figures in general, and in his best subjects, are so glaringly incorrect as is here insinuated, I dare trust my own eye so far as positively to deny the fact.  And there is one part of the figure in which Hogarth is allowed to have excelled, which these foreigners seem to have overlooked, or perhaps calculating from its proportion to the whole (a seventh or an eighth, I forget which,) deemed it of trifling importance; I mean the human face; a small part, reckoning by geographical inches, in the map of man’s body, but here it is that the painter of expression must condense the wonders of his skill, even at the expense of neglecting the “jonctures and other difficulties of drawing in the limbs,” which it must be a cold eye that, in the interest so strongly demanded by Hogarth’s countenances, has leisure to survey and censure.

“The line of art pursued by my very ingenious predecessor and brother Academician, Mr. Penny.”

The first impression caused in me by reading this passage was an eager desire to know who this Mr. Penny was.  This great surpasser of Hogarth in the “delicacy of his relish,” and the “line which he pursued,” where is he, what are his works, what has he to show?  In vain I tried to recollect, till by happily putting the question to a friend who is more conversant in the works of the illustrious obscure than myself, I learnt that he was the painter of a Death of Wolfe which missed the prize the year that the celebrated picture of West on the same subject obtained it; that he also made a picture of the Marquis of Granby relieving a Sick Soldier; moreover, that he was the inventor of two pictures of Suspended and Restored Animation, which I now remember to have seen in the Exhibition some years since, and the prints from which are still extant in good men’s houses.  This, then, I suppose, is the line of subjects in which Mr. Penny was so much superior to Hogarth.  I confess I am not of that opinion.  The relieving of poverty by the purse, and the restoring a young man to his parents by using the methods prescribed by the Humane Society, are doubtless very amiable subjects, pretty things to teach the first rudiments of humanity; they amount to about as much instruction as the stories of good boys that give away their custards to poor beggar-boys in children’s books.  But, good God! is this milk for babes to be set up in opposition to Hogarth’s moral scenes, his strong meat for men?  As well might we prefer the fulsome verses upon their own goodness to which the gentlemen of the Literary Fund annually sit still with such shameless patience to listen, to the satires of Juvenal and Persius; because the former are full of tender images of Worth relieved by Charity, and Charity stretching out her hand to rescue sinking Genius, and the theme of the latter is men’s crimes and follies with their black consequences—­forgetful meanwhile of those strains of moral pathos, those sublime heart-touches,