Mode of living, and uncleanliness of houses, unjustly
censured.—Palazzo Borghese.—State of Society.—Cecisbeism.—Females of
Rome.—Higher and lower classes of Italians.—The English
disliked.—Hopes of advancing Romanism in America.—Religious bigotry
diminished.—Disrespect of Protestants in attending the Singing at
St. Peter’s.—Buffoonery of Servants of a Cardinal at
devotion.—Magnificence of Church Architecture.—Roof of St.
Peter’s.—The Lateran.—The Vatican.—Frescoes of Raphael.—Celebrated
Pictures.—Statuary.—The Apollo, and the Laocoon.—Fresco by Michael
Angelo.
The close of the last letter reminds me of the propriety of saying
something of the mode of living in Rome. Nothing has surprised me more
than the accounts given in English books of the filth, nastiness, and
other pretended abominations of the princely abodes here, as well as of
the mode of life within them. The English, as a people, have been
singularly unjust commentators on all foreign usages and foreign people;
though they are fast losing their prejudices, and beginning to
discriminate between customs. Neither the Italians, nor any other
Continental nation, deem the English snuggeries indispensable to
happiness. They admire a rich _parquet_, or a floor of imitation mosaic,
more than a pine or an oaken floor carpeted. Their staircases are broad
architectural flights, on which a stair-carpet and brass rods would be
singularly misplaced; and the great size of their houses renders the
minutiæ of our pigmy residences not only unnecessary, but would render
them excessively troublesome and expensive. Certainly the English and
the Americans are neater in their houses than the French or the
Italians; but a large portion of what has been said against the higher
classes of the two latter countries may, I think, be fairly explained in
this way. As between the labouring classes of England and America on the
one side, and those of the Continent of Europe in general on the other,
there is no comparison, on the score of civilization and its comforts;
the advantage being altogether with the former. The mass of no nation
can have domestic comforts, or domestic cleanliness, when the women are
subjected to field labour. Exactly in the proportion as the females can
turn their attention within doors, does the home become comfortable and
neat, other things being equal. But, beyond this, false notions exist.
The Englishman of rank, through the perfection of the manufactures and
the commerce of his country, has a detail of comforts of a certain
class, and perhaps of a wider class than the Continental nobility; but,
on the other hand, there are other essential points in which he falls
far behind them. What, for instance, are the chamber comforts and
elegancies of an English townhouse, compared to those of an Italian
townhouse? Compare the baths, dressing-rooms, and ante-chambers of a
French hotel, or an Italian palazzo, with the same things in a London
residence! The baths, dressing-rooms, cabinets, and ante-chambers of our
lodgings in Florence were as spacious, and much more elegant than our
entire lodgings in London; and I think all our rooms in the latter town
had not more space than one of the principal rooms in the former. I paid
thirty-five dollars a week for the London house, and forty-two dollars a
month for the Florence lodgings!
Travellers are too much in the practice of describing under the
influence of their early and home-bred impressions. As a man sees the
world, his prejudices diminish, his diffidence of his own decisions
increases, and with both, his indisposition to write. Many a man has
commenced travelling with a firm intention of faithfully describing all
he saw, and of commenting, as he conceived, impartially, but who has
gradually suffered this intention to escape him, until he gets to be too
critical in his distinctions to satisfy even himself. Thus, the English
cockney, who has never seen a house with more than two drawing-rooms,
fancies it extraordinary that an Italian with a palace larger than St.
James’s, should not always occupy its state apartments, although his own
king is guilty of the same act of neglect. Instead of saying that the
Princes Doria, Chigi, Borghese, Colonna, Corsini, &c., have vast palaces
like George IV., and that their state apartments are liberally thrown
open to the public, while, like King George and all other kings, they
occupy, in every-day life, rooms of less pretension and of more comfort,
they say, that these Roman nobles have huge palaces,—a fact that cannot
be denied,—while they live in corners of them. This false account of the
real state of the case arises simply from the circumstance that an
English nobleman occupies _his_ best rooms. The question whether the
second-rate rooms of an Italian palace are not equal to the best
apartments of an ordinary English dwelling, never suggests itself.
I visit in the Palazzo Borghese, which stands in our neighbourhood. The
prince himself resides altogether at Florence, where he has another
noble house, and in which he receives magnificently; but, here, a large
part of the building is filled with pictures, in order to be exhibited
to strangers. It is true the _appartamente nobile_, or first floor, is
not now opened, for the family of the Prince Aldobrandini is here merely
on a visit: he is a younger brother, and his proper residence may be
called Paris, the princess being a French lady of the family de la
Rochefoucauld. Accordingly, when admitted, I certainly do not enter the
state apartments, but am shown into what we call the third story, where
I find the family. A pretty picture might be made of this, but it would
mislead you. Here is a princely family, with an enormous house, it might
be said, that lives in a corner of it, even on the second floor, leaving
all the principal rooms unoccupied. This is the ordinary English version
of the custom, and, of necessity, the ordinary American. In point of
fact, however, the ascent to this third story is far more imposing, and
quite as easy, as the ascent to a common London drawing-room; and, with
but very few exceptions, I have never seen an English nobleman so well
lodged in London, in his best rooms, as the present occupants of the
Palazzo Borghese are _in their corner_. The misconception has arisen
from the difference in the habits of the two countries, and we have
adopted the error, as we adopt all English mistakes that do not impair
our good opinion of ourselves: in other words, we swallow them whole.
There are Italian nobles, out of doubt, who are not rich enough to keep
up their vast palaces; and there are English nobles in the same
predicament. In such cases, the Englishman retires to the Continent in
order to live cheap; and the Italian retires to his attic, or
_mezzinino_, which is frequently better than the first floor of an
English townhouse. The latter can live cheapest at home.
As to the filth on the staircases, which the English accounts had led me
to expect, I have seen none of it, in any palace I have entered. It is
possible that some deserted staircase, or that the corridor of one of
these huge piles, may occasionally be defiled in that way, for it has
happened in London to the best houses; but, as a distinctive usage, the
accounts are altogether false, so far as eighteen months’ experience of
Italy can authorize me to decide. There are certain disadvantages
belonging to magnificence, which is never so comfortable and so minutely
nice as snugger modes of living; but if one cannot have snugness with
magnificence and taste, neither can one have magnificence and taste with
snugness. Homilies might be written on the moral part of the question;
but to understand the physical merits, it is necessary to enter into all
these distinctions.
I know too little of Italian society to say anything new about it, or
even to speak very confidently on any of the old usages. The daughters
of particular families, I believe, are getting to have more of a voice
in the choice of husbands than formerly; though France is still much in
advance of Italy in this respect. I take this one fact to be the
touchstone of domestic manners; for the woman who has freely made her
own selection will hesitate long before she consents to destroy the
great pledge of connubial affection. Cecisbeism certainly exists, for I
have seen proofs of it; but I incline to the opinion that foreigners do
not exactly understand the custom. By what I can learn, too, it is
gradually yielding to the opinions of the age. A foreigner married to an
Italian of rank, and who has long been resident in Italy, tells me its
social tone is greatly impaired by the habits of the women, who are so
much disposed to devote themselves to their sentiment in favour of
particular individuals, as to have no wish to mingle in general society.
Whether these individuals were the husbands or not, the lady did not
appear to think it necessary to say.
The females of Rome are among the most winning and beautiful of the
Christian world. One who has been here a week can understand the _bocca
Romana_, for no females speak their language more beautifully. The
manner in which they pronounce that beautiful and gracious word
“_grazie_,” is music itself. A Frenchwoman’s “_merci_” is pretty, but it
is mincing, and not at all equal to the Roman “thanks.” After all, as
language is the medium of thought, and the link that connects all our
sympathies, there is no more desirable accomplishment than a graceful
utterance. Unfortunately, our civilisation is not yet sufficiently
advanced to see this truth, or rather the _summerset_ habits of America
cause us to forget it; for I can remember the time when a lady deemed an
even, measured, and dignified mode of speaking, necessary to a lady’s
deportment. It is a little odd, in a country so ambitious of mere social
distinctions as our own, distinctions that must exist in some shape or
other, since social equality is incompatible with civilisation, and in
which girls can and do milk cows in silks and muslins, that so few think
of setting up elegance, as a means of distinction! My life on it, those
who succeeded would have it all their own way for a good many lustres.
Rome, just at this moment, contains a congress of all the people of
Christendom. Its most obvious society, perhaps, is the English; but it
is by no means the best, as it is necessarily much mixed. I was lately
at a great ball given by the Prince of ——, and it certainly was
faultless as to taste and style. I do not remember ever to have been in
a society so uniformly elegant and high-toned. The exceptions were very
few, and not very obtrusive. The apartments were vast and magnificent,
and the supper equal to the rest. But the Italians of condition may be
generally considered a polished and amiable people, whatever is thought
of their energy and learning. In the latter there is no very apparent
deficiency; though they attend less to this point, perhaps, than some
other countries of Europe. In the studious classes, it strikes me, there
is much learning; not a knowledge of Greek and Latin quantities merely,
but a knowledge of the sciences and of the arts, and a strong sympathy
with the beauties of the classics.
In the lower classes I have been agreeably disappointed. Strangers
certainly see the worst of them; for a kinder and quicker witted, and a
more civil people, than most of the country population, is not usually
seen. Had we formed our notions by even the first nine months
observation, it would have misled us, for subsequent experience has made
us acquainted with several dependents of the most excellent character
and disposition.
Few foreigners, however, see much of Italian society; the great inroad
of strangers causing them to be cautious of opening their doors, while
the number of the strangers themselves is apt to make them satisfied
with their own associations. It is said that there are some thousands of
travellers in Rome at this moment; and you can judge of their effect on
the modes of living of so small a town. The English, as a matter of
course, predominate, at least in the public places and in the hotels. At
the ball I attended, however, there were but three English present,
though half the other nations of Christendom were fully represented.
This fact was observed, and I ventured to inquire of a Roman the reason.
The answer was, that the master of the house did not like the English;
and although the entertainment was given to a prince of a royal family
nearly connected with the royal family of England, but three of the
latter country were invited. I was told that the disposition to force
their own opinions and habits on the strangers they visited rendered the
English unpleasant, and that there was a general feeling against
receiving them. This may be just enough as respects a portion, perhaps
the majority of those who come here; but it is singularly unjust as
respects the better class of them, and it is the Romans who are the
losers.
It is said the English bachelors here got up a ball lately, with a view
to manifest a kind feeling towards their hosts, and that the invitations
were sent out as “at homes;” a freedom that the Roman ladies resented by
staying away. So much from not understanding a language; though delicacy
and tact in conferring obligations and in paying compliments are not
singularly English virtues.
_We_ have had a dinner, too, in honour of Washington, at which I had the
honour to preside. You will be surprised to hear that we sat down near
seventy Yankees (in the European sense) in the Eternal City! We were
very patriotic, but quite moderate in its expression.
I have ascertained that strong hopes exist here of advancing the
Religion of this government in America. If this can be done, let it, for
I am for giving all sects fair play; but as such expectations certainly
exist, it may be well for those who think differently to know it. One of
the last things that an American would be likely to suspect, is the
conversion of his countrymen to the Roman Catholic faith; and yet such a
result is certainly here brought within the category of possibilities. I
would advise you to take large doses of Calvinism, or you may awake,
some fine morning, a believer in transubstantiation.
You will be surprised also to learn that there is less religious bigotry
in Rome itself than in many of the distant provinces subject to her
canonical sway. The government being in the hands of ecclesiastics, as a
matter of course, no open irreligion is tolerated; but beyond this, and
the great number of the churches and of the ecclesiastics themselves, a
stranger would scarcely suspect he was living purely under an
ecclesiastical government. The popes are not the men they once were:
nepotism, cupidity, and most of the abuses incident to excessive
temporal influence, are done away with; and as the motive for ambition
ceases, better men have been raised to the papal chair. Most of the last
popes have been mild, religious men, and, so far as man can know, suited
to their high religious trusts; though the system is still obnoxious to
the charge of more management, perhaps, than properly belongs to faith
in God and his church. But all establishments are weak on this point,
and the general assemblies, &c. of America are not always purely a
convocation of saints.
Strangers are no longer expected to kneel at the appearance of the Host
in the streets, or even in the churches. The people understand the
prejudices of Protestants, and, unless offensively obtruded, seem
disposed to let them enjoy them in peace. I saw a strong proof of this
lately;—A friend of mine, walking with myself, stepped aside in a narrow
street, for a purpose that often induces men to get into corners. He
thought himself quite retired; but, as I stopped for him to rejoin me, a
crowd collected around the spot he had just quitted. Without his knowing
it, the image of a Madonna was placed in the wall, directly above the
spot he had chosen, and of course it had been defiled! I saw all this
myself; and it is a proof of the change that exists in this particular,
that I dared to remain to watch the result, though my friend himself
thought it prudent to retire. A priest appeared, and the wall was
sprinkled with holy water, while the people stood looking on, some at
the wall and some at me, in grave silence. Thirty years ago such a
blunder might have cost us both our lives.
Indeed, liberality, in some respects, is carried to a fault. The singing
of St. Peter’s has a reputation far and near, and strangers are
accustomed to go there to hear it. There is a particular chapel in which
a service is sung, (vespers, I presume,) every Sunday afternoon, and
where one can hear the finest vocal church music in the world, music
even finer than that of the Royal Chapel at Dresden. At the latter
place, however, the music is chiefly instrumental; whereas here it is
principally by voices. One who has never seen such a temple, or heard
such a combination of science, skill, and natural, I may say
_artificial_ power, can form no just notion of the sensations that arise
on walking among the wonders of the church and listening to the heavenly
chants. Sometimes I withdraw to a distance, and the sounds reach me like
the swells of airs in another world: and at times I go near the door of
the chapel, and receive the full bursts of its harmony. Operas,
concerts, and _conservatoirs_ sink into insignificance before this
sublime union of the temple and its worship; for both may be considered
as having reached the limits of human powers, so far as the senses are
concerned.
Around the door of this chapel, which is, I believe, called the Chapel
of the Choir, strangers assemble in crowds. Here, I regret to say, they
laugh, chat, lounge, and amuse themselves, much as well-bred people
amuse themselves in an evening party any where else. There is not much
noise certainly, for well-bred people are not often noisy; but there is
little or no reverence. After making all possible allowance for the
difference between Catholic and Protestant worship, this want of respect
for the altar and the temple is inexcusable. Happily, I have never yet
seen an American indulging in this levity. The fact speaks volumes in
reply to those who heap obloquy on the nation as wanting in religion.
The larger American sects manifest a great disrespect for the mere house
of God: they hold political meetings in their churches, even concerts
and exhibitions, all of which I deem irreverent and unsuited to the
place; but whenever any thing like worship is commenced, silence and
decency prevail. This feeling they have brought abroad with them; but
other Protestants, especially the English, who are such observers of the
decencies at home, do not appear to entertain the same feelings.
Still, it must be admitted that the Catholics themselves do not always
set a good example. I was strolling lately through the vast temple,
equally impressed with reverence and delight, when a cardinal entered by
a side door. He was a young man, with a marked air of gentility; and I
presume his early rise in the church was owing to his high birth. He was
in his official dress, and carried the red hat pressed against his
bosom. As he entered from the Vatican, I presume he had just been in the
presence of the Pope. Four attendants followed, two of whom were in
black, and were a species of clerical esquires, though their official
appellation is unknown to me; and two were common livery servants. The
cardinal advanced to the great altar, beneath the celebrated baldachino,
and, kneeling, he prayed. Nothing could be better than his whole manner,
which was subdued, gentle, and devout. So far all was well. The two
_esquires_ kneeled behind the cardinal on the pavement, put their hats
to their faces, and appeared also to pray. The two lackqueys kneeled
behind the esquires, the distance between the respective parties being
about twenty feet: and they too raised their hats before their
faces,—but it was to laugh and make grimaces at each other! This
buffoonery was so obvious as to amount to mockery, and one near them
might see it.
You know my passion for the poetry of the Roman worship. The odour of
the incense, the vaulted roofs, attenuated aisles and naves, the painted
windows, and the grand harmonies of the chants, are untiring sources of
delight to me. It is true, at Rome one sees no Gothic architecture; but
its place is nobly supplied. The riches as well as the number of the
churches are incredible, and one can only become reconciled to the
apparent waste by remembering that the pretence is to honour God. A
temple in the human heart is certainly better than one of stone; but I
see no incompatibility between the two. These are distinctions into
which I do not enter; or, if sometimes tempted to make them, I feel
persuaded that it is quite as possible to strip the altar of its dignity
and decencies, as it is to overload it with useless ceremonies and
pageants.
No one who has not visited Rome can have a just appreciation of the
powers of Dominichino and Guido, or perhaps of Raphael,—though the
latter is to be seen to advantage elsewhere,—of any idea of the pass to
which men have carried the magnificence of church architecture. I do not
now allude solely to the unrivalled grandeur of St. Peter’s, but to the
splendour of the churches in general, and especially to that of the
private chapels. These private chapels have been ornamented by different
families for ages, and the result is, that they have literally become
architectural gems, though less in the sense of a pure taste, perhaps,
than in that of an elaborated magnificence. That of the Corsini, in St.
John of the Lateran, the richest I have seen; and I feel persuaded that
I speak within bounds when I say, the money that would be necessary to
build such a thing in America would cause ten or a dozen of our largest
churches to be constructed. The great resources of Rome in antiques,
columns, precious stones, and marbles, render these expenses less
onerous than elsewhere; but their value even here is immense. The Prince
of —— showed me a mosaic ornament in his vestibule, that had now been
there some ages; and he told me that the precious stones it contained
would sell for a very large sum.
Vasi has a list of one hundred and thirty-three churches; and as he
describes them all, I presume the little chapels that have been made out
of the ancient temples, of which there may be a dozen or two, are not
included. The smallest of these churches, if the little temples are
excluded, are as large as the largest of our own; and each of the
basilicæ, of which there are now six, is nearly, if not quite as large,
in cubic contents, as all the churches of New York united. St. Peter’s,
of course, is much larger; and, if the colonnade be included, I feel
persuaded all the public buildings of New York might stand on its
area,—to say nothing of the height.
We have lately ascended to the roof of this wonder of the world. It
resembles a table-land on a mountain, and I was strongly impressed with
the notion of having a horse to gallop about it. The two small domes
rise from the plane-like churches, and the great dome looks like a
mountain. The sacristy of this church is of itself a great edifice, and
it is rich beyond all American notions.
St. John _in Laterano_ is said to get its name from Plautius Lateranus,
whose house stood at the same place. The Lateran Palace joins the
church, as the Vatican joins St. Peter’s. The present palace was built
by Sixtus V; but Constantine resided here. There is a very ancient
baptistery in the group of buildings, in which it is pretended that
emperor was baptised; though a man who had made up his mind to be a
Christian, would hardly wait to build a church to perform the initiatory
ceremony in, I think. The term “councils of the _Lateran_” came from
their being held in this palace, as that of the “thunders of the
Vatican” from the circumstance that the popes, who issue the bulls,
usually live here.
St. Peter’s of the Vaticano, as well as the palace, to which it is
annexed, if such a term may be used, gets its name from the ancient
Roman appellation of the spot. Nero had his circus and gardens here; and
it is said that this is the place in which most of the Christians were
martyred. The first church was relatively small, though subsequently
much enlarged; but it was removed when the present building had got to
be advanced. The palace is very ancient, though much changed, for
Charlemagne lived in it while at Rome to be crowned, which was more than
a thousand years ago. It fell into ruins, however, and was restored by
Celestinus III. two centuries later. It has certainly been in its
present form more than three centuries, as Raphael and Michael Angelo
have left memorials on its walls not to be mistaken. The latter
essentially roofed and raised St. Peter’s, and it follows that the
present palace is older than the present church. In truth, the latter
was erected as an accessory to the former!
The Vatican is an immense structure, covering more ground than St.
Peter’s itself; though it is a succession of courts and palaces rather
than a single edifice. Vasi gives its dimensions at about 1100 by near
800 feet. This includes the courts, but not the gardens. I have
somewhere read, that if the buildings of the Vatican were placed in a
line, they would reach a mile.
The palace and the church are incorporated in one edifice; but, owing to
the noble colonnade by which one approaches St. Peter’s, its unity and
vastness, particularly its height, and the fact that the Vatican has no
great visible façade, the latter is almost lost in the _coup d’œil_ of
the other, although it covers most ground of the two, unless the area of
the vacancy between the colonnades be thrown in on the side of the
church.
It is usual to say, the conclaves are held in the Vatican; but I
understand here, that the last election of the pope was held in the
Quirinal, or rather in the building adjoining the Quirinal. The palace
of the Quirinal is called the Pontifical Palace, and I believe most of
the time of the pope is passed in it. His apartments are very plain, so
much so as to excite surprise: but here are the noble _bas reliefs_ of
Thorwaldsen.
The frescoes of Raphael in the Vatican, and those of the Sistine Chapel,
in the same palace, by Michael Angelo, are deemed the respective _chefs
d’œuvre_ of these artists. The _loggie_ of Raphael contain some
extraordinary things. The paintings are on the ceilings of compartments,
in what we should call piazzas, or open galleries. The subjects commence
with the Creation. On one, God, in the form of a venerable old man, is
throwing himself into the midst of chaos, in order to separate and
reduce to order the materials of the universe. The sublimest conception
of this subject, the only one that will bear critical examination, is
that of a being whose will and knowledge, without an effort, can create
a universe. The simple language of the Bible can never be surpassed. The
representation of this majesty of a will might possibly be partially
portrayed by the pencil; but few could enter even into the sublimest
conceptions of the countenance of a being filled with so much power,
admitting the success to be equal to the thought, in the application of
the means. Failing this, we are driven to some such imagery as this of
Raphael’s. His idea is noble, and, considered in connexion with the
usual means of his art, perhaps one of the best that could have been
suggested. The idea of the Deity’s throwing himself into chaos, to
separate light from darkness, and to reduce the materials of the
universe to order, is magnificent, and it might be made to tell in
poetry. It never can equal the majesty of the exercise of the pure will;
but, descending from this severe grandeur, it is one of the finest of
the thoughts that follow. What a different thing it appears reduced to
visible agencies! An old sprawling man, casting his body, with open
palms and extended arms, into a chaotic confusion of gloomy colours, is
not without the wild and indefinable feeling of poetry, I admit; but how
much is it inferior to mere thought, or even thought as it may be
expressed in language! Had Raphael painted that sublime verse of the
Bible—“And God said, Let there be light, and there was light,” in this
compartment of the gallery, he would have commenced his subject as well,
perhaps, as by human means it can ever be presented to human senses.
It is wondered that one who could conceive of even the old man throwing
his body into chaos, should have fallen so low as the idea of the next
picture. In the compartment of the gallery that follows, the same old
man is represented starting a planet in its orbit with each hand, and
setting the moon, or some other heavenly body, in motion, with a kick of
his foot! Criticism applied to such a thought would be thrown away.
I am not going the rounds of the galleries and museums with you; but you
will be curious to know what impression the great works of art have
produced on me. Six or eight of the most celebrated easel pictures of
the world are in the Vatican. They are kept in a room by themselves, for
the convenience of being copied. The Transfiguration is at their head;
and the Communion of St. Jerome is placed at its side, as its great
rival. Of these pictures I prefer the last; though the delineation of an
old man certainly admits most of the trickery of the art. I think, were
the choice mine, I would select many pictures before the
Transfiguration. Still, it is a great picture, and in some respects,
perhaps, unequalled. Its beauties, too, are of a high order, being
principally intellectual, and its faults are more mechanical. I must
think, however, that this picture owes a portion of its great reputation
to the fact that it was the last the artist painted; and he died, as one
may say, with its subject in his mind.
Most of the statuary is placed in long galleries, through which one
walks for hours with absorbing interest. The precision and nature with
which the ancients wrought brutes is surprising; more especially dogs in
attitudes which, while they are both natural and beautiful, are seldom
long maintained. This skill denotes a German minuteness that one hardly
expects from the Romans. But the most precious of the statues are in a
tribune, beautifully arranged as to light, and so placed as to permit
the spectator, virtually, to see but one at a time. This is a great
improvement on the ordinary gallery disposition; for the crowd of
objects usually causes confusion rather than delight, on a first visit.
A great number of grave-stones of martyred Christians have been
collected, and are preserved here. They are recognised by the cross,
which, it is known, was carved on them.
Certainly, it was a sensation when I first found myself in the gallery
of this tribune,—perhaps it is better to call it a colonnade, or a
portico. This place contains many minor attractions; but its principal
works are the Apollo, the Laocoon, the Antinous, with the Perseus, and
the Boxers of Canova.
It is unfortunate that the Perseus should be so near the Apollo, for the
points of resemblance are sufficiently obvious. This latter statue
surpassed all my expectations, familiar as one becomes with it by
copies; and yet it is now conjectured that it is itself merely a copy! I
write with diffidence on so delicate a point; but such is the suspicion
that it is whispered so loud that any one may hear it. It is said it has
been ascertained that the marble is of Carrara, a circumstance that at
once destroys its Greek origin. If this be a copy, the original was
probably of bronze, and is now corroding somewhere in the earth, if,
indeed, it be not melted down. The polished roundness of this statue,
which shows a pretty even surface for want of muscles, may account for a
copy of so much beauty. The expression is principally in the attitude,
which might be imitated with mathematical accuracy; and though the most
pleasing, and, in some respects, the noblest statue known, I should
think it one of those the most easily reproduced by skilful artists. For
your comfort I will add, that the casts and copies of this statue that
are usually seen in America, bear some such resemblance to the original
as a military uniform made in a country village bears to the regulation
suit ordered by government and invented by a crack town-tailor. You get
the colour, facings and buttons, with such a cut and fit as Providence
may direct. The Dying Gladiator and the Faun are in the collection of
the Capitol. I think this distribution of the _chefs d’œuvre_
unfortunate.
Whatever may be the truth as respects the Apollo, one would find it
almost impossible to believe the Laocoon a copy; though I believe the
profane have whispered even this calumny. There are one or two good
copies of this work, but it struck me that no one could closely imitate
the surface. It is true, we have no original to compare it with, and may
fancy that perfect, which, strictly would prove to be otherwise; for men
are often deceived in the details, when there is great merit in the
principal features of a work. Certainly, I think the Laocoon the noblest
piece of statuary that the world possesses.
Pliny mentions this statue, or at least one of the same nature, as the
masterpiece of Grecian art that was then to be found in Rome. He
ascribes it to _three statuaries_! If this fact were well authenticated,
I should hesitate about believing it any thing more than a copy from the
bronze. Is not Pliny’s authority enough, you may be inclined to ask, to
settle a question like this?—I think not. Pliny wrote about the year 90.
Winkelman refers this statue to the age of Alexander the Great; who died
four centuries earlier. Now, you may judge how much more likely Pliny,
in the condition of the world in his time, would be, than we ourselves,
to get at the truth of a similar fact of an old date. Europe is filled
with pictures that the imputed artists never saw. The celebrated “Belle
Jardinière” of the Louvre is said to be a copy surreptitiously obtained
by Mazarin; and I remember one day, when admiring the beautiful Marriage
of St. Catharine, in the same gallery, to have been almost persuaded
against my will that it was a copy, and yet Correggio has not been dead
three centuries.
While writing this letter, I find proof of the doubtful character of
authorities. The work of Mrs. Starke is well known, and it certainly has
great merit in its way. This lady, however, like most of her sex, has no
definite notions of distances, surfaces, &c. Few mere writers have; for
they usually are not practical people. In speaking of the Vatican, Mrs.
Starke, whom I had consulted with the hope of being able to give you
something in feet and inches, says, its “present circumference is
computed to be near _seventy thousand feet_.” To adopt this lady’s own
mode of expressing admiration, “!!!!” A mile contains five thousand two
hundred and eighty feet; and this will make a circumference of rather
more than thirteen miles which is but little short of the circuit of the
existing walls of Rome. Seven thousand feet may be true; though even
that appears a large allowance to me.
As respects the comparison between manuscripts and books, the latter are
more to be depended on for accuracy, since, although liable to errors of
the press, the number of the editions leaves more opportunities for
correction than the system of publishing by written copies. The last
edition of a standard work is always chosen for its correctness,
especially if printed during the author’s life; but who can say when the
few manuscripts of Pliny that we possess were written out? when, or by
whom, or under what correction? To lay much stress, therefore, on a fact
that must necessarily be traditional, or taken at second-hand, and which
rest altogether on the testimony of a book, is far from safe. There are
things of public notoriety in particular places, at the time of their
publication, on which a writer may generally be trusted; but when we
come to matters of second-hand intelligence, or which are less
notorious, it is wiser to believe a circumstance, than to believe a
sentence in a book, however well turned. If the Apollo be truly of
Carrara marble, for instance, it is scarcely probable it can be a
Grecian statue, and then it is at once reduced to the rank of a copy;
for no Roman sculptor could have made it. The alternative is to suppose
it the work of some Greek, in Italy. It is just possible, it is true,
that a block of Carrara marble may have found its way to Greece; but,
admitting this, it would scarcely have been used by the artist of _the_
Apollo, on an original of so much merit and importance.
The fresco painting of the Last Judgment, by Michael Angelo, in the
Sistine Chapel, is one of the most extraordinary blendings of the grand
and the monstrous in art. You know the anecdote of this painter’s coming
into the Farnesina Palace here, when Raphael was employed on its
celebrated frescoes, among which is the Galatea, and finding no one in
the room, by way of contempt for the prettiness of the divine master,
his sketching a gigantic head in a cornice with coal. This head still
remains, Raphael, having had the good-nature not to disturb it, and
every one sees it as a proof of the rivalry of these celebrated men.
Michael Angelo has painted the Last Judgment with the same ideas of the
grand as he sketched the Farnesina head. It is not a pleasing picture,
the subject scarcely admitting of this; but it is certainly an
extraordinary one. I never see the works of these two men without
thinking what an artist Buonarotti would have made had he possessed
Raphael’s gentleness and sensibility to beauty; as one is apt to fancy
what Shakspeare might have done with Milton’s subject, had he enjoyed
the advantages of Milton’s learning and taste. There would have been no
stealing from Virgil, through Dante, in the latter case.
I refer you to the regular books for the detailed accounts of the
treasures of art with which not only the Vatican, but all Rome abounds,
my own gleanings being intended for little more than my own feelings and
ruminations.