have no chance of obtaining admittance, and repaired to the hall where
the feet of the thirteen pilgrims were to be washed by the pope. It is a
large room, and on the left hand side of it, was a seat a little
elevated, on which these men were seated, each dressed in a cloak of
white cloth, lined with silk of the same colour, and trowsers also of
white cloth. On the right were three or four ranges of seats for the
ladies; in the middle stood the gentlemen, of whom a large number were
already collected. A part at the upper end, was railed off for his
holiness and the cardinals, with a station for foreign ambassadors; and
there were four boxes, into the first of which the old king of Spain
shortly entered. The queen of Etruria took possession of another,
accompanied by her son, who has the reputation of being a very amiable
and accomplished gentleman; the third received the duke del Genovese,
and the duchess of Chablais; in the fourth was the prince of Prussia.
All these people had been at the Sistine chapel in boxes prepared for
them in like manner, but I forgot to mention the circumstance. After the
entrance of the pope a short service was chanted. Two cardinals then
replaced the mitre on the pope’s head, and took off his robes; two
attendants held up his petticoats in front, that he might be able to
walk down from his throne, and two cardinals held up his train behind.
The upper garments which he had just laid aside were crimson,
embroidered with gold, the under ones, which he still wore, were white.
Thus accompanied, he descended to the place where the pilgrims were
sitting, each of whom bared his right foot, on which in succession, the
pope poured a little water, and taking the foot in his hand wiped it
with a napkin. What would you think in London, if the Prince regent and
lord Castlereagh were to get up a political comedy, and act themselves
the principal characters, and each sing his song? Here religion forms
the politics of the place, and the subject is quite a religious comedy,
or as Hannah More might call it, a sacred drama. But custom sanctions
these usages, and that is now venerable, which if it were to originate
in the present day, would be merely ridiculous. I was here one of a
party of four Englishmen, all about as tall as myself, but we were
overtopped by the whole head by another of our countrymen in the room. I
missed the supper, which perhaps you will think no loss; and after
passing some time in St. Peter’s, and the galleries of the Vatican,
places which never lose their interest, I retreated to my usual
trattoria, but returned in the evening to hear the Misereri, at St.
Peter’s. It was sung beautifully, but the voices seemed hardly strong
enough to fill even the side chapel where it is performed. It may help
to give you some idea of the size of St. Peter’s, to tell you that
several services are sometimes performed at the same time without in the
least interfering with each other, and that on entering, and even
walking along the nave, you hear nothing of the music of the side
chapel, though probably in some parts there are twenty voices at their
utmost stretch. I did not mention, that at the conclusion of the music
in the Sistine chapel, a great noise and tumult was heard; the same took
place on the present occasion, and was intended, as I was told, to
represent the confusion that followed the condemnation of our Saviour.
This evening the church was lighted by a single large illuminated cross.
The cross itself, though about twenty-six feet high, and covered with
three hundred and fourteen lamps, looked rather smaller than I expected,
but the unity of light was admirable, and produces an effect truly
sublime. Various processions took place round the tomb of St. Peter, and
many relics were shown, at which most of the people knelt, but by no
means all. On Friday there is no exhibition. Every well-dressed person
is in black: the soldiers walk about with their arms reversed: the bells
are all silent, they are not even permitted to strike the hour: every
body, and every thing is supposed to be in mourning. On Saturday there
were ceremonies at St. John Lateran. The holy water and oil were just
consecrated when I arrived, and after staying a little while in the
church, and finding that nothing very interesting was in hand, I
repaired to the baptistery of Constantine. Here two Jews were to be
baptized; there are always some converts reserved to make a show on this
occasion, and the people of Rome tell you that they change _back_ again
on Monday, but I will not vouch for the truth of this piece of scandal.
I was close against the balustrade which enclosed the ancient vessel, or
rather bath, but the present vase, and the Jews themselves, and all the
attendants, stand within this. The bishop soon arrived, and chanted a
service, to consecrate the water, and to do him justice, he has a good
voice, and sings very well. In one part of the ceremony he had to dip
his hand in the water, and previously to this, another clergyman took
off his ring, and kissed it, and when the bishop had finished, and the
hand was wiped, the same clergyman replaced the ring, kissing the hand
at the same time. Two vessels of oil were then brought in; some of that,
I believe, which had just been prepared in the church. They were poured
out on the water, and the bishop put in his hand, and passed it
backwards and forwards, to mix, as I was told, the oil and water
together. Do you think the consecration could have rendered this
possible? On this occasion the ring was again taken off, and kissed as
before, and some beautiful cakes of coloured soap were brought in to
take the oil from the bishop’s hand. Meanwhile, the first poor Jew was
brought forward to be exhibited and baptized; and the bishop chanting
the service, took up the water in a silver ladle, and poured it upon his
head, patting the head at the same time with the ladle, to enable the
water to penetrate the thick coat of hair by which it was defended. Two
attendants immediately wiped it with a napkin, and a dish was brought
which contained a very small vessel of oil, and some wool. The bishop
dipped his thumb in the oil, and made with it, the sign of the cross on
the forehead of the new convert, which the attendants wiped with the
wool. A lighted taper was then given him to hold, and he returned to his
post, while a similar operation was performed on the other Jew. During
these ceremonies an enormous wax candle was employed, about eight feet
high, and six inches thick, beautifully painted, and five rings of metal
attached to it by means of as many little points which project from the
circumference; they are disposed in this manner: [Illustration of metal
rings] the central one being gilt, the others silvered. They are said to
represent the five wounds of our Saviour, the upper one being the effect
of the crown of thorns; but surely, in that case, we ought to reckon six
wounds. The bishop was dressed in white satin shoes and trowsers; above
these was a black petticoat, reaching to the ankles; over these shorter
petticoats of white lace, and sometimes a purple robe; sometimes one of
silver tissue, embroidered with gold, and occasionally two or three
other articles of dress, which were worn but a short time. He had two
mitres, one of gold tissue, and the other of silver tissue embroidered
with gold. The converts were dressed in robes of flowered white satin,
and each, after the baptism, had a white ribbon bound round his head. On
returning to the church, a large number of the attendants threw
themselves on their faces on the marble pavement. After this, the bells
were suddenly heard; the soldiers replaced their musquets, and the
mourning was over. It appears then, that according to the church of
Rome, our Saviour was crucified and laid in the sepulchre on Thursday,
and rose again about noon on Saturday. Does this seem to you to agree
with the account given by the evangelists? I afterwards witnessed the
form of giving holy orders to various degrees of the priesthood; but I
did not find them at all interesting, and shall therefore pass them
over.
The last day of these ceremonies is the Easter Sunday. I set off a
little after nine, and when I arrived at St. Peter’s found a great
multitude already assembled. The large central folding doors were thrown
open, and the middle part of the nave was protected by two files of
soldiers to keep the space clear for the procession. These spread wider
apart, and made a large circuit round the high altar. They admitted us
to pass without much difficulty, to a space which was railed off round
the choir, where the pope was to perform. The canopy soon appeared at
the doors of the church, preceded by a long procession of servants of
the church, and by the cardinals clad in scarlet and furs. After a
little while the pope himself came within view, sitting under the canopy
in a raised chair, borne on the shoulders of his attendants, with a
white mitre upon his head, and accompanied on each side by a large fan
of the feathers of the white peacock. He was slowly carried up the nave,
and the chair was set down in the middle of the space behind the high
altar. Here the pope got out, and advanced to a cushion near the altar,
and prayed in silence, while the attendants, as in the Sistine chapel,
spread out his robes. He then retreated to a throne placed on one side
of the choir, and after some ceremonies, and singing and chanting, the
cardinals about him changed his dress, and attended him to perform mass
at the high altar: he afterwards retreated to another throne, placed
directly in front of the altar, or to those who entered the church, it
would seem rather behind it; but the front of the altar is really
towards the extremity of the building, and not towards the principal
door, as it would be in our churches, and the pope pays his devotions
with his face towards the entrance of the church. Catholic altars, at
least at Rome, face all ways, and the notion that a church must have its
front towards the west, and its altar towards the east, is a northern,
or perhaps a Protestant superstition. He sat there for some time while
the service was going on, and then again went up to the altar, and knelt
down. Every body knelt, and there was a dead silence. These solemn
pauses produce the finest effect of any one circumstance in the Roman
Catholic service, but the whole is very magnificent, and the majesty of
the building, the splendour of the processions, the richness of the
dresses, and the great display of gold and pomp, produced as strong an
impression as can probably be produced by any thing of the sort.
Nevertheless, without all the previous pomp, and grandeur, and bustle,
the solemnity which I admire in these pauses would not be so striking.
The pope retired again to his upper throne, but I went out and mixed
with the crowd in front to see the benediction; not to hear it, for that
is hardly possible. His holiness is elevated on his chair, in a balcony
in front of the church, but he hardly comes forward enough to be well
seen, and in fact, the great object is the people. The immense place in
front of the cathedral is entirely filled by the crowd, except a square
space, preserved by the soldiers, which serves rather to show off both
them, and the multitude about them, than to occasion any appearance of a
deficiency of number. All attention was directed to one point, a great
number were upon their knees, and all in the attitude of devotion, or
deep interest and expectation. Two pieces of paper were thrown down, (I
am sorry I must admit any thing so ridiculous into my picture)
containing, as I was told, indulgences signed by the Holy Father
himself, for those who could catch them: after this he repeated the
blessing and disappeared. Other services succeeded in the church, but I
did not stay long to witness them.
Perhaps you may incline to make it a question, whether the account of
these ceremonies, or my long architectural details, be the most
tiresome: you may, however, find some relief in the change of subject,
and in that hope I shall give you a little sketch of the immense palace
of the Vatican, or at least of the Cortile of San Damaso, and of the
part containing the museum. The Cortile is surrounded only on three
sides by the buildings of the palace. The fourth is inclosed by a plain
wall. The lower story is in great measure solid. Then there are two
ranges of open arches, and over these one of columns, which are very
wide apart. This upper story is not, I apprehend, part of the original
design, and it would be better away; and part of the upper range of
arches is filled up in order to protect the frescos of Raphael. This is
injurious to the architecture, yet still we must allow considerable
merit to the general composition and proportions. On one side of this
court are the Sala regia, and the two chapels, and from this side you
also enter the Sala Borgia, which, with a series of adjoining rooms,
contains the paintings returned from Paris.[49] From the angle we enter
the first long gallery of the museum. The two other sides of the court
contain the apartments of his holiness.
After this general view of the disposition of the different parts, we
will return to the foot of the grand staircase. An awkward and irregular
interval, wider at the beginning than at the further end, existed
between the palace and the church. Bernini conceived the idea of
erecting here a magnificent staircase, adorned with columns, where the
diminution at the further end, by increasing the apparent length, rather
enhances the magnificence. It was a noble thought, but while I admire, I
should hardly venture to imitate the arrangement. After this we pass
into the Sala regia, which gives access to the two chapels, the Sistina
and the Paolina.
The architecture of the Sistine Chapel pleased me better on repeated
visits than the first time I saw it: it is a lofty oblong hall, with
windows only in the upper part, and a fine coved ceiling.
The general line of springing of this cove is cut by the windows, but
this is not a defect, as the arches of the windows spring in the same
line. The architect was Sangallo. The Paolina is said to be the
production of the same artist, but it is trumpery. Both these halls are
so much more celebrated for the paintings they contain, than for their
architecture, that I cannot refrain from mentioning them. I do not doubt
the wonderful talents of Michael Angelo, or the sincerity of the praises
which have been heaped upon him, but I confess I have not learned to
like him in any of his three attributes. He seems to me always to have
sacrificed taste to knowledge. I can admire his works, but I cannot be
pleased with them. In the celebrated _Last Judgment_ there is not a
beautiful figure, a graceful attitude, or a pleasing expression. Strong
expression there is; great knowledge of anatomy I am willing to believe,
though it seems a defect in judgment to mark every thing too strongly;
and it is a remarkable circumstance that this should be the
characteristic of the ancient Etruscan artists as well as of the modern
school of Tuscany; great variety both of attitude and feature. His
greatest admirers do not claim for him any great excellence in
colouring; and in the present instance, the smoke of lamps and candles
has probably made it more dingy than it otherwise would have been. This
painting occupies the end of the room. The ceiling is in several parts
also by Michael Angelo Buonarroti. The Almighty is here introduced, as
he so frequently is in Italy; but instead of giving us the highest
possible idea of power and energy, the object seems to have been to
represent a dignified, but feeble old man, whose limbs and garments are
supported by his servants. This idea of majesty is that of savages, and
half-civilized people, who find it in having nothing to do, carried to
such an excess as to render its object unable to do anything. Michael
Angelo endeavoured to gain support from the notions of the vulgar, in a
case where his genius, and that of every mortal, must necessarily fail.
Some of these smaller paintings, I can more readily admire; and I
acknowledge, that several of the figures, seated on the pedestals which
divide the paintings, are very beautiful, but they have nothing to do
with the stories of the Old Testament represented in the panels, and it
is considerable labour to look at either the one or the other. What is
it that is so much admired in this artist? This is a point on which
connoisseurs are by no means agreed. One values him for his anatomical
knowledge, and his power in giving character and expression. Another
lays the chief stress on a sort of recondite meaning, to be found in his
productions, which seems to be viewing them as ingenious riddles. The
greater number of course are contented to wonder, they know not why.
Some contend for a grandeur of composition in the lines and disposition
of the figures. This I confess I do not comprehend; yet, while I
acknowledge the beauty of certain forms and proportions in architecture,
I cannot consistently deny that similar merits may exist in painting,
though I am unfortunately unable to appreciate them.
The side walls are decorated with Scripture histories by some of the
earlier Italian painters. The best and latest are those of Perugino. Two
of the paintings of the Capella Paolina are by Michael Angelo, but they
are more smoked, worse lighted, and consequently more invisible than
those of the Sistina.
The first time I visited the Vatican it was in company with Mr. Scott,
and after passing the Sala regia, we hurried impatiently along the
_loggie_ of Raphael, to what were pointed out to us as the celebrated
_Camere_. On our arrival we were refused admittance. The door at the
other end of the suite was open, but that into the loggie permitted
strangers only to depart. This arrangement obliged us to make the tour
of the museum, a circuit of above half a mile; and whatever you may
think of it, half a mile of the finest productions of sculpture cannot
be walked through very quickly. Was it possible to pass the Apollo
without stopping to look at it? Or the Laocoon without notice? Even the
inscriptions delayed us; nor could we help paying some attention to the
tomb of Scipio. We peeped into each open doorway, just to see what we
had to expect for another and more leisure survey; and this walk
occupied us about an hour and a half, though intending to go with the
greatest rapidity from one door of the rooms containing the frescos to
the other.
Before the paintings, we stop at the Arazzi of Raphael; the subjects of
these are,
1. The Stoning of St. Stephen.
2. St. Peter curing the cripple, in the porch called Beautiful.
3. Conversion of St. Paul.
4. Religion, Justice, and Charity.
5. Slaughter of the Innocents, No. 1.
6. Elymas the sorcerer.
7. Christ in the garden. _Noli me tangere._
8. The committal of the keys to St. Peter.
9. Slaughter of the Innocents, No. 2.
10. Ananias.
11. The Miraculous draught of fishes.
12. St. Paul preaching at Athens.
13. The Sacrifice at Lystra.
14. The Ascension.
15. The Resurrection.
16. The Supper at Emmaus.
17. The Presentation in the Temple.
18. Massacre of the Innocents, No. 3.
19. Adoration of the Magi, No. 3.
20. Adoration of the Shepherds.
21. The coming of the Holy Ghost.
(One has been destroyed.)
22. The Descent into Limbo.
Of seven of these, viz. of the 2nd, 6th, 8th, 10th, 11th, 12th, and
13th, you know that we have the cartoons in England, and one cartoon is
worth all the tapestry.
We pass from these rooms, four in number, to those called the _Camere_
of Raphael, ornamented with some of his most admired productions. It
excites some surprise, to find that so much labour and genius have been
lavished on three gloomy, irregular rooms, unconnected with any
principal apartment, each lighted indeed by a single window, but that
window below, instead of, as ought to be the case, above the principal
part of the paintings. The paintings themselves indeed are most
admirable; not so much at first view, as when you attend to them
leisurely, and consider the action and intention of the several figures;
and the more you study, the more you admire and enjoy. These are not
things to stare at, and to leave, satisfied with a passing tribute of
admiration. We enter into them, we seem almost in society with the
saints and sages represented, and we return to them again and again with
delight, as to a fine poem. It is melancholy to see how much they have
suffered, not from neglect, but from time, and the decay of the
material. The rage for fresco-painting, or rather for admiring it, and
regret that it is disused, seems to start up from time to time even in
our northern climates. It is therefore necessary to repeat again and
again, that even in Italy, fresco-painting rapidly decays, and that in a
climate such as ours, the value of its finest productions, if painted on
the walls of a room, could hardly, by any care, be made to last a
century. Pieces cut out and hung in frames might last longer.
The fourth room is larger than the others. It was painted after the
death of Raphael, by his scholars, and from his designs. It is
remarkable however, that he finished two or three figures in oil, which
shine among the rest by the superiority of the material as well as of
the drawing; the remainder being executed in fresco.
On leaving these chambers, we pass through the famous loggie, where
Raphael exhibited the versatility of his mind by the most beautiful
coloured ornaments on the architecture, interspersed with little
paintings. The designs were his; the execution was that of his scholars.
Their situation was at first an open gallery, but as they were
considerably injured by exposure to the weather, it has been enclosed.
These productions have suffered, as may be supposed, more than those in
the chambers. Just enough remains to give some vague notion of the grace
and elegance of the ornament, and to make us regret that we have no
more. It is much more practicable no doubt to restore these than the
historical painting, but something will be lost in delicacy of curve,
and in the harmony of colouring, even in a case apparently so little
difficult.
In the rooms immediately below those of Raphael, are now placed those
first-rate productions of painting, which, having been transported to
Paris, are in consequence of the late peace restored to Rome. Instead of
giving you any description, or even an account of what they are, (though
the Transfiguration is among them) and adding an Oh! and an Ah! and a
note of admiration to each, I will tell how I proceed in examining
pictures; a method, which if not perfectly scientific, has at least the
effect of enhancing both their interest and the amusement derived from
them, and by leading the attention to the several particulars, one by
one, must, I think, improve the judgment. You know I set out in
architecture, with a determination not to be satisfied with seeing and
admiring what is beautiful, but to endeavour in each object to trace why
it pleases, what are its defects, and how they might be avoided, and a
still higher degree of excellence attained. To analyse paintings
something in the same way, I consider that a picture may please—
First, by its design; that is, when the story is clearly told; when we
readily see what the actors are about, and knowing the story, are
enabled to allot to each figure its rank and personality. Raphael has
this talent in a high degree, though by introducing two stories, or two
different points of time, he sometimes confuses the subject. There are
two stories in his Transfiguration, each of which forms a perfect design
by itself, but they are not so satisfactory when we consider them
unitedly. It is said that Raphael’s figures show not only their actual,
but their past positions, the garments, where the figure is in motion,
retaining something of their previous set.
Secondly, by its composition. When the figures and their accessories are
so formed, and so disposed, as to form an agreeable whole.
Thirdly, by its drawing, _i. e._, the correct imitation of nature.
Fourthly by its _beau ideal_. This is different from drawing, because it
depends upon the choice of subject. One artist may draw common-place
forms, and such as he usually sees, with perfect exactness; a second may
know how to select the most beautiful; a third, by a careful examination
of what constitutes the excellence of each part, and the harmony and
perfect correspondence of one part with another, may improve even on the
most beautiful existing figures. Nature is as much the guide to this
last, as to the two others; but a finer taste and more perfect
knowledge, that indefinable something which we call genius, enables him
to see and to correct the defects which exist even in the finest forms.
Every part is perfectly natural, and the whole is so too, because it is
what Nature always seems to intend to produce in her most perfect works,
but at which she never completely arrives. The mere drawing of these
three may be equally good, but the third alone possesses the beau ideal.
The Belvidere Apollo is an excellent illustration of the beau ideal. Of
a thousand men whom you meet in the streets without remarking them as
deformed, you will not perhaps find one so defective in some points as
the Apollo. Defects which are not noticed in the statue, because it has
no motion; any change of position would expose them: this is defective
drawing. Of a thousand times a thousand you will not find one who even
approximates to it in beauty. The finest drawing may exist without beau
ideal, but every defect in drawing is also a defect in the beau ideal.
The artist has fallen short as nature falls short, but he errs more
grossly.
Fifthly, Expression; both of passion and character; not in the heads
only, but in the whole form, and in the attitudes.
Sixthly, Clair-oscur. When the parts are well relieved by the shades and
shadows, and appear free from the canvass.
Seventhly, Colour. Colouring and composition mutually enhance the
other’s value.
This arrangement, though very convenient for the purposes I have
mentioned, is perhaps, a little too mechanical. The highest pleasure in
viewing pictures arises from the expression of mind; an expression not
confined to any one of these, but influencing each, and all of them. The
painter, like the poet, must bear you on his wings at his own will, and
you must resign yourself to him, in order to feel and enjoy the utmost
pleasure which his productions communicate; but after you have once
experienced this sort of pleasure, it may be both prolonged and enhanced
by a careful examination of the elements which produce it.
After all these preliminaries, we will now enter the museum; for though
I would not, even if I were better able, undertake the task of
description, I shall not myself be contented without endeavouring to
communicate some impression of my own feelings on viewing it repeatedly.
Like Rome itself, after all we have heard of the immense quantity of
objects of curiosity, and as much as we are prepared to admire some of
the most beautiful of them, we are still lost in astonishment when we
are really on the spot, and walk through the extended galleries, or from
one magnificent saloon to another, and find all filled with wonders.
We first enter into a gallery above a thousand feet long, divided into
two parts by small contraction. The first of these is occupied by
inscriptions; and fragments of architecture and ornament. Among the
latter objects, some, which have been brought from Ostia, are of
first-rate excellence, and from a certain similarity of style between
them and those found in the Forum of Trajan, are perhaps of the design
of Apollodorus, and consequently of the time of Trajan. This is rendered
more probable by our knowledge, that considerable edifices were erected
at Ostia under that emperor. Here also are some curious little
fountains, like children’s playthings, if they were not of marble; such
as were used to refresh the private apartments of the Romans. In the
second part is the Museo Chiaramonte, containing also various fragments,
but possessing many fine busts and statues.