Note 53 — HOGARTH.

He painted the heart from an injected one provided for him by Cæsar Hawkins the surgeon; and, on the authority of repeated inspection, I venture to affirm, that the fingers of Sigismunda are unstained with blood, and that neither of her hands is employed in rending ornaments from her head, or any other part of her person. In this instance Mr. Walpole's memory must have failed him, as I am confident that his misrepresentation was undesigned. It is whispered (we know not with how much truth) that Mrs. H. was hurt by this description of the picture, and that she returned no thanks for the volume that contains it, when it was sent to her as a present by its author. It should seem that she still designs to dispose of this ill-fated performance, and thinks that its reputation required no additional blast.

I have reprinted this note, without correction, that I might thereby obtain the fairer opportunity of doing justice to Mr. Walpole, concerning the faithfulness of whose memory I had ventured to express a doubt. Genuine information is not always to be had; nor shall I hesitate a moment to apologize for the fallaciousness of mine. The fingers of Sigismunda were originally stained with blood. This indelicate and offensive circumstance was pointed out by some intelligent friend to Hogarth, who reluctantly effaced it.

A correspondent, however, on reading this work, has furnished an additional reason why the lady already mentioned may be offended by the severity of Mr. Walpole's strictures on Sigismunda. "It has been whispered that Count Guiscard's widow was a copy from the daughter of Sir James Thornhill. If this circumstance be true, the very accomplished Critick of Strawberry Hill will own at least that her wrath and Juno's had the same provocation, 'Judiciam Paridis, spretæque injuria formæ.' Impartiality, however, obliges us to add, that Mrs. Hogarth, though in years, is still a very fine woman; and that Mr. Walpole's idea of what a picture of Sigismunda ought to express, is poetically conceived, and delivered with uncommon elegance and force of language. The sober grief, the dignity of suppressed anguish, the involuntary tear, the settled meditation on the fate she meant to meet, and the amorous warmth turned holy by despair, are words that fill the place of colours, supply all the imperfections of Hogarth's design, and succeed even where a Furino or a Correggio may have failed."