s indeed so unacquainted with the principles of this style that he was
not even aware that any artificial preparation was necessary. It is to
be regretted that any part of the life of such a genius should be
fruitlessly employed."

This criticism, which is all the more telling from its reticence, was
keenly felt, and probably never forgiven, by our artist; to us it is of
value critically as marking the cleavage between himself and the great
English school of the eighteenth century, which sought its inspiration
otherwise than in his comedy of life. But with a tenacity, with a
stubborn faith in his genius which we cannot but admire, he holds firm
to his own view of art. That is in the character of the man--sound,
honest, sincere even where he is mistaken or narrow--just as we see him
in his _self-portrait_ of the London Gallery, with his faithful "Trump"
sitting in front, as who should say, "This is my master, Hogarth--and
let me just see the dog who will dare bark at him." And so when his
critics barked or railed he held but the more stubbornly to his opinion;
he rated the more mercilessly those "black masters," whose faults or
whose supreme genius it needed a deeper study than he had given them to
understand; and when "Sigismunda," that was to rival Allegri, comes back
upon his hands he prices it obstinately at L400, even in his will
insisting that it should not be sold below that sum.

But now, not content with attempting to eclipse the great Italian
masters, not content with quarrelling with the critics, in the same
reckless confidence, with the same bull-dog courage and tenacity he will
descend from his artistic charger to meet these last upon their own
ground, and armed only with those weapons so dear to them, but new to
his untried hands--the goose quill and the ink bottle--will tear down
the veil that conceals Beauty, and teach them what in future to write,
what to select, what to admire!

I am treating in this chapter William Hogarth as a delineator of the
comedy of life, not as an art critic, nor as a philosopher; and it is
not my painful duty to drag the gentle reader through the verbose
Preface to a no less verbose Introduction, to find ourselves at the end
of these still in front of the author's main problem of the "Analysis of
Beauty." The work probably suffered from the presence of more than one
obliging literary--or would-be literary--friend. We hear of a Mr. Ralph,
from Chiswick, volunteering his servic