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Beauty does not enter into his art, most of all in that highest sense of plastic beauty of form, which the great Italians had so intensely felt, which the great English school, uprising in his own day, was in some measure to recover. At most a comely buxom wench steals sometimes slyly into his canvas or copper-plate the two servant-maids in his print of "Morning" at Covent Garden, whom the roysterers turning out from Tom King's coffee-house are kissing in the Piazza; the demure and pretty Miss West, looking over a joint hymn book with the amorous but industrious apprentice; or that coy minx most delicious of them all who has just dozed off amid "The Sleeping Congregation," with her prayer-book opened at the fascinating page of Matrimony, and to whose luxuriant charms of face and form the eyes of the fat old clerk are stealthily directed. To Hogarth these are the incidents, not the inspiration, of his art. Lavater, that keen observer, aimed near to the mark when he wrote: "Il ne faut pas attendre beaucoup de noblesse de Hogarth. Le vrai beau n'étoit guère
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