Rome, April, 1838.

I RELUCTANTLY abandon the journal form of my last letter, as I find it quite impossible to chronicle the countless number of new and interesting impressions which crowd almost every hour on the stranger in Rome. If I attempted to describe them all, I should wear out even your much-enduring patience, and a barren catalogue of names would neither satisfy nor amuse you. In this puzzling predicament, I believe I must content myself with trying to select from the mass of names, lists, and notes which lie before me, the subjects best suited to your taste, happy if I can in any degree succeed in conveying to you even a faint idea of the exhaustless treasures of ancient and modern Rome. As months of study would still leave us much to see and to learn, and we have but weeks at our disposal, we have resolved not to see every thing. Of the greatness of this resolution you can form no idea, till you have been here yourself.

"What's done you partly may compute, But know not what's resisted."

The Vatican is not open during the holy week; we are, therefore, employing the time in seeing palaces, churches, villas, &c. &c. Many of the palaces are remarkable for their architecture; but it is with the interiors we are

occupied at present. With few exceptions, the lower story is used for shops or warehouses; the windows, unglazed and grated with bars of iron, remind one rather uncomfortably of a prison the second is appropriated to the pictures, &c. These apartments are not inhabited by the family. This may account, in some degree, for the unmeasured liberality with which they are thrown open at all hours to visitors, though it is only just to recollect that liberality the same in kind distinguishes the proprietors of works of art in every part of the Continent. In the extremely reduced circumstances of some of the noble families in Rome, which often oblige them to live in a corner of their spacious palaces, it would seem natural that they should

dispose of their collections; but, besides the veneration attached to them as heir-looms, there exists a law, arbitrary enough it seems to us, that prohibits the sale of first-rate works of art, except to purchasers residing in Rome. This is a nice little bit of papal policy-or paternal solicitude, if you will as the number of visitors to the Holy See would be grievously diminished if Raffaelle, Michael Angelo, and Da Vinci could be seen in the same perfection in other cities.

The Borghese is the only palace in which we have found the ground floor occupied. Here are nine large saloons filled with pictures. You would have been more pleased than I was. You well know my infirmity, and how seldom a picture combines all that awakens me to full enjoyment of the art. I have no capacity for universal admiration, and am little satisfied with pictures when colouring, technical skill, &c., are their principal merits. They weary me, because the artist seems to have had no higher aim than to please the eye. I like a picture to be so suggestive that you may study it again and again, and always find something more in its inner meaning to reward you. And this is the case in the works of most of the ancient Italian and German masters-they are replete with sentiment and feeling, springing from a deep and earnest truthfulness of spirit, which diffuses over them an incommunicable charm. Their subjects may not satisfy every taste, but the power of genius has stamped them with a life and power which forces its way to the heart, and awakens there an echo of the self-same feeling which inspired the artist himself. Then there are others that breathe a pure and holy spirit, whose gentle influence awakens a serene and harmonious feeling which is to me one of the highest enjoyments of life. Few of the pictures in the large collection of Prince Borghese are of this class. Of some, however, the recollection is so pleasing, that you may consider it a proof of forbearance well entitled to your gratitude that I refrain from inflicting on your patience a minute description of them.

How I could expatiate on the glow of Titian, the chiar oscuro of Corregio, the affectation of Parmeggianino, the rude vigour of Caravaggio! How flatter myself that while I deprecate such details in others, you might perchance discover how much I excelled in them myself, and, while inflicting without compunction names, dates, and subjects, persuade myself, if not you, I was a most entertaining correspondent. Happily a reference to the guide-book will spare us both some time and trouble, and allow me to content myself with tracing, as you desire, our growing familiarity with the peculiar style and characteristic excellence of each great master. We have yet to see Raffaelle in his Frescos of the Vatican, in which we know his unrivalled powers found their most appropriate sphere. But the Borghese catalogue deluded us with a hope of seeing four of his pictures, and to these we first hastened. There is, however, but one of them the work of his own hand, the Deposition, a much prized picture, in which I was unwillingly disappointed. It seems to me to want repose, to be hard and rather sharp, though highly expressive. The rigidity of actual death is finely contrasted with the momentary suspension of life in the fainting form of Mary; and though, on the whole, the picture is scarcely so attractive as Raffaelle's name led me to expect, it is a deeply interesting study. He was but twenty-four when he executed it for the church of the Franciscans at Perugia; and certainly the dramatic effect of the composition, the pathos of expression and beauty of the forms, are an earnest of the nobler efforts of his later period, and prove the vastness of that genius which so early triumphed over the greatest difficulties of the art. The interesting portrait of Cardinal Borgia is probably by a scholar well trained in Raffaelle's manner. The effect of the head, which is full of character, is heightened by a long black beard and red cap, and the execution, though light, is effective. Another interesting portrait, a fine, dark Spanish head, beautifully painted, is ascribed, with still less propriety, to Raffaelle, and, till lately, has enjoyed a still further notoriety by being misnamed Cæsar Borgia. But the critic is abroad, pronounces this all a mistake, robs both painter and subject of

a name, and, as far as I know, has given no other in their place. He tells us there is sufficient evidence in the style of the dress that the picture was painted after Raffaelle's death; and, though I am no great physiognomist, I should say, sufficient in the calm, meditative expression and soft, pensive eye, that such an exterior never concealed the dark and fierce passions of the wily Borgia. The fourth picture ascribed to Raffaelle is said to be a portrait of himself; but it corresponds so little with the descriptions of his appearance by cotemporaries, I cannot but think this red-faced youth is a usurper of the name. The celebrated Sibyl of Domenichino well deserves her fame, though she, too, appears to me to have a very questionable title to her name. She is not the prophetess, the inspired reader of the book of futurity, but an exceedingly lovely woman. Her attitude and upraised eye, her finely-turned head and neck, denote attention. She seems to listen as if to catch the echo of some sweet sound. I had not expected so much feeling for beauty in this clever, painstaking, but unideal artist. In another celebrated work of his, Diana and her Nymphs, in this gallery, the composition is full of fancy and of life, the colouring rich and finely toned, and free, I think, from the opacity and coarseness with which he, in common with some of his cotemporaries, is chargeable.

A singular "Flagellation of Christ," painted by Sebastian del Piombo, is from one of the powerful and extraordinary designs of Michael Angelo. The exhibition of physical suffering, of a punishment so degrading is always repulsive, but the meekly bending figure, expressive of submission rather than agony-the fine flowing line of the body and limbs, with the sweet and resigned expression of the countenance compensates in a great degree for the painful feeling it excites. Titian's so-called Divine and Earthly Love represents two most beautiful women, but I can see no difference in their claims to divinity-one clothed in white, the other in a red drapery. Their full, graceful forms display that magic colour which his wondrous skill has thrown over all his female figures. In this picture a glowing light, almost without the aid of shadow, gives perfect rounding to the forms, with all

the softness and firmness of living flesh. The sweet Madonnas of Carlo Dolce, so frequent in collections, are here as ever, full of the gentle grace and delicacy, characteristic of this artist. The deep brown shadow which gives such softness to the dark eyes of his saintsthe rich auburn hair and clear olive skin-belonged, it is said, to his daughters, the lovely models of his Saint Cecilias, St. Lucias, Magdalens, &c. &c. There may be mannerism in the tone of his colouring, in the smoothness of his finish, something sentimental in the expression, yet I should be well pleased to have one of his sweet pictures always near me. His heads of Christ, though mild and touching, want the expression of moral power and dignity which befit the character. Garofalo, a name, I think, almost unknown in England, was a follower of Raffaelle, and seems to have received a ray of light from "il divino." In colouring he is sweet, but abrupt; in expression pure, but mannered; in conception a little fantastic, though often tender. An Entombment here, with fine characteristic heads, is a very favourable specimen of his powers. Having gone through the saloons (of which I can give you but a glimpse), we were attracted to the easels of several artists, who were busily employed in copying the pictures. They have access to many of the galleries, private as well as public, and seem wisely to avail themselves of the privilege. It is pleasant occasionally to stop and watch their progress; and, though we cannot judge of their original powers in mere copying, they promise well in correctness, freedom of hand, and careful drawing. Modest in bearing, courteous in manner, they are humble in estimating their own works-enthusiastic in appreciating their models. I envied the rapid pencil and correct eye of a young man who was copying Giorgione's fine picture of Saul and David. The bold freedom of his touch, the masterly copy not only of the heads but of the glowing depth of colouring peculiar to his model, reminded me of Goethe's comparison between the uncertain work of the mere dilettanti, who attributes to want of finish the imperfection which really belongs to a faulty outline, and the practised skill of a master-hand, which, with a few bold touches, produces a picture, perfect in VOL. XX.-No. 116.

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its meaning and effect, though perhaps unfinished in detail. To another young artist we spoke of his "beautiful copy.' "Beautiful," he said, looking at it with a melancholy smile; "perhaps so, but this is divine." There is little to be seen in the deserted-looking Barberini Palace, but in that little is comprised the Beatrice Cenci and the Fornarina. You well know Perfetti's engraving of the Beatrice, but of the exceeding loveliness of the picture it scarce gives an idea. There is an imploring expression in the large dark eye, an almost infantine sweetness and innocence in the mouth, irresistibly touching. No subject could have better suited the delicate pencil and refined taste of Guido. Happy in awakening our deepest sympathy, he has avoided all excess of grief in the expression of the countenance; though, with the heightened colour on the cheek and the dishevelled hair, it tells enough of her tale of sorrow strongly to impress the imagination with the reality of her existence. In sober truth, it was a painful effort to turn from her life-like eyes, which seemed to implore us with touching earnestness not to leave her in her hopeless desolation. Raffaelle's name only could have drawn me to the Fornarina, for hers is not the form or face I looked for in the beloved of one so gentle and refined. Her beauty is neither of a pleasing or intellectual character, but there is no doubt the picture is genuine. He has authenticated it by inscribing his name on her bracelet. The painting seems to me hard, but the carnation beautifully rich and clear, and there is wonderful animation in the sparkling black eyes of this dark, glowing beauty. To see the Palazzo Falconieri of Cardinal Fesche, we were obliged to send our card and write a note to his eminence. Whether our expectations were too highly raised by this note of preparation, so unusual here, or that the pictures are really inferior, we were disappointed. The collection of Dutch and Flemish schools is a very fine one, but their subjects rarely interest me. I can, however, admire the truth of their scenes, the beauty of their colouring, the high finish, neatness, and precision of their execution when they keep within their own department of genre; but when they attempt historical or sacred subjects they are certainly not sublime, though only one step from

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the ridiculous. Imagine Teniers painting a Christ with the crown of thorns, a short, fat figure, looking desperately rueful under the hands of three or four stout Dutchmen, operating much in the manner of a hair-dresser, in broad-brimmed hats, large boots, &c., whom he calls Roman soldiers; or Ostade converting Cleopatra into a lady of fashion, with feathers and high-dressed hair, delicately holding a little asp between two fingers, as if it were a bouquet; or Mieris in a Crucifixion, dressing poor Mary Magdalen in stiff stays and long stomacher, which forbid every attempt at motion except in her neck, which looks deplorably twisted! There were two busts by Canova a noble one of Napoleon crowned with laurel; the other of Madame Mère, with the same insipid smile she wears in the fine sitting statue at Chatsworth. However we must condemn the restless ambition which led to Napoleon's occupation of Italy, it is impossible not to be struck with the comprehensive character of his mind, as much at home in the details of beautifying a city and patronizing the arts, as in constructing a pass over the Alps and leading his army through it. Every where we hear of his vast designs, see some actually commenced, but all suspended-partly from want of money, partly in the absence of an all-commanding genius to comprehend their influence and direct their execution.

It is no wonder, however, that the remembrance of his rule is detested. His exactions were terrible, it is said; and though the money was expended here as in other cities of Italy, in the renovation and improvement of the public works and buildings, they are not the more popular on this account. Neither nations nor schoolboys like to be improved against their will, and the Romans, naturally enough, prefer the dirt, slovenliness, and indolence to which they are accustomed, to being polished and purified at the will of a master. To the honour of Louis Philippe, one institution, founded by Napoleon, is zealously supported-an academy for French artists. We have been to the exhibition of their works, which is highly creditable, particularly the architectural designs of the ancient buildings here and at Pompeii, in their present, and supposed former state. From pictures we turned to sculpture

it will, perhaps, rest you to do the same. The out-offices of the once splendid Barberini palace, are let as ateliers to different artists. Thorwaldson's was our first object. We saw the great sculptor for a few minutes; and though his appearance is by no means striking, I looked with a feeling of reverence even on the homely exterior that enshrines such a genius as his. We had been led by a friend of his to expect a majestic appearance, and fine expressive eyes; the likeness, however, is to be found only in the affection of the brother artist. I have heard he is inferior to Canova in grace and elegance of mind; but, like him, he is distinguished by kindness of heart, and generosity to young friendless artists who require assistance in the prose cution of their studies. We saw the originals, or repetitions of the works he has executed for English and other galleries; and all that we have admired in outlines and engravings; his lovely Venus, his Ganymede, which is, however, I think, inferior in conception to the exquisite group by Tadolini at Chatsworth. Casts of his majestic Christ and the Apostles. A noble figure of Lord Byron, for a monument, awaiting the decision of the vexed question, to be or not to be admitted into Westminster Abbey. If you were one of the bench of bishops, I might edify you by a homily on "straining at a gnat;" but as you have not the good fortune, perhaps you would rather hear something of the statue. The head is scarcely so beautiful and classical as in the English busts and engravings the forehead lower; but we are assured it was modelled by Thorwaldson himself, when Lord Byron was in Rome, and was then considered an admirable likeness. The figure is seated in an easy, graceful attitude, the head thrown back, I could fancy from the hand and pencil, just suspended, the upraised and expressive eyes, that a happy fancy, scarce yet caught, was hovering before him. His foot rests on a broken column which lies on the ground. The cloak, thrown over his shoulder, falls in fine massy folds, and conceals much of the stiff, ungraceful costume of our unartistic day. There appears to me a noble union of strength, grace, and truth in Thorwaldson's style. He has imbibed so largely the spirit of the classical models around him, that

his bas reliefs have the life and animation; some of his figures much of the simplicity and unaffected beauty of the antique. In an adjoining studio a pupil, Carlo Monti, has the privilege, in the last year of his term, of copying three of his master's statues, and disposing of them for his own benefit. Thorwaldson's single figures are £400 each; those, sold in the pupil's name, are £150, though executed under his eye, and receiving the benefit of his corrections. Promising as are these works, they are still but copies, and it is impossible to judge from them if, in the future, this young artist will be at all capable of filling the place which, at Thorwaldson's age, there is a mournful certainty he soon must cease to occupy.

Do not, however, infer from this, that Rome is without other and admirable sculptors. We have been so highly gratified by our visits to the ateliers of Gibson, Wyatt, Wolff, Tadolini, Tererani, &c. &c. I begin to think, that the modern school of sculpture has scarcely yet gained in England the high reputation it deserves. We are accustomed to rate its best efforts as imitations of the antique, to overlook the originality of its conceptions, and, when it has chosen a new path, to decide it must be a wrong one. With all my care, I have not succeeded in keeping my own mind free from this bias, and find myself studying a statue by Thorwaldson, Canova, and Gibson, in a criticising spirit, very different from the reverential admiration with which I set myself to learn from a work of Grecian art. One reason, however, may be, that much as I admire individual specimens of the new school, and willingly acknowledge, as a whole, it far surpasses my expectations,--I am not reconciled to its predominating principles-strong expression and animated action; it appears to me, that these qualities are opposed to the high-toned and sublime character of sculpture, and that the productions of the present day aim too much at combining incompatible excellencies. To me the majestic character of sculpture is best sustained in those grand, still forms, impassive features, and measured lines of drapery, which characterise so large a proportion of ancient art. I cannot believe, that the generally unmoved, passionless expression of Grecian sculp

my own part, I do not like this feeling of repose to be broken by the varied expression life-like movement, &c. of the modern school; but others, I know, find the highest gratification in the nearer approach to nature, the tenderness, and sentiment of its beautiful creations. In the few specimens preserved to us, which are exceptions to the general repose of Grecian art, as the Apollo Belvidere, Diana of the Louvre, Cupid bending the bow, &c, the technical skill, the simple power which impart life and movement without effort or exaggeration, are combined with a grace and simplicity which find no parallel in the best efforts of our day; nor can I recollect among them one example of that perfect union of dignity and grace, solemn grandeur and ease, which are the attributes of Grecian sculpture. The imagination of the Greeks seems to have been exhaustless, the manifold variety of their conceptions without limit, as we felt, when visiting the diminished, but still priceless treasures of the Villa Albani. Here our admiration was almost equally divided between beauty of execution, and overflowing richness of invention. It is one of the most magnificent of the Roman villas; intended, I believe, solely for evening recreation. The view is tolerably extensive, but the grounds and neighbourhood so thickly studded with various buildings, it scarce seemed to us to deserve the name of country. But the light and elegant architecture of the villa itself, its innumerable casinos, temples, billiard and refreshment rooms; its formal terraces, decorated with statues, vases, fountains, &c. realise all I have read and heard of the stately, and somewhat artificial beauty of an Italian country seat.

Many of the fine works of art, which made this one of the richest private museums in the world, were carried away by the French; and though since given up, have not been restored to their original places. And now I