A slight sketch of the life of Murillo, will not be considered an unappropriate introduction to some notice of his principal works, yet to be found in the Picture Gallery of Madrid; and in the churches, convents, and hospitals of Seville.

Estaban Murillo, the prince of painters, was born at Seville, on the 1st of January, 1618. The small town of Pilas, in Andalusia, has disputed this honour with Seville; but the claim of Pilas to this distinction has probably arisen from the fact, that his mother was from Pilas, and that he inherited, through her, some property in that neighbourhood. But it is of little importance whether the courtly Seville, or the lowly Pilas, gave birth to Murillo; they may feel equally honoured in his name, for the name of Murillo belongs to his country. How he acquired the name of Estaban, has also been matter of dispute: some say he derived it from his father, who, it is said, was called Gaspar Estaban Murillo; and others are of opinion, that he took the name of his maternal uncle; but this dispute is of even less importance than that respecting the place of his nativity. Neither of the Estabans are now alive, to claim the honour of such a name-son; and Murillo’s honours are independent of his kindred.

Great painters, more than any other class of eminent men, have given intimation, during childhood, of the distinction to which they have afterwards attained; and if the chronicles and traditions of Murillo record truly, his infancy did not form an exception. This fact is not difficult to account for; because, at the earliest age, the genius of the painter finds facilities for displaying itself. The infant musician to whom nature has denied a vocal talent, cannot, without an acquaintance with some instrument, convey a knowledge of his powers; still less can the infant poet embody poetic conceptions, without an acquaintance with language: but the painter finds, every where around, the means of giving expression to his thoughts: a dark and a light substance are all he requires; and in Spain, where the walls of the rooms are almost universally white-washed, the infant Murillo could find no obstacle to the indulgence of his genius.

The parents of Murillo saw no good likely to arise from an inclination for daubing the walls, and scratching the brick floors; and did all that lay in their power to discourage it; but the boy knew his calling, and still continued to disappoint the hopes of his father, who had destined him for the church; and to exhaust the patience of his mother, who, as it is said, returning one day from mass, found that her only picture, which she prized highly—an infant Christ and a lamb—had suffered an extraordinary transformation. Murillo had taken the glory from the head of the Christ, and substituted his own little hat, intending to represent himself; and the lamb he had converted into a dog—an animal in which he took great delight. Murillo was then too young to be conscious of any impiety in this transformation; the bent of his mind through life, was wholly averse from this: but his parents, despairing of a cure, thought it advisable to let him have his own way, and sent him to the house of his kinsman, Juan de Castillo, who undertook to teach the youthful Murillo the first principles of design and colouring.

This Castillo was no despicable hand; especially in the art of colouring, for a knowledge of which, he was partly indebted to Luis de Varjas, who had sometime before returned to Seville from Italy, bringing along with him the knowledge which he had acquired in Florence. Besides the youthful Murillo, Castillo could boast of several other disciples in his school; particularly Pedro de Moya,—of whom, more hereafter,—and Alonzo Cano, whose freedom of touch, natural design, and charming colouring, afterwards secured for him a high rank among Spanish painters. But Murillo, whose genius was of still a loftier kind, soon supplanted his companions in the favour of his master, by the yet more rapid progress which he made in the art; but he continued, notwithstanding, to discharge the menial offices of grinding the colours, cleaning the brushes, and preparing the canvas,—such being the original conditions upon which he had been admitted into his relation’s workshop.

There was at this time much rivalry among the masters in Seville, each of whom had a school in his own house,—and this rivalry was fully partaken by their pupils; for the reputation of the schools necessarily depended, in a great measure, upon the proficiency of the pupils. Murillo felt deeply interested in the honour of his kinsman’s school; and he, probably perceiving in his young disciple, a promise of excellence that might afterwards reflect honour upon himself, was the more assiduous in his instructions; so that, after a few years, Murillo had well nigh exhausted the information which his master was able to communicate.

But at this time Castillo suddenly quitted Seville to reside in Cadiz; his school was broken up, and Murillo was left without a master. It is probable that the most important moment of his life,—that upon which has hinged his future character,—was, when feeling the helplessness of his condition, he meditated upon his future prospects, and present necessities; and asked himself that plain question, which must be put and answered by all who are situated like him, “What shall I do?” How much depended upon this resolve! for often has genius been extinguished because no friendly hand was by, to fan the flame yet struggling for existence,—often discouraged, by being left to grope its way in darkness. Some in Murillo’s condition, might have abandoned a profession that held out no solid advantages; and others, would have sought a new master. But Murillo, whether from a confidence in his own powers, or from an unwillingness to enter any of those other schools which had been rivals to Castillo’s, came to a resolution more fortunate for himself and for the world: he determined to throw himself upon his own resources, and to trust in his genius.

It happened, at this time, to be the fair at Seville, at which season there was always a demand for devotional pictures, both for the uses of the pious at home, and for exportation to America. But these pictures were always of the most wretched description, and painted by the lowest artists; and with so much haste, that it not unusually happened that some favourite saint was painted during the time that the devout purchaser bargained for the price; nor was it a rare occurrence that the painter should be required to change a Magdalen into a Madonna; a Virgin into St. Anthony of Padua; or a group of cherubs into the souls in purgatory. Murillo took his place in the fair, and painted whatever was required, at whatever price was offered; and there can be little doubt that this varied and rapid practice gave a freedom to the pencil, and a facility in the expression of ideas, which years of study under a master might have failed to produce.

Murillo had now attained his twenty-third year; and at this time a circumstance occurred, which had an important influence upon his future career; this was, the arrival in Seville of Pedro de Moya. It will be recollected, that Pedro de Moya was a co-disciple with Murillo, in the school of Castillo; but he had, some years before, and while Murillo was still a pupil, left it and Seville; and had subsequently gone to Flanders as a soldier, with a greater disposition to see the world than to paint. But his natural propensities had only been suspended by the desire of novelty, so natural to youth: for meeting in Flanders with the works of Van Dyk, and other eminent Flemish masters, he returned to his profession, and became a disciple of that great painter, under whom he acquired those graces, with which he returned to Seville, to excite the admiration and the hopes of Murillo.

Murillo, struck with the improvement of his former companion, set himself to imitate his style; but fortunately for Murillo, who might otherwise have degenerated into a copyist, Moya soon quitted Seville, and he was left to his aspirations and his difficulties. Conscious of his own great imperfections, he had obtained a glimpse of what might be the reward of courage and perseverance; and his desires suggested many projects for their gratification. It is a trying, and yet a happy moment for genius, that in which humility and pride arise together, bringing with them the discovery, that the past has been a blank leaf in existence; but begetting a desire to turn over another, and to fill it with things that shall never be blotted out. Such was, doubtless, the state of the young painter’s mind, when he resolved upon quitting his native city, and seeking in Flanders, or Italy, the opportunities by which he might hope to realise his dream of fame.

But Murillo was without money, and without friends; and how could he travel to Flanders or Italy? His reputation in Seville, as a painter, was small; for although his practice of working for the fair, had in reality increased his powers, it was little likely to add to his respectability; and it was a question, therefore, not easily solved, how he should obtain the means of effecting his design. But even in this extremity, courage did not desert him; and an expedient was found, by which he might modestly replenish his purse. He purchased a large piece of canvas; primed it himself; and dividing it into unequal parts, painted upon it, every possible variety of subject,—saints, landscapes, animals, flowers,—but particularly devotional pieces. With this treasure, he went to Cadiz, to tempt the masters of the India vessels. Among so many subjects, the taste of every one could find something to gratify it, and he returned to Seville without any of his canvas, and with a little stock of pistoles.

Murillo did not now delay a moment longer the execution of his purpose. Communicating his design only to his brother, who lived at Seville in the house of an uncle, he left his native city at the age of twenty-four, to return, and afterwards enrich it with undying memorials of that genius which is the glory of Spain, and the just pride of the city where it was chiefly exercised.

It is a long and toilsome journey from Seville to Madrid; and many must have been the anxious thoughts that filled the mind of the adventurer; but the predominating feeling would doubtless be buoyant, for youth and genius are fertile in hope. We think we see the young painter leave his native town,—long visible in the majestic tower of the cathedral, at which he often turns round to gaze. We follow his steps (for his journey was performed on foot) up the banks of the Guadalquivir, flowing towards his home; we see him with his scanty supplies toiling up the defiles of the Sierra Morena, and looking upon the other side, over the wide plain of La Mancha; and we see him with a quickened step, hasten towards the capital, when he first descries its towers in the midst of the desert that surrounds it.

Velasquez was, at this time, first painter to the king’s bed-chamber, and highly esteemed at the court of Philip IV.; he was then past the prime of life, and almost beyond its vicissitudes; and surrounded by friends, and full of honours, he could feel no jealousy of the friendless boy who came to him for advice and protection. Murillo no sooner arrived in Madrid, than he bethought himself of waiting upon Velasquez; and he found in this good man, and excellent painter, a friend who instantly became his guide; and who never deserted him, even when the progress of the pupil seemed to point out a rival of his own immortality.

Velasquez questioned Murillo as to his family, his studies, his knowledge, his motives, and his wishes; and, like a true lover of his art, admiring the spirit and enthusiasm which were disclosed in the answers of Murillo, and approving the motive of his journey,—and, doubtless, discovering in his conversation, tokens by which a man of Velasquez’s experience and knowledge, might draw a presage of his future greatness, he took the young painter under his roof as a pupil, a friend, and a countryman. Murillo did not accept the hospitality of Velasquez without immediately proving himself worthy of it. The object of his journey was uppermost in his thoughts; and Velasquez, without delay, afforded him the requisite facilities for prosecuting his design. He sent him to the different palaces, and to the convent of the Escurial, that he might see, and study, the pictures of the great masters; and directed him to select such as he might be ambitious of copying; and by this, Velasquez could not fail to obtain farther insight into the bent of his genius, and would even be able to judge better of its extent. What a moment for Murillo, when, entering the sacristy of the Escurial, he first beheld the works of Raphael, and Da Vinci, and Titian, and Paul Veronese!

The three years that followed the arrival of Murillo in Madrid, afford little incident for the biographer. During these years, he was no doubt laying the foundation of his future eminence, by practising his pencil and his eye among the excellent models to which he had access; among whom, no one was a greater favourite with Murillo than his kind friend and patron, Velasquez. It is certain, that he also highly esteemed the genius of Titian; and although he adopted no exclusive model, his admiration of that great head of the Venetian school is discernible in many of his works.

It appears, however, that Murillo did not confine himself to the study of these two masters, but that he also occupied himself with the works of Van Dyk, and of Rebera (EspaÑoletto); for when Velasquez accompanied the king into Catalunia, Murillo, upon his return, shewed him three copies from pictures of Van Dyk, Rebera, and himself. These were presented to the king; and surprised equally the court and Velasquez, by their fidelity, and the excellence of their execution; so much so, that Murillo is said to have been advised to occupy himself henceforward with the works of only these masters.

But the time now approached, when Murillo should no longer copy the works of others; but when he should himself become a model for the imitation of succeeding ages. At the return of Velasquez from a second journey, in which he had accompanied the king to Saragossa, he was so much struck with the progress of his protÉgÉ, that he told him he could gain nothing more by a residence in Madrid; and advised him to travel to Rome, to which city he offered to furnish him with letters of recommendation, and other advantages; not the least of these, being the command of his purse.

The true reason of Murillo’s rejection of this advice, it is impossible to ascertain; but he had resolved upon returning to his native city. It has been commonly said, that the importunities of a brother whom he highly esteemed, and certain domestic causes, recalled him: but it seems more probable, that his determination was the result of an internal conviction, that he had already accomplished the end for which he left the place of his nativity: and it is also possible, that a disinclination to be a farther debtor for the good offices of Velasquez, without which he could not have journeyed into Italy,—may have had its influence. Velasquez, although not approving the determination of his young friend, did not oppose his design; and Murillo returned to his native city.

It chanced, that at this time the Franciscan friars desired to have eleven historical pictures, to adorn the Claustro Chico of their convent; but, as the sum to be paid for these, arose solely from alms which a devout person had collected for the purpose, it may be supposed that the painter who might undertake to execute the order, could not expect a very liberal remuneration. Accordingly, the principal painters then in Seville, shewed no great disposition to engage in the work; and the friars, failing to secure the talents of any of those who had the reputation of being the first masters, found themselves obliged to be contented with an inferior hand, and applied to Murillo, who, being then more needy than his brethren, willingly undertook the commission, in which he no doubt perceived other advantages than the paltry remuneration proposed to him.

No sooner was this order executed, than Murillo found the reward of his perseverance, and a repayment of all his anxieties and difficulties. The utmost surprise was excited in Seville; he was universally courted; the performances of his pencil were greedily sought after; and he at once found himself the acknowledged head of the schools of Seville. This was indeed an hour of pride for the friendless artist, who, a few years before, had cast himself and his fortunes upon the wide world.

But another reward awaited Murillo,—the hand of Donna Beatrix de Cabrera y Sotomayor, a lady of Pilas, possessing many virtues, great sweetness of temper, and mistress of a considerable fortune. Her claims to beauty have been doubted; for no picture of her is known to be extant: the story, however, which is related respecting the manner in which he won her, is rather at variance with this supposition. It is said that Murillo, having occasion to visit Pilas, on account of some property which had descended to him in right of his mother, saw the Donna Beatrix; and struck with the sweetness of her countenance, and her other graces, became enamoured of her. Her station in life, however, was higher than his own; and despairing of a successful issue, he was trying to efface the impression she had made, when a circumstance occurred that renewed the recollection of her, by suggesting a means of advancing his suit. He accepted an order to paint the altar-piece for the church of St. Geronimo, at Pilas; and in the countenance of an angel, he painted that of his mistress. This delicate gallantry is said to have won the heart of the Donna Beatrix. The story may, or may not be true; but it is chronicled in Pilas.

From the time of Murillo’s marriage, he appears to have run a constant career of glory; advancing in true excellence, and in public estimation. His style suffered some changes during this career; but always towards perfection; improving in sweetness and delicacy, and in warmth and richness of colouring. The earliest celebrated picture of Murillo, after his first change in style, was The Conception, for the Franciscan convent; from the archives of which, it appears that he received for it the sum of 2500 reals (25l. sterling); a small sum even in those days; but it is probable that Murillo might have taken into consideration, the reputed poverty of the order; and this is the more probable, since shortly after, in 1656, he painted the great picture of St. Anthony of Padua, for the baptismal altar of the cathedral of Seville, for which he received 10,000 reals (100l. sterling). But the most glorious epoch in the career of Murillo, was later in life: it was between 1670 and 1680, that he painted for the hospital De la Caridad, his Santa Isabella, the Prodigal Son, the Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes, Moses Striking the Rock, John of God, and others, that are looked upon as the most excellent of his works. The twenty-five celebrated pictures also, that adorn the Capuchin convent in Seville, were the production of his ripest genius; but they were painted antecedently to the pictures of the Caridad; and to those who are conversant with the works of Murillo, there is a still more perfect charm in the latter. The highest price that Murillo appears to have received for any picture, is 15,975 reals,—a little more than 150l. sterling. This he received for the Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes.

In the year 1658, eleven years after his return to Seville, Murillo projected the establishment of an academy of painting in his native city. This project was warmly opposed by many, especially by Herrera, who had newly returned from Italy, filled with high, and doubtless just notions, of the greatness of the Italian schools; and looking with suspicion upon a school, whose founder had never travelled beyond Spain. But the genius of Murillo, at length conquered the prejudices of Herrera; and the academy was opened on the 1st of January, 1660, with Murillo at its head, as first president. It may be mentioned, as an instance of the painter’s modesty, that in the list of members of the institution, drawn out by himself, the name of Herrera appears at the head of the list.

There is one passage in the life of Murillo, connected, too, with some of the greatest efforts of his genius, upon which there appears to hang a mystery. I allude to that period during which he painted the twenty-five pictures that adorn the Capuchin convent. The usual version of the story is, that Murillo, finding himself in some difficulty, took refuge in the Capuchin convent; and in return for the protection afforded him by the monks, dedicated his talents to the embellishment of their church. But it is difficult to give credence to this. Murillo led a blameless life; and ever after his marriage, his pecuniary circumstances were flourishing. What, therefore, could be the necessity that obliged Murillo to take refuge in a convent, it is impossible to conjecture. At the same time, it is certain that in that convent there are twenty-five of Murillo’s pictures; and in the archives of the convent, there is no record of any sum having been paid for these. It is certain, too, that the tradition is steadily maintained within the convent, that Murillo was an inmate of it during two years. The monks even relate little traits of his character and habits; and a picture of St. John, the Virgin, and Child, is shewn by them,—painted upon a table napkin; and it is certain that the picture is Murillo’s. The only solution of these difficulties is, that upon the death of his wife, which took place some time previous to the year 1670, he retired for a time to the Capuchin convent; for it is impossible to believe that he was never an inmate of it. The event which really took place in the life of Herrera (hermoso) may perhaps have given rise to the false version of the story of Murillo. Herrera was forced to take refuge in the church of the Jesuits at Seville; and his genius has adorned its walls.

I must not omit the mention of an anecdote that is generally related of Murillo. At the time that he lived near the church of Santa Cruz, it contained, in one of its chapels, the well-known “Descent from the Cross,” by Pedro CampaÑa, now adorning one of the altars in the cathedral. It is said that Murillo was accustomed to spend much of his time in that church, in admiration of this painting; and that one day, the Sacristan being about to close the gates, and finding Murillo there, asked him what detained him so long in that chapel; to which Murillo is said to have answered, “Estoy esperando que estos santos varones acaben de baxar al SeÑor de la Cruz.”—I am waiting until these holy men take down the Lord from the Cross;—a compliment, perhaps, scarcely merited by the picture of CampaÑa, and therefore probably never paid by Murillo.

The last picture that engaged the hand of Murillo, was one which he undertook for the Altar Mayor of the Capuchin convent at Cadiz. This was in the latter end of the year 1681; but he did not live to complete the work. While engaged upon this picture, he fell from the scaffold, and was so much injured, as to be obliged to return to Seville. But the shock he had received, aided by declining years, produced disease; and his illness increased until the evening of the third day of April in the following year, when he expired in the arms of his friend and disciple, Don Pedro NuÑez de Villavicencio.

From the will of Murillo, preserved in the Franciscan convent of Seville, it appears that he left little property besides that which he acquired by his marriage. This was bequeathed to his sons; for his only daughter had taken the veil early in life. In this will, there is also contained an inventory of his pictures, among which one of himself is mentioned. This picture, now in the possession of Mr. Williams, of Seville, represents Murillo about the age of thirty, nearly the time of his marriage, and conveys a very pleasing idea of the appearance and character of the painter. The proprietor, himself an excellent artist, and an intelligent man, has made a masterly drawing from the original: the drawing is in the possession of Mr. Brackenbury, his Britannic majesty’s consul at Cadiz; and from that gentleman’s admiration of Murillo, it may be hoped, that an engraving from it may soon enable every admirer of that illustrious man to have the gratification of possessing his likeness.

The character of Murillo, as a painter, can scarcely be separated from his character as a man: humility, kindness, benevolence, were conspicuous in him; and these are also seen in the choice of his subjects. Undoubtedly one of the greatest among the many charms of Murillo, consists in the beauty of his invention; his subjects seldom fail to interest the benevolent feelings: we have affection in all its varieties—charity under its many forms; and even in subjects purely divine, he contrives to throw over them a human interest. Never was affection more touchingly delineated, than in the picture of St. Felix, the Virgin, and Child, in the Capuchin convent of Seville; in which the virgin, after having put the infant into the arms of the holy man, that he might bless him,—stretches out her own, that he may be restored to a mother’s embrace. Nor were ever love and benevolence more beautifully blended, than in the picture of “Santa Isabella, Queen of Portugal, curing the sick and wounded,” wherein the old woman watches, with a mother’s anxiety, the cure of her wounded son. And where shall we find charity, and its reward—the favour of Heaven—more impressively displayed, or more powerfully conceived, than in the picture of “John of God.” This has always seemed to me, one of the happiest illustrations of the genius of Murillo. “John of God” is supposed to have gone, as was his usual practice during the night, to seek and succour objects of distress. The picture represents the Saint, carrying on his back a wretched being, whom he had found in his walk, and bending under the weight of his burden; but suddenly, feeling himself relieved of a part of his load, he looks round, and sees by the miraculous light that encircles his heavenly visitant, that an angel has descended, to assist him in his work of charity.

Innumerable examples might be given from the works of Murillo, of that peculiar charm which consists in investing spiritual subjects with a human interest. Murillo never painted a virgin and child without blending a mother’s human love, and the pride of a mother in her human child, with the expression of divinity, and with the loftier pride of having given birth to the Son of God. Nor in any representation of scenes in the life of Christ, did Murillo ever forget to unite the human with the divine character. In the great painting, also, of “Moses striking the Rock,” in the Hospital de la Caridad, there is a fine exemplification of the excellence of which I have been speaking. This miracle is not made a mere display of power; Murillo has introduced into it many varieties of human feeling—the anxiety of those who wait for the accomplishment of the miracle—the burning impatience, and eager importunities of thirst, and its contrasted satisfaction.

This peculiar charm of Murillo, consisting in his choice of subjects, has made him a painter for all men; for all, at least, who have human emotions to be excited, and human affections to be touched. But this is only one excellence of Murillo; and standing apart from others, it might belong to any man of benevolence and fine imagination, however indifferent a painter he might be. Murillo possesses, besides, that rare union of high qualities, some of them pre-eminently his own, which has made him one of the first of painters in the eye of the learned, and of all those who have loved and studied the divine art.

The most striking excellence in the conception of Murillo’s figures is Nature, accompanied by Grace; but never, as in some of the Italian masters, grace running into affectation:—and what is there to desire more in the conception of a picture, than perfect nature and perfect grace, without any alloy of affectation? In the combination of these excellences, Titian, among all the Italian masters, most nearly resembles Murillo; but if a picture of this eminent master be placed beside a picture of Murillo, executed in his ripest years, the former appears feebler; this is probably owing to the unapproachable excellence of Murillo’s colouring, which combines the brilliancy of the Flemish, with the truth of the Venetian. Looking at the greatest efforts of Murillo’s pencil, there seems nothing left to desire. An invention noble and touching; a conception natural and graceful; a composition just, elegant, correct; a colouring rich and true; and over all a delicacy, a spirituality, a beauty,—arising from the blending of the whole,—that leave the mind satisfied, but which never satiate the eye.

There are few painters so difficult to copy as Murillo; although, perhaps, few masters have had more copies attributed to them. The greater number of these are said to be pictures in Murillo’s early style; but the colouring may always be detected; for it is that which constitutes the chief difficulty to him who desires to copy this master. The Italian masters are, almost without exception, easier to copy than Murillo, because their colouring is more simple. Murillo’s colouring, although appearing simple, is extremely artful; and this the copyist speedily discovers. Many pictures of the Italian schools convey an idea of a marbly surface; but the pictures of Murillo, executed at the epoch of his greatest excellence, convey the idea of flesh and blood. This effect cannot be produced by one colour, or one lay of colours; nor even in perfection by the glazing, of which Titian used to avail himself: the effect is produced by one colour shining through another; and by the skilful use of these, Murillo has often given to his ground, or back colour, the effect of air, in place of an opaque body; and the artist who attempts to imitate Murillo by a mixture of colours, will find it impossible to equal the effect of the original.

It is a common idea, that in Spain, the pictures of Murillo are scarce; and that the galleries, churches, and convents, have been despoiled of their greatest treasures. This idea is very erroneous. Spain has, no doubt, been robbed of some of her choicest paintings, and some have found their way into other countries as objects of traffic; but the Peninsula is still rich in the works of Murillo. In the gallery of Madrid, of which I shall presently speak, there are thirty pictures of Murillo’s, two-thirds of them at least, undoubted originals. In the Cabinet of Natural History, three of the greatest productions of his pencil are found. In private collections in Madrid, particularly in those of the Duke of Medina Coeli, the Duke of Liria, Sir John Meade, and some other individuals, there may be nearly an equal number. In Seville, the twenty-five pictures painted for the Capuchin convent, are all in their places. In the hospital de la Caridad, there are four of Murillo’s greatest productions. The collection of Mr. Williams of Seville, is distinguished by twelve Murillos; and in other private houses in Seville, perhaps as many more may be found. In the cathedral there are six or eight; and in Cadiz, in the possession of Mr. Brackenbury—in Murcia,—and particularly in Valencia, Murillos may be discovered by any lover of the fine arts, whose inquiries are directed towards that object.

The present government of Spain watches over the works of Murillo with a jealousy, that is not shewn in any thing else that concerns the prosperity or the honour of the country. By a late government order, the works of Murillo are prevented from leaving Spain; but as bribery is able to conquer many difficulties in that country, the exportation of pictures is not impossible.