In one of the early exhibitions at Spring Gardens, a very pleasing small picture by Hogarth made its first appearance. It was painted for the earl of Charlemont, in whose collection it remains.[50] It was intituled, Picquet, or Virtue in Danger, and shews us a young lady, who, during a tête-à-tête, had just lost all her money to a handsome officer of her own age. He is represented in the act of returning her a handful of bank bills, with the hope of exchanging them for a softer acquisition, and more delicate plunder. On the chimney piece is a watch-case and a figure of Time over it, with this motto—NUNC. Hogarth has caught his heroine during this moment of hesitation, this struggle with herself, and has marked her feelings with uncommon success. Wavering chastity, as in this instance, he was qualified to display; but the graceful reserve of steady and exalted virtue he would certainly have failed to express. He might have conveyed a perfect idea of such an Iphigenia as is described by Mr. Hayley, in one of the cantoes of his beautiful poem on the Triumphs of Temper; but the dignity of the same female at the Tauric altar would have baffled the most vigorous efforts of his pencil.
Hogarth's Picquet, or Virtue in Danger, when exhibited at Spring Gardens, in May, 1761, produced the following explanation:
Ye fair, be warn'd, and shun those arts,
That faithless men do use for hearts:
Weigh o'er and o'er the destin'd man,
And oft this little lesson scan;
If he his character don't fear,
For yours he'll very little care:
With scorn repulse the wretch so bold,
Nor pawn your virtue for his gold!
Of gaming (cards or not) beware,
'Tis very often found a snare;
But, lest my precept still should fail,
Indulge me—whilst I tell a tale:
Dorinda, chearful, young, and gay,
Oft shone at Balls, at Park, and Play;
Blest with a free, engaging air,
In short, throughout quite debonnair;
(Excuse me—shall I tell the truth?)
That bane of misled, heedless youth,
Gaming—had quite possess'd her mind,
To this (no other vice) inclin'd:
She oft would melancholy sit,
No partner near for dear Picquet!
"At last a cruel spoiler came,"
And deeply learn'd in all the game;
A son of Mars, with iron face,
Adorn'd with impudence and lace!
Acquaintance with her soon he gains,
He thinks her virtue worth his pains:
Cards (after nonsense) came in course,
By sap advances, not by force.
The table set, the cards are laid,
Dorinda dreams not she's betray'd;
The cards run cross, she fumes and frets,
Her brilliant necklace soon she betts,
She fears her watch, but can't resist,
A miniature can scarce be mist!
At last both watch and trinkets go,
A prey to the devouring foe:
Nay more (if fame but tells us true),
She lost her di'mond buckles too!
Her bracelets next became his prize,
And in his hat the treasure lies.
Upon her Virtue next he treats,
And Honour's sacred name repeats:
Tenders the trinkets, swears and lies,
And vows her person is a prize!
Then swears (with hand upon his breast)
That he without her can't be blest!
Then plies her with redoubled pains,
T' exchange her virtue for his gains:
Shame's purple wings o'ershade her face,
He triumphs over her disgrace;
Soon turns to jest her scruples nice,
In short, she falls!—a sacrifice!
Spoil'd of her virtue in her prime,
And, knowing Heaven detests the crime,
Is urg'd, perhaps, to dare his rod,
"And rush unsummon'd to her God!"
Ye fair, if happiness ye prize,
Regard this rule, Be timely wise.
In the "Miser's Feast," Mr. Hogarth thought proper to pillory Sir Isaac Shard, a gentleman proverbially avaricious. Hearing this, the son of Sir Isaac, the late Isaac Pacatus Shard,[51] esq. a young man of spirit, just returned from his travels, called at the painter's to see the picture; and, among the rest, asking the Cicerone "whether that odd figure was intended for any particular person;" on his replying, "that it was thought to be very like one Sir Isaac Shard;" he immediately drew his sword, and slashed the canvas. Hogarth appeared instantly in great wrath; to whom Mr. Shard calmly justified what he had done, saying, "that this was a very unwarrantable licence; that he was the injured party's son, and that he was ready to defend any suit at law;" which, however, was never instituted.
About 1757, his brother-in-law, Mr. Thornhill, resigned the place of king's serjeant-painter in favour of Mr. Hogarth; who soon after made an experiment in painting, which involved him in some disgrace. The celebrated collection of pictures belonging to Sir Luke Schaub was in 1758 sold by public auction;[52] and the admired picture of Sigismunda (purchased by Sir Thomas Sebright for 404. l. 5 s.) excited Mr. Hogarth's emulation.
"From a contempt of the ignorant virtuosi of the age," says Mr. Walpole, "and from indignation at the impudent tricks of picture-dealers, whom he saw continually recommending and vending vile copies to bubble collectors, and from having never studied, indeed having seen, few good pictures of the great Italian masters, he persuaded himself that the praises bestowed on those glorious works were nothing but the effects of prejudice. He talked this language till he believed it; and having heard it often asserted, as is true, that time gives a mellowness to colours and improves them, he not only denied the proposition, but maintained that pictures only grew black and worse by age, not distinguishing between the degrees in which the proportion might be true or false. He went farther: he determined to rival the ancients—and unfortunately chose one of the finest pictures in England as the object of his competition. This was the celebrated Sigismunda of Sir Luke Schaub, now in the possession of the Duke of Newcastle, said to be painted by Correggio, probably by Furino, but no matter by whom. It is impossible to see the picture, or read Dryden's inimitable tale, and not feel that the same soul animated both. After many essays, Hogarth at last produced HIS Sigismunda—but no more like Sigismunda, than I to Hercules. Not to mention the wretchedness of the colouring, it was the representation of a maudlin strumpet just turned out of keeping, and, with eyes red with rage and usquebaugh, tearing off the ornaments her keeper had given her. To add to the disgust raised by such vulgar expression, her fingers were bloodied by her lover's heart,[53] that lay before her, like that of a sheep, for her dinner.[54] None of the sober grief, no dignity of suppressed anguish, no involuntary tear, no settled meditation on the fate she meant to meet, no amorous warmth turned holy by despair; in short, all was wanting that should have been there, all was there that such a story would have banished from a mind capable of conceiving such complicated woe; woe so sternly felt, and yet so tenderly. Hogarth's performance was more ridiculous than any thing he had ever ridiculed. He set the price of 400 l. on it, and had it returned on his hands by the person for whom it was painted. He took subscriptions for a plate of it; but had the sense, at last, to suppress it. I make no more apology for this account than for the encomiums I have bestowed on him. Both are dictated by truth, and are the history of a great man's excellencies and errors. Milton, it is said, preferred his Paradise Regained to his immortal poem."[55]
Hogarth, however, gave directions before his death that the Sigismunda should not be sold under 500 l. and, greatly as he might have been mortified by Churchill's invective, and the coldness with which the picture was received by the rest of the world,[56] he never wholly abandoned his design of having a plate prepared from it. Finding abundant consolation in the flattery of self-love, he appealed from the public judgement to his own, and had actually talked with the celebrated Mr. Hall about the price of the engraving, which was to have been executed from a smaller painting,[57] copied by himself from the large one. Death alone secured him from the contempt such obstinacy would have riveted on his name. To express a sorrow like that of Tancred's daughter, few modern artists are fully qualified. We must except indeed Sir Joshua Reynolds, with whose pencil Beauty in all her forms, and the passions in all their varieties, are equally familiar.
Since the preceding paragraph was written, the compiler of this volume has seen an unfinished plate of Sigismunda, attempted after the manner of Edelinck, etched by Mr. Basire, but not bit-in, and from which consequently no proof can have been taken. The size of the plate is 18 inches by 16½. The outlines in general, and particularly of the face, were completed under the immediate direction of Mr. Hogarth.[58] It was intended to be published by subscription.[59] The plate itself is still in the hands of Mr. Basire.