petual struggle between their pride and their judgment. Do they, or do they not, possess the requisite medium, they would persuade the world out of doors that they do; and at home are for ever at their megillups and balsams, to supply defects which they will acknowledge to none but themselves. It is an undeniable fact, that paint ing in oil was practised even in this country long before the time of Van Eyck. What his discovery was in 1410, therefore, must have been something more than the mere mixing the colours in oil. In subjecting the works of the old masters to chemical tests, there are many proofs that our process differs from theirs; or we might more properly say, that ours is at most complete variance with theirs. That oil is, after all, the medium they used is very evident; hence the discovery was termed painting in oil, meaning a discovery which enabled the painter to render his oil of such a quality, by some peculiar addition to it, as should give lustre and permanence to the colours. A picture-cleaner will tell you immediately when he is got down to the surface of the old paint, by the extreme hardness of it, easily removing and distinguishing from it the retouches, though they may have been superadded fifty years or more. Surely a greater lapse of time alone cannot account for this peculiarity. But in the new process here offered to the public, what advantages are held forth? we have the same colours and the same oils we had before; the only difference being in the mode of laying them on; for if the colours are subsequently to be saturated with oil, and that linseed, (P. 63.) where is the improvement upon the previously received process? The surest way of finding out the process used by the old masters, would be to take off parts of their pic tures and subject them to chemical experiments, and, by such means, as certain what were the paints they used, and what other matters may be incorporated with them; if the latter be difficult, perhaps the former may not be so. Having found out their colours, let experiments be then made upon the oil, to render it of such a quality as will preserve, not de stroy, those very colours. A friend of mine (and no one can be better qualified) has been many years indefatigable in pursuing this plan, and certainly has succeeded in preparing the oil in such a manner as that colours, which will not in the common process stand three days, have retained their beauty and lustre perfectly for years. He is satisfied as to the similarity of texture in paint mixed and used with this medium, and the pictures of the old masters. It is most ardently to be desired, by true lovers of the arts, as well as by artists, that he would lay before the public the result of his experiments. There is undoubtedly a general dissatisfaction in the process or processes generally in use. Our greatest painters have acknowledged the deficiency; and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who confessed that we knew nothing about it, made it a great business of his life to discover a better. I recollect, some years ago, being desirous of seeing Barry's pictures; I went in company with a friend to the rooms of the Society of Arts and Manufactures, in the Adelphi-the members were then sitting: after having expressed the usual complimentary wonder, by staring the due time at those great performances, our attention was directed to the more Lilliputian busy members, who were sitting in judgment upon the inventions of mankind. How little truth must there be in the old observation, that there is nothing new under the sun, when here we behold a society of the wise and learned, who, knowing themselves so to be, form themselves into a senate, and set apart a considerable portion of their valuable time, merely to give the sanction of their gravity, "nugis addere pondus," to the little novelties of lesser men. A letter was read, which struck us as being particularly whimsical; and considering the great pictures staring the committee in the face, a sort of eye-sore, a grievous handwriting upon the wall, reminding them of the extravagant cost of paint, the letter was certainly upon a subject deserving all their attention. It was from a tailor in St. Martin's-lane, stating, that he had made a discovery of a method of making pictures with cloth, so (as he expressed it) to supersede the necessity of painting in oil. We left the committee in close drab creation. Instead of remnants of pictures, alas! so common, vulgarly called Rembrandts-we may have pictures of remnants that will never want lining. Landscapes will no longer put forth a sickly hue of invisible green, but verdure richly with a bottle-green that may stand the scrutiny of the Board of Green Cloth -and should Morland's pigs be again admitted into the drawingroom, instead of your filthy pigment, they may feed upon the veritable cabbage-Celia's thread-worn blue may be transplanted to the azure above, and it will be no longer an hyperbole to sweep the cobwebs off the sky.' The poet's breeches may be new seated on Parnassus, and every muse, hitherto a shameful or a shameless nudity, be mounted on Pegasus in a new riding-habit. Romeo Coats may be literally cut up into little stars,' and thus Shakspeare's What a piece of work is man!' become a tangible truth. The story of Lazarus and Dives will come out anew; Lazarus in his own rags; and, as Dives, the livery may be had in ever lasting remembrance. Rags will be "How gloriously will specimens of this invention shine amidst the dustier works of antiquity in Pall Mall, the Purpureus late qui splendeat unus et alter The art will become palpable and in- Unfortunately, however, notwithstanding this supposed eulogizing soliloquy, and the venerable patrons of arts and manufactures so happily blended, we have heard no more of this invention; whether there has been the Devil among the Tailors, I know not, but the fancies of Monsieur Goose seem to have taken flight. Be this as it may, it at least shows the opinion of a respectable individual that something is wanting. Yet we must not place implicit credit upon the inventions of artists; they are all secretly at work at their laboratories: yet, Prope dissentire videntur, Poscentes vario multum diversa palato. Horace. Tingry of a medium, a composition with lime, tried a few experiments, and was convinced it was the real medium of the old masters. I never shall forget the earnestness with which he tried to persuade me to enter the Stainers' Company, and particularly his appeal to etymology, in proof of the authenticity of his composition. "They certainly," said he, "used lime; for were they not called Limners? and painting, the art of Limning?" It was a weak argument, as I told him, and went to the wall. Should the tailor's recipe come into fashion, the poor painters will be indeed degraded, and the arts go back to the state they were in, under the reign of Henry the Sixth, when we were so unpolished, that a peer of the first nobility, going into France on an embassy, contracted with a tailor for the painter's work, that was to be displayed in the pageantry of his journey; or should my friend's lime system prevail, the poor painter would be but a rough-cast man, like Wall in Pyramus and Thisbe, and, "like Limander, would be trusty still." For my own part, as a dabbler in the arts, in reference to all the recipes which have been as yet before the public, I would say they are altogether unpalatable; and of their balsams, their syrups, their megillups, their varnishes, and nostrums, I am sick of them; and being sick, think myself justified in concluding in the words of the great critic I have before quoted— Quodcunque ostendis mihi sick incredulus odi. * Vide Walpole's Anecdotes. Horace. SPANISH ROMANCES. No. II. WE had been wafted for days by the winds of the Mediterranean towards the Spanish coast. It was at that awful season when the yellow pestilence had ravaged Catalonia. Some vessels we met whose crews had all perished, and they were driving about at the mercy of the shifting waves, for their sails were in shreds, and there was no steersman at the helm. From one we heard the shrieks of a child, the only living soul on board; but of what use was pity? The Xebeque was soon dashed upon the neighbouring rock, whence the fevered boy managed to reach the shore. We heard that a troop of soldiers had been sent to prevent the poor wretch from reaching any human abode. The precaution was idle. He had mastered the disease. I love Spain as a country, and Spaniards as a people. In other lands, I single out special objects for my regard, and inscribe their names on the tablets of friendship and sympathy-in Spain, my affections pervade and cling to the whole populalation. The national character is fine and heroic. Hospitality, generosity, dignity, valour; these are all Spanish virtues. I have found them elsewhere, it is true; but in the Spaniard they are blended with something indefinable, which gives all these admirable qualities a peculiar energy and relief, of which I only know that it breathes of the olden time, though it makes no parade of its ancestry. It is romantic, spiritual, omnipresent. It is the soul of song -of song the universal element in Spain. There is not a hill, nor a valley, nor a streamlet, which it has failed to consecrate. The very beggar decorates his petitions with poetical imagery-he asks "a blessed alms from tenderness, for one the flower of whose life has been blasted," or, from whom "the light of heaven has been shut out by a celestial visitation." The muleteer chaunts his ever-varying cancion to a strain that varies never; but while the sun shines, and it is seldom cloud MAY, 1823. ed, his voice is always heard; and there is scarcely a village where some repentista (improvisatore) has not his portion of poetry and of praise.. But we are at sea; the coast of Mallorca appeared through the mists of the morning. We had been sleeping, as accustomed, on the deck, where every evening we sat looking upon the blue and splendid heavenwatching the stars which danced up and down, as if in joyous revelry, as the vessel rose or sunk among the waves. We found the plague was desolating Mahon. In some parts of the town the streets were barricadoed, and the miserable occupiers confined within them left to perish, if not of disease, of starvation. We made the best of our way to Iviza. The pines grow on its mountains as of old. The quarantine master beckened us off, but sent an officer on board, and appointed us a station near one of the many inlets which are scattered among the Baleares. These islands are inhabited by an interesting, though singular people. Their language is neither Spanish, nor Catalan, nor Valencian; and the dialects of the several islands differ considerably. A variety of customs, obviously of Roman origin, are still preserved. After the nuptials of a bride, she often remains at her father's house for many months, till she is claimed by her husband; and then the marriage, which had been before conducted without parade, is celebrated a second time in the midst of great rejoicings, and the lady is escorted to her husband's abode. This is clearly the domum inductio of the Latins. The declaration of attachment is made by firing a gun at the feet of the chosen one.-The dress of these islanders is very remarkable. The women wear wide slouched black hats, always decorated with a large bunch of artificial flowers. Their hair, which is never cut, hangs down their back tied up in the form of a cow's tail; and the flowing extremity is most admired, when it has been most gilded by the It was called Pityusas. sun-beams; and its pale colour forms a contrast to the dark Moorish character of their general features. Even the common peasants wear several chains of gold around their necks, adorned with crosses and sacred relics. It was evening when we arrivedthat interesting hour when the vesper hymns are sung. I know of nothing more touching than this devotional service of the Mediterranean sailors, accompanying the unclouded and glorious sun as he sinks beneath the waters. The blending of human voices in any acts of devotion, even of superstitious devotion, is harmonious to my ear, and purifying to my soul. At the words "Al rosario," uttered by the captain, and passing from tongue to tongue, the crew gather upon deck around the helmsman, and the song is led by the oldest of the worshippers. How gently it spreads through the calm heaven! how sweetly it is wafted over the slightly-moving sea! The shrill tones of the cabin-boys mingle with the deep responses of the sternvoiced mariners, while the pure name of the Virgin towers above every other name. "Ave Maria, full of grace and glory," and then the proud list of saints and martyrs, each honoured by a special prayer-an ora pro nobis-and that most solemn conclusion of all, which seems to make the soul pregnant with great thoughts and sublime aspirations: ¡Santo Dios, Santo Fuerte, Santo In mortal Libra nos, Señor, de todo mal! Inmenso Dios perdurable Padre que el mundo criaste verdadero, y con amor entrañable por nosotros espiraste en el madero Give to these offerings any name you will-they are, they must be accepted at that footstool where they are cast. Their influence on the hearts of others I know not, I cannot know; but they have a most sanctifying influence upon mine. The same spirit which has applied poetry to the daily concerns of lifein a word, to every object of thought and sense, has naturally made it subservient to the purpose of religion; and though sometimes the devout hymns of the Spaniards press closely upon familiarity with the Deity, and breathe tones too fair and fanciful for the solemn objects to which devotion points, their effect has been on the whole beneficial; nor can we fairly estimate it by any reference to our own minds, whose habits and associations are generally so unpoetical. In truth, the Catholic religion has formed a glorious alliance with the divine arts, and has made them its mighty ministers. Painting, poetry, and music, have in their turn brought their noblest tributes to the Roman altars, and have served to build up that gigantic pyramid, which whole nations have so long contemplated with reverence and with terror. Some specimens of the religious romances (for we employ the word romance in that vague and general sense which is given to it in Spain) shall be quoted hereafter. Fr. Schlegel has translated many of them into German; there is one of a Valencian poet (Mosen Tallante) which concluded our evening worship on the Valencian shore. Pues te plugo tal pasion por nuestras colpas sofrir O Agnus Dei! llevanos dó està el ladron que salvaste por decir Memento mei! Mighty, changeless God above! Father of immensity! Righteous! Whose unutterable love Led thee on the cross to die Even for us. Thou who all our sins didst bear, All our sorrows suffering there, Lead us where thy promise led Valencia, 1511. |