ideal and of a poetical grandeur in his works. He seldom made use of allegory in his compositions, but went straight to his point to represent the scene as he imagined it, without having recourse to learning, or to tradition, or to legendary tale, as had the great Italian masters. Murillo, like many of the great painters, had three successive manners; and these were called in Spanish, frio, calido, y vaporoso (cold, warm, and vaporous). These three terms sufficiently indicate the manner of each,-the children, the beggars, and the scenes of every-day life, in which Murillo excelled, were painted in his first style, as were a few of his monastic scenes. The silvery tone in which his Annunciations are painted, are in the style called vaporous; harmonizing all throughout, and giving to the scene the appearance of the lighted-up clouds, a miraculous but fantastic light, full of the charms of effect and the triumph of coloring, and attempted previously but by Guido and Correggio. Murillo's third manner, the warm tint, was the one that he preferred. Some of his largest compositions, now in the Museum at Madrid, are painted in this manner, and they are all taken from the stories of saints. It is in such-like subjects of divine poetry that the pencil of Murillo, like the wand of the enchanter, can show prodigies; and if in common life he is equal to the greatest of painters, he stands alone like Milton, in scenes of another world; and of the two great Spanish painters (him and his instructor Velasquez), it may be said that Velasquez was the painter of the earth, and Murillo that of the heavens. In his Assumptions, Murillo takes a lofty flight into aerial regions amidst the ecstacies of saints and the visions of the enthusiast. As Velasquez aspired to the illustration of truth and to precision in details, so did his friend Murillo live above realities. He loved poetical life, and addressed himself to the imagination. It was in the warm manner to which Murillo was so partial, that he painted what is esteemed his greatest performance, “St. Anthony of Padua,” a picture now in the chapel of the cathedral of Seville; however, many of his admirers prefer the picture of “St. Isabella of Hungary,” now in the museum at Madrid. It represents the pious queen gaining a celestial crown, not by prayer, but by works. The scene takes place in a hall of simple and beautiful architecture, where Murillo, has succeeded in

combining all the perfection of each of his styles of painting, and of conveying to the eye and mind of the spectator a moral influence. In ancient times the kings of France and England were supposed to cure the evil. The kings of Hungary had another vocation, they cleansed and washed the lepers. The palace is converted into an hospital, where reigns a fearful and disgusting misery; the rags, dirt, and vermin, with which the children are covered, is suited but for Murillo's powers to represent. On one side are the ladies of the court, graceful, handsome, and magnificently dressed; on the other side are these wretched children, deformed, full of sores and suffering, amidst paralytic and almost lifeless old age. One profile of an old woman is brought out with great skill from a background, formed by the velvet robe of one of the court ladies. This is the triumph of coloring, as the whole picture is the triumph of contrasts. All that is brilliant in beauty, in health, and in luxury, is placed alongside of all the hideous ills to which human nature is subject. All of disease, all of splendor; but Charity approaches and unites these two extremes; a young and beautisul woman, wearing a royal crown beneath her nun’s veil, is in the act of washing the impure head of a leper; her white and delicate hands seem to refuse the disgusting office that Religion calls on her to perform; her eyes are filled with tears; and her distress of mind is shown on her countenance, but Charity overcomes disgust, and Religion carries her through her terrible task. Such is the scene of a picture which causes artists and travellers such an admiration of the varied powers of Murillo; each detail is admirable; the least change would destroy the harmony of the whole; and Viardot says, “that this picture places Murillo by the side of Raphael.” The lover of painting has but few opportunities of studying the Spanish school in England. At Paris and at Munich the means are more at hand. In England, it is principally to the Sutherland Gallery that he must have recourse. That gallery possesses five pictures by Murillo, one of which is an acknowledged masterpiece of art. Four pictures by Zurbaran, one by Alonzo Cano, one by Spagnoletto, and one by Velasquez. At Dulwich are several pictures by the hand of Murillo; at Grosvenor House is the celebrated landscape formerly in the palace of St. Jago, at Madrid; at Lord Ashburton's are four of his works, one of which represents “St. Thomas of Willa Neve, when a Child, distributing Alms.” At Mr. Wells', at Redleaf, is a very fine picture by Murillo, that was formerly in a church" at Genoa; it also represents “St. Thomas of Villa Neve relieving the Sick.” At Longford Castle, in Wiltshire, are two fine Murillos, along with some excellent specimens of Velasquez; at the Duke of Wellington's are several of the Spanish school ; at Lord Lansdowne's is a curious picture of El Mudo (Navarete), a rare Spanish painter, as well as several works by the hands of Velasquez and Murillo; at Mr. Sanderson's is one Murillo; at Leigh Court near Bristol, are three fine Murillos; at Lord Shrewsbury's are two, on sacred subjects; at Burleigh, one picture; at Woburn one picture: and the above mostly comprise the whole of Murillo's works to be found in England. With regard to the number of his productions, Murillo is only to be rivalled by his countryman, Lopez di Vega. Like that poet, his youth was but of little use to him ; like him he labored the rest of his life, and in his own line equalled the 1800 commedias, the 400 autos sacramentales, the epic and the burlesque poems, the sonnets, the stories, which made Cervantes call Lopez “a monster in nature ;” unlike his master Velasquez, Murillo repeated his subjects often. Velasquez gave a care to every one of his paintings, all being intended for his king and master, while Murillo's works, destined to become the property of various persons in different parts of Spain, were often repetitions, and thus he became his own plagiarist. Velasquez was most at home in common life in an adherence to truth to nature, while Murillo's greater energy, and more brilliant imagination, loved to soar above real life, though not like Zurbaran or Morales, whose powers are in terror and gloom, who revel in penance, in superstition, in autos de se, the scenes of the Inquisition, and the ecstasies of Loyola. The fine arts are proved to be passions in hundreds of instances, and like passion wholly and entirely lay hold of the mind of man; and when this is the case, the picture partakes of the character of the artist. There are many instances amongst artists of death occuring from grief, disappointment, jealousy, and envy, and particularly in Spain; amongst these examples is that

of Castillo, a native of Cordova. He came to Seville in 1666, when Murillo was at the height of his reputation; and on looking at his productions, which he did with great astonishment, he saw Nature reflected in her most perfect shape, with a brilliancy that he knew he could not emulate, nor had he believed in the power of art to attain. At length he recovered his speech but only to exclaim “Yā muriro Castillo!” (Castillo is no more). He returnca to his home, but never again to paint. Castillo was a poet as well as a painter. Seized with a hopeless gloom, he lived a short time in a state of despair, dying of a broken spirit, proving that there are natures endowed with such susceptible passions that to take away hope is to take away life. It has been written that Murillo was a stranger both to interest and to ambition. It was in 1670, when Murillo must have been about the age of fifty-seven, that one of his paintings was carried in procession at Madrid, at the festival of Corpus Christi. The subject was “The immaculate Conception;” and the picture made such a sensation at Madrid, and at court, that the king's impatience would brook no delay, and he sent for Murillo from Seville ; but the love of ease and retirement of the painter was not to be conquered by ambition or honors. He refused the commands of his sovereign under various pretences, and continued to live on at Seville in independence, that is, in constant labor and study of his art. Pictures were, however, sent by him to the royal collection. But Murillo was not so totally engrossed with his art as to forget others. With the aid of his artist-friends, and the public authorities, he established an academy at Seville, of which he became director. It was opened in 1660, at a time of public rejoicing in Spain,_at the peace of the Pyrenees and the marriage of Louis XIV. to the Infanta Maria Theresa. Neither in this work nor in any other did Murillo receive any assistance from his own family. His eldest son went to the West Indies as a merchant; his second son became a canon of the cathedral at Seville; and his daughter took the veil in the convent of the Madrè de Dios. In 1681 Murillo went to Cadiz to paint the altar-piece of “The Marriage of St. Catherine,” for the Convent of Capuchins; he fell from a scaffolding erected near the painting, was much hurt, and returned to his home at Seville, ill, in consequence of his fall. After lingering for some time, he died in April, 1682, and was buried in a vault in the church of Santa Cruz, under the chapel where is the painting of “The Descent from the Cross,” by Pietro Campana, and where Murillo was accustomed to pass some part of each day in prayer and meditation. This magnificent picture had been ever the object of Murillo's admiration and reverence throughout his life. And in that same chapel where so many holy thoughts had entranced him, in the same spot where his mind had ever been intent on religious meditations and feelings, his body found a resting-place. There is a harmony and a peace in the whole of Murillo's life and death, very powerful in his religious and poetical life; and in him is found a painter, as Wordsworth is a poet.

It is related, that one day when the churchdoors were about to be closed towards evening, the sacristan reminded Murillo, then in meditation before his favorite picture, that it was time to depart. “I wait,” said Murillo, still in his ecstasy, “I wait until these holy persons have taken away the body of our Lord.”

After Murillo's death, it was discovered how entirely disinterested his life and character had been. No further fortune did he possess than a hundred reals, that he had received the day before he died; and that money, with sixty ducats found in a drawer, comprised the whole of his earthly possessions.

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ume of verse, after a silence of nine years, in trustful reliance,” as he says in his modest preface, “on its indulgent reception by a public from whom he has never met with aught but courtesy and kindness.”

The unpretending but pleasing title given to this little volume, well describes its character. Many of the poems are addresses to living, or memorials of departed friends; many have been suggested by passing occurrences, and many are the pleasant musings of a thoughtful, pious, and grateful mind. The stanzas on page 103 are graceful, but the following poem is of a higher order; we regret our space will only allow the admission of the subjoined stanzas. They were suggested by a beautiful copy of the Madonna and child, presented to him by a friend.

“I may not change the simple faith,

In which from childhood I was bred ;

Nor could I, without scorn, or scathe,
The living seek among the dead;

My soul has far too deeply fed
On what no painting can express,

To bend the knee, or bow the head,
To aught of pictured loveliness.

“And yet, Madonna when I gaze

On charms unearthly, such as thine;

Or glances yet more reverent raise
Unto that infant, so Divine !

I marvel not that many a shrine
Hath been, and still is reared to thee,

Where mingled feelings might combine
To bow the head and bend the knee.

“And hence I marvel not at all,

That spirits, needing outward aid,

Should feel and own the magic thrall
In your meek loveliness displayed :

And if the objects thus portrayed
Brought comfort, hope, or joy to them,

Their error, let who will upbraid,
I rather pity—than condemn.

“For me, though not by hands of mine,

May shrine or altar be upreared,

In you, the human and dirine
Have both so beautiful appeared,

That each, in turn hath been endeared,
As in you feeling has explored

Woman—with holier love revered,
And God—more gratefully adored.”

pp. 83–85.

In a similar feeling, these pretty lines. were written, “to illustrate a sketch of a. ruined chapel.”

“Turn not thou in pride aloof
From this simple, lowly roof;
Still let memory's genile spell
Save from scorn the Saint's Chapelle.

“Humble as it now appears,
Yet its floor, in by-gone years,
Has by worshippers been trod,
Gathered there to praise their God.

“Even now, though 'tis but rare, Intervals of praise and prayer, Which recall its former use, Should redeem it from abuse.

“Where devotion has been felt,
Where the devotee hath knelt,
Chance or change, which years have brought,
Should not check a serious thought.

“Where Religion's holy name
Hath preferred its sacred claim,
While a relic can be found
Count it still as hallowed ground.

“Hallowed—not by formal rite,
Framed in Superstition's night;—
Ceremonial type, or sign,
Sanctify no earthly shrine.

“But the homage of the heart,
Thoughts and feelings which impart
Trust in time, and hope in heaven,
These to hallow ealth were given.”—p. 91.

Many of the sonnets are worthy transcription; we give the following as a specimen :

“And I said, this is my infirmity : but I will remember the years of the right hand of the Alost Iligh!’-Psalm lxxvii. 10.

“Almighty Father! in these lines, though brief,
Of thy most holy word, how sweet to find
Meet consolation for a troubled mind,
Nor for the suffering body less relief;
When pain or doubt would, as a mighty thief,
Rob me of saith and hope, in Thee enshrined,
O be there to these blessed words assigned
Balm for each wound, a cure for every grief.
Yes! I will think of the eternal years
of Thy right hand the love, the ceaseless care,
The tender sympathy Thy works declare,
And Thy word seals; until misgiving fears,
Mournful disquietudes, and faithless tears,
Shall pass away as things which never were !”


With the subjoined remarkably flowing and graceful elegiac verses, to the memory of a young friend, we must conclude: recommending Bernard Barton's pleasant “Household Verses” to all our readers, and assuring him that we shall always be ready to welcome a similar volume from his pen.

“Lilies, spotless in their whiteness, Fountains, stainless in their brightness, Suns, in cloudless lustre sinking, Fragrant flowers, fresh breezes drinking, Music, dying while we listen, Dew-drops, falling as they glisten;

All things brief, and bright, and fair, Many might with thee compare.

“Symbols these of time and earth;
Not of thy more hidden worth
Charms, thy memory which endear,
Were not of this lower sphere;
Such we reverently trace,
Not of nature, but of grace!
By their birthright, pure and high,
Stamped with immortality.

“Brightly as these shone in thee,
Tii is F, we know, they could not be
Yet we love thee not the less,
That thou couldst such gifts possess,
And, still mindful of their Donor,
Use them to advance H is honor
Meekly, humbly, prompt to own
All their praise was His alone –p. 33.

From the Dublin University Magazine.


[The reader can hardly regret to see a continuation of the lively abstract of the lately published life of David Hume, by Mr. Burton, the first part of which appeared in the May No. It abounds in anecdote and humor, and presents a glimpse of the men and manners of one of the most interesting periods of modern literary annals.-Editor.]

THE life of Hume was one of much social enjoyment. When his pecuniary affairs had a little improved, he became a singularly happy man. “I was,” says he, “ever more disposed to see the favorable than the unfavorable side of things—a turn of mind which it is more happy to possess than to be born to ten thousand a-year.” In our March number, we mentioned that within two years of his being appointed keeper of the Advocates' Library, he published the first volume of his “History of the House of Stuart;” and in 1756, the second volume containing “The History of England, from the Death of Charles I. to the Revolution.” We then endeavored to show the origin of what we regard as some of the heresies in Hume's political creed, and we have little doubt, that had Hume commenced his studies with any earlier period of English history, he could not, with the same plausibility, have vindicated his notion of all power in the people being usurpations on the prerogative. The “History of the House of Stuart,” was followed by that of “Tudor”—and the earlier part of the “History of England” was that which was last given to the public. It is in every respect the worst. The clamor against the “House of Tudor” was as great as that against his first volume. “The reign of Elizabeth,” he says, “was particularly obnoxious.” The volumes which relate the Anglo-Saxon story, and the fortunes of England, till the accession of Henry the Seventh, “met with tolerable, and but tolerable success.” The last volume was published in 1761—six years from the publication of the first. In the interval between the publication of the first and second volumes, appeared his “Natural History of Religion.” The book was a failure—but Hume's disappointment was, he says, lessened by the gratifying circumstance that it was answered by Hurd. In 1762, we find Hume speaking to his friends of the large sums given him for the copyright of the successive portions of his history; and he mentions the comfort of having set up a chaise. “I was become not only independent, but opulent. I retired to my native country, determined never to set foot out of it, and retaining the satisfaction of never having preferred a request to one great man, or even making advances of friendship to any of them.” The plans of a literary man are as likely to be disturbed as those of any other, and Hume, though without solicitation on his part, was destined to be indebted to the great. In 1763, the Earl of Hertford, with whom Hume was not in the slightest degree acquainted, was sent as ambassador to Paris, and invited Hume to accompany him, holding out the expectation which was eventually realized, of Hume becoming secretary to the embassy. Hume declined the offer at first, but on its being repeated, suffered himself to be prevailed on. In 1765, Lord Hertford became Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Hume was left for some months “chargé d'affaires.” Hume's reception in Parisian society is mentioned by him with extravagant delight. His reputation had preceded him, and his entire freedom from affectation or pretence of any kind completed the charm. His works, too, were known by translations— were probably more read than in England— and certainly with greater sympathy. The admiration with which Hume had been regarded on the continent for some years,

was, some short time before, pleasantly manifested to him by a correspondence with Madame de Boufflers, which was commenced by that lady, on reading his “History of the House of Stuart.” The biographer of Hume guards us against confounding this lady, whose name was Hippolite de Soujon, Comtesse de Boufflers Rouvel, with the Marquise de Boufflers Rémencourt, mother of the Count de Boufflers. Among the distinguishing circumstances one was, that Hume's correspondent was mistress of the Prince de Conti, while the other ornamented the court of Stanislaus Augustus, in the same recognized relation. On the dissolute state of society, which the fact of ladies in such relations being leaders of fashion, and received every where, implies, there can be but one opinion in these countries; but Mr. Burton well observes, that in judging of the individual, the feelings of the society in which life is passed, must be our standard.

“There is,” says he, “a great difference between those who act up to the standard of a low social system, and those who do the same acts in breach of a higher one. A Mahometan, with his harem in Constantinople, is inferior in his tone of morality to an English gentleman of good domestic conduct; but he is infinitely superior to an Englishman with his harem in Piccadilly.”

Between Hume and this lady a correspondence commenced in 1761. Her first letter is amusing.

“I am a woman,” she says, “not old; and in spite of the frivolity and dissipation in which we all live here, there is scarcely a good book in any language that I have not read either in the original or in translations; and I assure you, monsieur, with a sincerity which you cannot suspect or distrust, that I have never met with any book which, in my judgment, combines so many perfections as yours.”

This was likely to do, and it did catch the fat philosopher. She then tells him what she thinks of Cromwell and Charles, and civil and religious liberty; and again she returns to David Hume—every thing from whose pen shows him to be the perfect philosopher and statesman, an historian full of genius, an enlightened politician, and a genuine patriot. This letter was written at a time when she had no acquaintance whatever with Hume; nor does it appear that they had one friend in common. A woman of genius can do any thing; and

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