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From an accurate examination of one of those mummies belonging to the university of Cambridge, it appeared, that the varnish which covered the colours could not be dissolved, or in the least affected by common water; and that it equally resisted the dissolving power of the strongest spirits: hence it is reasonable to conclude, that the coffins of the mummies were not covered with size, whites of eggs, simple gums, or any preparation of wax, but with a fine transparent oil varnish. It was discovered at the same time, that the colours themselves were not prepared or mixed with oil; for where the external glossy skin was damaged, broken, or rubbed off, even common water would wash the colours away, and affect the chalk ground under them'.

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different fires, that for baking them, and that for smelting or burning in their colours.

The Greek and Roman paintings that have been preserved or discovered at Rome and Herculaneum do not countenance the supposition of oil colours; at least Turnbull and the academists at Naples, who have described the royal collection at Portici, Cochin, and many other authors who have seen and described them, do not hint any thing of that nature. On the other hand, Vitruvius, who has left us so many valuable notices of the || ancient arts, acquaints us, that there was a kind of painting which absolutely required a mixture of oil and Pliny, to the same purpose, expressly says, "Sun and moon-shine are inimical and obnoxious to red lead. The re

nielted with some oil on the well-dried walls, which is to be done with brushes."

From these observations, the evidence which the ancients have given us in behalf of themselves, and of their knowledge of oil painting, may be summed up in few words.

Their having been acquainted with the white chalk ground, which many modern masters have used for oil painting on boards, proves no more than that the ancients might have done the same.

Pliny has described the general and particu-medy is to apply the red wax when hot and lar effects of the varnish of Apelles, under the name of atrament, so distinctly, that nobody can mistake the thing or the mixture he is speaking of. He has mentioned the shining glossy skin of the varnish which excites the brightness of the colours, and preserves them against dust; he observed, that this skin was laid on so thin, that it could not be discerned at any distance: nor was he less accurate in reporting the particular effects of that mixture which Apelles made use of; it harmonized and lowered the tone of the brightest florid colours in an imperceptible manner, and the whole appeared as if it had been seen through isinglass. The chemists and connoisseurs are fully of opinion, that no liquid substance or mixture of any kind is fit to produce these effects besides the oil varnishes: and if there are not, Apelles and the Greeks were certainly acquainted with those varnishes; a fact which might be strongly urged in behalf of their knowledge of oil colours.

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The black outlines of the figures on the most ancient Greek paintings yet extant, that is, on Etruscan vases, are so sharp, so thick, and drawn in so easy and masterly a manner, that one cannot help looking upon them as having been drawn in oil colours. Had they been in distemper or water colours on the red clay ground on which they are applied, they would have been imbibed and soaked into it. Our china and enamel painters prepare and apply their colours with spike or other liquid || oils; and the Greek masters seem to have done the same, unless they should appear to have burnt their vases before they painted them, or to have used a mixture of dissolved wax or gum for giving a body to their colours, which might have answered the same end as oils. And this is the more probable, as there is some reasou to believe that these vases went through two No. XXXVI. Vol. V.

The oil varnishes used by the Egyptians and by Apelles might have brought them to the discovery of oil painting: but as it appears both from mummies and from the works of Pliny, that their colours were not prepared and mixed with that varnish, and as it is plain rather that this varnish was externally laid over the finished pictures; no other conclusion can be drawn, except that they were with in sight of the discovery, and that it is a matter of wonder that they should not have laid hold of it.

The outlines of the old Greek or Etruscan vases are merely fallacious appearances.

The old Greek and Roman paintings on walls and stones are either painted in distemper and fresco, or they have not been sufficiently ex amined.

The oil used in the coarser wax and wall paintings, proves at most that experiments had been tried with oils; but we have no direct proofs of oil painting having been understood or used by the Egyptians, Greeks, or Romans; and that, however great their skill or ingenuity, they might very well have been within sight and reach of the discovery, and nevertheless have missed it.

The art of painting was revived in Europe about the end of the thirteenth or beginning of the fourteenth century. The human mind, P

however, plunged in profound ignorance, was destitute of every principle of sound philosophy which might enable it to determine on the objects of the arts; and of consequence the painters contented themselves with works adapted to the general taste, without beauty and without proportion. In Italy, where the first attempts were made, they were employed in representing the mysterics of the passion, and subjects of a general nature, on the walls of chapels and churches. Their labours were directed to a vast number of figures, rather than to the beauty and perfection of each; and the art in more modern times has always pre

served somewhat of this absurd fault which it contracted at that early period. The artist in our times is not, like those in Greece, at liberty to devote his talents only to men of knowledge and discernment; he is constrained to please those who are rich, and very frequently those who are ignorant. Instead of proposing to himself the perfection of the art as the great object of his pursuit, he must rest his success and character on the facility of his operation and the abundance of his works. [To be continued.]

DESCRIPTION OF THE PLATE

NARCISSUS.

BY T. STOTHARD, ESQ. R. A
[Given in our last Number.]

THE story of Narcissus, as told by Ovid, || is well known to the readers of ancient Mythology.

Narcissus was a beautiful youth, and so attached to the contemplation of his own person, that he was accustomed to pass hours and days in admiring the reflexion of his countenance in the waters of a lake. To solace himself with this vanity he forsook the society of his fellows, and despised the solicitations and attractions of the female sex; at length, pining away with despair, he was drowned in the water, which, as the poet tells us, became thus at once his mirror and his grave.. .. Those who have attempted to refine upon the mythological tales of the Greeks have discovered a very grave and useful moral in this fable. The punishment of self-love, they say, is represented under the guise of a pleasing story, and the fate of Narcissus is illustrative of the anxiety and mortification which result from indulging in this passion.

In the present composition, Mr. Stothard

has chosen the moment of time in which Nar cissus is seen looking into the water, urged on by irresistible vanity, and pining in seeming discontent. The scenery around forms a pleasing landscape, and the sportive nymphs are seen about him, watching every movement which he makes. The figure of Narcissus is conceived with great taste, and delineated with no less propriety and elegance. His person is graceful, and drawn according to the just idea of the character, whilst the expression of his countenance marks with powerful traits the insuperable vanity of his mind, and the bitter stings of his self-love. The group around is disposed with taste and effect, and the story is told with all the circumstances it required.

This picture does not pretend to be of that class of composition which requires the formality of criticism. The artist has done all he attempted to do; he has given grace and elegance, with just delineation, and propriety of character.

ORIGINAL COMMUNICATIONS.

THE EFFECTS OF SELFISH PRINCIPLES.
[Concluded from Page 63.]

present to his mind. From the respect which he could not deny to his virtues, and the wish that he had not injured him in such a tender part, he felt that virtue was more than an empty name; but when he directed his view to his youngest son, he was sensible that he required virtues of others, and, in his inquietude on account of Louisa, he suspected that a man ought likewise to require virtue of himself.

Rouelle's younger son implicitly followed his father's system, and lived only for his own pleasure; he possessed the esteem of the

DURING the succeeding months Rouelle remained as if in a frightful dream, and dead to every kind of pleasure. The idea that through his lust he had rendered his son miserable and had murdered his daughter, at first powerfully oppressed him in the midst of every, enjoyment; he carried about with him in his own heart the punishment of his crime. However he was not quite certain that he was actually the only cause of Louisa's death; that grief for her involuntary infidelity should have killed her, appeared to him extremely improbable. In this idea, which he eagerly adopted, his understanding but not his agi-world, blended moderation and decency with tated heart found motives for excuse; an inexplicable anxiety had so completely obtained the ascendancy over him that it was totally out of his power to subdue it; he had recourse a thousand times to his system, in hopes of finding that tranquillity to which he was a stranger..—“ Poh !” thought be, "is not self-interest the motive of human actions? I had nothing in view but my pleasures; is it my fault that a ridiculous prejudice in favour of spotless chastity cost the woman her life? or did I then know that he was my son? And if I had then known." This idea he was incapable of prosecuting; his mind seemed to revolt against it.

In this manuer he argued with himself a thousand times, but could not banish the uneasiness which oppressed his mind; he found no consolation in his system, which only contributed to aggravate his inquietude. When he resigned himself to this inquietude, nay even when he regarded his conduct as criminal, his solicitude was alleviated much more than by his attempts to justify his conduct by means of bis system; and thus doubts were first raised in bis mind concerning his own principles. He endeavoured to defend his system with all his powers, and stove to retain it, but his heart, his feelings opposed it. His conduct, which he wished to call merely unfortunate, was by an internal voice pronounced base and unjust.

In this maner Rouelle was for years engaged in a contest sometimes with himself and sometimes with his system; his gaiety was fled, the image of his unhappy son was ever

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enjoyment, and lived with his father on the most friendly footing, but without admitting him to his confidence. The son had before taken delight in his father's company because his conversation always entertained him agreeably, and was frequently replete with instruction. But since the unfortunate occurrence with Louisa, Rouelle had become gloomy, and during his struggle with his system he sometimes made very serious reflections on his son, whom he loved. His conduct filled him with anxiety; he enquired into his actions, and began to reprove and to warn him, which he had never done before; he was now no longer so contented as heretofore with all that his son did, and even retrenched his liberality towards him, because he was conscious that half of his property belonged to his eldest child.

The youth, observing such an alteration in his father, now took less pleasure in his company; the more his father's gravity increased, the more cold was the son's behaviour towards him, and the more rarely they saw each other. The father reproached his son, and the latter was sometimes embarrassed for an excuse; unpleasant scenes ensued, but at first they were confined within the bounds of decorum. The son now concealed his actions and bis plans; but the father, who had become more anxious and observant, detected them, and the discovery led to warm disputes. The father angrily demanded an account of them, and this was given by the son in a way that made him shudder.

LA BELLE ASSEMBLEE;

"I live for my pleasure," said young Rouelle coolly; " and I know not, father, how it happens that you now reproach me for what I have learned from yourself. It is not my fault that you are now more grave and ill tempered; I admit that for some time I have not sought your company, but with the acute penetration and sound judgment which you psssess, the reason cannot be a secret to you. I do not desire that on my account you should alter the tone which is now natural and agreeable to you, but I know not why I should change mine which suits me. How often have you told me, father, that mankind frequently render each other's lives unhappy only because they do not understand how to break off, with decorum, a connection which is no longer natural! I think we are both in that case." "How! this coldness, this chilling coldness! That you are my son, then, never enters into your mind?"

"In order to exist I must have had a father: that is all. How often have you said yourself that these accidental relations of mankind justify no claims, and that pleasure is the object of our existence!"

The father sighed and broke off the conversation. He endeavoured to place himself upon the same footing as before with his son, but this was not possible as the latter became more and more distant and reserved. Rouelle now felt the more sensibly the want of his youngest son's affection, as he was tormented by the idea that he had made the eldest so unhappy; but he saw himself deprived by his favourite system of that very affection which he wished to enjoy. He suffered his son to follow his inclinations; however, to make him feel his dependence, he retrenched his pecuniary allowance. This had no other effect than to produce a still greater coldness, which, as the father no longer concealed his indignation, terminated in a rooted antipathy.

Gratitude, love, and chastity-virtues which his son did not possess, now rose high in the opinion of the deserted parent. "Ah!" he frequently exclaimed, “that I had not injured my more virtuous, more noble minded || son, and that I could but find him again, how happy would his virtue render me!" He was now convinced that at least in the relations between parents and children virtue was indispensably necessary.

These last circumstances occurred in the first year of the French revolution. Ronelle and his son, as might naturally be expected, were zealous partizans of the court; the father was even employed in many important af. fairs, for which he was eminently fitted by

his profound penetration and extensive understanding. The son gave himself little uneasisuperiority; he lived for pleasure, and was ness concerning which party would obtain the contented with wishing well to the cause of the royalists. Seeing the failure of their plans he abandoned them with the utmost indif ference, and acted the part of a republican with such address that nobody doubted his patriotism, though his father, on account of his former connection with the court, was strongly suspected of favouring royalty.

During the reign of terror one of Rouelle's associates in the transactions above alluded to, was apprehended. In his examination he accused Rouelle, and proved his allegations by written documents. The latter obtained timely notice of this circumstance; he concealed himself in the house of an acquaintance, sent for his son in the evening, and said trembling: "I am betrayed, and search is every where made for me. Collect all the money and va-, luables you can; we must leave France." Young Rouelle looked at his father with apparent concern. "I lament your misfortune, father," said he stammering; "but you do not appear to have bestowed due consideration on the measure which you wish to adopt. It is you that are suspected, not I. If I remain I may perhaps be more serviceable than if I share with you the weight of your misfortune. Reflect-."

"Do you suppose that you will be left unmolested while your father is persecuted?"

"The scoundrels!" exclaimed the son; "but even that might be possible. I have a friend in the Committee of Public Welfare; question my patriotism?” if I myself should denounce you, who then can

"You denounce me?-you?"

"Why not? our property would in that case be saved. Be not shocked at a trifle, a mere prejudice."

"Prejudice? a son to denounce his father?" He shook his head, but there was no remedy; he was obliged to submit, as young Ronelle considered this measure the best that could be adopted. They took leave of each other, and the sen hastened to the Committee of Public Welfare.

Rouelle concealed himself in the house of a friend; but this was almost as dangerous would have been to himself. After a few days: for the latter as any attempt to leave Paris Rouelle went one evening, in the habit of a peasant, to his own house, and said to his son, whom he found alone:-" Here I am again ; house, so that I have now no place of concealmy friend could not keep me any longer in bis

ment.

Here I am resolved to remain and abide my fate."

A crevice in the roof admitted just sufficient light for Rouelle to perceive a bed that was

The son frowned-"Here?" said he; "you intended for him. "Will you lie down?" asked do not recollect, father▬▬▬▬."

“I know very well that I am in danger here; but mention any other place where I may be secure and I will repair thither.”

The son knew of none." But here" be began again,-"do you know that every person who secretes you is liable to the penalty of death? do you know that, father?"

"For that very reason no one can or will receive me."

"But do you desire that I should subject my life to such imminent hazard? Why should I Indeed, father, you require too much! If I had it in my power to save you, the case would be different; but the domiciliary visits continue with unabated activity; here you are certainly the least secure."

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At that moment the house-bell rang. servant announced that one of the national

guards was at the door, and inquired for Citizen Rouelle. Both the father and son trembled. "O, begone! begone!" exclaimed the son; "make haste, for God's sake! You will involve me in misery! begone, delay not a moment! Farewel."

The father regarded the son with a look of mingled horror and detestation. Without saying a word, he left the room, and hastened down stairs to deliver himself up to the uational guard. The selfish insensibility of his son had almost annihilated every faculty. The national guard cast a scrutinizing look at Rouelle, and said with emotion :-"Come, Sir, your life is in danger; I will save you." Rouelle did not hear what the guard said, but repeated from time to time with poignant anguish" That was my son! I'was his father."

Having reached one of the Fauxbourgs the guard opened the door of a small house, and said in a toue of agitation:-" Enter here, unfortunate man!" It was not till then that Rouelle paid any attention to external objects. "Whither are you conducting me, friend?" asked he; "who are you?" Without making any reply his guide drew him into the house, and up a narrow staircase, to a secret loft, the door of which was concealed with straw.

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the guard softly; "we have no time to lose. Adieu tili to-mor: ow, Sir.-Here you are safe.” He left the place, again covered the door with straw, and descended without noise.

Ronelle threw himself on the bed, and gave way to the most tormenting reflections on the ingratitude of his son; for, alas! he could not deny that he himself, through the education he had given him, was the cause of his undutiful conduct. In these reflections he was interrupted by a violent knocking at the door of the house, and a number of loud voices. The house was searched, and to Rouelle's terror even the garret was examined. "As I tell you," said one of the voices, "here is nothing suspicious; would to heaven that all the Parisians were as good republicans as Citizen Marton!"

Rouelle had raised himself up in order to listen; the name of Marton burst on his ear like the most tremendous thunder. "Oh avenging God" he sobbed out, and covered his face with both his hands. All was again quiet, both in the house and in the street, but uot in Rouelle's heart, over which, during the whole night, the terrific angel of vengeance extended a flaming sword. His system now appeared nothing but a hideous falsehood; injured virtue stood before him in the figure of the murdered Louisa, and then in that of his neglected wife; the son, too, whom he had plunged into misery, was his deliverer, and him he was to see in the morning! He trembled at the idea, which was more terrible than death which followed his steps.

With the first dawn of the morning's light, he endeavoured to open the door of the loft, and in this attempt he succeeded. He softly descended the stairs with the intention of leaving the house where he was threatened with the terrific presence of his son. His efforts to open the door of the house made con|| siderable noise. He heard some person coming down stairs. In the utmost anxiety he broke open the door, but at the same moment he found himself detained. Marton, laying hold on the staggering Rouelle, asked him :"Whither are you going, unfortunate man?" Rouelle recollected his son's voice, and sunk, insensible, in his arms. When he came to himself, an hour afterwards, he was lying upon a bed; his son and his wife were grasping his hands and pressing them with tender emotion, when he recovered his senses.

"O my father!" were the first words that Roucile heard. He looked fearfully around,

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