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gle face or figure. I saw Titian who But a person who openly sells his dipt his pencil in the iris, and Raf- wares is probably honest?-Be not faelle who unclasped the volume of deceived. If you go to a seller of light, and Michael Angelo, the giant pictures you will see Carracci's; of painting, and the patient Flemings, Guido's, Poussin's, Domenichino's, its slaves,--the seducer Correggio, &c. &c. as common as dust. If they -the magician Rembrandt:- I saw are twenty years old, it is their greatthem all, not face to face, indeed, est age; for like things of a dwarf not in their original hues and essence, creation, they reach an early matubut filtered through the graver's rity, without any approach to excelalembic, and yet with enough of lence. “What is this?” you will their primal beauty to catch a young say to the vender. “Why Sir,” he imagination, and to fix a love of the answers, “ I won't deceive you: I arts for ever.

really do not know. It has been Well, I began to collect prints; called a Guido, and it is certainly I bought bad ones, as every one does. very like the master. A fine expresat first; huge staring things that had sion there, Sir. Look at that eye. I no mark or merit, except “ Titian had it from a gentleman in Cornwall. pinxit,or some such authority in It had been in the family, Sir, a hunthe corner ; but this was quite suffi- dred and fifty years. I

gave a great cient. In time I discovered the real deal of money for that picture, I asvalue of this rubbish, and began to sure you. Stop, Sir, let me wipe it affect a little taste. I became a with a silk handkerchief. Now, Sir, connoisseur-in his first state. I do you see?-Look at the turn of that purchased Wille's, and Lucas Van neck. I wish I could afford to keep Leyden's, Wierinx's, Strange's, Wool- it," &c. &c. But no: his eloquence leti's, Sharpe's—(I confess that I still is expended in vain: the picture does like the two last)-I was beguiled not suit you; and you turn to anby the clear wiry engravings of the other, and another, and hear the same French-I liked even the little coun- eulogy lavished upon each. At last, try pictures after the Dutch artists; perhaps, the sanctum sanctorum is but of Marc Antonio and Julio Bo- carefully opened, and a Raffaelle, or a nasone (fine pictorial poet) I had Titian, or a Leonardo da Vinci is exnever heard.

posed to view. “ There, Sir," the From prints I proceeded to pico juggler says, “now that's what I call tures. My first essay was unfortu- a real bit of the master." You admire. nately fortunate. I bought a Holy “Well, what is the price?"-He Family by I forget who, looks steadily at you, as if to measure but the picture dealer can tell, if he the extent of your simplicity, and has not changed, as is most likely, the says, “Why, Sir, at one word, I author's name. This was “ really can't take less than a hundred and not so very bad,” for fifteen pounds; eighty pounds.” It was in this way and moreover, it covered a square that I once bought a real bitof yard of wall, the paper of which was Ruysdael. There was a pretty piece discoloured and damp. One picture of water, and a sward as green as never contented a true lover of art, April, and a tree, under which a and accordingly I wandered from Dryad might have lived and numbershop to shop, gazing, doubting, lis- ed out her century. Reader, half tening, admiring, -buying !-Gentle of the picture (including the tree) was reader, if thou art stung by a love of not a week old. I discovered this pictures, hearken unto me. There is the next morning; when I viewed nothing so illusive,—there is no de- it in the broad day-light. I made my ception so easy as to impose on eyes purchase in the evening, and rested on inexperienced in painting. The best the picture dealer's honour !* judges are sometimes deceived, and Historical painting (as painters they who are no judges, always use the term, thereby inchiding all

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Since this happened, two instances have come within my own knowledge of gentlemen having expended ample fortunes in the purchase of pictures, &c.—One of them is an exilc, and both are, I believe, ruined. One purchased paintings, curiosities, and pieces of statuary, to the amount of nearly a hundred thousand pounds. He bought-trash, and Aed his country and his creditors, in despair. Shall I give another instance ?

poetical conceptions, and in some cede ; and at the back are obelisks cases portrait) has always been my and towers, with hanging rocks overpassion. I confess that I never “ took head, and in the extreme distance much" to landscapes. There is no- the blue mountains.

The light thing in them to satisfy an extreme which pierces through the trees, and craving of the spirit. They are thin throws the massy foliage into fine food, and cannot allay a strong appe- relief, has a magnificent effect; and tite--nor excite one. A few, indeed, the whole

picture breathes a classical may claim an exception to this repose. These are all which I rememdogma, but then they are marvels,– ber as having interested me much anomalies. There is the famous without the aid of story. My great “ three trees” of Rembrandt, with desire has always been to see the its black showering cloudy sky; and wonders and varieties of the human another by the same hand, -I forget countenance; the power of the hu. what it is,—but the scene is flat, man figure, where a hand speaks, dwarfed and sterile ; field after field and a foot is eloquent. I delight to is stretched out to the far horizon, look upon the fine flowing outlines differing scarcely anything from each of Raffaelle, and the “ terrible style” other, save in size; and yet the whole of Michael Angelo; to repose on the wears an aspect near akin to the languishing and oluptuous sweetsublime. Besides these, there is one ness of Correggio, and to unravel the of Claude's (is it the Enchanted Cas- dark secrets of Rembrandt. I am no tle?)--one of Salvator Rosa's (now at bigot in my taste. I admire all that Dulwich)-one of Gaspar Poussin's, I think good in each,- the sober (a close umbrageous scene, with beauty of Ludovico Caracci,--the nymphs bathing in a deep and waving elegance of Parmegiano,-the shady lake) and one of his brother bravery of Rubens,—and the mellow Nicolo's, which is now also in the golden lights of Titian.* I am enDulwich gallery. This last has a chanted with the quaint graces of foreground occupied by a level grassy da Vinci, and I love to soar with the road, which runs under the shade of winged fancies of Julio Romano, and “melancholy boughs," and loses itself to luxuriate with the exquisite Bonaat the walls of some antique city. sone. For the rest (except Giorgione, On each side are tanks of water, and indeed), I care but little; but I may, masses of marble, carved, or in ruins, nevertheless, be wrong in my taste. In each diminishing in size as they re- landscape, I like a close sequestered

* The Spanish painters do not, I confess, altogether please me; though the Boys of Murillo at Dulwich are, undoubtedly, very fine; and so were two pictures in the last exhibition of the old masters; the one, an elderly Spanish lady, by Velasquez; and the other, a young man in a clerical dress, and called a Spagnoletto. Yet the arts were honoured and patronized in Spain. I am no lover of the Emperor Charles : his cold calculating policy freezes up my admiration, and I never could well forgive him for having been the father of Philip the Second. But his treatment of Titian was magnificent. The parchment which made the great painter a Count of the empire (it is addressed, dilecto Tiziano de Vecellis, equiti aurato) is worth anything ; and so is the conduct of Charles towards his stupid swarthy courtiers, who found fault with Titian, because he was not a noble—in Spain. But he was elsewhere, and everywhere else, a noble of the first rank, and could afford to dispense with the sullen respect of these dullards of “the Peninsula.”

Philip, whom I have mentioned above in terms of reprobation, behaved, nevertheless, in a princely way to Zucaro, who had been sent for (from Italy) to paint the Escurial. This artist seems to have had vanity enough to outweigh ten times his talent, and Philip knew how to check it. The following story is taken from Cumberland's anecdotes of the Spanish painters..." Senor,” said Zucaro to Philip, as he was displaying a painting of the Nativity for the great altar of the Escurial, “ you now behold all that art can execute: beyond this the powers of painting cannot go.” The king was silent for a time, and so unmoved, that neither admiration nor contempt could be determined from the expression of his countenance. At last, preserving still the same indifference, he asked if those were eggs which one of the shepherds, in the act of running, carried in his basket; the painter answered him, that they were. " 'T'is well he did not break them," said the king, and turned away ; and the picture was dismissed. It is right to add, that though Philip erased Zucaro's paintings from the Escurial, and discarded him, he rewarded him in a princely manner.

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scene, umbrageous, sylvan; or one Like the slow motion of a summer cloud,
of mere bareness and sublimity. I and then behold the hunters and their
do not understand the medium.- train, roused and sublimated from
Corn fields, and villas, and vineyards their seeming lethargy. Let him.
confound me; they seem like so join in the noise, and the mad emu-
many maps. But, independently of lation of the day, and return at night
other advantages, the human figure hungry and victorious, tired, but not
seems to me to have more power, sad, to talk over the perils and en-
strictly speaking, than any other ob-

joyments that he has known, and he ject. The Coliseum is stupendous, will do better than by even attending and so are Athos and Olympus, and to my minute and melancholy story. so is the Nile, and so is the Arabian Gentle or fair reader, lend me your Desart; but the men of Michael An- attention a little longer, and I shall gelo seem mightier than all. They have done. I have no more plea.. could move a world, or bear it. Yet

sures to speak of. About this time I like to gaze upon mountains and

an accident befel me, with which (if, great rivers. I like to look upon

the

you answer my presuming, and are mad ungovernable ocean, and to lis- either gentle or fair, or both) you ten to its hollow music. The raging will, I think, deeply sympathize. I fell and noise, how fine they are! but L" How-where-what-be quick, the face of man, ploughed up and Mr. Hypochondriac, and spare us?"torn by stormy passions, is finer and Why then, then, Sir, I fell-in love. more terrible still. In painting I -Gramercy!"-Yes: my fall was never saw any thing like a mountain, as deep as Powerscourt (150 feet, if or a huge precipice, or the great I remember)--and it lasted as long: curling billows of the sea. Extreme i. e. all the winter season. A pair altitude, and depth, and vastness, of eyes, as blue-as blue--as--Prusseem manageable in poetry only. sian blue, looked on me, and took all The slighter Pegasus of the sister the “ carnation” from my cheeks. I muse will not bear so severe a bur

was like a picture full of tender then. Indeed, how can man expect lights, hung up beside the gorgeous to thrust into some three feet of can- colouring of Rubens. I was smitten vas the torrent of the wide stretch- -annihilated- lost. How I recovering Amazon, or to take the full- ed is the marvel. But I did recover, length likeness of “ Teneriff or At

as this narrative will surely be suffilas?

cient to testify.-How I have gone And so farewell to painting. If I on since is a holy secret, not to be have trespassed on the preserve of divulged. I have spoken of scars; Mr. Weathercock-(By the bye, why but should I ever be seriously wounddoes not Mr. Weathercock go on ed, I confess that I shall probably with his pleasant lectures on prints keep the pleasant affliction to myself. and painters? Why does he, like a coy and beautiful virgin, shun the Let no one suppose that the pleaeye of his lovers, the “ admiring, pub- sures of the Hypochondriac exceed lic? Is there not much still to speak of,—fields that remain to be the measure of his pains. He has no won ? Let him write again,--and there is always a sting.

unalloyed happiness. In the honey

If he is toragain)-If I have trespassed on Mr. Weathercock's preserve, I trust that mented, it is enough; and if he is gay and gentle critic will excuse it.

delighted, he has an eye to the I will not (as I have already run

consequences. His imagination is

like an evil prophet. His hopes to such length) trouble the reader with the pleasures of hunting. Let bor; his fears only are firm, dark,

are spectral,-vanishing as soon as him go himself to the sport in the

terrible, enduring. His prospects dewy morning. Let him listen to the hound and the winding horn, to the

are never sunny,--never smiling; but woody echoes, the trampling of

Over his head appears the skye, horses, the shouts, the cries, the

And Saturn, lord of melancholie. raging, the tearing of the chase. Let For my own part I have always, even him see “the field” go down gently in the most magnificent visions, had to cover, like a flock to the pasture, a sense of pain. If I dreamt of flowor as Sir Walter did

ers or spices, their aromatic odour seemed impregnated with poison-(I bad: or solitude ?--that is worse. believe that I must have repeatedly What then is left for him ?-Why, fainted from the excess of such plea- every thing-in moderation. Wine, sures). If I walked among obelisks, indeed, or such stimulants, I would or towers, or mountains, or forests, à counsel him to give up altogether, feeling of intolerable awe took pos- and to live 'very plainly, very temsession of my spirit, and bore it perately, very regularly. « Good air down. They seemed ready for ever and gentle exercise," as the doctors to topple down or overwhelm me; say,-and (as I say) a resolution to and I had no power to resist or fly. withstand temptation, and excess of My soul seemed prostrate in these all sorts, and he will go on well. dreams, and I myself weak, worth, Patient reader, farewell. Were I to less, and contemptible.

tell thee more, our friend, the Editor, Does any one wish to dream as I might think that I was overstepping have done? -Let him banish so poor modesty on this subject. He might an ambition. Let him do things think that I grew too explicit, and waking, which may be of use to him- thou mightest esteem me a little teself, his friends, or his country, and dious. While we are good friends, he will see the seventh heaven in his therefore, let us part. I have sufdreams, for they will be full of hap- fered-Oh! far more than I have piness, radiant,--but not alarming. ventured to disclose to thee. What Yet, let him not study too much, nor is right to tell, I have told: the rest ride, nor walk, nor drink, nor eat, must remain my own unprofitable nor taste pleasure:-it is the “ too secret. Besides, the melancholy much” which brings the pain: a things which I have told thee have little of each is good.

passed away; and I am now reThe character of the Hypochon- covering. If I have not quite driac's mind is extreme susceptibility the buoyant spirit which becomes he is chameleon-like, and takes his me, I have Hope, at least, to cheer hue from the veriest trifle. "Tis me; I have a few books, a few pic

something, --nothing," and yet it tures, and one or two-(have I not?) bears upon him like a fate. There -friends. Their looks are ever genare certain things so sensitive as to tle and bright towards me,—not too seem anomalies among their species. radiant, If the stamina of the barberry are But shedding a delicious lunar light, pricked, they move. If the sensitive That steeps in kind oblivious ecstacy plant is touched, it curls itself up The care-crazed mind, like some still me. and contracts its leaves. So it is lody; with the Hypocondriac: he cannot and sufficient, if I do not grow disendure an innocent joke, and a fierce contented, to make graceful the fuassault of ridicule destroys him. ture, and yield me some requital for He loves idleness, perhaps ?- it is the past.

a

a

The Early french Poets.

JEAN BERTAUT. THE edition of Bertaut's poems, ence held at Fontainebleau ; and which I met with in the old French there is about as much poetry in library, was entitled, Recueil des them as in those by Waller, Dryden, Oeuvres Poetiques de J. Bertaut, and Addison, on similar occasions. Abbé d’Aunay, et premier Aumonier The poem on the death of Ronsard, de la Royne. Seconde Edition. Paris, (though it has much mythological 1605. The reader will not expect trifling about Proteus, and Nereus, much imagination in copies of verses and Thetis, and Jupiter, and Merwritten on such subjects as The Con- cury in the shape of the Cardinal du version of the King, The Reduction Perron) becomes exceedingly interof Amiens, A Discourse presented to esting towards the conclusion, where the King on his going to Picardy to Bertaut expresses his affection for the fight against the Spaniard, A Vis- departed poet, and the zeal which he course to the King on the Confer- had early felt to imitate him:

ame:

encor

Je n'avois pas seize ans quand la premiere Tant de vostre eloquence enchanté je devins, flame

Comme des dieux humains ou des hommes Dont la Muse m'eprit s'alluma dans mon divins.

Il est vrai que l'eclair de la vive lumiere Car deslors un desir d'eviter le trespas Qu'espandoit vostre gloire en ma foible pau. M'excita de te suivre et marcaer en tes pas ; piere, Me rendit d'un humeur pensive et solitaire, M'eblouissant la veue au lieu de m'eclairer, Et fist qu'en dedaignant les soucis du yul. M'eust fait de vostre suite à la fin retirer, gaire,

Rebuté pour jamais des rives de Permesse, Mon âge que fleury ne faisoit qu'arriver Si de mon jeune espoir confirmant la proAux mois de son printemps desia tint de messe, l'Hyver.

Vous n'eussiez mon courage à poursuivre

છે Depuis venant à voir les beaux vers de incité, Desportes,

Me redonnant le coeur que vous m'aviez osté. Que l'Amour et la Muse ornerent en tant Toy principalement belle egenereuse ame, de sortes,

Dont le juste regret tout le coeur nous enCe desir s'augmenta, mon ame presumant

tame, D'aller facilement sa douceur exprimant. Qui voyant mon destin me vouer aux neuf Fol qui n'advisay pas que la divine grace

soeurs, Qui va cachant son art d'un art qui tout Me promis quelques fruits de mes premieres surpasse,

fleurs, N'a rien si difficile à se voir exprimer M'excitas de monter apres toy sur Parnasse, Que la facilité qui le fait estimer!

Et m'en donnas l'exemple aussi bien que Lors à toy revenant, et croyant que la l'audace, peine

Die disant que Clion m'apperceut d'un bon De t'oser imiter ne seroit pas si vaine,

oeil, Je te prins pour patron, mais je peu moins Lors que mon premier jour veit les rais du

soleil : Avec mes vers de cuivre egaler les tiens Qu'il me falloit oser, que pour longuement d'or.

vivre, Si bien que pour jamais ma simple outre. Il falloit longuement mourir dessus le livre : cuidance,

Et que j'aurois du nom, si sans estre estonné En gardant son desir, perdit son esperance. Je l'allois poursuivant d'un labeur obstiné. Alors vos escrits seuls me chargerent les Veuillent les cieux amis, ô l'honneur de mains :

nostre age, Seuls je vous estimay l'ornement des hu. Rendre l'evenement conforme à ton presage; mains :

Et ne permittent point que j'aye acquis en A toute heure, en tous lieux, je serty vostre vain image

L'heur d'avoir veu ta face, et touché dans Devant mes yeux errante exciter mon cou. ta main. rage :

Cependant prens en gré, si rien de nous Je reveray vos noms, reveray vos hostels, t'agrée, Comme les temples saints vouez aux im. Ces pleurs, qu'au lieu des fleurs, ou qu'au mortels,

lieu d'eau sacrée, Voyant la palme Grecque en vos mains Avec toute la France atteins d'un juste deuil, reverdie:

Nous versons sur ta tombe et de l'ame et Bref je vous adoray (s'il faut qu'ainsi je die); de l'oeil.

Scarce sixteen years I number'd when my breast
Was with the sacred love of song possest;
A common doom so early I eschew'd,
And on thy steps immortal fame pursued.
Long ere my prime had ripen'd into man,
From vulgar cares with proud contempt I ran ;
Mine hours in pensive solitude were past,
And my first spring a wint'ry cloud o'ercast :
When, so it chanced, I lighten'd on the strain
Where mild Desportes essay'd his happy vein.
Love and the Muse with such a native grace
Endued his numbers, that I thought to trace
A copy of them in my simple lore.
Fond that I was, who had not learn'd before
How difficult by arts like his to please,
Nor aught less easy than that seeming ease.

Once more to thee I turn'd, and thought my pain
In imitating thee would prove less vain ;

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