uncommon and rare merits, as works of art, to justify their
compound multiplication by Italian Painters.
It seems to me, too, that the indiscriminate and determined
raptures in which some critics indulge, is incompatible with the
true appreciation of the really great and transcendent works. I
cannot imagine, for example, how the resolute champion of
undeserving pictures can soar to the amazing beauty of Titian’s
great picture of the Assumption of the Virgin at Venice; or how the
man who is truly affected by the sublimity of that exquisite
production, or who is truly sensible of the beauty of Tintoretto’s
great picture of the Assembly of the Blessed in the same place, can
discern in Michael Angelo’s Last Judgment, in the Sistine chapel,
any general idea, or one pervading thought, in harmony with the
stupendous subject. He who will contemplate Raphael’s masterpiece,
the Transfiguration, and will go away into another chamber of that
same Vatican, and contemplate another design of Raphael,
representing (in incredible caricature) the miraculous stopping of
a great fire by Leo the Fourth – and who will say that he admires
them both, as works of extraordinary genius – must, as I think, be
wanting in his powers of perception in one of the two instances,
and, probably, in the high and lofty one.
It is easy to suggest a doubt, but I have a great doubt whether,
sometimes, the rules of art are not too strictly observed, and
whether it is quite well or agreeable that we should know
beforehand, where this figure will be turning round, and where that
figure will be lying down, and where there will be drapery in
folds, and so forth. When I observe heads inferior to the subject,
in pictures of merit, in Italian galleries, I do not attach that
reproach to the Painter, for I have a suspicion that these great
men, who were, of necessity, very much in the hands of monks and
priests, painted monks and priests a great deal too often. I
frequently see, in pictures of real power, heads quite below the
story and the painter: and I invariably observe that those heads
are of the Convent stamp, and have their counterparts among the
Convent inmates of this hour; so, I have settled with myself that,
in such cases, the lameness was not with the painter, but with the
vanity and ignorance of certain of his employers, who would be
apostles – on canvas, at all events.
The exquisite grace and beauty of Canova’s statues; the wonderful
gravity and repose of many of the ancient works in sculpture, both
in the Capitol and the Vatican; and the strength and fire of many
others; are, in their different ways, beyond all reach of words.
They are especially impressive and delightful, after the works of
Bernini and his disciples, in which the churches of Rome, from St.
Peter’s downward, abound; and which are, I verily believe, the most
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detestable class of productions in the wide world. I would
infinitely rather (as mere works of art) look upon the three
deities of the Past, the Present, and the Future, in the Chinese
Collection, than upon the best of these breezy maniacs; whose every
fold of drapery is blown inside-out; whose smallest vein, or
artery, is as big as an ordinary forefinger; whose hair is like a
nest of lively snakes; and whose attitudes put all other
extravagance to shame. Insomuch that I do honestly believe, there
can be no place in the world, where such intolerable abortions,
begotten of the sculptor’s chisel, are to be found in such
profusion, as in Rome.
There is a fine collection of Egyptian antiquities, in the Vatican;
and the ceilings of the rooms in which they are arranged, are
painted to represent a starlight sky in the Desert. It may seem an
odd idea, but it is very effective. The grim, half-human monsters
from the temples, look more grim and monstrous underneath the deep
dark blue; it sheds a strange uncertain gloomy air on everything –
a mystery adapted to the objects; and you leave them, as you find
them, shrouded in a solemn night.