I remarked that all the Italians wore black to-day.

We spent the afternoon at the Vatican. We found St. Peter's almost

deserted; few people, no music, the pictures all muffled, and the

altars hung with black drapery. The scaffolding was preparing for the

ceremonies of the week; and, on the whole, St. Peter's appeared, for

the first time, disagreeable and gloomy.

_Monday, April 1._--Non riconosco oggi la mia bella Italia! Clouds,

and cold, and rain, to which we have been so long unaccustomed, seem

unnatural; and deform that peculiar character of sunny loveliness

which belongs to this country: and, à-propos to climate, I may as well

observe now, that since the 1st of February, when we left Rome for

Naples, up to this present 1st of April, not one day has been so rainy

as to confine us to the house: and on referring to my memoranda of the

weather, I find that at Naples it rained one day for a few hours only,

and for about two hours on the morning we left it: since then, not a

drop of rain has fallen: all hot, cloudless, lovely weather. We have

been for the last three weeks in summer costume, and guard against the

heat as we should in England during the dog-days. To have an idea of

an Italian summer, Mr. W** says we must fancy the present heat

_quadrupled_.

The day, notwithstanding, has been unusually pleasant, the afternoon,

though not brilliant, was clear and soft; and we drove in the open

carriage first to the little church of Santa Maria della Pace, to see

Raffaelle's famous fresco, the Four Sybils. It is in the finest

preservation, and combines all his peculiar graces of design and

expression. The colouring has not suffered from time and damp like

that of the frescos in the Vatican, but it is at once brilliant and

delicate. Nothing can exceed the exquisite grace of the Sibilla

Persica, nor the beautiful drapery and inspired look of the Cumana.

Fortunately, I had never seen any copy or engraving of this master

piece: its beauty was to me enhanced by surprise and all the charm of

novelty: and my gratification was complete.

We afterwards spent half an hour in the gardens of the Villa Lanti, on

the Monte Gianicolo. The view of Rome from these gardens is superb:

though the sky was clouded, the atmosphere was perfectly pure and

clear: the eye took in the whole extent of ancient and modern Rome;

beyond it the Campagna, the Alban Hills, and the Apennines, which

appeared of a deep purple, with pale clouds floating over their

summits. The city lay at our feet, silent, and clothed with the

daylight as with a garment--no smoke, no vapour, no sound, no motion,

no sign of life: it looked like a city whose inhabitants had been

suddenly petrified, or smitten by a destroying angel; and such was the

effect of its strange and solemn beauty, that, before I was aware, I

felt my eyes fill with tears as I looked upon it.

I saw Naples from the Castle of Saint Elmo--setting aside the sea and

Mount Vesuvius, those unequalled features in that radiant picture--the

view of the _city_ of Naples is not so fine as the view of Rome: it

is, comparatively, deficient in sentiment, in interest, and in

dignity. Naples wears on her brow the voluptuous beauty of a

syren--Rome sits desolate on her seven-hilled throne, "_the Niobe of

Nations_."

I wish I could have painted what I saw to-day _as_ I saw it. Yet

no--the reality was perhaps too much like a picture to please in a

picture: the exquisite harmony of the colouring, the softness of the

lights and shades, the solemn death-like stillness, the distinctness

of every form and outline, and the classic interest attached to every

noble object, combined to form a scene, which hereafter, in the

silence of my own thoughts, I shall often love to recall and to dwell

upon.

To-night I read with Incoronati, the Fourth book of Dante, and two of

Petrarch's Canzoni "I' vo pensando," and "Verdi panni," making notes

from his explanations and remarks as I went along. These two Canzoni I

had selected as being among the most _puzzling_ as well as the most

beautiful. Those are strangely mistaken, who from a superficial study

of a few of his amatory sonnets, regard Petrarch as a mere love-sick

poet, who spent his time in be-rhyming an obdurate mistress; and those

are equally mistaken who consider him as the poetical votarist of an

imaginary fair one. I know but little, even of the little that is

known of his life; for I remember being as much terrified by the

ponderous quartos of the Abbé de Sade, as I was discomfited and

disappointed by the flimsy octavo of Mrs. Dobson. I am now studying

Petrarch in his own works; and it seemeth to me, in my simple wit,

that such exquisite touches of truth and nature, such depth and purity

of feeling, such felicity of expression, such vivid yet delicate

pictures of female beauty, could spring only from a real and heartfelt

passion. We know too little of Laura: but it is probable, if she had

always preserved a stern and unfeeling indifference, she would not

have so entirely commanded the affections of a feeling heart; and had

she yielded she would not so long have preserved her influence.

Think you if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,

He would have written sonnets all his life?

In truth she appears to have been the most finished coquette of her

own or any other age.[R]

3.--What a delight it would be, if, at the end of a day like this, I

had _somebody_ with whom I could talk over things--with whose feelings

and impressions I could compare my own--who would direct my judgment,

and assist me in arranging my ideas, and double every pleasure by

sharing it with me! What would have become of me if I had not thought

of keeping a Diary? I should have died of a sort of mental repletion!

What a consolation and employment has it been to me to let my

overflowing heart and soul exhale themselves on paper! When I have

neither power nor spirits to join in common-place conversation, I open

my dear little Diary, and feel, while my pen thus swiftly glides

along, much less as if I were writing than as if I were speaking--yes!

speaking to one who perhaps will read this when I am no more--but not

till _then_.

I was well enough to _walk_ up to the Rospigliosi Palace this morning

to see Guido's Aurora: it is on the ceiling of a pavilion: would it

were not! for I looked at it till my neck ached, and my brain turned

round "like a parish top." I can only say that it far surpassed my

expectations: the colouring is the most brilliant, yet the most

harmonious, in the world: and there is a depth, a strength, a richness

in the tints, not common to Guido's style. The whole is as fresh as if

painted yesterday; though Guido must have died sometime about 1640.

On each side of the hall or pavilion adorned by the Aurora, there is a

small room, containing a few excellent pictures. The Triumph of David,

by Domenichino, a fine rich picture; an exquisite Andromeda, by Guido,

painted with his usual delicacy and sentiment; the twelve Apostles, by

Rubens, some of them very fine; "the Five Senses," said to be by Carlo

Cignani, but if so he has surpassed himself: it is like Domenichino.

The Death of Samson, by L. Carracci, wearies the eye by the number and

confusion of the figures: it has no principal group upon which the

attention can rest. There is also a fine portrait of Nicolo Poussin,

by himself, and an interesting head of Guido.

At three o'clock we went down to the Capella Sistina to hear the

Miserere. In describing the effect produced by this divine music, the

time, the place, the scenic contrivance should be taken into account:

the time--solemn twilight, just as the shades begin to fall around:

the place--a noble and lofty hall where the terrors of Michel Angelo's

Last Judgment are rendered more terrible by the gathering gloom, and

his sublime Prophets frown dimly upon us from the walls above. The

extinguishing of the tapers, the concealed choir, the angelic voices

chosen from among the finest in the world, and blended by long

practice into the most perfect unison, were combined to produce that

overpowering effect which has so often been described. Many ladies

wept, and one fainted. Unassisted vocal music is certainly the finest

of all: no power of instruments could have thrilled me like the

blended stream of melancholy harmony, breathed forth with such an

expression of despairing anguish, that it was almost too much to bear.

_Good-Friday._--I saw more new, amusing, and delightful things

yesterday, than I can attempt to describe or even enumerate: but I

think there is no danger of my forgetting general impressions: if my

memory should fail me in particulars, my imagination can always recall

the whole.

In the morning I declined going to see the ceremonies at the Vatican.

The procession of the host from the Sistine to the Pauline Chapel; the

washing of the Pilgrims' feet, etc.--all these things are less than

indifferent to me; and the illness and absence of the poor old pope

rendered them particularly uninteresting. Every body went but myself;

and it was agreed that we should all meet at the door of the Sistine

Chapel at five o'clock. I remained quietly at home on my sofa till

one; and then drove to the Museum of the Vatican, where I spent the

rest of the day; it was a grand festa, and the whole of the Vatican,

including the immense suite of splendid libraries, was thrown open to

the public. All the foreigners in Rome having crowded to St. Peter's,

or the chapels, to view the ceremonies going on, I was the only

stranger amidst an assemblage of the common people and peasantry, who

had come to lounge there till the lighting up of the Cross. I walked

on and on, hour after hour, lost in amazement, and wondering where and

when this glorious labyrinth was to end; successive galleries fitted

up with the gay splendour of an Oriental Haram, in which the books and

manuscripts are all arranged and numbered in cases; the beautiful

perspective of hall beyond hall vanishing away into immeasurable

distance; the refulgent light shed overall; and add to this, the

extraordinary visages and costumes of the people, who with their

families wandered along in groups or singly, all behaving with the

utmost decorum, and making emphatic exclamations on the beauties

around them. "_Ah! che bella cosa! Cosa rara! O bella assai!_" all

furnished me with such ample matter for amusement, and observation,

and admiration, that I was insensible to fatigue, and knew not that in

five hours I had scarcely completed the circuit of the Museum.

One room (the Camera del Papiri) struck me particularly: it is a small

octagon, the ceiling and ornaments painted by Raffaelle Mengs with

exquisite taste. The group on the ceiling represents the Muse of

History writing, while her book reposes on the wings of Time, and a

Genius supplies her with materials: the pannels of this room are

formed of old manuscripts, pasted up against the walls and glazed.

The effect of the whole is as singular as beautiful.

A new gallery of marbles has lately been opened by the Pope, called

from its form the _Sala della Croce_: in splendid, classical, and

tasteful decoration, it equals any of the others, but is not, perhaps,

so remarkable for the intrinsic value of its contents.

I never more deeply felt my own ignorance and deficiencies than I did

to-day. I saw so many things I did not understand, so much which I

wished to have explained to me, I longed so inexpressibly for someone

to talk to, to exclaim to, to help me to wonder, to admire, to be

_extasiée_! but I was alone: and I know not how it is, or why, but

when I am alone, not only my powers of enjoyment seem to fail me in a

degree, but even my mental faculties; and the multitude of my own

ideas and sensations confuse, oppress, and irritate me.

I walked through the whole gyro of the Museum, examining the busts and

pictures particularly, with the help of Este's admirable catalogue

raisonnée, and at half-past five I reached the Sistine just in time to

hear the second Miserere: neither the music nor the effort were equal

to the first evening. The music, though inferior to Allegri's, was

truly beautiful and sublime; but the scenic pageantry did not strike

so much on repetition: the chapel was insufferably crowded, I was sick

and stupid from heat and fatigue, and to crown all, just in the midst

of one of the most overpowering strains, the cry of condemned souls

pleading for mercy, which made my heart pause, and my flesh creep--a

lady behind me whispered loudly, "Do look what lovely broderie Mrs.

L** has on her white satin spencer!"

After the Miserere, we adjourned to St. Peter's, to see the

illumination of the Girandola. I confess the first glance disappointed

me; for the cross, though more than thirty feet in height, looks

trivial and diminutive, compared with the immensity of the dome in

which it is suspended; but just as I was beginning to admire the

sublime effect of the whole scene, I was obliged to leave the church,

being unable to stand the fatigue any longer.

* * * * *

To-day we have remained quietly at home, recruiting after the

exertions of yesterday. After dinner, Colonel ---- and Mr. W** began

to discuss the politics of Italy, and from abusing the governments

they fell upon the people; and being of very opposite principles and

parties, they soon began an argument which ended in a warm dispute,

and sent me to take refuge in my own room. How I detest politics and

discord! How I hate the discussion of politics in Italy! and, above

all, the discussion of Italian politics, which offer no point upon

which the mind can dwell with pleasure. I have not wandered to

Italy--"this land of sun-lit skies and fountains clear," as Barry

Cornwall calls it, only to scrape together materials for a quarto

tour, or to sweep up the leavings of the "fearless" Lady Morgan; or to

dwell upon the heart-sickening realities which meet me at every turn;

evils of which I neither understand the cause nor the cure. And yet

say not to Italy

"Caduta è la tua gloria--e tu nol' vedi!"

She does see it,--she does feel it. A spirit is silently and gradually

working its way beneath the surface of society, which must, erelong,

break forth either for good or for evil. Between a profligate and

servile nobility, and a degraded and enslaved populace, a middle class

has lately sprung up; the men of letters, the artists, the professors

in the sciences, who have obtained property, or distinction at least,

in the commotions which have agitated their country, and those who

have served at home or abroad in the revolutionary wars. These all

seem impelled by one and the same spirit; and make up for their want

of numbers by their activity, talents, enthusiasm, and the secret but

increasing influence which they exert over the other classes of

society. But on subjects like these, however interesting, I have no

means of obtaining information at once general and accurate: and I

would rather not think, nor speak, nor write, upon "matters which are

too high for me." Let the modern Italians be what they may,--what I

hear them styled six times a day at least--a dirty, demoralized,

degraded, unprincipled race,--centuries behind our thrice-blessed,

prosperous, and comfort-loving nation in civilization and morals; if I

were come among them as a resident, this picture might alarm me;

situated as I am, a nameless sort of person, a mere bird of passage,

it concerns me not. I am not come to spy out the nakedness of the

land, but to implore from her healing airs and lucid skies the health

and peace I have lost, and to worship as a pilgrim at the tomb of her

departed glories.--I have not many opportunities of studying the

national character; I have no dealings with the lower classes, little

intercourse with the higher. No tradesmen cheat me, no hired menials

irritate me, no innkeepers fleece me, no postmasters abuse me. I love

these rich delicious skies; I love this genial sunshine, which, even

in December, sends the spirits dancing through the veins; this pure

elastic atmosphere, which not only brings the distant landscape, but

almost heaven itself nearer to the eye; and all the treasures of art

and nature which are poured forth around me; and over which my own

mind, teeming with images, recollections, and associations, can fling

a beauty even beyond their own. I willingly turn from all that excites

the spleen and disgust of others; from all that may so easily be

despised, derided--reviled, and abandon my heart to that state of calm

benevolence towards all around me, which leaves me undisturbed, to

enjoy, admire, observe, reflect, remember, with pleasure, if not with

profit, and enables me to look upon the glorious scenes with which I

am surrounded, not with the impertinent inquisition of a book-maker,

nor the gloomy calculations of a politician, nor the sneering selfism

of a Smelfungus--but with the eye of the painter, and the feeling of

the poet.

A-propos to poets!--Lady C** has just sent us tickets for Sestini's

Accademia to-morrow night. So far from the race of Improvvisatori

being extinct, or living only in the pages of Corinne, or in the

memory of the Fantastici, and the Bandinelli, the Gianas, and the

Corillas of other days,--there is scarcely a small town in Italy, as I

am informed, without its Improvvisatore; and I know several

individuals in the higher classes of society, both here, and at

Florence more particularly, who are remarkable for possessing this

extraordinary talent--though, of course, it is only exercised for the

gratification of a private circle. Of those who make a public

exhibition of their powers, Sgricci and Sestini are the most

celebrated--and of these Sgricci ranks first. I never heard him; but

Signior Incoronati, who knows him well, described to me his talents

and powers as almost supernatural. A wonderful display of his art was

the _improvvisazione_--we have no English word for a talent which in

England is unknown,--of a regular tragedy on the Greek model, with the

choruses and dialogue complete. The subject proposed was from the

story of Ulysses, which afforded him an opportunity of bringing in the

whole sonorous nomenclature of the Heathen Mythology,--which, says

Forsyth, enters in the web of every improvvisatore, and assists the

poet both with rhymes and ideas. Most of the celebrated improvvisatori

have been Florentines: Sgricci is, I believe, a Neapolitan, and his

rival Sestini a Roman.

* * * * *

_April 7._--Any public exhibition of talent in the Fine Arts is here

called an _Accademia_. Sestini gave his Accademia in an anti-chamber

of the Palazzo ----, I forget its name, but it was much like all the

other _palaces_ we are accustomed to see here; exhibiting the same

strange contrast of ancient taste and magnificence, with present

meanness and poverty. We were ushered into a lofty room of noble size

and beautiful proportions, with its rich fresco-painted walls and

ceiling faded and falling to decay; a common brick floor, and sundry

window panes broken, and stuffed with paper. The room was nearly

filled by the audience, amongst whom I remarked a great number of

English. A table with writing implements, and an old shattered

jingling piano, occupied one side of the apartment, and a small space

was left in front for the poet. Whilst we waited with some impatience

for his appearance, several persons present walked up to the table and

wrote down various subjects; which on Sestini's coming forward, he

read aloud, marking those which were distinguished by the most general

applause. This selection formed our evening's entertainment. A lady

sat down in her bonnet and shawl to accompany him; and when fatigued,

another fair musician readily supplied her place. It is seldom that an

improvvisatore attempts to recite without the assistance of music.

When Dr. Moore heard Corilla at Florence, she sung to the

accompaniment of two violins.[S] La Fantastici preferred the guitar;

and I should have preferred either to our jingling harpsichord.

However, a few chords struck at intervals were sufficient to support

the voice, and mark the time. Several airs were tried, and considered

before the poet could fix on one suited to his subject and the measure

he intended to employ. In general they were pretty and simple,

consisting of very few notes, and more like a chant or recitative,

than a regular air: one of the most beautiful I have obtained, and

shall bring with me to England.

The moment Sestini had made his choice, he stepped forward, and

without further pause or preparation, began with the first subject

upon his list,--"_Il primo Navigatore_."

Gesner's beautiful Idyl of "_The First Navigator_," supplied Sestini

with the Story, in all its details; but he versified it with

surprizing facility: and, as far as I could judge, with great spirit

and elegance. He added, too, some trifling circumstances, and several

little _traits_, the naïveté of which afforded considerable amusement.

When an accurate rhyme, or apt expression, did not offer itself on the

instant it was required, he knit his brows and clenched his fingers

with impatience; but I think he never hesitated more than half a

second. At the moment the chord was struck, the rhyme was ready. In

this manner he poured forth between thirty and forty stanzas, with

still increasing animation; and wound up his poem with some beautiful

images of love, happiness, and innocence. Of his success I could form

some idea by the applauses he received from better judges than myself.

After a few minutes' repose and a glass of water, he next called on

the company to supply him with rhymes for a sonnet. These, as fast as

they were suggested by various persons, he wrote down on a slip of

paper. The last rhyme given was "_Ostello_,"--(a common alehouse)--at

which he demurred, and submitting to the company the difficulty of

introducing so vulgar a word into an heroic sonnet, respectfully

begged that another might be substituted. A lady called out "_Avello_"

the poetical term for a grave, or a sepulchre, which expression bore

a happy analogy to the subject proposed. The poet smiled, well

pleased;--and stepping forward with the paper in his hand, he

immediately, without even a moment's preparation, recited a sonnet on

the second subject upon his list,--"_La Morte di Alfieri_."--I could

better judge of the merit of this effusion, because he spoke it

unaccompanied by music; and his enunciation was remarkably distinct.

The subject was popular, and treated with much feeling and poetic

fervour. After lamenting Alfieri as the patriot, as well as the bard,

and as the glory of his country, he concluded, by indignantly

repelling the supposition that "the latest sparks of genius and

freedom were buried in the tomb of Vittorio Alfieri." A thunder of

applause followed; and cries of "O bravo Sestini! bravo Sestini!" were

echoed from the Italian portion of the audience, long after the first

acclamations had subsided. The men rose simultaneously from their

seats; and I confess I could hardly keep mine. The animation of the

poet, and the enthusiasm of the audience, sent a thrill through every

nerve and filled my eyes with tears.

The next subject was "_La Morte di Beatrice Cenci_;"--and this, I

think, was a failure. The frightful story of _Cenci_ is too well known

in England since the publication of Shelley's Tragedy. Here it is

familiar to all classes; and though two centuries have since elapsed,

it seems as fresh in the memory, or rather in the imagination of these

people, as if it had happened but yesterday. The subject was not well

chosen for a public and mixed assembly; and Sestini, without adverting

to the previous details of horror, confined himself most scrupulously,

with propriety, to the subject proposed. He described Beatrice led to

execution,--"_con baldanza casta e generosa_"--and the effect produced

on the multitude by her youth:--not forgetting to celebrate "_those

tresses like threads of gold whose wavy splendour dazzled all

beholders_," as they are described by a contemporary writer. He put

into her mouth a long and pious dying speech, in which she expressed

her trust in the blessed Virgin, and her hopes of pardon from eternal

justice and mercy. To my surprise, he also made her in one stanza

confess and repent the murder, or rather sacrifice,[T] which she had

perpetrated; which is contrary to the known fact, that Beatrice

_never_ confessed to the last moment of existence, nor gave any reason

to suppose that she repented. The whole was drawn out to too great a

length, and, with the exception of a few happy touches, and pathetic

sentiments, went off flatly. It was very little applauded.

The next subject was the "_Immortality of the Soul_," on which the

poet displayed amazing pomp and power of words, and a wonderful

affluence of ideas. He showed, too, an intimate acquaintance with all

that had ever been said, or sung, upon the same subject, from Plato to

Thomas Aquinas. I confess I derived little benefit from all this

display of poetry and erudition; for, after the first few stanzas,

finding himself irretrievably perplexed by the united difficulties of

the language and the subject, I withdrew my attention, and amused

myself with the paintings on the walls, and with reveries on the past

and present, till I was roused by the acclamations that followed the

conclusion of the poem; which excited very general admiration and

applause.

The company then furnished the _bouts-rimés_ for another sonnet: the

subject was "_L'Amor della Patria_." The title, even before he began,

was hailed by a round of plaudits; and the sonnet itself was excellent

and spirited. _Excellent_ I mean in its general effect, as an

_improvvisazione_:--how it would stand the test of cool criticism I

cannot tell; nor is that any thing to the purpose: these

extemporaneous effusions ought to be judged merely as what they

are,--not as finished or correct poems, but as wonderful exercises of

tenacious memory, ready wit, and that quickness of imagination which

can soar

----"al bel cimento

Sulle ali dell' momento."

To return to Sestini. It may be imagined, that on such a subject as

"_L'Amor della Patria_," the ancient Roman worthies were not

forgotten, and accordingly, a Brutus, a Scipio, a Fabius, or a

Fabricius, figured in every line. And surely on no occasion could they

have been more appropriately introduced:--in Rome, and when addressing

Romans, who showed, by their enthusiastic applause, that though the

spirit of their forefathers may be extinct, their memory is not.

The next subject, which formed a sort of _pendant_ to the Cenci, was

the "_Parricide of Tullia_." In this again his success was complete.

The stanza in which Tullia ordered her charioteer to "drive on," was

given with such effect as to electrify us: and a sudden burst of

approbation which caused a momentary interruption, evidently lent the

poet fresh spirits and animation.

The evening concluded with a lively burlesque, entitled "_Il Mercato

d'Amore_" which represented Love as setting up a shop to sell "_la

Mercanzia della Gioventù_." The list of his stock in trade, though it

could not boast of much originality, was given with admirable wit and

vivacity. In conclusion, Love being threatened with a bankruptcy, took

shelter, as the poet assured us, in the bright eyes of the ladies

present. This farewell compliment was prettily turned, and intended,

of course, to be general: but it happened, luckily for Sestini, that

just opposite to him, and fixed upon him at the moment, were two of

the brightest eyes in the world. Whether he owed any of his

inspiration to their beams I know not; but the _à-propos_ of the

compliment was seized immediately, and loudly applauded by the

gentlemen round us.

Sestini is a young man, apparently about five-and-twenty: of a slight

and delicate figure, and in his whole appearance, odd, wild, and

picturesque. He has the common foreign trick of running his fingers

through his black bushy hair; and accordingly it stands on end in all

directions. A pair of immense whiskers, equally black and luxuriant,

meet at the point of his chin, encircling a visage of most cadaverous

hue, and features which might be termed positively ugly, were it not

for the "_vago spirito ardento_" which shines out from his dark eyes,

and the fire and intelligence which light up his whole countenance,

till it almost kindles into beauty. Though he afterwards conversed

with apparent ease, and replied to the compliments of the company, he

was evidently much exhausted by his exertions. I should fear that

their frequent repetition, and the effervescence of mind, and nervous

excitement they cannot but occasion, must gradually wear out his

delicate frame and feeble temperament, and that the career of this

extraordinary genius will be short as it is brilliant.[U]

_April 8._--As Maupertuis said after his journey to Lapland--for the

universe I would not have missed the sights and scenes of yesterday;

but, for the whole universe, I would not undergo such another day of

fatigue, anxiety, and feverish excitement.

In the morning about ten o'clock, we all went down to St. Peter's, to

hear high mass. The absence of the Pope (who is still extremely ill)

detracted from the interest and dignity of the ceremony: there was no

general benediction from the balcony of St. Peter's; and nothing

pleased me, except the general _coup d'oeil_; which in truth was

splendid. The theatrical dresses of the mitred priests, the countless

multitude congregated from every part of Christendom, in every variety

of national costume, the immensity and magnificence of the church, and

the glorious sunshine--all these enchanted the eye; but I could have

fancied myself in a theatre. I saw no devotion, and I felt none. The

whole appeared more like a triumphal pageant acted in honour of a

heathen deity, than an act of worship and thanksgiving to the Great

Father of all.

I observed an immense number of pilgrims, male and female, who had

come from various parts of Italy to visit the shrine of St. Peter on

this grand occasion. I longed to talk to a man who stood near me, with

a very singular and expressive countenance, whose cape and looped hat

were entirely covered with scallop shells and reliques, and his long

staff surmounted by a death's head.

I was restrained by a feeling which I now think rather ridiculous: I

feared, lest by conversing with him, I should diminish the effect his

romantic and picturesque figure had made on my imagination.

The exposition of the relics was from a balcony half way up the dome,

so high and distant that I could distinguish nothing but the

impression of our Saviour's face on the handkerchief of St. Veronica,

richly framed--at the sight whereof the whole multitude prostrated

themselves to the earth: the other relics I forget, but they were all

equally marvellous and equally credible.

We returned after a long fatiguing morning to an early dinner; and

then drove again to the Piazza of St. Peter's, to see the far-famed

illumination of the church. We had to wait a considerable time; but

the scene was so novel and beautiful, that I found ample amusement in

my own thoughts and observations. The twilight rapidly closed round

us: the long lines of statues along the roof and balustrades, faintly

defined against the evening sky, looked like spirits come down to

gaze; a prodigious crowd of carriages, and people on foot, filled

every avenue: but all was still, except when a half-suppressed murmur

of impatience broke through the hushed silence of suspense and

expectation. At length, on a signal, which was given by the firing of

a cannon, the whole of the immense façade and dome, even up to the

cross on the summit, and the semicircular colonnades in front, burst

into a blaze, as if at the touch of an enchanter's wand; adding the

pleasure of surprise to that of delight and wonder. The carriages now

began to drive rapidly round the piazza, each with a train of running

footmen, flinging their torches round and dashing them against the

ground. The shouts and acclamations of the crowd, the stupendous

building with all its architectural outlines and projections, defined

in lines of living flame, the universal light, the sparkling of the

magnificent fountains--produced an effect far beyond any thing I could

have anticipated, and more like the gorgeous fictions of the Arabian

Nights, than any earthy reality.

After driving round the piazza, we adjourned to a balcony which had

been hired for us overlooking the Tiber, and exactly opposite to the

Castle of St. Angelo. Hence we commanded a view of the fireworks,

which were truly superb, but made me so nervous and giddy with noise

and light and wonder, that I was rejoiced when all was over. A flight

of a thousand sky-rockets sent up at once, blotting the stars and the

moonlight--dazzling our eyes, stunning our ears, and amazing all our

senses together, concluded the Holy Week at Rome.

To-morrow morning we start for Florence, and to-night I close this

second volume of my Diary. Thanks to my little ingenious Frenchmen in

the Via Santa Croce, I have procured a lock for a third volume,

almost equal to my patent _Bramah_ in point of security, though very

unlike it in every other respect.

* * * * *

_Viterbo_, _April 9._--"In every bosom Italy is the _second_ country

in the world, the surest proof that it is in reality the _first_."

This elegant and just observation occurs, I think, in Arthur Young's

travels; I am not sure I quote the words correctly, but the sense will

come home to every cultivated mind with the force of a proverbial

truism.

One leaves Naples as a man parts with an enchanting mistress, and Rome

as we would bid adieu to an old and dear-loved friend. I love it, and

grieve to leave it for its own sake; it is painful to quit a place

where we leave behind us many whom we love and regret; and almost or

quite as painful, I think, to quit a place in which we leave behind us

no one to regret, or think of us more; a feeling like this mingled

with the sorrow with which I bade adieu to Rome this morning.

Our journey has been fatiguing, _triste_, and tedious.

* * * * *

_Radicofani_, _10th._--I could almost regret at this moment that I am

past the age of romance, for I am in a fine situation for mysterious

and imaginary horrors, could I but feel again as I did at gay sixteen;

but, alas! _ces beaux jours sont passés_! and here I am on the top of

a dreary black mountain, in a rambling old inn which looks like a

ci-devant hospital or dismantled barracks, in a bed-room which

resembles one of the wards of a poor-house, one little corner lighted

by my lamp, and the other three parts all lost in black ominous

darkness; while a tempest rages without as if it would break in the

rattling casements, and burst the roof over our heads; and yet,

insensible that I am! I can calmly take up my pen to amuse myself by

scribbling, since sleep is impossible. I can look round my vast and

solitary room without fancying a ghost or an assassin in every corner,

and listen to the raving and lamenting of the storm, without imagining

I hear in every gust the shrieks of wailing spirits, or the groans of

murdered travellers; only wishing that the wind were rather less cold,

or my fire a little brighter, or my dormitory less _infinitely_

spacious; for at present its boundaries are invisible.

The first part of our journey this morning was delightful and

picturesque; we passed the beautiful lake of Bolsena and

Montepulciano, so famous for its wine (_il Rei di Vino_, as Redi calls

it in the _Bacco in Toscana_). Later in the day we entered a gloomy

and desolate country; and after crossing the rapid and muddy torrent

of Rigo, which, as our _Guide des Voyageurs_ wittily informs us, we

shall have to cross _four_ times if we are not drowned the _third_

time, we began to ascend the mountainous region which divides the

Tuscan from the Roman states--a succession of wild barren hills,

intersected in every direction by deep ravines, and presenting a

scene, sublime indeed from its waste and wild grandeur, but destitute

of all beauty, interest, magnificence and variety.

I remember the strange emotion which came across me, when--on the

horses stopping to breathe on the summit of a lofty ridge, where all

around, as far as the eye could reach, nothing was to be seen but the

same unvarying, miserable, heart-sinking barrenness, without a trace

of human habitation, except the black fort or the highest point of

Radicofani--a soft sound of bells came over my ear as if brought upon

the wind. There is something in the sound of bells in the midst of a

solitude which is singularly striking, and may be cheering or

melancholy, according to the mood in which we may happen to be.

* * * * *

_Florence, April 14._--I have not written a word since we arrived at

Sienna. What would it avail me to keep a mere journal of suffering? O

that I could change as others do, could forget that such things have

been which can never be again! that there were not this tenacity in my

heart and soul which clings to the shadow though the substance be

gone!

This is not a mere effusion of low spirits; I was never more cheerful.

I have just left a gay party, where Mr. Rogers (whom by special good

fortune we meet at every resting-place, and who dined with us to-day)

has been entertaining us delightfully. I disdain low spirits as a mere

disease which comes over us, generally from some physical or external

cause; to prescribe for them is as easy as to disguise them is

difficult: but the hopeless, cureless sadness of a heart which droops

with regret, and throbs with resentment, is easily, very easily

disguised, but not so easily banished. I hear every body round me

congratulating themselves, and _me_ more particularly, that we have at

last reached Florence, that we are so far advanced on our road

homewards, that soon we shall be at Paris, and Paris is to do

wonders--Paris and Dr. R** are to _set me up_ again, as the phrase is.

But I shall never be set up again, I shall never live to reach Paris;

none can tell how I sicken at the very name of that detested place;

none seem aware how fast, how very fast the principle of life is

burning away within me: but why should I speak? and what earthly help

can now avail me? I can suffer in silence, I can conceal the weakness

which increases upon me, by retiring, as if from choice and not

necessity, from all exertion not absolutely inevitable; and the change

is so gradual, none will perceive it till the great change of all

comes, and then I shall be at rest.

* * * * *

Florence looked most beautiful as we approached it from the south,

girt with her theatre of verdant hills, and glittering in the

sunshine. All the country from Sienna to Florence is richly

cultivated; diversified with neat hamlets, farms and villas. I was

more struck with the appearance of the Tuscan peasantry on my return

from the Papal dominions than when we passed through the country

before: no where in Tuscany have we seen that look of abject negligent

poverty, those crowds of squalid beggars which shocked us in the

Ecclesiastical States. In the towns where we stopped to change horses,

we were presently surrounded by a crowd of people: the women came out

spinning, or sewing and plaiting the Leghorn hats; the children threw

flowers into our barouche, the men grinned and gaped, but there was no

vociferous begging, no disgusting display of physical evils, filth,

and wretchedness. The motive was merely that idle curiosity for which

the Florentines in all ages have been remarked. I remember an amusing

instance which occurred when I was here in December last. I was

standing one evening in the Piazza del Gran Duca, looking at the group

of the Rape of the Sabines: in a few minutes a dozen people gathered

round me, gaping at the statue, and staring at that and at me

alternately, either to enjoy my admiration, or find out the cause of

it: the people came out of the neighbouring shops, and the crowd

continued to increase, till at length, though infinitely amused, I was

glad to make my escape.

I suffered from cold when first we arrived at Florence, owing to the

change of climate, or rather to mere weakness and fatigue: to-day I

begin to doubt the possibility of outliving an Italian summer. The

blazing atmosphere which depresses the eyelids, the enervating heat,

and the rich perfume of the flowers all around us, are almost too

much.

_April 20._--During our stay at Florence, it has been one of my

favourite occupations to go to the Gallery or the Pitti Palace, and

placing my portable seat opposite to some favourite pictures, minutely

study and compare the styles of the different masters. By the style of

any particular painter, I presume we mean to express the combination

of two separate essentials--first, his peculiar conception of his

subject; secondly, his peculiar method of executing that conception,

with regard to colouring, drawing, and what artists call handling. The

former department of style lies in the mind, and will vary according

to the feelings, the temper, the personal habits, and previous

education of the painter: the latter is merely mechanical, and is

technically termed the _manner_ of a painter; it may be cold or warm,

hard, dry, free, strong, tender: as we say the cold manner of Sasso

Ferrato, the warm manner of Giorgione, the hard manner of Holbein, the

dry manner of Perugino, the free manner of Rubens, the strong manner

of Carravaggio, and so forth; I heard an amateur once observe, that

one of Morland's Pig-sties was painted with great _feeling_: all this

refers merely to mechanical execution.

I am no connaisseur; and I should have lamented, as a misfortune, the

want of some fixed principles of taste and criticism to guide my

judgment; some nomenclature by which to express certain effects,

peculiarities, and excellencies which I felt, rather than understood;

if my own ignorance had not afforded considerable amusement to myself,

and perhaps to others. I have derived some gratification from

observing the gradual improvement of my own taste: and from comparing

the decisions of my own unassisted judgment and natural feelings, with

the fiat of profound critics and connaisseurs: the result has been

sometimes mortifying, sometimes pleasing. Had I visited Italy in the

character of a ready-made connaisseur, I should have lost many

pleasures; for as the eye becomes more practised, the taste becomes

more discriminative and fastidious; and the more extensive our

acquaintance with the works of art, the more limited is our sphere of

admiration; as if the circle of enjoyment contracted round us, in

proportion as our sense of beauty became more intense and exquisite. A

thousand things which once had power to charm, can charm no longer;

but, _en revanche_, those which _do_ please, please a thousand times

more: thus what we lose on one side, we gain on the other. Perhaps, on

the whole, a technical knowledge of the arts is apt to divert the mind

from the general effect, to fix it on petty details of execution. Here

comes a connaisseur, who has found his way, good man! from Somerset

House, to the Tribune at Florence: see him with one hand passed across

his brow, to shade the light, while the other extended forwards,

describes certain indescribable circumvolutions in the air, and now he

retires, now advances, now recedes again, till he has hit the exact

distance from which every point of beauty is displayed to the best

possible advantage, and there he stands--gazing, as never gazed the

moon upon the waters, or love-sick maiden upon the moon! We take him

perhaps for another Pygmalion? We imagine that it is those parted and

half-breathing lips, those eyes that _seem_ to float in light; the

pictured majesty of suffering virtue, or the tears of repenting

loveliness; the divinity of beauty, or "_the beauty of holiness_,"

which have thus transfixed him? No such thing: it is _fleshiness_ of

the tints, the _vaghezza_ of the colouring, the brilliance of the

carnations, the fold of a robe, or the fore-shortening of a little

finger. O! whip me such connaisseurs! the critic's stop-watch was

nothing to this.

Mere mechanical excellence, and all the tricks of art have their

praise as long as they are subordinate and conduce to the general

effect. In painting as in her sister arts it is necessary

"Che l'arte che tutto fa nulla si scuopre."

Of course I do not speak here of the Dutch school, whose highest aim,

and highest praise, is exquisite mechanical precision in the

representation of common nature and still life: but of those pictures

which are the productions of mind, which address themselves to the

understanding, the fancy, the feelings, and convey either a moral or a

poetical pleasure.

In taking a retrospective view of all the best collections in Italy

and of the Italian school in particular, I have been struck by the

endless multiplication of the same subjects, crucifixions, martyrdoms,

and other scripture horrors;--virgins, saints, and holy families. The

prevalence of the former class of subjects is easily explained, and

has been ingeniously defended; but it is not so easily reconciled to

the imagination. The mind and the eye are shocked and fatigued by the

succession of revolting and sanguinary images which pollute the walls

of every palace, church, gallery, and academy, from Milan to Naples.

The splendour of the execution only adds to their hideousness; we at

once seek for nature, and tremble to find it. It is hateful to see the

loveliest of the arts degraded to such butcher-work. I have often gone

to visit a famed collection with a secret dread of being led through a

sort of intellectual shambles, and returned with the feeling of one

who had supped full of horrors. I do not know how _men_ think, and

feel, though I believe many a man, who with every other feeling

absorbed in overpowering interest, could look unshrinking upon a real

scene of cruelty and blood, would shrink away disgusted and sickened

from the cold, obtrusive, _painted_ representation of the same object;

for the truth of this I appeal to men. I can only see with woman's

eyes, and think and feel as I believe every woman _must_, whatever may

be her love for the arts. I remember that in one of the palaces at

Milan--(I think it was in the collection of the Duca Litti)--we were

led up to a picture defended from the air by a plate of glass, and

which being considered as the gem of the collection, was reserved for

the last as a kind of _bonne bouche_. I gave but one glance, and

turned away loathing, shuddering, sickening. The cicerone looked

amazed at my bad taste, he assured me it was _un vero Correggio_

(which by the way I can never believe), and that the duke had refused

for it I know not how many thousand scudi. It would be difficult to

say what was most execrable in this picture, the appalling nature of

the subject, the depravity of mind evinced in its conception, or the

horrible truth and skill with which it was delineated. I ought to add

that it hung up in the family dining-room and in full view of the

dinner-table.

There is as picture among the chefs-d'oeuvres in the Vatican, which,

if I were pope (or Pope Joan) for a single day, should be burnt by the

common hangman, "with the smoke of its ashes to poison the air," as it

now poisons the sight by its unutterable horrors. There is another in

the Palazzo Pitti, at which I shiver still, and unfortunately there is

no avoiding it, as they have hung it close to Guido's lovely

Cleopatra. In the gallery there is a Judith and Holofernes which

irresistibly strikes the attention--if any thing would add to the

horror inspired by the sanguinary subject, and the atrocious fidelity

and talent with which it is expressed, it is that the artist was a

_woman_. I must confess that Judith is not one of my favourite

heroines; but I can more easily conceive how a woman inspired by

vengeance and patriotism could execute such a deed, than that she

could coolly sit down, and day after day, hour after hour, touch after

touch, dwell upon and almost realize to the eye such an abomination as

this.

We can study anatomy, if (like a certain princess) we have a taste

that way, in the surgeon's dissecting-room; we do not look upon

pictures to have our minds agonized and contaminated by the sight of

human turpitude and barbarity, streaming blood, quivering flesh,

wounds, tortures, death, and horrors in every shape, even though it

should be all very _natural_. Painting has been called the handmaid of

nature; is it not the duty of a handmaid to array her mistress to the

best possible advantage? At least to keep her infirmities from view

and not to expose her too undressed?

But I am not so weak, so cowardly, so fastidious, as to shrink from

every representation of human suffering, provided that our sympathy be

not strained beyond a certain point. To _please_ is the genuine aim of

painting, as of all the fine arts; when pleasure is conveyed through

deeply excited interest, by affecting the passions, the senses, and

the imagination, painting assumes a higher character, and almost vies

with tragedy: in fact, it _is_ tragedy to the eye, and is amenable to

the same laws. The St. Sebastians of Guido and Razzi; the St. Jerome

of Domenichino; the sternly beautiful Judith of Allori; the Pietà of

Raffaelle; the San Pietro Martire of Titian; are all so many tragic

_scenes_ wherein whatever is revolting in circumstances or character

is judiciously kept from view, where human suffering is dignified by

the moral lesson it is made to convey, and its effect on the beholder

at once softened and heightened by the redeeming grace which genius

and poetry have shed like a glory round it.

Allowing all this, I am yet obliged to confess that I am wearied with

this class, of pictures, and that I wish there were fewer of them.

But there is one subject which never tires, at least never tires _me_,

however varied, repeated, multiplied. A subject so lovely in itself

that the most eminent painter cannot easily embellish it, or the

meanest degrade it; a subject which comes home to our own bosoms and

dearest feelings; and in which we may "lose ourselves in all

delightfulness," and indulge unreproved pleasure. I mean the _Virgin

and Child_, or in other words, the abstract personification of what is

loveliest, purest, and dearest, under heaven--maternal tenderness,

virgin meekness, and childish innocence, and the _beauty of holiness_

over all.

It occurred to me to-day, that if a gallery could be formed of this

subject alone, selecting one specimen from among the works of every

painter, it would form not only a comparative index to their different

styles, but we should find, on recurring to what is known of the lives

and characters of the great masters, that each has stamped some

peculiarity of his own disposition on his Virgins; and that, after a

little consideration and practice, a very fair guess might be formed

of the character of each artist, by observing the style in which he

has treated this beautiful and favourite subject.

Take Raffaelle for example, whose delightful character is dwelt upon

by all his biographers; his genuine nobleness of soul, which raised

him far above interest, rivalship, or jealousy, the gentleness of his

temper, the suavity of his manners, the sweetness of his disposition,

the benevolence of his heart, which rendered him so deeply loved and

admired, even by those who pined away at his success, and died of his

superiority[V]--are all attested by contemporary writers: where but in

his own harmonious character, need Raffaelle have looked for the

prototypes of his half-celestial creations?

His Virgins alone combine every grace which the imagination can

require--repose, simplicity, meekness, purity, tenderness; blended

without any admixture of earthly passion, yet so varied, that though

all his Virgins have a general character, distinguishing them from

those of every other master, no two are exactly alike. In the Madonna

del Seggiola, for instance, the prevailing expression is a serious and

pensive tenderness; her eyes are turned from her infant, but she

clasps him to her bosom, as if it were not necessary to _see_ him, to

_feel_ him in her heart. In another Holy Family in the Pitti Palace,

the predominant expression is maternal rapture: in the Madonna di

Foligno, it is a saintly benignity becoming the Queen of Heaven: in

the Madonna del Cardellino, it is a meek and chaste simplicity: it is

the "_Vergine dolce e pia_" of Petrarch. This last picture hangs

close to the Fornarina in the Tribune,--a strange contrast!

Raffaelle's love for that haughty and voluptuous virago, had nothing

to do with his conception of ideal beauty and chastity; and could one

of his own Virgins have walked out of her frame, or if her prototype

could have been found on earth, he would have felt, as others have

felt--that to look upon such a being with aught of unholy passion

would be profanation indeed.

Next to Raffaelle, I would rank Correggio, as a painter of Virgins.

Correggio was remarkable for the humility and gentleness of his

deportment, for his pensive and somewhat anxious disposition, and

kindly domestic feelings: these are the characteristics which have

poured themselves forth upon his Madonnas. They are distinguished

generally by the utmost sweetness, delicacy, grace, and devotional

feeling. I remember reading somewhere that Correggio had a large

family, and was a particularly fond father; and it is certain, that in

the expression of maternal tenderness, he is superior to all but

Raffaelle: his Holy Family in the Studii at Naples, and his lovely

Virgin in the gallery, are instances.

Guido ranks next in my estimation, as a painter of Virgins. He is

described as an elegant and accomplished man, remarkable for the

modesty of his disposition, and the dignity and grace of his manner;

as delicate in his personal habits, and sumptuous in his dress and

style of living. He had unfortunately contracted a taste for gaming,

which latterly plunged him into difficulties, and tinged his mind with

bitterness and melancholy. All his heads have a peculiar expression of

elevated beauty, which has been called Guido's air. His Madonnas are

all but heavenly: they are tender, dignified, lovely:--but when

compared with Raffaelle's, they seem more touched with earthly

feeling, and have less of the pure ideal: they are, if I may so

express myself, too _sentimental_: sentiment is, in truth, the

distinguishing characteristic of Guido's style. It is remarkable, that

towards the end of his life, Guido more frequently painted the Mater

Dolorosa, and gave to the heads of his Madonnas a look of melancholy,

disconsolate resignation, which is extremely affecting.

Titian's character is well known: his ardent cheerful temper, his

sanguine enthusiastic mind, his love of pleasure, his love of women;

and true it is, that through all his glowing pictures, we trace the

voluptuary. His Virgins are rather "_des jeunes épouses de la

veille_"--far too like his Venuses and his mistresses: they are all

luxuriant _human_ beauty; with that peculiar air of blandishment which

he has thrown into all his female heads, even into his portraits, and

his old women. Witness his lovely Virgin in the Vatican, his Mater

Sapientiæ, and his celebrated Assumption at Venice, in which the eyes

absolutely float in rapture. There is nothing ideal in Titian's

conception of beauty: he paints no saints and goddesses _fancy-bred_:

his females are all true, lovely women; not like the heavenly creation

of Raffaelle, looking as if a touch, a breath would profane them; but

warm flesh and blood--heart and soul--with life in their eyes, and

love upon their lips: even over his Magdalenes, his beauty-breathing

pencil has shed a something which says,

A misura che amò--

Piange i suoi falli!

But this is straying from my subject; as I have embarked in this

fanciful hypothesis, I shall multiply my proofs and examples, as far

as I can, from memory.

In some account I have read of Murillo, he is emphatically styled _an

honest man_: this is all I can remember of his character; and _truth_

and nature prevail through all his pictures. In his Virgins, we can

trace nothing elevated, poetical or heavenly: they have not the

_ideality_ of Raffaelle's, nor the tender sweetness of Correggio's;

nor the glowing loveliness of Titian's; but they have an individual

reality about them, which gives them the air of portraits. That

chef-d'oeuvre, in the Pitti Palace, for instance, call it a

beautiful peasant girl and her baby, and it is faultless: but when I

am told it is the "_Vergine gloriosa, del Re Eterno Madre, Figliuola,

e Sposa_," I look instantly for something far beyond what I see

expressed. All Murillo's Virgins are so different from each other,

that it is plain the artist did not paint from any preconceived idea

of his own mind, but from different originals; they are all impressed

with that general air of truth, nature, and common life, which stamps

upon them a peculiar and distinct character.

Andrea del Sarto, who is in style as in character the very reverse of

Murillo, fascinated me at first by his enchanting colouring, and the

magical aërial depths of his chiaro-oscuro; but on a further

acquaintance with his works, I was struck by the predominance of

external form and colour over mind and feeling. His Virgins look as if

they had been born and bred in the first circles of society, and have

a particular air of elegance, an artificial grace, an attraction,

which may be entirely traced to exterior; to the cast of the features,

the contour of the form, the disposition of the draperies, the

striking attitudes, and, above all, the divine colouring: beauty and

dignity, and powerful effect, we always find in his pictures: but no

_moral_ pathos--no poetry--no sentiment--above all, a strange and

total want of devotional expression, simplicity and humility. His

Virgin with St. Francis and St. John, which hangs behind the Venus in

the Tribunes, is a wonderful picture; and there are two charming

Madonnas in the Borghese Palace at Rome. In the first we are struck by

the grouping and colouring; in the last, by a certain graceful

_lengthiness_ of the limbs and fine animated drawing in the

attitudes. But we look in vain for the "sacred and the sweet," for

heart, for soul, for countenance.

Andrea del Sarto had, in his profession, great talents rather than

genius and enthusiasm. He was weak, dissipated, unprincipled; without

elevation of mind or generosity of temper; and that his moral

character was utterly contemptible, is proved by one trait in his

life. A generous patron who had relieved him in his necessity,

afterwards entrusted him with a considerable sum of money, to be laid

out in certain purchases; Andrea del Sarto perfidiously embezzled the

whole, and turned it to his own use. This story is told in his life,

with the addition that "he was persuaded to it by his wife, as

profligate and extravagant as himself."

Carlo Dolce's gentle, delicate, and melancholy temperament, are

strongly expressed in his own portrait, which is in the Gallery of

Paintings here. All his pictures are tinged by the morbid delicacy of

his constitution, and the refinement of his character and habits. They

have exquisite finish, but a want of power, degenerating at times into

coldness and feebleness; his Madonnas are distinguished by regular

feminine beauty, melancholy, devotion, or resigned sweetness: he

excelled in Mater Dolorosa. The most beautiful of his Virgins is in

Pitti Palace, of which picture there is a duplicate in the Borghese

Palace at Rome.

Carlo Marratti, without distinguished merit of any kind--unless it was

a distinguished merit to be the father of Faustina Zappi,--owed his

fortune, his title of _Cavaliere_, and the celebrity he once enjoyed,

not to any superiority of genius, but to his successful arts as a

courtier, and his assiduous flattery of the great. What can be more

characteristic of the man, than his simpering Virgins, fluttering in

tasteless, many-coloured draperies, with their sky blue back-grounds,

and golden clouds?

Caravaggio was a gloomy misanthrope and a profligate ruffian: we read,

that he was banished from Rome, for a murder committed in a drunken

brawl; and that he died at last of debauchery and want. Caravaggio was

perfect in his gamblers, robbers, and martyrdoms, and should never

have meddled with Saints and Madonnas. In his famous _Pietà_ in the

Vatican, the Virgin is an old beggar-woman, the two Maries are

fish-wives, in "maudlin sorrow," and St. Peter and St. John, a couple

of bravoes, burying a murdered traveller: _dipinse ferocemente sempre

perche feroce era il suo carrattere_, says his biographer; an

observation, by the way, in support of my hypothesis.

Rubens, with all his transcendent genius, had a coarse imagination: he

bore the character of an honest, liberal, but not very refined man.

Rubens painted Virgins--would he had let them alone! fat, comfortable

farmers' wives, nursing their chubby children. Then follows Vandyke in

the opposite extreme. Vandyke was celebrated in his day, for his

personal accomplishments: he was, says his biographers, a complete

scholar, courtier and gentleman. His beautiful Madonnas are,

accordingly, what we might expect--rather too intellectual and

lady-like: they all look as if they had been polished by education.

The grand austere genius of Michel Angelo was little calculated to

portray the dove-like meekness of the _Vergine dolce e pia_, or the

playfulness of infantine beauty. In his Mater Amabilis, sweetness and

beauty are sacrificed to expression; and dignity is exaggerated into

masculine energy. In the Mater Dolorosa, suffering is tormented into

agony: the anguish is too human: it is not sufficiently softened by

resignation; and makes us turn away with a too painful sympathy. Such

is the admirable head in the Palazzo Litti at Milan; such his sublime

_Pietà_ in the Vatican--but the last, being in marble, is not quite a

case in point.

I will mention but two more painters of whose lives and characters I

know nothing yet, and may therefore fairly make their works a test of

both, and judge of them in their Madonnas, and afterwards measure my

own penetration and the truth of my hypothesis, by a reference to the

biographical writers.

In the few pictures I have seen of Carlo Cignani, I have been struck

by the predominance of mind and feeling over mere external form: there

is a picture of his in the Rospigliosi Palace--or rather, to give an

example which is nearer at hand, and fresh in my memory, there is in

the gallery _here_, his Madonna del Rosario. It represents a beautiful

young woman, evidently of plebeian race: the form of the face is

round, the features have nothing of the beau-ideal, and the whole head

wants dignity: yet has the painter contrived to throw into this lovely

picture an inimitable expression which depends on nothing external,

which in the living prototype we should term _countenance_; as if a

chastened consciousness of her high destiny and exalted character

shone through the natural rusticity of her features, and touched them

with a certain grace and dignity, emanating from the mind alone, which

only mind could give, and mind perceive. I have seen within the last

few days, three copies of this picture, in all of them the charming

simplicity and rusticity, but in none the exquisite expression of the

original: even the hands are expressive, without any particular

delicacy or beauty of form. An artist who was copying the picture

to-day while I looked at it, remarked this; and confessed he had made

several unsuccessful attempts to render the fond pressure of the

fingers as she clasps the child to her bosom.

Were I to judge of Carlo Cignani by his works, I should pronounce him

a man of elevated character, noble by instinct, if not by descent, but

simple in his habits, and a despiser of outward show and ostentation.

The other painter I alluded to, is Sasso Ferrato, a great and admired

manufacturer of Virgins, but a mere copyist, without pathos, power, or

originality; sometimes he resembles Guido, sometimes Carlo Dolce; but

the graceful harmonious delicacy of the former becomes coldness and

flatness in his hands, and the refinement and sweetness of the latter

sink into feebleness and insipidity. Were I to judge of his character

by his Madonnas, I should suppose that Sasso Ferrato had neither

original genius nor powerful intellect, nor warmth of heart, nor

vivacity of temper; that he was, in short, a mere mild, inoffensive,

good sort of man, studious and industrious in his art, not without a

feeling for the excellence he wanted power to attain.[W]

I might pursue this subject further, but my memory fails, my head

aches, and my pen is tired for to-night.

* * * * *

Both here and at Rome, I have found considerable amusement in looking

over the artists who are usually employed in copying or studying from

the celebrated pictures in the different galleries; but I have been

taught discretion on such occasions by a ridiculous incident which

occurred the other day, as absurdly comic as it was unlucky and

vexatious. A friend of mine observing an artist at work in the Pitti

palace, whom, by his total silence and inattention to all around, she

supposed to be a native Italian who did not understand a word of

English, went up to him, and peeping over his shoulder, exclaimed with

more truth than discretion, "Ah! what a hideous attempt! that will

never be like, I'm sure!" "I am very sorry you think so, ma'am,"

replied the painter, coolly looking up in her face. He must have read

in that beautiful face an expression which deeply avenged the cause of

his affronted picture.

We have been twice to the opera since we arrived here. At the Pergola,

Bassi, though a woman, is the _Primo Uomo_; the rare quality of her

voice, which is a kind of rich deep counter-tenor, unfitting her for

female parts. Her voice and science are so admirable, that it would be

delicious to hear her blindfold; but her large clumsy figure

disguised, or rather _exposed_, in masculine attire, is quite

revolting.

At the Cocomero we had the "Italiana in Algieri:" the Prima Donna, who

is an admired singer, gave the comic airs with great power and effect,

but her bold execution and her ungraceful unliquid voice disgusted me,

and I came away fatigued and dissatisfied. The dancing is execrable at

both theatres.

From one end of Italy to the other, nothing is listened to in the way

of music but Rossini and his imitators. The man must have a transcendant

genius, who can lead and pervert the taste of his age as Rossini has

done; but unfortunately those who have not his talent, who cannot

reach his beauties nor emulate his airy brilliance of imagination,

think to imitate his ornamented style by merely crowding note upon

note, semi-quavers, demi-semi-quavers, and semi-demi-semi-quavers in

most perplexed succession; and thus all Italy, and thence all Europe,

is deluged with this busy, fussy, hurry-skurry music, which means

nothing, and leaves no trace behind it either on the fancy or the

memory. Must it be ever thus? are Paesiello, and Pergolesi, and

Cimarosa--and those divine German masters, who formed themselves on

the Italian school and surpassed it--Winter and Mozart[X] and

Gluck--are they eternally banished? must sense and feeling be for ever

sacrificed to mere sound, the human organ degraded into a mere

instrument,[Y] and the ear tickled with novelty and meretricious

ornament, till the taste is utterly diseased?

There was a period in the history of Italian literature, when the

great classical writers were decried and neglected, and the genius of

one man depraved the taste of the age in which he lived. Marini

introduced, or at least rendered general and fashionable, that

far-fetched wit, that tinsel and glittering style, that luxurious pomp

of words, which was easily imitated by talents of a lower order: yet

in the Adonis there are many redeeming passages, some touches of real

pathos, and some stanzas of natural and beautiful description: and

thus it is with Rossini; his best operas contain some melodies among

the finest ever composed, and even in his worst, the ear is every now

and then roused and enchanted by a few bars of graceful and beautiful

melody, to be in the next moment again bewildered in the maze of

unmeaning notes, and the clash of overpowering accompaniments.

_Lucca, April 23._--Lucca disappoints me in every respect: it was

once, when a republic, one of the most flourishing, rich, and populous

cities in Italy; it is now consigned over to the Ex-queen of Etruria;

and its fate will be perhaps the same as that of Venice, Pisa, and

Sienna, which, when they lost their independence, lost also their

public spirit, their public virtue, and their prosperity.

It is impossible to conceive any thing more rich and beautiful, than

the country between Florence and Lucca, though it can boast little of

the elevated picturesque, and is destitute of poetical associations.

The road lay through valleys, with the Apennines (which are here

softened down into gently sunny hills) on each side. Every spot of

ground is in the highest state of cultivation; the boundaries between

the small fields of wheat or lupines, were rows of olives or

mulberries, with an interminable treillage of vines flung from tree to

tree. In England we should be obliged to cut them all down for fear of

depriving the crops of heat and sunshine, but here they have no such

fears. The style of husbandry is exquisitely neat, and in general

performed by manual labour. The only plough I saw would have excited

the amusement and amazement of an English farmer: I should think it

was exactly similar to the ploughs of Virgil's time: it was drawn by

an ox and an ass yoked together, and guided by a woman. The whole

country looked as if it had been laid out by skilful gardeners, and

the hills in many parts were cut into terraces, that not one available

inch of soil might be lost. The products of this luxuriant country are

corn, silk, wine, and principally oil: potteries abound, the making of

jars and flasks being an immense and necessary branch of trade.

The city of Lucca has an appearance in itself of stately solemn

dulness, and bears no trace of the smiling prosperity of the adjacent

country: the shops are poor and empty, there are no signs of business,

and the streets swarm with beggars. The interior of the Duomo is a

fine specimen of Gothic: the exterior is Greek, Gothic, and Saracenic

jumbled together in vile taste: it contains nothing very interesting.

The palace is like other palaces, very fine and so forth; and only

remarkable for not containing one good picture, or one valuable work

of art.

_Pisa, April 25._--Pisa has a look of elegant tranquillity, which is

not exactly _dulness_, and pleases me particularly: if the thought of

its past independence, the memory of its once proud name in arts,

arms, and literature, came across the mind, it is not accompanied by

any painful regret caused by the sight of present misery and

degradation, but by that philosophic melancholy with which we are used

to contemplate the mutability of earthly greatness.

The Duomo, the Baptistry, the Leaning Tower, and the Campo Santo,

stand altogether in a fine open elevated part of the city. The Duomo

is a magnificent edifice in bad taste. The interior, with its noble

columns of oriental granite, is grand, sombre, and very striking. As

to the style of architecture, it would be difficult to determine what

name to give it: it is not Greek, nor Gothic, nor Saxon, and exhibits

a strange mixture of Pagan and Christian ornaments, not very

unfrequent in Italian churches. The Leaning Tower should be

contemplated from the portico of the church to heighten its effect:

when the perpendicular column cuts it to the eye like a plumb line,

the obliquity appears really terrific.

The Campo Santo is an extraordinary place: it affects the mind like

the cloisters of one of our Gothic cathedrals which it resembles in

effect. Means have lately been taken to preserve the singular frescos

on the walls, which for five hundred years have been exposed to the

open air.

I remarked the tomb of that elegant fabulist Pignotti; the last

personage of celebrity buried in the Campo Santo.

The university of Pisa is no longer what it was when France and Venice

had nearly gone to war about one of its law professors, and its

colleges ranked next to those of Padua: it has declined in fame, in

riches, and in discipline. The Botanic Garden was a few years ago the

finest in all Europe, and is still maintained with great cost and

care: it contains a lofty magnolia, the stem of which is as bulky as a

good sized tree: the gardener told us rather poetically, that when in

blossom it perfumed the whole city of Pisa.

_Leghorn, April 26._--So different from any thing we have yet seen in

Italy! busy streets--gay shops--various costumes--Greeks, Turks, Jews,

and Christians, mingled on terms of friendly equality--a crowded port,

and all the activity of prosperous commerce.

Leghorn is in every sense a _free_ port: all kinds of merchandise

enter exempt from duty, all religions are equally tolerated, and all

nations trade on an equal footing.

The Jews, who are in every other city a shunned and degraded race, are

among the most opulent and respectable inhabitants of Leghorn: their

quarter is the richest, and, I may add, the _dirtiest_ in the city:

their synagogue here is reckoned the finest in Europe, and I was

induced to visit it yesterday at the hour of worship. I confess I was

much disappointed; and, notwithstanding my inclination to respect

always what is respectable in the eyes of others, I never felt so

strong a disposition to smile. An old Rabbi with a beard of venerable

length, a pointed bonnet, and a long white veil, got up into a superb

marble pulpit and chanted in strange nasal tones, something which was

repeated after him in various and discordant voices by the rest of the

assembly. The congregation consisted of an uncouth set of men and

boys, many of them from different parts of the Levant, in the dresses

of their respective countries: there was no appearance of devotion, no

solemnity; all wore their hats, some were poring over ragged books,

some were talking, some sleeping, or lounging, or smoking. While I

stood looking about me, without exciting the smallest attention, I

heard at every pause a prodigious chattering and whispering, which

seemed to come from the regions above, and looking up I saw a row of

latticed and skreened galleries where the women were caged up like

the monkies at a menagerie, and seemed as noisy, as restless, and as

impatient of confinement: the door-keeper offered to introduce me

among them, but I was already tired and glad to depart.

* * * * *

We have visited the pretty English burial-ground, and the tomb of

Smollet, which in the true English style is cut and scratched all over

with the names of fools, who think thus to link their own

insignificance to his immortality. We have also seen whatever else is

to be seen, and what all travellers describe: to-morrow we leave

Leghorn--for myself without regret: it is a place with which I have no

sympathies, and the hot, languid, damp atmosphere, which depresses the

spirits and relaxes the nerves, has made me suffer ever since we

arrived.

* * * * *

_Lucca._--Had I never visited Italy I think I should never have

understood the word _picturesque_. In England we apply it generally to

rural objects or natural scenery, for nothing else in England _can_

deserve the epithet. Civilization, cleanliness, and comfort are

excellent things, but they are sworn enemies to the picturesque: they

have banished it gradually from our towns, and habitations, into

remote countries, and little nooks and corners, where we are obliged

to hunt after it to find it; but in Italy the picturesque is every

where, in every variety of form; it meets us at every turn, in town

and in country, at all times and seasons; the commonest objects of

every-day life here become picturesque, and assume from a thousand

causes a certain character of poetical interest it cannot have

elsewhere. In England, when travelling in some distant county, we see

perhaps a craggy hill, a thatched cottage, a mill on a winding stream,

a rosy milkmaid, or a smock-frocked labourer whistling after his

plough, and we exclaim "How picturesque!" Travelling in Italy we see a

piny mountain, a little dilapidated village on its declivity, the

ruined temple of Jupiter or Apollo on its summit; a peasant with a

bunch of roses hanging from his hat, and singing to his guitar, or a

cotadina in her white veil and scarlet petticoat, and we exclaim "How

picturesque!" but how different! Again--a tidy drill or a hay-cart,

with a team of fine horses, is a very useful, valuable, civilized

machine; but a grape-waggon reeling under its load of purple clusters,

and drawn by a pair of oxen in their clumsy, ill-contrived harness,

and bowing their patient heads to the earth, is much more picturesque.

A spinning wheel is very convenient it must be allowed, but the

distaff and spindle are much more picturesque. A snug English villa

with its shaven lawn, its neat shrubbery, and its park, is a

delightful thing--an Italian villa is probably far less _comfortable_,

but with its vineyards, its gardens, its fountains, and statutes, is

far more picturesque. A laundry-maid at her wash-tub, immersed in

soap-suds, is a vulgar idea, though our clothes may be the better for

it. I shall never forget the group of women I saw at Terracina washing

their linen in a bubbling brook as clear as crystal, which rushed from

the mountains to the sea--there were twenty of them at least grouped

with the most graceful effect, some standing up to the mid-leg in the

stream, others spreading the linen on the sunny bank, some, flinging

back their long hair, stood shading their brows with their hands and

gazing on us as we passed: it was a _scene_ for a poet, or a painter,

or a melo-drama. An English garden, adorned at every turn with statues

of the heathen deities (although they were all but personifications of

the various attributes of nature,) would be ridiculous. Setting aside

the injury they must sustain from our damp, variable climate, they

would be _out of keeping_ with all around; here it is altogether

different; the very air of Italy is embued with the spirit of ancient

mythology; and though "the fair humanities of old religion," the

Nymphs, the Fauns, the Dryads be banished from their haunts and live

no longer in the faith of reason, yet still, whithersoever we turn,

some statue, some temple in ruins, some fragment of an altar, some

inscription half effaced, some name half-barbarized, recalls to the

fancy those forms of light, of beauty, of majesty, which poetry

created to people scenes for which mere humanity was not in itself

half pure enough, fair enough, bright enough.

What can be more grand than a noble forest of English oak? or more

beautiful than a grove of beeches and elms, clothed in their rich

autumnal tints? or more delicious than the apple orchard in full

bloom? but it is true, notwithstanding, that the olive, and cypress,

and cedar, the orange and the citron, the fig and the pomegranate, the

myrtle and the vine, convey a different and more luxuriant feeling to

the mind; and are associated with ideas which give to the landscape

they adorn a character more delightfully, more _poetically_

picturesque.

When at Lord Grosvenor's or Lord Stafford's I have been seated

opposite to some beautiful Italian landscape, a Claude or a Poussin,

with a hill crowned with olives, a ruined temple, a group of peasants

seated on a fallen column, or dancing to the pipe and the guitar, and

over all the crimson glow of evening, or the violet tints of morning,

I have exclaimed with others, "How lovely! how picturesque, how very

poetical!" No one thought of saying "How _natural_!" because it is a

style of nature with which we are totally unacquainted; and if some

amateurs of real taste and feeling prefer a rural cattle scene of Paul

Potter or Cuyp, to all the grand or lovely creations of Salvator, or

Claude, or Poussin, it is perhaps, because the former are associated

in their minds with reality and familiar nature, while the latter

appear in comparison mere inventions of the painter's fertile fancy,

mere visionary representations of what may or might exist but which do

not come home to the memory or the mind with the force of truth or

delighted recollection. So when I have been travelling in Italy how

often I have exclaimed, "How like a picture!" and I remember once,

while contemplating a most glorious sunset from the banks of the Arno,

I caught myself saying, "This is truly one of Claude's sunsets!" Now

should I live to see again one of my favourite Grosvenor Claudes I

shall probably exclaim, "How natural! how like what I have seen so

often on the Arno, or from the Monte Pincio!"

And, in conclusion, let it be remembered by those who are inclined to

smile (as I have often done) when travellers fresh from Italy _rave_

almost in blank verse, and think it all as unmeaning as

"Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of amber!"

let them recollect that it is not alone the _visible_ picturesque of

Italy which thus intoxicates; it is not only her fervid skies, her

sunsets, which envelope one-half of heaven from the horizon to the

zenith, in living blaze; nor her soaring pine-clad mountains; nor her

azure seas; nor her fields, "ploughed by the sunbeams;" nor her

gorgeous cities, spread out with all their domes and towers,

unobscured by cloud or vapours;--but it is something more than these,

something beyond, and over all--

----The gleam,

The light that never was on sea or land

The consecration, and the poet's dream!

_Genoa, 30._--We arrived here late, and I should not write now, weary,

weak, sick, and down-spirited as I am, did I not know how the

impressions of one day efface those of the former; and as I cannot

sleep, it is better to scribble than to think.

As to describing all I have seen, thought, and felt in three days,

that were indeed impossible: I think I have exhausted all my prose

eloquence, and all allowable raptures; so that unless I ramble into

absolute poetry, I dare not say a word of the scenery around Sarzana

and Lerici. After spending one evening at Sarzana, in lingering

through green lanes and watching the millions of fire-flies, sparkling

in the dark shade of the trees, and lost again in the brilliant

moonlight--we left it the next morning about sunrise, to embark in a

felucca at Lerici, as the road between Spezia and Sestri is not yet

completed. The groves and vineyards on each side of the road were

filled with nightingales, singing in concert loud enough to overpower

the sound of our carriage-wheels, and the whole scene, as the sun rose

over it, and the purple shadows drew off and disclosed it gradually to

the eye, was so enchanting--that positively I will say nothing about

it.

Lerici is a small fishing town on the Gulf of Spezia. Here I met with

an adventure which with a little exaggeration and embellishment, such

as no real story-teller ever spares, would make an admirable morceau

for a quarto tourist; but, in simple truth, was briefly thus.

While some of our party were at breakfast, and the servants and

sailors were embarking the carriages and baggage, I sat down to sketch

the old grey fort on the cliff above the town; but every time I looked

up, the scene was so inexpressibly gay and lovely, it was with

difficulty and reluctance I could turn my eyes down to my paper again;

and soon I gave up the attempt, and threw away both paper and pencil.

It struck me that the view _from_ the castle itself must be a thousand

times finer than the view of the castle from below, and without loss

of time I proceeded to explore the path leading to it. With some

fatigue and difficulty, and after losing myself once or twice, I

reached the top of the rock, and there a wicket opened into a walled

passage cut into steps to ease the ascent. I knocked at the wicket

with three strokes, that being the orthodox style of demanding

entrance into the court of an enchanted castle, using my parasol

instead of a dagger,[Z] and no one appearing, I entered, and in a few

moments reached a small paved terrace in front of the fortress,

defended towards the sea by a low parapet wall. The massy portal was

closed, and instead of a bugle horn hanging at the gate I found only

the handle and fragments of an old birch-broom, which base utensil I

presently applied to the purpose of a horn, viz. sounding an alarm,

and knocked and knocked--but no hoary-headed seneschal nor armed

warder appeared at my summons. After a moment's hesitation, I gave the

door a push with all my strength: it yielded, creaking on its hinges,

and I stepped over the raised threshold. I found myself in a low dark

vaulted hall which appeared at first to have no communication with any

other chamber: but on advancing cautiously to the end I found a low

door in the side, which had once been defended by a strong iron

grating of which some part remained: it led to a flight of stone

stairs, which I began to ascend slowly, stopping every moment to

listen; but all was still as the grave. On each side of this winding

staircase I peeped into several chambers, all solitary and ruinous:

more and more surprised, I continued to ascend till I put my head

unexpectedly through a trap-door, and found myself on the roof on the

tower: it was spacious, defended by battlements, and contained the

only signs of warlike preparation I had met with; _videlicet_, two

cannons, or culverins, as they are called, and a pyramidal heap of

balls, rusted by the sea air.

I sat down on one of the cannon, and leaning on the battlements,

surveyed the scene around, below me, with a feeling of rapture, not a

little enhanced by the novelty and romance of my situation. I was

alone--I had no reason to think there was a single human being within

hearing. I was at such a vast height above the town and the shore,

that not a sound reached me, except an indistinct murmur now and then,

borne upwards by the breeze, and the scream of the sea-fowl as they

wheeled round and round my head. I looked down giddily upon the blue

sea, all glowing and trembling in the sunshine: and the scenery around

me was such, as the dullest eye--the coldest, the most _unimaginative_

soul, could not have contemplated without emotion. I sat, I know not

how long, abandoned to reveries, sweet and bitter, till I was startled

by footsteps close to me, and turning round, I beheld a figure so

strange and fantastic, and considering the time, place, and

circumstance, so incomprehensible and extraordinary, that I was dumb

with surprise. It was a little spare old man, with a face and form

which resembled the anatomy of a baboon, dressed in an ample nightgown

of flowered silk, which hung upon him as if it had been made for a

giant, and trailed on the ground, a yard and a half behind him. He had

no stockings, but on his feet a pair of red slippers, turned up in

front like those the Turks wear. His beard was grizzled, and on his

head he wore one of the long many-coloured woollen caps usually worn

in this country, with two tassels depending from it, which nearly

reached his knees. I had full time to examine the appearance and

costume of this strange apparition as he stood before me, bowing

profoundly, and looking as if fright and wonder had deprived him of

speech. As soon as I had recovered from my first amazement, I replied

to every low bow, by as low a courtesy, and waited till it should

please him to begin the parley.

At length he ventured to ask, in bad provincial Italian, what I did

there?