ENGRAVING IN SPAIN.

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LETTER XIII.

THE SPANISH CAPITAL

MADRID, November 17, 1857.

My last letter concluded with a word or two on the present state of the fine arts in Spain. On painting and sculpture there waits a handmaid art, engraving, which invariably flourishes where they flourish; in Spain it has scarcely an existence. The glorious works in the Museum are engraved by Frenchmen. In passing along the streets, I have sometimes been stopped by the sight of an engraving of a Murillo or a Velasquez, exposed in the windows, and read under it,"published by Goupil, in Paris and New York." Yet Spain has, at this moment, an eminent engraver, Martinez, whose engraving of one of Murillo's most beautiful things, "The Dream," I saw in the house of Mr. Calderon de la Barca, late ambassador from Spain to the United States. By him I was kindly taken to the studio of the artist, a modest, laborious young man, who in almost any other country would have a career of improvement, fame, and fortune open before him. He was engaged in engraving Murillo's counterpart to "The Dream," which may be called "The Fulfilment," and had almost finished his task; but

138

MEDRAZA'S COLLECTION.

when it should be completed, he would lack money to go to Paris and get it printed, and in Madrid the means of taking good impressions of steel and copper plates are wholly wanting. The Queen of Spain had seen and admired his engraving of "The Dream," and had commanded him to engrave "The Fulfilment;" the artist obeyed, but the Queen had forgotten both the artist and the task she set him. On the wall of his studio hung a proof impression of the portrait of a good-humored looking little girl. "It is the portrait of the Queen in her childhood," said the artist, "and was engraved at her express desire." That, I thought, might be remembered; but even that the Queen had forgotten.

There are some very fine private galleries of paintings in Madrid, to none of which have I asked admittance; for I have not had time to see even the Museum as I could wish. Among these the most remarkable is, perhaps, that of the elder Medraza, a painter, who in the course of a long life has got together, I am told, a princely gallery of paintings, the estrays of art, single works of great merit once owned by decayed families and others, which by some accident had dropped out of large collections. I have heard its value estimated at a quarter of a million of dollars, and am told that it contains many works of the very highest merit. The veteran artist now wishes to dispose of it, with a view of providing for his children, but he declines all offers for any of the pictures separately. If there be any institution in America as I suppose, in fact, there is not-which desires to possess a collection of paintings rivalling the National

A DOCTOR OF LAWS MADE.

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Gallery of Great Britain, the Vernon pictures included, here is an opportunity.

Yet, if old arts have passed away, old usages remainpicturesque usages of the times when Spagnoletto and Alonzo Cano held the brush in their living hands. In our country when we make a Doctor of Laws or of Divinity, the ceremony is very simple-a few Latin words are mumbled, and a parchment scroll is handed, or sent by mail, to the candidate, and the thing is done; but in Spain the occasion is not allowed to pass so lightly. I was taken the other day, by a Spanish friend, to the University, to see the degree of Doctor of Philosophy conferred. The ceremony took place in a large, lofty hall, hung with crimson, on the entablatures of which were portraits of the eminent authors and men of science whom Spain has produced. At the further end of the hall was a raised platform, on which were seated the officers of the University, at a sort of desk, and in front of them, on benches on each side, the doctors of the different sciences, in their peculiar costume. All wore ample black gowns, but they were distinguished from each other by their caps and the broad capes on their shoulders, both of which were of lustrous silks. The capes and caps of the doctors of theology were white, those of the doctors of philosophy blue, the men of the law flamed in red, the men of medicine glistened in yellow, the doctors of pharmacy glowed in purple. On each side of the presiding officer stood a macer, in black gown and cap, bearing his massive club of office, and on the front edge of the platform, looking down upon the audience, stood

140 ADDRESS OF A SPANISH

PROFESSOR.

two janitors, dressed in the same manner, but with black plumes nodding in their caps. After a strain of music, a young man, sitting on a front bench on the right side of the platform, and dressed in the costume of a doctor of philosophy, turned his face to the presiding officer, and began to speak. "It is Emilio Castelar," said my Spanish friend; "he is one of the professors of philosophy, gran democrata, y muy elocuente-he is not more than twenty-four years old, and yet he is a great advocate." I observed the young man more narrowly; he had a round youthful face, jet black mustaches, and a bald forehead; he gesticulated with Spanish vivacity, in yellow kid gloves. I was not near enough to hear very well what he said, but his discourse, delivered in earnest, impressive tones, seemed to take a strong hold of the audience, for they leaned forward with deep attention, and at the pauses I could hear the murmur of "Muy bien ! muy bien dicho !"

When he had concluded, a strong built man, who had been sitting on the same seat, arrayed in a black gown with a blue silk cape, but without a cap, arose amidst a flourish of music, and was conducted by the steward, who was dressed like the janitors, except that he wore white plumes in his cap, to a sort of rostrum projecting from the wall, into which he ascended and read a printed discourse prepared for the occasion. This was the candidate for the degree to be conferred. When his discourse was finished, he was led up to the officers of the University, before whom he knelt, and placing his right hand on the leaves of a large, open folio,

took the oath of his doctorate. A jewel was then put into his hands, and the steward and janitors brought from another room his doctor's cap, with a sword and a pair of gauntlets, reposing on a blue silk cushion, which were presented to him as emblems of the duty now devolving upon him as the sworn soldier of the truth. Amidst a burst of triumphant music, the presiding officer then threw his arms around his new associate; the other officers embraced him in their turn; he was then conducted through the rows of seats on the platform, to be hugged successively by all the doctors, red, white, blue, yellow, and purple. At the close of these embracings, the steward suddenly struck the floor smartly with the end of his massive truncheon, the music ceased, a few words were uttered by the presiding officer, and the session was dissolved. It seemed to me that in the interval which had passed since I entered that hall, I had been favored with a glimpse of the middle ages.

This was shortly before the feast of All Saints, in which the people of Madrid repair to the sepulchres of their kindred and friends, to deck them with flowers. The day before, all the autumnal roses are cropped, the dahlias, marigolds and china-asters broken from their stems, the beds of verbena and heliotrope rifled, and massive wreaths of the dry flowers of gnaphalium, or everlasting, made up, with little inscriptions expressive of affection and sorrow, formed by the same flower dyed black. On the morning of the first of November, a rainy morning, cabs and carriages, the tops of which were gay with baskets of flowers, were passing each other in the