We have had some rain here lately, and a good deal of snow upon the mountains; for the Apennine summits present a much greater mass of white than they did at the end of January. In the lower country the winter seems to be gone. The Anemones (Anemone hortensis) have been very plentiful and beautiful; they are now almost over, and the orchideÆ are beginning to show their flowers. The weather is delightful, the sun, though bright, is not oppressive, and the night wind is no longer cold. The woods of Monte Mario are perfumed with rosemary in full flower; vegetation is everywhere vigorous and beautiful, and all nature feels the genial influence of the season. A first of April at Rome is all you can imagine of a May day in England. But enough of nature; I am about to give an account of art; of pomps, and processions, and ceremonies, where all is artificial. They began the 30th of March, which was Palm Sunday, and I went to the Sistine chapel to see the palm branches distributed. These palm branches look like reeds with the leaves still upon them, all of which, except two or three at the top, are plaited up, so that they are not very unlike slender rods covered with yellow ribbon; they are said however, to be real palm tree leaves. One of these is given to each of the cardinals, together with a branch of olive. When arrived at the Vatican, the doors of the great hall (the Sala regia) were shut, and a considerable number of people were waiting at the head of the stairs. We understood that no general admission would be given till the procession had passed, i. e. the pope and cardinals had entered the chapel. After a little time, the doors were thrown open and we entered the hall, but a circuit of soldiers placed about the door prohibited our immediate entrance into the Sistine Chapel. One by one we slipt through, the intention apparently not being to prevent us entirely from entering, but merely, by retarding our motions, to avoid bustle and confusion. It was however some time before I could work myself up into a good position, and that moment the pope, and all the cardinals were seated. The latter held in their hands the palm branches, and at the feet of each an attendant was seated who held an olive branch. A priest at the altar was saying mass, but the pope seemed quite the object of attention, and almost of adoration. We might almost at times fancy the music repeating, “We worship thee O Lord, the Pope,” so well did the action correspond with such an expression. The ceremonies were not much varied; they consisted principally in alternately getting up and sitting down, while at each change of position the attendants arranged the robes of their superiors. Two of these waited on the pope, and disposed the folds of his garments very carefully every time he moved. Sometimes the cardinals advanced from their seats, and passing through the row of attendants, knelt down to the pope and the altar, laying their palm branches on the ground. During part of the service, the pope wore a mitre, which was put on, and taken off, with great ceremony. On one occasion he rose from his seat, and walked to a cushion placed in front of the high altar, upon a sort of stool. On this he knelt down, and his attendants took off the mitre. The music suddenly ceased, and there was a dead silence, all the cardinals and attendants being at the same time on their knees. The effect of this silent prayer is very impressive. It was a pity the spectators could not kneel too, but it was impossible for want of room. The two attendants of his holiness meanwhile spread his robes carefully over the elbows of the cushion, and disposed his train symmetrically, turning out on each side a quantity of the white satin lining; a sort of parade very injurious to the solemnity of the scene, as it drew down the attention from every sublime sentiment, to a trifling, and even contemptible object. The service in general did not appear very impressive, and there was hardly any music except a monotonous recitative.

On Monday and Tuesday nothing was done. On Wednesday afternoon there was again service in the Sistine chapel. It began about five o’clock, by candle light, for even at noon day candles are used; amongst these was a row of fifteen lights, intended to represent the twelve apostles, and the three Mary’s, and these were extinguished or expired at irregular intervals, to show that they did not all abandon our Saviour at once. After fourteen of these were out, the remaining one, which we were told was to represent the Virgin Mary, was taken down, and all the other lights in the room extinguished, leaving only the faint remains of day (it was then near seven o’clock) and in this state we heard a fine piece of music, the effect of which was perhaps enhanced by the gloom.

On Thursday morning I was at the Vatican about nine o’clock, but was refused admittance because I wore trowsers; I therefore returned to change my dress, among a great number of my countrymen, who were in the same predicament; but I returned before mass had begun in the Sistine chapel. I did not however attempt to enter, as it would only have been a repetition of what I had seen before. The Paoline chapel was very splendidly illuminated, and after a short time the consecrated wafer was carried in procession, and laid in what is called a sepulchre in that chapel, where a painted body is exposed, intended to represent that of Christ.

As this room is much smaller than the Sistine chapel, I thought I should have no chance of obtaining admittance, and repaired to the hall where the feet of the thirteen pilgrims were to be washed by the pope. It is a large room, and on the left hand side of it, was a seat a little elevated, on which these men were seated, each dressed in a cloak of white cloth, lined with silk of the same colour, and trowsers also of white cloth. On the right were three or four ranges of seats for the ladies; in the middle stood the gentlemen, of whom a large number were already collected. A part at the upper end, was railed off for his holiness and the cardinals, with a station for foreign ambassadors; and there were four boxes, into the first of which the old king of Spain shortly entered. The queen of Etruria took possession of another, accompanied by her son, who has the reputation of being a very amiable and accomplished gentleman; the third received the duke del Genovese, and the duchess of Chablais; in the fourth was the prince of Prussia. All these people had been at the Sistine chapel in boxes prepared for them in like manner, but I forgot to mention the circumstance. After the entrance of the pope a short service was chanted. Two cardinals then replaced the mitre on the pope’s head, and took off his robes; two attendants held up his petticoats in front, that he might be able to walk down from his throne, and two cardinals held up his train behind. The upper garments which he had just laid aside were crimson, embroidered with gold, the under ones, which he still wore, were white. Thus accompanied, he descended to the place where the pilgrims were sitting, each of whom bared his right foot, on which in succession, the pope poured a little water, and taking the foot in his hand wiped it with a napkin. What would you think in London, if the Prince regent and lord Castlereagh were to get up a political comedy, and act themselves the principal characters, and each sing his song? Here religion forms the politics of the place, and the subject is quite a religious comedy, or as Hannah More might call it, a sacred drama. But custom sanctions these usages, and that is now venerable, which if it were to originate in the present day, would be merely ridiculous. I was here one of a party of four Englishmen, all about as tall as myself, but we were overtopped by the whole head by another of our countrymen in the room. I missed the supper, which perhaps you will think no loss; and after passing some time in St. Peter’s, and the galleries of the Vatican, places which never lose their interest, I retreated to my usual trattoria, but returned in the evening to hear the Misereri, at St. Peter’s. It was sung beautifully, but the voices seemed hardly strong enough to fill even the side chapel where it is performed. It may help to give you some idea of the size of St. Peter’s, to tell you that several services are sometimes performed at the same time without in the least interfering with each other, and that on entering, and even walking along the nave, you hear nothing of the music of the side chapel, though probably in some parts there are twenty voices at their utmost stretch. I did not mention, that at the conclusion of the music in the Sistine chapel, a great noise and tumult was heard; the same took place on the present occasion, and was intended, as I was told, to represent the confusion that followed the condemnation of our Saviour. This evening the church was lighted by a single large illuminated cross. The cross itself, though about twenty-six feet high, and covered with three hundred and fourteen lamps, looked rather smaller than I expected, but the unity of light was admirable, and produces an effect truly sublime. Various processions took place round the tomb of St. Peter, and many relics were shown, at which most of the people knelt, but by no means all. On Friday there is no exhibition. Every well-dressed person is in black: the soldiers walk about with their arms reversed: the bells are all silent, they are not even permitted to strike the hour: every body, and every thing is supposed to be in mourning. On Saturday there were ceremonies at St. John Lateran. The holy water and oil were just consecrated when I arrived, and after staying a little while in the church, and finding that nothing very interesting was in hand, I repaired to the baptistery of Constantine. Here two Jews were to be baptized; there are always some converts reserved to make a show on this occasion, and the people of Rome tell you that they change back again on Monday, but I will not vouch for the truth of this piece of scandal. I was close against the balustrade which enclosed the ancient vessel, or rather bath, but the present vase, and the Jews themselves, and all the attendants, stand within this. The bishop soon arrived, and chanted a service, to consecrate the water, and to do him justice, he has a good voice, and sings very well. In one part of the ceremony he had to dip his hand in the water, and previously to this, another clergyman took off his ring, and kissed it, and when the bishop had finished, and the hand was wiped, the same clergyman replaced the ring, kissing the hand at the same time. Two vessels of oil were then brought in; some of that, I believe, which had just been prepared in the church. They were poured out on the water, and the bishop put in his hand, and passed it backwards and forwards, to mix, as I was told, the oil and water together. Do you think the consecration could have rendered this possible? On this occasion the ring was again taken off, and kissed as before, and some beautiful cakes of coloured soap were brought in to take the oil from the bishop’s hand. Meanwhile, the first poor Jew was brought forward to be exhibited and baptized; and the bishop chanting the service, took up the water in a silver ladle, and poured it upon his head, patting the head at the same time with the ladle, to enable the water to penetrate the thick coat of hair by which it was defended. Two attendants immediately wiped it with a napkin, and a dish was brought which contained a very small vessel of oil, and some wool. The bishop dipped his thumb in the oil, and made with it, the sign of the cross on the forehead of the new convert, which the attendants wiped with the wool. A lighted taper was then given him to hold, and he returned to his post, while a similar operation was performed on the other Jew. During these ceremonies an enormous wax candle was employed, about eight feet high, and six inches thick, beautifully painted, and five rings of metal attached to it by means of as many little points which project from the circumference; they are disposed in this manner: Illustration of metal rings the central one being gilt, the others silvered. They are said to represent the five wounds of our Saviour, the upper one being the effect of the crown of thorns; but surely, in that case, we ought to reckon six wounds. The bishop was dressed in white satin shoes and trowsers; above these was a black petticoat, reaching to the ankles; over these shorter petticoats of white lace, and sometimes a purple robe; sometimes one of silver tissue, embroidered with gold, and occasionally two or three other articles of dress, which were worn but a short time. He had two mitres, one of gold tissue, and the other of silver tissue embroidered with gold. The converts were dressed in robes of flowered white satin, and each, after the baptism, had a white ribbon bound round his head. On returning to the church, a large number of the attendants threw themselves on their faces on the marble pavement. After this, the bells were suddenly heard; the soldiers replaced their musquets, and the mourning was over. It appears then, that according to the church of Rome, our Saviour was crucified and laid in the sepulchre on Thursday, and rose again about noon on Saturday. Does this seem to you to agree with the account given by the evangelists? I afterwards witnessed the form of giving holy orders to various degrees of the priesthood; but I did not find them at all interesting, and shall therefore pass them over.

The last day of these ceremonies is the Easter Sunday. I set off a little after nine, and when I arrived at St. Peter’s found a great multitude already assembled. The large central folding doors were thrown open, and the middle part of the nave was protected by two files of soldiers to keep the space clear for the procession. These spread wider apart, and made a large circuit round the high altar. They admitted us to pass without much difficulty, to a space which was railed off round the choir, where the pope was to perform. The canopy soon appeared at the doors of the church, preceded by a long procession of servants of the church, and by the cardinals clad in scarlet and furs. After a little while the pope himself came within view, sitting under the canopy in a raised chair, borne on the shoulders of his attendants, with a white mitre upon his head, and accompanied on each side by a large fan of the feathers of the white peacock. He was slowly carried up the nave, and the chair was set down in the middle of the space behind the high altar. Here the pope got out, and advanced to a cushion near the altar, and prayed in silence, while the attendants, as in the Sistine chapel, spread out his robes. He then retreated to a throne placed on one side of the choir, and after some ceremonies, and singing and chanting, the cardinals about him changed his dress, and attended him to perform mass at the high altar: he afterwards retreated to another throne, placed directly in front of the altar, or to those who entered the church, it would seem rather behind it; but the front of the altar is really towards the extremity of the building, and not towards the principal door, as it would be in our churches, and the pope pays his devotions with his face towards the entrance of the church. Catholic altars, at least at Rome, face all ways, and the notion that a church must have its front towards the west, and its altar towards the east, is a northern, or perhaps a Protestant superstition. He sat there for some time while the service was going on, and then again went up to the altar, and knelt down. Every body knelt, and there was a dead silence. These solemn pauses produce the finest effect of any one circumstance in the Roman Catholic service, but the whole is very magnificent, and the majesty of the building, the splendour of the processions, the richness of the dresses, and the great display of gold and pomp, produced as strong an impression as can probably be produced by any thing of the sort. Nevertheless, without all the previous pomp, and grandeur, and bustle, the solemnity which I admire in these pauses would not be so striking. The pope retired again to his upper throne, but I went out and mixed with the crowd in front to see the benediction; not to hear it, for that is hardly possible. His holiness is elevated on his chair, in a balcony in front of the church, but he hardly comes forward enough to be well seen, and in fact, the great object is the people. The immense place in front of the cathedral is entirely filled by the crowd, except a square space, preserved by the soldiers, which serves rather to show off both them, and the multitude about them, than to occasion any appearance of a deficiency of number. All attention was directed to one point, a great number were upon their knees, and all in the attitude of devotion, or deep interest and expectation. Two pieces of paper were thrown down, (I am sorry I must admit any thing so ridiculous into my picture) containing, as I was told, indulgences signed by the Holy Father himself, for those who could catch them: after this he repeated the blessing and disappeared. Other services succeeded in the church, but I did not stay long to witness them.

Perhaps you may incline to make it a question, whether the account of these ceremonies, or my long architectural details, be the most tiresome: you may, however, find some relief in the change of subject, and in that hope I shall give you a little sketch of the immense palace of the Vatican, or at least of the Cortile of San Damaso, and of the part containing the museum. The Cortile is surrounded only on three sides by the buildings of the palace. The fourth is inclosed by a plain wall. The lower story is in great measure solid. Then there are two ranges of open arches, and over these one of columns, which are very wide apart. This upper story is not, I apprehend, part of the original design, and it would be better away; and part of the upper range of arches is filled up in order to protect the frescos of Raphael. This is injurious to the architecture, yet still we must allow considerable merit to the general composition and proportions. On one side of this court are the Sala regia, and the two chapels, and from this side you also enter the Sala Borgia, which, with a series of adjoining rooms, contains the paintings returned from Paris.^[49] From the angle we enter the first long gallery of the museum. The two other sides of the court contain the apartments of his holiness.

After this general view of the disposition of the different parts, we will return to the foot of the grand staircase. An awkward and irregular interval, wider at the beginning than at the further end, existed between the palace and the church. Bernini conceived the idea of erecting here a magnificent staircase, adorned with columns, where the diminution at the further end, by increasing the apparent length, rather enhances the magnificence. It was a noble thought, but while I admire, I should hardly venture to imitate the arrangement. After this we pass into the Sala regia, which gives access to the two chapels, the Sistina and the Paolina.

The architecture of the Sistine Chapel pleased me better on repeated visits than the first time I saw it: it is a lofty oblong hall, with windows only in the upper part, and a fine coved ceiling.

The general line of springing of this cove is cut by the windows, but this is not a defect, as the arches of the windows spring in the same line. The architect was Sangallo. The Paolina is said to be the production of the same artist, but it is trumpery. Both these halls are so much more celebrated for the paintings they contain, than for their architecture, that I cannot refrain from mentioning them. I do not doubt the wonderful talents of Michael Angelo, or the sincerity of the praises which have been heaped upon him, but I confess I have not learned to like him in any of his three attributes. He seems to me always to have sacrificed taste to knowledge. I can admire his works, but I cannot be pleased with them. In the celebrated Last Judgment there is not a beautiful figure, a graceful attitude, or a pleasing expression. Strong expression there is; great knowledge of anatomy I am willing to believe, though it seems a defect in judgment to mark every thing too strongly; and it is a remarkable circumstance that this should be the characteristic of the ancient Etruscan artists as well as of the modern school of Tuscany; great variety both of attitude and feature. His greatest admirers do not claim for him any great excellence in colouring; and in the present instance, the smoke of lamps and candles has probably made it more dingy than it otherwise would have been. This painting occupies the end of the room. The ceiling is in several parts also by Michael Angelo Buonarroti. The Almighty is here introduced, as he so frequently is in Italy; but instead of giving us the highest possible idea of power and energy, the object seems to have been to represent a dignified, but feeble old man, whose limbs and garments are supported by his servants. This idea of majesty is that of savages, and half-civilized people, who find it in having nothing to do, carried to such an excess as to render its object unable to do anything. Michael Angelo endeavoured to gain support from the notions of the vulgar, in a case where his genius, and that of every mortal, must necessarily fail. Some of these smaller paintings, I can more readily admire; and I acknowledge, that several of the figures, seated on the pedestals which divide the paintings, are very beautiful, but they have nothing to do with the stories of the Old Testament represented in the panels, and it is considerable labour to look at either the one or the other. What is it that is so much admired in this artist? This is a point on which connoisseurs are by no means agreed. One values him for his anatomical knowledge, and his power in giving character and expression. Another lays the chief stress on a sort of recondite meaning, to be found in his productions, which seems to be viewing them as ingenious riddles. The greater number of course are contented to wonder, they know not why. Some contend for a grandeur of composition in the lines and disposition of the figures. This I confess I do not comprehend; yet, while I acknowledge the beauty of certain forms and proportions in architecture, I cannot consistently deny that similar merits may exist in painting, though I am unfortunately unable to appreciate them.

The side walls are decorated with Scripture histories by some of the earlier Italian painters. The best and latest are those of Perugino. Two of the paintings of the Capella Paolina are by Michael Angelo, but they are more smoked, worse lighted, and consequently more invisible than those of the Sistina.

The first time I visited the Vatican it was in company with Mr. Scott, and after passing the Sala regia, we hurried impatiently along the loggie of Raphael, to what were pointed out to us as the celebrated Camere. On our arrival we were refused admittance. The door at the other end of the suite was open, but that into the loggie permitted strangers only to depart. This arrangement obliged us to make the tour of the museum, a circuit of above half a mile; and whatever you may think of it, half a mile of the finest productions of sculpture cannot be walked through very quickly. Was it possible to pass the Apollo without stopping to look at it? Or the Laocoon without notice? Even the inscriptions delayed us; nor could we help paying some attention to the tomb of Scipio. We peeped into each open doorway, just to see what we had to expect for another and more leisure survey; and this walk occupied us about an hour and a half, though intending to go with the greatest rapidity from one door of the rooms containing the frescos to the other.

Before the paintings, we stop at the Arazzi of Raphael; the subjects of these are,

Of seven of these, viz. of the 2nd, 6th, 8th, 10th, 11th, 12th, and 13th, you know that we have the cartoons in England, and one cartoon is worth all the tapestry.

We pass from these rooms, four in number, to those called the Camere of Raphael, ornamented with some of his most admired productions. It excites some surprise, to find that so much labour and genius have been lavished on three gloomy, irregular rooms, unconnected with any principal apartment, each lighted indeed by a single window, but that window below, instead of, as ought to be the case, above the principal part of the paintings. The paintings themselves indeed are most admirable; not so much at first view, as when you attend to them leisurely, and consider the action and intention of the several figures; and the more you study, the more you admire and enjoy. These are not things to stare at, and to leave, satisfied with a passing tribute of admiration. We enter into them, we seem almost in society with the saints and sages represented, and we return to them again and again with delight, as to a fine poem. It is melancholy to see how much they have suffered, not from neglect, but from time, and the decay of the material. The rage for fresco-painting, or rather for admiring it, and regret that it is disused, seems to start up from time to time even in our northern climates. It is therefore necessary to repeat again and again, that even in Italy, fresco-painting rapidly decays, and that in a climate such as ours, the value of its finest productions, if painted on the walls of a room, could hardly, by any care, be made to last a century. Pieces cut out and hung in frames might last longer.

The fourth room is larger than the others. It was painted after the death of Raphael, by his scholars, and from his designs. It is remarkable however, that he finished two or three figures in oil, which shine among the rest by the superiority of the material as well as of the drawing; the remainder being executed in fresco.

On leaving these chambers, we pass through the famous loggie, where Raphael exhibited the versatility of his mind by the most beautiful coloured ornaments on the architecture, interspersed with little paintings. The designs were his; the execution was that of his scholars. Their situation was at first an open gallery, but as they were considerably injured by exposure to the weather, it has been enclosed. These productions have suffered, as may be supposed, more than those in the chambers. Just enough remains to give some vague notion of the grace and elegance of the ornament, and to make us regret that we have no more. It is much more practicable no doubt to restore these than the historical painting, but something will be lost in delicacy of curve, and in the harmony of colouring, even in a case apparently so little difficult.

In the rooms immediately below those of Raphael, are now placed those first-rate productions of painting, which, having been transported to Paris, are in consequence of the late peace restored to Rome. Instead of giving you any description, or even an account of what they are, (though the Transfiguration is among them) and adding an Oh! and an Ah! and a note of admiration to each, I will tell how I proceed in examining pictures; a method, which if not perfectly scientific, has at least the effect of enhancing both their interest and the amusement derived from them, and by leading the attention to the several particulars, one by one, must, I think, improve the judgment. You know I set out in architecture, with a determination not to be satisfied with seeing and admiring what is beautiful, but to endeavour in each object to trace why it pleases, what are its defects, and how they might be avoided, and a still higher degree of excellence attained. To analyse paintings something in the same way, I consider that a picture may please—

First, by its design; that is, when the story is clearly told; when we readily see what the actors are about, and knowing the story, are enabled to allot to each figure its rank and personality. Raphael has this talent in a high degree, though by introducing two stories, or two different points of time, he sometimes confuses the subject. There are two stories in his Transfiguration, each of which forms a perfect design by itself, but they are not so satisfactory when we consider them unitedly. It is said that Raphael’s figures show not only their actual, but their past positions, the garments, where the figure is in motion, retaining something of their previous set.

Secondly, by its composition. When the figures and their accessories are so formed, and so disposed, as to form an agreeable whole.

Thirdly, by its drawing, i. e., the correct imitation of nature.

Fourthly by its beau ideal. This is different from drawing, because it depends upon the choice of subject. One artist may draw common-place forms, and such as he usually sees, with perfect exactness; a second may know how to select the most beautiful; a third, by a careful examination of what constitutes the excellence of each part, and the harmony and perfect correspondence of one part with another, may improve even on the most beautiful existing figures. Nature is as much the guide to this last, as to the two others; but a finer taste and more perfect knowledge, that indefinable something which we call genius, enables him to see and to correct the defects which exist even in the finest forms. Every part is perfectly natural, and the whole is so too, because it is what Nature always seems to intend to produce in her most perfect works, but at which she never completely arrives. The mere drawing of these three may be equally good, but the third alone possesses the beau ideal. The Belvidere Apollo is an excellent illustration of the beau ideal. Of a thousand men whom you meet in the streets without remarking them as deformed, you will not perhaps find one so defective in some points as the Apollo. Defects which are not noticed in the statue, because it has no motion; any change of position would expose them: this is defective drawing. Of a thousand times a thousand you will not find one who even approximates to it in beauty. The finest drawing may exist without beau ideal, but every defect in drawing is also a defect in the beau ideal. The artist has fallen short as nature falls short, but he errs more grossly.

Fifthly, Expression; both of passion and character; not in the heads only, but in the whole form, and in the attitudes.

Sixthly, Clair-oscur. When the parts are well relieved by the shades and shadows, and appear free from the canvass.

Seventhly, Colour. Colouring and composition mutually enhance the other’s value.

This arrangement, though very convenient for the purposes I have mentioned, is perhaps, a little too mechanical. The highest pleasure in viewing pictures arises from the expression of mind; an expression not confined to any one of these, but influencing each, and all of them. The painter, like the poet, must bear you on his wings at his own will, and you must resign yourself to him, in order to feel and enjoy the utmost pleasure which his productions communicate; but after you have once experienced this sort of pleasure, it may be both prolonged and enhanced by a careful examination of the elements which produce it.

After all these preliminaries, we will now enter the museum; for though I would not, even if I were better able, undertake the task of description, I shall not myself be contented without endeavouring to communicate some impression of my own feelings on viewing it repeatedly. Like Rome itself, after all we have heard of the immense quantity of objects of curiosity, and as much as we are prepared to admire some of the most beautiful of them, we are still lost in astonishment when we are really on the spot, and walk through the extended galleries, or from one magnificent saloon to another, and find all filled with wonders.

We first enter into a gallery above a thousand feet long, divided into two parts by small contraction. The first of these is occupied by inscriptions; and fragments of architecture and ornament. Among the latter objects, some, which have been brought from Ostia, are of first-rate excellence, and from a certain similarity of style between them and those found in the Forum of Trajan, are perhaps of the design of Apollodorus, and consequently of the time of Trajan. This is rendered more probable by our knowledge, that considerable edifices were erected at Ostia under that emperor. Here also are some curious little fountains, like children’s playthings, if they were not of marble; such as were used to refresh the private apartments of the Romans. In the second part is the Museo Chiaramonte, containing also various fragments, but possessing many fine busts and statues.

A flight of steps conducts us to the Museo Pio-Clementino, where, in the first chamber, our attention is attracted by the sarcophagus of C. L. Scipio Barbatus. The spelling and grammar exhibit the ancient language of Rome, before the cases of the nouns had received a settled form, and the use of the ablative for the nominative and accusative, seems to announce some degree of relation to the modern Italian. A little further are the Torso and the Meleager, and turning to the left we enter a court, in some little cabinets in the angles of which are the Apollo, the Antinous, and the Laocoon.

In the first course that a stranger makes through the Vatican, criticism is lost in admiration; but after repeatedly visiting this collection of rarities, we are naturally desirous to distinguish a little more precisely, the good from the bad; and the ancient sculpture from the modern restorations. Just feeling, correct knowledge, and the habit of observation, can alone furnish the means of determining the first question, and here is the best school in the world to obtain these qualifications; but there are various accidental circumstances with respect to the second, which may greatly assist the judgment of the inexperienced observer. Marble fragments are sometimes restored in plaster; this is easily detected; but when the restorations are in marble, there is often a difference of quality, which affords a guide almost equally obvious, after a little attention to the marbles themselves, and their mode of varying in the size of the grains, in compactness, and in transparency. There are also, frequently slight differences of colour, either in the whole mass or in particular parts, the abrupt termination of which marks a modern addition. Ancient statues of all sorts have usually been repaired with the marble of Carrara; and as the ancient statues of this are comparatively few, they being generally formed out of marble of a larger grain and looser texture, it is not difficult to distinguish the modern parts. Again, when they are restored in marble of the same nature, the substance is often not so perfectly homogeneous, but that the eye can discover minute differences of texture; and if these are continued across a joining, they form a pretty decisive proof that the parts were originally one block. Some indications may be taken from the joinings themselves. A statue is never broken without some damage to the angles of the fracture, and the joining is consequently either partially or wholly, wide and unfinished, or filled up with plaster, or with accessory pieces of marble; if therefore a neat even joining appear all the way round, it is a decisive proof that one or both the pieces is modern. Any person who will take the trouble to go thus through the Vatican, will I am persuaded find, before he has completed his task, that he can generally distinguish the restorations, before he is near enough to decide upon the qualities of the marble. Yet he probably would not be able to do this, even in the best casts. One circumstance which will strike him, is that almost every emblem, or design, which determines the individuality of the statue, is a modern addition. Considerable efforts have at times been made, to repair the ancient figures in such a manner as to render it impossible to separate the new from the old, and Thorwaldson has restored the Egina marbles so perfectly, that I do not believe it possible for the most practised eye to determine, with any certainty, which is which; but this is a mistaken notion; it is better, on the contrary, that the difference should be visible, not perhaps at the first glance, but by any person who wishes to inquire into it: the confidence that certain parts are antique, when it is known, as it always must be, that the whole is not so, adds much to the interest of the observer; and in this way the Elgin marbles ought to be restored. In their present state, the imagination of the artist and skilful amateur readily supplies many deficiencies which are necessary to the understanding of the form, attitude, and action of the figure; but to the rest of the world these noble productions lose much of their value, because they are not well understood; which they would be if judiciously restored on this principle.

Connoisseurs find in the statues of the Vatican, a distinction between the Greek and Roman schools of art. I have attempted to follow them, but hitherto without success; as the best rule I have been able to hit upon is, that those of the Greek school are of Italian, and those of the Roman of Parian marble. The beau ideal is another abstruse subject. It is probable that the elasticity of the human skin, after repeated stretchings, does not perfectly recover itself, but in youth, as long as the body continues to grow, this is taken up by the increase of size. Afterwards, seams and wrinkles gradually begin to appear. A similar process takes place in the veins, and the protuberance of the lower part of the trunk. Unless therefore we suppose an immortality like that of Swift’s Struldbrugs, we must suppose in the gods, the perfect recovery of the parts after action, and consequently they can have no wrinkles; and no veins, except when they are swelled by strong muscular action. This seems a necessary consequence of their nature, rather than any part of the beau ideal. We might perhaps go a step farther, and conclude, that beings who were nourished with nectar and ambrosia, or with the smell of sacrifices, could not require very large digestive organs. Again, the strength of gods is not founded on ‘cumbrous flesh,’ or on ‘the brittle strength of bones,’ and therefore the expression of muscle and bone is to be kept down; but as the sculptor has no other way of giving the appearance of force, something of these must be preserved. It is probably not true that great muscular strength is always accompanied by distinctly marked muscles. The fibres may be supposed individually stronger, instead of more numerous. Topham, so celebrated for his extraordinary force, is said to have been remarkably round and smooth in his forms. To overcharge the muscles, may not therefore be the best way of expressing strength, and when in action, if the effect be given, the less the appearance of exertion, the more is the idea of supereminent force excited.

From this court, which I mentioned so long ago that you have perhaps forgotten it, and which, besides the productions above-mentioned, contains some beautiful baths of porphyry, granite, and basalt, bas-reliefs, sarcophagi, &c., we pass into the hall of the animals; these are executed in various marbles, and some of them are of the greatest beauty and truth. In some instances marbles of different colours are employed to indicate the various colours of the animal. The room is about 110 feet long, and 30 wide, and seems entirely filled with them. From this we enter a long gallery of statues and busts, of which the extreme length is about 200 feet, and the width about 25. On one side of this room is an elegant little cabinet, containing the Venere accoviata, a beautiful fawn of rosso antico, and other things of the same scarce marble, too numerous for me to mention, and among these productions of ancient art, four beautiful columns of modern alabaster from Monte Circello, the best parts of which are equal to the oriental.

Returning into the animal room, we enter from that into the hall of the Muses, and afterwards to the noble Sala Rotonda. In the middle of this is a great basin of porphyry, fourteen feet in diameter, in a single block. Throughout most of the Vatican, the apartments themselves are of little importance; we visit them for the objects they contain; but this is a magnificent room. The pavement is an ancient mosaic.

The next in succession is the Sala a croce Greca, whose name indicates its form. In this room are the two great sarcophagi, supposed to have contained, one the ashes of Helena, the mother of Constantine, the other those of his sister. As they are now, they have not the appearance of productions of the same age. Perhaps this may arise from modern restorations; but they both agree in this, that they are rather monuments of labour and expense, than of taste and skill.

A double flight of steps conducts us to a vestibule, whence we enter the beautiful little circular room of the Biga, so denominated from an ancient two horse car, executed in marble, and adorned with the most delicate ornamental sculpture. The whole of one horse and the limbs of the other are modern restorations, but the chariot itself is nearly entire. If an English coachmaker had it, he would certainly think the pole inserted the wrong way. The beautiful sculptures of this room I shall pass over in silence, as I have so many others.

Returning from the Biga room, we enter a long gallery, corresponding to that by which we entered the museum, but a story higher. This is divided into several parts, the Gallery of miscellaneous objects, the Gallery of candelabra, containing also a multitude of vases, some finely sculptured, others precious for the elegance of their forms, or the rarity and beauty of the marble of which they are composed. The last part is the geographical gallery, exhibiting a collection of maps painted on the walls; a fine idea, but one of the few things here, which could be better executed in modern times. After all this we arrive at the chambers hung with the tapestry from Raphael’s designs, through which I have already conducted you.

Of the Library of the Vatican every one has heard, and I believe it is not very difficult to obtain permission to make use of it, but I have hitherto been satisfied with seeing it. The principal room is 198 feet long, and 49 wide, but divided by a range of piers along the middle. The books are in cases entirely close, round the piers, and between the windows. These cases are placed on both sides, and are very low in proportion to the room, so that they look like chests, which is the name the Italians give to them. The arrangement of the architecture is neither beautiful nor suited to its purpose. Beyond this the library extends under the galleries of geography, and of the miscellaneous objects, that is for near a thousand feet, divided into several rooms; but the books are all closed, and you never feel as if you were in a library. Upwards of six hundred fictile vases are placed on the cabinets, but they are so lost in the space over which they are scattered, that we seem to have seen very few.

Since my former visit, a new hall has been added to this museum, which is usually distinguished by the name of Braccio Nuovo. It runs across the long court or garden, surrounded by the suite of apartments above described. The central division is covered by a velum; that is, by a cupola, the diameter of which is equal to the diagonal of the square on which it rises, and of which consequently the sides are cut away. I do not much admire it, but the panelling is badly managed. The other parts are covered with a continued vault, in which the light is admitted by square holes along the crown; this also displeases me. The cornice architravata is likewise a defect. The cornice represents, says Milizia, the edge of the roof, it is therefore absurd to shew it internally. True, echoed the Italian architects, we will therefore omit the frieze, and Milizia seems to have admitted the deduction. The parts also, though very beautiful, are too much ornamented. The object of the architect seems to have been a fine hall, ornamented with statues, but in a museum the statues ought to be the principal object, and the architecture subordinate to them. The room of the Biga is not free from this latter imputation.