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I understood they were inclined to be equally generous in France. Two of them, with whom I conversed, said carelessly, The Spaniards like it, and we give it to them. In France, they do not care for it, and we keep it to ourselves. In general, I did not find them very fanatical. They have a kind of indolence, which excludes violent sentiments. They are very little affected by the diminution of the King's power; but the happy theocratic influence which they enjoyed, has been disturbed. Several of their convents have been visited; the majority have suffered for the crimes of a few, and they have fled; in no great hurry, however, and contented with the quiet and easy pace of their mules. The profession of a monk is very general in Spain, because it is easy, pleasant, and favours all kind of idleness. If a man has committed any irregularities, or if he be still more lazy than his lazy countrymen, he is received into a monastery, and displays his tranquil sanctity in the eyes of the people. A portion of the land is allotted for their support; and voluntary donations add considerably to their established income. This lazy mode of life gives most of them a happy en bon point; a lively red to their cheeks, effaces the fine lines of the Moorish countenance; renders those happy bodies difficult to be moved; and in their untroubled reign, takes from them even the hatred of heresy, the very name of which is unknown to the greater part of them. In others, the cloister appears to have made the complexion sallow, hollowed and inflamed the eyes, depressed the cheeks, and thus produced the ideal of fanaticism. I have never seen anything finer than some of these heads projecting from the large robes of the capuchins, with an ample forehead, a long straight nose, large black fixed eyes, a little, strong, and thick beard. Among them are those men, who, by turns, monks and guerillas, have quitted the mountains since the return of Ferdinand, and now go back to them, to satisfy an ardent temperament, which, under other institutions, would have shewn itself in great actions and noble enterprizes."

This Frenchman describes with some feeling of picturesque beauty, and his sketches of scenery have a clearness rare among his countrymen. The range of the Pyrenees is full of those

finer features of landscape, which make the true province of painting; with some points of gigantic height and savage solitude, with glaciers and avalanches, its general height is that which allows the harmonies of forest colouring, of luxuriant valleys, and of sparkling and gentle streams. The Alps are too wild and lofty for this; the Apennines are perhaps too low, too naked of forest, and too steril. Our artists have now exhausted the prominent subjects of the pencil at home; a diligence and a week will place them in the midst of a new world of characteristica nd glorious scenery; and I should not be surprised to see Mount Canigou, and the Cerdagne, monks, mules, fortresses and all, transformed to English walls.

"One of the finest sights that I met with in the Pyrenees, was that which struck me when I first left Perpignan to penetrate into the mountains. It was about six in the morning. The cold was severe; a violent and icy wind blew from the mountains of Capsir, which were covered with snow; and a young man of Rousillon, with a short jacket, a hanging cap, and a short and lively face, drove at a gallop four horses, which carried us round Mount Canigou. The plain had not yet received a ray of the sun, when suddenly the top of Canigou was lit with a rose-coloured tint, which, blending with the white of the snow, produced a shade inexpressibly soft. The luminous band increasing as the sun rose higher, the upper peak seemed to enlarge in proportion as it was illuminated. The whole mountain was speedily covered with light and purple. Then all its forms, hitherto concealed by the darkness, became marked at once; all its projections rose, all its hollows seemed to be deeper. The cold, the wind, and our rapid motion, added to the effect of this fine scene.

"After having proceeded a long time round the foot of Canigou, the mountains of Caspir, which are at first in front, appear at the side. We then enter the defiles, and the plain disappears, not to appear again till a hundred leagues off, that is to say, at Bayonne. Advancing to the defiles which lead to Cerdagne, we find a people who are entirely Spanish. The women, whose faces are round and animated, wear a handkerchief, which, spreading like a veil at the back of the head, is fastened, by two corners, under the chin,

and hangs in a point over the shoulders. A bow of black ribbon, tastefully fastened at the root of the hair, ornaments the forehead; the waist is strongly compressed by a corset, laced in front; and they shew peculiar grace in their Sunday dances.'

M. Thiers now comes rapidly into the centre of operations.

"Prades is the first place at all considerable that we meet after Perpignan, and it is the last. Carriages cannot pass beyond it; the way of travelling is on horseback. At the moment of my arrival, news had been received of the late defeats of the Regency, and of the flight of the insurgents into the French territory. I heard the mountaineers speaking of it with warmth, and with the fullest disposition to find something marvellous in it. Every one told his own story, but all spoke with wonder of the cavalry of Mina, which, they said, ran upon the points of the rocks. Without, however, being so miraculous, it is certain that this cavalry traverses the mountains with surpri sing rapidity and ease. They also announced the approach of several ge nerals, the Regency itself, and, above all, El Rey Mata Florida, as the peasants here called him."

In those days," Rebellion was good-luck;" and the Cortes were viceroys over the King." The scale has turned since, and the kingly Cortes are now playing the fugitive, in place of El Rey Matu Florida. The tourist is at last indulged with a view of an emigrant rebellion.

"I was anxious to get to the place where those celebrated insurgents were to be seen. After travelling very rapidly, towards night-fall, I met with the first encampment, in a small field, at the foot of the mountains, and in the midst of the snow. I never saw a more melancholy and original sight. It was distinguished, at a distance, by the floating pennons of our lancers, who were placed as sentinels at the four corners of the itinerant village. Twelve or fifteen hundred poor creatures, men, women, children, and old people, were stretched upon the ground, with their baggage spread out; some were lying on a little straw; others added their clothes, and endeavoured to make beds of them. Some mules were fastened outside the circle, with their heads covered with ornaments, and their eyes with plates of copper, according to the Spanish fashion."

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"In the midst of this melancholy scene, I was much struck with a young man, dressed in rather a handsome uniform, and well mounted, who, though unarmed, was distinguished by a loftiness and grace entirely African, put his horse on all his paces, and seemed to amuse himself with the road and the fugitives."

Our extracts must close, though the pamphlet contains many interesting details. But the flight of the Regency is too curious an event in the chapter of revolutionary accidents, not to be worth transferring. The traveller has set out early to pass the defiles leading to the valley of the Cerdagne.

"I left Olette in the morning, after having, with great difficulty, procured a mule and a guide. The sky was dark and stormy; an impetuous wind blew through the defiles. I took the road to Mount Louis. There the mountains draw closer together, and rise. The road is cut out on one side of the rocks, at one third of their height, and allows room for one mule at most.Above, are inaccessible eminences-below, are torrents-and beyond, are other mountains. The scene is most diversified. Sometimes you rise, and seem to command the abyss; at others, you descend, and seem to have it over your head. Sometimes, following the sinuosities of the defile, you come into an obscure enclosure, apparently without an outlet; then, suddenly doubling a point, you discover an unexpected and immense prospect; vast amphitheatres of dazzling snow, black pines, and a succession of mountains, which crowd together, and lock into each other. The confusion of cubic and broken masses of limestone; blocks of granite; the schistus, detached in slabs, or broken into little flakes, added to the roaring of the torrents, the disorder of the winds, and the pressed

and rent clouds, afford a perfect picture of chaos. Never did the confusion of the elements appear to me more dreadful, even in the midst of a storm

at sea.

"On this day, and during this dreadful storm, I met with still more fugitives than on the day before. Not a Monk, not a woman, had ventured to set out. Those who had no families with them, were conducted in bands by some of our soldiers. The poor wretches wrapped themselves up as well as they could; fortunately for them, they had the wind in their backs, and, impelled by it, they ran along the narrowest paths with extreme agility."

He now meets the curious phenomenon of a Government running away, and seems to have been rather exhilarated with the sight, notwithstanding some natural touches of feeling for those luckless fellow-sharers of the desert and the storm.

"My guide, when we set out, told me that we should meet El Rey Mata Florida. In fact, the pages of the Regency soon announced his approach. I must make my reader acquainted with those pages, who have been spoken of with so much complacency, as well as the portmanteaus containing the archives of the Regency. I saw horsemen pass me in groups of three or four together, upon horses which were lean, indeed, and ill-shaped, but excellent, for they galloped over the snow, and along the paths, with a security, I might almost say an infallibility, which was truly surprising.Their equipment was worthy of the place, of the men, and of the army to which they belonged. Some had old caps, very much worn; others rusty helmets, or little round hats, with short plumes of various colours. They had uniforms, or Catalonian jackets, sometimes pantaloons and shoes, but, for the most part, gaiters and spartil las, and no spurs. Some had no saddles, nor any other harness than a halter. We met from sixty to eighty horsemen, of whom there were perhaps twelve or fifteen well equipped, and wrapped in good blue cloaks, escorting officers," &c. &c.

The aspect under which this unfortunate Regency appeared at last, was certainly not calculated to raise very superior ideas of its former influence. A more shattered and lonely remnant of government, could not have been easily

found in all the expulsions of Europe. Its decrepitude, contrasted with the speedy triumph of its principles, and the pomp of its military return, form a singular contrast, and seem made to forbid politicians from prophecy.

"At last I met the long-expected Regency. We were climbing a flight of steps, which, extending along the side of a hill, turned towards its summit. On a sudden, I saw a horseman at the summit of the path, who turned the point, and advanced towards us with a truly martial air. He was an old dragoon, enveloped in an immense cloak, and resembling the warriors in Wouverman's battle-pieces. After him came a foot-soldier, leading two good horses by the bridle. We were in our turn doubling the point, and descending by the opposite flight of steps, when I perceived a group who appeared to ascend it with diffi culty, on foot. A man between fifty and sixty years of age, of middle sta ture, pale, thin, and stooping, with his eyes red, wearing a black cap and a brown great-coat, was leaning upon two other persons, and dragging himself along with the greatest difficulty. My guide, at this sight, called out to me, El Rey, El Rey Mata Florida!"

"His suite were not less characteristic-three or four mean-looking and ill-dressed individuals walked by his side; those were the great officers of the Regency. One of them, who was pretty far advanced in years, very tall, wearing an enormously large French hat, covered with oil-skin, and carrying a bundle under his arm, kept a little on one side-he was a minister, I know not of what department. Behind him was a tall Capuchin, in a long robe, who seemed to represent the altar near the throne. Lastly, a few steps behind them, came a young man in a green cloak, with several capes, dressed completely in the French fashion, rather stout, and of a very remarkable appearance. I was told that he was the son of the Marquis Mata Florida. The wind blowing violently at the moment, both parties stopped, and I had sufficient time to examine this fugitive court. They watered their horses at a little stream which issued from the side of the mountain, and which flowed under a thick covering of ice that had been broken. After this, we continued our respective routes."

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Lectures on the Fine Arts.
No. I.

ON GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

sort of things he has done, to have a capital notion of the principles of grouping. Now, these things are valuable in themselves; but they are doubly, trebly valuable, as possessed by a person of real comic humour, and a total despiser of THAT VENERABLE HUMBUG, which almost all the artists of our day seem, in one shape or other, to revere as the prime god of their idolatry.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, It is high time that the public should think more than they have hitherto done of George Cruikshank; and it is also high time that George Cruikshank should begin to think more than he seems to have done hitherto of himself. Generally speaking, people consider him as a clever, sharp caricaturist, and nothing more-a freehanded, comical young fellow, who will do anything he is paid for, and who is quite contented to dine off the proceeds of a 66 George IV." to-day, and those of a "Hone" or a "Cobbett" to-morrow. He himself, indeed, appears to be the most careless creature alive, as touching his reputation. He seems to have no plan-almost no ambition-and, I apprehend, not much industry. He does just what is sug--and yet it is precisely the chief merit gested or thrown in his way-pockets the cash-orders his beef-steak and bowl and chaunts, like one of his own heroes,

"Life is all a variorum,

We regard not how it goes." Now, for a year or two, to begin with, this is just as it should be. Cruikshank was resolved to see Life -and his sketches shew that he has seen it, in some of its walks, to purpose. But life is short, and art is long; and our gay friend must pull up.

Perhaps he is not aware of the fact himself but a fact it undoubtedly is -that he possesses genius-GENIUS in its truest sense-strong, original, English genius. Look round the world of ART, and ask, how many are there of whom anything like this can be said? Why, there are not half a dozen names that could bear being mentioned at all; and certainly there is not one, the pretensions of which will endure sifting, more securely and more triumphantly than that of George Cruikshank.

In the first place, he is-what no living caricaturist but himself has the least pretensions to be-and what, indeed, scarcely one of their predecessors was-he is a thorough-bred artist. He draws with the ease, and freedom, and fearlessness of a master; he understands the figure completely; and appears, so far as one can guess from the trifling

Nobody, that has the least of an eye for art, can doubt that Cruikshank, if he chose, might design as many Annunciations, Beatifications, Apotheoses, Metamorphoses, and so forth, as would cover York Cathedral from end to end. It is still more impossible to doubt that he might be a famous portrait painter. Now, these are fine lines both of them

of Cruikshank, that he cuts them both-that he will have nothing to do with them-that he has chosen a walk of his own-and that he has made his own walk popular. Here lies genius; but let him do himself justice-let him persevere and rise in his own pathand then, Ladies and Gentlemen, then the day will come when his name will be a name indeed-not a name puffed and paraded in the newspapers

but a living, a substantial, perhaps even an illustrious, English name. Let him, in one word, proceed-and, as he proceeds, let him think of Ho

GARTH.

The English artists seem in general to be very pleasant, lively, good-hearted fellows. I know a great many of them, and I love them-but I cannot compliment them much upon the extent and depth of their views as to Art. How rare a thing is the least approach to originality! How rare a thing is the least approach to what deserves the name of success! Will you forgive me for venturing upon a few hints-certainly well-meant-and as certainly not hasty ones?

The dignity of Art-the importance of Art-the grandeur of Art-these are phrases that are never out of their mouths; and yet how few of them seem to take any pains upon themselves such as might become people devoted

to what is important, dignified, and grand? None, or almost none of them, appear to have considered in what sort of state the world is at present as regarding them and their art. The world is, in the first place, in possession of a vast body of masterpieces in every department; and, secondly, the world is full of light and information; and, whatever it might have done three bundred years ago, more or less, it will not now tolerate, at least it will not now applaud, any artist whose works do not announce a mind rich in general accomplishment and acquirement -a mind that has been fed with the contemplation of human thoughts and feelings, as well as human forms-a highly educated and cultivated mind. An ignorant man, my friends, can not succeed in our time either in Art or in Authorship. Exceptions there may be but no long-headed man goes upon the strength of exceptions; and, after all, how very, very rare are the exceptions!

by pen, pencil, or chisel; but now this will not answer. First of all, these things have been so, and by such hands, expressed :- and nobody cares for having them over again. But, secondly, and still more, we wish to have the finer traits. Intelligence is now diffused and general-so much so, indeed, as to make an essential part of that Nature which all Art must imitate. It follows, that people who can only meddle with the rough work,that is to say, [for a stray Hogg, &c. here and there, are merely exceptions,] all rough-hewn and illiterate people, had better not meddle either with poetry, or painting, or sculpture, Q.E.D.

Now what are the painters in general? Capital fellows, no doubt, in their way a little addicted to turning up their noses at each otheramicably open in their vanities-but, upon the whole, pleasant people→→→ most assuredly so. But what do they know of the world, past, present, or to come? They have never read anyWho, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the thing worth speaking of-that, ingreatest painter now living?-Nobody deed, they scarcely ever pretend to can hesitate about the answer-WIL- have done-So much for the past. KIE. And what is Wilkie? Is he not a They live among themselves-they man, who, if he were a lawyer, a physi- marry [most commonly as the modern cian, or a divine, would be pronounced Pygmalion would fain have married] -by any one that had spent an evening or they are bachelors-men of the third. in his company-a singularly well-in- floor and the mutton chop-cheerful formed man? He is so-and no won- over ale or gin-twist "of an evening," der; for he is not a mere painter-he-smokers of shag, frequenters of the received the same general education which would have been bestowed upon him, had he chosen to wear a gown and cassock, or a three-tailed periwig-the education of a British gentleman. He has all along lived in the society of men of the world-and he is a man of the world. He, therefore, being possessed of this mechanical art, makes use of it exactly as he would have made use of the art of writing, or the art of speaking, had his turn happened to lie another way. He knows what the world has been, and what the world is-and he expresses by his art that understanding of, and sympathy with, the spirit of the age in which he lives-without which a painter is, in point of fact, just as manc, incomplete, and ineffectual a being, as a poet or an orator.

pit, emergers into sunshine on "cleanshirt day"-dry, yellow, absurd men, with fantastic curls or picturesque baldness-the solemn smile of a recluse-the ease of an actor off the stage-a shuffling lounging gait-and too often green spectacles. So much for the present. As for the future world, I strongly suspect it is far from occupying anything like a due proportion of their attention. They seldom go to church at all, the more is the shame to them; and, when they do so, it really is not much better, for, instead of attending to the divine truths which the eloquent preacher is uttering, they are generally studying some effect about the chandeliers or the window-curtains, or scratching down the heads of the church-warden and his lady on the fly-leaf of the little red Prayer-book.

My drift in short is, that all painters of talent ought to be diligent students of other things besides their own particular art. And my argument, at

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