Imatges de pàgina
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ments are displayed in the erection, any notices on the beauties of which I shall leave to more able judges. The outrageous contradictions of Giulio's tastes and style make it difficult to arrest and stamp him with any unmistakeable mark. He has more grand and poetical conceptions than Raffaello, and commits more impertinencies than Paolo Veronese. Equal in simplicity to Fra. Bartolomeo, he dislocates more limbs than Bandinelli, or Goltzius. No one ever understood the mechanism of the human frame better, and nobody ever played such tricks with it. His composition is as compact and united as his chiaroscuro is unprincipled and frittered. It is difficult to conceive any thing warmer, more attractive, more in harmony with Tasso's chorus, O bellà età del oro, than his amorous groups or Bacchic scenery; or more repellant than his ungenial tone and opaque colour with "its red-bricky lights, violet demitints, and black shadows." From his mode of treating them, the most familiar attitudes assume an importance and novelty, while impossible twists wear without detection the prerogatives of suppleness. Though thoroughly imbued with the grandeur of Homer, and the purity and beauty of the antique, he had an incessant itch for grotesque deformity: a master of expression, he preferred the grimaces of an Italian mountebank with a mind capable of conceiving, and a hand of executing every thing joyous, gentle, elegant, and sublime, he revelled in brutal vulgarity, depressing meanness, and diabolical torture, and he drops from the heaven of sanctity into the abominations of Caprea.* In his choice of attitudes he is at once endlessly various, and mannered; in folds and flying curls, apparently natural, yet arbitrary; in the luxurious head-dresses of his females, at once antic and modern, classical and fantastic; and, to crown the whole, his ideas, young, lusty, and full of sap,

are starved by the adust rigidity of his execution. Such are the jarring elements of this master's works, whose characteristic is an erudite universality.

Giulio's a mighty raging flood
That from some mountain flows;
Rapid, and warm, and deep, and loud,
Whose force no limit knows.

He was a decided imitator of the antique; but it was of the kernel, not of the shell, like the modern French school. He thought in their spirit, instead of copying their remains. Thus he was always original and racy. The vigorous vitality of his own mind runs through all his compositions, and, as the Faery wine tingles, like youth, along the veins of grey Sherasmin,t so does his breath infuse life into a caput mortuum. He drags forth some musty mythologic fable, re-models it, and, placing it before our eyes in all its primeval bloom, commands and obtains our sympathies. He will give you an appetite for any dish which Ovid has sickened you with, and, like Æneas, and Othello, shall tell you his story over and over again, while you shall listen like Dido and Desdemona. Even his numerous and offensive extravagancies serve his purpose of striking and rivetting his works in the mind. Like Fuseli, he may be ill apprehended, but never despised; you may hate, but cannot forget: this is the prerogative of only true and very high genius. You shall be placed before Carlo Marratti, and before Guido, before Ann. Caracci, Alhano, Domenichino, Lanfranco, and Mignard, and stand neuter on the question of their merits; but M. Angelo's Brazen Serpent, Giulio's Rape of Hylas, Rembrandt's Crucifixion, or Fuseli's Hero and Leander, shall compel you perforce to an election! It is peace or war-intense love or intense detestation! and that mere wildness will never have this effect is fully evidenced by Rosso, Spranger, Van Mander, and Hemskirk.

In allusion to the lost Aretino prints. Fuseli says, "some have objected to the character of his physiognomies as more salacious than enamoured, less simple than vulgar, and often dismal and horrid, without being terrible.

+ See Wieland's Oberon, a beautiful romance, much in need of congenial translation. In the mean time, I advise you to read Mr. Sotheby's, if you have not already.

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Perhaps this last observation only applies to those already initiated in the theory of the art, inasmuch as it supposes the exercise of critical judgment; and judgment in painting, as well as in poetry," is an acquired talent which can only be produced by deep thought, and a long continued intercourse with the best models of composition!" This unanswerable truth should temper the rashness of decision, and suggest, "that if painting be a subject on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgment may be erroneous; and in many cases must be so." The proceedings and notions of people who regard poetry and painting as matters of amusement are immaterial; but those who wish to form their taste, and elevate their imagination, must begin by submitting themselves humbly to the acknowledged masters, imputing all want of relish to their own immature or distorted vision, and taking especial care never to risque a criticism, until fully satisfied that they enter into, and comprehend, the principles and aim of the object of their study. This will ask some pains. The mysteries of Eleusis were not penetrated by the aspirants in a day: many remained in the por

ches.

"Non uti Daedaleam licet omnibus ire Corinthum." " Every man's #nose will not make a shoeing horn." It happens not to every one to have brains of sealing-wax, ready to melt in the Muse's flame, and take the signet of Apollo. One thing, how ever, is certain: viz. that he who never sets out will never arrive at his journey's end.

Can we get in easily?

Old Woman. The Greeks got Troy by

trying for't, sweet wench! All's got by trying. Elton's Theocritus.

I shall now endeavour to entice you on by a slight descriptive sketch of one or two of Giulio's inventions: and first for the Cephalus and Procris; a composition of seventeen animated figures, which, as a whole, bears us to the age when honey stilled from oaks, and when no storms or frosts stripped the green roofs from thewons' of the sylvans. We should read Moschus's Lament for Bion, the sweet Shepherd, before looking at the picture; or study the picture as a preparation for the La

ment. We have nearly the same images in both. For either victim the high groves and forest dells murmur; the flowers exhale sad perfume from their buds; the nightingale mourns on the craggy lands, and the swallow in the long-winding vales. "The satyrs too, and fauns darkveiled groan," and the fountain nymphs, within the woods, melt into tearful waters. The sheep and goats leave their pasture; and oreads, "who love to scale the most inaccessible tops of all uprightest rocks," hurry down from the song of their wind-courting pines; while the dryads bend from the branches of the meeting trees, and the river moans for white Procris "with many-sobbing streams,"

Filling the far-seen ocean with a voice.

Leigh Hunt. The golden bees are silent on the thymy Hymettus; and the knelling horn of Aurora's love no more shall scatter away the cold twilight on the top of Pelion!-The foreground of our subject is a grassy sun-burnt bank, broken into swells and hollows like waves (a sort of land-breakers); rendered more uneven by many foottripping roots, and stumps of trees stocked untimely by the axe, which are again throwing out light green shoots. This bank rises rather suddenly on the right to a clustering grove, penetrable to no star, at the entrance of which sits the stunned Thessalian king, holding, between his knees, that ivory-bright body which was, but an instant agone, parting the rough boughs with her smooth forehead, and treading alike on thorns and flowers with jealousystung foot; now helpless, heavy, void of all motion, save when the breeze lifts her thick hair in mockery: Oh God! what does not one short hour

snatch up

*

Of all man's gloss! Still overflows the cup Of his burst cares; put with no nerves together,

And lighter than the shadow of a feather. Chapman's Epicedium.

From between the closely neighboured boles astonished nymphs press forward with loud cries ;

And deer-skin-vested satyrs, crown'd with ivy twists, advance; And put strange pity in their horned coun

tenance.

Lælaps Kes beneath, and shows by his panting the rapid pace of death. On the other side of the groupe, virtuous love, with "vans dejected," holds forth the arrow to an approach ing troop of Sylvan people, fauns, rams, goats, satyrs, and satyr-mothers, pressing their children tighter with their fearful hands, who hurry along, from the left, in a sunken path between the foreground and a rocky wall, on whose lowest ridge a brookguardian pours from her urn her grief-telling waters. Above, and more remote than the Ephidryad, another female, rending her locks, appears among the vine-festooned pillars of an unshorn grove. The centre of the picture is filled by shady meadows, sinking down to a river-mouth: -beyond is "the vast strength of the ocean-stream," from whose floor the extinguisher of stars, rosy Aurora, drives furiously up her brine-washed steeds, to behold the death-pangs of her rival. I am not aware that Giulio ever painted The Lament for Procris,

The print before me (by Giorgio Ghisi) is plainly made from a drawing, or paper sketch; a custom among the old Italian engravers, easily proved by M. Antonio's celebrated St. Cecilia with the black Collar (a very fine impression of it is worth from twenty to thirty guineas!) after a design of Raffäello, differing much from the picture engraved by Bonosone, Strange, Massard, &c.; by his Parnassus, Judgment of Paris, The Virgin with the long Thigh, &c. &c. Also by this very Ghisi's Angles of the Sistine Chapel, after M. Agnolo; by Caraglio's Loves of the Gods, The Labours of Hercules, after Rosso (le maître Roux), and The Marriage of the Virgin; and not to multiply examples, from Parmegiano's Vulcan throwing the Net, by Gaspar Reverdinus, and the same master's Mars and Venus, with Vulcan at the Forge (in its first state), by Eneas Vicus, in which last EXTREMELY RARE plate this fact is very apparent. I notice this, to account for the thick, coarse, careless outlines of many old prints, as well as for the want of beauty in the features; which proceeded not from incompetency, but from neglect: the old masters satisfying themselves, in

their pen and ink sketches, with the vividness and intelligibility of the composition, general character, harmony of lines, &c. without attending to the details.

And now, most pleasant of readers, I must take off my hat to you. I had fully purposed, in this article, to have lectured amply on Giulio; and then touching lightly, for the present, on Primaticcio, to have enjoyed myself among the elegant groups of the seducing Parmegiano; but this has not been vouchsafed unto me to do. My fixed limits are filled with most unintentional other guess stuff; and the application of my prose motto, from "The learned Maister Selden," is as clear as-this glass of Sherris. However, the printer must contrive to edge in my little list below. VALETE.

Prints from Giulio Romano. The Death of Procris; inscribed at bottom, "Julius Romanus, inventor," and the chiffre of the engraver, G. Mantuano (Ghisi), about 1. 11s. 6d. or 21. 2s. Od. according to the brilliancy of the impression. Retouched by Thomassinus, and bearing his name. 5s. or 6s. Hylas, a Nymphis Raptus, a very singular yet beautiful composition of twenty figures (including dogs), very desirable, as characteristic of his genuine style. (Sante Bartoli.) 5s. or 6s. perhaps not so much.

The Hours leading out the Horses of the

Sun; in a very high taste of poetry: famous by the criticism of Sir Joshua. (Ditto.) 2s. 6d. or 3s.

Jupiter suckled by the Goat Amalthea, and fed with Honey by the Nymphs. (Ditto.) 3s. or 4s. If you can spare the cash, I advise you to buy Bonosone's print, (without name,) taken, as I should imagine, from a drawing: you will find it either at Woodburne's or Colnaghi's, to a certainty, for 17. 11s. 6d. or 21. 2s. Od. N. B. It is not one of Julio Bo's (as he signs himself sometimes) best things, by any means; but it has ten times the feeling and ease of Bartoli's etching.

L'Enfance de Jupiter; totally different from the preceding. Prettily engraved by Patas, in the Palais Royale. 5s. The Dance of Apollo and the Muses; from the small picture, a very highly finished print, by Raphael Urbin Massard. 21. 2s. Od. or 17. 11s. 6d.

The Triumph of Vespasian; large folio

Ovid says that he was transformed into a stone before the present event; but I don't chuse to believe him.

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THEN, spent with weary wandering, on the bank
All tissued with sweet flowers, I flung my side;
And bathed my forehead in the herbage dank

That sprouted cool beneath the willows wide:
There was the spot where broken hearts might hide,
So thought I, from the world of evil men;
Gazing for ever on the silver tide,

Or listening to the murmurs of the glen,
Or echo sweet that woke its hollow sounds again.
How lovely were it thus, from day to day,

To glide through life, from all it's troubles clear,
To leave at morn my rushy couch to pray,

Then forth and walk, companion'd by the deer,
And timorous hare, and wood-dove cooing near,
The friend of every innocent wild thing
That wing'd or grazed beside me without fear,
All in those secret arbours worshipping,

As once in paradise, their lonely pilgrim king.

And what were wealth to me? those little flowers,
Were they not richer than the gems of Inde?
What kingly tapestry like those waving bowers?
What throne so glorious as that wild rock lined
With golden moss, with love-sick rose entwined?
What were the banquet of the proud saloon
To the young almond's pulp, the citron's rind

That scoop'd the stream, when the pure feast was done?
Those are the Hermit's joys, to kings and courts unknown.

And when the twilight sent her pearly star
To tell me that the hour of rest was come,
My music be the waterfall afar,

his eyes.

The hunter's mellow cornet winding home,
The bleat of distant folds, the wild bee's hum,
Like evening's anthem rising to the skies,—
Then turn to sleep within that rushy room
Where slumber never from the Hermit flies,
Till morn looks smiling in, and breathes upon
So mused Lin a dim, delicious trance,
Till dreams upon my sinking eyelids clung.
A shout awoke me, swift and strong the lance
That through the thicket o'er my forehead sung.
Half blind and dizzy to my steed I sprung,
Beside his shrinking hoof a knight lay slain.

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Fierce fight was round me, spear and mace, high swung,

Through proud helms crash'd their way; blood gush'd like rain, And allwas trumpet-bursts, and yells of mortal pain. Ωτος,

THE DRAMA.

No. XXI.

A FRIEND of ours once intended to favour the world with an essay on the subject of the title-pages of books. We think that the titles which dramatic authors adopt, for the purpose of irritating their productions into notoriety, would afford even a more fertile theme. The variety which is to be seen in and about London is (as Mr. Sampson would say) "prodigious!" There are some of all sorts

pe

From grave to gay, from lively to severe, from Sebastian the Fourth, to Loy alty, or the King in Dublin, as may be learned from a careful rusal of those flags of invitation which are daily issued from the Cobourg or Astley's printing presses:— We have also "the Cure for Coxcombs," a light and "lively" affair at the Lyceum; and the Geraldi Duval of Drury Lane may, by the help of a little imagination, pass for something that is even "severe." We hope that these satirical authors of Old Drury thrive in the sunshine of the manager's

favour.

Hâc arte Pollux, et vagus Hercules
Innixus, arces attigit igneas;
Quos inter Augustus recumbens
Purpureo bibit ore nectar.

It is not unlikely that the remembrance of boyish impressions per

suades our manufacturers of melodrame into the adoption of certain titles for their pieces. Otherwise, how can we possibly account for the extraordinary names which the Beaumonts and Fletchers of the Cobourg theatre hold out to allure the simple of both sexes within their doors. We will venture to transcribe a few of their alarming titles: first begging our fair readers and nervous friends (if we have any) to pass over the terrible array, and meet us again at the next paragraph. Observe how the catalogue swells, from

a poor common assault into an absolute agglomeration of horrors!

1. Sebastian the Fourth, in the course of which a desperate combat between Messrs. Bradley and Blanchard!

2. Trial by Battle, with a desperate combat, &c!

3. One o'clock, or The bleeding Nun! 4. The Cry of Blood, or the Juror Murderer!!

5. The red Demon of the Hartz Forest, or the three Charcoal Burners !!

6. The Jew, the Gamester, the Seducer, the Murderer, and the Thief!!!—

NB. This last, in the play-bills, is also distinguished by the title of a "domestic tale!"

We are almost ashamed of descending from such a magnificent enumeration to common every-day matters: but we must not omit to mention that the Cobourg dramatists have ventured upon another subject of it may challenge a comparison with some interest; which, inasmuch as one of their predecessors who has attained a certain portion of celebrity, is not entirely destitute of peril. The play, or "piece," to which we allude, is called "The LEAR of private Life;" and truly, it is better adapted for private representation than for public. The person who answers to the Cordelia of Shakspeare was played by a Miss whom we never saw before (nor since), and Mr. Henry Kemble, the youngest and last of an illustrious brood, it was, we believe, who enacted the mad and deserted father in a style of the most determined placidity. A child might touch him (as the keepers say of the lions), he is so gentle. In truth, he is not a man to tear a passion to tatters, or to overstep the limits of the strictest ceremony. We could indulge our spleen a little on this subject; but as Greece was "magni memor Herculis," so we do not forget that the laurels of Mrs. Siddons, and the greater Kembles, should be permitted to over

shadow and shelter this weaker scion

of the family tree.

COVENT-GARDEN.

This theatre is now (21st September) about to open. We are informed that some changes have taken place in the list of performers; but we hope that none of the bright cluster of comedians are gone, and also Kemble will remain, notwithstanding that Mr. Macready and Mr. Charles the addition of Mr. Young. This gentleman is the most important accession that we are aware of to the winter corps. Mr. Young is a popular actor and an elegant man. He is, perhaps, the finest declaimer on

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