The paintings of Murillo, though met with in all the best collections of Europe, where they take their place amongst the works of the first masters, are, nevertheless, valued by foreigners rather on account of their rarity than of their execution. The fact is, those of his paintings which have left Spain are nearly all devoted to the same subject—the Madonna and Child; and, even in that, offer but little variety either in the disposition, or in the colouring of the figures. The Spanish artist is, consequently, accused of want of genius and self-plagiarism. Nor does Murillo receive due credit for the pains he took in finishing his paintings; for, amongst those of his works which have found their way into foreign collections, there are few which have not received more or less damage, either in the transport from Spain, or by subsequent neglect; and, in many instances, the attempts made to restore them by cleaning or retouching have inflicted a yet more severe injury upon them.
Those persons only, therefore, who have visited Spain, and, above all, Murillo’s native city—Seville—can fully appreciate the merits of that wonderful artist. The vast number of master-pieces which he has there left behind him, and the variety of subjects they embrace, sufficiently prove, however, that, whilst in versatility of talent he has been equalled by few, in point of industry he almost stands without a rival.
Besides the twenty-five paintings in the Capuchin convent, already noticed, the Hóspital de la Caridad contains several of Murillo’s master-pieces; two, in particular, are deserving of notice—the subjects are, the miracle of the loaves and fishes, and Moses striking the rock. The great size of these two paintings saved them from a journey to Paris, but the French, in their zeal for the encouragement of the fine arts, stripped the chapel of all the other works of Murillo that enriched it—only a few of which were restored at the peace of 1815.
Other paintings of the Spanish Rafael are to be found in the various churches of Seville, and every private collector (of whom the city contains many,) prides himself on being the possessor of at least one original of his illustrious fellow-citizen.
The theatre of Seville has ever held a comparatively distinguished place in the dramatic annals of Spain; and, lamentable as is the condition to which the national stage has been reduced, the capital of Andalusia may still be considered as one of the most playgoing places in the kingdom. This may, perhaps, partly be accounted for by the number of dramatic authors to whom the city has given birth, partly by the peculiar disposition of the inhabitants of the province, who are deeper tinged with romance, and have more imagination than the rest of the natives of the Peninsula.
The deplorable atrophy under which the drama has of late years been languishing in every part of Europe[50] had, aided by various predisposing circumstances, long been undermining the at no-time very robust constitution of the Spanish theatre; which, like a condemned criminal, existed only from day to day, at the will and pleasure of a despotic sovereign; and had, moreover, constantly to combat the hostility of the priesthood: a bigoted race, prone at all times to discourage an art, which, by enlarging the understandings of the community, tended to diminish the respect with which their own profane melo-dramatic mysteries were regarded. The priests, in fact, have always been, and ever will be, averse to their flock being fleeced by any other shears than their own.
Considering, therefore, the obstacles which the Spanish theatre has had to contend against, obstacles which were yet more formidable in that country in times past than they are at the present day, it cannot but be admitted that the drama was cultivated in Spain with a degree of success which could little have been expected.
Our own early dramatists, indeed, drew largely from the prolific sources opened by Lope de Vega, Calderon, and other Spanish writers of the sixteenth century; and, perhaps, to the example set by those authors is our stage indebted for its release from the thraldom in which others are yet held, by a preposterous, though classic, adherence to the preservation of the unities.
The drama (in the strict sense of the term) never, however, became a popular amusement with the Spaniards generally. The legal disabilities imposed upon the performers by the intrigues of the Romish church brought the profession of an actor into disrepute, and, as a natural consequence, checked the progress of the histrionic art. The stage had no door opening to preferment, and the knight of the buskin (to whom, by the way, the Don was interdicted), though endowed with the talents of a Talma or a Kemble, of a Liston or a Potier, ranked below the lowest of the train of bullfighters, and could never expect to amass a fortune, or hope to be considered otherwise than as a “diverting vagabond.” A Spanish actress was yet more discouragingly circumstanced, as, however irreproachable her character, she held only the same grade in society as the frail Ciprian whose beauty gained her livelihood.
Labouring under such disadvantages, it is not surprising, therefore, that Thalia and Euterpe should eventually have been driven from the Spanish stage, and a licentious monster—the illegitimate offspring of Comus and Impudicitia—have been crowned with the palm-wreath snatched from the brows of the immortal Parnassides.