as no such line,
and when he had proved that there was, gave the honour of discovery to
Lomazzo, Michael Angelo, &c. &c.

[Illustration: COLUMBUS BREAKING THE EGG.]

A MIDNIGHT MODERN CONVERSATION.

"Think not to find one meant resemblance there;
We lash the vices, but the persons spare.
Prints should be priz'd, as authors should be read,
Who sharply smile prevailing folly dead.
So Rabelais laugh'd, and so Cervantes thought;
So nature dictated what art has taught."

Notwithstanding this inscription, which was engraved on the plate some
time after its publication, it is very certain that most of these
figures were intended for individual portraits; but Mr. Hogarth, not
wishing to be considered as a personal satirist, and fearful of making
enemies among his contemporaries, would never acknowledge who were the
characters. Some of them the world might perhaps mistake; for though the
author was faithful in delineating whatever he intended to portray,
complete intoxication so far caricatures the countenance, that,
according to the old, though trite proverb, "the man is not himself."
His portrait, though given with the utmost fidelity, will scarcely be
known by his most intimate friends, unless they have previously seen him
in this degrading disguise. Hence, it becomes difficult to identify men
whom the painter did not choose to point out at the time; and a century
having elapsed, it becomes impossible, for all who composed the group,
with the artist by whom it was delineated,

Shake hands with dust, and call the worm their kinsman.

Mrs. Piozzi was of opinion that the divine with a cork-screw,
occasionally used as a tobacco-stopper, hanging upon his little finger,
was the portrait of parson Ford, Dr. Johnson's uncle; though, upon the
authority of Sir John Hawkins, of anecdotish memory, it has been
generally supposed to be intended for Orator Henley. As both these
worthies were distinguished by that rubicundity of face with which it is
marked, the reader may decree the honour of a sitting to which he
pleases.

The roaring bacchanalian who stands next him, waving his glass in the
air, has pulled off his wig, and, in the zeal of his friendship, crowns
the divine's head. He is evidently drinking destruction to fanatics, and
success to mother church, or a mitre to the jolly parson whom he
addresses.

The lawyer, who sits near him, is a portrait of one Kettleby, a
vociferous bar-orato