Chapter 16

[1]In a letter written to his friend Mr.Wilkes, datedAug.3, 1763,Churchillsays: "I take it for granted you have seenHogarth's Printagainst me. Was ever any thing so contemptible? I think he is fairlyfelo de se—I think not to let him off in that manner, although I might safely leave him to yournotes. He has broke into my pale of private life, and set that example of illiberality which I wished—of that kind of attack which is ungenerous in the first instance, but justice in return. I intend an Elegy on him, supposing him dead; but * * tells me with a kiss, he will be really dead before it comes out: that I have already killed him, &c. How sweet is flattery from the woman we love! and how weak is our boasted strength when opposed to beauty and good sense with good nature!"—In Mr.Churchill'swill is the following passage: "I desire my dear friend,John Wilkes, Esq. to collect and publish my Works, with the Remarks and Explanations he has prepared, and any others he thinks proper to make."

[2]In a few days after, the following Advertisement, for a satirical Print onHogarth, was published:Tara, Tan, Tara! Tara, Tan, Tara!This Day made its appearance at the noted SUMPTER's Political Booth, next door toThe Brazen Head, nearShoe-Lane, Fleet-street, which began precisely at twelve at noon, a new humourous performance, entitled, The BRUISER TRIUMPHANT: or, The Whole Farce of theLeicester-fieldsPannel Painter. The principal parts by Mr.H[ogarth], Mr.W[ilkes], Mr.C[hurchill], &c. &c. &c. Walk in, Gentlemen, walk in! No more than 6d.a-piece!

[2]In a few days after, the following Advertisement, for a satirical Print onHogarth, was published:

Tara, Tan, Tara! Tara, Tan, Tara!

This Day made its appearance at the noted SUMPTER's Political Booth, next door toThe Brazen Head, nearShoe-Lane, Fleet-street, which began precisely at twelve at noon, a new humourous performance, entitled, The BRUISER TRIUMPHANT: or, The Whole Farce of theLeicester-fieldsPannel Painter. The principal parts by Mr.H[ogarth], Mr.W[ilkes], Mr.C[hurchill], &c. &c. &c. Walk in, Gentlemen, walk in! No more than 6d.a-piece!

[3]The reader shall judge for himself of this Epistle's "power to hurt.""Amongst the sons of men, how few are knownWho dare be just to merit not their own!Superior virtue, and superior sense,To knaves and fools will always give offence;Nay, men of real worth can scarcely bear,So nice is Jealousy, a rival there."Be wicked as thou wilt, do all that's base,Proclaim thyself the monster of thy race;Let Vice and Folly thy Black Soul divide,Be proud with meanness, and be mean with pride!Deaf to the voice of Faith and Honour, fallFrom side to side, yet be of none at all;Spurn all those charities, those sacred ties,Which Nature in her bounty, good as wise,To work our safety, and ensure her plan,Contriv'd to bind, and rivet man to man;Lift against Virtue Power's oppressive rod,Betray thy Country, and deny thy God;And, in one general comprehensive line,To group, which volumes scarcely could define,Whate'er of Sin and Dulness can be said.Join to aF——'sheart aD——'shead.Yet mayst thou pass unnotic'd in the throng,And, free from Envy, safely sneak along.The rigid Saint, by whom no mercy's shewnTo Saints whose lives are better than his own,Shall spare thy crimes; andWit, who never onceForgave a Brother, shall forgive a Dunce."After this nervous introduction, our satirist proceeds:"Hogarth—I take thee,Candour, at thy word,Accept thy proffer'd terms, and will be heard;Thee have I heard with virulence declaim,Nothing retain'd of Candour but the name;By thee have I been charg'd in angry strainsWith that mean falshood which my soul disdains—Hogarth, stand forth—Nay hang not thus aloof—Now,Candour, now Thou shalt receive such proof—Such damning proof, that henceforth Thou shalt fearTo tax my wrath, and own my conduct clear—HOGARTHstand forth—I dare thee to be triedIn that great Court, where Conscience must preside;At that most solemn bar hold up thy hand;Think before whom, on what account you stand—-Speak, but consider well—from first to lastReview thy life, weigh every action past—Nay, you shall have no reason to complain—Take longer time, and view them o'er again—Canst Thou remember from thy earliest youth,And as thy God must judge Thee, speak the truth,A single instance where,Selflaid aside,And Justice taking place of fear and pride,Thou with an equal eye didstGeniusview,And give to Merit what was Merit's due?Genius and Merit are a sure offence,And thy soul sickens at the name of Sense.Is any one so foolish to succeed?OnEnvy'saltar he is doom'd to bleed.Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes,The place of Executioner supplies.See how he glotes, enjoys the sacred feast,And proves himself by cruelty a priest."Whilst the weak Artist, to thy whims a slave,Would bury all those powers which Nature gave,Would suffer blank concealment to obscureThose rays, thy Jealousy could not endure;To feed thy vanity would rust unknown,And to secure thy credit blast his own,InHogarthhe was sure to find a friend;He could not fear, and therefore might commend.But when his Spirit, rous'd by honest Shame,Shook off that Lethargy, and soar'd to Fame,When, with the pride of Man, resolv'd and strong,He scorn'd those fears which did his Honour wrong,And, on himself determin'd to rely,Brought forth his labours to the public eye,No Friend in Thee, could such a Rebel know;He had desert, andHogarthwas his foe."Souls of a timorous cast, of petty nameInEnvy'scourt, not yet quite dead to shame,May some Remorse, some qualms of Conscience feel,And suffer Honour to abate their Zeal:But the Man, truly and compleatly great,Allows no rule of action but his hate;Through every bar he bravely breaks his way,Passion his Principle, and Parts his prey.Mediums in Vice and Virtue speak a mindWithin the pale of Temperance confin'd;The daring Spirit scorns her narrow schemes,And, good or bad, is always in extremes."Man's practice duly weigh'd, through every ageOn the same plan hathEnvyform'd her rage.'Gainst those whom Fortune hath our rivals madeIn way of Science, and in way of Trade,Stung with mean Jealousy she arms her spite,First works, then views their ruin with delight.OurHogarthhere a grand improver shines,And nobly on the general plan refines;He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound;Worth is his mark, wherever Worth is found.Should Painters only his vast wrath suffice?Genius in every walk is Lawful Prize.'Tis a gross insult to his o'ergrown state:His love to merit is to feel his hate."WhenWilkes, our Countryman, our common friend,Arose, his King, his Country to defend,When tools of power he bar'd to public view,And from their holes the sneaking cowards drew;When Rancour found it far beyond her reachTo soil his honour, and his truth impeach,What could induce Thee, at a time and place,Where manly Foes had blush'd to shew their face,To make that effort, which must damn thy name,And sink Thee deep, deep in thy grave with shame?Did Virtue move Thee? no, 'twas Pride, rank Pride,And if thou hadst not done it, Thou hadst dy'd.Malice(who, disappointed of her end,Whether to work the bane of Foe or Friend,Preys on herself, and, driven to the Stake,Gives Virtue that revenge she scorns to take)Had kill'd Thee, tottering on life's utmost verge,HadWilkesandLibertyescap'd thy scourge."When thatGreat Charter, which our Fathers boughtWith their best blood, was into question brought;When, big with ruin, o'er each English headVile Slavery hung suspended by a thread;WhenLiberty, all trembling and aghast,Fear'd for the future, knowing what was past:When every breast was chill'd with deep despair,Till Reason pointed out thatPrattwas there;Lurking, most Ruffian-like, behind a screen,So plac'd all things to see, himself unseen,Virtue, with due contempt, sawHogarthstand,The murderous pencil in his palsied hand.What was the cause of Liberty to him,Or what was Honour? Let them sink or swim,So he may gratify, without controul,The mean resentments of his selfish soul.Let Freedom perish, if, to Freedom true,In the same ruinWilkesmay perish too."With all the symptoms of assur'd decay,With age and sickness pinch'd, and worn away,Pale quivering lips, lank cheeks, and faultering tongue,The spirits out of tune, the nerves unstrung,The body shrivel'd up, the dim eyes sunkWithin their sockets deep, the weak hams shrunkThe body's weight unable to sustain,The stream of life scarce trembling through the vein,More than half-kill'd by honest truths, which fell,Through thy own fault, from men who wish'd thee well;Canst thou, e'en thus, thy thoughts to vengeance give,And, dead to all things else, to Malice live?Hence, Dotard, to thy closet, shut thee in,By deep repentance wash away thy sin,From haunts of men to shame and sorrow fly,And, on the verge of death, learn how to die."Vain exhortation! wash the Ethiop white,Discharge the leopard's spots, turn day to night,Controul the course of Nature, bid the deepHush at thy Pygmy voice her waves to sleep,Perform things passing strange, yet own thy artToo weak to work a change in such a heart.ThatEnvy, which was woven in thy frameAt first, will to the last remain the same.Reason may droop, may die; but Envy's rageImproves by time, and gathers strength from age,Some, and not few, vain triflers with the pen,Unread, unpractis'd in the ways of men,Tell us thatEnvy, who with giant strideStalks through the vale of life by Virtue's side,Retreats when she hath drawn her latest breath,And calmly hears her praises after death.To such observersHogarthgives the lie;Worth may be hears'd, but Envy cannot die;Within the mansion of his gloomy breast,A mansion suited well to such a guest,Immortal, unimpair'd, she rears her head,And damns alike the living and the dead."Oft have I known Thee,Hogarth, weak and vain,Thyself the idol of thy aukward strain,Through the dull measure of a summer's day,In phrase most vile, prate long, long hours away,Whilst Friends with Friends, all gaping sit, and gazeTo hear aHogarthbabbleHogarth'spraise.But if athwart thee Interruption came,And mention'd with respect some Ancient's name,Some Ancient's name, who in the days of yoreThe crown of Art with greatest honour wore,How have I seen thy coward cheek turn pale,And blank confusion seize thy mangled tale!How hath thy Jealousy to madness grown,And deem'd his praise injurious to thy own!Then without mercy did thy wrath make way,And Arts and Artists all became thy prey;Then didst Thou trample on establish'd rules,And proudly level'd all the ancient schools;Condemn'd those works, with praise through ages grac'd,Which you had never seen, or could not taste.'But would mankind have true Perfection shewn,It must be found in labours of my own.I dare to challenge in one single piece,Th' united force ofItalyandGreece.'Thy eager hand the curtain then undrew,And brought the boasted Master-piece to view.Spare thy remarks—say not a single word—The Picture seen, why is the Painter heard?Call not up Shame and Anger in our cheeks:Without a CommentSigismundaspeaks."PoorSigismunda! what a Fate is thine!Dryden, the great High-Priest of all the Nine,Reviv'd thy name, gave what a Muse could give,And in his Numbers bade thy Memory live;Gave thee those soft sensations, which might moveAnd warm the coldest Anchorite to Love;Gave thee that Virtue, which could curb desire,Refine and consecrate Love's headstrong fire;Gave thee those griefs, which made the Stoic feel,And call'd compassion forth from hearts of steel;Gave thee that firmness, which our Sex may shame,And make Man bow to Woman's juster claim,So that our tears, which from compassion flow,Seem to debase thy dignity of woe!But O, how much unlike! how fall'n! how chang'd!How much from Nature and herself estrang'd!How totally depriv'd of all the powersTo shew her feelings, and awaken ours,DothSigismundanow devoted stand,The helpless victim of a Dauber's hand!"But why,myHogarth, such a progress made,So rare a Pattern for the sign-post trade,In the full force and whirlwind of thy pride,Why wasHeroicPainting laid aside?Why is It not resum'd? Thy Friends at Court,Men all in place and power, crave thy support;Be grateful then for once, and, through the fieldOf Politics, thyEpicPencil wield;Maintain the cause, which they, good lack! avow,And would maintain too, but they know not how."Through ev'ryPannellet thy Virtue tellHowButeprevail'd, howPittandTemplefell!HowEngland'ssons (whom they conspir'd to blessAgainst our Will, with insolent success)Approve their fall, and with addresses run,How got, God knows, to hail theScottishSun!Point out our fame in war, when Vengeance, hurl'dFrom the strong arm of Justice, shook the world;Thine, and thy Country's honour to increase,Point out the honours of succeeding Peace;OurModeration, Christian-like, display,Shew, what we got, and what we gave away.In Colours, dull and heavy as the tale,Let aState-Chaos through the whole prevail."But, of events regardless, whilst the Muse,Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues;Whilst her quick Spirits rouze atFreedom'scall,And every drop of blood is turn'd to gall,Whilst a dear Country, and an injur'd Friend,Urge my strong anger to the bitterest end,Whilst honest trophies to Revenge are rais'd,Let not One real Virtue pass unprais'd.Justice with equal course bids Satire flow,And loves the Virtue of her greatest foe."O! that I here could that rare Virtue mean,Which scorns the rule of Envy, Pride and Spleen,Which springs not from the labour'd Works of Art,But hath its rise from Nature in the heart,Which in itself with happiness is crown'd,And spreads with joy the blessing all around!But truth forbids, and in these simple laysContented with a different kind of Praise,MustHogarthstand; that Praise whichGeniusgives;In Which to latest time theArtistlives,But not theMan; which, rightly understood,May make us great, but cannot make us good,That Praise beHogarth's; freely let him wearThe Wreath whichGeniuswove, and planted there.Foe as I am, should Envy tear it down,Myself would labour to replace the Crown."In walks of Humour, in that cast of Style,Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us smile;In Comedy, his nat'ral road to fame,Nor let me call it by a meaner name,Where a beginning, middle, and an end,Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend,Each made for each, as bodies for their soul,So as to form one true and perfect whole,Where a plain Story to the eye is told,Which we conceive the moment we behold,Hogarthunrival'd stands, and shall engageUnrival'd praise to the most distant age."How could'st Thou then to shame perversely run,And tread that path which Nature bade Thee shun?Why did Ambition overleap her rules,And thy vast parts become the Sport of Fools?By different methods different Men excell,But where is He who can do all things well?Humour thy Province, for some monstrous crimePride struck Thee with the frenzy ofSublime.But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mindSo partial be, and to herself so blind,What with Contempt All view'd, to view with awe,Nor see those faults which every Blockhead saw?Blush, Thou vain Man, and if desire of Fame,Founded on real Art, thy thoughts inflame,To quick destructionSigismundagive,And let her memory die, that thine may live."But should fond Candour, for her Mercy's sake,With pity view, and pardon this mistake;Or should Oblivion, to thy wish most kind,Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind;OfArtsdespis'd, ofArtistsby thy frownAw'd from just hopes, ofrising worth kept down,Of all thy meanness through this mortal race,Canst Thou the living memory erase?Or shall not Vengeance follow to the grave,And give back just that measure which You gave?With so much merit, and so much success,With so much power to curse, so much to bless,Would He have been Man's friend, instead of foe,Hogarthhad been a little God below.Why then, like savage Giants, fam'd of old,Of whom in Scripture Story we are told,Dost Thou in cruelty that strength employ,Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy?Why dost Thou, all in horrid pomp array'd,Sit grinning o'er the ruins Thou hast made?Most rank ill-nature must applaud thy art;But even Candour must condemn thy heart."For Me, who, warm and zealous for my Friend,In spite of railing thousands, will commend,And, no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes,Spite of commending thousands, will oppose,I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage,But with an eye of Pity view thy Age;Thy feeble Age, in which, as in a glass,We see how men to dissolution pass.Thouwretched Being, whom, on Reason's plan,So chang'd, so lost, I cannot call a Man,What could persuade Thee, at this time of life,To launch afresh into the Sea of Strife?Better for Thee, scarce crawling on the earth,Almost as much a child as at thy birth,To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath,And sunk unnotic'd in the arms of Death.Why would thy grey, grey hairs, resentment brave,Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave?Now, by my Soul, it makes me blush to knowMy Spirits could descend to such a foe.Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke,It seems rank Cowardice to give the stroke."Sure 'tis a curse which angry Fates impose,To fortify man's arrogance, that those,Who're fashion'd of some better sort of clay,Much sooner than the common herd decay.What bitter pangs must humbledGeniusfeel!In their last hours, to view aSwiftandSteele!How much ill-boding horrors fill her breastWhen She beholds Men, mark'd above the restFor qualities most dear, plung'd from that height,And sunk, deep sunk, in second Childhood's night!Are Men, indeed, such things, and are the bestMore subject to this evil than the rest,To drivel out whole years of Ideot Breath,And sit the Monuments of living Death?O, galling circumstance to human pride!Abasing Thought, but not to be denied!With curious Art the Brain, too finely wrought;Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by Thought.Constant Attention wears the active mind,Blots out her powers, and leaves a blank behind.But let not Youth, to insolence allied,In heat of blood, in full career of pride,Possess'd ofGenius, with unhallow'd rage,Mock the infirmities of reverend age.The greatestGeniusto this Fate may bow,Reynolds, in time, may be likeHogarthnow."

[3]The reader shall judge for himself of this Epistle's "power to hurt."

"Amongst the sons of men, how few are knownWho dare be just to merit not their own!Superior virtue, and superior sense,To knaves and fools will always give offence;Nay, men of real worth can scarcely bear,So nice is Jealousy, a rival there."Be wicked as thou wilt, do all that's base,Proclaim thyself the monster of thy race;Let Vice and Folly thy Black Soul divide,Be proud with meanness, and be mean with pride!Deaf to the voice of Faith and Honour, fallFrom side to side, yet be of none at all;Spurn all those charities, those sacred ties,Which Nature in her bounty, good as wise,To work our safety, and ensure her plan,Contriv'd to bind, and rivet man to man;Lift against Virtue Power's oppressive rod,Betray thy Country, and deny thy God;And, in one general comprehensive line,To group, which volumes scarcely could define,Whate'er of Sin and Dulness can be said.Join to aF——'sheart aD——'shead.Yet mayst thou pass unnotic'd in the throng,And, free from Envy, safely sneak along.The rigid Saint, by whom no mercy's shewnTo Saints whose lives are better than his own,Shall spare thy crimes; andWit, who never onceForgave a Brother, shall forgive a Dunce."

After this nervous introduction, our satirist proceeds:

"Hogarth—I take thee,Candour, at thy word,Accept thy proffer'd terms, and will be heard;Thee have I heard with virulence declaim,Nothing retain'd of Candour but the name;By thee have I been charg'd in angry strainsWith that mean falshood which my soul disdains—Hogarth, stand forth—Nay hang not thus aloof—Now,Candour, now Thou shalt receive such proof—Such damning proof, that henceforth Thou shalt fearTo tax my wrath, and own my conduct clear—HOGARTHstand forth—I dare thee to be triedIn that great Court, where Conscience must preside;At that most solemn bar hold up thy hand;Think before whom, on what account you stand—-Speak, but consider well—from first to lastReview thy life, weigh every action past—Nay, you shall have no reason to complain—Take longer time, and view them o'er again—Canst Thou remember from thy earliest youth,And as thy God must judge Thee, speak the truth,A single instance where,Selflaid aside,And Justice taking place of fear and pride,Thou with an equal eye didstGeniusview,And give to Merit what was Merit's due?Genius and Merit are a sure offence,And thy soul sickens at the name of Sense.Is any one so foolish to succeed?OnEnvy'saltar he is doom'd to bleed.Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes,The place of Executioner supplies.See how he glotes, enjoys the sacred feast,And proves himself by cruelty a priest."Whilst the weak Artist, to thy whims a slave,Would bury all those powers which Nature gave,Would suffer blank concealment to obscureThose rays, thy Jealousy could not endure;To feed thy vanity would rust unknown,And to secure thy credit blast his own,InHogarthhe was sure to find a friend;He could not fear, and therefore might commend.But when his Spirit, rous'd by honest Shame,Shook off that Lethargy, and soar'd to Fame,When, with the pride of Man, resolv'd and strong,He scorn'd those fears which did his Honour wrong,And, on himself determin'd to rely,Brought forth his labours to the public eye,No Friend in Thee, could such a Rebel know;He had desert, andHogarthwas his foe."Souls of a timorous cast, of petty nameInEnvy'scourt, not yet quite dead to shame,May some Remorse, some qualms of Conscience feel,And suffer Honour to abate their Zeal:But the Man, truly and compleatly great,Allows no rule of action but his hate;Through every bar he bravely breaks his way,Passion his Principle, and Parts his prey.Mediums in Vice and Virtue speak a mindWithin the pale of Temperance confin'd;The daring Spirit scorns her narrow schemes,And, good or bad, is always in extremes."Man's practice duly weigh'd, through every ageOn the same plan hathEnvyform'd her rage.'Gainst those whom Fortune hath our rivals madeIn way of Science, and in way of Trade,Stung with mean Jealousy she arms her spite,First works, then views their ruin with delight.OurHogarthhere a grand improver shines,And nobly on the general plan refines;He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound;Worth is his mark, wherever Worth is found.Should Painters only his vast wrath suffice?Genius in every walk is Lawful Prize.'Tis a gross insult to his o'ergrown state:His love to merit is to feel his hate."WhenWilkes, our Countryman, our common friend,Arose, his King, his Country to defend,When tools of power he bar'd to public view,And from their holes the sneaking cowards drew;When Rancour found it far beyond her reachTo soil his honour, and his truth impeach,What could induce Thee, at a time and place,Where manly Foes had blush'd to shew their face,To make that effort, which must damn thy name,And sink Thee deep, deep in thy grave with shame?Did Virtue move Thee? no, 'twas Pride, rank Pride,And if thou hadst not done it, Thou hadst dy'd.Malice(who, disappointed of her end,Whether to work the bane of Foe or Friend,Preys on herself, and, driven to the Stake,Gives Virtue that revenge she scorns to take)Had kill'd Thee, tottering on life's utmost verge,HadWilkesandLibertyescap'd thy scourge."When thatGreat Charter, which our Fathers boughtWith their best blood, was into question brought;When, big with ruin, o'er each English headVile Slavery hung suspended by a thread;WhenLiberty, all trembling and aghast,Fear'd for the future, knowing what was past:When every breast was chill'd with deep despair,Till Reason pointed out thatPrattwas there;Lurking, most Ruffian-like, behind a screen,So plac'd all things to see, himself unseen,Virtue, with due contempt, sawHogarthstand,The murderous pencil in his palsied hand.What was the cause of Liberty to him,Or what was Honour? Let them sink or swim,So he may gratify, without controul,The mean resentments of his selfish soul.Let Freedom perish, if, to Freedom true,In the same ruinWilkesmay perish too."With all the symptoms of assur'd decay,With age and sickness pinch'd, and worn away,Pale quivering lips, lank cheeks, and faultering tongue,The spirits out of tune, the nerves unstrung,The body shrivel'd up, the dim eyes sunkWithin their sockets deep, the weak hams shrunkThe body's weight unable to sustain,The stream of life scarce trembling through the vein,More than half-kill'd by honest truths, which fell,Through thy own fault, from men who wish'd thee well;Canst thou, e'en thus, thy thoughts to vengeance give,And, dead to all things else, to Malice live?Hence, Dotard, to thy closet, shut thee in,By deep repentance wash away thy sin,From haunts of men to shame and sorrow fly,And, on the verge of death, learn how to die."Vain exhortation! wash the Ethiop white,Discharge the leopard's spots, turn day to night,Controul the course of Nature, bid the deepHush at thy Pygmy voice her waves to sleep,Perform things passing strange, yet own thy artToo weak to work a change in such a heart.ThatEnvy, which was woven in thy frameAt first, will to the last remain the same.Reason may droop, may die; but Envy's rageImproves by time, and gathers strength from age,Some, and not few, vain triflers with the pen,Unread, unpractis'd in the ways of men,Tell us thatEnvy, who with giant strideStalks through the vale of life by Virtue's side,Retreats when she hath drawn her latest breath,And calmly hears her praises after death.To such observersHogarthgives the lie;Worth may be hears'd, but Envy cannot die;Within the mansion of his gloomy breast,A mansion suited well to such a guest,Immortal, unimpair'd, she rears her head,And damns alike the living and the dead."Oft have I known Thee,Hogarth, weak and vain,Thyself the idol of thy aukward strain,Through the dull measure of a summer's day,In phrase most vile, prate long, long hours away,Whilst Friends with Friends, all gaping sit, and gazeTo hear aHogarthbabbleHogarth'spraise.But if athwart thee Interruption came,And mention'd with respect some Ancient's name,Some Ancient's name, who in the days of yoreThe crown of Art with greatest honour wore,How have I seen thy coward cheek turn pale,And blank confusion seize thy mangled tale!How hath thy Jealousy to madness grown,And deem'd his praise injurious to thy own!Then without mercy did thy wrath make way,And Arts and Artists all became thy prey;Then didst Thou trample on establish'd rules,And proudly level'd all the ancient schools;Condemn'd those works, with praise through ages grac'd,Which you had never seen, or could not taste.'But would mankind have true Perfection shewn,It must be found in labours of my own.I dare to challenge in one single piece,Th' united force ofItalyandGreece.'Thy eager hand the curtain then undrew,And brought the boasted Master-piece to view.Spare thy remarks—say not a single word—The Picture seen, why is the Painter heard?Call not up Shame and Anger in our cheeks:Without a CommentSigismundaspeaks."PoorSigismunda! what a Fate is thine!Dryden, the great High-Priest of all the Nine,Reviv'd thy name, gave what a Muse could give,And in his Numbers bade thy Memory live;Gave thee those soft sensations, which might moveAnd warm the coldest Anchorite to Love;Gave thee that Virtue, which could curb desire,Refine and consecrate Love's headstrong fire;Gave thee those griefs, which made the Stoic feel,And call'd compassion forth from hearts of steel;Gave thee that firmness, which our Sex may shame,And make Man bow to Woman's juster claim,So that our tears, which from compassion flow,Seem to debase thy dignity of woe!But O, how much unlike! how fall'n! how chang'd!How much from Nature and herself estrang'd!How totally depriv'd of all the powersTo shew her feelings, and awaken ours,DothSigismundanow devoted stand,The helpless victim of a Dauber's hand!"But why,myHogarth, such a progress made,So rare a Pattern for the sign-post trade,In the full force and whirlwind of thy pride,Why wasHeroicPainting laid aside?Why is It not resum'd? Thy Friends at Court,Men all in place and power, crave thy support;Be grateful then for once, and, through the fieldOf Politics, thyEpicPencil wield;Maintain the cause, which they, good lack! avow,And would maintain too, but they know not how."Through ev'ryPannellet thy Virtue tellHowButeprevail'd, howPittandTemplefell!HowEngland'ssons (whom they conspir'd to blessAgainst our Will, with insolent success)Approve their fall, and with addresses run,How got, God knows, to hail theScottishSun!Point out our fame in war, when Vengeance, hurl'dFrom the strong arm of Justice, shook the world;Thine, and thy Country's honour to increase,Point out the honours of succeeding Peace;OurModeration, Christian-like, display,Shew, what we got, and what we gave away.In Colours, dull and heavy as the tale,Let aState-Chaos through the whole prevail."But, of events regardless, whilst the Muse,Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues;Whilst her quick Spirits rouze atFreedom'scall,And every drop of blood is turn'd to gall,Whilst a dear Country, and an injur'd Friend,Urge my strong anger to the bitterest end,Whilst honest trophies to Revenge are rais'd,Let not One real Virtue pass unprais'd.Justice with equal course bids Satire flow,And loves the Virtue of her greatest foe."O! that I here could that rare Virtue mean,Which scorns the rule of Envy, Pride and Spleen,Which springs not from the labour'd Works of Art,But hath its rise from Nature in the heart,Which in itself with happiness is crown'd,And spreads with joy the blessing all around!But truth forbids, and in these simple laysContented with a different kind of Praise,MustHogarthstand; that Praise whichGeniusgives;In Which to latest time theArtistlives,But not theMan; which, rightly understood,May make us great, but cannot make us good,That Praise beHogarth's; freely let him wearThe Wreath whichGeniuswove, and planted there.Foe as I am, should Envy tear it down,Myself would labour to replace the Crown."In walks of Humour, in that cast of Style,Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us smile;In Comedy, his nat'ral road to fame,Nor let me call it by a meaner name,Where a beginning, middle, and an end,Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend,Each made for each, as bodies for their soul,So as to form one true and perfect whole,Where a plain Story to the eye is told,Which we conceive the moment we behold,Hogarthunrival'd stands, and shall engageUnrival'd praise to the most distant age."How could'st Thou then to shame perversely run,And tread that path which Nature bade Thee shun?Why did Ambition overleap her rules,And thy vast parts become the Sport of Fools?By different methods different Men excell,But where is He who can do all things well?Humour thy Province, for some monstrous crimePride struck Thee with the frenzy ofSublime.But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mindSo partial be, and to herself so blind,What with Contempt All view'd, to view with awe,Nor see those faults which every Blockhead saw?Blush, Thou vain Man, and if desire of Fame,Founded on real Art, thy thoughts inflame,To quick destructionSigismundagive,And let her memory die, that thine may live."But should fond Candour, for her Mercy's sake,With pity view, and pardon this mistake;Or should Oblivion, to thy wish most kind,Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind;OfArtsdespis'd, ofArtistsby thy frownAw'd from just hopes, ofrising worth kept down,Of all thy meanness through this mortal race,Canst Thou the living memory erase?Or shall not Vengeance follow to the grave,And give back just that measure which You gave?With so much merit, and so much success,With so much power to curse, so much to bless,Would He have been Man's friend, instead of foe,Hogarthhad been a little God below.Why then, like savage Giants, fam'd of old,Of whom in Scripture Story we are told,Dost Thou in cruelty that strength employ,Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy?Why dost Thou, all in horrid pomp array'd,Sit grinning o'er the ruins Thou hast made?Most rank ill-nature must applaud thy art;But even Candour must condemn thy heart."For Me, who, warm and zealous for my Friend,In spite of railing thousands, will commend,And, no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes,Spite of commending thousands, will oppose,I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage,But with an eye of Pity view thy Age;Thy feeble Age, in which, as in a glass,We see how men to dissolution pass.Thouwretched Being, whom, on Reason's plan,So chang'd, so lost, I cannot call a Man,What could persuade Thee, at this time of life,To launch afresh into the Sea of Strife?Better for Thee, scarce crawling on the earth,Almost as much a child as at thy birth,To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath,And sunk unnotic'd in the arms of Death.Why would thy grey, grey hairs, resentment brave,Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave?Now, by my Soul, it makes me blush to knowMy Spirits could descend to such a foe.Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke,It seems rank Cowardice to give the stroke."Sure 'tis a curse which angry Fates impose,To fortify man's arrogance, that those,Who're fashion'd of some better sort of clay,Much sooner than the common herd decay.What bitter pangs must humbledGeniusfeel!In their last hours, to view aSwiftandSteele!How much ill-boding horrors fill her breastWhen She beholds Men, mark'd above the restFor qualities most dear, plung'd from that height,And sunk, deep sunk, in second Childhood's night!Are Men, indeed, such things, and are the bestMore subject to this evil than the rest,To drivel out whole years of Ideot Breath,And sit the Monuments of living Death?O, galling circumstance to human pride!Abasing Thought, but not to be denied!With curious Art the Brain, too finely wrought;Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by Thought.Constant Attention wears the active mind,Blots out her powers, and leaves a blank behind.But let not Youth, to insolence allied,In heat of blood, in full career of pride,Possess'd ofGenius, with unhallow'd rage,Mock the infirmities of reverend age.The greatestGeniusto this Fate may bow,Reynolds, in time, may be likeHogarthnow."

3. The same; but on the palette is introduced the political print described in p.91. In the secondimpressions of the plate thus altered,[1]we find the letters N B added on the club, as well as the epithetinfamousprefixed to the wordFallacy. The shadows on the political print are likewise changed, and deepened; and the words "Dragon ofWantley" are added at the end of "I warrant ye."

[1]The first was price 1s.; the second price 1s.6d.

4. Print Of the Weighing-house to "Clubbe'sPhysiognomy;" a humourous pamphlet in quarto, published in 1763, by Mr.Clubbe[1](editor of the History and Antiquities ofWheatfieldinSuffolk), anddedicated toHogarth. W. Hogarth del. L. Sullivan sculp.It was likewise printed in a collection of this author's works, published atIpswich, 2 vols. 12mo. no date, with a new engraving of the plate. There is also a third engraving of the same design, perhaps executed in the country, for some octavo edition of Mr.Clubbe'spamphlet.

[1]I had said in my first edition, that Mr.Clubbewas drowned in the moat that surrounded his house atWheatfield; but readily retract that assertion, having been since informed, that he died a natural death, of old age and infirmities.

5.Frontispiece to a pamphletwritten by Dr.Gregory Sharpe, Master ofThe Temple, against theHutchinsonians, but never published."It represents a witch sitting on the moon, and watering on a mountain, whence issue mice, who are devouring Sir Isaac Newton's Optics; one mouse lies dead on Hutchinson's works, probably to imply being choaked. The conundrum signifies, Front-is-piss." The few impressions from this plate that have strayed into the hands of dealers, were originally presents from Dr.Sharpeto his friends.

1.Finis, or the Tail-piece. The Bathos, or manner of sinking in sublime painting, inscribed to the dealers in dark pictures.[1]Timebreathing outhislast, a ruinous tower, and many other allegorical devices; among the rest, he has introduced his own "Times."[2]

[1]On this print, which he calledFinis, and represents the destruction of all things, the following epigram, ascribed toCharles Churchillthe poet, and said to have been written by him when at Mr.Dell's, inKew-foot-lane, April18, 1764, is printed fromThe Muse's Mirrour, vol. I. p. 8.OnHogarth'sprint of theBathos, or the Art of Sinking in Painting.All must oldHogarth'sgratitude declare,Since he has nam'd oldChaosfor his heir;And while his works hang round thatAnarch'sthrone,The connoisseurs will take them for his own.Mr.Walpole'sAnecdotes, 8vo. vol, IV. p. 191.

OnHogarth'sprint of theBathos, or the Art of Sinking in Painting.All must oldHogarth'sgratitude declare,Since he has nam'd oldChaosfor his heir;And while his works hang round thatAnarch'sthrone,The connoisseurs will take them for his own.

Mr.Walpole'sAnecdotes, 8vo. vol, IV. p. 191.

[2]A few months before this ingenious artist was seized with the malady which deprived society of one of its greatest ornaments, he proposed to his matchless pencil the work he has intituled atail-piece; the first idea of which is said to have been started in company, while the convivial glass was circulating round his own table. "My next undertaking," saysHogarth, "shall be theEnd of all Things." "If that is the case," replied one of his friends, "yourbusiness will be finished; for there will bean end of the painter." "Therewillso," answeredHogarth, sighing heavily; "and, therefore, the sooner mywork is done, the better." Accordingly he began the next day, and continued his design with a diligence which seemed to indicate an apprehension (as the report goes) that he should not live till he had completed it. This, however, he did in the most ingenious manner, by grouping every thing which could denote theend of all things—a broken bottle—an old broom worn to the stump—the butt-end of an old musket—a cracked bell—bow unstrung—a crown tumbled in pieces—towers in ruins—thesign-postof a tavern, calledThe World's End, tumbling—the moon in her wane—the map of the globe burning—a gibbet falling, the body gone, and the chain which held it dropping down—Phœbusand his horses dead in the clouds—a vessel wrecked—Time, with his hour-glass and scythe broken; a tobacco-pipe in his mouth, the last whiff of smoke going out—a play-book opened, withExeunt omnesstamped in the corner—an empty purse—and a statute of bankruptcy taken out against Nature.—"So far, so good," criedHogarth; "nothing remains but this,"—taking his pencil in a sort of prophetic fury, and dashing off the similitude of apainter's pallet broken—"Finis," exclaimedHogarth, "the deed is done—all is over."—It is remarkable, that he died in about a month after this tail-piece. It is also well known he never again took the pencil in hand.

2. The Bench.[1]The same described under the year 1758; but with additions. The plate thusvaried occurs in two states. In the first of these we have only "This plate could have been better explained, had the author lived a week longer." In the second impression of it we are told, that "The unfinished group of heads, in the upper part of this print, was added by the author inOctober1764; and was intended as a farther illustration of what is here said concerningCharacter, Caracatura,andOutrè. He worked upon it a day before his death, which happened the 26th of that month." This plate exhibits the inside of theCommon Pleas, with portraits of the following judges then belonging to that court:

Hon.SirEdw.SirJohnHon. Mr. JusticeWm. Noel.Clive.Willes, Ld.(now Earl)Ch. Justice.Bathurst.

Mr.Edwards'spicture on this subject (see p.367.) differs from both the plates.

[1]A term peculiarly appropriated to the Court ofCommon Pleas.

3. Hell-Gate, Satan, Sin, and Death.Milton's Paradise Lost.Book II. A large print. Engraved byC. Townley, and intended to have been publishedApril15, 1767. It was dedicated to the late Mr.Garrick, who possessed the original (unfinished) picture painted byHogarth. The plate was destroyed, and only a few of the prints are now remaining. The original is in the possession of Mrs.Garrick.

It is impossible to conclude my account of it without observing, that the united labours ofTeniers, Heemskirk,andCallot,could not have furnished amore absolute burlesque of this noble subject, thanHogarth, who went seriously to work on it, has here produced. "How art thou fallen, OLucifer, thou son of the Morning!" will be the exclamation of every observer, on seeing this unaccountable performance, in whichSatanandDeathhave lost their terrors, andSinherself is divested of all the powers of temptation.

1. The Good Samaritan; byRavenetandDelatre.

InThe Grub-Street JournalforJuly14, 1737, appeared the following paragraph: "Yesterday the scaffolding was taken down from before the picture ofThe Good Samaritan,[1]painted by Mr.Hogarth, on the Stair Case inSt. Bartholomew'sHospital, which is esteemed a very curious piece."Hogarthpaid his friendLambertfor painting the landscape in this picture, and afterwards cleaned the whole at his own expence. To the imaginary merits of his coadjutor, the Analysis, p. 26, bears the following testimony: "The sky always gradates one way or other, and the rising or setting sun exhibits it in great perfection; the imitating of which wasClaud de Lorain'speculiar excellence, and is now Mr.Lambert's."

[1]Of this picture Mr.S. Irelandhas a sketch in oil.

2.The Pool of Bethesda; large, byRavenetandPicot. A small one, byRavenet, has been mentioned under 1748. Both very indifferent. Mr.Walpolejustly observes, that "the burlesque turn of ourartist's mind mixed itself with his most serious compositions; and that, inThe Pool of Bethesda, a servant of a rich ulcerated lady, beats back a poor man [perhaps woman] who sought the same celestial remedy." To this remark I may add, that the figure of the priest, inThe Good Samaritan, is supremely comic, and rather resembles some purse-proud burgomaster, than the character it was designed to represent.

On the top of the staircase at St.Bartholomew'sHospital, and just under the cornice, is the following inscription, "The historical paintings of this staircase were painted and given by Mr.William Hogarth, and the ornamental paintings at his expence, A. D. 1736." Both pictures, which appear of an oblong square in the engravings, in the originals are surrounded with scroll-work which cuts off the corners of them, &c. All these ornaments, together with compartments carved at the bottom, were the work of Mr.Richards. Mr.Boydellhad the latter engraved on separate plates, appended to those above them, on which sufficient space had not been left.—Hogarthrequested that these pictures might never be varnished. They appear therefore to disadvantage, the decorations about them having, within these few years past, been highly glazed.The Pool of Bethesdahas suffered much from the sun; andThe Good Samaritan, when lately cleaned, was pressed so hard against the straining frame, that several creases have been made in the canvas.

1. The Politician [Mr.Tibson, lately a laceman inThe Strand], from a sketch in oil, byHogarth. Etched byJ. K. Sherwin. PublishedOct.31, 1775.

1. Portrait ofSolfull,[1]a maker of punches for engravers.W. Hogarth del. S. J. fecit aqua fort.Mr.S. Irelandhas the original sketch. This portrait is mentioned by Mr.Walpoleunder the title of "Two small heads of men in profile in one plate, etched by Mr. Ireland, from a sketch in his own collection."

[1]This was etched a second time, Mr.Irelandhaving accidentally lost his first plate.

2.Thomas Pellet, M. D. President of the College of Physicians.W. Hogarth pinxit. C. Hall sculpsit.

3.William Bullockthe Comedian.W. Hogarth pinxit. C. Hall sculpsit.It is by no means certain that these two last portraits were painted byHogarth.

4. North and South ofGreat Britain. W. Hogarth delin. F. B.[i. e.Francis Bartolozzi]sculp.This little print represents aScotchmanscrubbing against a sign-post; no sign on it; withEdenboroughcastle in the back ground:—and anEnglishmanreposing on a post, with a pot ofLondonporter in his hand; the sign of an Ox, withroast and boild, by way of inscription, over his head; and a view of St.Paul'sat a distance. I do not believe it was designed by our artist, whose satire was usually of a more exalted kind: neither are the figures at all in his manner.

A sketch imputed toHogarth, and engraved bythis matchlessItalian, however, carries a double temptation with it, as it unites with the works of both artists, which are so much the present objects of pursuit. No man can entertain too high an idea ofBarlolozzi'stalents; but yet, being sometimes apt to sacrifice similitude to grace,

Emollit mores, nec finit esset feros.

He therefore is the last person from whom justice to the strong marked characters ofHogarthcould be expected.

Since the above observations were communicated, a new impression of this plate has appeared with the name ofSandbyannexed to it. The history of so extraordinary a change deserves notoriety. The publisher was at first assured that the sketch, from which he designed the engraving, was not the production ofHogarth. He, however, on his own judgement, pretended to affirm the contrary, being at least convinced that, during the late rage for collecting the works of our artist, no name was so likely as his to draw in purchasers. Having disposed of as many copies as he could in consequence of hanging out such false colours, he now sets sail again under those ofSandby, and would probably make a third voyage with Mr.Bunbury'sflag at his mast head, were not our secondHogarthat hand, to detect the imposture.—The price of this etching, originally 2s.6d.is now sold at 1s.though the proprietor has incurred the fresh expence of decorating it inaqua tinta. Should it henceforward fail to meet with buyers, I shall not be ready to exclaim, withOvid,

Flebam successu posse carere dolo.

The three last published byJohn Thane, Rupert-street, Haymarket.

5. First sketch of arms forThe Foundling Hospital. Wm. Hogarth inv.1747. Over the Crest and Supporters is written—A Lamb—Nature—Britannia. In the shield is a naked Infant: the MottoHelp.

This is an accurate fac simile from a drawing with a pen and ink byHogarth. Published as the Act directsJuly31, 1781, byR. Livesay, at Mrs.Hogarth's, Leicester Fields. The original is in the collection of the Earl ofExeter.

6. Two Figures, &c.Hogarth inv. F. B.[i. e.Francis Bartolozzi]sculp.These figures were designed for LordMelcombeand LordWinchelsea. From a drawing with a pen and ink byHogarth. Published as the Act directs, 31July, 1781, byR. Livesayat Mrs.Hogarth's, Leicester-fields. I am informed, however, that this drawing was certainly the work of LordTownshend. The original is in the collection of the Earl ofExeter.

7. A mezzotinto portrait ofHogarthwith his hat on, in a large oval, "from an original begun byWheltdon, and finished by himself, late in the possession of the Rev. Mr.Townley. Charles Townley fec." The family ofHogarthaffect to know nothing of this painting; and say, if there is such a thing, it was only slightly touched over by him. It must be confessed that it bears little, if any, resemblance to the representations of our artist edited by himself. Theoriginal is now in the possession of Mr.James Townley, as has been mentioned in p.98.

1. The Staymaker.

2. Debates on Palmistry.

The humour in the first of the two preceding prints is not very strong, and in the second it is scarce intelligible. The MaleStaymakerseems to be taking professional liberties with a female in the very room where her husband sits, who is playing with one of his children presented to him by a nurse, perhaps with a view to call off his attention from what is going forward. The hag shews her pretended love for the infant, by kissing its posteriors. A maid-servant holds a looking-glass for the lady, and peeps significantly at the operator from behind it. A boy with a cockade on, and a little sword by his side, appears to observe the familiarities already mentioned, and is strutting up fiercely towards the Staymaker, while a girl is spilling some liquor in his hat.

The figures employed in the study ofPalmistryseem to be designed for Physicians and Surgeons of an Hospital, who are debating on the most commodious method of receiving a fee, unattentive to the complaints of a lame female who solicits assistance. A spectre, resembling theRoyal Dane, comes out behind, perhaps to intimate that physick and poison will occasionally produce similar effects. A glass case, containing skeletons, is open; a crocodile hangs overhead; and an owl, emblematic of this sapientconsistory, is perched on an high stand. I suspect these two to have been discarded sketches—the first of them too barren in its subject to deserve finishing, and the second a repented effort of hasty spleen against the officers ofSt. Bartholomew's, who might not have treated some recommendation of a patient from our artist with all the respect and attention to which he thought it was entitled. But this is mere supposition.

3. Portrait ofHenry FoxLordHolland.

4. Portrait ofJames CaulfieldEarl ofCharlemont.

The above four articles are all etched byS. Haynes, pupil to the late Mr.Mortimer, from original drawings in the possession of Mr.S. Ireland.

The six prints which follow, were published by subscription by Mrs.HogarthinApril1782; of these No. 5. was engraved byBartolozzi, and the rest byR. Livesay.

5. The Shrimp Girl, a head, from an original sketch in oil, in the possession of Mrs.Hogarth.

This plate, which is executed in the dotted manner so much at present in fashion, should have been etched or engraved like those excellent performances byBartolozziafter the drawings ofGuercino. Spirit, rather than delicacy, is the characteristic of our artist'sShrimp Girl.

6. 7. Portraits ofGabriel HuntandBenjamin Read, inaqua tinta, from the original drawings in the possession of the late Mr.Forrest. The drawing of Mr.Huntwas taken in 1733, a period when, from the number ofstreet-robberies, it was usual to go armed.Hunt'scouteau is stuck in one of his button-holes.

The figure ofBen Readwas taken in 1757. Coming one night to the club after having taken a long journey, he fell asleep there.Hogarthhad got on his roquelaure, and was about to leave the room; but, struck with the drollery of his friend's appearance, he exclaimed, "Heavens! what a character!" and, calling for pen and ink, took the drawing immediately, without sitting down.

To be recorded only as votaries of the bottle and pipe, is no very flattering mark of distinction to these members of our artist's club. There is scarce a meaner avenue to the Temple of Fame.

8. Three plates, from the original sketches ofHogarth, designed for the epitaph and monument ofGeorge Taylor. The drawings are the property of Mr.Morrison.

George Taylorwas a famous boxer, who diedFebruary21, 1750. A writer already quoted speaks of him in these terms: "George Taylor, known by the name ofGeorge the Barber, sprang up surprisingly. He has beat all the chief boxers butBroughton. He, I think, injudiciously fought him one of the first, and was obliged very soon to give out. Doubtless it was a wrong step in him to commence a boxer by fighting the standing champion: forGeorgewas not then twenty, andBroughtonwas in the zenith of his age and art. Since that he has greatly distinguished himself with others; but hasnever engagedBroughtonmore. He is a strong able boxer, who, with a skill extraordinary, aided by his knowledge of the small and back swords, and a remarkable judgement in the cross-buttock fall, may contest with any. But, please or displease, I am resolved to be ingenuous in my characters. Therefore I am of opinion, that he is not overstocked with that necessary ingredient of a boxer, called abottom; and am apt to suspect that blows of equal strength with his too much affect him and disconcert his conduct."Godfrey on the Science of Defence, p. 61.

OnTaylor'stombstone inDeptfordchurch-yard is the following epitaph:

Farewell ye honours of my brow!Victorious wreaths farewell!One trip from Death has laid me low,By whom such numbers fell.Yet bravely I'll dispute the prize,Nor yield, though out of breath:'Tis but a fall—I yet shall rise,And conquer—evenDeath.

The idea, however, is all that can merit praise in these rough outlines byHogarth. Some graver critics, indeed, may think our artist has treated the most solemn of all events with too great a degree of levity.

9. Nine prints ofHogarth'sTour from drawings byHogarth, &c. accompanied with nine pages of letter press. The frontispiece of this work (Mr.Somebody)was designed byHogarth, as emblematical of their journey,viz.that it was a short Tour by land and water, backwards and forwards, without head or tail. The 9th is the tail-piece (Mr.Nobody) of the same whimsical nature with the first; the whole being intended as a burlesque on historical writers recording a series of insignificant events intirely uninteresting to the reader. "Some few copies of the Tour," says Mr.Walpole,[1]"were printed by Mr.Nicholsin the preceding year. It was a party of pleasure down the river intoKent, undertaken by Mr.Hogarth, Mr.Scott, and three of their friends, in which they intended to have more humour than they accomplished, as is commonly the case in such meditated attempts. The Tour was described in verse by one of the company, and the drawings executed by the painters, but with little merit, except the views taken by Mr.Scott."

I have transcribed this paragraph lest the readers of the truly valuable work whence it is taken should imagine the Tour printed byJ. N.in 1781, was the same with that published by Mr.Livesayin 1782. The former was the production of the ingenious Mr.GostlingofCanterbury; the latter was written by one of the company, and, with the omission of a single glaring indelicacy, and many false spellings, has been faithfully edited by Mr.Livesay.

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