manner. The inosculating columns at the angles of the centre, displease
every body: a greater failure in point of effect arises from the
architect having filled up the centre spaces of the upper colonnade; its
solidity is so offensive where all the rest is open, that no pleasing
impression can be produced by the building.
XII. Palazzo del Conte Orazio da Porto. This was designed by Palladio
for a Conte Giuseppe Porto, and great part finished by him; but the
whole design has never been completed. There are arches above the
windows of the basement, larger than the openings below, and the lines
not being continued downwards, they have an unmeaning appearance; and it
would be better if the figures and husk ornament, which are added to the
middle and extreme windows, were omitted. These are very trifling
defects; and for every thing else, the building is one of the most
correct of Palladio’s designs, and is in the highest degree graceful and
pleasing.
XIII. I will not trouble you with criticisms on other palaces, where
there is nothing particularly beautiful to render them objects of study;
but pass on to the Olympic Theatre, which is too celebrated to be
omitted, though as far as my own taste is concerned it might have slept
in oblivion. The outside of this edifice, it having been erected on a
contracted and irregular piece of ground, does not claim any attention.
The scene, which is the part most admired, borders upon trumpery. It
consists of two orders and an attic, has clustered columns and
pilasters, and breaks upon breaks, and abounds in figures and
bas-reliefs. The finish against the ceiling is low and poor. The author
wished apparently to give the appearance of a building terminating in an
attic, and meant that the ceiling should entirely disappear; and if the
latter were kept of a uniform dead colour, this by candle-light might
perhaps have been the case; but the idea has not been preserved, for the
ceiling is gilt and painted. In the middle avenue a very considerable
effect of distance is obtained; those on each side, opening into the
middle, are nearly lost; those of the second openings on the right and
left, look pretty well from certain points of view; the end ones are
failures. I saw it however only by daylight, and with some partial
shadows, very injurious to its effect. It is remarkable, that the point
of sight is lower than it would be on the lowest seat, which is three or
four feet above the stage. The seats are most inconveniently narrow, and
nearly as high as they are wide. The colonnade above the seats is
beautifully proportioned; but the centre division has been filled up in
consequence of want of room, and this is very injurious to its beauty.
The row of statues at the top seem in danger of knocking their heads
against the ceiling, and offer another proof that this was not intended
to be conspicuous: they would be very much in the way of any spectators
in the gallery.
The Gothic architecture of Vicenza is of little value. The church of
Sta. Corona is perhaps the best edifice of the middle ages. The church
of S. Lorenzo is now a barn. The front of the Duomo is a very ugly
mixture of different styles: the inside is a single nave, of great
width, to which neither the height nor length is in proportion. It is
nearly 60 feet between the pillars, which are placed against the wall.
They all belong to that sort of pointed architecture which prevailed
during the thirteenth century, in this part of Italy, and of which I
have given you the church of Sta. Anastasia, at Verona, as one of the
finest examples.
From Vicenza I proceeded again in the Diligence to Padua. The weather
continues bad, but you may walk about this city in rain or sunshine, as
the footways are mostly under arcades. It is a damp, gloomy town, with
narrow streets, and no leading one; and three or four squares, but all
of them small; unless you except the Prato della Valle, which is a fine
open space, but cannot properly be called a square; and though within
the walls, seems rather out of the town than in it. Verona is said to
contain 45,000 inhabitants, Vicenza 30,000, Padua 44,000; they are
probably all overrated.
The great wonder-worker, St. Anthony, takes his name from this city,
where he died; although he was born at Lisbon. His miracles, indeed, put
all other saints to the blush; and so great was the impression made by
them, that he was canonized within a year of his death, and in the
following year (1232) preparations were made for erecting an immense
church in his honour. Political events suspended the execution, and no
material progress was made till 1259. In 1307, the whole was finished
except one cupola, and the internal work of the choir; which was not
perfected till 1424. It is 326 English feet long, 160 feet wide in the
transept, and 128 feet high in the domes internally. The front is 128
feet long, and 93 feet high. These dates and dimensions are taken from a
little book of two hundred and thirteen pages, entitled, “_Il forestiere
istruito delle meraviglie e delle cose più belle che si ammirano
internamente ed esternamente nella basilica del grantaumaturgo S.
Antonio di Padova_,” and which, among the relation of inscriptions,
miracles, relics, processions, and indulgences, does contain a page or
two about the building. The dimensions do not agree perfectly with the
apparent proportions, and I suspect the length is rather underrated,
even if we suppose it not to include a circular building behind the
choir, which is called the sanctuary, but which forms no part of the
original structure. The architect of the front is said to have been
Niccola da Pisa, and Milizia attributes to him the design of the whole
building. It is a vast pile, of uncommon ugliness in every part;
exhibiting seven domes, a small octagonal tower above the gable of the
front, (my book says there are four small towers) two high octagonal
towers near the choir, and a lofty cone in the centre, surmounted by an
angel. The internal architecture is hardly superior to the exterior; but
it is so odd, and so complicated, that it would require a very long
description to make the arrangement understood, and it really is not
worth it. Bad as it is, it has evidently afforded many hints towards the
much admired church of Sta. Giustina. The shrine of the saint is as
splendid as gold and marble can make it: the architect was Sansovino,
and the lower part, which is a range of five arches, supported on
columns, is good; but the top is overloaded with a double attic. The
most sober architect takes some license in these small productions, and
is more lavish of ornament in them; and it is probable that the eye
requires more play of line, and more richness of detail, than where the
impression is helped out by the mass of the edifice; but the architects
of the north of Italy have run too much into ornament in their houses;
how much more then are we likely to find in their monuments? Sansovino
preceded Palladio, and may perhaps dispute with Sanmicheli the second
place; both are superior to Scamozzi, whose name is so much better known
in England. There are two bronze panels by Riccio (_Andrea Crispo
Briosio detto il Riccio_) in this church, which are very fine. The
figures are numerous, and there is a great deal of character and variety
in the heads both of men and horses. There is also a magnificent bronze
candelabrum by the same artist.
One of the Gothic buildings which struck me most at Padua, was the
church of the Eremitani; but rather for the effect of light than for
architectural beauty. It is a simple room, without columns or pilasters,
and a wooden roof, of no merit. The original light seems to have been a
small western circular window, but two side windows have been made
since, which were perhaps necessary, but which injure the effect. The
walls are adorned with altars, though without recesses: at the end is an
apsis or recess for the high altar, which has three very small windows
of its own, and this, and the altar itself, are rich with painting and
gilding. The pleasing effect of this church suggested to me the idea
that a large room like a church might be lighted altogether from one
end, and I am convinced it would be highly beautiful. A room 30 feet
long, 10 feet wide, and 15 high, is well lighted by a window at the end
4 feet wide, and 8 feet high, and a room of ten times those dimensions,
viz. 300 feet long, 100 feet wide, and 150 feet high, would be equally
well or better lighted by a window 40 feet wide, and 80 feet high; and
it might be larger than this if necessary. The doorway might be under
the window, the walls not naked, but with some simple ornament; but the
altar and the parts about it should be rich and splendid; a single
light, and a single object, are two great advantages.
In the Baptistery, and in the church of the ‘Arena,’ the principal
objects are the paintings of Giotto and Giusto; and in the productions
of the latter, the relief is very perfect, in spite of the gilding with
which as usual in that age, the pictures abound. The Palazzo di Ragione
is boasted of as the largest room in Europe without columns; it is about
80 feet wide, and 240 feet long, but what is very singular, not
rectangular. The roof is sustained by multitudes of iron ties.
The church of Sta. Giustina is of brick; the external stone casing of
the front not having been executed. The outside is almost as ugly as
that of St. Anthony, rising up in a number of cupolas, and with one high
tower. The first architect was Padre D. Girolamo di Brescia, and the
foundations were begun in 1502, but the soil was so loose and marshy,
that little progress was made. One hole in particular was so large and
deep, that it swallowed up all the materials prepared for the whole
edifice. The work, therefore, was suspended till 1521, when it was
resumed on a different design, but so as to make use of the old
foundations. This was the work of Andrea Crispo, an architect of Padua;
and the building was finished in seventy years. The whole length,
internally, is 367 _geometrical_[35] feet. The nave is 182 feet long, 35
feet wide, and 82 feet high; the aisles 19 feet wide, and 41 high. The
transept is 252 feet long, 39 wide, and 82 high. The piers of the nave
are 12 feet square; the whole width of the nave and side aisles is
therefore 97 feet, and the chapels are 30 feet long, 20 feet wide, and
40 feet high. The height here attributed to the side aisle is that of
the arches connecting the piers of the nave with the side walls, for the
disposition is rather that of a series of vaulted recesses opening into
the nave, and nearly as high as that is, and communicating with one
another by lower arched openings, than a continued aisle. The first
thing that struck me was the whitewash, and it is wonderful how much
this empty glare can spoil the effect of the finest building. After the
first impression of this had passed off, I admired with the rest of the
world. The excellence of the building consists, I think, in the great
space between the piers, equal to the width of the nave, and the
loftiness of the side arches. Two little chapels open into each of the
recesses forming the side aisle. These are badly managed, and the
details are execrable; but the general disposition has an appearance of
space and airiness, which is very magnificent.
The cathedral is a large church of Grecian architecture, built of brick,
but intended to receive a stone front, which has not been executed. The
plan might be said to consist of two Greek crosses, one beyond the
other, of which the farthest from the entrance is the largest. It wants
unity.
I rambled by chance into the church of La Madre Dolente. The first part
is an oblong room, with a small cupola in the centre rising on four
columns; you pass _across_ this, to the inner part of the church, which
is circular, and covered with a larger dome, in which groins are made to
unite with the arch of entrance, and with those of four semicircular
side chapels; in the middle of the room are eight columns, supporting a
circular lantern above the dome: the altar stands in the centre; the
effect is pleasing, but it would be better if this lantern were larger,
and the avenue of approach longer.
The building of the University is one of the show-things of Padua, but
it hardly surpasses mediocrity. I went to see the tomb of Antenor, which
may be an ancient sarcophagus, but it is placed under an arch of the
middle ages, and has a black-letter inscription. I inquired for the
house of Livy, but it is destroyed, and for a collection of
petrifactions of Vandelli, but they are dispersed.
I did not mention to you the Palazzo Gazzola at Verona, which, however,
well deserves commemoration; not for its architecture, but for its
contents. It has some good paintings, but its great attraction is the
magnificent collection of fossil fishes. The French obliged Count
Gazzola to sell to them the finest objects in his possession; but the
museum has gained by it instead of losing, for the Count had recourse to
the mountain, and procured finer specimens than he ever had before.
There is one three feet nine inches long, but not perfect; several quite
perfect above three feet long, and the position of the fins and bones
shows that the shape has not been destroyed by compression.
I am no connoisseur in paintings; but the quantity of good pictures is
so immense, and so scattered in every place, that it is impossible to
travel in Italy without attending to them. I have already mentioned many
names which are here highly esteemed, and have yet little reputation
among us. At Verona and Vicenza, besides Titian and the other great
masters of the Venetian school, we meet with admirable paintings of
Marone Caroto, Felice Brusasorci, Giolfino, &c.; but here, as everywhere
else in Italy, many of the paintings which attract attention are more
curious for their antiquity, than valuable for their beauty. The Last
Judgment, by Titian, in the town-hall at Vicenza, is said to contain
thirteen thousand visible heads, besides a multitude of invisible ones.
Walking one day in the church of S. Rocco, I observed a Virgin and Child
behind the altar, to which I did not go up, because I took it for one of
those painted figures we frequently see in Italian churches; but
revisiting the church on another occasion, I discovered that it was an
early painting by Bonconsigli, whose perfect relief had thus deceived
me. In the church of the Eremitani, in this city, is a beautiful John
the Baptist, by Guido, which would have deceived me equally had I not
previously known it to be a picture. An exquisite Madonna and Child by
Titian, in the sacristy of the cathedral here, produced a similar
effect; but I apprehend no merit in the painting is sufficient to give
this perfect appearance of relief, unless assisted by a peculiarly
favourable light. I do not however mention these as the finest
productions I have seen, but merely for this peculiarity. If I once
began to descant on the different paintings, I know not where I should
conclude; and the observations of one with so little experience, would
after all be worth nothing.
LETTER XVIII.
VENICE.
_Venice, 15th November, 1816._
I stayed at Padua till the 6th of November, and then obtained a place in
the diligence for Venice. One of my fellow passengers let lodgings at
Venice, and I have since found my account in the circumstance. The road
side is adorned with good houses for some miles after we leave Padua,
and what is more, they seem to be in good order. About half the journey
was by land. For the other half, we were either towed by a horse down
the canal of the Brenta, or rowed across the _Lagune_. This canal is
some feet below the level of the river, so that it has always plenty of
water, and the locks are not managed with any view to economize it.
Indeed all the canals in this part of Italy are running streams, and
sometimes pretty considerable ones. The banks are flat, and generally
without large trees: the best parts resemble perhaps those of the Thames
at Fulham, but the stream is narrower, and the houses are larger, all of
them white, and the trees smaller. The lands behind are low, and
probably wet; they are not however naked, like our marshes, but have
abundance of willows, and some mulberries and vines, and are cultivated
with corn. My vision of these objects was not however very distinct; for
it was quite dusk when we entered the boat, and we did not reach Venice
till half past eleven. It was very cold, and the stucco floors at this
time of the year are damp and comfortless. I occupied a large room at
first, but I have since moved into a smaller, which has a stove in it,
and this suits me much better.
I will now give you an account of my mode of life here. I breakfast at a
coffee-house, usually at the Gloria, which is on my way to St. Mark’s
Place. I afterwards continue my walk through the Place, to an excellent
inn, called the Favretti, where I find my three friends, Messrs. Finch,
Lee, and Wathen; and usually also a young Greek physician of the name of
Vracliotti, who has paid us great attention, and we all sally forth to
see pictures and churches; about four we adjourn to dinner at the
Trattoria de’ Pellegrini, where, besides our party, we usually meet as
many more Italians and Greeks, who frequent the place, and with all of
whom we have formed a sort of acquaintance. After dinner, and a cup of
Mocha coffee at the Florian, I get home as quickly as I can, to prepare
my lessons; and at about half past five, or a quarter before six, comes
my Italian master, who stays till seven, and would stay longer if I
would let him: then I run off to Signor Vlandi, (Βλαντι) who gives me
lessons in modern Greek, which last to about half past eight. In my way
back, I look in at the Genio, a coffee-house where they play at chess. I
have not played there much, and at first I mostly lost. You know a
chess-player never wants an excuse for losing, but I really think in
this case I had very good ones. In the first place, the men, though
better than the French, are not well distinguished. Then the difference
of the game in the castling, and in the privilege which the pawns have
“_di passar battaglia_,” put one out a good deal. Add to these, a
headful of sights, and continued anxiety not to forget any thing that I
have seen, and the odd corners filled up with two languages. Latterly, I
have in some degree regained my credit. At half past nine, or ten, I
step into the theatre for an hour or two, and some time between eleven
and twelve go to bed, a practice which excites admiration at Venice,
where parties are made after the theatre; and if a man feel himself
indisposed, he begins at midnight to talk of going to bed very early. I
do not however do all this every day; indeed it is only about every
other day that the whole is performed: on the others something is
omitted, to leave room for a little writing.
Firing is very dear at Venice, and the apartments are not well contrived
for warmth. Indeed, as far as I can see, no Venetian ever thinks of
making his room warm; if his apparatus of mats, foot-bags, great coats,
and caps, are not sufficient, he either makes a little fire, just to
warm himself, or goes to the coffee-house, where however, the warmth is
derived from the crowds who frequent them, and not from the fires. The
ladies are better off, as they have little chafing-dishes to put their
feet upon, which as they sit, are hidden under their petticoats, and
even the beggars in the streets have these conveniences. The theatre,
the church, and the coffee-house are the lounging places of the Italian,
where he goes neither to see, nor to do any thing; but merely because he
has nothing to do. There is seldom any amusement in the coffee-houses,
beyond a little languid conversation; three-fourths of the people seem
dreaming, and neither eat, drink, nor talk. You may observe a solitary
individual come in, and seat himself on the well stuffed cushions, with
an air, not of enjoyment, but of mere listlessness, and sit in a sort of
stupid contentedness, saying nothing and doing nothing; but it is winter
here in the moral and political, as well as in the physical world.