Ye empty shadows of unreal good!
Phantoms of joy!--too long--too far pursued,
Farewell! no longer will I idly mourn
O'er vanished hopes that never can return;
No longer pine o'er hoarded griefs--nor chide
The cold vain world, whose falsehood I have tried.
_Me_ never more can sweet affections move,
Nor smiles awake to confidence and love:
To _me_, no more can disappointment spring,
Nor wrong, nor scorn one bitter moment bring!
With a firm spirit--though a breaking heart,
Subdu'd to act through life my weary part,
Its closing scenes in patience I await,
And by a stern endurance, conquer fate.
_December 8._--In beginning another volume, I feel almost inclined to
throw the last into the fire; as in writing it I have generally begun
the record of one day by tearing away the half of what was written the
day before: but though it contains much that I would rather forget,
and some things written under the impression of pain, and sick and
irritable feelings, I will not yet _ungratefully_ destroy it. I have
frequently owed to my little Diary not amusement only, but
consolation. It has gradually become not only the faithful depository
of my recollections, but the confidante of my feelings, and the sole
witness of my tears. I know not if this be wise: but if it be folly, I
have the comfort of knowing that a mere act of my will destroys for
ever the record of my weakness; and meantime a confidante whose mouth
is sealed with a patent lock and key, and whom I can put out of
existence in a single moment, is not dangerous; so, as Lord Byron
elegantly expresses it, "_Here goes_."
We left Florence this morning; and saw the sun rise upon a country so
enchantingly beautiful, that I dare not trust myself to description;
but I felt it, and still feel it--almost in my heart. The blue
cloudless sky, the sun pouring his beams upon a land, which even in
this wintry season smiles when others languish--the soft varied
character of the scenery, comprising every species of natural
beauty--the green slope, the woody hill, the sheltered valley,--the
deep dales, into which we could just peep, as the carriage whirled us
too rapidly by--the rugged fantastic rocks, cultivated plains, and
sparkling rivers, and, beyond all, the chain of the Apennines with
light clouds floating across them, or resting in their recesses--all
this I saw, and felt, and shall not forget.
I write this at Arezzo, the birth-place of Petrarch, of Redi, of
Pignotti, and of that Guido who discovered Counter-point. Whether
Arezzo is remarkable for any thing else, I am too sleepy to recollect:
and as we depart early to-morrow morning, it would only tantalize me
to remember. We arrived here late, by the light of a most resplendent
moon. If such is this country in winter, what must it be in summer?
_9th, at Perugia._--All the beauties of natural scenery have been
combined with historical associations, to render our journey of to-day
most interesting; and with a mind more at ease, nothing has been
wanting to render this one of the most delightful days I have spent
abroad.
At Cortona, Hannibal slept the night before the battle of Thrasymene.
Soon after leaving this town on our left, we came in view of the lake,
and the old tower on its banks. There is an ancient ruin on a high
eminence to the left, which our postilion called the "Forteressa di
Annibale il Carthago." Further on, the Gualandra hills seem to circle
round the lake; and here was the scene of the battle. The channel of
the Sanguinetto, which then ran red with the best blood of Rome and
Carthage, was dry when we crossed it--
"And hooting boys might dry-shod pass,
And gather pebbles from the naked ford."
While we traversed the field of battle at a slow pace, V. who had his
Livy in his pocket, read aloud his minute description of the
engagement; and we could immediately point out the different places
mentioned by the historian. The whole valley and the hills around are
now covered with olive woods; and from an olive tree which grew close
to the edge of the lake, I snatched a branch as we passed by, and
shall preserve it--an emblem of peace, from the theatre of slaughter.
The whole landscape as we looked back upon it from a hill on this side
of the Casa del Rano, was exceedingly beautiful. The lake seemed to
slumber in the sunshine; and Passignano jutting into the water, with
its castellated buildings, the two little woody islands, and the
undulating hills enclosing the whole, as if to shut it from the world,
made it look like a scene fit only to be peopled by fancy's fairest
creations, if the remembrance of its blood-stained glories had not
started up, to rob it of half its beauty. Mrs. R---- compared it to
the lake of Geneva; but in my own mind, I would not admit the
comparison. The lake of Geneva stands alone in its beauty; for there
the sublimest and the softest features of nature are united: there the
wonderful, the wild, and the beautiful, blend in one mighty scene; and
love and heroism, poetry and genius, have combined to hallow its
shores. The lake of Perugia is far more circumscribed: the scenery
around it wants grandeur and extent; though so beautiful in itself,
that if no comparison had been made, no want would have been
suggested: and on the bloody field of Thrasymene I looked with
curiosity and interest unmingled with pleasure. I have long survived
my sympathy with the fighting heroes of antiquity. All this I thought
as we slowly walked up the hill, but I was silent as usual: as Jaques
says, "I can think of as many matters as other men, but I praise God,
and make no boast of it." We arrived here too late to see any thing of
the city.
_Dec. 10th, at Terni._--The ridiculous _contre-temps_ we sometimes
meet with would be matter of amusement to me, if they did not affect
others. And in truth, as far as paying well, and scolding well, can
go, it is impossible to travel more magnificently, more _à la milor
Anglais_ than we do: but there is no controlling fate; and here, as
our evil destinies will have it, a company of strolling actors had
taken possession of the best quarters before our arrival; and our
accommodations are, I must confess, tolerably bad.
When we left Perugia this morning, the city, throned upon its lofty
eminence, with its craggy rocks, its tremendous fortifications, and
its massy gateways, had an imposing effect. Forwards, we looked over a
valley, which so resembled a lake, the hills projecting above the
glittering white vapour having the appearance of islands scattered
over its surface, that at the first glance I was positively deceived;
and all my topographical knowledge, which I had conned on the map the
night before, completely put to the rout. As the day advanced, this
white mist sank gradually to the earth, like a veil dropped from the
form of a beautiful woman, and nature stood disclosed in all her
loveliness.
Trevi, on its steep and craggy hill, detached from the chain of
mountains, looked beautiful as we gazed up at it, with its buildings
mingled with rocks and olives--
I had written thus far, when we were all obliged to decamp in haste to
our respective bed-rooms; as it is found necessary to convert our
salon into a dormitory. I know I shall be tired, and very tired
to-morrow,--therefore add a few words in pencil, before the
impressions now fresh on my mind are obscured.
After Trevi came the Clitumnus with its little fairy temple; and we
left the carriage to view it from below, and drink of the classic
stream. The temple (now a chapel) is not much in itself, and was voted
in bad taste by some of our party. To me the tiny fane, the glassy
river, more pure and limpid than any fabled or famous fountain of old,
the beautiful hills, the sunshine, and the associations connected with
the whole scene, were enchanting; and I could not at the moment
descend to architectural criticism.
The road to Spoleto was a succession of olive grounds, vineyards, and
rich woods. The vines with their skeleton boughs looked wintry and
miserable; but the olives, now in full fruit and foliage, intermixed
with the cypress, the ilex, the cork tree, and the pine, clothed the
landscape with a many-tinted robe of verdure.
While sitting in the open carriage at Spoleto, waiting for horses, I
saw one of that magnificent breed of "milk white steers," for which
the banks of the Clitumnus have been famed from all antiquity, led
past me gaily decorated, to be baited on a plain without the city. As
the noble creature, serene and unresisting, paced along, followed by a
wild, ferocious-looking, and far more brutal rabble, I would have
given all I possessed to redeem him from his tormentors: but it was
in vain. As we left the city, we heard his tremendous roar of agony
and rage echo from the rocks. I stopped my ears, and was glad when we
were whirled out of hearing. The impression left upon my nerves by
this rencontre, makes me dislike to remember Spoleto: yet I believe it
is a beautiful and interesting place. Hannibal, as I recollect,
besieged this city, but was bravely repulsed. I could say much more of
the scenes and the feelings of to-day; but my pencil refuses to mark
another letter.
* * * * *
_Dec. 11th, at Civita Castellana._--I could not write a word to-night
in the salon, because I wished to listen to the conversation of two
intelligent travellers, who, arriving after us, were obliged to occupy
the same apartment. Our accommodations here are indeed deplorable
altogether. After studying the geography of my bed, and finding no
spot thereon, to which Sancho's couch of pack-saddles and pummels
would not be a bed of down in comparison, I ordered a fresh faggot on
my hearth: they brought me some ink in a gally-pot--_invisible_
ink--for I cannot see what I am writing; and I sit down to scribble,
_pour me désennuyer_.
This morning we set off to visit the Falls of Terni (la cascata di
Marmore) in two carriages and four: O such equipages!--such ratlike
steeds! such picturesque accoutrements! and such poetical looking
guides and postilions, ragged, cloaked, and whiskered!--but it was all
consistent: the wild figures harmonized with the wild landscape. We
passed a singular fortress on the top of a steep insulated rock, which
had formerly been inhabited by a band of robbers and their families,
who were with great difficulty, and after a regular siege, dislodged
by a party of soldiers, and the place dismantled. In its present
ruined state, it has a very picturesque effect; and though the
presence of the banditti would no doubt have added greatly to the
romance of the scene, on the present occasion we excused their
absence.
We visited the falls both above and below, but unfortunately we
neither saw them from the best point of view, nor at the best season.
The body of waters is sometimes ten times greater, as I was
assured--but can scarce believe it possible. The words "Hell of
waters," used by Lord Byron, would not have occurred to me while
looking at this cataract, which impresses the astonished mind with an
overwhelming idea of power, might, magnificence, and impetuosity; but
blends at the same time all that is most tremendous in sound and
motion, with all that is most bright and lovely in forms, in colours,
and in scenery.
As I stood close to the edge of the precipice, immediately under the
great fall, I felt my respiration gone: I turned giddy, almost faint,
and was obliged to lean against the rock for support. The mad plunge
of the waters, the deafening roar, the presence of a power which no
earthly force could resist or control, struck me with an awe almost
amounting to terror. A bright sunbow stood over the torrent, which,
seen from below, has the appearance of a luminous white arch bending
from rock to rock. The whole scene was--but how can I say what it was?
I have exhausted my stock of fine words; and must be content with
silent recollections, and the sense of admiration and wonder
unexpressed.
Below the fall, an inundation which took place a year ago, undermined
and carried away part of the banks of the Nera, at the same time
laying open an ancient Roman bridge, which had been buried for ages.
The channel of the river and the depth of the soil must have been
greatly altered since this bridge was erected.
When we returned to the inn at Terni, and while the horses were
putting to, I took up a volume of Eustace's tour, which some traveller
had accidentally left on the table; and turning to the description of
Terni, read part of it, but quickly threw down the book with
indignation, deeming all his verbiage the merest nonsense I had ever
met with: in fact, it _is_ nonsense to attempt to image in words an
individual scene like this. When we had made out our description as
accurately as possible, it would do as well for any other cataract in
the world: we can only combine rocks, wood, and water, in certain
proportions. A good picture may give a tolerable idea of a particular
scene or landscape: but no picture, no painter, not Ruysdael himself,
can give a just idea of a cataract. The lifeless, silent, unmoving
image is there: but where is the thundering roar, the terrible
velocity, the glory of refracted light, the eternity of sound, and
infinity of motion, in which essentially its effect consists?
In the valley beneath the Falls of Terni, there is a beautiful retired
little villa, which was once occupied by the late Queen Caroline: and
in the gardens adjoining it, we gathered oranges from the trees
ourselves for the first time. After passing Mount Soracte, of
classical fame, we took leave of the Apennines; having lived amongst
them ever since we left Bologna.
The costume of this part of the country is very gay and picturesque:
the women wear a white head-dress formed of a square kerchief, which
hangs down upon the shoulders, and is attached to the hair by a silver
pin: a boddice half laced, and decorated with knots of ribbon, and a
short scarlet petticoat complete their attire. Between Perugia and
Terni I did not see one woman without a coral necklace; and those who
have the power, load themselves with trinkets and ornaments.
_Rome, December 12._--The morning broke upon us so beautifully between
Civita Castellana and Nevi, that we lauded our good fortune, and
anticipated a glorious approach to the "Eternal City." We were
impatient to reach the heights of Baccano; from which, at the distance
of fifteen miles, we were to view the cross of St. Peter's glittering
on the horizon, while the postilions rising in their stirrups, should
point forward with exultation, and exclaim "ROMA!" But, O
vain hope! who can controul their fate? just before we reached
Baccano, impenetrable clouds enveloped the whole Campagna. The mist
dissolved into a drizzling rain; and when we entered the city, it
poured in torrents. Since we left England, this is only the third time
it has rained while we were on the road; it seems therefore
unconscionable to murmur. But to lose the first view of Rome! the
first view of the dome of St. Peter's! no--that lost moment will never
be retrieved through our whole existence.
We found it difficult to obtain suitable accommodation for our
numerous _cortège_, the Hotel d'Europe, and the Hotel de Londres being
quite full: and for the present we are rather indifferently lodged in
the Albergo di Parigi.
So here we are, in ROME! where we have been for the last five
hours, and have not seen an inch of the city beyond the dirty pavement
of the Via Santa Croce; where an excellent dinner cooked _à
l'Anglaise_, a blazing fire, a drawing-room snugly carpeted and
curtained, and the rain beating against our windows, would almost
persuade us that we are in London; and every now and then, it is with
a kind of surprise that I remind myself that I am really in Rome.
Heaven send us but a fine day to-morrow!
13.--The day arose as beautiful, as brilliant, as cloudless, as I
could have desired for the first day in Rome. About seven o'clock, and
before any one was ready for breakfast, I walked out; and directing my
steps by mere chance to the left, found myself in the Piazza di Spagna
and opposite to a gigantic flight of marble stairs leading to the top
of a hill. I was at the summit in a moment; and breathless and
agitated by a thousand feelings, I leaned against the obelisk, and
looked over the whole city. I knew not where I was: nor among the
crowded mass of buildings, the innumerable domes and towers, and vanes
and pinnacles, brightened by the ascending sun, could I for a while
distinguish a single known object; for my eyes and my heart were both
too full: but in a few minutes my powers of perception returned; and
in the huge round bulk of the castle of St. Angelo, and the immense
façade and soaring cupola of St. Peter's, I knew I could not be
mistaken. I gazed and gazed as if I would have drunk it all in at my
eyes: and then descending the superb flight of steps rather more
leisurely than I had ascended, I was in a moment at the door of our
hotel.
The rest of the day I wish I could forget--I found letters from
England on the breakfast table--
* * * * *
Until dinner time were we driving through the narrow dirty streets at
the mercy of a stupid _laquais de place_, in search of better
accommodations, but without success: and, on the whole, I fear I shall
always remember too well the disagreeable and painful impressions of
my first day in Rome.
_Dec. 18._--A week has now elapsed, and I begin to know and feel Rome
a little better than I did. The sites of the various buildings, the
situations of the most interesting objects, and the bearings of the
principal hills, the Capitol, the Palatine, the Aventine, and the
Æsquiline, have become familiar to me, assisted in my perambulations
by an excellent plan. I have been disappointed in nothing, for I
expected that the general appearance of modern Rome would be mean; and
that the impression made by the ancient city would be melancholy; and
I had been, unfortunately, too well prepared, by previous reading, for
all I see, to be astonished by any thing except the Museum of the
Vatican.
I entered St. Peter's expecting to be struck dumb with admiration, and
accordingly it was so. A feeling of vastness filled my whole mind, and
made it disagreeable, almost impossible to speak or exclaim: but it
was a style of grandeur, exciting rather than oppressive to the
imagination, nor did I experience any thing like that sombre and
reverential awe, I have felt on entering one of our Gothic minsters.
The interior of St. Peter's is all airy magnificence, and gigantic
splendour; light and sunshine pouring in on every side; gilding and
gay colours, marbles and pictures, dazzling the eye above, below,
around. The effect of the whole has not diminished in a second and
third visit; but rather grows upon me. I can never utter a word for
the first ten minutes after I enter the church.
For the Museum of the Vatican, I confess I was totally unprepared; and
the first and second time I walked through the galleries, I was so
amazed--so intoxicated, that I could not fix my attention upon any
individual object, except the Apollo, upon which, as I walked along
confused and lost in wonder and enchantment, I stumbled accidentally,
and stood spell-bound. Gallery beyond gallery, hall within hall,
temple within temple, new splendours opening at every step! of all the
creations of luxurious art, the Museum of the Vatican may alone defy
any description to do it justice, or any fancy to conceive the
unimaginable variety of its treasures. When I remember that the French
had the audacious and sacrilegious vanity to snatch from these
glorious sanctuaries the finest specimens of art, and hide them in
their villanous old gloomy Louvre, I am confounded.
I have been told and can well believe, that the whole _giro_ of the
galleries exceed two miles.
I have not yet studied the frescos of Raffaelle sufficiently to feel
all their perfection; and should be in despair at my own dullness,
were I not consoled by the recollection of Sir Joshua Reynolds. At
present one of Raffaelle's divine Virgins delights me more than all
his camere and logie together; but I can look upon them with due
veneration, and grieve to see the ravages of time and damp.
* * * * *
19.--Last night we took advantage of a brilliant full moon to visit
the Coliseum by moonlight; and if I came away disappointed of the
pleasure I had expected, the fault was not in me nor in the scene
around me. In its sublime and heart-stirring beauty, it more than
equalled, it surpassed all I had anticipated--but--(there must always
be a _but!_ always in the realities of this world something to
disgust;) it happened that one or two gentlemen joined our
party--young men too, and classical scholars, who perhaps thought it
fine to affect a well-bred _nonchalance_, a fashionable disdain for
all romance and enthusiasm, and amused themselves with _quizzing_ our
guide, insulting the gloom, the grandeur, and the silence around them,
with loud impertinent laughter at their own poor jokes; and I was
obliged to listen, sad and disgusted, to their empty and tasteless and
misplaced flippancy. The young barefooted friar, with his dark
lanthorn, and his black eyes flashing from under his cowl, who acted
as our cicerone, was in picturesque unison with the scene; but--more
than one murder having lately been committed among the labyrinthine
recesses of the ruin, the government has given orders that every
person entering after dusk should be attended by a guard of two
soldiers. These fellows therefore necessarily walked close after our
heels, smoking, spitting, and spluttering German. Such were my
companions, and such was my _cortège_. I returned home vowing that
while I remained at Rome, nothing should induce me to visit the
Coliseum by moonlight again.
To-day I was standing before the Laocoon with Rogers, who remarked
that the absence of all parental feeling in the aspect of Laocoon, his
self-engrossed indifference to the sufferings of his children (which
is noticed and censured, I think, by Dr. Moore) adds to the pathos, if
properly considered, by giving the strongest possible idea of that
physical agony which the sculptor intended to represent. It may be so,
and I thought there was both truth and _tacte_ in the poet's
observation.
The Perseus of Canova does not please me so well as his Paris; there
is more simplicity and repose in the latter statue, less of that
theatrical air which I think is the common fault of Canova's figures.
It is absolutely necessary to look at the Perseus before you look at
the Apollo, in order to do the former justice. I have gazed with
admiration at the Perseus for minutes together, then walked from it to
the Apollo and felt instantaneously, but could not have expressed, the
difference. The first is indeed a beautiful statue, the latter
"breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought," as if the sculptor had
left a portion of his own soul within the marble to half animate his
glorious creation. The want of this informing life is strongly felt in
the Perseus, when contemplated after the Apollo. It is delightful when
the imagination rises in the scale of admiration, when we ascend from
excellence to perfection: but excellence after perfection is absolute
inferiority; it sinks below itself, and the descent is so disagreeable
and disappointing, that we can seldom estimate justly the object
before us. We make comparisons involuntarily in a case where
comparisons are odious.
* * * * *
The weather is cold here during the prevalence of the tramontana: but
I enjoy the brilliant skies and the delicious purity of the air, which
leaves the eye free to wander over a vast extent of space. Looking
from the gallery of the Belvedere at sunset this evening, I clearly
saw Tivoli, Albano, and Frascati, although all Rome and part of the
Campagna lay between me and those towns. The outlines of every
building, ruin, hill, and wood were so distinctly marked, and _stood
out_ so brightly to the eye! and the full round moon, magnified
through the purple vapour which floated over the Apennines, rose just
over Tivoli, adding to the beauty of the scene. O Italy! how I wish I
could transport hither all I love! how I wish I were well enough,
happy enough, to enjoy all the lovely things I see! but pain is
mingled with all I behold, all I feel: a cloud seems for ever before
my eyes, a weight for ever presses down my heart. I know it is wrong
to repine: and that I ought rather to be thankful for the pleasurable
sensations yet spared to me, than lament that they are so few. When I
take up my pen to record the impressions of the day, I sometimes turn
within myself, and wonder how it is possible that amid the strife of
feelings not all subdued, and the desponding of the heart, the mind
should still retain its faculties unobscured, and the imagination all
its vivacity and its susceptibility to pleasure,--like the beautiful
sunbow I saw at the Falls of Terni, bending so bright and so calm over
the verge of the abyss which toiled and raged below.
* * * * *
22.--This morning was devoted to the Capitol, where the objects of art
are ill arranged and too crowded: the lights are not well managed, and
on the whole I could not help wishing, in spite of my veneration for
the Capitol, that some at least among the divine master-pieces it
contains could be transferred to the glorious halls of the Vatican,
and shrined in temples worthy of them.
The objects which most struck me were the dying Gladiator, the
Antinous, the Flora, and the statue called (I know not on what
authority) the Faun of Praxiteles.
The dying Gladiator is the chief boast of the Capitol. The antiquarian
Nibby insists that this statue represents a Gaul, that the sculpture
is Grecian, that it formed part of a group on a pediment, representing
the vengeance which Apollo took on the Gauls, when, under their king
Brennus, they attacked the temple of Delphi: that the cord round the
neck is a twisted chain, an ornament peculiar to the Gauls; and that
the form of the shield, the bugles, the style of the hair, and the
mustachios, all prove it to be a Gaul. I asked, "why should such
faultless, such exquisite sculpture be thrown away upon a high
pediment? the affecting expression of the countenance, the head 'bowed
low and full of death,' the gradual failure of the strength and
sinking of the form, the blood slowly trickling from his side--how
could any spectator, contemplating it at a vast height, be sensible of
these minute traits--the distinguishing perfections of this matchless
statue?" It was replied, that many of the ancient buildings were so
constructed, that it was possible to ascend and examine the sculpture
above the cornice, and though some statues so placed were unfinished
at the back, (for instance, some of the figures which belonged to the
group of Niobe,) others (and he mentioned the Ægina marbles as an
example) were as highly finished behind as before. I owned myself
unwilling to consider the Gladiator a Gaul, but the reasoning struck
me, and I am too unlearned to weigh the arguments he used, much less
confute them. That the statue being of Grecian marble and Grecian
sculpture must therefore have come from Greece, does not appear a
conclusive argument, since the Romans commonly employed Greek artists:
and as to the rest of the argument,--suppose that in a dozen centuries
hence, the charming statue of Lady Louisa Russell should be discovered
under the ruins of Woburn Abbey, and that by a parity of reasoning,
the production of Chantrey's chisel should be attributed to Italy and
Canova, merely because it is cut from a block of Carrara marble? we
might smile at such a conclusion.
Among the pictures in the gallery of the Capitol, the one most highly
valued pleases me least of all--the Europa of Paul Veronese. The
splendid colouring and copious fancy of this master can never
reconcile me to his strange anomalies in composition, and his sins
against good taste and propriety. One wishes that he had allayed the
heat of his fancy with some cooling drops of discretion. Even his
colouring so admired in general, has something florid and meretricious
to my eye and taste.
One of the finest pictures here is Domenichino's Cumean Sibyl, which,
like all other masterpieces, defies the copyist and engraver. The
Sibilla Persica of Guercino hangs a little to the left; and with her
contemplative air, and the pen in her hand, she looks as if she were
recording the effusions of her more inspired sister. The former is a
chaste and beautiful picture, full of feeling and sweetly coloured;
but the vicinity of Domenichino's magnificent creation throws it
rather into shade. Two unfinished pictures upon which Guido was
employed at the time of his death are preserved in the Capitol: one is
the Bacchus and Ariadne, so often engraved and copied; the other, a
single figure, the size of life, represents the Soul of the righteous
man ascending to heaven. Had Guido lived to finish this divine
picture, it would have been one of his most splendid productions; but
he was snatched away to realize, I trust, in his own person, his
sublime conception. The head alone is finished, or nearly so; and has
a most extatic expression. The globe of the earth seems to sink from
beneath the floating figure, which is just sketched upon the canvass,
and has a shadowy indistinctness which to my fancy added to its
effect. Guercino's chef-d'oeuvre, the Resurrection of Saint
Petronilla, (a saint, I believe, of very hypothetical fame,) is also
here; and has been copied in mosaic for St. Peters. A magnificent
Rubens, the She Wolf nursing Romulus and Remus; a fine copy of
Raffaelle's Triumph of Galatea by Giulo Romano; Domenichino's Saint
Barbara, with the same lovely inspired eyes he always gives his female
saints, and a long et cetera.
From the Capitol we immediately drove to the Borghese palace, where I
spent half an hour looking at the picture _called_ the Cumean Sibyl of
Domenichino, and am more and more convinced that it is a Saint Cecilia
and not a Sibyl.
We have now visited the Borghese palace four times; and à-propos to
pictures, I may as well make a few memoranda of its contents. It is
not the most numerous, but it is by far the most valuable and select
private gallery in Rome.
Domenichino's Chase of Diana, with the two beautiful nymphs in the
foreground, is a splendid picture. Titian's Sacred and Profane Love
puzzles me completely: I neither understand the name nor the intention
of the picture. It is evidently allegorical: but an allegory very
clumsily expressed. The aspect of Sacred Love would answer just as
well for Profane Love. What is that little cupid about, who is groping
in the cistern behind? why does Profane Love wear gloves? The picture,
though so provokingly obscure in its subject, is most divinely
painted. The three Graces by the same master is also here; two heads
by Giorgione, distinguished by all his peculiar depth of character and
sentiment, some exquisite Albanos; one of Raffaelle's finest
portraits--and in short, an endless variety of excellence. I feel my
taste become more and more fastidious every day.
* * * * *
This morning we heard mass at the Pope's Chapel; the service was read
by Cardinal Fesche, and the venerable old pope himself, robed and
mitred _en grand costume_, was present. No females are allowed to
enter without veils, and we were very ungallantly shut up behind a
sort of grating, where, though we had a tolerable view of the
ceremonial going forward, it was scarcely possible for us to be seen.
Cardinal Gonsalvi sat so near us, that I had leisure and opportunity
to contemplate the fine intellectual head and acute features of this
remarkable man. I thought his countenance had something of the
Wellesley cast.
The Pope's Chapel is decorated in the most exquisite taste; splendid
at once and chaste. There are no colours--the whole interior being
white and gold.
At an unfortunate moment, Lady Morgan's ludicrous description of the
twisting and untwisting of the Cardinal's tails came across me, and
made me smile very _mal à-propos_: it is certainly from the life.
Whenever this lively and clever woman describes what she has actually
seen with her own eyes, she is as accurately true as she is witty and
entertaining. Her sketches after nature are admirable; but her
observations and inferences are coloured by her peculiar and rather
unfeminine habits of thinking. I never read her "_Italy_" till the
other day, when L., whose valet had contrived to smuggle it into Rome,
offered to lend it to me. It is one of the books most rigorously
proscribed here; and if the Padre Anfossi or any of his satellites had
discovered it in my hands, I should assuredly have been fined in a sum
beyond what I should have liked to pay.
We concluded the morning at St. Peter's, where we arrived in time for
the anthem.
* * * * *
23.--Our visit to the Barberini palace to-day was solely to view the
famous portrait of Beatrice Cenci. Her appalling story is still as
fresh in remembrance here, and her name and fate as familiar in the
mouths of every class, as if instead of two centuries, she had lived
two days ago. In spite of the innumerable copies and prints I have
seen, I was more struck than I can express by the dying beauty of the
Cenci. In the face the expression of heart-sinking anguish and terror
is just not _too_ strong, leaving the loveliness of the countenance
unimpaired; and there is a woe-begone negligence in the streaming hair
and loose drapery which adds to its deep pathos. It is consistent too
with the circumstances under which the picture is traditionally said
to have been painted--that is, in the interval between her torture and
her execution.
A little daughter of the Princess Barberini was seated in the same
room, knitting. She was a beautiful little creature; and as my eye
glanced from her to the picture and back again, I fancied I could
trace a strong family resemblance; particularly about the eyes, and
the very peculiar mouth. I turned back to ask her whether she had ever
been told that she was like _that_ picture? pointing to Cenci. She
shook back her long curls, and answered with a blush and a smile,
"Yes, often."[H]
The Barberini Palace contains other treasures beside the Cenci.
Poussin's celebrated picture of the Death of Germanicus, Raffaelle's
Fornarina, inferior I thought to the one at Florence, and a St. Andrew
by Guido, in his very best style of heads, "mild, pale, and
penetrating;" besides others which I cannot at this moment recall.
* * * * *
24.--Yesterday, after chapel, I walked through part of the Vatican;
and then, about vesper-time, entered St. Peter's, expecting to hear
the anthem: but I was disappointed. I found the church as usual
crowded with English, who every Sunday convert St. Peter's into a kind
of Hyde Park, where they promenade arm in arm, show off their finery,
laugh, and talk aloud: as if the size and splendour of the edifice
detracted in any degree from its sacred character. I was struck with a
feeling of disgust; and shocked to see this most glorious temple of
the Deity metamorphosed into a mere theatre. Mr. W. told me this
morning, that in consequence of the shameful conduct of the English,
in pressing in and out of the chapel, occupying all the seats,
irreverently interrupting the service, and almost excluding the
natives, the anthem will not be sung in future.
This is not the first time that the behaviour of the English has
created offence, in spite of the friendly feeling which exists towards
us, and the allowances which are made for our national character. Last
year the pope objected to the indecent custom of making St. Peter's a
place of fashionable rendezvous, and notified to Cardinal Gonsalvi his
desire that English ladies and gentlemen should not be seen arm in arm
walking up and down the aisles, during and after divine service. The
cardinal, as the best means of proceeding, spoke to the Duchess of
Devonshire, who signified the wishes of the Papal Court to a large
party, assembled at her house. The hint so judiciously and so
delicately given, was at the time attended to, and during a short
interval the offence complained of ceased. New comers have since
recommenced the same course of conduct: and in fact, nothing _could_
be worse than the exhibition of gaiety and frivolity, gallantry and
coquetterie at St. Peter's yesterday. I almost wish the pope may
interfere, and with rigour; though, individually, I should lose a high
gratification, if our visits to St. Peter's were interdicted. It is
surely most ill-judged and unfeeling (to say nothing of the
_profanation_, for such it is), to show such open contempt for the
Roman Catholic religion in its holiest, grandest temple, and under the
very eyes of the head of that church. I blushed for my countrywomen.
* * * * *
On Christmas Eve we went in a large party to visit some of the
principal churches, and witness the celebration of the Nativity; one
of the most splendid ceremonies of the Romish Church. We arrived at
the chapel of Monte Cavallo about half-past nine; but the pope being
ill and absent, nothing particular was going forward; and we left it
to proceed to the San Luigi dei Francesi, where we found the church
hung from the floor to the ceiling with garlands of flowers, blazing
with light, and resounding with heavenly music: but the crowd was
intolerable, the people dirty, and there was such an effluence of
strong perfumes, in which garlic predominated, that our physical
sensations overcame our curiosity: and we were glad to make our
escape. We then proceeded to the church of the Ara Celi, built on the
site of the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, and partly from its ruins.
The scene here from the gloomy grandeur and situation of the church,
was exceedingly fine: but we did not stay long enough to see the
concluding procession, as we were told it would be much finer at the
Santa Maria Maggiore; for there the _real_ manger which had received
our Saviour at his birth was deposited: and this inestimable relic was
to be displayed to the eyes of the devout; and with a waxen figure
laid within (called here Il Bambino), was to be carried in procession
round the church, "with pomp, with music, and with triumphing."
The _real_ cradle was a temptation not to be withstood: and to witness
this signal prostration of the human intellect before ignorant and
crafty superstition, we adjourned to the Santa Maria Maggiore. For
processions and shows I care very little, but not for any thing, not
for all I suffered at the moment, would I have missed the scene which
the interior of the church exhibited; for it is impossible that any
description could have given me the faintest idea of it. This most
noble edifice, with its perfect proportions, its elegant Ionic
columns, and its majestic simplicity, appeared transformed, for the
time being, into the temple of some Pagan divinity. Lights and
flowers, incense and music, were all around: and the spacious aisles
were crowded with the lowest classes of the people, the inhabitants of
the neighbouring hills, and the peasantry of the Campagna, who with
their wild ruffianlike figures and picturesque costumes, were lounging
about, or seated at the bases of pillars, or praying before the
altars. How I wished to paint some of the groups I saw! but only
Rembrandt could have done them justice.
We remained at the Santa Maria Maggiore till four o'clock, and no
procession appearing, our patience was exhausted. I nearly fainted on
my chair from excessive fatigue; and some of our party had absolutely
laid themselves down on the steps of an altar, and were fast asleep;
we therefore returned home completely knocked up by the night's
dissipation.
27.--"Come," said L. just now, as he drew his chair to the fire, and
rubbed his hands with great complacency, "I think we've worked pretty
hard to-day; three palaces, four churches--besides odds and ends of
ruins we dispatched in the way: to say nothing of old Nibby's lectures
in the morning about the Volces, the Saturnines, the Albanians, and
the other old Romans--by Jove! I almost fancied myself at school
again----
'Armis vitrumque canter,'
as old Virgil or somebody else says. So now let's have a little écarté
to put it all out of our heads:--for my brains have turned round like
a windmill, by Jove! ever since I was on the top of that cursed
steeple on the capitol," etc., etc.
I make a resolution to myself every morning before breakfast, that I
will be prepared with a decent stock of good-nature and forbearance,
and not laugh at my friend L.'s absurdities; but in vain are my
amiable intentions: his blunders and his follies surpass all
anticipation, as they defy all powers of gravity. I console myself
with the conviction that such is his slowness of perception, he does
not see that he is the _butt_ of every party; and such his obtuseness
of feeling, that if he did see it, he would not mind it; but he is the
heir to twenty-five thousand a year, and therefore, as R. said, he can
afford to be laughed at.
We "dispatched," as L. says, a good deal to-day, though I did not
"work quite so hard" as the rest of the party: in fact, I was obliged
to return home from fatigue, after having visited the Doria and
Sciarra Palaces (the last for the second time), and the church of San
Pietro in Vincoli.
The Doria Palace contains the largest collection of pictures in Rome:
but they are in a dirty and neglected condition, and many of the best
are hung in the worst possible light: added to this there is such a
number of bad and indifferent pictures, that one ought to visit the
Doria Gallery half a dozen times merely to select those on which a
cultivated taste would dwell with pleasure. Leonardo da Vinci's
portrait of Joanna of Naples, is considered one of the most valuable
pictures in the collection. It exhibits the same cast of countenance
which prevails through all his female heads, a sort of sentimental
simpering affectation which is very disagreeable, and not at all
consistent with the character of Joanna. I was much more delighted by
some magnificent portraits by Titian and Rubens; and by a copy of the
famous antique picture, the Nozze Aldobrandini, executed in a kindred
spirit by the classic pencil of Poussin.
The collection at the Sciarra Palace is small but very select. The
pictures are hung with judgment, and well taken care of. The Magdalen,
which is considered one of Guido's masterpieces, charmed me most: the
countenance is heavenly; though full of ecstatic and devout
contemplation, there is in it a touch of melancholy, "all sorrow's
softness charmed from its despair," which is quite exquisite: and the
attitude, and particularly the turn of the arm, are perfectly
graceful: but why those odious turnips and carrots in the foreground?
They certainly do not add to the sentiment and beauty of the
picture.--Leonardo da Vinci's Vanity and Modesty, and Caravaggio's
Gamblers, both celebrated pictures in very different styles, are in
this collection. I ought not to forget Raffaelle's beautiful portrait
of a young musician who was his intimate friend. The Doria and Sciarra
palaces contain the only Claudes I have seen in Rome. Since the
acquisition of the Altieri Claudes, we may boast of possessing the
finest productions of this master in England. I remember but one
solitary Claude in the Florentine gallery; and I see none here equal
to those at Lord Grosvenor's and Angerstein's. We visited the church
of San Pietro in Viscoli, to see Michel Angelo's famous statue of
Moses,--of which, who has not heard? I must confess I never was so
disappointed by any work of art as I was by this statue, which is
easily accounted for. In the first place, I had not seen any model or
copy of the original; and, secondly, I _had_ read Zappi's sublime
sonnet, which I humbly conceive does rather more than justice to its
subject. The fine opening--
"Chi e costui che in dura pietra scolto
Siede _Gigante_"--
gave me the impression of a colossal and elevated figure: my surprise,
therefore, was great to see a sitting statue, not much larger than
life, and placed nearly on the level of the pavement; so that, instead
of looking up at it, I almost looked down upon it. The "Doppio raggio
in fronte," I found in the shape of a pair of horns, which, at the
first glance, gave something quite Satanic to the head, which disgusted
me. When I began to recover from this first disappointment--although
my eyes were opened gradually to the sublimity of the attitude, the
grand forms of the drapery, and the lips, which unclose as if about to
speak--I still think that Zappi's sonnet (his acknowledged
chef-d'oeuvre) is a more sublime production than the chef-d'oeuvre it
celebrates.
The mention of Zappi reminds me of his wife, the daughter of Carlo
Maratti, the painter. She was so beautiful that she was her father's
favourite model for his Nymphs, Madonnas, and Vestal Virgins; and to
her charms she added virtue, and to her virtue uncommon musical and
literary talents. Among her poems, there is a sonnet addressed to a
lady, once beloved by her husband, beginning
"Donna! che tanto al mio sol piacesti,"
which is one of the most graceful, most feeling, most delicate
compositions I ever read. Zappi celebrates his beautiful wife under
the name of Clori, and his first mistress under that of Filli: to the
latter he has addressed a sonnet, which turns on the same thought as
Cowley's well known song, "Love in thine eyes." As they both lived
about the same time, it would be difficult to tell which of the two
borrowed from the other; probably they were both borrowers from some
elder poet.
The characteristics of Zappi's style, are tenderness and elegance; he
occasionally rises to sublimity; as in the sonnet on the Statue of
Moses, and that on Good Friday. He never emulates the flights of Guido
or Filicaja, but he is more uniformly graceful and flowing than
either; his happy thoughts are not spun out too far,--and his _points_
are seldom mere _concetti_.