, that the same tragic cast of expression and incident, blended
in some instances with a greater alloy of comedy, characterizes his
other great work, the _Marriage Alamode_, as well as those less
elaborate exertions of his genius, the prints called _Industry_ and
_Idleness_, _the Distrest Poet_, &c., forming, with the _Harlot's_
and _Rake's Progresses_, the most considerable, if not the largest
class of his productions,--enough surely to rescue Hogarth from the
imputation of being a mere buffoon, or one whose general aim was only
to _shake the sides_.

There remains a very numerous class of his performances, the object
of which must be confessed to be principally comic. But in all of
them will be found something to distinguish them from the droll
productions of Bunbury and others. They have this difference, that we
do not merely laugh at, we are led into long trains of reflection by
them. In this respect they resemble the characters of Chaucer's
_Pilgrims_, which have strokes of humor in them enough to designate
them for the most part as comic, but our strongest feeling still is
wonder at the comprehensiveness of genius which could crowd, as poet
and painter have done, into one small canvas so many diverse yet
cooperating materials.

The faces of Hogarth have not a mere momentary interest, as in
caricatures, or those grotesque physiognomies which we sometimes
catch a glance of in the street, and, struck with their whimsicality,
wish for a pencil and the power to sketch them down; and forget them
again as rapidly,--but they are permanent abiding ideas. Not the
sports of nature, but her necessary eternal classes. We feel that we
cannot part with any of them, lest a link should be broken.

It is worthy of observation, that he has seldom drawn a mean or
insignificant countenance.[1] Hogarth's mind was eminently
reflective; and, as it has been well observed of Shakspeare, that he
has transfused his own poetical character into the persons of his
drama (they are all more or less _poets_) Hogarth has impressed a
_thinking character_ upon the persons of his canvas. This remark must
not be taken universally. The exquisite idiotism of the little
gentleman in the bag and sword beating his drum in the print of the
_Enraged Musician_, would of itself rise up against so sweeping an
assertion. But I think it will be found to be true of the generality
of his countenances. The knife-grinder and Jew flute-player in the
plate just ment