The first of these prints is copied from a plate in Jarvis' quarto translation of this inimitable work; it has neither painter nor engraver's name, but carries indisputable marks of the pencil and burin of Hogarth. The second is from an unfinished print in my possession, which I think by the same artist. The six which follow were designed for Lord Carteret's Spanish edition, published in the year 1738; but as they are etched in a bold and masterly style, I suppose the noble peer did not think they were pretty enough to embellish his volume, and therefore laid them aside for Vandergucht's engravings from Vanderbank's designs. Hogarth's six plates remaining in the hands of Mr. Tonson, his Lordship's publisher, were at his death bought by Mr. Dodsley, from whom they were purchased by Messrs. Boydell, in whose possession they now remain. While in Dodsley's hands, references to the chapters and corresponding pages in Jarvis' translation were engraved under each.
The last scene, representing "Sancho's Feast," is copied from an incomparable print engraved at an early period of Hogarth's life, and published by Overton and Hoole, price one shilling. The subject of this is exactly consonant to Hogarth's genius, and was probably selected by the artist to show how happily he could enter into the spirit of a writer whose turn of mind seems so congenial to his own. Had Cervantes been an Englishman, I think he would have contemplated our national follies through the same medium that they were seen by Hogarth, and probably selected similar scenes as subjects for his satire. He lived in an age and country where one gigantic folly
"In proud pre-eminence stalk'd through the land!"
He touched the phantom with his pen, and it vanished; but as folly is in some cases the parent of virtue, may not chivalry and romance, ridiculous as they are in the eye of reason, give birth to an ardour of spirit which aggrandizes and elevates a nation? To a sedate and saturnine people, a spice of absurdity may have its use, were it only to give motion to those virtues which without it might stagnate. Divested of that frenzy, which at the same time that it ruffles and impairs their reason, awakes and rouses their spirits, a whole nation, like a man-of-war becalmed, may be undulated by ineffectual motion, until they drop into a sort of mental stupor, unmarked by any other distinctions than those that arise from stately indolence, haughty solemnity, and supercilious dignity.
I will not presume to say that Spain is exactly in this situation; but if it were, other causes may have contributed to the change. If such are to be the consequences of a nation's becoming wise, a tincture of folly is rather to be desired than dreaded.
As to the hero of this admirable tale, the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, who has been the cause of more laughter than either the Knights of Arthur's Round Table, or any other knights ancient or modern, how can we sufficiently admire him! A paragon of patience and perseverance, unconquerable fortitude and proud honour, who in his lucid intervals reasoned like a philosopher, and was invariably actuated by the most exalted motives; deemed himself bound to defend the weak against the strong, chastise indolence, redress injuries, and free those who were in bonds! That this ardent, heroic, and dignified character, with motives so pure, an heart so excellent, and virtues that elevate, adorn, and irradiate human nature, should be led by an enthusiasm which fevered his imagination into absurdities that expose him to derision, and, like Samson, brought forth to make sport for the multitude, is mortifying to humanity; and I must confess, that with me, the laugh which the author's irresistible humour invariably excites is accompanied by a pitying sigh for the hero of this history, who is, after all, so superlatively happy in his ideal importance, that there is a degree of cruelty in destroying the illusion. The adage, "You think you are happy because you are wise; I think I am wise because I am happy," is not easily confuted.[115]
But this admirable romance carries me further than I intended. I was led into it by considering the comparative merit of Cervantes and Hogarth, in doing which, it is proper to observe that the motley follies of England (diametrically opposite to those of Spain) are changeable as an April day. Our English moralist (for surely he is worthy of the title) transferred them to his canvas or copper, and exposed them by pointed ridicule.
But his satiric histories had a higher and still more useful direction. They were calculated to encourage industry, and promote humanity in the lower orders of society, by exhibiting the baneful consequences of idleness and cruelty; and to check the ostentatious follies of those in a higher rank, by pointing out the happiness attendant on the practice of virtue, and the consequent misery of dissipation, sensuality, and vice.
I hope the warmest admirers of Cervantes will not be offended if I venture to assert that these were objects of more national and individual importance than was the extirpation of knight-errantry.
Both these great men may be considered as universal classics; for while Cervantes delights the learned and the illiterate in his own country, and is translated and eagerly read in France, Italy, Germany, and England, while the artists of all these nations emulate each other in delineating the scenes he has described, and every age and rank peruse Don Quixote with pleasure,—the fame of Hogarth is not bounded by the shores of Albion, but takes as wide a circuit through Europe, and his pictured stories are contemplated with admiration by men of every clime.[116]