[53] 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." [54] This circumstance was ridiculed in a grotesque print, called _A Harlot blubbering over a bullock's heart. By William Hogart._