Rome.
Those who have a real pleasure in contemplating the remains of antique,
and the noblest specimens of modern architecture, who are struck with
the inimitable delicacy and expression of Greek sculpture, and wish to
compare it with the most successful efforts of the moderns, and who have
an unwearied admiration of the charms of painting, may, provided they
have not more important avocations elsewhere, employ a full year with
satisfaction in this city.
What is called a regular course with an Antiquarian, generally takes up
about six weeks; employing three hours a-day, you may, in that time,
visit all the churches, palaces, villas, and ruins, worth seeing, in or
near Rome. But after having made this course, however distinctly every
thing may have been explained by the Antiquarian, if you do not visit the
most interesting again and again, and reflect on them at more leisure,
your labour will be of little use; for the objects are so various, and
those you see on one day, so apt to be effaced by, or confounded with,
those you behold on another, that you must carry away a very faint and
indistinct recollection of any. Many travellers have experienced the
truth of this observation.
One young English gentleman, who happens not to be violently smitten with
the charms of virtù, and scorns to affect what he does not feel, thought
that two or three hours a-day, for a month or six weeks together, was
rather too much time to bestow on a pursuit in which he felt no pleasure,
and saw very little utility. The only advantage which, in his opinion,
the greater part of us reaped from our six weeks tour, was, that we
_could say_, we had seen a great many fine things which he had not seen.
This was a superiority which he could not brook, and which he resolved
we should not long enjoy. Being fully convinced, that the business might
be, with a little exertion, dispatched in a very short space of time,
he prevailed on a proper person to attend him; ordered a post-chaise
and four horses to be ready early in the morning, and driving through
churches, palaces, villas, and ruins, with all possible expedition, he
fairly saw, in two days, all that we had beheld during our crawling
course of six weeks. I found afterwards, by the list he kept of what he
had seen, that we had not the advantage of him in a single picture, or
the most mutilated remnant of a statue.
I do not propose this young gentleman’s plan, as the very best possible;
but of this I am certain, that he can give as satisfactory an account of
the curiosities of Rome, as some people of my acquaintance who viewed
them with _equal_ sensibility, and at a great deal more leisure.
Those travellers who cannot remain a considerable time at Rome, would
do well to get a judicious list of the most interesting objects in
architecture, sculpture, and painting, that are to be seen here; they
ought to visit these frequently, and these only, by which means they
will acquire a strong and distinct impression of what they see; instead
of that transient and confused idea which a vast number of things,
viewed superficially, and in a hurry, leave in the mind. After they have
examined, with due attention, the most magnificent and best preserved
remains of ancient architecture, very few have satisfaction in viewing a
parcel of old bricks, which, they are told, formed the foundation of the
baths of some of the Emperors. And there are not many who would regret
their not having seen great numbers of statues and pictures of inferior
merit, when they had beheld all that are universally esteemed the best.
Would it not be highly judicious, therefore, in the greatest number of
travellers, without abridging the usual time of the course, to make it
much less comprehensive?
Besides churches, there are about thirty palaces in Rome, as full of
pictures as the walls can bear. The Borghese Palace alone is said to
contain above sixteen hundred, all original. There are also ten or twelve
villas in the neighbourhood of this city, which are usually visited by
strangers. You may judge from this, what a task they undertake, who
resolve to go through the whole; and what kind of an idea they are likely
to carry away, who perform this task during a stay of a few months. Of
the villas, the Pineiana, which belongs to the Borghese family, is the
most remarkable. I shall confine myself to a few cursory remarks on
some of the most esteemed curiosities it contains. The Hermaphrodite,
of which you have seen so many prints and models, is accounted by many,
one of the finest pieces of sculpture in the world. The mattress, upon
which this fine figure reclines, is the work of the Cavalier Bernini,
and nothing can be more admirably executed. Some critics say, he has
performed his task _too well_, because the admiration of the spectator
is divided between the statue and the mattress. This, however, ought not
to be imputed as a fault to that great artist; since he condescended to
make it at all, it was his business to make it as perfect as possible. I
have heard of an artist at Versailles, in a different line, who attempted
something of the same nature; he had exerted all his abilities in making
a periwig for a celebrated preacher, who was to preach on a particular
occasion before the court; and he imagined he had succeeded to a miracle.
“I’ll be hanged,” said he to one of his companions, “if his Majesty, or
any man of taste, will pay much attention to the _sermon_ to-day.”
Among the antiques, there is a Centaur in marble, with a Cupid mounted
on his back. The latter has the cestus of Venus, and the ivy crown of
Bacchus, in allusion to beauty and wine; he beats the Centaur with his
fist, and seems to kick with violence to drive him along. The Centaur
throws back his head and eyes with a look of remorse, as if he were
unwilling, though forced, to proceed. The execution of this group, is
admired by those who look upon it merely as a jeu d’esprit; but it
acquires additional merit, when considered as allegorical of men who
are hurried on by the violence of their passions, and lament their own
weakness, while they find themselves unable to resist.
There is another figure which claims attention, more on account of the
allegory than the sculpture. This is a small statue of Venus Cloacina,
trampling on an impregnated uterus, and tearing the wings of Cupid.
The allegory indicates, that prostitution is equally destructive of
generation and love. Keysler mentioning this, calls it a statue of Venus,
lamenting her rashness in clipping Cupid’s wings.
The statue called Zingara, or the Fortune-teller, is antique, all but the
head, which is Bernini’s; the face has a strong expression of that sly
shrewdness, which belongs to those whose trade it is to impose on the
credulity of the vulgar; with a great look of some modern gypsies I have
seen, who have imposed most egregiously on the self-love and credulity of
the great.
Seneca dying in the Bath, in touchstone; round his middle is a girdle
of yellow marble; he stands in a bason of blueish marble lined with
porphyry; his knees seem to bend under him, from weakness; his features
denote faintness, languor, and the approach of death; the eyes are
enamelled, which gives the countenance a fierce and disagreeable look.
Colouring the eyes always has a bad effect in sculpture; they form too
violent a contrast with the other features, which remain of the natural
colour of the marble. When the eyes are enamelled, it is requisite that
all the face should be painted, to produce the agreeable harmony of life.
The Faun dandling an infant Bacchus, is one of the gayest figures that
can be imagined.
In this Villa, there are also some highly esteemed pieces by Bernini.
Æneas carrying his father; David slinging the stone at Goliah; and Apollo
pursuing Daphne: the last is generally reckoned Bernini’s master-piece;
for my part, I have so bad a taste as to prefer the second. The figure of
David is nervous, with great anatomical justness, and a strong expression
of keenness and exertion to hit his mark, and kill his enemy; but the
countenance of David wants dignity. An ancient artist, perhaps, could
not have given more ardour, but he would have given more nobleness to the
features of David. Some may say, that as he was but a shepherd, it was
proper he should have the look of a clown; but it ought to be remembered,
that David was a very extraordinary man; and if the artist who formed
the Belvedere Apollo, or if Agasias the Ephesian, had treated the same
subject, I imagine they would have rendered their work more interesting,
by blending the noble air of an hero with the simple appearance of a
shepherd. The figures of Apollo and Daphne err in a different manner.
The face and figure of Apollo are deficient in simplicity; the noble
simplicity of the best antique statues: he runs with affected graces,
and his astonishment at the beginning transformation of his mistress
is not, in my opinion, naturally expressed, but seems rather the
exaggerated astonishment of an actor. The form and shape of Daphne
are delicately executed; but in her face, beauty is, in some degree,
sacrificed to the expression of terror; her features are too much
distorted by fear. An ancient artist would have made her less afraid,
that she might have been more beautiful. In expressing terror, pain,
and other impressions, there is a point where the beauty of the finest
countenance ends, and deformity begins. I am indebted to Mr. Lock for
this observation. In some conversations I had with him at Cologny, on
the subject of Sculpture, that gentleman remarked, that it was in the
skilful and temperate exertion of her powers, in this noblest province
of the art, _expression_, that ancient sculpture so much excelled the
modern. She knew its limits, and had ascertained them with precision.
As far as expression would go hand in hand with grace and beauty, in
subjects intended to excite sympathy, she indulged her chisel; but where
agony threatened to induce distortion, and obliterate beauty, she wisely
set bounds to imitation, remembering, that though it may be moral to
pity ugliness in distress, it is more natural to pity beauty in the
same situation; and that her business was not to give the strongest
representation of nature, but the representation which would interest us
most. That ingenious gentleman, I remember, observed at the same time,
that the Greek artists have been accused of having sacrificed character
too much to technical proportion. He continued to observe, that what
is usually called character in a face, is probably excess in some of
its parts, and particularly of those which are under the influence of
the mind, the leading passion of which marks some feature for its own.
A perfectly symmetrical face bears no mark of the influence of either
the passions or the understanding, and reminds you of Prometheus’s clay
without his fire. On the other hand, the moderns, by sacrificing too
liberally those technical proportions, which, when religiously observed,
produce beauty, to expression, have generally lost the very point which
they contended for. They seemed to think, that when a passion was to
be expressed, it could not be expressed too strongly; and that sympathy
always followed in an exact proportion with the strength of the passion,
and the force of its expression. But passions, in their extreme, instead
of producing sympathy, generally excite feelings diametrically opposite.
A vehement and clamorous demand of pity is received with neglect, and
sometimes with disgust; whilst a patient and silent acquiescence under
the pressure of mental affliction, or severe bodily pain, finds every
heart upon an unison with its sufferings. The ancients knew to what
extent expression may be carried, with good effect. The author of the
famous Laocoon, in the Vatican, knew where to stop, and if the figure had
been alone, it would have been perfect; there is exquisite anguish in
the countenance, but it is borne in silence, and without distortion of
features. Puget thought he could go beyond the author of Laocoon; he gave
voice to his Milo; he made him roaring with pain, and lost the sympathy
of the spectator. In confirmation of this doctrine, Mr. Lock desired,
that when I should arrive at Rome, I would examine, with attention, the
celebrated statue of Niobe, in the Villa de Medici. I have done so again
and again, and find his remarks most strikingly just. The author of the
Niobe has had the judgment not to exhibit all the distress which he might
have placed in her countenance. This consummate artist was afraid of
disturbing her features too much, knowing full well, that the point where
he was to expect the most sympathy was there, where distress co-operated
with beauty, and where _our pity met our love_. Had he sought it one step
farther, in _expression_, he had lost it. It is unjust, you will say,
that men should not sympathise with homely women in distress, in the same
degree as they do with the beautiful. That is very true; but it is the
business of the sculptor to apply his art to men as he finds them, not as
they ought to be. Beside, this principle has full force, and is strictly
true, only in sculpture and painting. For, in real life, a woman may
engage a man’s esteem and affections by a thousand fine qualities, and a
thousand endearing ties, though she is entirely deficient in beauty.
This Villa is also enriched by one of the most animated statues in the
world, and which, in the opinion of many men of taste, comes nearest, and
in the judgment of some, equals the Apollo of the Vatican. I mean the
statue of the fighting Gladiator. It is difficult, however, to compare
two pieces whose merits are so different. The Apollo is full of grace,
majesty, and conscious superiority; he has shot his arrow, and knows its
success. There is, indeed, a strong expression of indignation, which
opens his lips, distends his nostrils, and contracts his brows; but it
is the indignation of a superior being, who punishes while he scorns the
efforts of his enemy. The Gladiator, on the contrary, full of fire and
youthful courage, opposes an enemy that he does not fear; but whom, it is
evident, he thinks worthy of his utmost exertion; every limb, nerve, and
sinew, is in action; his ardent features indicate the strongest desire,
the highest expectation, but not a perfect security of victory. His shape
is elegant as well as nervous, expressive of agility as well as strength,
and equally distant from the brawny strength of the Farnesian Hercules,
and the effeminate softness of the Belvedere Antinous. The action is
transitive (if the term may be so used), and preparatory only to another
disposition of body and limbs, which are to enable him to strike, and
which he cannot do in his present position; for the moment his right arm
crossed the perpendicular line of his right leg, the whole figure would
be out of its centre. His action seems a combination of the defensive and
offensive; defensive in the _present_ moment, the left arm being advanced
to secure the adversary’s blow; and preparing for offence in the next,
the left leg already taking its spring to advance in order to give the
figure a centre, which may enable it to strike, without risk of falling,
if the blow should not take place. The action of the right arm, however,
will always remain in some degree problematical, the ancient being lost;
by whom the modern arm is restored, I never heard.
Though this fine figure generally goes by the name of the fighting
Gladiator, some antiquarians cannot allow, that ever it was intended to
represent a person of that profession, but a Victor at the Olympic games;
and allege, that Agasias of Ephesus, the sculptor’s name, being inscribed
upon the pedestal, supports their opinion, because the Greeks never used
gladiators. But I fear this argument has little weight; for the Greek
slaves at Rome put their name to their work; and the free Greek artists,
working in Greece, in public works, found difficulty in obtaining the
same indulgence. Those who wish to rescue this statue from the ignoble
condition of a common Gladiator, say further, that he looks up as if his
adversary were on horseback, adding, that gladiators never fought on
foot against horsemen on the Arena. Here again, I am afraid, they are
mistaken. He looks no higher than the eye of an enemy on foot; the head
must have a much greater degree of elevation to look up to the eye of an
horseman, which is the part of your adversary which you always fix.
Some learned gentlemen, not satisfied that this statue should be thrown
indiscriminately among Gladiators and Victors of the Olympic games, have
given it a particular and lasting character; they roundly assert, that it
is the identical statue, made by order of the Athenian State, in honour
of their countryman Chabrias; and that it is precisely in the attitude
which, according to Cornelius Nepos, that hero assumed, when he repulsed
the army of Agesilaus. This idea is in the true spirit of an antiquary.
If, upon turning to that author, you remain unconvinced, and are
interested in the honour of the statue, I can furnish you with no
presumptive proof of its original dignity, except, that the character
of the face is noble and haughty, unlike that of a slave and mercenary
Gladiator. And there is no rope around the neck, as the Gladiator Moriens
has, whom that circumstance sufficiently indicates to have been in that
unfortunate situation.