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We all know, though not as well as we should, the work of Defoe, and beside Defoe there stands a painter whom also we all know, the great Hogarth. We all at least have read Robinson Crusoe, and we have probably all seen Hogarth's engravings of the good and bad apprentices, and the series of paintings in the National Gallery known as the 'Marriage
In the same spirit in which justice exposed the offender in the stocks to public view, the novelist described his careers of vice ending in misery, and Hogarth conducted his Idle Apprentice from stage to stage till Tyburn Hill is reached. The same moral end is always in view, but the lesson is illustrated by the ugliness of vice, and not by the beauty of virtue.
"I told you: I am wealthier than all the princes " "Well, let me inform you that your life is in danger here; if you are a wise man, you will not fail to leave this neighbourhood this night". "But no one knows " "It is known, Hogarth: your friends are false, and your enemies crafty. You will have to walk with your eyes open, my friend. What will you do with all the money?"
With the possible exception of Hogarth in his non-preaching pictures, and Constable in his sketches of the sky, I speak of dead men only, have we produced any painter of reality like Manet or Millet, any writer like Flaubert or Maupassant, like Turgenev, or Tchekov. We are, I think, too deeply civilised, so deeply civilised that we have come to look on Nature as indecent.
And two days later he was led to the flogging-hall, which, as he approached it, sent forth screams; the doctor looked at him and consented; the Governor said: "Get it over". Hogarth stripped to the waist, his teeth chattering: but not with fear. On the contrary, he felt a touch of exultation.
By the time the door-orderly opened his eyes, and one of the inside three had rushed out, Hogarth had vanished; and these two, shrilling whistles to reinforce the bath-room guard, pelted down the blind- alley to effect, as they thought, a sure capture. But Hogarth was not there. Back they came trotting, breathless, rather at a loss. One panted: "He must have run back into the great hall...."
Hogarth retaliated by his famous caricature of Churchill as a canonical bear with a pot of porter in one paw and a huge cudgel in the other, the knots on the cudgel being numbered as Lie 1, Lie 2, and so forth. Instantly the great caricaturist was attacked by others eager to strike at one who had struck so hard in his day.
Richardson, as being a very good man. To his great surprise, however, this figure stalked forwards to where he and Mr. Richardson were sitting, and all at once took up the argument. He displayed such a power of eloquence that Hogarth looked at him with astonishment, and actually imagined that he was inspired. Thus far Boswell. Paul was shipwrecked, as everybody knows, at Malta.
<b>HOGARTH, MARY.</b> Exhibits regularly at the New English Art Club, and occasionally at the New Gallery. Born at Barton-on-Humber, Lincolnshire. Pupil of the Slade School under Prof. Fred Brown and P. Wilson Steer.
Yet never at any period did the native Italian masters learn to love ugliness with the devotion that reveals innate grossness. It remained for Dürer, Rembrandt, and Hogarth to elevate the grotesque into the region of high art, for Rubens to achieve the apotheosis of pure animalism, for Teniers to devote distinguished genius to the service of the commonplace.
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