Were it considered by a connoisseur, he would probably assert
that this man could not be a painter, for he had never travelled
to Rome; could not be a judge of art, for he spoke irreverently
of the ancients; gave his figures neither dignity nor grace; was
erroneous in his distribution of light and shade, and inattentive to
the painter's balance; that his grouping was inartificial, and his
engraving coarse.
To traverse continents in search of antique paintings, explore
caverns for mutilated sculpture, and measure the proportions of a
statue with mathematical precision, was not the boast of William
Hogarth. The _Temple of Nature_ was his academy, and his topography
the map of the human mind. Disdaining to copy or translate, he left
the superior class of beings that people the canvas of Poussin and
Michael Angelo to their admirers; selected his images from his
own country, and gave them with a truth, energy, and variety of
character,[39] ever appropriate, and invariably original. Considering
his peculiar powers, it is fortunate for his fame that he was a
native of Britain. In Switzerland, the scenery is romantic,--the
rocks are stupendous; in Italy, the models of art are elevated and
majestic,--the ruins of ancient Greece still continue a school of
architecture and proportion;--but in England, and in England alone,
we have every variety of character that separates man from man. To
these he resorted, and rarely attempted to _heighten nature_, either
by ideal or elevated beauty; for though he had the eye, he had not
the wing of an eagle; when he attempted to soar, particles of his
native clay clung to his pinions, and retarded his flight.
His engravings, though coarse, are forcible in a degree scarcely to
be paralleled. Every figure is drawn from the quarry of nature; and,
though seldom polished, is always animated.
He has been accused of grossness in some of his single figures: but
the general vein of his wit is better calculated to make the man of
humour smile than the humourist laugh;--has the air of Cervantes
rather than Rabelais,--of Fielding rather than Smollett.
I do not know in what class to place his pictured stories. They are
too much crowded with little incidents for the dignity of history;
for tragedy, are too comic; yet have a termination which forbids us
to call them comedies. Being selected from life, they present to
us the absurdities, crimes, punishments, and vicissitudes of man:
to-day, basking in the bright beams of prosperity; to-morrow, sunk
in the gloom of comfortless despair. Be it recorded to his honour,
that their invariable tendency is the promotion of virtue, and the
diffusion of such a spirit as tends to make men industrious, humane,
and happy. If some of the incidents are thought too ludicrous, and
a few of the scenes rather border on the licentious, let it be
remembered, that since they were engraved the _standard of delicacy_
has been somewhat altered: that species of wit which this sentimental
and _double-refined_ age deems too much debased for common currency,
was then, with a still larger portion of alloy, the sterling coin of
the kingdom.
On canvas he was not so successful as on copper. Scripture history,
which was one of his first attempts,[40] did not add a leaf to his
laurel. In small portraits of conversations, etc., he was somewhat
more successful; but in a few years the novelty wore off, and the
public grew tired. Though he had great facility[41] and general
success in his resemblances, his eye was too correct and his hand
too faithful for those who wished to be flattered. The fantastic
fluttering robes, given by contemporary painters, were too absurd
for him to imitate; and he painted all his figures in the exact
habits they wore. Compared with the dignified dresses of Vandyke, the
Germanic garb, which then prevailed, gave a mean and unpicturesque
formality to his portraits.
With respect to his person, though hardly to be classed as a little
man, Hogarth was rather below the middle size; he had an eye
peculiarly bright and piercing, and an air of spirit and vivacity.
From an accident in his youth, he had a deep scar on his forehead:
the mark remained; and he frequently wore his hat so as to display
it. His conversation was lively and cheerful,[42] mixed with a
quickness of retort that did not gain him friends. Severe in his
satire on those who were present, but of the absent he was usually
the advocate;[43] and has sometimes boasted that he never uttered
a sentence concerning any man living, that he would not repeat to
his face. In the relations of husband, brother, friend, and master,
he was kind, generous, sincere, and indulgent. In diet abstemious;
but in his hospitalities, though devoid of ostentation, liberal and
free-hearted. Not parsimonious, yet frugal;--but so comparatively
small were the rewards then paid to artists, that, after the labour
of a long life, he left a very inconsiderable sum to his widow, with
whom he must have received a large portion of what was bequeathed
to her.[44] His character, and the illustrations I have attempted,
are built upon a diligent examination of his prints: if in any case
it should be thought that they have biassed my judgment, I can truly
say that they have informed it. From them I have learnt much which I
should not otherwise have known, and to inspecting them I owe many
very happy hours. Considering their originality, variety, and truth,
if we take from the artist all that he _is said_ to have wanted, he
will have more left than has been often the portion of man.
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