a boxing booth opened by James Figg in 1719 on Tottenham Court Road, at the Adam and Eve pub. Figg was one of the first boxers to commercialise the sport, opening his Amphitheatre to teach boxing, fencing, and quarterstaff.[1] George Taylor took over the booth in 1734 and one of the boxers depicted may well be Taylor.[2] We can see its fenced stage, the boxers squaring up to each other, surrounded by a closely packed audience of men, women, and children so avidly watching the match that they pay little attention to the guardsmen behind them. 

Detail of William Hogarth, The March of the Guards to Finchley (1750)

It is wise not to overlook the fight as merely a lively backdrop to the scenes in the foreground. Nor should we assume the pugilists are a pictorial symbol of cruelty or the brutal habits of the lower orders; a Hogarthian moralising vignette of the callousness of metropolitan life. For Hogarth, the boxer was a signifier of male beauty, his sport was patriotic, and both were closely associated with national identity. So, with that in mind, what can boxers tell us about Georgian masculinity?

Rather a lot, since they were public performers of the most visceral forms of masculinity; indeed, boxing matches were often advertised as ‘trials of manhood’.[3] They were popular with most social ranks. Aristocrats and royalty patronised them and gambled on them and their spectators and followers included most social groups.[4]

Like the soldier, the boxer was a plebeian patriot. Fighters were labouring men drawn most often from trades that depended on upper body strength, like watermen and blacksmiths. They shared other attributes with Hogarth’s soldiers. Controlled violence was their stock in trade. Pugilists were compared to gladiators in the first half of the eighteenth century, for example.[5] Both were prized for their bodily ‘superiority’ – height in the guardsmen’s case, muscularity in the boxers’. The physiques of both were considered ideal examples of manhood.[6] Indeed, it was soldiers and boxers who often acted as life-models for artists and anatomists in the Georgian period, as discussed in the lovely book Looking at Men: Art, Anatomy and the Modern Male Body by Anthea Callen (2018).

Like soldiers, boxers also resolved some of the challenges for masculinity that politeness and, later, sensibility, posed. Karen Downing has shown that in the period from the 1760s to 1815 the ‘gentleman boxer’ answered the question of whether a man could be manly while conforming to the conventions of the ages of politeness and then feeling. A boxer like ‘Gentleman’ John Jackson (1769-1845) resolved these concerns by cultivating the courtesy and gentility of polite sensibility while displaying the vigour and force required to fight to extend and defend an empire.[7]

Charles Turner, after Benjamin Marshall, Mr John Jackson, 1810

We can see the early stages of this being worked out in Hogarth’s art and writings. His boxers offered a mode of manliness that was rough, plain, sturdy, and authentic. Like other artists, Hogarth admired boxers, featuring them in his art as well as discussing them in his 1753 publication The Analysis of Beauty. The English champions James Figg (1684-1734), George Taylor (1716-1758), and Jack Broughton (1704-1789) served as models for his art.

Figg appeared in Southwark Fair, 1732, the figure on the right, riding in on horseback, A Midnight Modern Conversation, and plate 2 of a Rake’s Progress – the wigged prize-fighter bearing his quarterstaffs. Hogarth also depicted a naked Taylor on his design for the famous prize-fighter’s tombstone. Taylor’s muscular physique in these plates demonstrates why boxers were used as nude life-models – like the other plebeian labouring men who acted as life-models, their work led them to have defined musculature.[8]

William Hogarth, George Taylor Triumphing over Death, c.1750, Tate T08212

The role of such men was to be living examples of classical statuary, in pose, proportions and physical type.[9] They were looked at and studied by both artists and anatomists in art academies and associated events. Hogarth, for example, likely used such life-models at St Martin’s Lane Academy, which had been reopened in 1735 under his leadership. Johan Zoffany joined St Martin’s shortly after arriving in London in 1760 and this is the only known depiction of a life-drawing class there. The figure in red is a porter and occasional model at St Martin’s, who was also the first porter at the Royal Academy, founded in 1768.

Johan Zoffany, An Academy by Lamplight, A Life Class at St Martin’s Lane Academy 1761-2

The Royal Academy appointed a Professor of Anatomy to lecture artists on the human form. The first holder of the post was William Hunter, who assumed widespread familiarity with boxers when describing motion and musculature as:

essential to painters and sculptors … Everything that we have seen acted in reality at Broughton’s Amphitheatre at Saddlers Wells, and such places and every thing that we see done on the Stage, in the way of imitation by the Comedian or the Tragedian, is nothing but a skilful exercise of muscular motion.[10]

Johan Zoffany’s painting shows Hunter alongside his lecture props: a skeleton, the Hunter écorché (aplaster standing-figure, flayed to display musculature) and a life model (most likely a pugilist) echoing its pose.[11] Hunter is even said to have stolen the hanged body of a famous Irish pugilist sentenced to death for murder, and made a cast of his corpse; which he used to teach anatomy at the Royal Academy.[12]

It is worth reiterating that these elite men were looking at labourers’ bodies not just to acquire knowledge about function and form; but because these plebeian men were considered aesthetic and gender ideals.[13] Classical bodies shaped ideas of the ‘beauty of proportion’ for men as well as women. Although we tend to think of Hogarth as an artist of satirical types – the faces and forms of his protagonists often distorted and designed to convey character, behaviour, and morals, he also saw beauty of form as crucial to understanding the world. In his Analysis of Beauty (1753) he theorised abut the aesthetic basis of art and experience, setting out the characteristics of beauty both in art and nature.[14] This was no elite discourse, his observations had their roots in metropolitan life. Thus, he used boxers as an example of people’s instinctive understanding of beauty and proportion.

As he says:

almost every one is farther advanced in the knowledge of this speculative part of the proportion than he imagines; especially he who has been used to observe naked figures doing bodily exercise, and more especially if he be any way interested in the success of them; and the better he is acquainted with the nature of the exercise itself, still the better judge he becomes of the figure that is to perform it. For this reason, no sooner are two boxers stripped to fight, but even a butcher, thus skilled, shows himself a considerable critic in proportion; and, on this sort of judgment, often gives, or takes the odds, at bare sight only of the combatants. I have heard a blacksmith harangue like an anatomist, or sculptor, on the beauty of a boxer’s figure, though not, perhaps in the same terms; and I firmly believe, that one of our common proficients in the athletic art, would be able to instruct and direct the best sculptor living, who has not seen, or is wholly ignorant of this exercise, in what would give the statue of an English boxer a much better proportion, as to character, than is to be seen, even in the famous group of antique boxers, or, as some call them, Roman wresters, so much admired to this day.[15]

Here Hogarth considers English boxers to be superior to the Wrestlers, a classical sculpture that was reproduced in antique cast rooms in large form for students to draw from, and in small form as a decorative ornament.[16] This is significant for notions of Georgian manliness more generally, since men’s bodies were a crucial factor in the construction and evaluation of masculinity with classical forms as the standard against which all ideals were compared.

Hogarth discusses, for example, the statue of Antinous, as ‘the most perfect… of any of the antique statues’, showing ‘a manly strength in its proportion’ from its head to its foot.[17] This is illustrated in his plate I, a statuary yard, where he depicts well-known classical statues.

Hogarth, Analysis of Beauty, 1753, Plate 1, Statuary Yard at Hyde Park Corner (Royal Academy). Antinous is on the left, next to the dance-master. The Apollo Belvedere is found on the right on a pedestal.

This demonstrates that the huge muscular form of Atlas or Hercules was less appealing in the Georgian era than the more youthful graceful forms of the Antinous and Apollo Belvedere. The ideal manly body of a dexterous carriage and poise and clean-shaven face was influenced by historically-specific factors as diverse as polite sociability, the culture of sensibility, Georgian military techniques, and ideas about physical exercise, diet, and health. The mature Herculean body-type only came to symbolise muscular Christianity in the later nineteenth century, shaped by ideas of empire and warfare, namely new weaponry that required skirmish and light infantry battle techniques (I talk more about this in my article).

As you will see from his art, Hogarth was a proponent of physiognomy, the practice of reading outward appearance, faces and bodies, to reveal inner character.[18] Thus, for Hogarth the body and its capacities and actions shaped function and character – but also, it should be noted – gender. He argues that ‘a fat, bloated person, does not call to mind the character of a Silenus, till we have joined the idea of voluptuousness with it’.[19] In Greek mythology, Silenus was an older satyr associated with wine-making and drunkenness. Here – and in his pictorial series – Hogarth was pre-empting one of the principal ways in which unmanliness would be represented in the Georgian period – as the inability to master one’s appetites. As I will explore at length in my book, vice and lack of self-control were understood to produce a corrupt, unhealthy, unappealing body which was deployed in representations throughout the later Georgian and Victorian periods to stimulate disgust and thus encourage men to avoid the behaviours that would undermine their masculinity – and, therefore, society (For more on the male body in the 19th century, see Joanne Parsons and Ruth Heholt (eds), The Victorian Male Body).

His manly bodies were not simply emulations of classical standards of male beauty. The inferior version of manliness that he contrasted with the ideal in his illustrative plate and details was the dance-master. He uses this less favourable type of masculinity, that I have discussed in part I of this series of posts, as the foil for both Antinous and Hercules. Check out the plate above, to see how Hogarth contrasts the fop’s ‘stiff and straight’ pose with the ‘easy sway’ of Antinous.[20]

Hogarth was an artist of urban humanity, not simply classical aesthetics, and thus he thought it essential to identify the role of function in creating form. As such, it was often the plebeian male body in motion that was the subject of his examination of male proportion, evident where he discusses the ways in which men’s labour shaped their bodies: ‘so likewise strength to support, and clumsiness of figure, are united, as well in the character of an Atlas as in a porter’. Don’t forget that one of the life-models at St Martin’s Academy was a porter.

Hogarth is fascinated by the working-man’ real body:

When we consider the great weight chairmen often have to carry, do we not readily consent that there is a propriety and fitness in the Tuscan order of their legs, by which they properly become characters as to figure?

Watermen too, are of a distinct cast, or character, whose legs are no less remarkable for their smallness; for as there is naturally the greatest call for nutriment to the parts that are most exercised, so of course these that lie so much stretched out, are apt to dwindle, or not grow to their full size. There is scarcely a waterman that rows upon the Thames, whose figure does not confirm this observation. Therefore, were I to paint the character of a Charon [Greek mythology: Ferryman of the Dead], I would thus distinguish his make from that of a common man’s; and, in spite of the word low, venture to give him a broad pair of shoulders, and spindle shanks, whether I had the authority an antique statue, or basso-relievo, for it or not’. [21]

The common man was important, he was not to be dismissed as low, and was the model for authenticity. It has been argued that Hogarth’s ‘language of aesthetics is an unashamedly predatory and erotized one, in which visual pleasure is related most closely to the perspectives of the wandering masculine eye, pursuing the alluring forms and outlines of the ever-elusive female body’. This is true perhaps, but it is not an entirely ‘chauvinist erotics’, since he viewed and described the male body as beautiful, typically the plebeian muscular body.[22]

Here again we see the roots of what developed even more strongly in the long nineteenth century, as I’ll show in my new book – the aestheticization, even eroticisation of working men’s bodies in textual, visual, and material culture. You can see that with Ford Madox Brown’s Work as an example (significantly, Mark Hallett notes how Brown was influenced by Hogarth’s art). Idealised working men’s bodies were offered as exemplars of manliness for middle-class men. Increasingly, working men were imagined, consumed, and deployed in constructions of manliness and by the second half of the nineteenth century idealised men’s physicality was not only associated with national identity and strength, they also symbolised economic prosperity.

Ford Madox Brown, Work, 1852-63

Boxers were an early progenitor. As we see in Hogarth’s art, from the early eighteenth century, they were offering entertainment and sport in fairs and prize-fights and selling training in various forms of combat in specialised locations to paying male customers. Their fans’ and followers’ emotions were stirred by their bodies, their actions, and their cultural representations. Hogarth shows the passion of the spectators – one man mirroring the fighters’ stance. Again, we hear Hogarth – the shouting, the sounds of blows on flesh.

This became more explicit over time with celebrity boxers of the later Georgian period, and the sale of their images in material culture, visual culture, and eventually photographs. Their diets and regimes would become fashionable for young men, most famously, perhaps, Lord Byron, who like other men followed such training as assiduously as possible to achieve health and physical fitness.


The March of the Guards to Finchley tells us more than we might expect about Georgian masculinity. It enlarges our understanding of what constituted manliness – beyond the polite genteel man, or the many forms of masculinity to avoid – by offering insights into the allure and ambivalences of the plebeian model of masculinity.

Hogarth has a reputation for making ‘popular heroes’ – as we see in Beer Street where the ‘stout and jovial’ men’s bodies represent ‘the body politic in a state of health and comfort’.[23] The Beer Street men, however, are somewhat too comfortable and prosperous to defend a nation.

So, in Hogarth’s robust soldiers and boxers we see virility and violence, both considered essential components of a forceful masculinity fit for a modern commercial colonising nation.[24] Like the guardsmen, boxers conveyed national as well as gender identity through their pugnacious and patriotic bodies. As Matthew Craske observes, Hogarth celebrated English people’s riotous tendencies as a feature of their national character: ‘a physical manifestation of the national proclivity towards liberty’.[25] This contrasted with the perceived authoritarianism of continental states, but also indicated the capacity of Englishmen to stay on the right side of libertinism.[26]

The men at the heart of The March of the Guards to Finchley embody the notion of the ‘plain’ man that the English have cultivated and admired from the eighteenth century onwards. It is a model of masculinity that prizes authenticity over artificial manners, demonstrated by a plain, bluff appearance and rough behaviours, supposedly indicating honesty and usefulness. It is a type of manliness that has its roots in a plebeian culture, and while potentially dangerous to society, can at times be seen to be the saviour of the nation and is often deployed even by elite men to gain approbation.

[1] Kasia Boddy, Boxing: A Cultural History, London Reaktion Books, 2009, p. 26.

[2] David Day, ‘”An Art and a Science”: Eighteenth-Century Sports Training’ in Rebekka von Mallinkrodt and Angela Schattner, Sports and Physical Exercise in Early Modern Cultures: New Perspectives on the History of Sports and Motion.

[3] Kasia Boddy, Boxing: A Cultural History, London Reaktion Books, 2009, p. 26.

[4] Kasia Boddy, Boxing: A Cultural History, London Reaktion Books, 2009, pp. 26, 29.

[5] Kasia Boddy, Boxing: A Cultural History, London Reaktion Books, 2009, pp. 32-3.

[6] Karen Downing, The Gentleman Boxer: Boxing, Manners, and Masculinity in Eighteenth-Century England, Men and Masculinities, Volume 12 Number 3, April 2010, 343

[7] Karen Downing, The Gentleman Boxer: Boxing, Manners, and Masculinity in Eighteenth-Century England, Men and Masculinities, Volume 12 Number 3, April 2010, 334.

[8] Anthea Callen, Looking at Men: Art, Anatomy and the Modern Male Body, New Haven, Yale University Press, 2018, p. 73.

[9] Anthea Callen, Looking at Men: Art, Anatomy and the Modern Male Body, New Haven, Yale University Press, 2018, p. 79.

[10] Martin Postle (ed) Johan Zoffany RA Society Observed, New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 2011, p. 223. Joseph Turner drew the écorchéin 1791

[11] Martin Postle (ed) Johan Zoffany RA Society Observed, New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 2011, p. 223.

[12] Anthea Callen, Looking at Men: Art, Anatomy and the Modern Male Body, New Haven, Yale University Press, 2018, p. 82.

[13] Boddy sees Hogarth’s early interest in pugilists as life-models as related to his interest in proportion relating to function in the Analysis of Beauty rather than academicians later who she suggests saw them as approximations of pre-determined ideals of beauty. I think he saw them as beautiful. Even in the Taylor images he uses the linear curve that he associate with beauty above him. 66-7.

[14] Mark Hallett, Hogarth, London, Phaidon Press Limited, 2000, 240

[15] William, Hogarth, The analysis of beauty (1753), Paulson, Ronald Publication date 1997 Topics Aesthetics Publisher New Haven, Conn. : Published for the Paul Mellon Centre for British Art by Yale University Press pp. 144-5.

[16] Anthea Callen, Looking at Men: Art, Anatomy and the Modern Male Body, New Haven, Yale University Press, 2018, 69

[17] Hogarth, The analysis of beauty, 146.


[19] Hogarth, The analysis of beauty, 150

[20] Hogarth, The analysis of beauty, 9

[21] Hogarth, The analysis of beauty, 150-1

[22] Mark Hallett, Hogarth, London, Phaidon Press Limited, 2000, 253-4.

[23] Matthew Craske, William Hogarth, London, Tate Gallery Publishing Ltd, 2000, p. 66-7.

[24] Matthew Craske, William Hogarth, London, Tate Gallery Publishing Ltd, 2000, p. 22,

[25] Craske, William Hogarth, p. 48

[26] Craske, William Hogarth, p. 49-50.

Rough and brave: what can soldiers tell us about 18th century masculinity? Part II


Let me begin with the guardsmen at the heart of William Hogarth’s The March of the Guards to Finchley (1750), the subject of a great exhibition at the Foundling Museum. They are an evocative depiction of the troubling charms of the soldier. In the eighteenth century, officers might be considered examples of idealised masculinity: noble, courageous, and self-sacrificing. The other ranks, however, were considered with some suspicion by society – their form and appearance yet to take on the more solid, reassuring appeal they possessed by the mid-nineteenth century. Politically, after all, the military raised fears of standing armies as authoritarian tools of repression, and individually they were examples of the bad behaviour men were supposed to avoid, such as drinking, fighting, womanising, and gambling.[1]

So let’s unpick the masculinity of these soldiers. Firstly, their bodies matter, as Matthew McCormack’s book Embodying the Militia in Georgian England argues. Hogarth depicts a regiment of Guards, who were generally recruited because they were tall.  In the central figure, we see the elite of the elite – a Grenadier of the Foot Guards. In the 1760s it was said that ‘the best bodied Men in the Battalion’ became grenadiers, not only because they could throw grenades further due to their height, but also because they would flank the regiment in their distinctive uniforms at parade.[2]

Detail from William Hogarth, The March of the Guards to Finchley (1750)

Hogarth’s mastery of the senses helps convey the power of such martial masculinities, since it was the form, sight, spectacle, and sound of soldiers that made the armed forces function effectively. Studies of fancy uniforms and martial spectacle, for example, show that both helped form regiments into coherent fighting forces, as well as making regiments more acceptable to a society suspicious of standing armies.[3] These factors also helped convey and fix those aspects of masculinity that were more salubrious and celebrated, such as bravery and self-sacrifice. These guardsmen were dressed in magnificent uniforms that were designed to flatter manly proportions and instil admiration and patriotism in those who saw them.

And yet, these guardsmen are hardly heroic figures: this is a picture of soldiers rousing themselves from a night of misbehaviour and debauchery – still ongoing in many instances, with drunk soldiers, one urinating against the wall, another stealing pies, and others casually sexually assaulting women traders.

Badly behaved, impolite, unruly, undisciplined: surely that was unmanly? Well the problem is that all these behaviours could indicate some degree of virility. Hogarth thus reveals the inherent paradox of masculine identity, since many unmanly behaviours were also those which, in a managed form, were central to the performance of normative masculinity. The question is – at what point did this virility become the immoral behaviour that rendered the perpetrator more bestial than manly in the eyes of society? 

This was always a delicate balancing act and historically contingent. Youth has long been recognised as a period of lack of control, when the juvenile male had not yet fully learned to master temptations and control or channel emotions. Some of these guardsmen might be young and unmarried and therefore given some licence. Some, as you can see, were mature, so that would not excuse them all. So, let’s return to the issue of politeness and its risks which I discussed in part I of my series of blog posts. 

Armies have often served as barometers of national masculinity. In the 1740s and 50s commentators were alarmed that politeness was undermining the manliness of the armed forces, with soldiers enfeebled by the comforts of civilian life and unable to cope with the rigours of war.[4] This was especially acute following the 1745 Jacobite rising and ‘the initial disorganisation of the British army’s response’.[5]  The novelist and editor Eliza Haywood, for example published the essay ‘Effeminacy in the army censured’ in The Female Spectator in 1745 in which she declared:

How long this over-delicacy will continue, heaven knows; but it is yet far from being extirpated:—even among the military gentlemen, there are some, who being infected with it before they become so, find it an insuperable difficulty to bring themselves to that hardiness and neglect of personal ornaments, which suit with the life of a soldier.[6]

Hogarth offers a very different portrayal of guardsmen to Haywood’s – no artificial social polish here or lack of hardiness! Combining fine physiques with behaviours deemed problematic in other men, such as fighting, drinking, and sexual liberty, these soldiers are not cautionary tales against succumbing to temptation. Instead, they answer the gender anxieties of their time, fulfilling the claim of a civic tract from the late 1750s that states that the ‘bravest’ and ‘honestes’t’ men were the ‘roughest’.[7] Roughness is presented as the antidote to a fighting force made inferior by social conventions deemed to weaken manliness. The manliness Hogarth displays here is one that is successfully navigating between the two extremes of the period: the villainous blackguard and the weak fop. The former was part of a counter-culture of anti-civility where socially elite men behaved badly, but whose boorishness was a risk to society, and the latter was equally problematic due to his womanly inferiority.[8]

In some ways Hogarth proffers a martial masculinity more attuned to that of the Jack Tar (the nickname for a sailor), who in popular culture combined carousing with comradeship, sexual prowess, and bravery.[9] Never as reassuring as the Jack Tar, soldiers took longer to be domesticated in popular culture (for which, see the volume I have edited with Michael Brown and Anna Maria Barry: Martial masculinities: Experiencing and imagining the military in the long nineteenth century (MUP 2019)). Two of the guardsmen most reveal the ambiguities of martial masculinity: the grenadier in the centre who takes his leave of his pregnant sweetheart, and the regimental drummer pulling away from his tearful wife and clinging child.

These are early examples of a symbol of martial masculinity that became immensely popular by the later eighteenth century and into the next century: the sailor’s and soldier’s farewell. In these later popular sentimental images, the handsome military man takes his leave of his pretty family; in so doing proving his self-sacrifice, his patriotism, and his feeling – symbols of moral manliness in the age of sensibility that marked out the decades from the 1760s to 1830s. In The March of the Guards to Finchley, before the full grip of sensibility, Hogarth’s departing guards are less comforting and sentimental. Is the pregnant woman a sweetheart, rather than a wife, likely to be abandoned to bear a bastard? And note the difference between the toddler with face buried in its mothers’ skirts and the grumpy boy with clenched fists.

Still, though these men are not yet fully formed as heroic, since their manly roughness is necessary to show their effectiveness as soldiers, their potential for valour, discipline, and self-control is literally on the horizon. As Mark Hallett explains, Hogarth shows the transformation of a ‘sprawling, inchoate mass of men into the well-drilled fighting unit that starts to take shape in the shadowed mid-ground and then marches in perfect formation across the distant, studiously illuminated landscape’.[10]

Detail from William Hogarth, The March of the Guards to Finchley (1750)

He describes the regimental drummer just beginning to drum the beat that will bring these soldiers into fighting order, if still staggering, somewhat punch drunk, into the scene from the left, his bloated face bearing the marks of drinking and fighting.[11] Hogarth’s acoustic talents are heard here as the elaborately uniformed man and boy play fife and drum; crucial sounds of army life since they regulated soldiers’ daily routines, set the tempo of the march, and communicated battlefield signals to company commanders in battle.[12] Military music, we must not forget, also stirred the emotions and senses of civilian onlookers not just to patriotism but to emulate the gender of the martial men. No wonder that men writing in the later eighteenth century recalled their excitement at seeing soldiers and regiments as children and its impact on their sense of selves as men.

These guardsmen surely stirred humour and perhaps some envy in their contemporary audience – as men who could enjoy licence, escape familial obligations, and still emerge as ideals of masculinity. In fact, men in general may well have found martial manliness appealing and something to emulate because it resolved the often-competing aspects of manliness and unmanliness. Thus, military men were useful gender role-models for civilian youths and men because they battled with and overcame the challenges of self-mastery, often in extreme situations.

In the next post I turn to the boxers in The March of the Guards to Finchley, another plebeian patriot who influenced ideas of manliness in the Georgian and Victorian periods.

[1] Scott Hughes Myerly, British Military Spectacle, p. 10.

[2] Matthew McCormack, Embodying the Militia in Georgian England, p. 89.

[3] Scott Hughes Myerly, British Military Spectacle, passim.

[4] Philip Carter, Men and the Emergence of Polite Society, Britain 1660-1800, Harlow, Essex, Pearson, 2001, pp. 130-1 and McCormack, Embodying the Militia in Georgian England passim.

[5] Carter, Men and the Emergence of Polite Society, p. 131

[6] Haywood, Eliza. “Effeminacy in the army censured.” 1745. Quotidiana. Ed. Patrick Madden. 12 Oct 2007. 16 Jul 2019 <;. NB – longer quote sought after reading Carter, p 131.

[7] The Tryal of Lady Allurea Luxury 1757 p. 77, cited in Carter, Men and the Emergence of Polite Society, p. 135

[8] Carter, Men and the Emergence of Polite Society, p. 137.

[9] Joanne Begiato, ‘Tears and the manly sailor in England, c.1760-1860’, Journal for Maritime Research, 17:2 (2015), 117-33.

[10] Mark Hallett, ‘Patriotism, Portraiture and Politics’, p. 218.

[11] Mark Hallett, ‘Patriotism, Portraiture and Politics’, p. 218.

[12] Steven M. Baule, ‘Drummers in the British Army during the American Revolution’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research 86, 2008, p. 20.

Pugnacious and patriotic: what can soldiers and boxers tell us about 18th century masculinity? Part I

Recently, I had the privilege of talking about William Hogarth’s The March of the Guards to Finchley (1750) in one of the talks accompanying the Foundling Museum’s 2019 Exhibition Hogarth & The Art of Noise. This is a jewel of an exhibition – small and perfectly formed – which explores Hogarth’s abilities to conjure the five senses in his art. It focuses on sounds, surrounding this masterful painting with even more layers of meaning and wonder.

Hogarth, The March of the Guards to Finchley (1750)

I had the pleasure of exploring what Hogarth’s masterpiece can tell us about Georgian masculinities and it is such a great topic that I wanted to share my talk here, especially since it touches on some of the areas that I’m analysing at length in my new book Manliness in Britain 1760-1900: Bodies, Emotions, and Material Culture, out in 2020. It’s quite a long piece of writing, so I’m dividing it across three blog posts to make it less of an investment of time when you read it!

Like all his scenes of London, William Hogarth’s The March of the Guards to Finchley teems with life: vibrant and funny, a patriotic and sensory celebration of English liberty.[1] The guardsmen assemble at Tottenham Court Turnpike, ready to march to Finchley and defend the capital against Jacobite attack.[2] Painted a few years after the Jacobite Rebellion, it is, therefore, a knowing, and perhaps, unconventional depiction of victory (after all, this is no heroic battle scene with officers nobly dying)!

So, what can it tell us about mid-eighteenth-century masculinity?

The Age of Hogarth

A lot! After all, we think of the early Georgian period as the ‘Age of Hogarth,’ so closely does his art seem to reveal the complex and contradictory society and culture of a Britain not yet the aggressive imperial force it would be by the end of the century, still internally unstable, but expanding its commercial interests and worrying about the results of luxury and excess. An era when the always-rising middling-sort used morality and politeness to define its interests and aspirations against those social groups above and below.

Hogarth, the brilliant recorder of low and high life, of all human vices and the disorder deemed to result from them, captures and harnesses the tensions of new modes of behaviour and the rise of consumerism. After all, while his cautionary images show the horrors of personal degeneracy, many also acknowledge the delights of consumption and advocate the pleasures of moderation: his preferred alternative to Gin Lane, 1751, remember, is not abstinence, but Beer Street. In these mirror images, as in all his pictorial series and street scenes, we see the many faces of Georgian masculinity.

Georgian masculinity

You will perhaps already recognise several faces of Georgian masculinity if you are familiar with Hogarth’s art. One feature that will strike you, is that they are often negative rather than positive, since the ideals of masculinity were frequently defined through failures to achieve them. As we shall see, one of the central features of Georgian masculinity was that it required self-control to master the temptation and vices that so often led to its failure.

The ne’er-do-well is a case in point. Sometimes he was an aristocrat, or sometimes from a more modest genteel background – like Tom Rakewell of Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress. He is extravagant, prone to vice and succumbs to temptation; his masculinity undermined by his libertinism and lack of self-control.

A Rake’s Progress, 1735, Plate 2, British Museum, Museum number 1868,0822.1529

And then there is the fop – like the dance-master in the same plate of Rake’s Progress: artificially poised with mannered foot pointing, wide hipped skirt – signifying his foreignness, urbanity, and effeminacy (for the latest work on meanings of effeminacy in the eighteenth century, see Declan Kavanagh’s 2017 book Effeminate Years: Literature, Politics, and Aesthetics in Mid-Eighteenth-Century Britain). 

Another Hogarthian staple is the polite citizen, urban, portly, plain, weighed down by his full-bottom wig).

Perhaps, for many of us today, these types of masculinity have been superseded by this representation of eighteenth-century manhood:

Bare, buff Ross Poldark scything in a field. This scene and Aidan Turner’s representation more generally in the TV series has provoked discussion about whether Turner has been objectified. Turner’s most recent reflection on the matter is that he does not feel objectified because, as a man, he does not feel at risk from the female gaze.[3]

My own research on masculinity in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, published in 2020, shows that men’s bodies are always crucial to meanings of masculinity. Certain types of men have often been objectified – typically working men – and notions of masculinity were shaped, maintained, and disseminated through looking at images of men and reading descriptions of men’s bodies. This process was closely linked to emotions. Idealised male bodies considered attractive and strong were linked with ideal masculine behaviours and actions and became even more appealing and powerful through their associations with positive emotions such as love, desire, admiration, and patriotism.

Bodies were unruly, however, and needed constant self-control. Bodies considered unattractive, non-normative, often diseased or ill-formed, were associated with vices and bad habits that were deemed unmanly, a set of ideas made more influential by stirring disgust and revulsion. The lineaments of this are present in Hogarth’s work. He was an artist who deployed bodies and emotions; relishing in the sensory. Indeed, Mark Hallett observes that Hogarth ‘knew how to provide good pictorial acoustics’.[4] He did more than evoke the sounds and sights of metropolitan life, he also conjured its feel, and smell – all of which contributed to defining gender norms too.[5]

Take the vicious libertine, whose body is weakened by his vices, scarred by venereal disease and excess. Viscount Squanderfield of Marriage a la Mode (1743), is the perfect Hogarthian example. These men were rendered unable to sire a healthy heir and ultimately driven insane, as Rakewell in the final plate of A Rake’s Progress.[6] The fop’s failings, as we saw above, are written on his body too – non-muscular, vain; a body considered woman-like both physically and in his interests in fashionable appearance.

In the mid-eighteenth-century, as these failures of masculinity indicate, masculinity was still not comfortably aligned with politeness. Indeed, Hogarth does not often depict graceful polite manliness. One example is the slender, graceful dancer at the left of plate 2 of his Analysis of Beauty (1753) (the Country Dance). While politeness had its social benefits, it also had its hazards, as Philip Carter explained in his book Men and the Emergence of Polite Society. This code of behaviour, which required courtesy, a mannered style of deportment, and the ability to mix in polite female company could be viewed as undermining masculinity. For the most part, therefore, Hogarth shows the risks of too much comfort, luxury, and pleasure.

His A Midnight Modern Conversation 1730-1 is a case in point. It shows what happens when polite sociability goes wrong. Hogarth pulls the curtain back at the end of an evening on London lawyers, merchants, clergymen, and physicians who have drunk and smoked too much, leading to violence, drunkenness, and unconsciousness. As Declan Kavanagh observes in Effeminate Years, the homosocial clubs of the mid-century were often seen as sites of excess.

So, A Midnight Moral Conversation offers a moral lesson to be learnt, perhaps. Yet this is an ambivalent scene, as is frequently the case with standards of masculinity.[7] Kate Davison recently formulated the concept of ‘occasional politeness’, to show that polite comportment was only necessary for men in certain circumstances. When men got together (rather than in mixed sex groups) they could be bawdy and humorous for there was a ‘tacit acceptance of looser manners that might be called ‘intimate bawdiness’, which had its origins in a renaissance humanist train of thought that valorized wit as the centrepiece of male sociability’.[8] Hogarth plugged into this ‘intimate bawdiness’, demonstrating through humour the somewhat disgusting results of deviating from politeness. [9] Astute enough not to alienate his male viewers, his humour made his satire more palatable and easier for them to look at, even identify with uncontrolled appetites and, thus, perhaps more likely to avoid them. [10]

My next post will turn away from middling and elite men, for they can only offer a partial account of eighteenth-century masculinity. If you look back at Hogarth’s March of the Guards to Finchley above, you will see the guardsmen in the foreground and the boxers in the middleground and they will be my focus in the next two posts. What I want to draw to your attention is the plebeian nature of Hogarth’s vision of masculinity here. These two types of working men became for many social ranks the embodiment of masculinity in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries – in all its complexity and ambivalences. Part two considers the soldier and what he can tell us about Georgian masculinities.

[1] For Hogarth as the patriot artist of nationalistic subjects see Mark Hallett, ‘Patriotism, Portraiture and Politics’ in Mark Hallett and Christine Riding, Hogarth, London: Tate Publishing, 2006, p. 217

[2] Hallett, ‘Patriotism, Portraiture and Politics’ p. 218.


[4] Mark Hallett, Hogarth, p. 60.

[5] Mark Hallett, Hogarth, p. 121.

[6] Mark Hallett, Hogarth, p. 114

[7] Mark Hallett, Hogarth, London, Phaidon Press Limited, 2000, pp. 64-8

[8] Kate Davison, ‘Occasional politeness and gentlemen’s laughter in 18th c England’ The Historical Journal 12 November 2014.

[9] Mark Hallett, Hogarth, London, Phaidon Press Limited, 2000, p. 68

[10] Hallett points out that Hogarth’s depictions of ‘errant masculinity’ in his pictorial series were intended to reinforce respectable manhood through negative example. Mark Hallett, Hogarth, p. 114