"Mute, solemn sorrow, free from female noise."
—Dryden's Sigismunda.
On the comparative merit of the two pictures of "Sigismunda" there have been various opinions. By the foregoing narrative it appears that Hogarth never paid so much attention to any preceding production; but in works of imagination success is not always proportionate to labour, and his performance might not be equal to his exertions. Be that as it may, this was the criterion by which he estimated its worth; and by the political disputes in which he was afterwards engaged with Wilkes and Churchill, this estimation was turned against himself. His opponents discovered his parental partiality for "Sigismunda;" and to wound the artist in his most vulnerable part, they mangled her without mercy.
Mr. Walpole's critique did not appear until after Hogarth's death; but when he gravely states Hogarth's performance to be more ridiculous than anything the artist had ever ridiculed, it ceases to be criticism. The best reply to so extravagant an assertion, is the original picture now in the possession of Messrs. Boydell, which, though not well coloured, and rather French, is marked with mind, and would probably have been better had it not been so often altered on the suggestions of different critical friends. Mr. Walpole contrasts it with that painted by Correggio (or Furino), on which, at the expense of the poor English artist, he bestows most extravagant and unqualified praise; asserting that it is impossible "to see the picture, or read Dryden's inimitable tale, and not feel that the same spirit animated both poet and painter." That the reader may form his own opinion by comparison, I have annexed a copy from MacArdell's admirable print; and as both sides ought to be heard, I have subjoined the following remarks from the Monthly Register of Literature, vol. ii., in which is a critique (possibly written by Mr. Joshua Kirby), as extravagant in the abuse of this picture as Mr. Walpole is in its praise. It is here stated that these observations were written for private use by a professional man whose name is well known as the author of a treatise on painting and perspective; it begins with some remarks on Miss Edwards' sale in 1746, and concludes with several strictures on Sir Luke Schaub's in April 1756: "Sir Luke's pictures (only 178) sold for £7784! a lucky collection for his heir, but unlucky for Sir Luke's reputation as a judge of painting." After several severe remarks on some of the preceding lots, the writer observes of "No. 59,—'Sigismunda Weeping over the Heart of Tancred,' called a Correggio,—that this picture is an undoubted copy; nothing in the character of Sigismunda but sorrow to recommend it. The painter might take it from his cook-maid, there being nothing elegant or delicate in her appearance. The virtuosi ran it up to £400; but Sir Thomas Sebright, at the desire of the proprietor, bought it in for £404, 5s. He soon discovered his mistake, for in reality it was worth no more than ten guineas."
Though I cannot consent to view this picture through the medium of Mr. Walpole's overcharged panegyric, which gives to the artist a power that is not in the art, and seems heightened for the pure purpose of sinking Hogarth by the contrast; yet I by no means meet this indiscriminate and unfounded censure. It is many years since I saw the picture in the Duke of Newcastle's collection, and I then thought it sublimely conceived and finely coloured. MacArdell's print gives a faithful representation of the character, and the annexed head is a correct copy.
Hogarth still bearing in mind this transaction, in which he thought himself very ill-used, continues his narrative, and concludes with a recital of the circumstances which occasioned his quarrel with Mr. Wilkes, etc.; this much hurt his feelings, and in the progress of it I have ever thought he was unjustly and most inhumanly treated:—
"As the most violent and virulent abuse thrown on 'Sigismunda' was from a set of miscreants, with whom I am proud of having been ever at war, I mean the expounders of the mysteries of old pictures, I have been sometimes told they were beneath my notice. This is true of them individually; but as they have access to people of rank, who seem as happy in being cheated as these merchants are in cheating them, they have a power of doing much mischief to a modern artist. However mean the vendor of poisons, the mineral is destructive; to me its operation was troublesome enough. Ill-nature spread so fast, that now was the time for every little dog in the profession to bark, and revive the old spleen which appeared at the time of the Analysis.[80] The anxiety that attends endeavouring to recollect ideas long dormant, and the misfortunes which clung to this transaction, coming at a time when nature demands quiet, and something besides exercise to cheer it, added to my long sedentary life, brought on an illness which continued twelve months. But when I got well enough to ride on horseback I soon recovered. This being at a period when war abroad and contention at home engrossed every one's mind, prints were thrown into the background; and the stagnation rendered it necessary that I should do some timed thing, to recover my lost time and stop a gap in my income. This drew forth my print of 'The Times,' a subject which tended to the restoration of peace and unanimity, and put the opposers of these humane objects in a light which gave great offence to those who were trying to foment destruction in the minds of the populace. One of the most notorious among them, till now rather my friend and flatterer, attacked me in a North Briton, in so infamous and malign a style, that he himself, when pushed even by his best friends, was driven to so poor an excuse as to say, 'he was drunk when he wrote it.' Being at that time very weak, and in a kind of slow fever, it could not but seize on a feeling mind. My philosophical friends advise me to laugh at the nonsense of party writing—who would mind it?—but I cannot rest myself:
'Who steals my gold steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands:
But he that filches from me my good name,