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ADAM 8r CHARLES BLACK, ED I N BU R.GH

PREFACE.

A few words are necessary by way of Preface to the
following Memoir. Its production has been a duty as well
as a labour of love. Hence it may be, some particulars of
trifling importance to the public may be found in these
pages. Such is very likely to be the case, where the writer
is nearly allied to the subject of his writing. Nevertheless,
if it be so in the present instance, the evil has crept in
through the double desire to give a lighter interest to the
narrative than it afforded, without some trivial auxiliaries,
and to preserve as much fact and circumstance as might be
found truly relating to the character of David Scott.
The Journal, Detached Thoughts, Maxims on Art,
Poetry, and "Notes on the Technical Peculiarities of
Pictures" — whatever portions indeed are from the pen ofthe
deceased himself, stand in no need of apology. The artist,
whose genius is simply imitative of the outward, or whose
power mainly lies in such imitation, has been again and
again found wanting by the philosopher and the literary
critic ; and although his works are those that give to pic-

IV PREFACE.
tures their popular and commercial value, a higher intellec
tual character is wanted to support the dignity of art and
of the artist. Only by large knowledge and a wise reflec
tion, bent to the lofty aim of representing vital humanity
and the soul of man through transitory nature and the drama
of history, can the painter be also the poet, and sustain his
place in the reverence of the world. He must be in himself
greater, not less than his works : his life and his labours
must be one. The following Memoir was written under
the conviction that such qualities belonged to David Scott,
and it is hoped that the unity, concentration, and power
attendant on such a nature, will somewhat distinguish it
among similar biographies, and recommend the book, in
spite of its faults of execution, to those who endeavour to
penetrate to the core of things, and value character by its
intrinsic worth.

Newoastlb-om-Tyne, January 1, 1850.

CONTENTS.

PART I.
Page
Letter 1. Preliminary  ... .... 3
„ 2. Parentage  9
„ 3. Anecdotes of Early Boyhood  18
„ 4. Early Youth at St. Leonard's  28
„ 5. The Young Painter  39

PART II.
Extracts from Journal, and Letters from Abroad, principally
relating to Residence in Rome — 1833-4  57
PART III.
Letter 6. Residence in Rome  179
„ 7. Some Success found at last  201
„ 8. Changes  220
„ 9. Writings on Art  228
„ 10. Detached Thoughts and Speculations ... . 244

PART IV.
Letter 11. Notices of Pictures continued .... . . 257
„ 12. Notes for Memory  288
„ 13. Poetry  301
„ 14. His Way of Life at the End  317
„ 15. The End— 5th March 1849  334

VI CONTENTS.

APPENDIX.
Page
Circumstances relating to David Scott's Pictures, after his
Decease  347
Rubens. — His Contemporaries, and Modern Painting — A
Fragment  35°
Notes on the Characteristics and Practical Methods of Works
of Art in Italy— Visited in 1832-3  364

ILLUSTRATIONS.
TitiV Portrait.
" Vignette — Adam and Eve.
f. 2.7 Specimen of R. Scott's Landscape Engraving.
PlSb "Family Discord."
7, 1" {Etching by D. Scott — Ancient Mariner.
/»,x6<fVasco ^e Gama encountering the Spirit of the Stormy Cape.
p/^Procession of Unknown Powers — one of his latest Designs,

PART I.

LETTER I. PRELIMINARY.
LETTER II. PROGENITORS.
LETTER III. ANECDOTES OF EARLY BOYHOOD.
LETTER IV. EARLY YOUTH AT ST. LEONARD'S.
LETTER V. THE YOUNG PAINTER.

LETTER I,

PRELIMINARY.

Oh,, thou Lombard shade 1
How dost thou stand in high abstracted mood,
Scarce moving with slow dignity thine eyes ;
It speaks no more, but lets us onward pass,
Eyeing us as a lion on his watch. II Purgatorio, vi.

My Dear Fmend — It has fallen to my lot to write the life
of David Scott. A strange, an almost wonderful thing it
seems to me to lay out the paper before me, to review the
past of his life, and my own in connection with his ; and to
commence my task. I can scarcely realize the truth, that
he is no more with us : it seems to hover over the mind
without alighting ; or as if the sky of many years had been
dark, and the northern aurora had thrust its spears- of light
across the heavens — the battle of imaginary giants — nothing
more. But he certainly was a reality in the flesh, and as cer
tainly is he so no more. That dominating and determined
spirit, with his firm mouth and great eye, will no more stand
among us; never more will his emphatic "No" place its
veto on this or on any other wOrk, great or small.
Not new or any way surprising is it, certainly, that the
sword should wear out the scabbard; that a mind living
much in relation to itself, and less in relation to senses— and
viewing the outer world, indeed, but as the symbol of the
inner, their region of contact being the sphere of art — should
gradually relax its hold, lose its sway over the functions pf
b 2

4 THE STUDIO
the body, and cease. Nor is it strange that a man invited
by nature to a certain intellectual exertion, unsought-for and
uncared-for by the age, called by his ambition to do great
deeds in that walk, should be baffled, and die, and that he
should appear to many to have been all his life trying to
make ropes of sand, while to others he was forging in adamant.
But to one who like me has lived near him through all his
years, constantly acted upon by him — over whom, indeed,
he constituted himself judge and arbiter — the change that
death works is a mighty mystery.
Often on entering, from the toils and commonplaces of
every-day, within the seclusion of his studio, and finding,
year after year, the size and number of his past labours
increasing, the plans and hopes of the future expanding,
regardless of the continued and pressing want of success in
most necessary matters, and knowing too well and too
nearly, the shoals and difficulties that environed him in con
sequence of that, I have been irresistibly led to ask myself,
" How will all this end ?." The tree-environed house, not
far removed from the busy world, but, somehow to the feel
ing, far as a thousand miles from the abodes of men, with
the old morose watch-dog at the corner without, and the
great branches all bending in the breezes, but neither whis
pering nor roaring in the highest . winds, was still more
sombre, silent, and dark within. The sky there appeared
always of leaden hue, and the birds in the hedges more
familiar than anywhere else. The studio you know well,
wide and high, damp and cold, clothed with pictures,
repudiating, alike in dimension and treatment, the ordi
nary uses of painting in England, as well as the notions
regarding it, current or fixed ; for we can do without art
altogether in England — (have done without it; perhaps
by excluding one kind of intellectual exertion, we may

AT EASTER DALRY. 5
have gone further into other particular walks,) — and when
it is added to the culture of any man, or body of men,
it is merely as an embellishment and pleasing luxury.
Here was Vasco de Gama and his horror-stricken crew
opposed by the Spirit of the lonely sea ; Discord, nearly as
expansive in size, with the strong first-born rising up against
the patriarch father ; the Dead Saints opening their eyes on
the miraculous darkness ofthe Crucifixion; Achilles, Orestes,
and Nimrod, the mighty hunter. Himself calm and silent,
never looking back, but still working out some new and lofty
thought, intent on the salvation of time, and on the accom
plishment of an idea, to be understood or not by the world,
pale yet strong, mild yet stern. Altogether, the man, his
works, and the scene wherein they were enacted, have
impressed me with the sense of ill, and the undefined but
painful fear that his tenure of life, dependant not on strength
of body, but on hope and endurance, was not long. Sitting
on that couch, with his shattered picture of Lady Macbeth
beside me, I well recollect the dreadful thought of the End
piercing in upon me. Doubtless there is a prophetic sense
in humanity, and I could almost believe that all that has
since passed was present to the inner sense then, and that
even the words I now write were then thought. Antagonism,
that makes martyrs of men, who, in other circumstances, are
vates and priests, had had its effect upon him. By me, on
the seat, lay the corpse of a butterfly, white and spotted,
like that naturalists call the Apollo, and far up, through the
open window, was the blue sky, through which small clouds
were ever passing. He has passed away too, and the blue
sky remains as before.
The fear has been confirmed ; the time has come; and
it remains for me to do what in me lies to give a picture of
the man, that both his memory and the world may be gainers.

6 FUTURE JUDGMENT.
I say the world, because a picture of the true life of any
man is of great value ; how much more that of one of the
most original and most powerful of minds. David Scott did
not, it is true, take a position at all equal to his rank among
the artists of the country — unfortunately, his appearances in
London were, some of 'them, his worst— but his worthiness
to be held as a great artist is not the less certain. We all
know how the Future eliminates the names of those that
play an important part in the Present. The benches of
bishops and judges are always full, and also the lists of
marshals and generals — these, indeed, times of inaction may
procreate most speedily. There must be always skilful
leeches and limners in the court as well as in the dissecting
room and atelier ; but the moth and the worm take posses
sion of all gowns and periwigs, and the naked souls of men
only stand before the tribunal of history, as Carlyle has
amply said. Doubtless the greater intellects generally find
their places in the scale of things social, and those who rule
are generally rulers by divine right, or by virtue of being
the best out of a bad total; neither is- there any justice in
saying of any man — Had he lived, what great things he
would have done ! Of David ScOtt we can say, What great
things he has done!
And now I must say once for all, that my. task, short or
long as it may turn out, must be performed exactly in the
way that appears to me expedient. The materials will be
used as if addressed to you alone, with no public in the
background. I can propose to myself no treatment to meet
any supposed proprieties, but merely note down whatever
may assist in working out the narrative of his career, rather
psychologically than circumstantially. This is the point of
view which alone can be taken with profit, and, fortunately,
his long and lonely evenings would appear to have been

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 7
devoted frequently to expressing his experiences. Often,
too, in his daily work, when a thought presented itself, he
would fix it in words ; notes and memoranda constantly
turning up among his letters and in his portfolios, as if he
had lightened labour by turning from sketching to writing.
Perhaps, too, of late he had begun to see that his life had
been a long one, though not by years, and would willingly
be his own exponent even in a biographical way. All these
diaries and notes that he guarded from alien eyes, secretive
and sensitive as he was, living so much apart, now lie before
me. Meditations and confessions of a truthful man, written
in his own closet, are, however, sacred things ; some of them
cannot be used; the whole of them are too rough for literal
transcript. At first sight, these note-books and scraps of written
paper appeared altogether hopeless. Sometimes illegible,
except a few words written at a later time, " This to be pre
served," or so hurriedly written that the meaning was never
very clear ; parts omitted or erased ; at other times several
pieces to be joined together before the few sentences could
be made out, which, after all, might be good for nothing.
The difficulty was increased by his habit of destroying
nothing. School exercises, and boyish drawings, letters,
notes, papers relating to the Royal Scottish Academy, and
other affairs, newspapers, sketches, the same subject in a
dozen different stages and degrees of making-out, were all
huddled together. After examination, however, the most of
these I found to refer to the poem which was the favourite
recreation of the last three years of his life — for even his
recreation was labour — and other subjects, which can be
little touched in the following pages. The remainder, or
such portions of them as are desirable, will be introduced in
their appropriate places.

8 SCOTTISH YEOMEN.
So then, my dear Friend, I shall begin with confidence
in my next letter, giving you some preliminary family his
tory, before the boy makes his appearance, such as may
shew you what kind of stock he sprung from. It is to be
hoped that you will think none the worse of it, that it traces
no descent, nor receives any collateral embellishment from
any record to be found in the Herald's College, being wholly
of a stout Scottish yeoman sort, who could and did fight for
conscience' sake, and who lived, from father to son, in the
same bigging, and by the same craft, for a century before
our first document affords us a veritable glimpse of them.

LETTER II.
PARENTAGE.
Siche salutations and countenances^
Passen as doth a shadow upon a wall.
Chaucer. Shiftman's Tata.
" Robert Scott and Grizell Meikle were married at
Douglas in the year 1764, December 31, by Mr. Millar of
Crawfordjohn." Such is the entry relating to David Scott's
grandparents in the family Bible, a venerable volume in
some eyes, though not very handsome, in rusty black leather,
enveloped by a bag of green cloth, coarse as the stuff worn
by the old Scottish beadsmen. Mark that the marriage
took place on the last day of the year ; then, as now, the
eve of the merriest day in the Scottish calendar. Whether
or not the marriage party made this Hogmanay and New-
year's Day merrier than usual, it is now hazardous to say ;
the bridegroom being no boy, but an elder in the kirk, and
besides, he had seen his father to the grave but a few years
before. More probably they set out, she riding on the pil
lion behind, for the ancient town of Lanark, and the bride
was that same evening inducted into her new house with
shaking of hands and God's blessing.
This new house is found commemorated in various pieces
of parchment. The first of these, still extant, is a contract of
marriage of the generation previous, being that ofthe great-

10 ANCESTRY.
grandfather of David Scott. This document, dated 1 733, sets
forth that George Scott, glover and burgess of Lanark, being
married unto Jean Hunter, daughter of Robert Hunter,
merchant-burgess of that burgh, " Infefts and seases his
affidate spouse in the liferent of all and haill that tenement of
houses, high and laigh, back and fore, with the piece of
ground at the back thereof, lying within the burgh of Lanark,
in the way thereof called Bloomgate, on the north side
thereof; bounded on the north by, the close called Limpet-
law's Closs," &c, and the half of his other heritable and
moveable property. The marriage portion of Jean' Hunter
is stated to have been four hundred merks Scots money —
not a sum requiring many defences from the law one would
think. This document is accompanied ' by an instirumentwm
sasince in favour of Jeanie Hunter, and followed next year,
1734, by the discharge of a penalty specified in the last,
from Jeanie to her husband, wherein she declares, " that
being sensible of the love and tender affection the said
George has had, and still has, towards me since our said
marriage; in remuneration whereof, and for the love and
favor which' I have and doe bear towards him, will ye me
to have exonered, quitt, claimed, and simplie discharged."
This great-grandfather George was, moreover, a burgess
of Glasgow, his admission into the :" freedom " of that city
being yet in a high state of . preservation, with its little
coloured border of flowers and shells, wherein he is styled
"skinner and.conveener of Lanark." A brave man, too,
was he in family tradition, and. did wonders in the notable
year — '45. But we must leave the anecdote for the pre
sent, and return to the son Robert, and his bride Grizell
Meikle, who has taken possession of her new house in the
Bloomgate of Lanark.

ANCESTRY. 1 1
There the skinner, or glover, or saddler trade — for he
appears to have followed either or all of them — does not
seem to thrive, although the family increases. Men-children
are born to .them — first, George, who lived to a good old
age, wondering at all the big pictures that his young nephew
David, as yet in the future, painted. Then John ; next two
Roberts, in successive years, the first being dead before the
second was born.; this second " Robert, born at Lanark," as
legibly. entered in the. trusty. Family Bible, "upon the 13th
November 177/7, at three of tha clock, afternoon, and bap- I
tized by Mr. Gray upon the 18th," being the father of David
Scott. The skinner trade did not seem to thrive, or somehow
was not satisfactory. Grizell's property, as specified in the
" marriage-contract," which is also preserved for ever in the
archives ofthe family, consisting of " cows, horse, nolt, and
sheep, plenishing and furnishing,'' had not, we fear, been
laid to good account. The tenement, high and laigh, and
other property, was sold a few years later than the birth of
this last Robert, and thereafter we find the family moveable —
sometimes here, sometimes there, living a somewhat nomadic
life, like the sons of Ishmael — the head of the tribe having
entered the service of the Excise, in which he continued till
his death. At Musselburgh, they rested for a considerable
time, where the sons attended the Grammar School, and, as
was the habit of those days, added the embellishment of
coek-fighting to their other studies. At. a certain season of
the year, Michaelmas we believe, every boy brought a game
cock, and a grand series of battles was fought under the
direction of the dominie, and proper assistants — the winners
being rewarded by the prize of a Bible! The eldest son
George was here successful ; let who might be dux or boobie
on the form, he was king of the walk, and his love for ani-

12 ROBERT SCOTT
mals and field-sports never abated, even at threescore and
ten. Robert, on the contrary, was supposed to be clever with
his pen, and copied finely the engravings of Hogarth. He
must be an artist of some kind — a landscape painter if pos
sible; but scarcely were there any professional artists in
Edinburgh at the time, and his talent was not genius, to
fight its own way. An opening of another kind presented
itself. The Scots Magazine, rising at that day, was con
sidered an amazing production, combining art with literature,
as it gave a view of Kilchurn, or Dunnottar, or Merchiston,
or some other castle, ancient or modern, in each number.
These were drawn by Mr. Clerk of Eldin, or by any one
who could be got to furnish them, artist or amateur, and
engraved by Alexander Robertson, a deft hand at the etching
of trees, and so great a musician, withal, that he was ap
pointed ringer of the musical bells of St. Giles. These
prints were indeed quite as good as the literature of the
magazine, judging both of them, of course, by the standard
of the time. Engraving seemed to suit the boy who dfew
best with his pen; and, as a master in painting was not
to be found, he was articled for five years to Robertson in
1787. These years he has been heard to describe with more
humour than he usually shewed. In thinking of his youth,
a man forgets the troubles of his age. Robertson's engrav
ing room had but one window, so the pupil had to take that
of the passage, except when the hour of One approached,
when the master laid down his graver, resigned his seat
and his copperplate to the apprentice, and hurried off to St.
Giles' steeple, to enliven the lieges with "Hey, Johnny
Cope," " The Banin' o' the Door," or some other old Scot
tish air, from that exalted and airy region. This musical
avocation may be supposed to have been of no advantage to

THE ENGRAVER. 13
the boy, or rather stripling, seeing he now measured six
feet. Such a public appearance, especially in that high
latitude, naturally induced a visit to Johnny Dowie's Tavern,
or other well known place of resort for public men and poets,
such as Robert Burns and Alexander Robertson ! So the
pupil did pretty much as he liked till the evening came,
when he set out with his paper, and the red chalk then in
use, to the Trustees' Academy, that earliest of British Schools
of Design, or of Fine Art either. This national institution
was then humble enough in its collections of casts and ex
amples, but it had David Allan as its master, a worthy
predecessor to his namesake Sir William, who may be con
sidered as the last of the Csesars, as after the short reign
of Thomas Duncan, the office has been split and distributed
into several hands, and in a few years the Schools of the
Royal Scottish Academy will occupy the important place in
the history of native artists, which the Antique School of
the Trustees formerly filled so well.
And now a few words on the maternal side of the house.
Perhaps many people yet living in Edinburgh may recollect
a marble yard near the Abbey Hill. The exact spot we
cannot now describe, but it was distinguished far and near
by various figures carved in stone, standing within the rail
ing in front of the. house, exhibiting in their mutilation un
deniable proof of the propensity to attack and destroy works
of art, considered until lately as a feature in the national
character. The principal of these figures, was one of a
peasant carrying a sheep ; another was a fiddler with his in
strument in his .hand. These were the work of Alexander
Gowan, and' as far as we are aware, may have represented
the Scottish art of sculpture at that time. He had been in
the studio of Roubilliac, and piqued himself on his past ac
quaintance with English artists, and the science of expres-

14 ROSS BELL AND
sion, exclaiming, " Oh, for Hogarth !" when any droll ex
hibition of character took place. His own powers, indeed,
stood considerably in want of assistance, either from Hogarth,
or some lesser man. But his son aspired more highly, and
did better. He ventured on a statue of Shakspeare, and
executed a bust of Dr. Cullen, which may still be seen
honourably preserved in the library of the College.
In the house of this redoubtable sculptor and his rising
sons, lived two wards, his nieces Isabel and Ross Bell,
daughters of a relative in Musselburgh, lately deceased. The
young engraver had first known them in Musselburgh, and
now having distinguished himself by a series of " Views
round Edinburgh," plates in Dr. Anderson's "Bee," and
other productions worthy, or perhaps more than worthy of
the state of the arts at the time, and meeting them as they
came up to town on their little errands, or returned home
ward through the Canongate — their arms bare from the
shoulder to the long glove, and their hair, according to the
then prevailing fashion, combed out all over the back, as the
writer has heard described — came soon to.be received by the
elder of the two sisters, Ross, as her future husband. How
the guardian made light of his claims, and refused his con
sent, it is not necessary to relate. All that we require to
say is, that they were married in the year 1800, and resided
in the Parliament Stairs, higher than the roof of St. Giles'
Church, on which the deep windows looked down.
Here the first five children were born, all sons. The
fifth7 our hero David Scott, on the 10th or 12th October
1806. The first is probably the correct date, but his parents
were both of them too indifferent about certain specialities
to note the time exactly, and it is certain no register was
made. A year after his birth, he was their only surviving

ROBERT SCOTT'S HOUSEHOLD. 15
child, the others having been cut off with but a few days
interval between each, and the youngest preserved, as it
seemed, by a miracle.
It has been said, that neither father nor mother ever re
covered themselves ; that there and then a depression and
melancholy settled down upon them, darkening into religious
gloom at times, and scarcely ever clearing off. Misfortune
has a profound effect on the Scottish character : a grief is
nursed, and its memory kept alive as a duty : we live as
much in a mourning as in a religious tone of mind, have
not much hopefulness, and are consequently inveterately
prudent. But not only were their children taken from them ;
other members of the family either preceded or followed.
The time was come for George Scott and Grizell Meikle, of
whom we heard before, but out of their four sons, Lockhart
and John died also, and the maternal sister. John had gone
out to the West Indies as supercargo, was taken prisoner by
the French, and ultimately died of the fever in Jamaica.
Lockhart, the youngest of the family, who survived several
years after the birth of David Scott, died suddenly, it was
supposed by the effect of a blow from a stone. He was a
man of Herculean frame, and considerably above six feet
high, being taller than Robert ; is reported in fabulous family
history to have killed a watch-dog by a blow from his fist,
and was better at fencing and boxing than any thing else
we can hear of. My father and he both entered a volunteer
corps. This very likely was general enough at the time
when French invasion was the public fear; and my father
being short-sighted, took the long spear instead of the mus
ket, and enrolled himself as a pikeman. A formidable length
of staff had this pike ; and well does the writer recollect the
red coats with blue cuffs lying moth-eaten in a lumber room,
having been chidden for appearing in his father's presence

16 FAMILY SORROWS AND
with one of them on, or rather over him. Lockhart was an
ensign in the army at the time of his death.
The young family and the old having thus disappeared
— one of them suddenly, and together— death continually
knocking at the door, may truly have left his mark on the
hearts and foreheads of the survivors for ever. It is certain
that a smile was a rare thing within the threshold, and silence
was enjoined as an act of wisdom. The appearance of other
children, although it replenished the household, never sup
plied the places of the old, and our mother would constantly,
in calling us to her, address us by the names of those gone
long ago. We were in her presence, but they were in her
heart. She would indeed take a little time to recollect what
were our special names. We were a second family to her.
David being all that remained of the first, his name she
never forgot, while his father cared more for him than for
all the others. Gravity, however, must have been constitu
tional and proper to both, as anecdotes relating to the early
life of these respected elders go a good way to prove. At the
time now spoken of, sedateness was the first of virtues in
the maternal judgment, or rather merriment was but another
name for folly, and humility was inculcated with much more
Christian than worldly wisdom.
This home-gloom, which, if need be for the elucidation
of the moral nature of David Scott, must find further illus
tration elsewhere, was, we are then to suppose, confirmed —
not inspired. The bereavements led to two very different
results : — the one direct, being the removal of the family
out of town ; the other was an increased observance of reli
gious forms, and a consideration of theological truths. In
Scotland, every good man is a religious man ; it may al
most be said every conscientious man has a theological bias.
Religion is not a mystery, of necessity beyond as well as

FAMILY MOVEMENTS. 17
within nature ; it is considered as a legitimate subject for
the understanding ; and the man who is clearest and nar
rowest on the subject, is he who is supposed to be most
spiritual. In the present instance, the investigation of minor
points of faith took precedence, which it is very apt to do,
and ended in a separation from the Established Kirk, and
an adherence to the fellowship of the Baptists. This move
ment on the part of the parents was an eventful one to the
children. Obedience and conformity is of course demanded
from the young ; the shoe must fit all the feet beneath the
rooftree, which is not easily accomplished, seeing the father
has chosen it by his own measure. The domestic evils en
tailed by peculiarities of dogma, are nearly the only ones
that time does not cure; they increase as old age creeps
upon the elders, while the young, are arriving at freedom
and maturity. Nor are they confined to the present ; but,
stretching beyond the grave, make a dreaded eternity of
separation. The removal out of town, after a brief sojourn elsewhere,
settled in a house at St. Leonard's, something of a well
hedged country house at the time, although in the middle of
a coal-dep6t now, and rendered contemptible by tall neigh
bours. In this house, which was called in the lease Hermits
and Termits, David Scott grew to manhood, and more than
that — till he was nearly twenty-three. It may therefore be
considered the home of his growth or time of advance — the
home of his proper life being Easter Dairy, where he died.

LETTER III.

EARLY boyhood.
Who is able to spea,k worthily of the fulness of childhood ? If children grew up according
to early indications, we should have nothing but geniuses. DicJitung and Wahrheit.
After looking about for a motto, this is the best we
can find, and it is only partly true. In one point of view,
indeed, it is wholly false. Undoubtedly children are wiser
than we take them for. Even youth is little more than a
recipient, although then the mould is beginning to harden
and to impress its form on the matter received. The wide
open eyes of children are continually observing, and their
ears catching tones and thoughts. They give nothing back:
they do not tell what they have learned either by word or
sign, and we know not that they have received much,
nearly all indeed that is essential, and are still receiving
and building. Their impressions resemble intuitions, and
are permanent, even for ever. The substratum of life is
kid in the dark, while the creature is yet comparatively
dumb. When the voice with its modulated language
comes, it only shews us the Ego that the wonderful years of
infancy had with difficulty and terror elaborated from the
contact of the outward with the infinite spirit within.
All this is indeed plain enough, like the face of a church
clock. The mother is the Nemesis of the child. She is

EARLY IDIOSYNCRASY. 19
more with it, andlaelieves in it earlier than the father does, or
the world. This is generally the case, but in David Scott's
early life, his father was his ruling genius. To his father
he always flew, appealed to him, and was instructed by
him. Regarding his childhood, we find some scraps of writing
by himself. He always strove to retain his past nature,
not to pass onward, but to add to his identity, and remain
the same. Or rather we should not say he strove to do
this, but that it was natural to him; whatever he had
thought or felt at any given time of his life, however
unshapen, seemed as important to him as the most perfect
of his intellections. In this as in other things, one of our
reigning ideas, that of progress, was ignored by him. Thus
the trouble he took to preserve the forms of early recol
lections in his mind, extended to collecting the remains
of objects connected with that period of his hfe. The
notes to which we refer are inscribed — " Fragments of my
Past, in circumstances, thoughts, and endeavours." A
very few of them are fit for use, and one or two may be
inserted here.
" Both my grandfathers were Roberts, both grand
mothers Grizells. Probably this was a prior manifestation
of what my mind has a tendency towards — equibalance,
unity, simplicity." (Somewhat mystical this ; perhaps, as
Shakspeare has it — " To consider so is to consider too
curiously.") " Anecdote remembered by David Scott's father. — That
being committed to the care of a gardener for transportation
to a country lodging, he feared he would never be brought
back, and on the gardener assuring him he would himself
take him back again, the child warned the man on the Ten
Commandments, that if he did not perform his promise he
c2

20 ANECDOTES AND
would be guilty of a He. The gardener wished forthwith to
return him out of hand."
" Another anecdote. — He went into a company as
sembled in the principal room of the house, and making his
way up to a young lady, laid his hands on her knees, and
said ' you are very beautiful.' " There are more things in
the world than there are faces among women to which he
could now look up and say the same.
" School books. — Recollect first opening this ' Angus
Grammar,' a vast gulf of vowels and consonants, nouns
and verbs, to grope in : But at the end, some scraps of
poetry to illustrate rhythm and measure ; even these were
tortured by dactyle and spondee. This ' Beauties of English '
yet holds some affection. This ' Catechism' was always
disagreeable — how it pressed theological pedantry on young
eyes till they were stupified ! This ' History ' and ' Geo
graphy ' were good, the latter most prized for its notes on
Astronomy, which were read with unction and a glow that
made old Master Cooper select them for specimens of my
elocution." " Then the Latin set after an interval of years. These
books, with a short version from Ovid, and another from
Virgil, are all that remain of the work of another period of
travail in Gray's class ofthe old High School."
" Of my first visit to the Manse of Kippen, the only
circumstance retained in the memory is, that I first saw and
read the Lady of the Lake in the cabin ofthe steamer."
" March 1821. A large Eye so dated. The first
drawing done at the Trustees' Academy, then under Andrew
Wilson, and held in Picardy Place. Some of the examples
there set before me seemed like old friends to be loved •
others, the dry scientific modern foreign pieces, were a burden
even to look at, how much more so to copy."

CHARACTERISTICS. 21
"1822. Scraps of earliest original designs. In January
the Murder of Rizzio, and in November a kind of goblin
combat. The first shews some perception of the require
ments of grouping, the other some imaginative or selected
form." Perhaps the first attempts at original design were
suggested by the illustrations to Cooke's edition of the
British Poets, Novelists, and Essayists — a complete set of
proofs of these in ten or twelve volumes being his daily
companion. But before going farther, such anecdotes as the writer
himself remembers current in the family may be set down.
Ghost stories were the exciting amusement of the nursery,
and not one of the children ever could go up stairs in the
dark. David, to frighten the others, secretly set to work to
make a great ghost of a bolster, a sheet, and a mask. But
no sooner had he got it into an erect posture, than the house
was alarmed from garret to kitchen by his screams, and on
following the sound, the artificer of the ghost was discovered
terror-stricken by his own hand-work. The scene of this
misadventure was an upper bed-room that had a window
forming a recess in the fall of the roof. At this time the
first or among the first Annual Exhibitions was held in
Edinburgh, and David was taken to see it. On his return,
he enclosed this recess by a curtain, and covering the side
walls with prints — of which there was in truth no lack lying
about without paying to see them — illustrations to books of
travels, histories of the war, and such like, his younger
brother Robert and others were admitted on paying a penny.
But it may be feared, since he has not noted this last
anecdote, he thought it unworthy of record. Both are
however sufficiently prophetical of the future man.
As to his Latin tasks, they were never easy to him.
He took only one prize at the High School ; he tried his

22 PARLIAMENT CLOSE.
best, too ; but what principally tormented him was, the
humiliation of being beaten by other boys who had private
tutors. Some years afterwards he renewed his classics,
going a little way into Greek by himself, when the advan
tage of the acquirement became apparent to him. His
father's book-keeper, a good old man, who had been a
schoolmaster, construed for him, and assisted him, and for
this purpose his first daily visits to the engraving work
rooms, still in the " Parliament Stairs," were paid. This
workshop deserves some especial notice.
One ofthe highest " lands" in the old town of Edinburgh
was that immediately opposite the west side ofthe Parliament
House, burnt down,, with many others, in the great fire some
twenty-five years ago. On one side ofthe entrance to the wide
stone stair, was the shop of a peruquier — a worthy man of a
past fashion, with buckles at his knees, and white stockings ;
and in his window was disposed a row of wise heads, made
of white wood, indeed, but not to be gainsaid on that
account, being surmounted by the wigs of advocates and
judges. At the back of the land, which descended three
flights, each with a range of tenants, down the ridge on
which the High Street is built, were wine vaults, occupied
sometime by a Brougham : the remnant of the stock may,
perhaps, yet remain in the more private bins of his illustrious
brother. But tp return to the front — it displayed seven tiers
of windows, the two uppermost being the engraving and
printing premises in question. At an earlier period of their
history, these lines of smoky wainscotted apartments must
have been inhabited by functionaries of the Court of Session.
Various top closets, under the beams and slates, in rooms
filled with lumber, and tattered transparencies of Justice and
Britannia, and approached by passages apparently inter
minable, only illuminated by two round holes, like eyes, in

PARLIAMENT CLOSE. 23
each door, were filled with law-papers. These parchments,
all carefully folded and tied, were ranged in shelves divided
into boles, with their labels hanging out, just as they had
been left many years before; and being at the mercy of
David Scott and his brothers, when the keys could be got,
the seals and blue stamps were eagerly sought after and car
ried off in triumph. Even coloured coats of arms were to
be found, but these were rare and much prized, like the
larger acquisitions — new plants and animals, in voyages of
discovery. So much for the palmy youth of the place. These
explorings among the dusty parchments were like re
searches into ancient history — much more, indeed ; for
here were real remains of the past to be made actual pro
perty. But the work actually going on there in those dege
nerate days had as much interest to the young visitor
aspiring to be an artist. There were portraits, landscapes,
and Bible prints, hanging in long fines overhead to dry;
presses constantly going round and round, manufacturing
more ; and engravers sitting etching, cutting, and drawing.
These engravers themselves were somewhat curiously dis
posed. The number of windows being less than the nun>
ber of occupants required, a work-table running along the
windows, midway up, supported by strong brackets, had
been invented, and chairs raised on legs nearly six feet
high, were adapted to the table, so that each window accom
modated two tenants, one below, and one aloft.
There were, besides, pictures and busts about the walls,
nearly as dingy as themselves. The battles of Alexander,
by Le Bran, were a never-failing source of attraction, and
some prints from Morland, beside them, were visited with
infinite contempt in the comparison. Among the casts were
some groups that we have never seen since ; one of Samson

24 ROBERT SCOTT'S
slaying. the Philistines, was particularly admired, and Her
cules subduing Cacus, probably from the group by Bandi-
nelli at Florence. Homer was there, from the marble then
recently added to the British Museum ; and William Pitt,
the " heaven-born minister."
Upon the whole, the pilgrimage up that high and thickly
peopled stair was not without its reward ; and it seems to
the writer as if he were rather describing some recess of a
guild in Nuremburg than a locality of yesterday at home.
So does the memory consecrate common things ; time and
imagination endow the heads of vulgar mortals with a halo
of glory, or an invulnerable helmet.
The general produce of this manufactory, it may be
readily admitted, was not of a very high order; nor was
there any thing done in Edinburgh of any consequence in
the "art of engraving till the present day. As a trade only
it was followed, and in that way even it was by no means
very extensive. The best productions were just such things
as the then publishing trade demanded; and an English
publisher, Moseley of Gainsborough, furnished this workshop
with its best employment for some years. There was also
work of a humbler kind undertaken, to fill up the time of
the pupils, or to afford them improvement. One set of plates
of this last sort, which, however, belongs to a time before
the visits of David Scott began, recalls to mind an anecdote
of Campbell. The first pupil received by Robert Scott was William
Douglas, now dead, after practising successfully and well
as a miniature painter ; the second was F. Rudolph Hay,
who was, after a short practice in London, drafted out of
the ranks by the windfalls of fortune ; next John Burnet,
so well known in connexion with Wilkie, as his engraver,
and much more so by his writings and etchings, elucidating

ESTABLISHMENT. 25
the practice of painting; and. Thomas Brown, who left
engraving on receiving a captain's commission, now known
by his writings on Natural History. After these came
James Stewart, the engraver of some of Wilkie's and Sir
William Allan's pictures, now at the Cape of Good Hope —
a sheep-farmer and a magistrate — with several others, now
dead or invisible ; the last of the group being John Hors-
bnrgh, well esteemed in Edinburgh. The variety of the
future pursuits of all these is somewhat surprising ; but
engraving was at that time looked upon as one of the fine
arts to a much greater extent than it now is, and only young
men of talent were considered fitted for it, while the educa
tion gained in the establishment we speak of, was of a much
more general and liberal kind than, in these days of hurry
and division of labour, is likely to be found in similar
quarters. Some of these pupils — the earlier among them — had
employed their inexperienced hands on a series of animals,
popular Natural History having just then received an impe
tus by the. appearance of Bewick's first volumes, which made
a great impression by the fidelity of delineation, as well as
by the truth and humour of the tail-pieces. This series of
plates was to be published, and Mr. Scott applied to his
friend Thomas Campbell, then a student in Edinburgh,
who had wished him to join in the publication of the
" Pleasures of Hope " in its early form — that young pro
duction that haunted its author till the day of his death.
Campbell undertook to write descriptions of birds, beasts,
and fishes ; but the manuscript was slow in making its
appearance. After repeated applications, the engraver be^
came tired of waiting, and going up to Campbell's lodgings
one evening, without finding him at home, collected the
books he had sent for the task, in order to place them in

26 THOMAS CAMPBELL.
other hands. One of these, " Bewick's Birds," was found
in a sadly dilapidated state — several leaves torn half away
from the end. The landlady was called in and questioned,
her children being suspected ; but these she quickly exone
rated, by exclaiming, " Oh, that's the book Mr. Camel lichts
his candle wi' when he comes hame at nicht ! " This pater
nal anecdote, which, by the way, shews a strange disrespect
for books in a literary man, used to be concluded by the
detail of a lively conversation on the subject between them,
wherein Campbell denied the fact, by saying his landlady
could not be a cat to see in the dark, at least he had never
seen her transformed, perhaps for want of the opportunity
afforded in the fable.
We might, without travelling very far out of our brief,
relate some stories of Lord Buchan and others,* men of the
hour, and of infinite importance to themselves, but anecdotes
of his Lordship are common enough, and such here might
seem forgetful of the graver task in hand.
You can however have a specimen of the engraving of
the father of David Scott, an illustration to Gray's Elegy
having fallen in our way. It is not the best that could be
desired, but shews a truth and detail, an attention to foliage
and plants, for which he had much credit. Engraving
admits of, and even its genius properly demands, great
minutiae of detail, the loss of which in these days has done
it no good, although, on the other hand, it has gained much
general effect by imitating the breadth of painting. Book
illustration was formerly confided to the engraver at once ;
the elder men, as Grignon and others, were amply qualified
to design ; but in cases where the engraver could not do
* About six years ago a remembrance of these times occurred in the shape of
a legacy of £100 left by the widow of the editor of " The Bee " to Mrs. Scott, in
return for certain kind offices she had at a former time received.

BOOK ILLUSTRATION. 27
so, the drawing and designing — that small preliminary
matter — he had to get accomplished as he could. In this
state of things, Mr. Burnet and his brother James, com
memorated by Allan Cunningham, were all-important;
when they betook themselves to London, Mr. George
Saunders and others made the sketches ; booksellers were
then beginning to see that the painter and the engraver were
wide apart.

LETTER IV.
EARLY YOUTH AT ST. LEONARD'S.

Upon the shadows of the morning clouds,
Athwart the purple mountain slope, was written —
" Follow, oh follow ! " Prometheus Unbound.

You know these pages are written as if for you alone ;
they may therefore deal somewhat in a confidential manner
with the subjects described, and may give a faithful picture
of the household at Hermits and Termits — a name possibly
corrupted from Hermit St. Tennis, if there ever was such
a saint either in Scotland or the Thebaid.
The dwelling stood alone among hedges of holly and
high trees of alder. Between it and the road was a row
of lime-trees, once high, then pollard, and next swept away
by the widening of the highway. Over the door, which
had a wooden hatch, was a tablet of stone bearing an
eagle issuing out of a coronet, with the date 1734. The
road to the entrance was causewayed with round stones,
and immediately facing the door was the wicket into the
garden, overshadowed by a great arch of evergreens. So
lonely was the place then, that more than once in the
dark winter nights, when the wind was in the trees, and
the men of the family not yet returned home, it was visited
by sturdy beggars. A visitation of this kind is yet fresh
in the recollection of one of the boys. A great woman,
with a stick in her hand, dressed in a cloak and hood,

UNCLE GEORGE. 29
entered the little parlour, and would not stir till she had
meat and money.
There lived in this small house with a long name,
domiciled with the paternal pair, old uncle George, the
happiest and best natured of men, whose little means
enabled him to keep a set of half wild pointers and setters
in the ample stables adjoining, and a flight of pigeons
in the hayloft, converted into a dovecot — well contented
that he could enjoy the shooting season among the ancient
family localities about Lanark, whither he annually re
sorted to live with the laird of Waygateshaw, his distant
relative. Besides this and his dogs, he had scarcely any
wants. The family consisted of four — David Scott, the
eldest son, our hero; Robert, two years his junior; another
brother nearly four years shorter again, and the youngest
child, a sister, Helen. This sister, the much beloved, you
must ever keep in mind, as the best adornment of the
tabernacle — lent of God till the brothers should grow up
to be men.
Many were the enjoyments out of doors with rabbits,
dogs, and pigeons — Arthur's Seat and Duddingston at
hand; within there were fewer. His father began to
break down in health; he rose late, had a horse that no
one was to touch, on which he rode for an hour; took
all his meals alone, with Buchan, and other guides of a
like stamp, by his elbow, and the doctor anxiously waited
for. If any young voice was heard singing or whistling —
which young voices will do — it was instantly hushed when
the step was heard upon the stair. David, however, never
whistled or sang ; he was always the sympathiser, which
confirmed him in the affection of the father ; he was, more
over, the autocrat of the family. A true icon of the man
at this stage of development would not be altogether favour-

30 HOME.
able. Perhaps the youngers should have been content to
obey. This, at all events, is certain — in the most of places,
and with older people, the stronger rules either by might
or right. In the long winter evenings, his father sat at
one table arranging his affairs of business, and the children
at another, incessantly occupied in drawing, David having
set the example. Here the light and the box of water-
colours was at his command alone, not to be touched, under
instant and grievous penalties. A small windowless room
was set apart for the library. Of this he kept the key,
and admitted the others as candle-bearers only. In this
accidental collection of books and prints were some scrap-
books, collections of portraits, and others, such as Blake's
Illustrations to the Grave, and a large work on Emblematical
Figures, drawn by Hamilton and others, that made a lasting
impression. In these evenings, while the mother of the family sat at
her needlework, with the little daughter by her side, on the
other side of the fire old uncle George might be seen mend
ing his dog-whips, or making with much care pop-guns and
whistles for the boys out of young stems of the elder tree,
by extracting the pith from their hollow tubes. David must
be imagined .steadily employed at his Latin or drawing."
The subjects of his designs from the very first rude
attempts, were such as he would have chosen even at the end
of his life. Paradise Lost, Macbeth, and Scottish and Greek
History afforded the authorities. The .same impulsion and
the same aim is apparent throughout the entire path of his
career. As we come down to 1825, his nineteenth year,
-the supernatural has a larger influence. This resulted in
some measure from his thoughts being then much bent on
religious matters. About that age creeds must be believed in
or abandoned ; they must be reconciled to life, and become

YOUNG PERPLEXITIES. 31
its law, or resigned, and become a portion only of transcen
dental metaphysics ; the inquiring doubter being sometimes
lost in the slough of denial — " the everlasting No" hems
him within its iron barrier, and the soul is shut out of
Paradise. On Sunday evenings sermons, and catechisms
were the only reading ; David introduced Dwigbt's
" Theology," arid other books of a similar sort. This
mental struggle went on for years, and at last appeared
in the problematic form of his " Monograms of Man."
These of course were not produced at this early time, and are
associated with firmer resolves, deeper insight, and attained
artistic powers. Other sketches of a metaphysical nature
were done before these ; they were the last of the cycle.
Many of his memorandums relate to this time with
more or less clearness or perception of partial truths to
be afterwards seized, but then dim and distant. One little
note-book is headed by these mottoes,
" Jupiter est quodcunque vides quodcunque movetur."
" Untroubled look upon the face of God."
and are impressed with a daring spirit deeply troubled and
sad. And why sad? I have alluded to the sombre atmos
phere of home — to the tyranny of disease over the head
of the family and its youngest branch. Another, and a
deeper wound still in its effects, was then inflicted — an
evil of a more vulgar kind — resources totally crippled;
almost, as it appeared, entirely ruined. The effect of this
shock on all and on every thing is not now to be described,
nor even thought of. The light of the hearth was dark
ened — day and the sun were gone for ever. It seemed
as if the family was thenoeforth doomed to be parias.
Constitutionally with much pride and little hopefulness,

32 ANIMAL SPIRITS.
and, if it may be said without filial irreverence,, with less
trust in Providence, many years drifted on with little varia
tion and relief.
Moreover his physical strength and animal spirits, as
the phrase, is, were very limited : death was never an appa
rent impossibility to him, as it is to the most of young
minds. Bearing the date of November 1827, those signi
ficant lines are still visible in his scrap-book : —
This quickly must be past, this struggle cease,
And in the cold clay quiet I shall lie,
Where anxious Care corrodes no aching breast.
I've only lived to feel, and then to die :
To die, and sink away from the bright sun,
To die, and fall from off the cheerful earth,
To die without the race of glory run,
To die while yet exulting in the birth
Of Hope and Joy ! Can this be ? Yes ! I feel
Death clasp me round, like a great hand of steel.
As it has been well said in the North British Review* —
" It was his nature to be sad. Of a feeble constitution,
and conscious of the capabilities of art, he could not be
otherwise. He was delicate of build and solitary of soul
from the earliest time. Carefulness about his future destiny
oppressed him- from the first. Long before any real or
supposed neglect by the public, or. misunderstanding of
his very aims by the press, or disappointment in friend
ship and in love, had vainly endeavoured to chill his spirit,
he was the victim of care and apprehension. Years before
he would have dared exclaim with Coreggio — I too am a
painter, he had muttered, in the solitude of his diary-^-
From off my brow, oh raise thy chilling hand
Anxiety, slow digger ofthe tomb."
Besides these evils there were thwarting circumstances
* May 1849 ; Edinburgh.

UNCLE GEORGE. 33
that made the battle of life, to a conscientious youth, a stern
one. He was to be a painter, and that alone ; yet it was
most necessary that he should assist in the business of his
father, now nearly disabled by illness. Here was another
coil of darkness. With no elasticity or buoyancy, he never
forgot or surmounted an affliction or a straggle ; he only
lived through it by the strength of the inner man, by the
passive force of will, and the great idea of the work he should
achieve. The portion of his life devoted to engraving was not
large, however, and during that year or two even he was
more occupied in designing than in engraving. Nor were
the evils that threatened the family ever so great in reality
as they appeared. But we must dwell a little longer on this
season of boyhood. As the summer advanced, old uncle
George might be seen at his high bed-room window, opening
on a broad ledge of eaves, feeding the sparrows and pigeons
with crumbs from the ample pockets of his hunting-coat,
and on running up to him, his gun-case and other accoutre
ments would be found laid out preparatory to his annual
expedition. About his bald head there was always fresh
ness, and clearness in his eye. Stories he had to tell his
nephews too about Lanark and former things. A sword
that stood in the corner was an object of great curiosity.
It had belonged to the great-grandfather, the convener of
Lanark, and his descendant told very pithily a story of
his prowess in the — '45. This worthy progenitor, with a
doughty comrade, met a party of Highlanders on their way
to join the Pretender, and feigning that a strong body was
at hand,"prevailed upon them to deliver up their arms. The
weapons were laid up in a bed in an inn near the town,
where the report having quickly spread, armed people came
out in great force, and but for George Scott, the Highlanders

34 CLYDESDALE.
would have been sacrificed. The people, however, took the
arms, and the capturers got but a very small share of the
booty. On the retreat of the rebels, this exploit was nearly
revenged. Rob Roy. came that way, and learning what had .
been done, fell upon the house, led Scott into the back-yard,
and hung a rope for his especial behoof over a plane-tree.
While this was going on, however, Rob saw a whip hang
ing on a nail, and was about to take it, when George offered
to get him a much better one, and going to seek for it,
managed to make his escape by a private door.
Whether this will agree with Rob's recorded history, if
such there be, I know not, perhaps an alibi may be proved
for him, but enough for the day was the tale thereof. In
these excursions to Clydesdale, the sportsman was some
times joined by David and his brother Robert. Here lies
before us a joint letter from them home. Robert writes in
rhyme, having been a rhymster from childhood. Among
other news, he says that they
In Lanark spent a few short hours,
Not in viewing pompous towers,
But passing between dingy walls-
Then promptly sketching waterfalls.
Even our great artist, who you know
Ne'er looks at nature here below,
But mounts on high for things unknown,
(Perhaps that errors mayn't be shewn)
Once passed his verdict without fear,
And owned to great attractions here.
After this about our great artist, David adds — " Following
after such an effusion of the muse, what remains for me ? I
must descend to prose, and leave the poet to his further
inspir  I had almost said inspirations, when, startled by
the report of a gun, I was sadly convinced that our modem
Pindar was killing sparrows."

ODE TO DEATH. 35
Robert's poetry, which was never of a lofty strain, was
David's frequent subject of satire. On one occasion, about
this age of eighteen, after he had indulged in some free ani
madversions, the poet challenged him to single combat in
rhyme ; the challenge was indignantly taken, only the
writing necessary was considered as a waste of time, and
their father enjoying the contest, offered a guinea as the
prize. The evening came when the recitation was to be
made, the subject, an Ode to Death, having been chosen by
David. Robert read his first, quietly sitting at the table ;
but David, when he was called upon, turning his back to
the audience, enunciated his production with pride . and a
burning face. Full of great words and involutions, com
pared to which the obscurities in his later writings may be
considered models of perspicuity, it made a due impression,
and was considered very fine.
Besides these visits to Clydesdale, others to the boating
and bathing villages on the firth of Clyde, and to the Manse
of Kippen, varied these summers. At the first of these
places, the kind relatives with whom he lived had a small
pleasure-boat, by which means he became better acquainted
with the sea, and enthusiastic in fishing. In his diary,
however, we find him writing in this way. " Thursday,
employed in an irregular way. This day has passed away
very worthlessly. General society great loss of time ; those
leviathan-mouthed affairs, dinners and tea-parties, walks with
ladies, &c, are to me continual regret and ennui. Satur
day, steamboat to Largs. Observed Mr. Vanity waving
his handkerchief towards a great mansion on the shore,
long before a human being could be discerned at that dis
tance. Perhaps they were stationed with telescopes ready
to see him — no doubt of it. Sunday : A very dull day ;
heard two sermons ; took a walk, and went to bed. Mon-
d 2

36 MANSE OP KIPPEN.
day : Ascended a hill near Largs, from which a command
ing prospect of the Firth of Clyde is got. The primitive
mountains of Arran form a picturesque contrast to the later
formations of the Cumbrays and the Ayrshire coast. I
sketched this scene. Walked to Kelburn grounds. One
feels a compassionate pity for people who cut their names
on turfs and seats ; it seems all they can do to answer a
great craving of nature."
More of this it may not be necessary to give; and turning
to the Manse of Kippen, his other summer home, and the
abundant delightful memories it recalls; a few words must
suffice. We are not indeed sure how far this sacred spot,
with its respected inhabitants, are to be associated with
the formation of his manhood, beautiful as it was, with,
its ample gardens of fruit and flowers, surrounded by
great limes inhabited by cushats, over which rose, far
off, Benledi and other kingly heights of the mountain
range — its ivy and jessamine, where, at night, innumerable
birds found shelter — its deep bedroom windows, with a swal
low's nest in either corner, from which, at early morning,
the birds flew out with a merry cry like a qui vive, as they
coursed and recoursed round the house — and, above all,
the good minister and his worthy brothers, a conscientious
pastor of the sheep, who left this fair haven in the late
divisions in the Kirk. (He is now no more, gone to his rest,
and to realise the great hope.) Still, one of our painter's visits
at least is memorable. His mind, straggling among the
difficulties of theology, had come into collision with the
permanent intellectual forms of the place. He parted from
the manse, took up his bed at the inn, and left the village
next day. The minister kindly entreated him, but he
would not revoke, till better thoughts visited him on his
return home, and he wrote a letter of regret and apology.

QUITS ENGRAVING. 37
The writing of this letter was secret as the grave, but never
theless the rumour of it has reached even this page.
And now pass over a few years ; he is twenty-one, and
has formed some friendships — with John Epps, then taking
his degree at the university, in conjunction with whom
he made a " Tree of Painting," shewing the successive
. development of schools and masters — with John Steell,
then shewing his first powers in sculpture — with William
Carey, who then visited Edinburgh as a lecturer on art,
and others, those others being all artists. He has esta
blished a Life Academy with their aid and membership,
no school of the kind then existing in Edinburgh.. He
has left engraving as a thing not to be borne. There has
been found, amidst the chaos of his artistical debris, a curious
sketch inscribed " Character of David Scott, 1826," seated at
the engraving table, but with clenched hands and the
expression of despair. Another, of a similar import, is
dated 1828, in which the palette is pressed to his breast,
and the implements of the rejected craft hurled from him ;
and, in truth, engraving is a painful and laborious work.
In the meaningless finish and metallic smoothness of modern
execution, every line and every dot must be cut over and
over again, so that the smallest plate for a book requires
more tedious toil than the making of a Chinese globe of
ten enclosures. Besides, it is the duty of the engraver
to have absolutely no originality, and the painter is
never satisfied with his work. We cannot esteem any
one's imitation of our production, and that in an inferior
art, equal to our own original, unless, indeed, it greatly
excel it. If the painter be ignorant of the limitations of
engraving, and one who expects all the qualities of his
picture rendered, it becomes intolerable. Madness and
death is in it, therefore, to him ; and having abandoned

38 BEGINS PAINTING.
engraving, he will not tarry with portrait-painting, or
any kind of painting but historic. So the picture of
" Lot and his Daughters fleeing from the Cities of the
Plain" is begun on the scale of life, and here is what he
then called a prayer : — " Thou Power, by whose aid man
raises the imperishable name, wrap around me thy tongued
flames, and of the present make immortal days. May I
live not without a consecrated purpose in my life ; may I
reach and grasp all means for this ultimate consummation.
Grant that I may hold on with undeviating step. Strengthen
the will — endow with the power — break the arm that would
retard." In such a frame of mind, everything and every
person seems antagonistic.

LETTER Y.

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

Then I looked after Christian to see Mm go up the Hill of Difficulty, where we perceived he
fell from running to going, and from going to clambering on his hands and knees, because of
the steepness of the place.

This biographical writing is like the spinning of the spider
— the more threads are spun, the more quickly is the
material produced for others — so we write another Letter on
this period of the Life of our Artist. Among books of
sketches of bones and muscles, exercises in Italian, and so
on, here is the preamble and rules of the " Edinburgh Life
Academy," with a report of the subsequent committee,
which appears to have met in April 1827, David Scott acting
as chairman. Also the " Cash-book of the Life Academy
Association, instituted 2d May 1827." A room in Infirmary
Street was taken, and the book opens with subscriptions
from Messrs M'Nee, Hutchison, Steell, Scott, M'Innes,
Campbell, Wilson, Masson, and Fraser. Some of those,
thus self-aided in the more difficult branch of artistic study,
have made themselves known among the foremost in art.
That they were assiduous, is testified by the same names,
with few additions, appearing all through the book till
February 1832, at which time the Royal Institution began
their school for drawing from the living model.

40 TRUSTEES' ACADEMY.
Proofs of another successful effort to gain further facilities
in education, are found at this time in the shape of the rough
draft of a petition to the Board of Trustees, which runs
thus : —
" A number of artists in Edinburgh being desirous to
have an opportunity of study in the gallery of the Trustees'
Academy, the subscribers have taken the liberty of address
ing the Honourable Board, for the purpose of requesting that
such might be granted to those who have formerly attended
the Academy, and are now advanced in their profession.
They therefore humbly state, that were the gallery open
during morning, it would be of great importance to them in
facilitating their acquaintance with the noble works of which
it is composed." To this is appended a note : — " I do not
recollect whether the above was sent in this shape, but the
object ofthe petition was acceded to, by a permission to draw
from seven to nine o'clock on Saturday mornings, and on
four mornings in the week during the vacation months.
This was the first step towards all that the Board has since
done." Again, in 1830, appears another paper addressed to the
Secretary of the Board, praying for further liberty of atten
dance and less interruption. This request was also acceded to,
but only to the seven artists whose names appeared at the
application, and under Gertain restrictions. These restrictions
were, that the casts should not be moved, that a fine should
be imposed for non-attendance, and that the artists should
pay the keeper. The two foremost rules were annulled it
would appear; each student paid his half-guinea to Mr.
Smith, and the further facilities were for a short time
enjoyed. His first exhibited picture was in 1828 — " The Hopes
of Early Genius dispelled by Death." During the session

VISITS LONDON 1822. 41
of this year he attended Dr. Monro's class of anatomy ; he
also went to London for a short time, and made some
sketches in the National Gallery and British Institution.
His sister Helen was now waning away. He went to
London April 1822. Here are some extracts from letters :¦ —
" 2d May. I have seen Mr. Burnet ; he is engraving his
own picture of Shipwrecked Mariners ; and called on Wilkie,
who is still very unwell, from something like inflammation of
the brain. Taste in art is surely very low, if one is to believe
print-shop windows. Humorous subjects are mostly run
after ; monkeys amuse well ; monkeys are doing everything.
In the British Institution are two or three good pictures ;
in Suffolk Street, with the exception of Haydon's Triumphant
Entry into Jerusalem, and our own Thomson's grand land
scape of the Trosachs, there is little for me. The Royal
Academy opens in a day or two. I have seen Allan Cun
ningham, who took me over Chantrey's gallery."
" 4th May. I have just come from the Royal Academy.
Yesterday at Irving's church, sacrament Sunday ; this
morning with the crowd waiting at the door of Somerset
House. Exactly as twelve struck the gates opened, and I
found myself in the scene so often desired. There are a
number of good pictures, but the two exciting most interest
are Etty's Marriage, and Danby's Opening of the Sixth
Seal." " 24th. I have been to Thomas Campbell, and had a
little conversation with him. Mrs. Campbell's health— she
is considered dying— and his son's also, will prevent me
seeing much of him. He wished me to come to him in two
or three weeks, before which time I should likely hear either
good or bad news of his family. I enclose a catalogue of
Martin's Nineveh ; it is a very sphndid work."
" 2d June. Sketching for some time in the National

42 TURNER AND HAYDON.
Gallery. I went to Turner's one day lately, and was making
a little memorandum of one of his pictures on the back of a
card, when a servant entered and said, " Master don't allow
sketching." I was somewhat surprised, as no one had been
in the room, and the door shut. However, I hardly con
sidered what I was doing to be sketching, so I put in the
line of the distance, which took two moments. Immediately
in bounced a short stoutish individual, the genius hoi him
self. He said he was sorry I had not desisted, and I replied
that what I had done was a mere trifle. He muttered some
thing about memoranda and first principles, whereon I
shewed it to him, and tore it up. He must have a peep-hole,
and yet he is really a great painter."
" 20th July. My visit to London draws to a close. I
came here with great expectations, and return with great
hopes. ' Hope follows through, nor quits us when we die.'
Hay don's Entry into Jerusalem is solidly painted, rich in
colour, the drapery often noble, and the extremities well
drawn. So much for its beauties. Its striking defect is the
failure in the expression of Christ. The drawing is also
defective, the limbs being too short for the size of the upper
part. The picture does not excite the exalted feeling that
the painter wished. There is a want of power. The senti
ment should have been emphatically that of exaltation and
rejoicing. The colour of the drapery, flesh, &c, is of a
broken character, which gives the execution a weak appear
ance, though it is boldly painted."
Small Extracts from Diary — 1829 to 1832.
" February 1829. Saw Carey to-day at the close of
the lectures, who said he had seen my picture of Fingal

DIARY 1830. 43
and the Spirit of Lodi. * He would give me an advice : —
1 Shoot a lower aim, you speak a dead language.' What
am I to do?"
" March. The first public notice of my pictures has
appeared in the Caledonian Mercury, written by Carey."
" April. Steel has seen my picture, and commends it.
Mr. Allan came out with Lauder ; he said, if I coloured it
as well as it was designed, I need fear nothing."
" May. Messrs. Allan, Thomson, and Lauder called,
wishing me to join the Scottish Academy as an associate, as
the Academy did not wish to' receive all as members at
once. Painting Adam and Eve singing their morning
hymn." " September. Completed the picture of Lot."
" October. Finished Adam and Eve, and the Death of
Sappho ;f and in the next month begun small picture of
' Wallace defending Scotland.' "J
" January 1830. Think I have gained more distinctness
in my ideas regarding art during this last month than
during ten before. The overwhelming and perplexing have
now resolved themselves into different parts and separate
difficulties, and I think I can now discover with clearness
the mighty structure that before was wrapped in mist. I
see what I should strive to do."
" December 1830. Resume my journal. Sir J. Foulis
called. Speaks warmly of my paintings. Advises me to
go to Paris. Sunday : Dolorous, melancholy me. Looking
for mottoes to my ' Monograms of Man.' "
* Now in the possession of J. Mitchell Mitchell, Esq.
t In the possession of T. Constable, Esq.
X Property of W. Kinghorn, Esq. Most of the pictures of this date were
subsequently retouched.

44 DIARY 1830.
" Monday, December 1830. Lost Time.
Emblem of life this day may be to me : —
As we go forth, we bound along the course
In joy and hope, and gain upon the heels
Of those who long before our limbs were girt
Had ta'en the staff — but soon there comes a time
Of weariness, the first gay strength is gone,
And heavily and slowly on we fare.
Not without looking backward, conning o'er
The good we may have done, and owning now
The effort and the task is greater : still
We keep the highway, marking as we hope,
What time we will arrive at some great bourne,
And be and do so much. So 'twas this day,
In the bright morning with devoted care
I entered on the track of loftiest thought.
Then o'er an old book filled with boyish thoughts
Some hours were lost that to the fiiture time
Ought somewhat to have given ; then dullness came —
And a wild craving for the new and strong.
Till the sun verging to the west proclaimed
A day was gone. In penitence and shame
I note it here, that on some future day
I may take warning and be saved regret.
" 21st. Met L. Macdonald at Watson Gordon's, who is
painting a picture from the Tales of the Crusaders. Michael
Angelo's Moses was standing by, which L. M. said was not
a legitimate work of sculpture. He seemed to place it in
the same category with two figures by Rysbrack, on the
chimney-piece. I thought it a pity to depreciate a work of
true mastery and power. He afterwards said it was the
method he objected to, and in this I could agree ; but if he
meant only the execution, or even the style of drapery, &c,
he spoke too widely, and seemed rather desirous to sink this
stupendous production altogether. Monday, January 1831.
Called on Constable ; he agrees to publish my <¦ Monograms
of Man.'"

DIARY 1831. 45
" What constitutes individual happiness ? What we
seek for changes and becomes the source of our misery.
The ardent sentiment that warmed my heart with the love
of art has become a torment — an insatiable demon. * *
Great God ! among thy blessings, would I had been endowed
with self-complacency and confidence ! * * * As we
constantly compare ourselves with men and things about us,
nothing is more dangerous to the self-doubter than solitude.
Then the imagination forms a chain of beings, of which we
are the last and most inferior. This is natural ; we know
our own imperfections best. We observe in others qualities
we have not, and imagine they possess also those we value
in ourselves. ' He values my understanding and talents
more than that which is the foundation of all I am and is
solely mine ; anybody may know all that I know,' Goethe
says." " January 21. Lauder and Steell. Lauder thought I
should paint the sketch of ' Streaking the Corse ;' but don't
make it so horrible ; you may do harm to the ladies. Very
good that ; but though it is well to invent and sketch in all
kinds of sentiment, it is not so well to paint such, except
the horror be of an exalted kind. Sent copies of ' Monograms '
to H. G. Bell, and to Professor Wilson, and some artists."
" February. The publication has been noticed in the
Edinburgh Literary Journal, Observer, Post, Free Press,
and other papers, all favourable ; but their commendations
in general of the drawing, &c, more than of the invention.
The London Literary Gazette gives me the very highest
artistic praise, and traces the ideas to the mystical point of
German philosophy, which I am not yet sufficiently ac
quainted with to have derived them from. The Athenadum
is also strongly laudatory, and other London papers. I must
yet give them further assurance they have treated me justly."

46 MONOGRAMS OF MAN.
" 17th. Sent my pictures to the Exhibition. Went to
the Institution exhibition of old masters. Much mere trash
among the works, and some good ; degraded sentiment and
material colour only. B  liked Fingal, and Adam and
Eve very much. Commended the simplicity and unity of
the sentiment and execution. D  suggested a silk scarf
over the shield of naked Fingal, as a colour was wanted there.
I would have the authority of Spenser, he said, for silk scarfs
being worn by warriors ! S  , clever amateur and edu
cated man as he is, suggested introducing some animals into
Adam and Eve, to take off the bareness ! Such are the
criticisms of an artist and a man in authority."
" 23d. Sold ' The Cloud' to Francis Grant— the first
of my pictures that has been sold. He very handsomely
said, ' The picture will be mine, at the close of the Exhibi
tion, at your present price, but, in the mean time, put double
the sum upon it ; it should be sold for more.' "
" Tuesday. At St. Luke's Club in the evening. Pro
posed Good and Captain Brown, who were with me, as hon
orary members. The Athenseum notice of the ' Monograms,'
which was capital, has been followed by others in the Spec
tator, Examiner, Atlas."
A paper in his writing at this time may be introduced
here, explaining these designs : —
" 1st Design. Of Life.-^- Whence is it ? A creative
energy must be exerted. This is expressed by the descent
of a powerful hand, at the touch of which all starts into
being. The omnipotence is implied, by the fingers at the
same time calling into existence sun, moon, and man on the
world. He, as endowed with more than physical force
with the highest mental life, is animated by a stream of fire
from the invisible.
" 2d. Of Relation. — The genius of man, in the pride of

MONOGRAMS OP MAN. 47
intellectual and physical supremacy on earth, extends his
arms, and stands, like the angel in the Apocalypse, one foot
on the sea, and the other upon the earth. He is crowned
by flowing locks, and the sun above him is an expression of
his power. " 3d. Of Knowledge. — The importance of knowledge to
discover finalities, is exhibited by the vigorous youth dragged,
in defiance of mental repugnance, to the contemplation of a
skull — that empty tabernacle — forcing upon him a sense of
fate, and also a doubt of all beyond the sphere of actual ob
servation. The caduceus, which breaks as the youth tries
to stay himself against the grasp of the earth-born fiend,
may signify the winged power of thought here ended, and
may also refer to the decision of controversy, by allusion to
the Roman Fasces.
" 4th.- Of Intellect. — The aspiration of the mind to assi
milate itself to the greatest perfection, is signified by the
figure of a man standing on the earth, his existence bounded
by time and space, sending forth his spirit on the discovery
of causes. It attempts to penetrate the thick darkness and
clouds of fire, from which the agency of divinity is shewn
by the descent of flames and waters from the ' hollow of his
hands.' " 5th. Of Power. — Man, in his pride, holds the sceptre
over his fellow-man, while he is only the agent and the slave
of fate — merely a link in that chain whose strong embrace
holds heaven, and earth, and man.
" 6th. Of Death. — The cup of which we all must drink
comes out from eternity and the undefined. The recoiling
mortal is surrounded by the tonsured bearer of the Keys, the
follower of the Crescent, the Persian, the Jew, and by the
untutored man of the New World. Apart from these, the
naked intellectual man lifts his head from his long study,

48 LETTER OP COLERIDGE.
and confesses his darkness by covering his eyes, and laying
his finger on his lip."
******
" Diary, January 1832. Sent ' Lot' to the British In
stitution, repainted. This last year have painted Nimrod,
Sarpedon carried by Sleep and Death,* and Cain. Since
the long nights set in, have drawn a series of designs for
Coleridge's ' Ancient Mariner.' I wrote the poet, informing
him of my having done so, and asking if any publisher was
interested in his works, to whom I might send them."
(A sad letter was his reply, as you may see.)
" Grove, Highgate, 19th November 1831.
" Dear Sir — For twelve years, or more, weak and inter
rupted health, and the nature and object of the studies to
which the hours that ill health left in my power have been
devoted — studies, the honour of which, if any, will be
posthumous, and the advantage that of others — have ren
dered my visits to London rare, and at long intervals. But
during the last eighteen months, my life has been but one
chain of severe sicknesses, brief and imperfect convalescence,
and capricious relapses. It is comparative health and com
fort for me when the morbid action, whether gout or nervous
rheumatism, passes down, and settles for a time in the great
sciatic nerve of one or the other thigh — but then I am a
cripple, and my boldest excursion a crawl up and down the
Grove walk before our front door. At present I am confined
to my bedroom. At no time of my life had I much intercourse
with booksellers or publishers— the Trade, as they call them
selves — and my little experience has all been of the most
unfortunate kind. Were I to sum up the whole cash re-
* The property of Dr. Samuel Brown.

COLERIDGE S LETTER. 49
ceipts from my published works, I should find the sum total
something like this —

£ 8. D.

£

S. D.

0 0 0

300

0 0

The little I ought to have had was lost in a fraudulent bank
ruptcy ; and the house by which my latest publications—
the ' Aids to Reflection,' and the ' Essay on the Constitution
in Church and State, according to the Idea'' — were printed
and published, have dissolved their partnership I under
stand. I have found no reason for withdrawing my confi
dence in the honour and integrity of the partner's, Messrs.
Hurst, Chance, and Company ; but whether the business is,
or is not to be continued, I am wholly uninformed.
" With this exception, I know of no one individual in
the trade with whom I have any acquaintance ; nor do I
believe that there is one, of London publishers at least, with
whom my name and authority would act otherwise than as
a counterweight ; for the Quarterly Review never notices
any work under my name — the Edinburgh has reviewed
only such as seemed to furnish an occasion for vilifying the
writer — and the minor Reviews sometimes, I hear, mention
my name, but never in any reference to my works. I ques
tion whether there ever existed a man of letters so utterly
friendless, or so unconnected as I am with the dispensers of
contemporary reputation, or the publishers in whose service
they labour.
" Such is the answer I must return to your friendly let
ter, adding only the assurance, that I acknowledge, and duly
appreciate the compliment paid to me, in . having selected
a poem of mine for ornamental illustration, and an alliance
of the sister arts — Metrical and Graphic Poesy ; and that I
would most readily have complied with your request had it

50 DIARY 1832.
been in my power. — Believe me, Dear Sir, with every
friendly wish, yours respectfully.
" S. T. Coleridge.
" To David Scott, Esq."
" 14th January 1832. I have entered this session in Dr.
Monro's anatomical class, and for ten days have not been
out, except to Mackenzie's demonstrations, and one day
standing to Duncan for Ruthven, in a picture he is to paint
of Queen Mary forced to sign her abdication. He may paint
it well, as regards the execution, but Allan has already
painted the subject, and made a good picture of it. It is
strange that a subject having been done before, seems rather
a recommendation to the public."
" 15th. Some time ago I thought I saw clearly what
ought to be essayed in art; now I think differently from
these. Do I see any firm ground at all ? Is there any rea
son in nature or in society, that a man aspiring to the high
est forms of art, should be treated as a visionary, or consi
dered as incapable of the lower ? "
" 16th. Have now finished Pan and Apollo. The pic
ture or sketch from the present affairs in Poland — the Rus
sians have craved an armistice to bury the dead — I have
also done lately ; and blotted out five unfinished, or rather
abortive attempts at pictures — some months' labour."
" 23d. Have made memoranda from a French book on
birds, to assist in working out a principle in colour."
" I send to this year's Exhibition, Sarpedon,* Nimrod,
Pan,f Aurora, and the sketch of Burying the Dead.J Mr.
A  takes my drawings from the ' Ancient Mariner' to
* In the possession of Dr. S. Brown.
f In possession of W. Thomson, Esq., advocate.
X The property of Mr. Kinninmonth, Kirkcaldy.

MEETING R. S. A. 51
London, to see if a publisher may be found for them. This
year newspapers rather favourable to me, except the Scots
man and Edinburgh Spectator."
" February 10th. Meeting of the Academy about the
purchase of Etty's pictures. .Allan, our respected chairman,
sits with one hand over the other, as if he were thinking of
his lost finger. Hamilton, whom I like as a man to carry a
thing out, half-rising, explains the transaction ; he has bulk
enough to give him weight. Harvey sits still, with his
sharp though small eye, observant enough; and M'Leay,
with good mustaches, and proper boots, stretches his legs
straight out, one foot over the other, and his cane at his
mouth. Ewbank swings on his chair ; and Steell leans his
head on his hand. There is also J. F., as they call Wil
liams, with his paralytic, important shake of the head ; and
Hill's broad, sensible face. Curious are the bodily charac
terisations and limitations of intellect."
" 12th. Sat on the balcony at the top of the house,
sketching, last night, and to-day am confined to bed. Mo
ther so attentive and kind. Alas ! that this care bestowed
on all but self, and this perseverance in realising for others
what is conceived to be best, should exist by the very causes
that prevent its participation in a more extended sphere."
" February, March, April. Doing little but thinking of
going abroad. Mr. A  has brought back my designs for
the Ancient Mariner. ' Lot ' has been rejected at the British
Institution ; it was too large. Reject a work of art for its
size ! you might as well reject a man for being tall. My
pictures in our Exhibition are all coming back to me. The
Monograms altogether a loss as a publication. Several re
sources cut off. Difficulties in study ; for nothing but the
best is worth a thought. Doubts of every kind. Sister
Helen, where art thou now in the shade of the Unseen ?"
e 2

52 GOING ABROAD.
" August 5. Various are the causes that render my
going abroad necessary. I lose myself in thinking over
the journey, and what it may do. Everything I have yet
attempted has been unsuccessful ; so many disappointments
make effort appear vain. What I must do is to cut off
all recurrence to former efforts, except in as far as they
may coincide with my later formed ideas of art, and to
hold grimly on in the conscientious course. A great happi
ness it is that futurity is yet unseen and unmade ; therein
yet may be somewhat to answer my desires. Happy are
those new hopes and wishes that still descend on us when
all we valued in ourselves is burnt up and scattered. Happy
it is that a vision can regird the loins of the mind, and
re-attune the chords of life. I now seal up this book,
and put all in order for going abroad. Also seal up my
will."* You now, it is to be hoped, discern something of the
contour of this aspirant, so far as life has yet developed it.
Not without difficulty have been accomplished these few
pages of his own words. Pencil writing is soon effaced
by a few years, and there are few more oppressive occupa
tions than deciphering old letters. The ghosts of little
things and poignant moments come back with more than
their due distinctness — the mind of the reader loses the
vantage ground that the intervening time has naturally
given him, and he struggles with himself again in the past.
Besides, brief sentences detached and written out afresh
seem to have lost nearly all their meaning.
So the pilgrim's step is turned to the capital of the
world — the eastern light irradiates the pale face. With
* Making a will at this early age was characteristic. It is remarkable that
the purport of this juvenile will is much the same as that of the one left by him
at his late decease.

HIS CHARACTER  1832. 53
many letters, and also with ample directions, kindly fur
nished by his friend Handyside Ritchie, the sculptor, as
to travelling, lodging, dieting, both in good health and in
bad — which alternative was unhappily important to him —
he sets off. John Steell, his ancient fellow-student, who had
but lately returned from Italy, and the writer of these pages,
see the steamboat, with the man upon its deck, go out from
Leith, and disappear upon the water.
Postscript. — May we not properly inquire here how far
the mental state indicated by these notes is a true state or
a good ? In relation to itself, and to self culture, it is of
course alone to be considered. As related to family and
the world, it is irreconcilable. It assists and participates
in the pains, pleasures, and struggles of none other about
it — it scarcely acknowledges any identity but its own —
the insatiable me sees nothing but obstacles in the not me.
Moreover, how could he reasonably have been successful,
suddenly daring the greatest difficulties of art. Boyhood,
even that of an intellectual giant, must wait the endowment
of experience; nothing but experience can give just ori
ginality, or afford wisdom. This very picture of "Lot"
he afterwards knows to be not what he then thought it.
Could we at once achieve, what would become of after life ?
But more fully understood, the picture presents us a
noble nature struggling up into the light — a light to be
completely attained only in the spirit in mature life, cir
cumstances never being conformable to it. Difficulties,
pains, and venturings, are among the elements, not only of
Christian, but of intellectual progress. Suffering has of
late indeed been declared the best evangile, and even the
memory of suffering has been called the root and support of
benevolence. To this we would say — nay, verily. Doubt-

54 HIS CHARACTER  1832.
less, nature hath ordained the advent of all great and true
things through the gate of travail; but is not that their
misfortune and degradation, the part of evil that still clings
to them. Is not suffering itself the sign of the evil being
yet stronger than the good ? A nature strong in aversion
and ardent in choice, or rather to which no choice but one
was left, by the instinctive or intuitive nature of his intel
lect — " self-willed, yet sensitive ; ambitious, but despising
the arts of rising ; impulsive and industrious ; well-informed,
but imaginative; studious, yet imperiously original"* — must
suffer in attaining, and must attain at last. Even the soli
tude he complains of is forced upon him : he has so much
to do and to think, he must be alone. To this necessity
was added secretiveness ; he was too proud to acknowledge
doubt and incompleteness, and too self-questioning not to feel
them. Had this truth been forced upon his mind— for it is a
truth — that in the present age, and in this country, espe
cially in the limited sphere of Edinburgh, high art of an
original kind, and on an adequate scale, is not required by
any desire in the public mind — that pictures take their value
nearly exactly in proportion to their workmanship, and
scarcely ever by their intellectual expression — that the high
art we now have is of the revival kind, and aims at foreign
standards, or merely academic excellences ; — had this truth
made itself plain to him, so that he had believed it, what
would have been the result ? It is difficult to say : he
never looked upon Art but as another Literature — able to
address the age through history, poetry, and morals.
* North British Review, May 1849.

PART II.

JOURNAL— 1832-34.
LONDON — PARIS — GENEVA — SAINT JULIAN — MILAN — LAKE
MAGGIORE — VENICE — PARMA — BOLOGNA — FLORENCE —
SIENA — ROME — NAPLES — POMPEII, ETC. — HOMEWARDS
BY LYONS.

What I have reaped in my journey is, as it were, a small contentment in a never contenting
suhject; a hitter pleasant taste of a sweet seasoned sour. All in all, what I found was more
than ordinarily regoicing, in an extraordinary sorrow of delights ! IAthgow's Travelsrl&lO.

JOURNAL,

LONDON. PARIS.
Left Leith in the Sir W. Wallace for London. Clouds
and rain on getting out, and at evening a gloomy sky. On
leaving the Forth, a beacon burning behind, and through
the ropes and booms of the voyaging vessel, a red star,
like Saturn, made its appearance ; but as we advanced, rising
it left the haze, and shone bright and clear. It was Jupiter.
London. I arrived here yesterday afternoon. We had,
I suppose, what they consider a pleasant passage, and I
don't think I have suffered much ; but heaven preserve me
from a long sea voyage. To-day I saw the Earl of Minto
(to whom I had a letter from Mr. T. Thomson*), who gave
me some advice, and a letter to General Ramsay (son of the
painter, and grandson of Allan), who has friends at Rome.
He also gave me a note to Hayter, who, he mentioned,
studied at Bologna, and knew all about that quarter.
Wednesday. To-day being very wet, I am compelled
to take refuge in my lodging, after breakfasting with Dr. E.,
and seeing an enormous picture by two Foggos, between
twenty and thirty feet long — the picture I mean — its authors
fc Brother of the Reverend J. Thomson, Duddingston.

58 COLERIDGE.
only being about twelve or thirteen feet between them — a work
of at least great labour and study. Yesterday I found a
letter waiting me from Lady Ruthven to an artist in
Florence. I also yesterday got a letter from General R.
to a Roman. I think if a man, with a true object in life,
had it inflicted upon him as a punishment, that he should
continually walk the crowded streets of London, he would
soon go mad.
Thursday evening. I have been out at Coleridge's. He
is a little clerical-looking man, but common in appearance,
rather poor indeed, and without mark in the figure and face,
except that he has most uncommonly snowy hair ; it is per
fectly white and long, but does not wave, which prevents
its having much . effect. His look is not especially poetic.
The moment he is seated, as has been said, he begins to
talk, and on it goes, flowing and full, almost without even
what might be called paragraphic division, and leaving
colloquy out of the question entirely. He talked of the
effect Italy had upon himself, and wandered on about the
Italian painters and poets. I mentioned my drawings from
the Ancient Mariner, and he expressed his very favourable
opinion of them. I recollect upon calling, Mrs. Gillman
requested me not to sit above half an hour, for Mr. Coleridge
was unable to stand fatigue, and was apt, forgetting time,
to talk too long. " The old man eloquent " received me
very kindly. His eye shone in tears as he spoke. He
shook me kindly by the hand at parting, and hoped, if he
lived, to see me again.
September. The works in the Gallery of the Louvre are
mostly either fine in themselves, or good examples of the
masters by whom they are painted. It is thoroughly trying
for the works of late French artists to place them there.
The Luxembourg Gallery, altogether composed of pictures

LOUVRE. 59
by modern French painters, I enjoyed very much. In the
Louvre I saw two of the Saint Simonians, who have been
attracting great attention. They appeared to be two clothes
fools — the men who are to found a new system of religion
and morality. Two of them, the one led by the other, stood
talking of and comparing their dress with that of the por
trait of an old painter. This was done with the greatest
openness, as of infinite importance, and no doubt it was so
to the two that I saw, whatever their founder might have
thought of it. They wear the beard, have bare necks, a
coat cut round by the clavicle, and the waist bound by a
black belt.
The tricolour is waving on all parts of Paris, it is even
mounted on the churches. The prints of the day are Bona
parte and his Son, portraits — their Death — Meeting in
Heaven, &c. I observed a remaining memorial of the late
affrays — the Palace of the Institute, opposite the Pont des
Arts, is battered all over by bullets.
I shall leave this on Wednesday by diligence, having
been a week in Paris. There are no good pictures in the
churches ; indeed, after seeing the Gallery of the Louvre,
they would require to be very fine. I am told the people
take me for a priest — Dyce says he is sure of it ; it is no
honour at present, as they are in very bad odour with the
people. David, the French painter, is a very great artist. I
have heard many cry out against him and his school, merely
because it is so different from any thing that they work for.
The painters of France present the national character com
pletely in their works. They have on the one side a most
fastidious and studied regularity, and on the other looseness
and individuality. They cannot combine poetic freedom
with truth. David shews great learned talent, but there is

60 LOUVRE.
nothing strikingly inventive in his genius. I mention David
merely as eminent, and not holding him in all respects above
every other, as some of the French have done. He is how
ever, as far as I see, the author of their revived mode of
study. Rubens does not appear here to very great advantage ;
some of the colouring of his great pictures of the Luxem
bourg scenes is very bad, and I see it has led many after it.
Paul Veronese's great picture of the marriage of Cana, about
forty feet long, is a. work in regard to colour that sinks all
around it. It possesses no scriptural history — no sentiment;
but its execution is amazing ; at the sametime it is slight,
often undefined, but what is intended is always gained.
Throughout the Louvre there are a great many fine small
pictures, but it is some time before they are got at, from the
impression of the large ones.
I have had more of the Louvre than I expected, having
been detained two days longer. I do not think I should like
to attempt to study here ; it might be possible, but life is so
frittered, confused, and dirty, that long habit would be
needed to enter into Parisian ways. I expect to be in Ge
neva by Sunday first, from whence it will take a week to
reach Milan, the crossing of the Alps being tedious.

GENEVA.
Geneva, 18th September. Four days and three nights
on the road from Paris. I arrived here yesterday. The
night travelling is what I do not like, but it is over now, as
I go the rest of my journey by Vetturini. The weather has
been .delicious. I was carelessly hanging over the window
of the diligence after breakfast, having in the morning
ascended on foot (for the passengers usually get out if they

SWISS ALPS. 61
are disposed when a hill is to be got over) one of the great
billowy swellings of the Swiss country, part of the Jura
range, and was in a delightful mood, tracing by sight an
immense valley, and recognising in the foreground Byron's
steeps, " grey-haired with anguish like those blasted pines,"
when we turned, and behold, the Alps were inhabiting the
sky before us. Not a cloud was in the sky, save a streak
which belted Mont Blanc midway down. Soon we saw the
lake, and the plain where Geneva stands, stretch gradually
out below; all were excited— even the man-of-boots seemed
to enjoy wheeling down the steep at a furious speed. Out
got two Frenchmen, and ran along, thus giving a physical
vent to their feelings.
The Swiss country which I have gone over is of a
different character from anything at home to which I can
compare it. It is not broken or rugged. All is undulating,
heaving, and diluvial. But on the Italian side the moun
tains rear their granite peaks like a barrier to the floating,
or a belt to the loosened, earth. The soil of the range of
the Jura is infested with small pebbly stones, which would
seem to have been tossed for ages at the bottom of the
primeval deeps. All my way across France I only once
observed what I could consider the ruin of a baronial castle,
such as are so often to be met in Scotland. It is a country
certainly well adapted for modern battle-fields. In Switzer
land the vales and hills are quite besprinkled with houses —
in France there appears a paucity of rural habitations.
Written at St. Julian. Here I am in a country inn in
the small frontier town of the Sardinian kingdom, called St.
Julian, where I have been compelled to come to shew my
passport, and find I am necessitated again to present it to
morrow, six days not having expired since I came to Geneva,
which is the time fixed by a sanitary regulation, to which

62 GENEVA CAFE.
those are subjected who come from Paris, where the cholera
still continues. The afternoon is delightful, the walk has
been fatiguing, but here I am in the peace of the country.
Geneva, unless in the walks along and by the ramparts,
affords no subject for the lounging time of a traveller, parti
cularly one who, with much before him, is forced to remain
—where, and among whom? The most ordinary looking
pe0ple — a small capital made a thoroughfare for the idle, and
a night resting-place for the seeker of daily stimulus — where
the sound of confused Paris has died away, but where a
moral echo of it at times meets the ear. The Salle a
Manger and the Cafe" are the only places to which the
stranger can resort, with the exception of his own apart
ment, which may be number 60 or 70. In the Salle a
Manger, on raising your eyes, you are exposed to see those
of the educated gourmand, or man of importance, with their
mannered, loathsome, and contemptible stare (I cannot un
derstand it), which only those who have seen can imagine ;
and, in the Cafe, the fumes of liquors and cigars, with the
continual rumble of billiard balls, or the voluble and jarring
tongues at a card-table, the players being, not unlikely, the
footman in black of Lord A  , or the advance courier
of the Earl of B  . Those of the people who are
beyond the reach of this contagion, appear to be of the most
simple and rural sort.
External creation has its modifications, but its varieties
of aspect are partial compared with its similarities. The
cattle on the fields herd with each other alike over the world ;
the odours of the trees are the same. Here the mountains
are in part green, and part granite, as there. Here there is
snow upon their tops, as also there. The signes particuliers,
to use a phrase of the French passport, may differ, but even
where man's caprice is at work, this still holds. The bell

ST. JULIAN. 63
of the little Roman Catholic church has just rung with a
seeming well-known sound — that of the bell of old often-
visited Kippen Kirk ; and afterwards the Sardinian ringers
struck the hour exactly as sexton Robert. Ah, there goes
the drum ! but this is very different from any thing in a
Scotch village. That drummer beats well. What a rash
of sound through the sunset — yellowed air — continuous by
repeated strokes. Any thing well done is agreeable.
In my httle walk this evening, I came upon some pea
sants gathering pears. I asked one of them to sell me some.
He smiled, and asked me to take one. There was a wish
to be kind. This is to be met all over the world, possibly
if observed and appreciated, as often as its opposite.
Travelling destroys all simpleness of judgment ; with
many things you take leave, or they follow changed ; the
peculiarities of other things are seen, and being seen in a
multiform whirl, all appear of the same worth or value. A
man cannot learn to think by ever changing his subject ;
and I conceive if he has not acquired habits which he will
not readily unlearn, travelling is the worst thing he can be
take himself to, if he means with heart and mind to gird
himself for some worthy pursuit.
How it is I know not, but in regard to the very matter
which is the cause of my being detained in this village to
night — the possibility of arresting such a disease as the cho
lera by sanitary cordons, &c. — my ideas have completely
changed. While quiet in Edinburgh, it appeared to me to
be practicable, and possibly what might be useful, to cut off
communication with infected districts ; now this, by some
alchemy of the mind, it appears to me childish to attempt ;
its purpose vain. It must and will take its range. But I
must be done ; I have drained the ink-horn — really a horn ;
so in one thing at least there is literal truth at St. Julian.

64 ST. JULIAN.
I must to bed, or keep plunging my pen for every two or
three letters ; so much, however, as a memorandum of St.
Julian. Morning, seven o'clock, Sunday. The church bell has
rung for morning service. Numerous peasants are collected
before the door, which has not yet opened. They are rude
in dress, most of them seemingly in the garb in which they
labour, and are armed with long poles, with pikes in the
ends of them, which they use in scaling the mountains.
Sunday afternoon. I again resume my letter. I have
now been nearly a week in Geneva ; the great mountains
have been lost in the clouds nearly all the while I have been
here. I set out one morning at six o'clock, for the purpose
of attempting to reach the top ofthe ravine in the Jura range,
where I first saw the Alps, in order to make a sketch of
them. It was one o'clock, under a burning sun, before I
got to the second point of view, where I made a slight draw
ing ; but the clouds were rolled round the snow-peaks. It
was night before I got back, and a hard day's work it was.
I have arranged with a vetturino, and start to-morrow
morning at six o'clock for the pass of the Simplon. In six
days, if all's well, I am in Milan.
After getting a little rested from my walk from the Sa
voyard village, I went at two o'clock — the hour when you
would be going — to one of the churches here, and in the ori
ginal locality of the tenets and forms of the Church of Scot
land, saw its worship performed. The organ, the read prayers,
were different from Scotland ; but still there was much that
was similar. There were baptisms of infants, the fathers
holding them up, and the mothers near ; the minister in
gown and bands ; the precentor an old man, with silver hair •
the whole congregation singing, and seated, listening to the
sermon.

MILAN. 65

MILAN.

Tuesday night, (2d, I think, of October.) On Sunday
morning last I arrived here, having been from Monday mor
ning previous on the Simplon road from Geneva. I had a
very agreeable journey, in company with two English and
an American, over the awful Alps.
The first day of the road was along the side of the Lake
of Geneva — past Coligny, where Byron lived — past some of
Rpusseau's marked scenes — till, in the evening sun, we saw
the Castle of Chillon gleaming white on the opposite side.
The second day's journey was up the valley of the Rhone ;
the third the same ; the fourth, we ascended the Simplon ;
the fifth, came down on the vine-covered plains of Lom-
bardy ; the sixth, by Lake Maggiore ; and on the seventh
we reached this at ten o'clock morning.
To form an idea of what the cathedral really is in the
splendour of all its parts, you must ascend the tower, and
confess it to be amazing. I have seen Da Vinci's " Last
Supper," but, alas ! it is completely gone. All is retouched
and peeled off. Some of the heads are merely seen to have
been, while the under part is entirely destroyed. It is most
humiliating; but Da Vinci's style of execution, and finical
nicety in regard to the ground on which he painted, were
not for the walls of a damp hall. Some frescoes in the clois
ters of the monastery (which is now a barrack for soldiers)
are fresh and strong. There is a splendid gallery of pictures
in the Academy; some of those of the Italian masters
finer than in the Louvre. There are also casts from the
antique, and the works of modern Milanese artists, among
whom there are two or three clever men — good draughts
men ; but their painting is in general raw and crude. The
attempts at landscape and portrait here exhibited are amus-

66 LAKE MAGGIORE.
ing ; and the contrast of these tin-like works with the old
pictures surrounding them is dreadful.
Wednesday evening. To-day and yesterday I break
fasted on the pavement of the wide street, in front of the
cathedral. I have been in the Ambrosian Library, where
I saw the cartoon of the School of Athens ; a number of fine
pictures ; a MS. of Petrarch, with notes in his own hand ;
also one of Josephus on papyrus.
I have now engaged with a vetturino for Venice, and I
go to-morrow morning at five. The grapes are ripe, the
peaches and the melons, too ; the sky clear, the air delightful ;
all in life still as regards the season. I go to Venice in
company with the English and American who came from
Geneva with me, who, as well as myself, are desirous of
travelling as economically as possible ; so I consider that I
have been fortunate in my companions. Two Americans,
one of whom goes to Venice in our party, I have found very
agreeable and informed men — very different from what you
would suppose from  — and the Quarterly Review.
The Opera here is splendid, but all consists in display ;
the dresses, the number of actors, of singers, of musicians,
all produce clamour, glitter, and show, but little histrionic
ability is displayed. In the lesser theatre, which is more
for the regular drama, I saw an Italian comedy — poor enough
— bare simplicity of plot.
WRITTEN ON LAKE MAGGIORE.
With thee, Lake Maggiore ! I'm in love
This morning while the mist is grey above,
On thy calm waters drowsily outspread
I stretch my breast to Heaven, and lay my head —
How long I know not — till the sun looks out
Between two clouds, a moment as in doubt.
Silent and slowly now the mountains raise
The endless coverings of vapoury haze

MODERN MILANESE PAINTERS. 67
From each grey head,- and, bending down, they greet
Their ancient brethren, as their shadows meet
In thy clear ample face, Maggiore.
Doth not thy beauty seem a type to me
Of the commanding eye and gentle power
Which in my longing heart hath, many an hour,
Held holy presence ? Now, in thought, I go
With thee, my sun, my mirroring lake ! The flow '
Of time forgotten, on the tide we fly ;
Our oars are strong, our boatmen — can they die ?
No ! says the trembling blue between the clouds —
Yes ! says the vapour that the clear blue shrouds.
But while with pleasure skims our barge along,
Come let us join the spirit-boatman's song.
Glide while we may, while morning shines,
And the glad earth an answer chimes ;
Tipp'd with gold are the citron trees,
And bright is all the drows'd eye sees ;
Every oar-drop, while we pull,
Now turns into a spangle ; dull
Is nought ; our bark is bright of colour,
And our sails can ne'er be fuller ;
The waters, they too with us glide,
Turning in our course the tide,
All in service of our skill,
Bearing onward with good will,
To guide the way 'mid morning shine,
To meet our hopes — hopes thine and mine,
And theirs who with us skim the wave
That flows 'twixt childhood and the grave.
I had written various names of modern Milanese pain
ters, but have rubbed them out again, except that of Fran
cesco Hayez, by whom, in the exhibition, there was Queen
Mary resigning her crown — a good picture.
As one of the old schools of art, Milan does not present
the materials to make a very striking impression. In other
places its masters are to be met with even greater effect.
In the Ambrosian Library are a number of heads by its
F 2

68 LEONARD A DA VINCI.
great master, Leonardo, the greatest of all the builders up
of painting who did not see its summit passed — who, with
his pupil, Luini, distinguished the Milanese characteristic
in the art to have been care and an endeavour after scientific
precision. This may, to some, require explanation; it
assumes Raphael to be the great master of moral or dra
matic expression, to which class belongs the principal work
of Leonardo, the Last Supper ; but this is only one produc
tion of this master, and even it points at these character
istics specified as his distinction.

VENICE. Tuesday, 9th October 1832.
My Dear Father — According to the intention^ mentioned
in my letter- from Milan, I left that city on the morning
after ; and here I am, the journey well over. Last night,
in a gondola, I and my three fellow-travellers entered by
moonlight this city of the waters.
The Bridge of Sighs, the Rialto, and St. Mark's, I have
seen ; but to-day the rain pours, with thunder, and it is so
dark that I cannot see the pictures in the churches; so
here, in my room in the Leone Bianco, after three hours
winding the pavements of Venice, I gladly sit down to tell
you of my journeyings. I have been to the post, and there
is no letter for me. I am heavy to hear.
My road from Milan was by Bergamo, Verona, and
Padua — all interesting towns, and pictures in all. In
Verona I saw Romeo and Juliet performed in the fine
theatre. Romeo and Juliet, in the place of its origin, is
widely different from Romeo and Juliet in Britain. There .
was fine singing— the part of Romeo by a lady. Next

BRESCIA AND BERGAMO. 69
morning I saw the tomb of Juliet (?), and the garden where
the moon shone on her "after the masquerade. There is
in Verona a noble Roman amphitheatre very entire. After
passing Padua — the place of "learned doctors" that was —
the Venetian style of decoration begins to appear. It is
profuse in statues^ pillars, and coloured walls. The Lagoon
crossed ; it is about five miles in breadth — Venice.
Brescia. The ruins of a Temple of Hercules, of grand
Roman architecture — a fragment of a large statue (a shoulder)
resembling that of the Elgin collection — a statue of Victory
in bronze, but not fine — an immense number of small frag
ments, lamps, &c, and among them many remains of a
Christian era. In the Church of St. Afra an altar-piece
by Tintoretto. In Bergamo visited the academy — L'Academia Carrara
— an establishment that has been of importance, but is now
seemingly fallen into decay. The custode opened the win
dows upon my visit. There are no fine works of art. The
galleries are large ; some of the rooms stuffed with copies
by former pupils, stowed away, tumbled one over the other,
dusty and forgotten. Many strong hopes are sunk since
these were produced. The casts are broken. Here I saw
a cast of the fine face of Canova, taken after death.
The holy Virgin in the nook of a rock — in a little temple by
the side of a bare road over the flat plain, or on the rugged
Alps — in a country town, in a dark underground chapel,
lighted by a small lamp — on the front of an auberge — on
the front of a church — in a little case of wood nailed to a
tree, or in the same, stuck upon a pole, are alike common.
The vintage is advanced ; the vines are browned in the
leaves, red, or deep crimson, twisted over the trees, from one
to another of which they hang, yellow in some parts, but
oftenest strong red, against the green of the cropped willows

70 VENICE.
or olives ; while from their festoons, in dim, bluish, purple
clumps, the grapes are suspended.
Road from Verona to Vicenza. The damps of evening
were rising — they had almost hid the
ground — a clump of trees rose above it,.
and were reflected in the haze as in water.
I observed a peasant looking at the car
riage, present a brow wrinkled so —
St. Mark's is a strange confusion of architecture. Inside
it has a solemn effect. Gilded domes and gilded arches
behind, around, and above others, and others again ; pillars
of porphyry, of bronze, of granite, and of coloured marble,
and all kinds of wood ; mosaic pavement and mosaic'd walls
in every corner. The Ducal Palace displays painting,
sculpture, carving, gold, and marble, lavishly ; hard by which
stands the winged Lion on a ponderous granite pillar ; and
in front of the Duomo are the standard-poles of states now
no longer tributary ; while in front, above its entrance, are
the four bronze horses of Lysippus, from conquered Constan
tinople. I have been in the dungeons of the palace — at the door
of the Bridge of Sighs, which is not to be passed, it still
being an entrance to the prison. That is still in use — its
walls are still strong — and why should not the dungeons,
mouldy as they are, be kept warm ?
Monday, 1.5th October. I resume my letter, after having
been painting busily in the Ducal Palace in the forenoon,
and in the afternoon among the great Venetian works in the
Academia. On seeing the Ducal Palace, I resolved to stop
some time here ; and on visiting the Gallery of the Aca
demy, I saw at work an old Trustee and Life Academy stu
dent, M'Innes, who has been here for about half-a-year.
He mentioned he was in excellent lodgings, and he would

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 71
inquire if I could have a room in the same house. This I
got, and though the same in price — one franc per night — as
the Poco Camera, as an old hag of a chamber-maid called
that which I had taken at the inn, is large and convenient.
I am in the midst of the colourists of Italy — the Vene
tian school. Some of them fall short, while others are supe
rior to what I expected. Upon the whole, there is nothing
overwhelming. I had always judged painting by its senti
ment, its mental bearing, and thought most of invention and
new spheres of meaning. What may be among the multi
tudes of designers of Florence, as yet I cannot say, but all
those who here imitate the Florentines are fools ; they have
more need of mental vision than Don Quixote's windmill.
Titian is often a noble painter. If in certain respects he has
no expression, he is solid in material, and nobly composed
in his bearing. His greatest work is the " Assumption of
the Virgin." In the Ducale, Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese,
Palma, and numerous of their followers, are seen on immense
fields of canvass, and in fresco ; one picture, by Tintoretto,
of " Paradise," is sixty feet in length, being the whole breadth
of the election room of the Doge.
There are a number of English artists here at present,
but they are going off — some of them for Paris, and others
for Rome. M'Innes talks of leaving this in a month or two
for Scotland. I have written a short letter to William by
him ; he will tell you of our meetings, and of the modes here.
I again take up my pen after supper — a plate of grapes
and a crustaceous roll. I have more of the accustomed ways
of home here, than I have had since I commenced my jour
ney. I breakfast without having to go to a cafe", and also
have dinner provided by the people of the house, and get
my lamp, and am quiet in my room in the evening. " Servo
e commanda niente" — the Italians always speak to those to

72 VENETIAN PEOPLE, ETC.
whom they wish to shew respect in the third person— I often
hear, and the people are very attentive. It is chill now in
the morning and at night. I have just had straw mats
brought in for a portion of the room floor.
This is a silent city. The ways between the houses are
narrow, most of them ; so much so, that frequently the inha
bitants of different sides of a street might shake hands from
their windows. The bargemen are continually teasing by
the question, " Commanda barqua f " and the number of idle
loungers is immense. You cannot ask of any one, without
being pounced upon by some of the vagabondi, who are
almost as tenacious as the old man of Sinbad.
Saturday 27th. I resume my letter with the intention
of sending it by Dyce, whom I again met yesterday. I find
it will be longer than I expected before I reach Rome, as I
still have to pass through some of the most important places
in regard to art — Rarma, Bologna, and Florence — before I
make Rome my direct road. I go by Mantua to Parma,
but to do this from Venice the route is circuitous. I now
begin to like Venice, interrupted, confined, and confused as
it is. I lodge in one of the most open corners of the city —
a tree, almost the only one to be seen, opposite the- windows
— and I am close by the Piazza of St. Mark, on the front
of which of an evening the illumination of the setting sun
is magnificent. Its coloured and gilded architecture has a
flickering jewelled splendour — eastern, romantic, and vision
ary. I am well pleased that I took Venice on my way to
Rome ; there is much to be seen in painting here. Now I
am completely aware of the extent of the power of the Vene
tian school in art, and of its relative importance and influ
ence. The city itself must, I hope, be the origin of many
new ideas to me ; it is perfectly unique in its bridges, canals,
and architecture. The canals are not, however, so much

PAINTING IN THE ACADEMY. 73
the thoroughfares" as I expected ; many of them are silent,
and, when the tide leaves them, dead and ruinous looking.
This may be a change of late years, the ways being now
made more connected and paved.
I wish I could have remained here for somewhat longer —
the last month has driven on furiously. I have made some
sketches in*" the Academia and Ducale ; but I must leave
Titian, Tintoretto, Bonifazio, and Veronese, in a very few
days. There is a splendid gallery of casts here. I used to
consider the Edinburgh" collection as the finest in Europe,
but it is nothing to this.
How I should like to see you walking up in your im
portant way to a person at work in the great gallery of the
Academy, who is painting with a cloak on his shoulders,
has large mustaches — for his beard is not backward in its
growth — a broad lowland Scotch bonnet over his long hair,
and recognising him as your son.
I have met acquaintances more than I anticipated — first
Charles Lees, and then William Dyce, in Paris, and here
M'lnnes and Dyce again. I am well pleased I have been
here ; had I gone to Rome without having been in Venice,
I should have felt less armed.
Write me at Florence ; tell me what goes on, and what
all are about, if it is good — I don't want bad news. What
is C  about, he is sure always to come across my mind
when I am in the whirl of the music of the Italian Opera.
It is chill here now, almost as much so as with you, I
should think, but not so damp. I have only had two wet
days since I left home — one in London, and the first day
here — the equality of il tempo is delightful. In summer it
is oppressively hot. I see, from a Paris reprint of extracts
from English papers, that war is likely to take place ; this
is detestable. No English paper is to be seen here, and

74 st. mark's.
were that of Galignani, the Paris reprint for British travel
lers on the continent, not a miserable, bare thing, it would
not be here either. I expect news of every sort from you.
D. S. 30th October.
Sunday morning, 14th October 1832. In St. Mark's at
mass. Can any one see the rugged hind bend his knee be
fore the altar, or humbly in a dark corner on the plinth of
a pillar — or observe him, reverently, dip his finger in the
holy water, and his fellow unite in his reverence by touch
ing his wet hand, and cross themselves — or mark the old,
grey-headed, tottering woman, and the young, black-haired,
olive boy, kiss the image of the Child, and then that of the
Virgin, an image shining and smooth from the touch of
thousands of lips — without feeling at peace, for the time at
least, with the system of religion here, whatever its errors
and peculiarities ?
A wonderful pile is St. Mark's — ancient almost to decay,
nor yet time-worn. Every diversity of form, and every
variety of material seem accumulated, to amplify the char
acteristics of the structure. A combination of forms, colours,
and substances — a clustering of ornaments emerging from
the dim night of Byzantine art, with its constant sense of
imperfection, heap up an impression, deep, sombre, strong,
barbaric, rude, and great.
Passed, in a gondola, the Palace of the Foscari. It is
neglected — not ruined, but decayed. The Barbarighi Pa
lace, where are the works left by Titian at his death, is
dusty and dirty, sunken in splendour, dim, and old. Here
Titian died, and here are his latest works, or rather the
refuse of his study ; although this does not agree with an
account of the disposal of all his property by a profligate
monk, his son.

ETC. 75
Venetian Traits. " On the Rialto " saw one " vecchio"
looking the head of another for vermin. On the paved way
next the lagoon, noticed in the lazy sunshine a barber at
work shaving a fatherly bargeman. The lower orders of the
Venetians eat their meals standing at the windows or door
of the shop where they buy the mess. Crosses often painted
on the walls in the narrow lanes of Venice ; is this where
" the murderous knife." has shed blood ? The holy Virgin
made in wax, wood, and whitewash, worsted, or earthen
ware, may be met in a gondola, by the side of the canals,
at the turn of a silent street, or in the most public thorough
fares, in all manner of ways and everywhere.
The Venetians, in their works . in painting, are com
pletely material, all is the external of things that appears
there. That they have held by, and in that done well.
Titian, however, is always thoughtful, and in a few instances
gives a strong sentiment. Bellini (Giov.) is solid, but his
style is imperfect, and however patient, he is always short
of his aim. Titian, in his formed works, shews the mastery,
however bounded the intention may be ; and the works of
his followers show facility without effort. But they are
masters of certain facilities only.
None but Venetians could have been the authors of
their style of art. Their shining country, their strong
coloured dresses, the sea about them, with their ornamental
buildings topped with statues, and their general taste for
gilding and show, are all constituents and parts of a style
of life which has in one direction grown out into their style
of painting. This holds more or less strongly in regard to
the efforts of every country, however subtle or difficult the
analysis of it may be.
I have now been three weeks here, two more will, I
expect, satisfy me. Titian, Veronese, Tintoretto, Bonifazio,

76 UNITY OP VENETIAN ART.
in their colour, are as specific and as general as Michael
Angelo in his design. They are often individual, particu
larly Veronese and Bonifazio (the elder), in their design ;
often poor and often incorrect in their drawing; with the
exception of Titian they have little expression ; and for
historic characters present Venetian doges, -or Venetian
bargemen ; but still they deserve admiration, as the great
masters of one department of painting. Venice seems from
the first to have carried forward, even in the commonest
things, that intention which has in the end produced her
peculiar sphere of art ; and at the present day, in climates
where the influence of the originating causes have never
been felt, the art still dictates. This school presents one
instance, among the many, of the powers of accumulated
effort becoming a fixed and commanding essence as a
whole. I began this letter (as it will be long before you get it)
with the intention merely of introducing you to M'Innes,
but I have wandered. Write to me, and be very particular
in all things, your own ploddings of course included. Travel
ling begets another sort of life — another mode of working
the mental machine — the knowledge, acquired by study and
that acquired by travel are two roads which have a wide
termination certainly; the one draws forth the power of
active life, the other descends into the dark birth-places of
thought. What has led me here ? Yet ever thinking of
our quiet Sundays, and the books. 1 hope such is yet for
me to return to. Adieu.
To W. B. S.
The Venetian colourists are a pure emanation. It is im
possible they could have appeared any other where ; they are
peculiarly local, and are, or rather have been, strengthened

MARRIAGE OF CANA. 77
in all that gives them distinctive character by their climate
and commercial position. Here exists in completeness the
display of one of the most marked features of the system of
light and shade or effect, which they adopted — the relief of
a dark by a light, which I have nowhere seen with such
variety. In Scotland it would appear absurd (generally
speaking) to represent a man's face darker than the wall
behind it, here all the variety of such contrasts are strongly
presented. This portion of the means of painting — this
system of light or effect — is most fitted for what is bright and
allegro; the sterner Northern often demands more — the
terrible and the sublime. Venetian pictures may be looked
at again and again by him ; for example, the Marriage of
Cana, either the one in Paris or that here, and finding some
thing very fine and very different from what he has seen or
imagined, he is at a loss to know exactly what it is, and, at
the same time, why it. should only be there. Let him come
to Venice, and he will find the sky, the shining buildings,
the varied costumes, the character and tone of the coun
tenances, the pomp, (I cite times past by their remains), the
richness, and the decoration, produce the same feeling.
Veronese, of all the school of Venice, is more peculiarly and
exclusively local. His Feasts, called the Marriage of Cana,
with the introduction of a head with a glory round it, are,
I should suppose, faithful representations of the great enter
tainments of his day. There you have himself, his friends,
nobles, waiters, pages — all as they were in the action and
dress of his time. The others of the school, though all
obeying similar imitative impulses, give a much wider
direction to their application. Tintoretto in every respect
is frequently wide of individuality. Titian — I ascend — the
venerable father of these and many more, is at times very
grand in design. The Assumption of the Virgin is one of

78 THE WATCHMAN OF
the greatest works in painting for ponderous power, driving
colour to a height which has nothing at all to rival it.
But oh ! what is to be seen here to fulfil what painting
ought to and can perform? Nothing. Titian is an old
man without imagination in all his works; Tintoretto a
blind Polyphemus ; Veronese a doge's page.
3d November. L. Macdonald has appeared here to
day. He passed through Germany. I have your letters
by him. Dyce and I travel together from this to Mantua,
which he has thought of visiting with me. He has made a
number of sketches during his excursion, which, I dare say,
you would like to see. He carries knowledge with him to
his practice of art. I have now met, I suppose, all the
Scotsmen who are here. There is one, a painter, copying
in the galleries, whom I never saw before.
The number of bells in Venice is very great ; they are
continually ringing and striking the hours. What with the
assistance of iron men (an immense bell above the large
clock near St. Mark's is struck by two long-legged Gothic
iron figures), and living bellmen, not a devil can dare to
approach Venice.
I now must close my book until I reach Rome, which I
expect will be in less than a month from this date. My
stay has been longer than I expected in Venice ; altogether,
I have been much longer on my journey than I contemplated.
On Monday I leave for Mantua ; from that I proceed without-
delay to Parma, Bologna, and Florence.
MOKNING. VENICE. Nov. 1832.
The watchman ofthe Campanella tower
Sleeps and beguiles us ofthe hour —
No, no, he strikes, one, two,
Three. That silent man,
All night pacing the high turret top,

THE CAMPANELLA. 79
Now looking at the stars, now at his feet,
Grows, like the bell he tends, all silent, save
When struck upon, by asking him a question,
Then answers he in short hard tones ; anon
His arms are folded, and he passes round,
And turns once more the thousandth time
Round by -the wall to six strides of a course ;
He'd keep a secret such a man, but then
'T would only be to lock it in a book
Writ in a tongue long dead.
The expectations of a man like him —
The hopes of such a one — what can they be ?
Thanks, holy Mary ! I am not that man.

PARMA.
13th November 1832. Here I have been three days,
and have seen all that is worthy ; one day more, and I go.
This is the place of Coreggio; here is the famous dome; and
here are five of his oil pictures, one of which, the one, is the
St. Jerome. It is very beautiful. Coreggio is the painter
of the suave ; none but he for round-lipped and soft- winged
angels, and that face of the Madonna, with circled brows
melting into light and into shade. I have been in the dome,
and face to face with the frescoes. That mode of painting,
as I have yet seen it, makes me melancholy ; nothing can
better exhibit the scathe of time. To attempt to restore the
works here would be their immediate destruction. Julio
Romano,, at Mantua, is dead. The general design of his
works is so far still to be seen, but save that, he is departed
from them ; and so is it with all the frescoes I have met —
the claws of destruction are in them.
Looking for pictures, I was this morning in the Church
of the Capuchins. I asked one of the monks who went
round with me if I could see the monastery. Readily I

80 WOOD FIRES.
could ; and I was led up to a large place, a sort of loft,
divided by ranges of small apartments. On the door of each
was a print representative of the Virgin, with saints, above
which was the name of the monk of the cell, and on the
lintel that of the patron saint. All was very silent ; gloomy
enough maybe ; but one — the monk to whom I spoke— -was
a strong, smiling man, young and unworn. Their dress is
'of a lightish brown coarse stuff, with the hood and side-
sleeves you have often seen represented. They wear a sort
of sandal. Last night, in the theatre, I saw Maria Louisa, the for
mer Empress of France; she is" now Duchess of Parma.
The Italian stage is miserable, to my thinking. Now as I
write, I have a wood fire burning on the hearth — no grate ;
the weather is cold and wet : all day the rain has run down.
I like a wood fire ; it spreads the heat more than coals, and
has much ease in appearance. The other night, in a country
inn, I was in a large sola alone ; all was dull, desolate, and
drear. I ordered an oddity of a whistling demon-waiter to
put on a fire, and the wood-blaze shone comfortably back in
a moment from every corner of the room. The length of
my stay in Venice, the time occupied in travelling there,
and returning, with the week that I was detained in that
common thoroughfare, Geneva, all have advanced the sea
son on me, and I am now anxious to be in Rome.
Memoranda. Passed a curious little village built in the
form of a cross, the head of which was a large square, the
body the principal street. The houses here are all brick,
the walls very thick and strong. The pavement also is of
long bricks ; the walls of the houses project, at the bottom,
to a great thickness. Noticed in this neighbourhood the
hooded cap, attached to the cloak or doublet, seen repre
sented three or four hundred years ago.

BYZANTINE ART. 81
In a little village church of St. Francisco, a Byzantine
representation, above the altar, of two angels supporting two
arms against a cross— the one possibly of God, the other of
Christ — a singular instance of ridiculous whimsical invention.
The grossness of some of these votive figurings is like the
very ebb of the artistic faculties. The cross, with the
spear, the sponge, the nails, and the crown of thorns, is
nothing. Here in a sort of half-picture, half-sculpture, or
bas-relief coloured, of St. Francis receiving the Stigmata,
are actually red cords, to represent the blood, suspended
from the feet, hands, and side of the figure of Christ to those
of the saint, who is supported on each side by an angel — a
background of hills purely green, and streams white. In
this little church, at the altar of St. Antonio of Padua, hang-
broken weapons, pistols, and guns, from which those by
whom they had been offered had escaped injury ; and
around are numerous small pictures representing his bene
ficial intervention. In one, a man and his wife tumble
out of their carriage, when the Saint and the Virgin appear
in a glory occupying nearly all the picture ; in another, a
man falls from a house ; again, a boy from a window ; a
lady, in her night chemise and cap, asleep, scampers from
her chamber window, while the Saint views her half-robed
charms, but the Virgin, lest her modesty should be offended,
keeps her dress right ; in others there are beds, and what
appear both men and women in them, but the Saint keeps
strict watch over all. The letters P. G. R. are usually on a
label in each of these specimens of devotion. But gratitude
to providence is even here expressed. The sacristan and
clerks are all in the dress of St. Francis — the monastic
order which seems most associated with meanness both of
condition and thought.

82 BOLOGNESE COLOUR.
In this village noticed the green dress, but of common
make and material, which Veronese so often painted.
The crossing of the Po rather remarkable. The num
bers of oxen and pasengers — their drivers, ox-like men,
with their long poles — the flat river, with its sand-banks in
the middle — the oxen, with their enormous heads, and
enormous halters on their necks — altogether uncommon.
BOLOGNA.
Thursday, 15. I have had a glance at Bologna and its
school of painters. It is a heavy, dark, and gloomy looking
town — this being not a little caused, I think, by the piazzas
which are along nearly all the streets. The weather has
been wet and very dull, which, no doubt, will not aid a
favourable impression. The school of the Caracci is like
its town, dark and coarse (the high tower is a smith's forge
below), and has little of the elevation of ideality in it,
though often pursuing that in form. In certain respects
they have propriety and a sort of heavy sentiment, but they
are gross and cumbrous. Their colour is palpable and ex
ternal, I should so term it, in distinction from the Venetian
and that of Corregio, which I should call subtle and salient.
In a short while their sombreness oppresses — it is black
ness to darkness — and often not being united to expression,
which allows or demands such, disgust follows. Thus they
have affected me. Raffaello here too in the St. John, and
also in the famous St. Cecilia, is not what I expected.
Some of his faces are decidedly disagreeable. The print of
St. John is better than the picture. Vandramini deserves
happy dreams all his life from the ghost of Raffael for what
he has done for this picture. In colour both these Works
are brown and musty.

DECAYED FRESCOES. 83
Bologna, like Venice, is rich in churches, and they are
full of pictures by the painters of the place. There is a
singular leaning tower, not quite so much staggered as that
of Pisa, I understand, but quite enough to speak of its
inebriety. Friday night,. I am driven so soon to my room by the
shortness of daylight, that I have too much time in the
evening, and too Httle for my present needs during day.
To-day I have been in various galleries and churches, and
one old monastery : saw Michele in Bosco out of the town,
at the top of a small hill. The pictures that are, or rather
were in the cloisters of the monastery are gone ; a hand
here, a head and an arm there, are all that remain ; and
the beauty which Fuseli described as " moulded by the hand,
and inspired by the breath of love," whether it ever deserved
such terms of commendation or not, (which I am inclined to
doubt) is gone. Only the merest fragments of these works
remain. The day was rainy and foggy. Bologna lay in
the flat below, in drowsy obscurity ; not a being was near
me on the hill ; and, though not high, I suppose, from the
desolateness of the vacated monastery by which it is crowned,
there was intense solitude. The mist was rolling into the
silent halls. The view around, from the hill, must be very
fine, when the sun is bright, and the seasons advancing.
These are the only hills I have seen since shortly after pass
ing Milan. From the bottom of the Alps all Lombardy is
flat ; Scotland is far superior to what I have yet seen of
Italy for varied landscape. It is bare of trees — there are
large plants and poplars, but nothing almost worth calling
a tree. Memoranda. A gilded heart, often given to the Virgin,
stuck on a picture — a crown or a sceptre, in silver, on an old
dark picture — this is annoying. o 2

84 THE BARBER.
On approaching the Appenines, the horses of vans, &c.
to be seen with large crimson and red covers, all of one
colour — the effect is striking and very rich.
OR A, a frequent inscription over the doors of churches ;
AXQ, frequently inscribed on graves ; or at each corner, X..
Interrupted, when sitting down to write — by whom?
The barber — peruquier of the house, as he styles himself.
This is twice to-day I have been asked if I did not need a
barber ? Bless the Italians for their attention to such an
extent of accommodation ! I understand that here they are
not permitted by the Austrians to wear mustaches. This is
indeed a conquered country, it would appear.
13th November, Tuesday. Zambeceari Palace. Strange
were the thoughts of some of the Gothic fathers of painting.
Some German works here painted on wood have the but
tons and edges of the garments actually raised, as if they
were more existent, and, to their notion, material, than the
other parts. Here Andrea Mantegna appears as a true
genius in the yet fettered time of painting — in the age when
its means would not express the ideas of such men. Art is
long, as has been said, and it is only after a certain time,
and by the accumulation of attempts, it gains the full power
of speech. " 'Tis pitiful, 'tis wondrous pitiful," to see men advanced
in hfe, by way of study, copying the productions of the
school here — heads, hands, and feet, like boys in an academy !
How can they find themselves gainers by this ? One old
man is making a copy, the size of the original, from
Raffaello's " St. Cecilia," but this, I suppose, he must be
employed for, and that is his excuse. There is no knight-
errantry in his intentions now I daresay.
Bologna may be called The Dirty — although over the
whole of Italy there is much filthiness.

HE LEAVES BOLOGNA. 85
Here, for the first time, saw old women sitting with
portable fires beneath their petticoats.
The old sacristan of San Giacomo Maggiore was at mass ;
two boys went for him while I waited.. He came, holding
by them, being blind. They tell him the subjects of the
pictures, and he gives the names of the painters with great
enthusiasm — he goes over the whole church — he will not
take money, but leaves it to the boys, one of whom takes it,
and, returning, grasps my hand, and kisses it. Poor little
fellow ! This was a sort of devotion I was not used to. Had
I expressed by my looks interest in the old man, to whom he
might be related ? or was it the coin, that best of all things ?
BETWIXT BOLOGNA AND FLORENCE.
Now crossing mountains, amidst mist and gloom,
Time looks with various eyes upon me ; oft
I see, in bright day, a black scowling form
Betwixt me and the sun ; and when, as now,
Darkness is round, through the obscure I see
A shining form. Days, nights, may come and go,
And bring their changing hues with them : the mind
Is toned and tempered from a different sphere.

FLORENCE.
Tuesday night. The post was my first place here, and
there I got your letter. It was cut open, slashed, and
smoked. Two days ago I left Bologna, and I am now a
day in Florence. Florence is larger and more ample in
appearance, has more greatness in its style, than the other
Italian towns I have seen. To-day I have procured a lodging
— been in the Ducal Gallery — the Cathedral — Santa Croce,
where are the tombs of Dante, Buonarotti, Alfieri, Galileo,

86 VAST EXTENT OF PAINTING IN FLORENCE.
Macchiavello, Aretino, and -many others who are dead — and
San Lorenzo, where I could only, through a carved door,
see part of one of the Medici monuments, the slumberous
head of Night. The Cathedral is an elephantine pile of
brick, faced with marble, white, black, and red, making
somewhat the same impression on me as the hulk of a
hundred-and-fifty gun ship. All is flat, square bulk. The
dome is like a helmet for Mont Blanc. The old Palace
possesses some dreadful labours in painting, by Vasari.
Most of the churches are unfinished. The streets, like the
narrow ways of Venice, are paved with flat stones all over.
Here I have been nearly a week, and have seen almost
all that is noted. The galleries of the Ducal and Pitti Pa
laces I am often in ; they are splendid collections. Many
ofthe monasteries, and all of the interesting churches, I have
seen. The labours of painting work in these monasteries are
immense. I wander under painted piazzas, where I meet
no one ; and many are the dark vaulted passages, covered
with painting in mouldering decay. To-day I met a melan
choly young monk, wood-shod and hooded, slowly mounting
a few steps into a passage of the church of the monastery.
I accosted him, to ask the name of the painter of some of
the cloisters. Without raising his wan face, and in a de
pressed voice he answered, uIo non so sono forestiere /' and,
passing on, crossed himself before a crucifix in the passage,
and wound into the church. There, in the churchyard alone,
could such " a stranger" see a glimmering of the pointing
finger of Hope. It was piteous, as a disease is piteous.
The. letter from Lady Ruthven to  , only cost me
an hour or two seeking the manikin, and looking at his poor
works. By Ritchie's letter to ¦  , I saw the works of
a Florentine— not a Buonarotti. Mrs. C  and her
daughters are quite cognoscente in all art and poetry. I

CHARACTER OF IT. 87
have been to see several places with them, and in their house
various times.
Friday night. I have seen much, and now know art as
it appears in Florence. Of the antique here, is the Venus
di Medici ; the Niobe Family, the best figures of which are
ofthe grand Greek era ; the Dancing Fawns ; the Wrestlers,
&c. Titian's famed Venus is here — two of them, indeed —
why not a dozen ? Some of Raffaello's works, among them
the St. John, a copy of which, by himself, I did not admire
at Bologna. This is superior, but still the print is as good.
The Florentines — the coverers of large canvasses — after the
time of Michael Angelo, are degraders of art. They paint
interminably ; and what do you see ? — ever the same : there
is no expression, no history. The older masters are vene
rable, stern, and true : from them Buonarotti arose, having,
as is the case with the great masters of all the schools,
received materials of art at their hands ; he gives them har
mony and ease. Add the individual characteristics, more
or less powerful, and there is the Buonarotti, the Raffael,
and the Titian. The formation of the language of painting
is seen here — the same is exhibited in Venice. Fine ideas
and beautiful intention are often trammelled in expression :
however, there is frequently much harmony between the
style of thought and the means of its indication — there being
often, in both, that sort of simplicity we call naivete. Be
tween the mode of the old masters here (I mean before Buo
narotti) in producing their intellections, and that of the older
poets, there is much in common — in both, much individua
lity of imitation, united to great abstractedness and symbolic
remoteness, with all the vagaries of an early day. Both are
full of features, the manner of the formation of which is acci
dental, rising out of their freedom from, and ignorance of,
critical rules. The ideas and separate portions of their works

88 ROMAN CATHOLICISM.
hang together by a connection often perfectly unforeseen, or
are separated in a way that mere inventors — makers I should
call them, in this view — of tales, poems, and pictures, do not
often venture upon, or rather do not dream of. Shakspere
is like them at times.
Memoranda. Thursday, 22d November. In the Duomo
the number of clerks and priests chaunting before the altar
greater than I have before seen. They are very constant in
their offices here : the candles, held by two clerks on each
side of the principal reader, raised at particular parts of the
service. In various of the chapels, old men and poor people
praying and kissing the stones. Now the priests are all
scattered ; some whipping off their mantles ; others pacing,
most solemnly, into the sacristy. One meets his acquaint
ance, and gives him snuff — all is over for a time.
The Baptistry. Baptisms are going on — a number are
waiting with their children. The priest comes among the
fathers and mothers standing carelessly about, and reads the
obligations of the dirty and ragged father, who seems hope
lessly unable to take care of himself.
Sunday. In the Grand Duke's Chapel at mass. The
pomp and splendour of Roman Catholicism overcomes the
feelings for the moment. The incense dimming the four
times seven candles of the altar — the music of instruments,
and the more moving human voice — the splendid dresses of
the priests, their kneelings, their prayers, and benedictions —
all lift the mind into a sensitive sphere only proper to be
associated with the exalted and great. On the wall oppo
site to where I stood was a crucifixion — poor and wretched.
At that moment, forgetting the sectarianism, priestcraft, mo-
nasticism, and all the evils that spiritual pride generates, I
would gladly have enlisted to exalt the faith, whose forms,
as displayed now before me, were so strongly impressive.

- MICHAEL ANGELO'S STAFF. 89
The Dowager Duchess was there : her deportment was like
acting; she turned up her eyes — shut them — clasped her
hands — bent down her head. I sketched her. Afterwards
walked in the garden of the Pitti. Splendid. One foun
tain in particular; more so than in Paris. There is more
ease and more richness; not the trimness and the formed
deformity. Mr. Wyld, a cogitative Edin burgher, was with
me. Tuesday, 27th November. Visited the house of Buona
rotti. Saw the rooms he inhabited — his study — even some
of the oil-flasks of glass which he used, and pots of colour
— rods, for I do not know what — his staffs — two of them —
I held one, and put it to the ground — it was firm. The
largest room is painted with histories from his life on the
sides and roof; and, at one end, is a large oil-picture by
himself, painted on wood, the subject — The Virgin with the
Child and Saints. It is dreadfully incorrect in' drawing ;
the perspective of the parts quite poor, and the anatomy
very juvenile. It puts me in mind of some of my own
attempts of years since — I mean in the sort of blundering,
uniting parts wrong, and suppressing some, to the exaggera
tion of others. In some portions there is great strength of
imitation, and in some of the faces, &c, the colour is good,
and the style formed ; but the execution is feeble and re
strained — the feet badly formed. I suspect he was not
accustomed to a flat surface ; but how fine the tone of colour
is in some respects. That of the flesh is equally general,
but more elevated than Titian. There are one or two chalk
sketches — one partly finished — of most patient labour, very
minute ; and there is also an unfinished marble and a bronze.
Some of the histories from his life are very well painted.
In the Pitti Palace saw the Venus by Canova. It is by
no means a perfect work, but it is very beautiful. The face,

90 ANATOMICAL MODELS.
feet, and hands, are very finished. The surface of the feet
is equal to that of the Venus di Medici. The head and
upper part in general is too large for the lower. It is in a
beautiful circular room, seemingly made for it, at the end of
a splendid suite of apartments. The splendour of the silk,
gold, and carved furniture of these rooms, exceeds anything
I have ever seen. Silk-covered walls, gold-covered tables
and chairs, gilded roofs, crystal chandeliers, and mirrors.
The apartments are small and light ; they seem made to be
inhabited — not so those of some wide vacant palaces. This
is the Palace of Italy.
In an old sculpture, on the tower of the city, Eve is re
presented coming full size out of the side of Adam. The
architecture of this tower (by Giotto) is remarkable.
In the Medici Chapel, struck with the propriety of effect
in the great statues by Buonarotti ; this I- consider had not
been done with foreknowledge, but arose from the strength
of the conception.
Wednesday. Visited the museum in the morning.
Here is the most extensive and well-executed collection of
models I suppose in existence — it is by far the finest I have
seen. The figures are curiously imitated. The lubricity of
the tendons, and their hardness, is excellent; the muscles
and bones are also very true. The Plague represented here
is done with a true gusto for the appalling, and the modeller,
Gaetano Zumbo, seems to have revelled in the different
stages of decay with the familiarity of a vampire.
Spent a long time in the gallery of the Ducal Palace,
chiefly in study of the Venetians. After the gallery hour,
walked with Mrs. C  and her daughters to the San
Nunziata. It is without the gates of Florence, on one of
the neighbouring heights ; a romantic old church, where the
rich gorgeousness of the gifts, and the rudeness of a country

DRAWINGS BY THE MASTERS. 91
church, are blended by time. The marble screen is of sur
prising workmanship ; the pulpit is rich, and also of marble.
We went into the subterranean church, some of the pillars
of which are ancient Roman. The crypt is extensive, many-
pillared, and decorated. The ladies seated themselves be
hind the altar, and began to sing. They sung Scottish
songs — we stood in the shade among the pillars and listened.
The music wound among the arches, sweeping and circling,
till it died in lengthened tone in the recesses of the vault.
The gleam of a dull oil-lamp flickered on the altar and its
cross. The gloom and the antiquity of the place — the de
lightful voices — all was soothing. But shortly, as if the
spirit of the vault had been disturbed, there was a loud
rattle above ; it scared the ladies, they ceased singing, and
retreated from their seat. We ascended, saw large frescoes
by Spinelli, and came down the hill to Florence through
a dull mist.
Ascended the tower designed by Giotto, which is the
most perfect and strong of this species of building which I
have seen. The dome of the cathedral stood below like a
mighty spectre in the mist, in which the whole town was
wrapt. After this, to the Ducal Palace, and got my per
mission to view the drawings. Went over Perugino, Buon
arotti, and Raffaelo, having passed from Cimabue down to
those. Perugino, as in his pictures, is careful, stiff, and
timid ; his drawings are all done with a pen, and hatched.
Raffaelo is the same in his early drawings ; but of these
there are only two or three, many of his drawings being
outlined only with the pen, and shaded by a wash. They
are often free and slight. Buonarotti often uses the pen ;
but the greater number of his sketches are in chalk, some
of them being minutely done with very sharp-pointed lead
or chalk, the whole rubbed on with the greatest softness —

92 TOMB OF THE MEDICI.
always distinct. Sarto's drawings are like his pictures;
they are undefined and muddy; mostly done in chalk;
scribbly and rough ; often altered. The first drawing of
the series was earlier than Cimabue; quite a manuscript
illumination. Cimabue a little gilded. Giotto, Lippi,
and others later, were simply done with the pen. Masaccio
the most free, though scarcely to be termed so, but firm and
distinct, and bold in expression. On quitting the gallery,
walked with the ladies to a hill in the neighbourhood,
crowned by a monastery, from whence the city and country
is seen all around. Florence seems never to end. The
houses are sprinkled out around in every direction — the
poplars and cypresses are most abundant ; they are every
where interspersed — the whole scene most rich and varied.
Mrs. C  remarked the demand the Italians made for
objects to gratify sight, and afterwards carried her obser
vation to what has struck me in respect to Venice — that
the Italians seemed certainly to be differently organised
in that sense from any other people. In the evening met
an American sculptor in her house.
Friday. Sketched in the morning, and after breakfast
went to the Chapel of the Medici. The great propriety of
the light and shade on the figures of the monuments, in
respect to their positions, is remarkable; but I certainly
think Buonarotti did not study that in producing them.
Morning is all in the light, except the feet, which receive
a dark shade. It is of a greyish colour, from not being
so highly polished on the surface (the head is only blocked
out) as that of Night, which is clear and glossy. The
bent-down head of Night takes a strong shade. The figures
on the other monument, with the exception of the statue of
the Medici above — Day and Twilight, as they are called—
are more generally perfect and harmonious in design, but

DRAWINGS BY THE MASTERS. 93
not so expressive. The head of Mid-day is very great.
The statue above is terrible. The face takes a dark shade,
the vizor of the helmet only being fight, He frowns like
a demon — he is one.
Afterwards went into the Duomo, where a great many
priests were chaunting from an illuminated missal. The
place was very dark — the huge volume belted to the high
desk. Two priests moved the belt and turned the leaves.
The lamp, shaded from the rest of the choir, shone on the
back of their tonsured heads. Here they chaunted " Amen,"
and grinning, handed about their snuff-boxes. Mr. Wyld
was along with me. Our discourse was of thingsunseen —
God, religion, hope. From the Cathedral went to the
Ducal Palace. Saw the drawings of Vinci and Bartolomeo.
Vinci's pen or his chalk are alike precise. He is true, and
there is great purity, it may be almost said, in his style.
The minuteness and distinctness of his chalk, and, at times,
the freedom of his pen, are alike at will. Frate's are with
pen and chalk too, but in his pen he is frippery, and in his
chalk many-lined, compared to Vinci. The difference is
striking. ^
At Santa Maria Novella, there is a large laboratory,
through which we were conducted, with its extensive ware
house, alembic, &c, which again brought my contemplated
series of designs, The Search for " the Philosopher's Stone,"
to my mind. Through the grated door, we looked down
into the court of the monastery. All was silent; but an
old man in the distance was cutting the grass in the form
of a cross, whether accidental, for a walk, or with intention
in regard to the form, I know not.
Again was in the convent, the cloisters of which are
the most extensive I have been in, the square the largest —
a monk breaking the silence, chaunting at his cell door,

94 CATHEDRAL OF SIENA.
with a book in his hand— the sun shining on his white
frock. Sunday night. I now take up my letter for the last
time in Florence. I go on Tuesday for Rome by way of
Siena, the other route not being frequented at this season
of the year. I travel with four French painters, one of
them, a clever man, I met in Venice, the other is a pen
sioner of the French Academy in Rome. You are, I dare
say, desirous to know how I get on with Italian ; and I
may tell you that I was complimented the other day by a
picture-dealer, whose shop I went into, to see his collection.
He said he took me for a Frenchman, I spoke Italian so
well. This was no doubt a great honour ! I may as well
accept it as a compliment, and tender it to you as an evi
dence that I now try at least to speak Italian.
SIENA.
Memoranda. The Cathedral of Siena is only second
to St. Mark's in grandeur, and to Milan in architecture;
the altar-piece is good, of a broad, flat style in the colour,
and, at the same time, of true design. There is a holy
Virgin and Angels of the style of Cimabue. The lunette
over the altar is in a superior style of design, simple, and
well balanced, yet free. Some of the pulpits, &c. are very
fine. The floor is an astonishing work, being all, or the
greater part of it, covered with figures executed in a sort of
simple mosaic of marbles of different colours — the back
grounds grey, and the figures white. The room, designed
by Raffael, and painted by his fellow-disciple Pinturiccio,
is a fine specimen of the old style. Raffael was certainly
a beautiful spirit come among the artists of the old stiff
school ; in their own way he is delightful. The ornaments

DISPUTANTS. 95
on some of the dresses, which are very fine, are actual brass
work put on the picture.
Wednesday night. In the Locanda — a French dispute
on politics. A strange scene — the roar, the attitudes, the
knocking on the table, the cracking of hands altogether, and
furious energy expressed in the language — even spittle from
the mouths flying about !
Thursday. Travelling a desolate, broken country. No
milk to be got at the inns. A dispute on the mode of mak
ing plates and dishes — being seated between the two dis
putants, found energy not agreeable at all times.
This day have passed a most picturesque country, wild,
and of great variety. In the evening entered Acquapen-
dente by moonlight — a full, living, bright moon. The im
pression of this moonlight never to be forgotten — melancholy
— soothing — inspiriting. All this day the style of the
country through which I have passed has been markedly
Italian. The people carrying their little fire-pots with them
everywhere, is amusing ; old women have them on their
desks in church, fondle them, and sit upon them ; children
are seen waving them, like incense-pots, at the doors of
houses ; and men also cannot be without them.
Here, as in the neighbourhood of Florence, the females
wear the black hat which we solely appropriate to the males ;
although, about Florence, the broad straw hat of the Swiss
is often seen.
Friday. This day have been very unwell in the mor
ning, and yet, in the grey of night, I am alone, winding
along the banks of the Lake of Bolsena. All day unwell.
Evening on a high range of the Apennines. Splendid scenes,
but almost painful to me. The sun set upon a bed of clouds
far below ; it shone on their tops — on snowy hills ; they
glittered in the rays; there seemed liquid silver running
among them.

96 ILL HEALTH  ROME.
Saturday, mid-day. At last I am arrived within sight
of Rome. About ten this morning saw it lying slumbering
below in the distance. This has been a most painful journey
for me — I have had more suffering than I ever before en
dured. At present writing on the balcony of the resting
house in the middle of the Campagna ; the sun shining
bright, I feel better. A cardinal has just appeared. He
shuffled through the room, rather awkwardly, to a private
apartment. One sickly-looking being before the door ; but
the people in general do not seem to confirm the accounts
of the Campagna of Rome — they appear very healthy. The
Campagna is not flat, nor has it even the barren appearance
of a Scottish moor.
ROME.
(Letter.) At last I am in Rome, 8th December, my first
night in this which has been called the Eternal City. After
a tedious journey from Florence, I arrived here, worn, and
in need of repose ; but I have had none. A week of our
home parlour, regularity, and quiet, would dissipate my
exhaustion ; but Fate has said the first of Rome shall be
painful to me. Its glorious fountains scatter cold spray, and
its streets are scant of the sun. Thus beauties are defects
to languor and sickness. I have been unwell ; I suppose
over-exertion in Bologna, in the damp and wet there, and
the change of food — particularly the acid wines — has affected
me. For a month I have suffered. Healthlessness, how it
benumbs all ! I hope it has not affected my notions of
what I have seen here. I write this after having been
seven days in Rome. I have seen the Colosseum, St. Peter's,
the Sistine Chapel, and the Vatican — -all these mighty
things.

ENGLISH ARTISTS. 97
Leaving Siena, upon crossing the Tuscan and Roman
boundaries, we entered Acquapendente by moonlight. Oh,
beautiful and passionless moon ! Now I was in the patri
mony of St, Peter. Montefiascone and Viterbo passed -?-
Italian splendour-lost towns — the next morning Rome was
visible from the heights. I lifted my bonnet — my pilgrim
age was consummated.
Sunday night— my eighth day in Rome. I have deli
vered a number of my letters. I take my place at the artists'
dinner-table, and to-morrow I commence painting in the
Academy. There is freedom and ease of intercourse among
the artists here. I already know them of all grades,
Gibson, Wyatt, Scoular, Williams, Theed, Rothwell, and
others. These were strangers. Wilson and Macdonald
were known to me before. The noted Cafe" Greco is a com
plete confusion of tongues. It is a confined, dirty place ; in
the evening filled with men of all nations, who salute each
other through the fumes of tobacco, coffee, and punch. It
was here I read your letter last Monday morning. My
coffee was cold by the end of it.
I want some news of new books, the magazines, &c. I
might as well have been with St. Jerome, in the desert, all
this while, in respect to such things. The living world is
not to be known here. This is the place wherein to revisit
times past, in books, in pictures, in informed marble. All
the artists settled here, I suspect, are purely of the chisel or
the brush — of the studio, the dining-house, and the cafe". I
intend to write to W  of the arts here, present and
past. I have kept no regular journal, but have made notes
and memoranda. My residence in Rome I intend to jour
nalise. Sunday night, 22d December. I -have delayed closing
my letter, until I could tell you that I am well. I think of

98 THE POPE.
immediately commencing a picture— or pictures it may be.
William must tell those I promised to write— Rennie, Steell,
&c— of my having only now arrived in Rome, from whence
I was to write them. Rome is a splendid city. Its public
places are superb ; its piazzas, with their fountains and obe
lisks, its Campidoglio, its St. Peter's, its Porta del Popolo,
its Monte Cavallo, magnificent. Ancient Rome remains yet
wonderful — the Colosseum, arches, pillars, and pyramids
scattered about, are as the bones of a huge giant dug from
their enormous grave. Treading among its ruins, they seem
to sound hollow. Power which was, lies here, like the god
Dagon, with his face to the earth ; and his foolish priests,
where have they gone ? Have they fled, or have they only
changed their robes ?
You possibly may expect that I should describe St.
Peter's — the head and crown of modern Rome ; you must
look up some account of it instead. The building is very
large — it does not appear so ; the interior is ornamental —
not solemn. The whole is in clear light, which gives the
gold, which is profuse over the roof and columns, its full,
strong shine. The spiral bronze pillars of the altar might,
without dishonour to him, be the work of Vulcan and his
Cyclopes. The mosaics, I had been told, were as good as
their originals ; they are not ; that of the " Transfiguration"
is bad. Mosaic can work well, but here, unfortunately, it
does not. St. Paul's, in London, is more impressive at first
than St. Peter's.
Christmas night. This has been a day of grand cere
mony. This forenoon I saw the Pope perform mass in St.
Peter's — saw him carried in his chair, on the shoulders of
men, scattering his benedictions. In appearance he has —
whether the tiara effects that, I cannot say — much of the old
powerful look of the masters of the Vatican. Multitudes of

THORWALDSEN. 99
peasantry were humbling their brows at the toe of the old
bronze statue of St. Peter, the foot of which is worn by the
lips of Italian man. After St. Peter's, I walked with the
Wilsons to old Rome — was in the prison of St. Paul — in
the church where Constantine was baptized, and saw the
stair which Christ ascended when brought before Pilate;
brought, of course, either from Heaven or Palestine. Hun
dreds were ascending its casement — (it is enclosed in wood,
it was wearing so fast away ; its steps are seen, however) —
on their knees, all the while with their beads in their hands,
and repeating prayers which they began possibly a mile
before they arrived at the place, and continue long after they
have left it. The road was covered with mutterers, unco
vering and crossing themselves.
Yesterday was at Thorwaldsen's. . He is a large man,
quite like the busts — a full head and face — long white hair.
His personal appearance fully warrants his works. Here,
as everywhere, Hazlitt's elixir vitce genius is scarce. The
English Academy is a sober enough spectacle, too ; some
attending are mere attempters of the most wretched sort.
Sculptors are here innumerable ; I suppose painters the same.
The French Academy is a splendid establishment. If
such institutions can benefit art, it should ; but its professor,
Horace Vernet, commissioned by Louis Philippe to paint a
picture of one of the scenes of the Three Days, though an
undoubtedly clever man, has just produced a very common
affair. This winter, the British, German, French, and Ameri
cans here, are even more numerous than usual. I suspect,
by and bye, it will be necessary for all Americans, before
they hold a place in polite society in their own country, that
they should have visited the Old World.
The Venetian, I am more than ever strengthened in con-
h 2

100 VENETIAN COLOUR  RUBENS.
sidering the true method of execution, in disf inction from the
mode followed by other good colourists — Rubens, for ex
ample. It substantiates by its repeated processes, and
causes, in a degree, the reflection of fight which is produced
by actual objects. This, of course, is in a limited degree,
being produced upon a surface possibly not varying more
than the eighth or sixteenth part of an inch. Its semi-trans
parent, its solid, and its glazed colour, and smooth and rough
surfaces, all give light, as it were an actual object, instead
of a hard, dead, painted surface, like that of the Bolognese,
in which every ray is repelled from the surface, and no reflec
tion from transparent and semi-transparent pigments exists
— no variety in the reflection at least. Rubens, in opposi
tion to the Bolognese, is often altogether transparent, and
thus all his surface produces, to a degree, the same effect
again ; but from its great clearness, though very different
from the solidity of Venetian impasto, it is often not much in
ferior in producing a strong effect. Generally, when Rubens
comes in contact with Titian and Gi°rgione, he looks grey,
red, and brown ; but his genius, in design and general ferti
lity, as often again repays this with scornful superiority.
R  T  's priest's letter I delivered to the old
principal of the Scots College. I found him well, and ex
pected pleasant interviews, when he was to explain the cere
monies, and expound the doctrines of the church to me, but
yesterday, when I called again, I could not see him — he is
very ill. Since writing the above, I have asked for him —
he is dead.
January 3, 1833. I have delayed sending off my letter
until I could inform you of my resolves. I am now quite
well, and have seen much of art, modern as well as ancient,
in Rome. To-day I have seen Camucciui's works. They
are large, but, both morally and materially, he does not fill

HE TAKES A STUDIO. 101
all space. There is " ample room and verge enough" beside
the greatest modern Italian master's range! He paints
Roman historicals, and has no character in particular. A
" Pieta," by a younger Italian, exhibited in the public exhi
bition room, gave me no great idea of the living (moribund)
art of Rome. They are enfeebled by the attempt to arm at
all points — unfortunately a danger so far common to all
modern efforts, both in painting and poetry. A Russian is
spoken of who has nearly finished a picture of the Last Day
of Pompeii : it is not yet public.
After much looking about I have got a studio and room
in a house which was inhabited by a French painter. It is
away a little from the artists' quarter of the town (half-a^
mile) by St. Maria Maggiore. There is a French painter
still in a portion of the house. It is large — an old man and
his wife are in it as keepers. I knock at a door the size of
one of those of St. Giles' Church, and am admitted by a
small one which opens in the large iron studded portal. I
pass through an archway into a hall which might almost do
for a baronial carousal, and ascend to the first landing-place,
from whence my studio and room enter. My room is arch-
roofed, painted in the lunettes with Egyptian antiques,
starred in gold upon deep blue in the centre ; and on the
walls, at regular distances, are painted in large letters, the
names of Titian, Rubens, and others — but none of the great
Roman school — and specimens of their works in prints hang
below. The sun rises before my windows. When I went
to see the place it was morning, and the sun burst magnifi
cently from behind St. Maria Maggiore, and streamed down
the long street facing me, reminding me of Keats' Hyperion
Sunset, "glory for the God to enter in." The ancients
could not but make the sun the temple of a God — they
happily, too, made Apollo that God. Among my first ex-

102 THE SIBYLS  THE LAST JUDGMENT.
peditions, I visited Keats' grave. Shelley is buried near
him. I send you a sketch.
My study is large. I shall immediately commence
something to agree with it in size ; but first I shall so far
advance with the pictures I have to do for the Rector of
 . I have fixed for six months at seven dollars a
month. I could not find a proper place for a shorter time ; at
all events I am warned that I should not risk Rome in autumn,
so I must either go to the country or return home at that
time. This winter has been considered very cold weather ;
much more so than usual in Rome, there having been ice
nearly half-an-inch thick in the Borghese gardens in my
neighbourhood. When the season is milder, I shall make
some fresco studies in some of the great places of old art
— the Vatican or Sistine Chapel — one figure, at any rate, I
copy, which I have promised to do for Dyce — the Delphic
Sibyl. Solidly grand, but imperfect things, the Sibyls and
Prophets are.
Whether I have opportunity, desire, or means, to make
Rome a longer residence than this winter and spring, I can
not at present say ; but here, as everywhere, time and effort
are required.
In effect, and nearly in expression, you have the famed
Transfiguration in the Edinburgh copy. The execution of
the original is different however. In Florence and Rome,
fresco painting is in its strength. Before I got the length
of Florence, I was only impressed with its perishableness.
There and here very old works in that manner are still fresh
and entire. The Last Judgment of Buonarotti, has, how
ever, suffered much — the roof is not so gone. You have
read of the grandeur of both— they are grand — they are
feeble ; they are powerfully executed— they are full of de
fects. They are abounding in deep thought— they are often

THE MOSES  THE VATICAN— RAPHAEL. 103
superficial — they are the best; and I had almost said the
worst of art. But all this needs to be understood.
Looking up just now, I cannot see a single star on the
arched roof of my room ; my lamp does not shoot its rays
so high ; above and around is all a vision ; the paper before
me alone is real.
* * * * *
Thursday. The Moses of Michael Angelo! It falls
short of what I had conceived of it. The head not fine ;
the beard a stringy mass, without truth ; the left arm does
not belong to the figure — it wants shoulder, and comes im
properly away from the rest. The finest part is the right
arm. The surface of the whole is too much polished. The
sculptor of the Laocoon has left that group as it came from
the chisel, no doubt with an intention; the smooth. surface
of the Moses is very offensive. The drapery is in a confused
manner ; the whole inferior to what I expected.
In the Vatican, Raphael's little histories from the Bible
are rather trifling things. They are painted by his pupils,
and some of them are poor enough : they are, besides, con
ventional representations of the scenes — remembrances of
the history of a figure or two. Thus, in the " Moses strik
ing the Rock," he is attended by a group of old men, who
all hold up their hands in one sentiment — that of wonder —
not one of them drinks. Acquainted with the dramatic
merits of his greater works, they have no effect upon me.
In many places they are unaccountably stiff and poor,
although possessing great truth of expression. In some —
the miracle of Bolsena, for instance — the colour is fine, like
Titian, &c.
Dominichino, in the famed St. Jerome, is laborious, and
somewhat repulsive. There is expression, but it is heavy ;
no ease — all is effort, and an attempt to hide that effort.

104 THE GRAVE OF SMALL ARTISTS.
* * * In returning from the Vatican, observed tapes
tries hung on a church (this being a day of more than ordi
nary note to that vestry, I suppose), representing wood
nymphs and satyrs, Diana and Acteon ! Make a show, that
is all — buttons or anything will do, as W  said, when
money is concerned. At night, in the cafe-, meet M'D  ;
accompany him to call on L  . Mrs. L  very diffe
rent from the most of young ladies — great strength of cha
racter. Friday 14th. How many are the artists, poor in means
and in ability, that find their way to Rome, and there dwell
in quiet, never more to disturb the world. To-day, seeking
a studio, I knocked at a door, to which I had been directed.
The apartments were occupied by a sculptor : I saw- his
works — bad enough; yet the poor fellow seemed to have
done all he was ever destined to do. Even busts seemed
out of his reach ; his studio was clean swept ; an unfinished
Cupid stood beside its model, but not a chip had been lately
struck of, the artist looked at it as if weary of the sight :
his hair was grey, he was past the days of light-spirited
hope. 15th. Saturday. Unwell. Receive a visit from the
surgeon ; a stupid looking fellow. Evening, at Mr.  's.
Shewed him my Monograms. He looked and looked them
over and over without saying a word, then asked if I had
seen the Sistine Chapel ; thought I would be the better for
it in " my book," and I must study there : in want of some
thing to say ! A young Italian artist came in, the sheets
were on the table, and he freely complimented them for in
vention. Was glad to find an Italian think of that quality.
Have seen nothing of Rome to-day.
Sunday. Better to-day. Visit Trajan's column, and
ascend it. It is of marble — a centre column, solid and

Raphael's cupid and psyche. 105
strong, round which a stair circles to the top. Have a view
of St. Dominica and St. Zaccherino. Enter St. Jesu — a
splendid church. Dine with the artists ; smart things said,
with freedom and noise. Then to the cafe" with Macdonald
and Gibson. M. pointed out causality on Gibson's head, as
we were talking of that old affair phrenology ; he avowed
he could not reason. He can, however — a man of firm na
tural powers, without much sentiment.
18th. At the Scots College and St. Luighi. At six
o'clock to the Academy, where I commence to paint in Rome.
Meet a number of artists at tea in Lady  's. Home to
my lamp.
19th. After the artist's mid-day dinner, to the studio of
Williams. His pictures good — perhaps somewhat neat.
In the Farnese Palace, Annibale Caracci is here the first of
the school in fresco. Ludovico and Guido Reni contend
with him in oil. He is great in academic power of the first
order: a gusto well suited to his subjects, and often fine
colour, sometimes sentiment. The stone figures are an idea,
and white necks of the horses of Aurora, raised against the
fresh blue sky, are very fine. The largest — that in the
centre of the roof — reminded me of Barry's Olympic Tri
umph ; Silenus is carried, and Bacchus rides in a chariot.
There is something, too, in the style of drawing and colour
ing in common between them. Go to the Farnesina, where
Raphael's Cupid and Psyche pictures are. In the two large
pictures on the roof—the Banquet, and the Council of the
Gods — there is much feebleness and incorrectness ; some
parts also small in style. The flesh is varied in tone, but
the colour is by no means good. The groups of Cupid rais
ing Psyche by his Love are much superior in general; some
of them very fine, the forms studied, full and ideal. The
Cupids in the smaller divisions — the roof being admirably

106 THE GALATEA — GUIDO's AURORA.
divided by great wreaths — are all beautiful ; flying about,
bearing pieces of armour and other matters, against a blue
sky. Here, also, is the Galatea. Had this picture been in
oil, it would have been one of Raphael's finest works — it is
so now in design ; the colour is not remarkable, the figures
small. The black chalk-head by Buonarotti is in this room;
it has no character. From the Farnesina go to the Corsina,
•where there is a very large gallery ; not many very fine
works, but many good. Dined with the artists. Plenty of
talk ; Vernet's daughter, they say, is very clever and beau
tiful, with £5000 ; some dare say they might marry her —
very probably ! Good tongue-exercise. At the Academy
in the evening. An oddity : — In a church to-day observed
a man kneeling at prayers, and leaning on the back of a
chair, his dog having sensibly seated himself thereon. The
large dog, nose to nose, and mouth to mouth, with his mas
ter — were they not good company ?
26th. Seeking a studio in company with an American.
See Guido's Aurora again — one of the finest productions of
Italian art. Guido is a great painter, next or along side of
Ludovico Caracci; Annibal is different from them both.
There is greater unity in this picture than the old masters
usually attend to. The colour is exquisite ; the glory round
the horses, and their colour ; the distant sea blue, and the
blue mountains ', the light robes and purpled clouds ; — all
approaches more to the splendid than any other production
of old art. Something might yet be done, however, to em
body the rising sun, were it allowed at this day to paint
such subjects without being accused of reviving worn-out
classicalities. Afterwards visit the Doria Palace, See g.
number of pictures by Nicholas Poussin and Gaspar— the
latter in landscape. Claude also here — indeed, more land
scapes in this gallery than in any other. Two pictures by

A SHOT IN THE DARK. 107
Buonarotti (proceeding from him at all events) — the one
Christ in the Garden, the other a Crucifixion. Titian
is here in a Sacrifice of Abraham ; like Rembrandt in
effect, and very individual — in a different style from Titian's
usual manner: in design, this is altogether unlike the Grand
Salute in Venice. Here is an Albert Diirer in the same
manner as that by him in the Barberini, but gross, and
bordering on caricature. The two heads by Raphael are
like Giorgione's colour — sternly real, and very strong rich
colour. Raphael a great colourist, as also is Perugino.
29th. At the Villa Albani, the sculpture here is- mostly
fragmentary — nothing of great beauty, but many reliefs of
great interest ; the busts, also, are interesting. A large ala
baster pillar, curious porphyry pillars, and fragments of rosso
antico, yellow marble and cold cream coloured, fine hues
for Venetian colour.
8th January 1833. Commence labour in Rome by pre
paring a piece of canvass. An ugly old woman calls with
a young one, whom she offers as a model — a habited model
only. Evening in the Academy. The English Academy
here disappoints every one who comes to Rome ; it is cer
tainly poor enough, both in appointments and ability. The
models are the best to be had .in Rome, but even these are
often no great things.
10th. All day in my studio till Academy hour in the
evening. Buy some colours, and go there. At night, re
turning quickly home to this out-of-the-way thinly inhabited
quarter, just at the most solitary part of the road, the de
scent on entering the avenue of the piazza, a shot was fired
close behind me. I wheeled round, but no one was visible;
in the dead silence, heard only some one making off. Felt
nothing at the time, but somewhat agitated after entering
the large dull house. What am I to do now ? Take a room

108 LEAVES HIS STUDIO.
in town, and drag myself out here to paint, or lose the
whole ? I have taken the studio for six months too. Can
do nothing to-night.
11th. By good chance out comes Niccolo the model,
who manages the affairs of the Dutchman Vambray. Tell
him of the affair. For one month's pay find I can get off
my lease, and resolve- to take them at their offer. Go about
all day with  looking for a studio. None to be had.
Take a room in Via Sistina, and sleep there.
12th. Early out to that desolate St. M. Maggiore. Pack
up my luggage, I am afraid not for the last time in Rome.
The miserable old fellow, Francesco, peeps about all the
time, afraid he will not get a scudo. Return to town — fail
in finding a studio again. From my new lodging, write to
Freeborn, the British consul, an account of my attack, that
he may transmit the same to the Roman police, having been
desired to do so. Finish the day in the Academy, satisfied
by .being busy. Melt the handle off my teapot, burn my
fingers, break the lid, knock it over, and put out the fire.
13th. Breakfast at the cafe". Attempt to design in
my room ; feel unsettled, and unresolved what to begin. I
have so many ends to compass, that it is impossible to do all
in one work ; indeed, trying to do so is the rock on which
modern artists shiver. I wish to do something great, but
know that doing so will not gain me money. I wish to
earn the means of residing here some time, but by painting
for that end, I must destroy another intention.
15th. Again the labour of seeking a studio. Depressed,
and tired, and ill. Designing in my room. Afternoon in
the Academy, evening at Severn's. He seems to be the
principal English painter here ; an agreeable person, and his
wife too. He is going to paint " A Mother giving up her
Child to Heaven." While I now write, the sentinel below

PERSONAGE DE LA VIELLE COMEDIE. 109
challenges every one ; hear the salutation and reply, " che ?"
" che viva." Must get up early to-morrow, to begin my
first sketch in Rome.
16th. Passing along the Corso, accosted by a dealer in
antiquity : a lamp made yesterday, or an intaglio of Jove,
real antiques, yet for a few bajocchi I could have had them.
17th. Again the day lost looking for a painting-room.
At the Academy, painting from that important and privileged "
person the model.
18th. Called on an Italian padrone of various extensive
apartments in the Piazza de Spagna. The first fine Ita
lian I have seen presented himself — the son of the landlord.
He stood with his feet close together, extended his arm, and
delivered his speech like an orator. I entered. An old
boy, his father, was seated against the light, in a chamber
scattered over with articles of dress, or rather undress, fur
nished after a splendid mode, with vases, tapestry, &c. A
ridiculous-looking barber -was treating his hair, powdering
and twisting it from the back to the front, and two or three
dependents, hat in hand, were receiving their orders. In
this man and scene, there was much of the old aristocrat,
and the elder comedies. Went to the French Academy
with Park. Found a splendid collection of casts crammed
into a room or gallery narrow as a passage. Observed the
cast of the female Torso, taken by the French from the
Parthenon, before Lord Elgin was in Athens. It is very
fine and true. This Piazza de Spagna— how often have I
wearily crossed and recrossed already since arriving in
Rome ? It is the lounge of hacks and vetturini in the day,
and at night  . On the steps of the church St. Trinita
del Monte, sit dog-clippers and beggars in the sunshine.
The poor dogs get here cut into lions, or shaven into mon
keys. Their hinder quarters especially employ the shears.

110 WORKS IN ST. PETERS.
18th. Call on the major-domo of the Vatican for a per
mission to study in the Sistine Chapel. Find him very
agreeable, and ready to direct me in making my application.
The Sistine Chapel is not a usual field for employment or
study. Afterwards in St. Peter's. Thorwaldsen's monu
ment to a Pope is but an indifferent affair. The two figures
of Divine Strength and Knowledge are the best of it ; the
old Pope is poor. Canova's is a production of more genius,
but at the same time open to great animadversion, especially
as regards modern school affectation. The worst mosaic in
St. Peter's is that of the Transfiguration. Some of the other
pictures are well done, possibly being easier to copy, as
Guido's Crucifixion, and his Raphael and Satan. Guer-
cino's large Entombment of a Female Saint is as good
as the picture. Poussin is well copied, and Caravaggio
or Spagnoletto also. Dominichino is as good as he de
serves. 19th. Done nothing to my satisfaction to-day. Two
or three designs, however. Macchiavello, one of them, I shall
yet turn to account. Viewed a church designed by Michael
Angelo. Dinner in the Piazza, and then at the Greco. Ca-
nova and Thorwaldsen, I am sure, little frequented the cafe".
The true artist must have a quiet and reposed spirit. Call
at Torlonia's about money. Does not recognize me again.
Tell him my name, when he holds out his hand and shakes
mine as an old friend. Give him my hand somewhat in
the way that the heir-apparent did .to T  , stiff as a deal-
board. In the Academy in the evening. Call with 
on Camuccini, the brother of the painter, for a permission
to. study in the Sistine Chapel. All matters in art are in
trusted to a committee. No picture can be bought or sold,
no artist employed, without the sanction of this committee.
Camuccini is at the head of it. Feel much better now.

BRULOFF. Ill
21st. Meet Gibson, Macdonald, and Severn, and go in
a body to visit Overbeck. He appears in a black velvet
cap and moming-gown, tied round the waist by a worsted
scarf. He is tall, thin, and intellectual ; he has the tenuity
of feature and meagreness often expressive of exclusiveness.
His works are imitations of the earlier masters, without
their power of execution. There is no invention, but neither
is there the flattened meaningless expansion of the modern
mind in his works. He can paint Madonnas as tenderly as
Peter Perugino, and think as jejunely ; he has always a
natural truth ; he is very religious— thinks of art only in
connection with religious sentiment, and the old church:
'thus lives in one corner of art. Out into the open air again
we pass along to the studio of Bruloff, a Russian, who has
nearly finished a large work, " The Last Day of Pompeii."
He has made a grand work, with good painting on the sur
face, good drawing and design, and great unity of invention ;
upon the whole, one of the best of that class of pictures I
have seen. But there is awanting something to stir the
mind strongly, and awake thought. All is expressed and
lain open. A whole street is spread before you, written
from beginning to end, and you tire of what is so fully and
often told. The costume is very exactly attended to. This
historical accuracy the French have the merit of introduc
ing ; it has since spread over all the continent, but is re
sisted by some of the Germans. My companions praised
both the Russian and the German, but Gibson afterwards
began to criticise ; the colouring of Overbeck, he said, was
like some of his own modelling-clay steeped in water, with
a little red chalk. " Go on," said I ; "go over the whole
in that way," which he could have done well, with his tart,
pithy remarks.
22d. See a bust Park is doing of Brown ; it is good.

112 ANGELO'S LAST JUDGMENT.
Go seeking a studio with him. Strange is the effect of this
climate on my hands. The model I had yesterday had
hands like horn, the fingers had scarcely any points, and
they were as brown as the bark of an old tree. Mine are
suffering dreadfully — the skin has become dry, the joints
stiff and horny, compared to what they used to be. To-day
call again for my permission to study in the Sistine Chapel,
and am told it has been sent to the padrone.
23d. In the Sistine Chapel to-day. Wilson proposed
to me that the Board of Trustees in Edinburgh should have
the roof of their Academy painted, and that I should copy
part of the roof of the Sistine to be there put up. I have
myself often thought, as they have the Transfiguration,
they should have the Last Judgment. At Torlonia's ball
in the evening. An immense multitude there — dancing,
lounging, gaming, reading the news. The great people all
dancers. Thorwaldsen and Pinelli there, but not Overbeck.
Pinelli is a middle-sized man, wears very long hair, is a little
bald, with a prominent face.
24th. First day in the Sistine Chapel. I mount to
the cornice — see the Last Judgment from both sides, on a
level with its principal figure. Buonarotti has intended it
to be understood as so viewed, the figures in the upper part
advancing and being larger than those below. Some of the
obscure figures are most powerful in expression and design ;
of dreadful strength they are. Much of the picture is
amazingly defective in drawing and proportion, as it is also
in design. No labour is expended to overcome these in-
harmoniousnesses in design, &c, that so often torment a
modern, and cause him to weaken the force of his treatment.
There is great care in the detail so far as it goes, but it is
often awanting. The two pictures by Buonarotti in the
Pauline Chapel do not appear great. They are subjects

PAINTING IN THE SISTINE. 113
that require history, which Buonarotti had not much power
over. Some mighty general idea to be enforced was his
true sphere.
Talk with Wilson about his writing to Edinburgh about
my copying the Sibyls of the Sistine for the authorities
there. He does so by this day's post. Walk with him to
the Forum of Trajan — Vallati, a painter of dogs, in our
company. 28th. This day has passed like a breath. Still unwell ;
cannot get up in the morning. There appears to be a
change in my constitution, or is it irregularity in the mode
of living ?
29th. Sistine Chapel. The knotty bandy-legged
strength of Buonarotti, his incorrectness, and passing over
deficiencies or crudities, afford a great contrast to the art of
the Greeks. The one is main strength or force, the other
true power. Buonarotti is grotesque, and even ludicrous ;
his devils are all laughing sneering demons.
Commence a slight picture of Time and Love. Love
wants to escape Time. Pietro is the model ; he talks as he
sits, and retails the gossip of studios ; laughs at  , who
was so long over a canvass, that, when his female model
got married, her child afterwards sat for the same picture.
Uwins is perhaps the man of most manner here at present ;
Gibson is abrupt ; Wyatt agreeable ; Dessoulavy like a lite
rary man.
Wherever there is novelty of sentiment, the style may
be old enough without much decreasing the value of the
work ; or, if the style is studied and true, it will sustain a
sentiment before expressed. I am not sure but the pecu
liarities of style of some English painters — Stothard for ex
ample — may in a hundred years tell to their advantage. It
is necessary for a great reputation, that a mind be peculiar

114 MUSEUM OF THE CAPITOL.
in its mode of action ; the peculiarity may be bad or good,
(every peculiarity, some say, is bad,) — but it must not be
borrowed or unparticular.
3d February. In the Museum of the Capitol, and in the
gallery. Look over the Tarpeian rock, and ascend the old
Roman steps, and the tower of the Campidoglio. Enter the
church of the Ara Coeli. The view of Rome from the Cam
pidoglio is more varied than anything of the kind I have
seen ; it is beautiful and wonderful. The gallery possesses
good pictures, but they are few, and it is not well fitted for
the exhibition of works of art. The museum of the Capitol
I should like to live in. It is rich in very peculiar works
by the true great artists, the Greeks. The busts of the
poets and philosophers, and of the Roman emperors, are
worthy of all veneration. To study them well, and to re
member them, would be a great delight, and truly useful for
ever after. Among the strongly characterised works are,
the Infant Hercules in porphyry ; the Hercules in metal
gilded ; the Centaurs ; the Fawn in rosso antico ; two statues
of females, one seated with a vase on her lap, the other
standing. Never to be forgotten are these. At the door of
the convent of Ara Cceli, the beggars were at their soup.
The number of those wretches in Rome is immense. As I
look down from the tower upon the convent, some of the
brethren appear at the windows, others about the garden-
doors, some go down among the mendicants — a hive of
men — but not busy as bees. Coming down the steps of the
museum, overhear a group of priests talking English : sup
pose they belong to the Scots College; they look more
respectable than any other religiosi I have seen. Dine in
the Piazza. Set the model to-night ; not much pleased with
it myself. 4th. Visit a German fresco painter with Wolf. His

THE LAST JUDGMENT. 115
mode or invention is fresco on canvass. It is in fact encaus
tic; wax being used in the medium. In the hands of a
powerful artist, this way of working would be capable of
great things. Then for a few hours in the Sistine Chapel.
Great sentiment in the colour of the Last Judgment. The
darkness of the lower part, and the strength of colour in
creasing as the figures rise to the eye, is great in that branch
of the art. Some find fault with the picture as no represen
tation of its subject; others, still more confined in their views,
admire separate groups of the damned and the blessed. Both
are wrong. The Last Judgment of Buonarotti being a
conventional representation, its style is abstract ; and each
figure is an abstract of a genus or species of passion in
happiness or suffering, or of a class in thought or history.
The old masters were, all of them, used to this kind of in
tellection, far-fetched or too philosophical as it may appear
to the modern artist, or even critic. They did not derive it
from reasoning, but it was part of their age. Observe : all
the old masters use very individual objects, and very indi
vidual form and colour, combined with very abstract inten
tions. They always kept very great truth in the means or
material. 5th. Go early to the Vatican, to see what the custode
told me was to be a grand funzione in the Sistine Chapel.
Wait outside in the hall painted by Vasari and Salviati ;
the pictures of the latter an attempted mixture of Buona
rotti and Titian. Gross bad drawing in the Bible designs
by Raphael, and the differing styles of colour and effect
shew the work of the various pupils to have been poor
enough at times. Jacob's Dream is, however, the finest
picture of that subject that has been done. The Dreams of
Pharoah stand in the air, coloured exactly like two soap-
bubbles. The time arrives : challenged to leave my stick
i 2

116 CARNIVAL.
at the door ; then stopped on advancing past the rail, be
cause I am in a frock-coat. Come off. The great banner
is floating on St. Angelo, At last have found a studio
which I can suffer myself to take. Small to be sure it is,
but it must do. At Torlonia's again in the evening ; but
go again I will not, I am tired of it at twice.
8th. Part of the day in the Sistine, after again remov
ing my baggage. I am now located in the Via Porta Pin-
chana. 9th. First day of the Carnival. A senator, with a
black cap and white feather on his head, receives honours
and addresses ; among others, the submissive petition of the
Jews to be allowed to remain in his city. Next, he goes
along the Corso, to open the Carnival. All is conducted in
a poor style. The horse-race is a brutal and ridiculous
affair. 10th. All day in my studio. Now I have various pic
tures under weigh, and time goes well. I am determined to
work hard this month. Go to dine by myself, but meet a
Glasgow man, formerly seen at the cafe".
11th. Again see the horse-race in the Corso ; a savage,
wild, interesting, spectacle. The prohibition of masks
spoils the Carnival ; it is poor enough ; the coloured silks
hanging from the windows is the best of it.
12th. Felice Notte is sung as I go out to-day, after
having been very busy. The mother and the daughter ofthe
house both eager to give me their compliments. Coming
out of the academy, the noise of that horrid game in which
the players roar and strike their fingers together, greeted
my ears from the closed up wine-vaults. Have painted
figure of Cupid. Find I have already both got applauders
and detracters in Rome !
15th. Making sketch from part of the Last Judgment.

IMITATION OF NATURE. 117
Buonarotti is of a strong low character, rather than exalted
or great : he could do nothing pure or grand in beauty.
His characters are often as if they had been studied from
deformity and beggary. Coarse strength and reality are
his power. A painter, to gain a name, must have a style
peculiar to himself, i.e., he must present something to the
spectator that he has elaborated himself; and to gain the
attention of any age, something of the age itself must be
mixed up with his work, even when it must be combined
with the wildest invention and generalisation. Later in
the day have a female model for picture of Night. Dis
gusting they often are, coming in hurried and perspiring :
humble enough is the painter at times. This model not so
good as some I have seen. Sketching in the Academy. It
seems to me I might go on for ever adding to the number of
studies without ever approaching nearer making a fine picture.
18th. Finish first painting over Time and Love. In
the evening in the Academy ; one praises another's work as
exceedingly like nature. To what extent did the great
masters carry their imitation of individual nature ? — never
beyond a character of their own, which prevented the imita
tion from sinking into a matter totally dependent on com
parison. There is always a reservation in their imitation.
The modern French school has often lost itself in an over-
minute imitation in ornament and costume. The figures
of these artists lose their expression, and become models of
dress, and imitations of bits of the naked — the whole figure
not retaining one idea or sentiment. Every object has one
expression, which is dependent on a general combination
of its parts. The artist must find how far the parts may be
detailed and individualised consistently with the idea of the
whole. Always paint to the idea, not to the comparative
or accidental.

118 ILL-HEALTH  WORK.
19th. The finish of the Carnival. The Corso white
with comfits. Struggled through it.
20th. The day of a thousand. Ascended the dome of
St. Peter's, with Tarbutt, Wyld, Martigny, and Milne.
Still Imperial Rome is in the light of a clear sun. St.
Peter's is a stupendous fabric. Its dome, built of strong
brick, seems made to last for a score of centuries.
21st. Quietly in my studio begin the picture of Night.
Academy in the evening. A day passed without excite
ment, elevating or depressing — a day lost to time, save
what is reserved for it on the picture before me.
22d. Go over all the picture of Night. " These painters
deserve their reputation," said T  in my studio this
morning, " they suffer enough for it." The stove was
suffocating, and the smell of paint strong. I was unwell —
a strange feeling came over me — everything appeared double.
23d. Sistine Chapel. Bring home two sheets of sketches
I have done there. To-morrow I shall begin the Delphic
Sibyl. First night with Vallatti, studying Italian.
24th. In the Sistine, copying the Delphic Sibyl, one
of the least meaning of the whole series. Our table pro
duces many sharp and good things. Curiously different
are the styles of its habitues. Lightning flashing thick
this evening, and thunder. There must be a change in
preparation. 2d March. A day of quiet and silence in my study.
Paint figure in " Twilight." Thinking over a theory of
colour on returning from dinner. Nature, in every instance,
produces a distinct impression. This is what the painter,
by some means or other, must also produce. In landscape,
the scenes that give this impression only are remembered :
so it is with male or female beauty. A contrast, however,
often of the very harshest kind, is necessary.

ILL-HEALTH. 119
3d. Painting Twilight. Evening, Academy. Have
some self-invited visitors. Rome is the republic of art —
republic in everything but politics.
5th. Before breakfast in my studio, attempting to
retouch Time and Cupid, but failed in the attempt. Such
retouching never is good. Dine in the Scalinata. Academy
in the evening, and afterwards with Park, Sealy, John
Macd  , and an Anglo-Italian, to see the Colosseum by
moonlight. See my own shadow far off, looking through
an arch of darkness on the ground. Now a bugle is sounded,
and a screech-owl cries. Return by the Forum of Trajan
and the Capitol.
7th. Still unwell. I am destined not to know a day
of health and vigour in Rome. I have been crushed and
depressed now nearly four months by this illness. I may
be better than I was when I arrived, for at that time I was
miserably shattered, but still too frail and ill. My neigh
bour, a Spanish painter, has a cold ; hear how he sneezes,
and as often blesses himself.
8th. Begin sketch of " Morning." Visit the Borghese
Palace — Titian and Veronese. The drapery of the Divine
Love, and the glazed white of the Profane Love — the dry
ness of Veronese, and his distinctness of colour and touch —
all before me now.
11th. Painting all day at Time and Love. The
Academy hour is now late. I was never in ill-health till
I came here ; now I am subdued and broken down, labour
ing against this continued illness — no, not yet broken down.
My hands have swelled ; every limb is affected ; but still I
can walk and paint, and shall continue so to do. " Humility,
with thee I dwell" often enough in thought.
16th. This evening to be noted, intellectually and also
jovially, since I met Park, and was exhilarated by seeing

120 ANATOMICAL DRAWINGS
a man forget care, and abandon himself to the hour. Visit
the library of the Vatican. On a roof painted by Mengs,
the youthful figures very beautiful in colour, and some fine
drawing in the elder figures ; but still the work belongs to
the school of the later trashy mannerists. The drapery is
tossed about quite in their style. Mengs a man of acade
mical ability, without genius or strength. Pass through
the Jews' quarter. Within their gates here, the Jews are
the same as everywhere else— selling, and beseeching to
buy. Enter the Palace of the Cenci — a most infernal
dwelling — by a back port, wood smoke ascending from the
depths below, tanning the walls and door. In the court of
what was once the palace are great pits or hollows, and
strange places like underground tan-works. From thence
to the tower of the Campidoglio. Saw a glimpse of a distant
village shining in the sun, when all around was obscured by
rain. A vision of a beatified village.
19th. Call on Paton. Find him hard at work, with
Pietro the model sitting to him as a wounded brigand. On
Lees : find him also at work, painting Calabrians piping
before the Virgin.
29th. Commence a series of anatomical drawings in the
Hospital of the Incurabili. The body of an old woman
lying in the court altogether naked ; worn away to mere
bones she has been, and round her withered neck still hangs
her talisman, a little image of the Virgin. To the last, no
doubt, it was to save her — to lift her up from that incurable
illness to chatter for years to come. A most piteous and a
sad sight. In the evening in Tarbutt's — Wyld and Mar-
tigny there ; and a marchesa improvisatrice ; a lady, with a
fine face, mustaches, and a slight beard. She gave us a
specimen of her ability ; she read, with knitted brows and
projected lips, in a strong tone of voice ; quite Italian in

AT THE SPEDALE DEGl' INCURABILI. 121
face, figure, and mind, possessing great apparent strength.
I asked her if she had read Corinne — found she had. Her
husband was quite absorbed in her — she is the light, and he
the candlestick. Martigny the Mexican looked into her
eye steadily — they were well wet.
22d. In Cardinal Fesche's — a splendid collection of
pictures. The Titian (a picture said to be his) is the most
recil work of his I have seen ; it is all clear light, and every
part reality, remark this picture. Guido, an early Raphael,
three designs of Buonarotti painted by Piombo. The
Dutch masters very extensive. Draw four views of the leg
in the Incurabili. Vegetation flourishes well over the re
mains of the palace of the Cassars, particularly the leaf from
which the Corinthian capital is borrowed. Return by the
Corso, which is crowded with carriages. Everybody in
Rome must get into a carriage ; and as the Corso is in no
way adapted for carriages, it must be made a drive. Make
new design of " Mid-day." Call at the Hospital ; find two
or three of the vampire confessors lounging about the court,
and the naked dead bodies on their biers in the piazza.
The laziness of the Italians is exemplified in their disposal
of their dead. These they tumble into pits just as they die,
one pit being cleared out as another is filled — perhaps
every ten years. This clearing out is dreadful in the hot
weather. Meet Glennie, Stukeley, and Moir at Cardinal
Fesche's. Oh ! Titian's four dignitaries ofthe church again.
The most wonderfully cold picture in existence, and his
most finished production. Go to the Incurabili, and draw
the foot ; finish sketch of " Mid-day." At the Scafinata
and Academy.
28th. Dine in the Scalinata. Rae Wilson talking to
Hemans and others. The model at the Academy worthy of
study, the sharp flatness of the insertion of his muscles illus-

122 WASHING THE FEET.
trates my principles of form. Title or talent are little in
Rome, all who come are reduced (or elevated) to the same
standard. Many of the heads one meets in Rome are very
fine and marked. Those in Da Vinci's Last Supper are
like them, but not exaggerated.
30th. An hour or two in my study in the morning ;
then to the Cafe" Nuova, where I learn that this is Palm
Sunday. Appoint with Macdonald to go to the Sistine,
where the Pope is borne on men's shoulders into the Pauline
and back, blesses the palms, and the castrati sing. At
night Brown, Sealy, Park, Macdonald, (who is taken ill,
and we all accompany him home,) Drake, an English surgeon,
and Schmidt. We talk wildly of religion, evil, and good.
 is a philosophical atheist : advances the German free
masons as a secret body of thinkers. It does not appear,
however, that they are very different from our own. After
wards fix to-morrow for Tivoli. (Next day spent there, and
that following at the Vale of Egeria and the catacombs.)
The remains of the Romans are like those of a people who
have had larger hands and broader breasts than ours are.
3d April. Painting; drawing at the Incurabili. Change
dress, and go to the Sistine Chapel, to hear the famous
Miserere. The music to-day is the grandest I have heard —
the only music I have ever heard — the Laocoon of music.
Next day restless ; cannot paint like the music of the Sistine.
Resolve to go to the Vatican. Wait hours there in the
crushing and rushing, and at last see the Pope wash the
pilgrims' feet. The thirteen pilgrims are in white ; Judas
walks in with his arms folded; some of them are affected.
Observe the different character the drapery has on these
various figures, although all are in the same stuff and shape
of dress. Enter the Pauline Chapel, which is illuminated
to suffocation. One is impressed with the idea that Christi-

EASTER WEEK. 123
anity has been derived from a gradual belief in a dramatic
myth ; first an invention, with meaning, for the enjoyment
of a few — the completest form being still preserved in the
Catholic church.
I see more and more how much there is still in life here
like the works of the old masters — feel more and more that
England and Scotland are, as regards art, only places for
individualities and lesser works.
5th. The fourth act of the grand drama. Not a bell
-has sounded to-day. Evening on the Pincian. Not a soul
on that side looking to Raphael's villa ; all very solitary ;
the owl whooping in the garden of the Borghese.
6th. The Resurrection. The tongues of all the bells
let loose. The cannon of St. Angelo fire.
7th. The consummation of the drama. Early at St.
Peter's. The Pope borne in grand procession ; on his head
the triple crown. Afterwards in the French Academy. All
the works going on are only attempts ; in painting their exe
cution is wretched. Go at night to see St. Peter's illuminated.
9th. In my study quarter past six. Commence to
draw the Spirit of the Lyre. Waver in my resolution to
paint it. Wish to have a subject that would admit more
direct imitation. I have been again struck with the great
beauty and simplicity of Buonarotti's colour ; it is truer than
Titian; very broad and real. The prophet Joel — indeed
all the prophets and sibyls, are complete examples of colour.
These are the best coloured frescoes I have seen. (Next
day.) Again studying the colour of Buonarotti. It is the
most severely grand that exists. These are not painted as
if colour had been studied for itself, while at the same time
the agreeable and just in contrast and effect, by a sustained
lightness, makes it apparent that Michael Angelo made a
distinct study of colour.

124 TAKING THE VEIL.
16th. All day in my study, designing Sappho and Ana-
creon. Angelica, the model, comes. Do a little to my pic
ture of Morning. Now feel the power of expressing my ideas
of colour as well as I used to do in matters of form. I can
now paint as well as draw. Conflicting motives have pre
vented me from determining what subject next to paint.
Decide upon Sappho and Anacreon : it will give me field for
colour. At Sealy's in the evening. Join with Park in
singing the First Psalm, in the Scotch precentor style : the
last time I heard it was in the manse of Kippen. Notwith
standing the difference in time, place, and motive, many as
sociations were the same as of old. This climate destroys
me. To wither away in mind or body, to lose self-satis
faction, is the lot of the misanthrope or of the unfortunate ;
why should I fear it ?
20th. Take another studio in the Via Sistina. Com
mence drawing Sappho and Anacreon large. This morning,
before seven o'clock, in the Church of Santa Trinita ; saw
some novices taking the veil. Cannot enter into description
of the ceremony, but observed one of the girls, as she re
tired, after making her profession and receiving the black
veil ; a smile I have often observed at school was on her
face — a smile of conceit, not of pleasure — as if she had per
formed her part well : that was all she thought of it. When
the same girl returned from taking the Eucharist, her ex
pression was different — overawed and suffering. The mys
tery of the body of Christ was too great for her : taking the
veil concerned herself, but this Sacrament concerned God.
So it seemed. Painting and drawing from LeacCi, the model.
Had a visit from two American painters. One of them, Mr.
Crouch; the other older — rather a silent man. A visit from
Rothwell, who praises the small pictures.
23d. In the Hospital in the morning. Draw three views

ANGELICA KAUFMANN'S STUDIO. 125
of the head. Go to see a picture of Cain and Abel, by an
Italian ; find it careful and laboriously painted — French in
execution and sentiment. All seem able to do such ; all are
alike. Model at five, morning : drawing Anacreon on the
canvass. Go to the Campidoglio : saw one of the grandest
pieces of sculpture in existence — the fragment of a bust;
perfectly ideal, and yet very real, with deep expression. Oh,
that I might devote myself to follow such art, and direct it
to the enforcement of some great end ! Religion, with its
symbols, is now wearing away into the merely speculative ;
but morality remains, and intellect is as dignified as ever.
Call from Gibson. He suggests drapery over the legs of
Sappho. 28th. In the Turin and in the Neapolitan Exhibitions.
Both wretched. Thence to the Church St. Andrea della
Valle, where are Dominichino's best works. Go to see the
Virtues, by Dominichino : find them feeble and scattered.
Go to the Campidoglio to see the busts of Sappho and Ana
creon. That cursed she-Italian has let my rooms here to
another, having got some one to take an additional apartment
with them. The Fornarina in the forenoon for the head of
the Mother in " Discord." Sketch her as " the Vintager"
for a picture. Leacci in the afternoon. The owls every
night ; I can now whoop like them. Had a call from Coke
Smith. 2d May. Accosted by the serving-man of a studio in
the Via Sistina. Go to see it. It was the studio of Angelica
Kauffman. Take it at seven dollars a-month, with room.
Now the warm weather begins. Life is over-full. The air
is delicious, but effort is oppressive. Is it not a paltry,
worthless straggle, the desire of fame, or power, or conside
ration, that I and some others strive after ? Its desire is
weakness ; and I now see so much of the motives of action

126 PICTURES OF TIME
in other men, that I have no repose, no satisfaction in any
thing. 7th. Called on Crouch the American, in an awful house,
without beginning or end, full of painters, where they may
live or die without knowing each other. He yawns and
says I do not know what to do with myself to-day. While
talking to a monk in the church of the Capuchins, an old
tottering brother came to him all bustle, and told him mezzo
giorno was past, and that he had not sounded the bell. Off
the monk ran to do it, all office. Here was " Age watching
Time." I wished a fourth subject for the series of Time,
and now I have — Time terrifying Love.
Time looking on the Inactive.
Time leading Youth to Age.
Age watching Time.
8th. Up early, and remove to the studio of Angelica,
in the Via Sistina. The American, Alexander, has not
yet gone ; meantime I have another close by. The man
Filippo officiously attentive, and of course I expect much
carelessness soon. Many are my changes of abode, but I feel
that I shall do more to satisfy myself here.
9th. Commence painting Sappho and Anacreon. Again
fhe model Fornarina. In my room at eight, gloomy and
black. What can have been the intention of the strange
passages, pillars, doors of division, &c, of these Roman
houses ? Their confusion is inexplicable. Whoop goes the
owl — still an owl wherever I go.
10th. Fourteen hours painting to-day. On. the pro
menade in the evening.
11th. Going out at mid-day, Rome is like a city of the
plague. Few are on the streets ; and wherever there is a
shaded corner in which a man may lay himself down, there
he lies, fast asleep ; they tumble down as if dead. A mass

DESPONDENCY. 127
of them have been for some days behind the obelisk in front
of St. T. del Monte. A change has come over me since
living in Rome, affecting more than the bodily health. The
high standard of artistic excellence I expected — where is
it ? — At the Trattoria and Cafe ? I shall now labour for a
small circle, to be in future my world. My works go be
fore the multitude, out of which must come the few. Once
constantly differing from others ; now see little to contra
dict. So much now appears defensible — an open question ;
and so much is mere folly and ignorance.
14th. Leave Sappho and Anacreon to see a Roman
execution by the guillotine. It falls twice — two heads are
separated from two bodies ; the knife is cleaned bright again
by the man in the shirt, and all is over. Very heavy think
ing of my stay here, my return, and its results.
15th. Painted for thirteen hours and a half, and am
perfectly exhausted. How grand is the sound of that bell
of St. Peter's ! To-morrow is afesta. One bell seems an
swering another.
16th. In my studio at five. Rose as soon as the
yellow gleam of sunrise had lighted on the wooden beams
over my little bed. After dinner, as usual, very gloomy.
I return to my picture with a different vision. All seems
worthless : poetry, painting, all appears weak stuff. Go to
the Vatican next day. There Raphael, like nature, every
where defective. The faces in the Transfiguration are all
real, yet every one defective. The Entombment of Cara-
vaggio is fiercely strong in power of pencil ; nothing I ever
saw comes up to its strength. All artificial or theorised
productions sink in comparison. Ashamed of my own
prettiness in Sappho. Look back on my own pictures of
" Remorse " and " Sarpedon " as more truly what I should
do.

128 FINISHES ANATOMY.
20th. In the Hospital of Giacomo, make the last of my
series of Anatomical Drawings, being the muscles of the
back. This ends my direct study of anatomy. Remaining
the last in the dissecting-room, thought over my winter
evenings at this study, then the meetings at Masson's, then
Mackenzie's demonstrations. Here is one sphere of know
ledge gone through — one desire buried in the grave of pos
session. Return to paint, with a pigeon for the doves in
Sappho ; my man very anxious to have it to make regalie.
A call from my American neighbour. He talks of my
making a noise in the world, but that anticipation is now
darkened. 25th. This is Sunday. Last Sunday passed without
my remembering what day it was. Of old I might and did
forget the other days of the week, but Sunday never.
27th. Painting all day. Another visit from my good
neighbour Alexander. In crossing the square, find myself
amidst a kneeling population- — a sanctissima being carried
to a lighted church. At length out of my " upper chamber."
The roof of my last was low; that of my new room is
twenty feet high. This study of Kauffman's is now my
fourth. Painting goes well with me to-day. Left my work
in gloom yesterday — in gladness to-day. See how such a
man as Runciman gradually becomes dead to art. He had
been here, and studied well, entered into all, and was ac
knowledged ; goes into a corner of the world where his aims
and doings are alien and unrewarded. Leave my room for
the sun and air. Call on my old Trustees' master to invite
him. He calls in the afternoon, and criticises some parts of
my picture ; takes out his snuff-box, and asks if he has said
enough? A neatly done copy of Coreggio would be the
thing for him. Could I retain the mood of indifference I
feel now, all would be well.

HARD- WORK  VISITORS. 129
5th. Sally forth, to-day being Corpus Christi, to see a
grand procession, but find I have worked too long and ex
hausted myself. The piazza of St. Peter's strewed with
rosemary and hung with tapestry. To-day is the pomp of
Roman footmen in all its glory. There are too many coaches,
and too many beggars here. Urchins are scraping up the
wax melted from the candles in St. Peter's. All this is
violent and afflicting. To-day toiling and writhing to effect
the idea of a part of my picture. Two or three touches, at
last, do more than the labour of hours.
All day painting in my study. Receive a call from
G  , one of those landscapers who make love to nature
on Bristol board, with an exclamation on their tongues, and
a red nose in the sun. Nearly finish small picture of boy
with a rose — " Under the Rose." Evening in the Teatro
della Valle, where I see Alfieri's Orestes. Seemingly on
the French-Greek model. Much tearing of passion to tatters,
but the two principal characters well performed — the sister
of Orestes especially.
17th. Visitors to-day. First Wolf — he was pleased
with the colour. Next Scoular, and afterwards  and
•Dessoulavy. We had a long conversation on painting — on
Martin and Turner. These he called the Pietro Cortona
and Luca Giordano of the day. They surprise ; their man
nerisms attract. Gibson also calls — challenges some parts,
but altogether approves.
18th. My studio is again let over my head. It has
been taken for a longer time than I am sure of keeping it.
There is no help for it — these rascally Italians ! Went to
see the studio of Ivanoff, the Russian artist, a very clever
man, whom I met yesterday. He is a man of genius : of a
quiet, thinking, Poussin-like character — moreover ingenuous
and modest. He is painting a classic pastoral of Apollo

130 MODELS, -ETC.
teaching two young Arcadians. Send off my four pictures
of the Times of the Day for L  , and Dyce's Delphic
Sibyl. 22d. Fixing the size of my picture of "Discord" — a
work of labour. Return to the first size at last, after making,
with much toil, the larger cartoon. Begin to draw again.
A hot day of toil.
24th. Twilight after a satisfactory day; painted six
hours from the model Rosa — a ruin of beauty, only nineteen.
Excused being altogether disrobed. She came scented — a
wild weariness of life in her expression. She tried to sing,
but only a few melancholy lines ; said she had been in bed
for a year from fever, yet she has an unhesitating ease and
power of a certain kind. In all beauty of face that approaches
perfection, the eyebrows separate widely.
25th. The butcher model in the morning — Rosa in the
evening. By no means effect what I have done at other
times. Return from dinner to my large cartoon, and com
plete the first sketching-out of it. Next paint the prepara
tion of a second picture of " Time terrifying Love." A call
from Williams and Theed. Shew them sketch of " Discord."
Williams approves — " firmly drawn," &c. Rosa the model
for the hands of females in my Discord. Go to the Pincian
to see a race — an amazon race, and a race with men standing
on two horses. A German is the winner — a man with
strong determination in his face. Afterwards a sort of
chariot race. Model at eight. Wyatt calls at mid-day.
Afterwards go to look after a room, and am led to a curious
old body, nearly naked, in a short white petticoat, white
stockings, and slippers down at the heels. She told me she
was sister to Catalani the singer ; but the room will not do
for me. 5th. Model comes at half-past five. To-day room-

GREAT PICTURE OF "DISCORD." 131
seeking and study-hunting. Fix on one in this same Via
Sistine, once inhabited by Salvator Rosa. At night observe
a very striking effect in the strongly electrified sky — the
light behind the clouds shining in a broad sheet, and send
ing off the clouds very strongly.
Complete my removal to new studio in Via Margutta :
too much reflection and sun in it. This constant moving is
a kind of hell to one wishing continuous study ; I shall never
forget it. These detested models, too, do not keep then- ap
pointments. One comes half drunk late in the day — an
other, the sonerade, pretended he could not keep the position,
and I had to desist, after again unbundling my " roba" to
paint. Get a model to do without his sleep, or at an unusual
hour ? impossible : a curse on all Roman conventions.
10th. Nearly finish the second picture of " Time and
Love." The first I destroyed by alterations. It was the
scape-goat of the evils of my journey, and my settling down
from travelling. Destroy also the first abortive picture of
" Night." This day about eighteen hours' work.
14th. Tried for four hours to get the model (a boy) into
right position for the picture of Discord. Walk out, meet
Macdonald, go to the monastery, where Tasso lived. See
there a cast of his face in wax — a very fine head. In the
evening at the tomb of Augustus. A spectacle of fireworks,
varied and ingenious, finish the day.
15th. Labouring at my cartoon. Cannot get the model
to keep the position — a dreadful affair to the poor machine,
who had come without his dinner. Thinking over my
future efforts : I am now resolved to lay aside all attempt to
please and win attention out of the walk truly fitted for me.
There are some to whom a little fancy or a quiet sentiment
is the best of art. For altogether I must deal with the
strong and the real. This picture of Discord is for all
K 2 ¦

132 BRULOFF'S " LAST DAY OF POMPEII."
countries ; I must work for the world, as all should do, or
for my own country, Scotland ; — but whatever is well done
for it, must be something also for the world. This morning
a child model. Poor restless .thing ! the more you sympa
thize with it or make of it, the more it whines and cries.
One still younger on its mother's knee. It seized a key,
and would not quit it : a certain unconscious determination
seemed expressed in its face. Severn called. Liked my
picture : every one has appeared to go away with a higher
idea of my art : he proposed to soften the sky ; perhaps he
is right. 19th. My neighbour, the Russian Bruno, seems to look
heavily forward to the labour of his picture. He is often at
his piano, and sings melancholy airs. Music is like a thing
far off, it stills the attention, and takes us out of the present.
My life is comprised in these last ten-years. Go out to see
the fragment or statue called Pasquina.- It resembles some
what the Ajax bearing Patroclus, a cast of which is at
Florence, but it is completely mutilated. Enter the church
del Popolo. Think higher and higher of Raphael. A
glorious young spirit he must have been among the men
then living. There is considerable, indeed decided, imi
tation of Buonarotti here. The large Piombo is very fine.
Two chapels by Pinturiccio, truly of the elder gusto. Go
to Bruloff's again to see his picture. A great many artists
are there, such as are to be seen nowhere but in Rome. The
study door is open, and they flowing in and out. He has a
long suite of studio rooms, lined with studies and pictures
" to make up a show." In the second room a full length
portrait, rather good. The next apartment is partitioned off
the sanctum : here we uncpver, and enter before the picture.
He was there himself, pointing out and explaining. Mr.
 was determined to be very severe. On second

SELF-QUESTIONING. 133
view there is no true grandeur in it ; it is all well done, but
wants depth of mind : the colouring is crude. Mr. 
came on to my studio, but would not enter at all into my
intention : he remarked that the large figure at first sight
was like the Laocoon. At twilight, thinking over a better
expression of its subject by its name. I might call it " The
Agony of Discord in a House divided against itself." 
came to see me ; we talked of art and an artist's means.
" I'll tell you what, Scott," said he, " you must marry a
woman with a fortune : that is the way for you."
Some one was in the house last night, and made his
escape on my neighbour coming home late. A disagreeable
affair, as it appears he had 70 piastres in his desk. It may
be all a hoax, but the padrone suspects my servant Filippo,
who has a key. I now feel an interest in my journal, barren
as it is. What is passing costs no trouble to note down,
and it is almost the only thing I can fix myself to write.
I find myself here becoming every day more and more be
wildered in regard to life, its relations, and all being. Now
I have no- enthusiasm without a counteracting suggestion :
no admiration of beauty without feeling it to be only as we
are excited that it affects us.
This morning find myself locked out by the old woman
at the gate having gone to church. Visit the chapel in the
Church del Popolo designed by Raphael. The roof is very
rich. The pictures are beautiful, and Piombo's is a noble
great work. In the same chapel is a statue by Raphael : a
triumphant effort, very chaste and full. In the Church del
Popolo are two Caravaggio's, to be remembered for ever.
The fierce reality of that man makes all else appear arti
ficial. Nature is always true strength. His style is like a
battle axe in a mailed hand. Next day a day of unalloyed
toil. Leave my studio before dark, and read Childe Harold.

134 C ARAVAGGIO — RAPHAEL.
It appears curious Byron should have published, and the
world received, such egotistical verbosity. Its strength is the
strength of weakness. A man who had been so long in the
world, and had seen so much of it, had he understood the
bearing of things, should have been past such got-up and
ejaculated-for-effect writing. Expect now all is clear before
me in my drawing of Discord. Sally forth to visit some of
the churches after dinner. Some good works in S. Lorenzo,
of the Caravaggio school : always amazing force : it is over
bearing, and yet has little permanent influence. At the same
altar is a head by Leonardo, abounding in beauty of expres
sion : the hands are of a full rich colour, the drapery red, the
whole much lighter than any picture I have hitherto seen
by him. Next in the St. M. della Pace. The Sibyls of
Raphael do not elevate him in my judgment. The adapta
tion of the design to the space the picture fills, is good, but
the Sibyls want expression ; the Persica alone has indeed
something Sibylline. The Prophets designed by Raphael,
above the Sibyls, are painted by Rosso Fiorentino, and
so, I suspect, are those below. An altar-piece is here by
Perazzi, in the old dry manner. Next in a church in the
Stimata Strada, where there is a picture, rather remarkable,
of a number of dead bodies, and others straggling above
them — a figure flitting in the distance. Enter another church
in the Corso ; always something to look at ; but in Rome
these lesser notables are lost. Two other churches I was in,
where sermons were going forward. Next day nothing to
note, save that my stay in Rome is still uncertain, having
had no answers yet to my letters. To my studio in the
morning : call on Giegenbaur to keep him to his promise of
giving me some instruction in fresco painting. Find him
well pleased and ready to do so. Afterwards went with him
to the Muratore, and to buy brushes. I hope this, should I

FRESCO. 135
compass it, may be of use. Cannot help suggesting to my
self how I may, on arriving in Scotland, find an oppor
tunity of practising what I am, as yet, ignorant of. In two
days, however, if I still live, 1 shall have tried this art, the
last that can be new to me in painting. A man is now
preparing part of the wall of my studio. Sealy, who has
returned from Naples, sits expatiating on his excursion. He
tells me I am getting thinner — very likely.
9th. Giegenbaur comes to see me begin my fresco.
Sees my pictures, and exclaims, molto talento, &c, but says
nothing of my large design.
10th. Early at my fresco again : Giegenbaur at nine,
and works for an hour or two in explanation ; afterwards
go on by myself, and finish my first prova — a figure from
sketch of the Fornarina model, against a vine -screen.
Feel a new power which does me good. Suppose my ill
ness hangs about me from exhaustion ; determine to slacken
in all useless effort. To improve my style be now my aim,
and, when the time comes for me to make what ability I
have avail me, it shall be by quietly proving I am worthy
in my own walk of art. Go to St. Ignazio, which has a
stupendous roof painted all over, a work of far more labour
than the Sistine, but it is in the Cortona manner — splendid
mechanism however. The sotto in sec of the pillared parts
astonishing, the colour of the whole good, and the effect
agreeable to the eye. The rolling down of some of the
figures over the walls, and the high relief of one figure from
another, is surprising, considering the light execution in
which the painting is effected. Highly gratified by the
skill of this performance. The painter's name is Padre
Pozzi, a Jesuit. I prepare for fresco again to-morrow.
The strange wretches that are seen sleeping and crawling
about Rome, are humiliating, but interesting to a painter.

136 CARAVAGGIO, REMBRANDT, LAOCOON.
It is wonderful that the Italians have no man among them
to render the strong individualities about them, united as it
is to so much appropriate to the artist. An old man, his
beard white as snow, is seated on the steps of this St.
Ignazio, eating fruit ; the flies swarm over him and his fruit,
and beside him lies a reed scourge for driving them off.
Another, shod with goatskin, and nearly naked, is fast
asleep, with a staff in his hand. The great amount of
human suffering — for these people seem all marked by
misery — and the vividness of character seen in Rome, have
given me a different feeling in regard to depicting humanity,
either elevated or degraded. The ideal remains where it
was, but the realities of life are apart from it. I now
hold Caravaggio (M. A.) to have been one of the greatest
painters that have been. Independently of his excellence
in effect, &c, there is vast truth (of an uncouth kind to be
sure) in the forms of his compositions. A caratello, ani
mated and inspired, would thus paint; but still he is a mighty
genius. He, Rembrandt, and the author of the Laocoon,
are three of the most forcible minds that have been exerted
in art. This combination of names may appear strange to
some, but each of the three worked towards natural truth,
and in this unity of intention, they stand on the same ground.
Raphael, Buonarotti, &c, are all modists, or according to
an intellectual standard, in comparison with these.
14th. Working at fresco of a scene in Purgatory. In
the Trattoria at dinner, while building castles in the air,
their only foundation being my new fresco powers. Return
ing to my study, saw print of the battle of Constantine.
Raphael all his life never drew a face well. He has done
more beautiful faces than any one, and very correct. Still
there is always in his heads — male heads particularly — a
disagreeable jarring. This afternoon look at my studio — as

THORWALDSEN. 137
ready to leave it : roll up some of my designs : anxiety, my
near and constant friend, creeps over me. Next day set out
for the Church degli Angeli. This is the warmest morning
I have felt. Meet Severn bound also for it. Call on Wolf.
He is a good artist. A huntsman now under his hand has
very much of the Discobolus — quite that style of thought.
Call on Thorwaldsen, who meets his visitors with great
affability. I asked him to call and see what I had done ;
at once said he would come at any time to-morrow I chose.
Enter a church. The monuments of the dead are always
interesting. Here, on the pavement, the faces rubbed nearly
flat, put me in mind of many of Buonarotti's, in which the
shadows are black and sharp, the. lights all one colour, and
spread out *"
16th. Wait within for Thorwaldsen. Here he is, quiet,
yet affable and open. He is a little short-sighted, as I ob
served on his examining Sappho and Anacreon. Familiar
with the visiting of works of art, he said little, but " bene,"
" molto grazioso," " piaciuto," and some similar expressions.
I wished him to shew me defects, and he pointed various
matters out ; then went on to criticise the effect of the light
on the tripod, which, he had no doubt, would, even in day
light, be seen on objects about. He next looked at the
Cartoon; silently, and after a little, began to remark on
various parts of the drawing. Before he went away, I
thanked him for the onore he had done me, and he returned
me thanks for saying so, bowed and bowed, and so the visit
ended. He is a kind old man, and great artist. Yet such
formal visits, even from such as he, put me in a turmoil ; 1
do not like them. The next time 1 am visited, the visit
must be spontaneous and unlooked for.
17th. Go to the Spada Palace, and see the statue of
Pompey, famous as that at whose feet Caesar fell. See also

138 GREAT MASTERS.
a series of sculptures, decorations of a temple at St. Agnese,
outside the walls of Rome. Also Endymion and Perseus,
which are, however, inferior, although in the same simple
style of design. Go to the Farnese Palace. Annibale Car-
acci's frescoes there are executed with ease ; but the draw
ing often not good, but licentious. The colour of the Gany
mede may be considered Titianesque. The principal picture,
that of the Triumph of Bacchus, is varied and full. I ob
served the lights to be very thin — nearly the original lime.
In the Farnesina, some parts of Raphael's Cupid and
Psyche are clumsily laboured and heavily coloured ; in other
parts, where he has been freer, they are very good. In a
room above, Giulio Romano appears great in mythological
invention : here he is the imaginative artist I always have
taken him to be. In St. Luigi Francesi are Domenichino's
two frescoes. After looking at these I have mentioned, Do-
menichino appears true and careful, simple in colour. I am
about to quit my studio for a month in Naples. Let this
be the period of division from all that is trifling in sentiment
in regard to my labours in painting.
21st August. Not leaving for a day or two, look "again
at some great works. The Moses of Buonarotti is a crude
performance. What means that left hand (terminating an
arm, poor and.detached, as seen from the other side) grasping
the abdomen. To give full room to the hand, we must
suppose it enters the bowels. The head is deficient in some
points of view ; the foot small, and the leg in a mannered
style, without the greatness of Buonarotti. The whole of
the drapery is bad. This visit to the Aurora, I begin to
think less of it than formerly. In some parts it is musty
brown, in others tinted blue ; still it is a very pleasing pic
ture. Some of the Hours are lumbering, feetless figures ;
Apollo is a poor personage. Its execution, as a fresco, is

GREAT MASTERS. 139
not of so finished a kind as the Ganymede of Caracci;- while
some of the faces are laboured, like those in the Cupid and
Psyche, though not so heavily. Among the oil pictures I
have seen, the Twelve Apostles, by Rubens, are notable.
The colour of the flesh is good. The heads are characteristic
— of the portrait kind. But there is a washiness about Ru
bens, particularly in his draperies, that cannot stand beside
the Venetians. Those three large pictures by Rubens, in St.
Maria in Vallicella, painted, I think, in oil on the plaster,
are more careful in design than is usual with him. Oil on
plaster always becomes dark, but these are colourless.
Being without the walls, I turned into a little convent
church before returning. Two churchmen were on their
knees, along with a monk, before a coffin placed below, in
front of the altar. I advanced, and found the coffin or box
was glazed, and contained the preserved body of the holy
Theodoro, who died eighty-four years ago in their monastery.
The old face and hands were quite entire : the body was in
the monastic habit it had worn while alive.
22d. Go after the voiture ; and again on the search for
notable works in churches. First enter the Santi Apostoli.
Find a monument, by Canova, to Volpato — very softly, yet
sharply executed. It is a single figure looking mournfully
at the bust of Volpato, and may be called engaging. Here
is also a monument to Clement XIV., by Pozzi, whom I saw
at Florence — better than any thing I saw in his studio.
Next go to St. Maria di Loreto to see a Giotto. The
sacristan tried to light the candles before uncovering the
picture ; they would not light ; some women in the church
almost making a miracle out of it ; the heretic, no doubt,
preventing the lights from burning. At last the clerk threw
down his reed match, drew the curtain, and exposed to view
Mary in rich colours, with a saint on each side, dark, upon

140 RAPHAEL.
a golden ground. I was very much delighted with the colour
on the gold, and with the design of one of the saints. The
clerk again tried the candles, and the Saint was pleased to
allow them to light. Here was also a female figure by Fiam-
mingo, simple and good. Went to St. Maria Navicella;
but after toiling a long way, can only catch a glimpse through
a grated doorway : and to St. Stefano Rotondo, near by ;
but the heavy knocker fell without an answer.
Afterwards I go to the Vatican. The frescoes that Ra
phael did himself are -fine, broad and rich in the tints, and
flat. They are carefully and rather highly finished. All
his pupils appear to have been very inferior to him in exe
cution ; and a very small part of the chambers is done by
his own hand. Since trying to paint fresco, I find Buona
rotti is not so dark in the shaded parts as I thought he was.
His colour is full and broad too, though, in general, it is
more allied to the lightness peculiar to the Florentines. I
have been much struck by the breadth of colour, shade,
and drawing combined in the angular compartment of the
Brazen Serpent. Romano's Battle of Constantine is very
scattered ; it has no unity or breadth of colour. In the gal
lery of the Vatican Lawrence's picture looks blue, black, and
toneless. Raphael is the best painter in fresco, except, perhaps,
Buonarotti, as seen in the Prophets. The Last Judgment
is stained and touched all over. The Parnassus, the School
of Athens, &c, are free of defects of time, and retain unity
and strength of tone. I seal up my Journal, this being my
last night in the Via Sistina in Salvator's house.

VISITS NAPLES. 141

NAPLES.

25th August 1833. At seven o'clock find myself driv
ing southward. My companions, a little Trieste man and
his wife. After riding a day and two nights, arrive at eight
on Monday in Naples.
A spacious busy town ; military in abundance ; it gives
quite a new impression. Meet Stukely in the Cafe
d' Italia, who goes with me to the Museum. I find the
gallery of ancient pictures from Pompeii very interesting,
and shall certainly try to understand their method ; it
evidently admits of one painting over another. Quite worn
out from want of sleep.
28th. Set out to visit churches. Find nothing remark
able. The Cathedral is poor enough. A chapel beside it
has the dome painted by Lanfranco, and the angles below
by Domenichino. Here, as in St. Andrea, at Rome,
Domenichino triumphs. Two schools divide the art of
Naples, the Giordano and Solimenes, and the imitators of
Caravaggio. Evening, in the great theatre of San Carlo ;
the principal actress splendid in head and style of figure, not
so dignified as one I saw in Rome, but still a good model
for the painter. A number of men in the cortile of the inn,
some sleeping on mats, others on the stones ; I ask the
waiter about them, and am told they are " Lazzaroni
gente della strada." Ponder over the question of my return
to Edinburgh, or winter again in Rome.
29th. Tremendous rain, get, with the assistance of a
carroza, to the Museum. Go over the bronzes, the sculpture
gallery, and the Egyptian. Should say nothing very
remarkable, but the sculpture the superior of the two, al
though the catalogue says it is the finest in the world.

142 POMPEIAN PICTURES.
Walk to the Piazza Reale : Naples more like London than
any city I have seen. Evening at the Punchinello, a very
silly affair, but one can laugh at it well enough. All next
day in the Museum. Afterwards .to the harbour, among
multitudes of people. Crowds are collected round a man
I suppose reciting a story, and there are mountebanks by
way of cutting off noses. The clamour of melon sellers,
fig sellers, grape dealers, vehicle drivers, &c, perfectly
confounding. Again in the Museum. Finish my notes on the pictures,
and look over the vases, utensils, &c. from the unburied
towns. Think the material used in the pictures is somewhat
the same as that used on the vases ; I believe it to be the
same ; both were done, I suspect, by melted bitumen mixed
with the colours, used warm. The colours do not appear
to have been heated so as to melt them after painting, there
being no flowing or softening of the outlines, these being
perfectly sharp from the pencil. Set out with a list of
churches from my guide book. Find two fresco pictures by
Veronese painted over a door in the dark. Also two showy
novel things by Giordano in the Ascensione ; very curious
these are. Museum again. Examine the middle age pro
ductions. This is only an attempt at a collection. The
bronze head of Dante is remarkable. Perhaps chagrin is
the true expression ; the face and head both small ; no room
for a phrenologist to expatiate on ideality. Observe a
casket by Cellini ; it has a great many figures and separate
subjects, and is a production of great labour. Afternoon,
again look out for churches. Happy to think this is the
last time I shall have to do so from the vague accounts of a
guide book. In St. Dominico a number of monuments ;
some of knights holding their long-handled lances. Also
many pictures ; in particular, a Flagellation by Spagnoletto.

SPAGNOLETTO. 143
Saw another picture (by an imitator, however) of the Dead
Christ ; the feet dark, turned to the spectator. S. M.
Nuova. A soffitto, said to be painted by Santafede (don't
know the name) ; the pictures here afe mostly in simpler and
better style than those of Giordano. Feel tired, and in a bad
mood. Uncertain whether to end my Italian sojourn, or to
keep my word, and hold by my intentions of remaining
another winter. The last is best ; ever after, I shall have
most satisfaction in having done so. If I go now, I shall
only have performed in part what I intended to complete.
September. Pouring rain. Forgetting it is Sunday,
start in the omnibus for the Museum : find it open, however,
and some of the custodi attending. Raphael never fails to
satisfy the judgment, and to engage us in his Madonnas.
Their beauty is beyond that of any other. I return to Spag
noletto with fresh excitement. He is the only follower that
ever surpassed his master ; for certainly he does surpass Ca-
ravaggio in the fluid-bloodedness of his flesh. His, indeed,
is the most real I recollect, with the exception of Titian's
Christ crowned with Thorns. The tone, strength, and power,
in general, of his Silenus and his St. Jerome are unequalled.
He is the greatest Spanish painter ; Murillo (as I have seen
him) is weaker, but rich and true. The Silenus, doubtless,
is disgustingly befatted. Caravaggio, in the Entombment,
is potent, but has not the same excellence in the flesh. In
this picture, and in the Silenus, there is nothing to awe,
command, or persuade, yet they are irresistible. The tone
of this work I hope I shall remember. Looking at these is
all I have done to-day. Could I meet such men in life, I
would surely be happy !
3d. Sally forth for the Monastery of the Camaldoli.
Get out of the road, and over to the opposite side of the
mountain. Toil up the steep by a water-course ; the per-

144 CAMALDOLESE MONASTERY.
spiration trickling down my temples as I view the beautiful
bay from the heights. Meet a priest, who cautioned me
against these unfrequented paths, and at last find the mon
astery. The porter meets me with a most profound reve
rence, and here I get some bread and wine, omelet and fruit.
The prospect round and round is very beautiful ; but of all
I have seen to-day, the morning sun rising over Vesuvius,
seen from behind the Castle of St. Elmo, was most worthy of
remembrance. The grey gold floating behind the mountain,
on which the clouds, in portions of light, silver and shade,
were scattered, never let me forget ! The mountains near
Vesuvius were in a wreath of cloud, while it was clear.
Thou most intense light upon the sea, stay in my memory
for ever !
After the monastery, go to the church of St. Martino, the
roof of which is by Lanfranco, the best production of his I
have seen. Over the pillars of the nave, are prophets by
Spagnoletto in fresco. They are broad, in black and white,
and have more gusto than any of the earlier frescoes ; but,
from want of experience in this method, they have required
retouching, are stained, and a little inefficient in parts.
4th. Go to the Museum. See the MSS. of Pompeii,
the process of unrolling, &c. The mosaic pictures are mostly
very rude and rough. Visit a private collection of pictures,
in which are eight by Salvator Rosa. Much genius : but
his strength is in his landscapes ; four of these here of great
depth and force. Here are some modern works : the Homer
singing to two rustics, by a Neapolitan, and the Three Ages,
by Gerodet. Both fine works ; good in execution -even :
Homer the best.
7th, Leave Naples. Disgusted with the Italian people
in the boat to Sorrento. About ten passengers at once com
bined to cheat me by lying about the fare : some handing

SORRENTO TO POMPEII. 145
.their money in secret : a half-savage affair altogether. Find
myself in what is called Sorrento ; neither village nor single
house, but a scattering of country houses above the cliffy
shore. Make a lodgment in an artist-rendezvous ; this
residence is to cost me ten carlini a-day. Am disap
pointed in not finding a way to Vesuvius and the adjacent
country : all is rocky cliff.
8th. Walk, lounge, bathe : dine, walk, lounge, and
sup. Styled excellenza by my landlord. Nothing is too
condescending — nothing too impudent for an Italian.
9th. Walk to a village above the piano, in company
with Sir S. Stirling. Find there is a sort of curiosity in
the house, an English colonel, who communicates with no
one ; he has a ladder at the back of the - house up to his
chamber-window, by which he gets in and out without pass
ing through the dining-room.
10th. Have written a preface to a notice of the Painting
of the Moderns : a game at bowls after dinner.
11th. We intended going to Capri, but cannot get. I
must be off to Amalfi ; it is not easy to shuffle over life,
for even a day. No books; none since coming to Italy
except Italian.
12th. Leave Sorrento in a boat for Castelamare, then
walk to Pompeii, and, at sunset, see from a mound of ashes
the cleared streets of the city. In the evening, sit in a
curious albergo, on the seat of the excavations.
13th. Pompeii. The two theatres, the temples of Isis,
iEsculapius, and Bacchus, the amphitheatre, the streets —
especially that ofthe tombs without the walls — all most in
teresting. There is not the taste or beauty I expected in
the garden fountains and other things. These are trumpery,
shell-patched, little matters, and the pillars, both to public
and private buildings, are of plastered* brick, sometimes

146 POMPEII  VESUVIUS.
painted half-way up. All the best pictures are gone to the.
museum. Leave Pompeii, and go through Torra del Annun-
ziata to Resina, where are the excavations of Herculaneum.
Here the uncovered parts are very similar to Pompeii, but
inferior in painting and ornament — less of them. It is some
what dreadful to descend into the theatre that was drowned
in lava, and the impression of a mask remaining is curious.
Early in bed in the house of the guide : for Vesuvius in the
morning. 14th. At two o'clock rise and proceed by torch-light,
mounted on a pony, towards the mountain. Some of the
stars intensely bright, but the road dark and ragged. At
the Hermitage, we call the gendarme, and he accompanies
us to the top of the cone, the ascent of which is most labo
rious. At the top, smoke exuding from the ground, which
is mostly sulphur, and yellow in colour. Climb the inner
cone, an ascent still more difficult than the other, the soil
being cinders, small as gravel, and so hot, that I found it
uneasy to rest for a little, while sketching the top : some
parts impassable for the smell of sulphur and heat. At
length at the top ; I look down over the brink into the
crater, where red-hot stones and sulphurous rocks are reek
ing up. The top of this mountain is altogether wild
and impressive ; the toiling surges of lava dreadful. The
descent is rapid, the heels sinking among the cinders.
15th. Do nothing but go to a country festival, and
see the little church, decorated with Neapolitan taste, with
silk, gold-paper, and other trash.
16th. An excursion to Capri with Sir S. Stirling. The
cave is a hoax; only fit to amuse idlers. Afterwards we
ascended on donkeys to the villa of Tiberius. The island
itself is very romantic and grand. Little thought has
passed across my mind to-day.

PJESTUM  BAIA. 147
19th. Cannot get out of this confounded Sorrento : am
now again anxious to be in Rome. To palliate my idle
ness, made a sketch of Young Bacchus and a Fawn.
21st. At Salerno ; the boatmen would not venture out,
but I have reached this by another way.
22d. Psestum. Leave Salerno before six, and reach
the temples about ten. Neither greatly disappointed nor
excited by them. They are doubtless worthy of study.
Just as I entered the Temple of Peace, a snake, at least
three feet and a-half long, was making off. The cicerone
struck him with a stone, and finished him with my stick ;
this, and a yellow-headed eagle seen on the return, the most
notable things for me to-day.
23d. At break of day roused by the vetturino ; and, in
an hour, I am again on the way to Naples. On arriving
there fix for Wednesday to return to Rome. Walked to the
grotto of Posilippo, and Virgil's Tomb, as it is called.
24th. Early in the museum, taking a last look at the
Pompeii pictures. After mid-day set off for Baias. Enter
the Sibyls' Grotto— a long Italian wading with me on his
back. What was called by the ignorant people the baths
of the Sibyl have certainly been tombs. We are shewn a
" bocco " said to have been listened to by the Emperors, and
a brick portal said to have led to a palace of Nero. This
cave is on the edge of Lake Avernus, now pleasant enough.
Baise, and all the rains of temples, Nero's Baths, &c, are
much worth seeing ; as also are, for the sake of association
only, the mare morte, the Elysian fields, and other sights
well known. To-morrow I return to Rome.

l2

148 MENTAL STRUGGLE.

ROME AGAIN.

1st October 1833. Again I renew the Journal of my
abode in Rome. Searching everywhere for a room, and at
mid-day find one — a camera, not appartemento, to make the
Italian distinction — and get my baggage removed.
3d. Examine the Aldobrandini Marriage particularly
to-day. Find it is not fresco, but painted in the same
manner as the Pompeii works. Also examine others of the
ancient pictures in the Vatican. One or two single figures
look like fresco, but these are so retouched, it is difficult td
say what they may have been originally. Order canvass
for my large picture. Meet Gibson ; he comes with me to
' my studio ; speaks highly of the works of Cornelius, a Ger
man, in Munich. Go out to see the competition frescoes of
Guido and Domenichino. It is the worst Domenichino I have
seen, and Guido opposite is brown, and much of the Cortona
form and drapery.
8th. I find my canvass preparer wishes to facilitate his
profits at my expense. Tell him not to go on. I feel this
picture of Discord will be. an unrequited labour; it will drain
my last bajoccho, or even run me into difficulties. Disgusted,
too, with the kind of commendation bestowed upon it — fine
group, good composition, and so forth — the qualities that
give it value never dreamt of. I have to explain that it is
abstract, and so on, and general explanation I hate. Slightly
retouch a few parts of my pictures of " Time " and " Sappho."
This evening thinking over what I have lost of romance
and expectation.
10th. Again resolve, for good or for bad, to paint my
large picture. It will be my final effort for notice. What
comes after it must be to answer occasions. I do this to

BEGINS HIS OPUS MAGNUM. 149
satisfy myself ; it may land me in difficulties in cash affairs,
but my regrets might trouble me were I not to take advan
tage of the time. I know what its fate will be : my
acquaintances will be timid ; a few foreigners may come to
see it; it will be rolled up, and follow me to Scotland.
It must stand for the time I have lived since leaving home.
13th. My cartoon is now traced upon the canvass.
18th. Commence painting. Paint shoulder and breast
of principal figure. At present consider I have effected the
tone I intended. Meet Severn on the Pincian in the even
ing, who tells me he has painted Life in Death, and Death,
from Coleridge. Talked with him of Keats. Keats had
lost his little independence, and his brother troubled him.
Spoke of the tragedy he has left. The plot was invented
by  at Florence, and Keats wrote the dialogue without
well knowing the plot.
18th. Now hard at painting daily. Very unwell — as
ill, indeed, as I have yet been in Rome. Go out to get the
sun, this studio being cold, but a cloud comes over the day.
Return ill indeed. To work again upon the thorax of my
principal figure.
Called on my ancient master of the Trustees' Academy.
He asked if I was going to Raphael's funeral ? Yes — but
tickets ? I had no ticket, yet went to the Rotunda. Try
twice ineffectually to enter — have no piece of white paper in
my pocket to pass for a ticket. Was giving it up in despair,
when I saw a German tearing a piece off a newspaper with
the same view. Get a bit, force myself within the Swiss
guards, and pass the paper. Here I am in at last, but
the keeper is after me, hurrying me back to the door. My
broken Italian, however, saves me. The polished mahogany
coffin — bright enough for the bones to see themselves in — is

150 STUDIO WORK.
placed high up, set about with lights. The mass is chaunted ;
the members of St. Luke's and others holding candles. And
now the Miserere is sung ; and thus are the bones of the
divine Raphael reburied.
19th and 20th. Do the face and hair of the principal
figure in Discord. Called on by Rothwell and Vallatti, and
two others, but could not admit them to see my picture. I
shall persevere to the finish in admitting no one till it is
done. After dinner visit Severn ; see his Life in Death,
and Death. A good picture: the effect particularly so.
Life in Death, however, a failure in my view of the poem —
he having made her beautiful ; the old mariner and the ship
very good.
22d. In an hour overcome all yesterday's difficulty;
then paint one of the arms of the father. At half-past nine
all round seem gone to bed.
23d. To-day do more than my apportioned task ; but
whether for good or harm remains to be seen. Walk round
the Pincian, and home to my camera of dulness. My
countrymen complain of the long nights. " How am I to
spend the long nights ?"
27th. Sunday. Go out about eleven to meet Baillie,
for the purpose of going to burned church of S. Paolo. It
has been one of the largest and most splendid interiors in
Rome, but now nothing to be here remarked but the marble
and granite. The boasted portraits of the Popes, being
worthless, may be easily supplied in the way they were
originally produced.
2d November. Go with Baillie to see the shows at the
Hospital of S. Spirito, and the burial-vaults. This is the
commemoration of All Saints. See a wax-figure exhibition
for the multitude. Afterwards meet a friend of B.'s in a
coach, and accompany him to another church to see the

ALL SAINTS' EXHIBITIONS. 151
subterranean excitement again. Enter vaults grotesquely
ornamented with skulls and bones, skeletons holding holy
water basins, and neat arches constructed out of the machi
nery of former men. Here is a wax group of the Pope re
moving the body of St. Peter, the body being in remark
able preservation (as pointed out by the official), and in very
clean linen. A stink and a rattle ! The stink is that of
washed or boiled skulls, arm and leg bones, and the rattle
that of the box, begging relief, in small coin, for their souls,
now in another world.
4th. The first evening of the Academy. A very small
appearance. Two new faces, but none of the established
Roman members. Life and art — ease and save. One or
both of the new comers I passed last year in Paris : they
have been copying all the way.
6th. Another new English face at the Academy ; a pro
minent nose of thirty-five. This a good draftsman, as is
also one of those who joined first. We shall have more ta
lent this winter. Evening in the Greco ; the first time for
a month. Read William's poem about Shelley; studied,
and of a high order, but too eulogistic. Lauder brought it
with letters for me. Call upon him, and find him in the
same house with Lees. Call on Dessoulavy : find him ill in
bed ; a very beautiful picture of the Aquaducts on his easel.
After dinner, in the Vatican Museum, with the Apollo, the
Laocoon, and the Elgin Marbles, and find great pleasure and
repose in looking at them — companionship even with them,
the wonder and admiration of the world, which I never be
fore experienced. Attempt the hair of the third figure in
my picture : do not effect it.
16th. In my study later now : the mornings creeping
in. Evening ; transcribe the greater part of a short article
for  Magazine, on the Pompeii pictures.

152 18th. Hand and hair of the Daughter my day's work.
A soft, delicious Italian day. In the Academy in the even
ing: five new members. Am introduced by Rbthwell to
the elder of the new men.
21st. A knock at my now sealed studio door. Find
Gibson has brought Mr. Stirling. How did he rest till his
hair was grey, then start up from his chair and begin to
ramble ? A wonderful sky over Rome to-night.
22d. Paint hand and arm of the Mother. Walk on the
Pincian in the evening. I had formed a most incorrect idea
of Rome in all that related to modern arts and artists : I had
raised a God that was to prove a Baal, and fall upon his face.
My idea of the intellectual and social elevation of the pro- -
fessors of art has been prostrated. When I look back, I see
that I expected to find a Parnassus, where " no unholy spirit
dares to tread ;" but here is " Comus and his bestial train"
— a very numerous one. This, however, does not annoy me
now ; I see I was wrong, and that whatever is noble is rare
and removed. I now understand the moral. bearings of the
mistake, and have got over much that was disagreeable to
me here as a place of residence. I should like to leave Rome
in my present mood — satisfied and indifferent. At first
there are a thousand things to try one, the manners are so
whetted, and so different from other places. The strangeness
of those unaccustomed to the ways is instantly remarked,
and a name appropriated to them : they are " Griffins."
23d. Go to the Puppet Theatre in the evening, I sup
pose for the last time ; and nothing to regret if it be. To
pick up Italian is my apology. Mr. Stirling came to-day,
and sat an hour, talking in his queer way. Then Baillie
and I go with him to the Exhibition of the Porto del Popolo,
to see the pictures of an Italian youth of twenty-one. Ra
ther bold, but the strange blue and purple of all the foreign

COGITATIONS. 153
schools prevail. To-night I am troubled, in spite of my
knowing the cause ; a want of some true stay for my secluded
thoughts — secluded in reference to ideas, not realities, of art,
and connected therewith, of life. Must I at last abandon
principles and desires, and content myself : " say unto the
mole, thou art my brother, and to the worm thou art my
fellow?" 28th. Paint the feet of the Mother, and part of the blue
drapery of the Boy. At Ave Maria go to the post. Letters
from home ; my pictures have arrived in London.
30th. Call on Heavyside. He shews me his designs :
he has attempted more than usual. Call on Wyatt : he is
without hardihood, but possessed of great taste and delicacy.
This month now finished — time is creeping on me. I feel
anxious when I look over the uncovered canvass. I have
much to do. Evening at the cafd, to catch a glimpse of
varied character while I may.
8th. To-day completes a year's residence in Rome. I
doubted whether I should effect so long a stay when I came.
I am now satisfied in having done so. Art has not assumed
a higher interest to me, but I have gained much experience.
My ideas on many subjects are more regulated, on others
more unfixed. I have added nothing to my power of inven
tion, whatever I may have hoarded up. Living as I now
do, merely to work, eats down the imagination. My Journal
has often been a relief to me, and preserved much that would
long ago have been driven from, or rather covered over, in
the chambers of the memory ; while its records detect to me
changes in my feelings and in my opinions of men and things.
To-day I have been ruminating, as I "very often do, on my
isolated position in regard to art, and the friends of art, and
in regard to the pride, diffidence, and indifference of my na
ture. All that I hold worthiest seems to remove me from

154 THOUGHTS OF HIS FUTURE.
the sphere of other men. Disappointment, too, has morbid-
ised my feelings; often I feel degraded in my own eyes,
while I am struggling after that which still keeps as far off
as ever. That I may ultimately effect the name of a painter,
I have more grounds to believe than to despair ; but tardy
it may be. Without support onwards, I fall down, or sti
mulation comes too late to form part of my character, and I
pass life in a continued effort. I am told I expect too much :
I shall be glad if it turns out so. I felt disappointment at
seventeen; that now I feel it more is not strange..
*****
1 lth December. A few folds of drapery keep me labour
ing all day, and ineffectually too. My room is surrounded
with voices and breathings. Italian houses have always a
suspicious character— -one room entering from another. I
ought to have my picture half a year beside me before I say
it is done ; and I am unwell again. Call on Lauder, and
find he has got a sitter's chair erected, and is employed
painting portraits.
15th. Pass over the yellow drapery and ground of my
" Discord." After dinner visit some churches. Domeni-
chino's frescoes in St. Luigi are uninspired. Enter St.
Agostino, to see the busts of old German warriors, and the
famous Virgin, still as much frequented as ever. Age leads
still greater age to touch its foot, and to be anointed from
the little dirty lamp that burns before it. Is that creeping,
cold, withered wretch, the same being that was fifty years
ago full of lusty life and blood, like that big-breasted, out
stepping woman beside her? No, we only flatter ourselves
that we remain identical throughout life.
This evening impeaching myself with not writing of
the painters of the day and modern painting as I proposed.
I palliate my neglect, by feeling that the most of them are

ST. LUKES PICTURE. 155
not worth many words : Italian art is now no more. Call
on Stirling at his rooms. Find Macaulay and  there.
Recollect, of old, meeting Macaulay at the Edinburgh
Academy ; I little thought then, that the next time I should
see him would be here. I must now go on with my picture
laboriously, but I Cannot work longer than I now do.
23d. Complete the first painting of my picture by con
cluding the drapery. The first painting of this is more
satisfactory than that of any former picture ; it is more ad
vanced than any I have yet done.
Went to Ara Cceli to-day to the miraculous child — of
wood. Observed the picture by St. Luke there. The
Saint has not been a miraculous painter; but it is very
dark, and nearly covered by silvering and crowning. When
will the masses of men unite to effect what is great and
good? *****
Time passes on, and I am painting from morning to*
night. See various people at Torlonia's again, although I
determined to go no more ; pity I did not keep my deter
mination. On the 28th make the first alteration in my
picture. I pray that it may be the last. Rose next morning
in strength and spirits ; how gay a life a continuance of
this health would be.
30th December. My stay in Rome has been and is a
period of probation, passed of necessity ; in some respects a
dissatisfying blank, but also interesting as a woful part of
my life. Formerly depression of spirits had a relief from
expectation, now there is nothing but disappointment. Ex
citement causes reaction, and the greater variety in the mode
of living creates opportunity for this morbidness to develope
itself. Were I successful in my great aim being justly ac
knowledged (as I am sure it will "be in a certain fashion),

156 OPUS MAGNUM NEARLY DONE.
this would in a great measure be removed. But, again, it
is not the opinion of others that depresses me, it is my
opinion of myself; I labour under doubt of what I have
been doing.
31st December. Last night of the year. At the lodging
of Richardson the sculptor. Rothwell, Dessoulavy, Jarvis,
Bond, Henning's old pupil, a young Scotsman, the German
I met at the subterranean show, Sanders, and another, name
unknown, all of the party. So with free talk .goes the old
year down. 1834.
1st January. A mild scirocco. An early visit from
Rothwell, whom I asked to call before he leaves Rome.
Praised my other 'pictures, but not my large one. After his
visit, take myself to task about my " Discord." Why did
I stake my own self-opinion by bringing so much to the bar
of Roman or any other criticism ? Running myself into in
convenience to gain misconception and neglect.
3d. Leave my study to-day in better mood. It is all
for the best.
4th. Paint for half the day. Burn my old sketch and
my imperfect cartoon. Take down the paper screen ; clean
my palette. My picture is now visible.
The first caller is Macaulay. " Grand composition,
fine drawing." Ask Gibson, who comes forthwith. " Very
bold, very clever."  calls. " Very powerful, the
whole together." Begin again to paint upon it, and, after
a day or two, consider it finished — ended for the present.
Vallati calls to see it. " Molto hello — bel quadro — quanto
presto— bravo Scott — siete molto allegro — bravissimo." Stir
ling calls also. I go with him to see a children's festa ;

VISITORS. 157
man resembles himself all over the world more in his toys
than in serious things. But what are serious things ? Call
upon Wolf and Severn. Find the last going to Minardi,
one of the best copyers. Go with him, and see a number
of designs, some very fine compositions, two particularly —
Tasso with^his Genius, and a Dream of Hector. Hector
dreams of a noble horse and furious chargers about him.
Minardi is a fine, free, poetic-looking man. Lauder calls
to see my picture, and^thinks much of it. Time and Love
he considers my best painting.
Richardson and a Londoner to see my " Discord."
This morning, thinking of the manners of men, struck with
the idea that very many pass through life without knowing
themselves, or casting thought inwards. All naturalisti
must be of this character. In society these men know much.
Heavyside calls ; then J. Macdonald ; then Stirling ; then
a large party, with Charles Wilson as cicerone. Afterwards
go to the Vatican, where Caravaggio upbraids me. What
is my picture in tone to his ? * * * Why has it been
said Raphael is not a colourist ? He and Buonarotti are
the two best colourists, in the true meaning of colour as a
part of painting. Titian may be added as the most engag
ing ; but beside Raphael in the Vatican he is obscure. In
the morning Baillie calls. " You have managed a most
difficult subject." Then Macdonald and Count Gryse—
" You have made a grand thing at last." Next day in my
studio all day brooding — gloomy as the abyss of 
Jamieson calls on the following day : his- applause is sen
sible — he is the first to notice the intention expressed in the
picture. I go with him to Camuccini's collection of old
pictures. Giovanni Bellini's last work, finished by Titian,
is a curious stiff production. The portrait of a Pope Paul,
small, very fine. Walk to St. Giovanni Laterno : in the

158 VISITORS — GLOOMY AS

church beyond it, behind the altar, is an immense work in
fresco, certainly by Perugino ; the figures here are the largest
I have seen by him. Return by the walls of Rome.
Severn calls, and a Mr. Boadham. Then Darnley, a
painter to be. Then Cope and Smith. — " Vigorous — very
vigorous." Then Glennie. I believe every part of my
picture has now been remarked upon, and constantly one
likes what another has questioned. Where is any founda
tion in opinion for the altar of truth ?
Wolf calls, and a German with him. The head of the
mother pleased him as statue-like. Go to the post, but find
no letters. Wyatt's card on my return.
This is the 19th it appears. In my studio, wait for
visitors with little advantage. In verity I am alone. My
mind is shutting itself up more and more. Nor do I see
ought for the future but neglect and poverty — a constant
straggle to reach something that circumstances seem deter
mined to deny. I have painted a large picture, and have
succeeded — I stand among the greater artists here. Say
nothing of a great effort — even a successful one — and it
falls back upon the author. It must be noticed or neglected.
But time is needed, and a repetition of works is necessary.
Am I forgetting of what I complain ? My landlady enters
my room ; talks of my quietness ; I am never singing nor
making noise — " mai canta perche e malinconico."
Sunday. All. day in my studio. Write ten or twelve
verses, Farewell to Rome. Next day in the Vatican. The
Transfiguration strengthens upon me. It is superb in colour,
and the flesh finely toned : no copy conveys this transparent
quality. Again the stanzas and the Torso. Lawrence's
portrait of George IV. has a chalky and flimsy look. Again
at San Ofrio ; the frescoes of Domenichino here are among
his best. Evening in the Teatro Valle, to see a comedy by

VISITORS. 159
Goldoni. To my judgment rather a poor caricature affair —
the melodrama tedious.
Set out to the Exhibition. It is worse and worse this
year, if possible ; indeed, ridiculously bad. Remember to
have seen Cope in the Louvre — he tells me he would not
now have known me, I am altered so much. Baillie calls
to see my picture, and Spalding, an analysing fellow, who
has seen some of my pictures in Edinburgh. Next 
calls, tells me I have great credit — so has the Devil. Wyatt
calls — praises my picture.
Go out to the Borghese. Here Titian, Veronese, Bone-
facio, are losing their strong attraction to me, possibly from
my late study of the Romans. Bonefacio's Prodigal Son
evidently painted in black and white, and scumbled over.
Titian's Divine and Profane Love evidently on slightly
absorbent ground, of a light colour. To-day its brilliancy
did not appear remarkable ; but the toning of the colours, by
breaking them, beautifully effective. The clouds of a cool
grey, all lighter than the sky, which is considerably subdued.
The simplicity of the warm grey tones, of different degrees
of strength, on the distant houses, is great. The slightness
of this picture, and of the other of Venus, is remarkable — on
the flesh particularly. About the hands and on the Cupid, a
touch and an outlined character is allowed, but where there
is a flat surface, there is no touchiness.
Correggio's Golden Shower and the Divine Love of
Titian are both much cracked. Both, I suspect, have been
rather thickly painted with size preparation, which has
caused them to crack. Correggio's Magdalene Reading is
very thinly painted in the flesh, stippled, smooth, and clear,
to the points of the fingers. The drapery is in the old mode,
thickened by asphaltum or otherwise. Walk after dinner
to St. Pietro in Montorio, and examine a Flagellation painted

160 VISITORS.
by Piombo after Buonarotti. Various altars here are de
signed by him, with bad, but vigorous, figures of boys sup
porting the rails. Also two recumbent figures of Popes,
nearly alike, and two others standing. The standing figures
are worthy of him.
The Doria Palace. There I now meet the Claudes as
something new. The two Heads, by Raphael, are very fine :
their ruddy colour is rather carried too far. They contrast
badly with a portrait by Titian above, which is of a clear,
light colour.
27th. In the cafe in the evening, where I meet a Ger
man, who agrees with -me to teach me German in exchange
for English. To-morrow evening we begin.
29th. People again calling to see my picture. A young
and inquiring American ; Spalding, and another intelligent
Scotsman ; then Lees ; then Williams.
Go to St. Maria in Cosmedin. See a picture said to be
by St. Luke ; but it is a bad picture of a later date than
Giotto. Also the old Bocca della. Verita. Afterwards to
the Garden-house, where are the frescoes of the Germans;
Schnorr's room presents very authentic works — very poetic
they are, but still they are very real. Overbeck's are beau
tiful : there is a more graceful delicacy about his than about
those of the others. Those by Kock (or Cox) are inferior
in study ; but a Boat Scene is very superior in colour.
These two rooms, from Tasso and Ariosto, by Schnorr and
Overbeck, are quite a treat — they are perfectly old romance.
This is Sunday, the 3d of February. I take a solitary
walk, and sit in the sun in the Colosseum.
Monday : the Carnival begins ; but few people in masks
in the Corso. Evening, in the room ofthe German Schrodter.
On the second day of the Carnival, a few more people in the
Corso.

PREPARES TO LEAVE ROME. 161
7th. At my German lessons. That German Schrbdter
seems always exhilarated. Martz was in his room at night :
he seems unable now to pass his time alone. Next day to
the Corso with Schrodter. Crowds of people, and white
balls flying in basketfuls.
In the Delia Pace. Raphael's Sibyls appeared better
and stronger this time ; but I may have felt compunction
for having thought so little of them before. Meet Mackin
tosh on the Corso on the last day of the Carnival. The
showers of white peas thicker than ever I saw them. Go
to the masquerade with  , in my cloak, fur hat, and
black mask : the theatre so crammed we can scarcely move.
This is Ash-Wednesday. Go to S. M. in Trastevere,
a curious old church, and a curious old rite going on — the
foreheads of the people being touched by the priest with a
cinder — :this cinder to be afterwards pulverised, I suppose,
as a scape-goat. My landlady comes into my room and
talks of malinconico. This must be because I do not laugh
— I know of no other symptom. How should she expect
me to jest or talk with her? But a book in one's hand
gives an Italian woman a serious impression. This woman,
indeed, has a boy who uses books, but then he roars all the
time. To-day, the 15th. Blot out my frescoes, and burn my
cartoon ; then wait for Jones and the wright. Martz and
a German painter calls. At the Academy in the evening
for the last time. Next day the inspector calls to see the
pictures to be sent off. He seemed to have come upon
something different from what he expected. Afterwards
Jeffrey calls, and praises it very freely. Then Harrison.
Next Dr. Thomson, who studies it attentively.
In the Campidoglio. Again struck, as at first, by the
two statues of Hercules. The bronzed one is the most

162 SIGNOR AGRICOLA.
powerful embodyment of strength that exists. The pro
portion of its parts is to be carefully studied : small head, im
mense neck, biceps and deltoid growing into the bulk of the
shoulder, the thighs widening above, the leg thick below
the knee, the immense feet, are all the result of profound
knowledge. In front, the figure is majestic ; in every view
it is powerful. Buonarotti's portrait here is a piece of fine
finish. In this place I ought to write a character of Garo-
falo, another of Domenichino, another of Guercino ; three
secondary artists, whose works are here forced upon the eye,
and held as chief ornaments of the gallery, which they cer
tainly are, the collection being poor. But I need not trouble
myself. 20th or 21st. Get my pictures packed up. The old
woman who lights my fire, seeing them going, expressed
her grief that I was leaving : the poor body looked sorrow
fully about, the only one I suppose who may do so. I have
left an order to insure my picture for £150 from Rome to
London or Leith.
*****
Go to Agricola's studio at St. Peter's. No admission,
but in the top of the Palazzo Giustiniana, see some of his
works in a studio there. Very careful, but not a particle of
genius in them; and he has a bad feeling, or rather no
feeling for colour. Two pictures going on — Raffaello Paint
ing, and Tasso brought to the Monastery of Ofrio — not
worth anything. A portrait, in imitation of Raphael, and
some sketches, were all. He is more like the older painters
in his works than any other of the living Italian school.
His drawings reminded me of Carlo Dolci's " poetry," they
certainly were the most beautifully finished things I ever
beheld in chalk. Afterwards to Thorwaldsen's studio, where
the Prophets and Christ are, and his St. John group. In

THORWALDSEN — OVERBECK — WAGNER. 163
the models, all the prophets are very fine, and the Christ
particularly so : his figure is larger than the others. This
is changed for the worse in the marble, where it has come
apparently less in the process of copying. The marbles of
all these figures are inferior to the models : they seem cut
by inferior workmen. Thorwaldsen is by no means pro
found as an artist ; his study of the naked has been slight.
A large figure of an astronomer here, is wiry in the drapery,
large-headed, and, in the lower extremities, small. It is
large in size, but small in style : his horses are badly anato
mized. The figure of himself, in the triumph of Alexander,
is strangely disproportioned in the size of the head. The
Venus at present finishing has certainly no modelling : how
inferior to Canova: but he put the surface on the marble
with his own hand. The bust of Byron is a very common
production. However, it shews us Byron in a very different
light from many of the very fanciful portraits that have
been made of him. The face is good, but no more ; the
mouth not at all a remarkable feature; the forehead, nose, and
rest of face, all as they very likely were, but not as they are
said to have been. The Triumph of Alexander is freely
modelled. *****
Talking to Dr. Thomson of Overbeck ; he tells me
Overbeck has entered the Papal church in Rome. I recol
lect seeing him, very devout, coming out of the Gesu. This
is the act of a weak enthusiasm. There is something of
sadness, and much of weakness, in his expression, but there
is also seriousness, which ought to have prevented him doing
anything foolish.
Go to the studio of Wagner. There see a long frieze,
the subject " A Descent of the Goths on Rome." He has
given variety to his work, by commencing with the election
m 2

164 CORNELIUS.
of a king, the rejoicings, war-dance, sacrifices, &c. The
work is altogether good, but displays little that is remark
ably original. It is possible to do such things mechanically.
Then to the Vatican ; this visit may be my last.
25th. Call on Thomson to go to Cornelius. Find the
German at dinner, and do not disturb him. Go to Gibson
to take leave of him. He has finished Hylas, perhaps the
most finished group that has been produced by an English
sculptor. It equals Canova in this respect. Now turn to
Cornelius. His great cartoon presents a design that nearly
any well-educated artist may learn to make ; but it is cer
tainly good. The idea of this Last Judgment is Gothic, and
is after Buonarotti and Dante. Here are horned devils with
hooks, and such trash, as we must call them at this day,
while the angels are encircled by cherubs. The more
sentimental portion is in the style of thinking of the earlier
masters. In size it is to be very large.
Cornelius is a little dark man of a firm sort of physiog
nomy, not at all ideal in expression, but of a good bias.
He shewed me a print of Orpheus playing before Pluto,
in a splendid style of design, very full and varied, and at
the same time severe ; a dash of wildness in it, with classic
study. It is one of many he has done. He is surely abus
ing his ability, in imitating Buonarotti and the older men,
as he is now doing in this his greatest work.
*****

RETURN HOMEWARDS.
I am now resolved for the most direct way through
France to Paris, by Lyons. Now I am done with Rome
and its climate, delightful at present. This is the air for a
vegetable rather than an intellectual life ; it creates satis-

MODERN ITALIANS. 165
faction in idleness. The modern Romans have many things
to master them : they are domineered over by former great
nesses in politics, religion, science, and art. A slave to ideal
superiority is in the heaviest bondage. All attempt at the
repetition of former greatness, by the institution of univer
sities, academies, rewards, &c, is putting a pair of bellows in
to the nose-hole of a skull, with the hope of making it breathe
again. Ancient exemplars fix themselves as the only good,
while, in truth, there is no such thing existing as an only or
a perfect ; excellence being nothing more than following an
idea further than it has otherwise been done. There is
no absolutely best thing in art or elsewhere. The excel
lent may be found in as many ways as the eyes turn ; but
where an accomplished production, belonging to time and
place, is set up as a law and a god, there is an end of endeavour.
The Italians do this ; their glory is in the past, of which
they take the merit. But I am done with them. They have
still wine and sunshine, but I leave them without regret.
Talking with Macdonald of remaining in or of leaving
Rome. He said, that if I could stay, producing works as I
had done, I certainly should succeed, in a pecuniary way
too. This is what I feel, and it is all I lose on leaving
Rome. Gibson talked of my having my picture litho
graphed, as a mode of spreading my name, the want of
money being implied in my not formally exhibiting it. I
do believe there never was a man who accomplished more
than I have done as unaided, and yet found himself so far
from gaining the means of living. These means, necessi
ties, these alone, can now stagger me. I can meet criticism ;
I know the value of this opinion and that opinion ; I can
question myself on what I do, and pass on; but these
vampires may drag me to the grave.

166 LEAVES ROME.
28th February. My last day in Rome. Visit a gallery
supported by Torlonia — a fly-trap. Evening, for the last
time with Buonarotti's Moses. Phidias and Praxiteles are
the great sculptors ; so good night.
FAREWELL TO ROME.
Farewell to her who sits upon seven hills —
To call her by no other or worse name ;
The Apocalypse has told of all her ills,
I, coming after, only wish the fame
Of all her benes, for the which I came :
And, going, I take leave of her in rhyme —
If it should be for aye, 'tis all the same —
I am indifferent whether father Time
Shall ever lead me back to this delightful clime.
Some by their constitution form'd to think
Wonders of most things, find their hopes are cheated,
And often, with a misanthropic shrink,
Turn round and curse their passion overheated ;
While still their disappointment, many-feeted,
Keeps up with them, and only parting gives
Small recompense for mischiefs they have greeted ;
Till knowledge their anticipation shrives,
And turns them out, to lead 'mong grass and weeds their lives.
That I've been disappointed thus, or pleased,
May to myself more clearly hence appear ;
That I've been oft sore, satiated, and teazed,
I know ; but that is different ; more severe
Question I make than these brief feelings bear
An answer to. Meantime I hold my breath,
While Time doth weave around, for me to wear,
A robe that in its hidden meshes hath
A power of living life — a darker power than death.
Then farewell, first, to first of bungled fabrics,
The Turnkey's Dome ! next, farewell ring for slaughter —
Or what was so — now magazine of bricks
The largest, and an echo for loud laughter !

FAREWELL. 1 b7
Next, ground to lay one's flesh and bones in, after
Their use is past, farewell ! and unto thee
By some call'd yellow, and I muddy, water,
The same farewell I freely wish all ye
Houses and dirty streets, call'd whatsoe'er ye be I
Ye temples ruin'd, or of present doing,
Farewell ! I look at all religions, past
And present here, as much the same — their viewing
Soon becomes irksome — one or two may last,
To write their moral. Briefly then I cast
My hat upon my head—" Ye men of Rome,"
Farewell ! and ye, fair donnas, kindly haste
Your long adio, else it will not come
More strongly on my ear than would a grey fly's hum.
I'm done with both — a forestiero more
They find me not— in peace with both I go.
Whate'er I think, or thought a year before
This date, of you, 'twere little worth to know,
Or difficult ; there's much that's just so-so
About you — " ne respect ne admiration" —
Although there is good style about the flow
Of lines in the dark faces of the nation,
But soulless 'tis, mere physical conformation.
Farewell to mass-chaunts, rubric histories, and
Long-waited benedictions, festas I — all
Living, because they did live ere Time's sand
Had run these last five centuries : the call
Of many voices in your deaf ears brawl —
But deafness is your wisdom — so be still
As an old granite god, or move to fall.
Sphynx found her riddle read, and so yours will
Ere long be read ; your number'd cycles fill !
Pictures and statues, great and small, farewell !
It must be we thus part — maybe for ever I
But some with memory shall always dwell,
Till ceases flowing the heart's rapid river ;
Nor with the many is it pain to sever, —

168 FAREWELL.
Happy 'tis so. Oh, Spirit of these few !
Dweller in light, where the unworthy never
Can come to darken ! thou, the always true !
Grant thou to light my path !— my only prayer to you.

My studio, to thee farewell ! thy walls
Are again bare ; those months I've past with thee
I've done my best to mark, if fruitless falls
My effort : so, if Fate says it must be,
Fate is the palliation ; rests with me
The present duty, and its pleasures, pains,
Joyance or sadness, gloom or revelry,
That plague the heart and agitate the brain,
As comes or flees the good — the visionary gain.
Farewell to other studios, British first ;
There may be one, or two, or three to see,
Which art hath visited ; but 'tis a curst
Country they appertain to, in the free
Aiding of those who stake their peace, to be
The stragglers in the unrequited way :
Shops of the trade in art, where — mystery I
Gold leads forth what's called " mind" to light of day,
And reputation grows, as grows its gainer's pay.
Critics (all here are such) farewell ! but no,
Enough of thy pretensions otherwheres
We have. One hydra I now leave, to go
Where there exists another, spreading snares,
Talking at second-hand, both corn and tares
Rooting up as he goes ; the vulgar eyes ,
Shut up all quietly the monster bears,
In his Pandora-box, whence ever flies
A varied host abroad, and each its story cries.
Old picture copiers, and old picture makers,
I go where both your trades are little known ;
Spectacled friends of Titian, Claude, and rakers
Of lumber rooms and halls, where dust hath sown
A soil o'er nameless pictures, by you grown

FAREWELL. 169
Into the labours of the greatest names,
They come forth patch'd and varnish'd, and are shewn
Authenticated, by well-managed claims,
And pass'd from prince to count, as best the story frames.
I part with both, and am well pleased to part :
^L sufferer one I've found, and seen him toil
In galleries, working for life's lowest mart
Among the highest things, in ceaseless moil.
The other, a low trickery, a coil
For foolish judges in their self-esteem,
Who spreads his nets upon a fruitful soil
Of knavery, and smoothly drive the team
Of simple souls, that ne'er of being driven dream.
And last, farewell, thou band of artist-brothers —
Fathers, men-midwives ; you may call them either —
Creators they of thoughts, or thoughts of others
Helping to live. Ah, perhaps Spirit-breather
Some one prefers being call'd, as through the ether
O' the Scalinata he may deftly soar,
Riding his Pegasus, till the mighty nether
World of common-sense is lost i' the roar
Of plaudits only heard voting life all a bor^.
But I forget the Greco and Bon Gout,
With their best samples of the best of deeds,
Where throng the smoking, coffee-drinking crew
Of various nations, but the artist breeds
Most numerous — a slough wherein the seeds
Of idleness may ripen ; but where knowing
Critics of tazzas, mezzo-caldos, T  ds,
Plentiful are, or seen, indeed, just growing,
As they are elbow'd round its ample tables flowing.
But I must end. In short, farewell to all
That I have met ! Now I look round and view,
From where I stand, the glorious Capitol :
It answers more than words, and I renew
My ancient sympathies and hopes, though few

170 FLORENCE AGAIN.
Realities have equall'd them, they come
Back on me fair, but not like those I knew,
Beckoning me on, before I left the home
To which I now return, rejoicing I know Rome.
The companions of my journey are an American, a Stras
bourg Frenchman, two Swiss, and an Italian dancer. € Of
scenes to recollect, the most notable is the appearance of the
country from the top of the hills, between Florence and the
immediate south. It was like a rugged sea of lava ; and
the sun gleamed on some parts of the distance — an immense
pile of mountains, their rocky mass here and there covered
by clouds. On the 5th of March breakfast at the Cafe" Colonna, in
Florence, and sally forth to S. Lorenzo. Next visit the
Baptistery, with its strange Christ, whose thumb is on the
wrong side of the hand, and the glorious bronze door of Ghi-
berti. Again in this cathedral, looking at Vasari's dome,
and then to S. Spirito and St. Croce, and from thence to
the church, where is Sarto's Madonna, and his Life or
Death (I don't know which) of a Saint, in the piazza.
Of all that I have seen to-day, my impression has been
more favourable than when I passed through Florence before.
Then I was looking forward, expecting immensities in Rome,
now I find much here superior to what is in Rome. The
Florentine mannerists are, after all, better than the Roman ;
but all here is nearly of the Florentine school alone. The
David, by Buonarotti, in the piazza, is a very fine work in
style. Baccio Bandinelli is very heavy. The Medici Chapel
is a powerful triumph of Buonarotti. The heaving of mind
apparent in his works is too oppressive for many. Some of
these statues, Morning, for example, never could have been
finished. The marble of that figure is too much hewn away
in different places. Called on Mrs. C  , who was sur-

OLD MASTERS. 171
prised at my appearance: so much for my year's toil and
illness — for I cannot say I have had perfect health at any
time in Rome.
In the morning, fix with a vetturino for Genoa to-mor
row early. Then go to the Ducal, and again see the Venus
of Titian, the Medici, and, for the last time, the Niobe and
Family. From thence to the Pitti, where I remain till it
closes. Visit S. Maria Novella, and again see the sheets of
painting, by Ghirlandaio, in the choir ; each side being at
least half the size of Buonarotti's Last Judgment. The
labours of the early Florentines are immense. Orcagna ap
pears here also, and a Virgin and Child by Giotto. The
size of the Florentine churches, as well as their pictures, is
greater than those of Rome. Visit also the Carmine, where
are the works of Masaccio, from which Raphael borrowed.
I have often supposed that the old masters, like our early
dramatic writers, merely did their works as those of a notable
trade, and were satisfied if they pleased the parties concerned
about them.
Genoa — after a journey of four days and a-half from
Florence. [Here a visitation of all the churches, and a find
ing of much that is good ; but nothing necessary for our
narrative to extract.] In the evening called at the steam
boat office. My last sunset in Italy — ah, Italia !
*****
Paris. Arrive here after a fatiguing journey, by dili
gence, from Marseilles, passing through Lyons, which is an
imitation of Paris on a small scale. Marseilles, where I
parted from Rothwell, was a change from Italy ; the sober
ness of the Italians contrasting with the vivacity of the
French : and now in Paris, I find the fritter about the public
taste very marked. Go to the Louvre : all covered up, and
the Modern Exhibition instead. I thus see what the French

172 FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
are doing, somewhat against my will, but possibly with some
advantage. There would have been little new in the old
pictures ; here all is so ; affording some good advice, with
much babbling ; some cautioning, and some stimulation.
The French are rich in artists, although no one can paint a
portrait ; and their sculptors have a low preference in senti
ment. Here is one really fine picture, the Execution of
Lady Jane Grey, and Bruloff 's Last Day of Pompeii, which
I suppose must be considered the chief work. It appears
small in this immense gallery ; it is fresh-looking as a new
shilling, and does not strike as sublime.
Go to the Luxembourg. The only work of consequence
added here, is Vernet's Raphael and Buonarotti in the Va
tican — a very excellent picture. The constant activity of
the French is their prime characteristic ; by constant motion
they are notable among the nations. Beset by little notions,
they yet do great things.
Visit the Egyptian Gallery in the Louvre. The works
of modern art here, on the roofs and walls, are stupendous,
shewing a very different amount of encouragement given to
French art, compared to the English — British I need not
say. Meet Americans here also. America is to become the
world-nation ; talent is to be its rank ; at least they have
little conventional rank, and they must have distinction.
The taste that appears to be saleable here is perfectly
trashy. Lithographs are its greatest efforts ; small engrav
ings next. Among the designers for these, it is curious to
remark imitators of the English: one imitates Westall,
another Smirke, and a third Corbould : this is also the case
with the engravers. But there are of both French enough !
Observe three English prints of the old school. I could not
believe they were so flimsy. In recollection I thought them
fine ; but I have of late been conversing with stern, strong,

ART OF THE DAY. 173
and correct men. Their drawing is -wretched : I hope I shall
be able to avoid falling into any thing weak or untrue. The
pictures from which these have been engraved, have been
produced as slightly as the first sketches of Raphael or
Bartolomeo, and enlarged without study or correction. This
Telemachus of Westall is like chinaware, or the lid of a
lady's work-box. It has the elements of good in it, but no
truth or study. And this Satan and Uriel, by Stothard,
gives us a boy-Satan : sad stuff. French prints are like
lemonade — this is milk and water.
Before leaving Paris, go to the Louvre again, and think
better of some of the works. Bruloff is at all events a supe
rior man. But a really fine work is the Old Warrior Father
with his Dead Son, by De la Croix. This is truly excel
lent, very good in execution, and real in expression : more
cannot be said. The tone of the picture of Lady Jane Grey,
from dark to light, is very fine ; it and St. George overcome
all the other works.
*****
London, 29th March 1834. Set my foot again on Eng
lish ground, almost in a storm, which .caused us to go to
Ramsgate instead of Dover, the steamer being unable to
make the harbour of the latter place.
Now I am back to the elephant among cities. The streets
I used to think narrow, are now broad, and their length
endless ; but the mechanical misery, the black, pale faces,
the misery of artizans and their dependents, is to be found
nowhere else : it is the most hopeless and loathsome of all.
I find my notions regarding political powers being vested in
the hands of the lower classes, have considerably changed :
experience, and seeing their varieties, and a higher idea of
the objects to be upheld, no doubt have made the change.
I had lately lost all reckoning of the days, but this Sun-

174 BARRY — REYNOLDS.
day brings me back again. How different here from what
I have been used to. No exhibitions ; no post open ; can
not even call on people ; can gain scarcely any intelligence
about the vessels to Leith. I must wait till Thursday, and
take a sailing vessel for economy. Next day I go to the
Adelphi to see Barry's pictures. Good invention, often
great in style, particularly in his etchings, but of poor exe
cution, the flesh very bad, the details unscientific where
there is any attempt at such, but in general there is none.
In the drawing, merely the most obvious features of the
form are collected from the antique, no acquaintance with
anatomy. The pictures are thin washes of oil colour over a
hard dry canvass.
Next to the National Gallery. Find Titian, Piombo,
and Hogarth as good as ever ; Reynolds false. The face
pf his General Elliot is bricky ; his Holy Family excuses
deficiency by an affected freedom, and affected it is, and
ignorant, in the drawing of the infant Christ and child St.
John for instance. The verraillion edging to the feet is not
colour. Next to the British Institution. Find the colouring of
English pictures of the day white and vermillion, flimsy,
raw, unnatural, and sketchy. Collins' " Boys Bird-catching"
is very true. I feel afraid to look at such a collection as
this; its impression is new to me, and the whole seems
done to please a popular eye. Call upon Burnet, find him
engraving his own Greenwich Pensioners ; and on Epps,
and find him writing against the Church ; see some maga
zines, but scarcely feel interest enough in them to read
them. Call upon Wilkie, and wait in his narrow passage
till the servant goes up to him ; he comes down, a most un
inspired-looking personage, a man cut out of red cheese, and
invites me up to his little painting room. Found a picture

WILKIE. 175
of a child dragging prettily an elder girl, a kind of remem
brance of Lawrence, or somebody else I have seen, and a
portrait of the Queen. In another room there is a second
picture of the Queen, and one of the Duke of Wellington ;
very poor the Duke is, painted in wide badly drawn
trowsers ; also a picture of " Not at Home," and one from
Spanish story — this a good composition ; that rich and deep
in colour. This visit has failed to realise my idea of Wil
kie, both in appearance and in his works. He said little,
and I also. I parted from him, impressed with no regret
that I had known so little of him ; indeed, I was mortified to
find him and his pictures no better than they are, and that
I had taken so much trouble to accomplish a meeting with
him. Thursday. On board of the Leith smack, the last part
of my journey home. Now I return to what I once so gladly
left ; but I hope that I return with that increased experience
that will enable me- to meet it whatever it is. All along I
have complained of the Italians as apt to take advantage of
strangers. What can they do, after all, in their small debased
coin, compared to these cormorant porters, waiters, and cab
men ? We feel inclined to pay the Italians in the poorest way,
and yet to live here is impossible under less than double the
charges. These Leith smacks seem now utterly unfrequented
— no cabin passengers but myself — and there is good reason.
Here we are, loitering on the sea, nothing to do but sit in
the sun — a weak sun — brooding and sad. Travelling wears
down both body and mind : I am determined, in future, if I
cannot do it in the easiest and most agreeable way, I shall
not at all.
After a week at sea, landed at Leith. Funds quite ex
hausted. Find all at home much the same as when I left
them.

1 76 HOME.
Here I close this well-filled book for ever — unless I open
it for reference, the purpose for which I have written it, if
time, inclination, or length of life, enable me to look back
and reconsider my residence in Rome. End of April 1834.

PART III.

LETTER VI. THE RESIDENCE IN ROME.

LETTER VII. SOME SUCCESS POUND AT LAST.

LETTER VIII. CHANGES.

LETTER IX. WRITINGS ON ART.

LETTER X. DETACHED THOUGHTS AND SPECULATIONS.

LETTER VI.

THE RESIDENCE IN ROME.

No change, no pause, no hope ; yet I endure.
I ask the Earth have not the mountains felt ?
I ask you Heaven, the all beholding sun,
Has it not seen ? The Sea, in storm or calm,
Heaven's ever changing shadow spread below,
Have its deaf waves not heard my agony ?
Ah me ! alas 1 pain, pain ever, for ever. Promethew Unbound.

While writing these pages I see every morning from my
window a little boy going to school, with his " shining
morning face," and his book in his hand. He is now
trusted to go alone ; in his new freedom he is almost a man ;
he looks at all the houses, as if they were foreign palaces ;
now he goes over the stile, and thinks how high he is ; and
now he leaves the footpath, and runs up and down all the
small knolls, counting them, and fancying he has done great
things. See, he turns altogether away from the road, on a
daring erratic excursion, fancies he has found a diamond,
but it is only a piece of glass. Is there any state in after life
answering to this in childhood .? To the most of men there
is not, and least to those who are endowed by nature with
those penetrative and apprehensive qualities we call genius.
He pursues knowledge and gains it, but behold it is not
hew to him, it is but the outward accomplishment of what
was within him of old, grander and vaster in its spiritual
N 2

180 AMOUNT OF WORK.
than in its formalised appearance. He brings things down
to himself; he does not ascend to them. For "the cha
racter of the true scholar is founded upon that which already
exists within him in his own being, independent of all
manifestation, and before all manifestation ; and it is neces
sarily produced, and unchangeably determined, by this
inward nature. Hence, if we are to describe his duty, we
must first unfold his nature." *
Insatiable indeed he is, drawing every good thing within
the sphere of his experience, but still he remains the same.
His ideas in relation to the great works of the past are ex
panded, rectified, or displaced, but the central idea of his
own work in life remains the same. We see this to have
been the case with David Scott. Was he altered, was he
much benefited by going to Italy ?
The Journal which fills the preceding sheets is about the
third part of the original document. There is, moreover,
another series of memoranda, nearly as long, relating exclu
sively to the works of art he visited : this series may be given
in an Appendix to our volume. Of other writings, there are
several fragments — tales, and critical papers. During that
short residence in Rome, he made a set of eleven sheets of
Anatomical Drawings, forming one of the most perfect art-
istical surveys of superficial anatomy ever made, with 137
Studies from Life, in oils or chalk ; and in painting he
did four small pictures of the Four Periods of the Day ;
a copy of the Delphic Sibyl, from the Sistine, with a num
ber of studies from the Last Judgment ; several exercises in
fresco ; painted " Sappho and Anacreon," a picture with life-
size figures ; and two or three smaller, but well-finished
pictures ; and, last and greatest, the picture of " Family
Discord," or, as it was afterwards called, " The Household
* Fichte.

SINCERITY AND ANXIETY. 181
Gods Destroyed." The size of this last was nearly thirteen
feet by ten and a half. This amount of work, if we con
sider the time lost, in a new scene and among new habits,
and add the designs, sketch-books, and other little matters
which he accomplished, shews us a Hercules in perseverance
and impulse. Now and then a little rest — for we cannot
consider the examination of works of art in galleries and
churches as rest — Sundays came round, when the palette is
laid aside, and a few weeks about Naples, regretted for
their idleness, and again to the work. Indeed, it may be ques
tioned whether he was a single entire day out of the studio
while living in Rome ; had any one advised him to relax, he
would have answered, in feeling if not in words — " Rest,
have we not all eternity to rest in ? " He certainly did
" work while it is day," in spite of ill health, and anxiety,
his close ahd constant friend, as he calls it in his Journal.
And why this anxiety ? may be asked again, and easily
enough answered. He had vowed to dedicate himself only
to what he felt to be worthy — indeed could do nothing
else had he wished ; at the same time, his judgment told
him that both the subject and style of his art were alien to
the popular mind — that there was indeed no field for it.
Every earnest and sincere man finds the circle of his en
deavour narrowed in a worldly point of view ; he lives like
the Christian, avoiding much ; working out his salvation
with fear and trembling ; studying to satisfy himself as much
as to satisfy others; and, it may be for years, doing nothing
that finds an answer in society. To live in this way, the
artist finds more difficulty than any other intellectual
labourer. In the first place, his art, in a superficial point
of view, addressed as it is to the sense of sight, appears to
deal in a direct and exclusive manner with imitation, and
therefore all people fancy they can judge of it, placing the

182 DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY.
still-life and the animal painter in the same category with
him who aspires to epic and scriptural sentiment, and thus
the object ofthe latter class is not only overlooked, it is de
graded. In England and in Scotland, where the respective
churches ignore art, there is no counteracting authority, this
false criterion is maintained uncensured, and ramifies itself
into minor falsities of all sorts— falsities regarding the pro
per subjects for pictures, that they should be always pleasing
and easy — falsities regarding execution, that it should
strictly imitate the natural surfaces of things, and so on.
And, secondly, the artist finds it more difficult to pursue his
ideal than the literary inventor, because his audience is in
finitely more limited. In the times of the great Italian
painters, it was all art and no literature ; now, it is all
literature and no art. In Edinburgh, for instance, the num
ber of individuals interested in art, possessing the power to
assist it, is a mere handful. Again, and perhaps this third
cause of his difficulty is the sturdiest of all in practice, he
must fall short of his aim, unless he be possessed of means
almost amounting to independence.
Now that his Journal is laid open for the first time to
other eyes than his own, and we see the self-questioning
and the struggle going on, we can understand better the
greatness of his endeavour. He educates himself in all
ways, arms himself with diligence and determination, takes
himself to task as to motives and powers, and returns to his
first love. His was not a blind enthusiasm, but an inborn
strength, supported by philosophy. He could detect the
causes of failure, and the weaknesses as well as the good
qualities of modern men and schools, as well as analyse the
works of the elder, and it was not likely he would be blind
to the chances against himself. Yet, nevertheless, he held
fast what he felt to be good ; sacrificed everything to it ;

DISAPPOINTMENTS. 183
and, the truth must be told, becoming more and more ab
sorbed in his pursuit, and identified with his idea of high
art, he eschewed every other pursuit as distraction, and re
pudiated every other field of exertion. He was never said
to have heen facie rusticana, yet we see him avoiding com
pany ; and, much as he enjoyed humour, we find him scout
ing it as an inroad on his study.
It may be questioned whether he had a right to com
plain of the want of success of his early efforts in Edinburgh ;
but disappointments still pursued him. The person for whom
these four small pictures were painted, failed to remunerate
him as he expected, and the plan propounded by Mr. Andrew
Wilson to the Board of Trustees for the decoration of their
gallery, by copies from the Sistine, was rejected. Had he
remained in Rome? yes, but there was much involved.
The reader will recollect what he has said in the Journal
about Runciman returning to this dear but unendowed
" corner of the world " — Scotland, our nursing mother ; and
his letters at that time, and after his arrival at home, shew
that he returned with fear and regret. As it was, his pro
tracted stay there, and his choice of a subject for a great
picture, were not so clearly justified as the tenor of his after
life has made them.
From these letters it may not be necessary to quote, and
yet they display traits of character invaluable, as, for instance,
the following about the pigeon, mentioned in his Journal : —
" I am very glad, my uncle George, that you are going,
as usual, to the shooting, in good spirits. I was reminded
of you the other day, and the high window at St. Leonard's
came before me, with some of us at your back holding the
bag of corn for the birds. I had a pigeon to paint from —
and an Italian pigeon is little different from a Scotch one.
My servant proposed that I should keep it in one of the alto

184 EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS.
rooms which I inhabited; but I told him, ' II tempo epas-
satopar me fare quello' — the time is past for that with me.
Then seeing I would not keep it, he wished to cut its head
off and make soup of it, saying, that letting it fly away was
peccato. When done with it, however, I took it up stairs to
a high window, and, on the way, met my long neighbour
the American, who, possibly, having old associations too,
would come with me to see its flight. The old and the
new world giving liberty — to a pigeon." * *
" My Dear Mother — Pleased I am to have your few
lines in last letter. Deaths and marriages are always a part
of your news. Curious it would be to say an old shoe
walked about for so many years, and then was laid in a
corner. So you have hung up my again and again returned
picture of Sarpedon, and look upon it thinking of me. It is
very dark on the wall, in twilight gloomy. But the sun
often shines on it too, and its forms and meaning are sure.
Most who have looked on it have been cold and indifferent,
but your eye, I know, will brighten when a gleam strikes
over it and over me. I now know Rome so as to enjoy and
admire much, and try to be disturbed by few things. I feel
that I should like to make myself a Roman by remaining
for a time, in spite of untowardnesses, ill-health, the attempt
to shoot me, loss of time, and purposes broken in upon.
Under such opposition, equanimity must give way; and I
am afraid my last letter, most of it written under ill-health,
may have given you pain. I now look back, what did I
expect ? It takes time to know strange things, that is all :
we move in circles which time tracks for us. Your notions
about the  's living as they used to do, altogether,
instead of getting married as they now have done, amuses
me. They might still sit round their mother's table with
their chins on its edge, were they not rather tall, and their

EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 185
chins rather black. ' Mother, John has got a piece of sugar,
and I'll have one too.' But I need not say this to you so
much as to my father. I told you I had an old man for a
servant. I soon' tired of him, although he had a Highland
bonnet on his head, which he said a Dutchman had given
him.' He could never wait for me at night, but must to bed
after Ave Maria, and took too long to get across my wide
studio. Now I have an old woman, who takes her sleep,
and wakes again to kindle my evening fire : my present
study requires no effort to cross. I get matters comfortably
managed thus ; but last month I did as most do in Rome —
scramble up a dark stair, grope for the key-hole, enter one
room, grope again, and enter another, strike a light, impre
cating flint and steel, light my fire, and boil water for my
tea — for I have got tea-at-home accomplished. Barry con
tracted these habits so strongly, he kept them after his return."
(To his brother.) " I am always the better for seeing
your little upright writing. It contains a great deal. I in
tended to have written you before this some fragments of
what I had seen and thought, but have been driven out of
that as well as out of other intentions. A chorus of attend
ing devils, whether imaginary or real, in the form of this or
that mischief, make alternately such a thrumming and yelling,
that physical as well as moral strength is required to raise
one's-self above them. After hunting about for places and
studios,' asking one and another unintelligibly — the wolf and
the bear — stupified and reduced to the humble pitch of a
beggar by their indifference and my earnestness, little is felt
at night but fever and fret. If I ever speak with dislike of
Rome, it is of it as it now lives : no newspapers tossing and
whirling everything about ; no books — no library supply of
intellectual variety; — the change is dreadful. The very
placards are ' Life in Death.' All this, at a distance, may

186 EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS.
appear soothing and quiet, but as I have met it, it appears
decay and corruption. I saw a woman the other day with
a wax nose on her face. Rome is that woman ! I hold that
every poet or painter must do the most fundamental part of
his work under various influences, and while he has neither
pen nor pencil in his hand. I have a very laborious theory
of the origin of the ideal in Greek sculpture to advance.
With books and the evenings at home, I hope to be able to
do something, but at present I have no opportunity of
reference. What astonishing beings would we be could
we effect all that we wish, or perhaps the will is not sincere
that does not effect its desire."
(To his father.) " Your letter of the 25th May was pre
sented to me just as I had spread the paper on the floor of my
studio for the cartoon of my large picture of Discord. Discord
is ever with me. I read the letter with sorrow and anxiety.
Your confinement to the house and to bed — the advices, and
their reference to the future — sunk upon me. I looked over
the great sheet of paper ; I pondered and resolved ; re-resolved,
yet still irresolute ; asked myself, What is my intention in
doing this ? To exhibit a picture in Rome ? No ; unless
I am to remain I need not care for that, and I now know
the small amount of respect anything of the kind receives
here. Is there, then, a wish to remain ? At times I wish
for the strife, and feel the power for it ; but again the worth-
lessness of the prize destroys the wish — nothing generates
enthusiasm and exhilarating thoughts. I cannot go out
constantly to be excited in galleries and museums. I would
become in Rome a mere operator. I have no wish to make
it a residence. What, then, is my motive ? I have come
here, learnt somewhat, seen much; attended to the grave
various hopes and anticipations, not without seeing others
rising in the obscure before me. What then ? I would re-

THEIR GENERAL TONE. 187
turn with my time in my hands. Return to what ? Here,
whatever is the current value of ability, there are many
good judges of all works of art. Rome is still the place for
fame — that word has an empty sound — ambition. The ac
cursed means stand ever in my way. I certainly must paint
this subject as I proposed. You do not see my intentions.
May not a picture instruct in the good, or terrify from evil?
By this abstract representation of the writhing agony flam
ing from the mind over the body of a family of Discord,
touch tragically the heart ?"
These are among the milder passages from his letters.
Generally they are bitter or sad — often painfully obscure, or
rising in rebellion with society, and its necessities and con
ventions ; with Nature and its laws — even with his own
soul, and the divine voice. Why can we not do all we in
tend, be all we wish, shine upon the forehead of the world,
and yet find the world our equal? Why are not men all
gods, and women angels unapproachable, yet round us with
enfolding arms and wings of love ? Why can we not speak
with the dead, in body as in intellect ; and why not do all
things, see all things, and be in many places at once, en
joying, and labouring, communing with other minds, yet
speculating alone. The spirit of man thirsts after the infi
nite, and cries to heaven and earth, give ! give !
A living artist has said in a short autobiography, it is
good to have no more thoughts than we can express. It is
indeed good for his peace, which may be then steady
enough ; and it is good for his pocket, for his productions
will be as good as they can be. But, be he thinker or actor,
there is little hope for him — he will never be either prophet,
priest, or king. The larger the nature, the further we see
beyond us. The great man in his youth sees many ends
and truths before he has the power to compass them, or

188 INSATIABLE DESIRES.
understands how they are related to him. The sensitive
man is humbled by the distant vision, and he questions
whether the God's-gift be not a weakness — an inferiority
other men have surmounted — for they have no hesitation,
no spiritual disquiet, no strife with impediments, but are
the slaves and the masters of every day. When all the
other classes of men had scrambled for and divided the
world between them, the loitering poet found no share left
for him, and Jupiter, answering his prayer, gave him a
heritage in Elysium. So says the fable, and it is a true
one. He looks upon nature in its smallest and in its vastest
aspects and meanings, and into himself with joy and awe,
finding art higher than nature, as it is indeed nature ani
mated by the breath of life, attuned not only to the wants
of the body, but to those of the soul. He can say to the
lyre or the canvass, —
" Tu das epulis accumbere divum."
The feasts of the Gods are indeed his feasts ; he is above all
other, yet below them, for he may die as a dog. And here
is the cause of infinite despair, often of selfishness in worldly
things, if the poetic be also an ambitious man.
He sees no reason why all the good he hopes for should
not be realized, nor why all his wants should not be con
ceded to him ; as if all other men — whom, neverthless, he
would have to be great as himself, fit companions — should
stand by the way, or willingly assist. Instead of this, every
day, every hour, gives him a denial : the commonest offices
of life are paramount to the whole world of intellect. Such is
the fiat of God in nature. Acknowledge this, submit to it :
humility and labour will put the sceptre in the hand, rise
against it, and the iron rod falls incessantly on the lacerated
head.

ANTAGONISM OF LIFE. 189
During a great part of his life, David Scott did not sub
mit nor acknowledge this practically. He lived like St.
Anthony in his anchorage, whose book was darkened before
him by black hands, the skull transformed into derision,
and the words of his prayer (Oh, fearful image ! ) changed
to his ear into blasphemy and allegiance to the Devil —
every stone and rock round him becoming animated with
inimical life, distracting and destroying his peace and hope,
foul things swimming in his water, and his loaf turned to
poison. The history of our country of late years is a history of
its finances ; and the history of every Englishman is, in its
circumstantial point of view, a battle with fortune. Per
haps the most interesting aspect of life is now to be seen by
the infernal light of this struggle. But it is the fashion to
waive this matter altogether in contemporary biography as
in life, that the stage purse may be gallantly tossed about
in imagination. We will not depart from this reservation
here or in future in these pages ; indeed there is nothing to
make a romance of the " Pursuit of Knowledge under Diffi
culties " in the career of our artist. David Scott went abroad
for one year, and remained nearly two, painting, as we have
seen, a colossal picture. During nearly the half of this time,
his father was confined to bed, his brother Robert had just
returned unsuccessful from Demerara, and his youngest
brother has yet a lively remembrance of the requirements
of that time. Yet still the letters from Italy brought, as
we have said, objurgations manifold, and presented the pic
ture of a mind apart and. injured.
Nor was this younger brother without a glimpse into the
truth as concerning David Scott's mind at that time, nor
without endeavour to assist him in that respect, although
it will be seen from the following extracts from letters

190 a brother's advice.
of the time, in a way peculiar to a very young logician,
whose character since then has rather taken an apathetic
cast :—
" It was really painful to me to read your last letter —
none of the others can understand your mode of speaking.
I cannot help thinking you have no reason to consider your
self so martyred. You say, " The means stand ever in the
way." No doubt' they do, and in the way of every one
else. But the greater man shews his superiority by creat
ing the means — using them is what many can do. When
Napoleon was a lieutenant, he might have said, : If I were
an emperor, how I could manage the world ! — But the
means — the means ?' He did not revile the world, or, if he
did, hid his enmity, and went step by step to create the
means. It is your grasping at and expecting to seize what
no one ever did in a few years — (the chances of which you
should have calculated more reasonably) — that makes you
miserable by failure. You must conquer this impatience.
I, for my part, would say, put ambition under your foot ;
but if you will not understand what I mean by that, lay
your account with the difficulties. I met a remark in a
book by Dr. Chalmers, the other day, which I shall tran
scribe for you : it is this — c A man at twenty-five is much
more anxious about his future life, and the objects of his
living, than he is at forty-five.' Can you draw any courage
from that ? Again, it appears to me, your feelings nourish
a falsity, and that self-esteem has a truer basis in the fact of
the accomplishment of what is good, than in the praise or
encouragement of others in reply. Your pictures are too
abstract from living interests : reason on this as the cause
of your failures in disposing of pictures, and either lay your
account with such failure, or meet the world on the wide
field between your present works and the every day class of

a brother's advice. 191
things. What you say of the subject of your picture, may
be true ; the fitting embodyment of evil has almost the same
end as that of good, as regards moral impression, and, what
is as much to the purpose, it affords stronger poetic materials,
apart from the morally effective view of the matter. All
success to you : may you strike a knell that all may hear,
wherever it summon them. * * * * I imagine M.
Angelo did no more than they of the nineteenth century in
this respect ; that he worked at what was current in that
day, and had he lived in our time, he would have done
quite other work. The rush would have been, however,
as deep, although the current flowed over a different channel.
Let me remind you too of your habit of thinking over and
feeling everything. You do not even take your hat from
the wall, and place it on your head, with ease and careless
ness. Your mind is ever awake to pride or degradation, or
some other notion, and takes every opportunity to augment
its store of pains. You talk of knowledge of the world — is
it not practical — and a matter of appearances ? not those of
moroseness and haught, but of care. * * * * There
is a wide difference between a man to himself, and a man to
others. Indeed, the world is not to be expected to appre
hend a man's idea, however well-founded, of himself, or to
give him credit for it. When one has learned this, what is
he to do ? is he to expect the world will treat him differently
from others ? or is he to hope to reconstitute the mind of
society for his own 'advantage ? You remark upon certain
entertainments, as if you were commenting on a serious page
of the world's destiny — they were only amusement. I write
this homily, trying to say the best I can for your use, but
conscious it will not raise me in your favour. I, for my
part, with what little experience I have had, strive only to
be contented : whatever intellectual work I may do, will be

192 EXCEPTIONAL CHARACTERS.
for its own sake ; received or rejected by others, it will remain
the same to me."
Not bad this, some will say, being very like what is
called common sense. But, in truth, it was not good for
much, and the advice to David Scott to modify his style in
subject and treatment, was an advice he of all men could
not take. The whole current of his life, from the impulses
of earliest youth, flowed in one direction, that of tragic ex
pression and poetic symbolism. All his newly acquired
acquaintance with the elder art too, tended to confirm him in
the justice of his views in regard to the pursuit and embody
ment of those qualities in art. His idiosyncrasy was ap
parent, even in person and manners : it tinged every thought.
Some minds are capable of many exertions and methods,
others of one only. Some minds, the most catholic, it may
be, seem to be the medii through which Nature speaks ; they
are only the instruments, more or less formative, or more or
less variable, whereby clear thoughts and truths, similitudes
of moral or of physical beauty, are expressed, by the spirit
working through them. Shakspere has been instanced as
the type of this class — Raphael also may be pointed out as
an example, in its highest development, in art. This char
acter of mind may be the most valuable, as it is the widest :
it possesses powers in harmony with the entire frame of the
world. It is above teaching : it endeavours to enforce no
thing, but only reproduces what is, as existing in a given
point of contact, or in a constantly varying aspect. Its ten
dency is not towards one style of art — one phase of mind or
nature more than another ; it embraces all. Raphael is a
higher example than Shakspere, for this reason only, that
the sphere of his operation was accidentally nobler : the
Christian mythology and the sacred history of Redemp
tion, include higher humanities than the secular drama of

THE SCIENTIFIC THINKER — THE SEER. 193
England could possibly touch. Thus, Shakspere, the uni
versal, is remarked as having never drawn a truly good man
— like Chaucer's poor parson, for instance — while Raphael
reached nearer to the expression of the character of Christ,
than, it may be, any other man has done in art or poetry.
Each of them filled their spheres, and, we might almost say,
might have filled any sphere. The works of both, however,
require to be sifted and selected from : they are in this like the
works of our common mother herself, no two specimens being
equally perfect, as if they had resulted from chance, a pro
found, sublime, God-permitted chance. Raphael is, how
ever, very clear in his adhesion to rules in art, and is the
least variable in his excellence. Opposed to these is the
powerfully conscious and reflective order of thinkers. With
them the poetic mind is the potter, and nature but the clay.
Exploring the roots of life in religion, metaphysics, and
science, they come out into the world of action as directors
and instructors ; and in taking upon them the office of the
artist, they transcend knowledge by imagination, and subju
gate the universe to their imperial sway. They can do one
particular thing better than any other, and to fulfil and do
this is necessary to them.
Indeed the entire modern productive mind may be divided
into these two orders of men ; the masses being of the Ra
phael, and the leaders and innovators of the Michaelangelo
order. Every caposcuola, every first man in any path, every
man who becomes inspired by the perception of an idea, is
ofthe latter class ; and many besides, who, for want of power
or judgment, lose themselves in sectarianism, peculiarity,
and madness. There is no perfection in them : they are ever
working towards perfection, but, except by sign and symbol,
they never attain to it. They are often made kings, and
are oftener burned at the stake, but without them, in both

194 AN ADVICE.
extremities, the world is in danger of moral death. To this
class, then, belonged David Scott: he could not turn nor
change, yet he entered critically and logically into other
spheres of exertion ; but had he even been willing to modify
his efforts in art, he could not have done so with any good
practical result. To advise him to do so was but to ask him
to fail. Here is another extract from these fraternal epistles : —
" Dear David — I now take up the letter, which is a rare
piece of mosaic, in my estimation, who have never seen St.
Mark's. [This letter was written on a large sheet, each
member of the family contributing to fill it.] Seeing the
hot ploughshares spread for you on the other side of the
paper, because of the classic and tragic subjects you have
chosen for your pictures, I will now give you my opinion.
You know your own powers best. Looking over a portfolio
of your designs the other day, this truth struck me. In the
next place, regarding the application of those powers, which
is something different from the possession of them, what
ever is permanently good, and aiding to a just development
of the nature of man, human and divine, that give yourself
to. The human heart is, indeed, strong every way, but
there is more power for good than ill : there are more hands
stretched out in amity than in wrath, and the image of moral
beauty is more incentive to excellence, than that of sin is
repulsive ; and as to working for our own age, and for the
sphere we move in, is it not necessary for our own health ?
You seem absorbed by the qualities of Titian, and Raphael,
and Caravaggio, several and distinct as they are, and incap
able of amalgamation. Our own age is the only one for us ;
it is the last and best : the product of any former does not
answer the wants of this. Every great work has been char
acteristic of the age that gave it birth : judge you what is

EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS. 195
the character of this age. The days of strong passion and
individual exertion have passed away ; even the representa
tion of these in art is perhaps past."
*****
" It is strange in your banker to protest a bill that never
was accepted. You must attend better to business ; if you
do not, the consequences will distract you. In a conversa
tion with Rennie the other day, when he inquired about you,
I said you were enjoying yourself vastly among the great
masters, but not in very high spirits. ' Indeed, he has to
strike his own light sometimes ; and he writes so from Italy
to us poor souls staying at home ! ' was his reply ; and there
seemed some truth in the sarcasm."
*****
These extracts will be sufficient to shew the view taken
of his studies and state of mind by those at' home. At this
time we find a letter from Mr. Dyce, written after his return
to Edinburgh, to David Scott in Rome, wherein he says,
" And what do you think of Rome, or rather what does Rome
make you feel ? Does not its greatness and sublimity of
character overwhelm you ? I wish you could let me hear
from you. In me at the least you will find one deeply in
terested in all you can write of Rome. All my recollections
of it are associated with the most delightful, I may say ex
quisite feelings. In truth, to me Rome was a kind of living
poem, which the soul read unceasingly, with the soothed
sense which poetry inspires. I am quite sure its quietude,
and the senatorial dignity of most of the inhabitants, will
be pleasing to you."
Here is an extract from David Scott's last letter from
the ancient capital of the world : —
" I left off painting two or three weeks ago. A number
of people have seen my picture of ' Discord,' and said much
o 2

196 MEANS RATHER THAN ENDS.
of it. Words are not worth repeating. I only mention
that (apparently) the opinion of those I most regard has
been as I should wish it. One thing, however, I expected
to have been more recognised than it has been — the inten
tion, idea, or moral, of my work. But in Rome, as every
where else, I find the most of the artists, and others, more
admirers of the means (especially that portion of the means,
too, most exclusively addressed to the eye), than interested
in the purposes of art. But to those who think more widely,
I address my labour, and leave it, knowing that such cri
terion must ultimately decide its life or death. A Scotsman
here said he should like to see it in some proper gallery in
Edinburgh. I wish it were to be in such, there or any
where. It would go from me, to leave me to do greater,
and more.
" I have now drank my ' cup of the warm south,' and
it has not inebriated me. I place it calmly on the board
again, I hope strengthened. I am now done with the works
of former art ; whether they shall have been a light for my
path, or a bar to hinder me, short time will decide. I hope
I return to a freer air — colder, it is true — an air less thick
ened with the breath of passed multitudes. Once I thought
Rome must be the place where I should most desire to five ;
now preference seems a weakness, and choice a jest. Two
or three years might possibly have placed me among the
first  but say no more of it. If, in my idea of Rome,
I framed an absurdity to myself — a satisfying place — I have
undergone the correction of instruction. For a time, the
idea I had framed straggled against the fact before me;
it was difficult to break from the web I had been weaving
as long as I have lived. But to live is to change, and
from change results experience, and experience is the brother
of age. To-day we have gained what yesterday we sought,

VALUE OF HIS REMARKS. 197
yet still we seek : but he who reaches quietude soonest is
he who soonest finds that all is alike, and moves on without
passion and without expectation. Deity must be a negation
of desire." *****
A month after the date of this letter we find the memo
randum-book he sealed on leaving Edinburgh re-opened.
He had now much more experience in writing, as
well as in painting, but never after took any pains to
journalise. In the notes on Italy already given, you will
see, in the latter part, how greatly the facility had in
creased, and also how clearly he understood his own posi
tion. He had evidently made his note-books his friends,
and spoke to them in his solitude. Many of his criticisms
on the great works of the Masters are complete in a few
words, the place he accords to each being marked out by
wide observation and general principles. Those especially
on the various works of Michael Angelo and Raphael are
most valuable, penetrating to the root of the style or senti
ment. When Haydon, during his last visit to Edinburgh,
was in Scott's studio, they chanced to speak of the Last
Judgment of M. Angelo. Mr. Haydon gave, as he was
apt to do, a hurried opinion of that work, and expressed
himself unable to understand why the upper figures should
be larger than those below, on a level with the eye. Scott
advanced the true reason — which a superior opportunity of
study, accorded to few, had taught him — that the Christ
and all the attendant figures were the foreground figures,
and were thus intended to advance over the rest of the
picture. To the quiet enunciation of this explanation, the
answer was characteristic, being nothing more than — " Ah,
that indeed."
The remarks also on Overbeck, Thorwaldsen, Bruloff,

198 BEGINS PAINTING IN EDINBURGH.
Cornelius, and other notable men, will not be read without
shewing how truly he apprehended the true position and
genius of the several men. During the fifteen years that
have passed since then, these two great Germans have
become well known in England.

" May 1834. A change has come over the day of my
life. I am again in Edinburgh, and open my old book.
Time and life, knowledge and power, are mere turnings
and changings, departing from one state of being to enter
another. Is this all, and are all things of but equal value ?
I have been looking over my old productions, and repaint
ing upon them. Have turned over all my sketches, and
torn many an hour and day's work to pieces.
" 16th August. The anniversary of my leaving Scot
land two years ago — the crowning of my desires — the journey
of art — the sacrifice to enthusiasm — the search after great
ness, in meeting the great men of the present and the great
labours of the past. Among my old pictures and people,
I now feel how different I am from the man who left this
but so short a time ago. I have looked too much for what
was without individual prototype in nature. The veil
withdraws and withdraws, and there is nothing left per
manent. But I believe I can now meet difficulties practi
cally. Analysing one's own thoughts and actions — study
ing things in their relations— is often a painful task; but
he who has not done so is a child.
" My pictures have arrived from Italy, and I have been
busy again going over Sappho and Anacreon, and designing
a ' Taking down from the Cross ' for the priests of the new
chapel, which I am to paint for nothing. Another effort

EXHIBITION OF 1835. 199
added to those I have already made. Sent a small picture
to Glasgow of ' Mercury trying the Lyre,' and had it re
turned !
" November 9th. I have now been employed going
over the pictures I did in Rome. I have gained something,
but I have laboured hard for it.
" 1835, February 8th. A gloomy day unemployed.
The Exhibition is now open, and I have four pictures —
' Sappho and Anacreon,' * ' The Vintager,'f a Fresco,! and
Sketch of the Head of Mary Magdalene. On the hanging
committee this year. The largest of these pictures blown
against the rails in being carried to the gallery. After all
my labour, and having come so far, nearly destroyed !
Difficulty about exhibiting it ; but, with much trouble, get
it lined and repaired. No result. Wretched occupation
this. Doing over and over again the same thankless work.
My fifth year without remuneration. Many things com
bined make me very miserable. Prostration of spirit must
induce decay."
jind here we find a note from a gentleman, now a grave
university professor of the scholastic arts, thrust between the
leaves of the Diary ; and, as it will relieve the end of this
letter from the accusation of sadness, here it is : —
Dear Scott, I can not
Find out excuses (help me ye muses !)
For my silence neglectful,
Far from respectful !
*****
But I told you before, I had read o'er and o'er
Your brother's poem, and certainly owe him —
Not money, d — n it ; poets contemn it ;

* Now in the possession of W. Kinghorn, Esq.
t The property of A. Coventry, Esq., Moray Place.
X Property of J. Dunlop, Esq. of Brocklock.

200 A RHYME.
Pardon the oath, 'twill occur at a time ;
I was just, by my troth, at a loss for a rhyme.
I say then I owe him for his short poem
My thanks for — belave me — the pleasure it gave me.
Like its subject — Shelley, 'tis rather swelly ;
But has vigour and heart, and the unction of art,
With a richness of fancy, which seldom does one see.
Now by the way
I have just got to say
That the book is sent back along with this snack
Of rhyme without reason, the first ofthe season. * * * *

LETTER VII.

SOME SUCCESS FOUND AT LAST.

Now about midway up the Hill of Difficulty was a pleasant arbour made by the Lord of
the Hill for the refreshment of weary travellers.

We can now be fairly done with this journey and abode in
the old city. Leave behind us the studios with their
familiars, the old Masters, galleries, and even the Vatican
itself, and come home to the mezzo giorno of home. Rome
is the summer trip of thousands, it is merely the substitution
of dear sweet Italy for dear delightful Baden-Baden, or the
enchanting poetical scenery of somewhere else : hundreds of
young artists are continually running the course, sketching
picturesque Calabrians and so forth, but wisely acknowledg
ing to each other that much of the Vatican, &c. won't do at
all. His was not either a pleasure trip or sketching tour,
and the Journal just given must stand very much alone as
an expression of Italian experiences, modified, or indeed
entirely seen through individual and artistic habits.
His return was followed by a season of uncertainty and
hesitation, with consequent inaction. The new Catholic
chapel of St. Patrick, in Lothian Street, being then in pro
gress, he made an offer to the bishop and others interested,
to paint an altar-piece for it, the subject being agreed upon
by both parties, and the expenses defrayed by the church.

202 AI/TAR-PIECE FOR ST. PATRICK'S.
The subject adopted was " The Descent from the Cross,"
which was completed towards the close of 1835, much to the
satisfaction of the clergy of the church.
While this picture was going on, Lord Meadowbank and
others visited the painter, and became much interested in
his success. The picture was exhibited in the next Exhibi
tion, along with two small pictures — "Oberon and Puck
listening to the Mermaid's Song," and " Macchiavelli and
the Beggar." All the three shewed the artist's powers in
different lights, and it was acknowledged that the studeut was
now the scholar. The " Association for the Promotion of
the Fine Arts," which has since acted so prominent a part in
encouraging and sustaining the Scottish School of painters,
had suddenly grown up to great strength, by the indefatig
able exertions of Mr. H. G. Bell ; and in pursuance of the
plan of circulating an annual engraving to the subscribers,
the altar-piece was placed in the hands of the engraver. The
two lesser pictures were purchased at the same time by the
Committee. The engraving, however, was not sufficiently
well executed to enhance the character of the picture ; in
deed, it may be considered a failure as a print ; the funds
of the Association at that time making it necessary to have
the engraving done in mezzotint, and the artist employed
being unaccustomed to the method of etching below the
mezzotint.* Of the two small pictures, that of Macchiavelli was the
first of a series of works embodying historic character, pro
duced by the painter from that time till nearly the close of
his career. It was, indeed, but a small beginning, and gave
* On the publication of the print, he painted three small copies of the subject,
using the engraving as the basis. One of these is now in the possession of Lord
Meadowbank, another was purchased by Messrs. Bonnar and Carfrae from the
exhibition of Scott's works in their Gallery.

PICTURES. — ANCIENT MARINER. 203
a faint promise of the Alchymist, and the Globe Theatre,
and Peter the Hermit ; but the stern truth of the head of
the Florentine casuist, has been seldom surpassed by any
but himself. The poetic subject from the Tempest is yet
fresh in the recollection of many. It too was the beginning
of a series, the particular members of which may be men
tioned in their proper places.
In the Exhibition of the following year, he made what
he considered his worst annual appearance, in the pictures
of " The Abbot of Misrule," and " Judas betraying Christ."
The cause of this limited contribution to the public exhibi
tion, was the time occupied by some commissions, the paint
ing in body colour of " Lady Macbeth leaving the Daggers
by the Sleeping Grooms," sent into the Royal Institution
exposition of manufactures, in answer to a competition for a
tapestry design, the prize being, we believe, divided between
Mr. Dyce and him ; and the occupation of part of the year
in preparing for publication the Blustrations to the Ancient
Mariner. In the course of this Memoir, these designs have been
more than once mentioned. Their author endeavoured
strenuously to have them brought before the world, and
had, at the time the drawings were made, etched one of
them on a reduced scale, intending, could no publisher of
sufficient enterprise be found, to execute them in that manner,
and bring them into the light himself. This reduced copy
the reader will find on the opposite page. " The wonder
is," says an article in a recent publication,* " that they found
a publisher at all, the poem itself being comparatively far
from popular, and the treatment ofthe designs being of an ori
ginal character ; and Mr. Alexander Hill certainly deserves the
thanks of such as take pleasure in the high but peculiar region
• Hogg's Instructor, May 5, 1849.

204 coleridge's theory of
of art to which they belong." This writer says further — " It
was at once the misfortune and the glory of David Scott
that he belonged to no school, or section of a school. He
was an individual genius ; he had a nature of his own, to
be penetrated and understood before his works could be
estimated aright. Indeed he is, in all probability, the
only painter whom Scotland has yet produced of whom
this can be alleged with any emphasis ! To return to the
Mariner, it is interesting to know that Scott had an oppor
tunity of shewing the designs to Coleridge before they were
published. The poet expressed his satisfaction in them,
and confessed that he had not thought it possible to illus
trate such a piece. In so far as Scott can be said to have
been a student of philosophy, he belonged to the same
school as Coleridge did — not to subdivide the philosophical
domain too minutely. Nor were there wanting many points
and lines of coincidence between them in their aesthetical
tendencies. Their mutual affinity found a very natural ex
pression of itself in the Illustrations of the ^Ancient Mariner,
at present under consideration."
The opinion of these designs, here alluded to as having
been expressed by the poet, was, as far as we can recollect,
to the following effect : — -Dividing poetry as Descriptive, or
dealing with outward nature, and Imaginative, or dealing
with the forms of things in the mind, he thought the first
of these classes was to be illustrated directly by the painter,
and that the one and the other should be coincident in
their impressions. But in the latter class — that of the
purely Imaginative — illustration by the painter was infinitely
more difficult — that exact circumstantial illustration of such
works was none at all, and that the only way in which the
artist could work with them was by an adequate expression
of the same imaginative sentiment, different in form or

PICTORIAL ILLUSTRATION. 205
mode, according to the differing nature of his art. This,
perhaps, is the true theory of the matter. The designs in
question he thought a successful example in point. Many
critics will be found to base their opinions on a theory
similar to this of Coleridge ; but these very designs were
misunderstood by one influential critic at least, in conse
quence of the want of it. The Ancient Man is represented,
meagre indeed, but of great strength of bony frame — a
conformation necessary to give weight pictorially to the
narrator of the wondrous tale, who overawes his listener,
and forces him to hear of the abyss of suffering he has
passed. The Mariner of the poem, on the other hand, may
be in the mind of the reader the most shadowy of imper
sonations. Undoubtedly, the great effort of the illustrator
of works of imagination must be to give a parallel, and not
a transcript. Many letters of congratulation on this publication are
now before us. The following sentences are from a letter
of H. N. Coleridge, dated Lincoln's Inn, April 1837, and
bearing somewhat on the remarks made above : every man
of a poetic temperament, necessarily forming to and for him
self an image of the strange hero of the tale. " The whole
series is exceedingly impressive, and gives you a good claim
to be our Retsch, if that is a compliment. It is curious to
see how many conceptions may be formed of the imagery of
a work of pure imagination. Yours is not like mine of the
Ancient Mariner, and yet I appreciate, and am deeply sen
sible of the merit of yours. Will you allow me, as some
return for your splendid gift, to beg your acceptance of the
accompanying volumes of Coleridge's Literary Remains,
which, having received little public notice, may possibly not
have fallen in your way. You will, I think, find in them
some things digna cedro."

206 ORESTES.
Some few other designs for publication also occupied
him at this time ; and in July he joined his brother William
in a visit to the Louvre — not without an invigorating effect
on David Scott, now more at ease with himself, and looking
forward with hope and confidence. 1838.
We now enter upon the last decade of our short bio
graphy, the second of the painter-life of the subject of our
memoir. His appearance in the Scottish Royal Academy was
made by four pictures : — " Orestes seized by the Furies
after the murder of his mother Clytemnestra, to which he
was prompted by his sister Electra, in revenge of the
assassination of their father Agamemnon ;" " Rachel weep
ing for her Children ;" " Puck fleeing before the Dawn ;"
and " Ariel and Caliban." With the first of these, which
was on a large scale, and one of a pair — the other being
" Achilles addressing the manes of Patroclus over the body
of Hector " — his visit to Paris had no doubt some connec
tion. The French are the great painters of classic story.
Painting in France repeatedly shewed a tendency to fall
into the same rigid form adopted in the dramas of Racine
and Corneille. David, however, was the great master who
regularly formalised the French taste on the classic model,
setting the antique in the place of the living figure. But
our painter looked upon these more as a warning than as
exemplars ; the pictures which he painted from the heroic
age of Greece being, in many respects, treated in an alto
gether different manner. The " Ariel and Caliban," one
.of the other two of this year's production, is perhaps the
most truly poetic production of the painter. The two im-

ARIEL AND CALIBAN. 207
personations are severally unexampled as embodiments of
Shakspere's types. They represent the whole of each cha
racter as collected throughout the play, and the antagonism
of the two natures gives a wonderful power to the picture.
They represent, as it were, the two poles of human nature ;
the ascending and descending forces of mind and matter.
Caliban, the brown ahd hairy slave, half-brute half-man, has
crawled from the capture of a green snake, which he drags
by the head. Ariel, long and thin, like a swift bird, touches
the monster's forehead with his heel, at the same time strik
ing into the air those sweet sounds that give delight and
hurt not. It may have been only a poetic instinct that gave
the antithetical character to these two figures ; and yet there
are signs of a deliberate intention, as the great toad is made
the companion of the one, and the moth or butterfly is seen
fluttering by the other.
Among David Scott's books and portfolios was found a
greal pile of newspapers. At an earlier day he was very
sensitive on the score of newspaper notices ; latterly they
were indifferent to him. Some of these notices, about the
years we have now reached, are very curious. Literary and
artistic criticism in London, in connection with the daily
and weekly press, is a distinct profession — its peculiar re
quirements are admitted. Out of London the matter is
different. In the notices of the various English provincial
exhibitions, in which his pictures now began annually to
appear, the papers- contented themselves by an intimation
that such things were there, with, perhaps, an objurgatory
remark on Mr. Scott's painting things that never were, such
as the heroes of Greece, and the impersonations of poetry.
The Edinburgh public press, however, was always ready to
decide upon the works in question — the modern Athenians
were of course fully armed. We certainly do not wish to

208 EDINBURGH CRITICS.
bring any portion of that press upon this little book by way
of reprisal, and freely admit the qualifications of many
Edinburgh critics ; but these will no doubt make over to ua
some of their brethren, as more notable for humour than
profundity. From the newspapers of this year are the
following emphatic decisions. One says — "David Scott
has the imagination of madness. Each year his pencil de
fies our conception of anything wilder than the last, and
behold a wilder still! We do not like his largest work, as
seeming but the imitation of tapestry. Neither is a female
clasping two dead infants to her breast a pleasing subject for
the adornment of a room." Another ventures into deep
waters. " Mr. Scott constantly chooses the most outre and
impracticable subjects. Painting is an imitation of nature,
and the many-coloured scenes of life, or if these" (including
nature?) " are not sufficient, the great scenes of history, surelv
afford ample range for the genius and the fancy of the artist.
These contain, indeed, the only proper materials for the ex
ercise of his skill. But Mr. Scott travels out of the region
of realities into those of pure imagination, where we doubt
whether any thing is to be found available for the painter's
art. The ethereal visions of Shakspere, and the fairy beings
of his sportive fancy, are exquisite poetical creations, but
they present no very distinct or individual image to the
mind. In describing the spiritual world, his ideas, whether
of beauty or deformity, are all general. Any thing precise
or particular would break the charm, and give a prosaic cast
to the whole." This throws much light on the character of
the dramatist, which must somewhat shake the analytical
Shaksperians, as well as stage-managers. " Again, Caliban
is a caricature of the ' human face divine ;' and what merit
we may ask, can there be in the delineation of mere defor
mity ? Nor does the figure of Ariel realize our ideas of this

THE ALCHYMICAL ADEPT. 209
spirit. The portrait of Rachel weeping for her Children
has," &c. One of the best criticisms that have appeared
on our artist's pictures was in the Scotsman of that day.
In this year was painted the " Alchymical Adept Lec
turing on the Elixir Vitse," and in the Exhibition of the
following season, his other works there present were alto
gether forgotten by the effect it produced. The power to
return into the past, and to enter fully into the characters
and manners of the middle ages, in such fulness of under
standing that every part of the work is harmonious, was
here shewn. The vitality and individuality seen in the
head of Macchiavelli in the small picture some years ago,
was now seen in full vigour on a varied subject — a subject
the best adapted, perhaps, to his peculiar powers of any he
ever treated, and many yet hold this work to be every way
his best. Whether it be his greatest work in the class to
which it belongs or not, it is certainly such a picture as has
rarely been produced by any other artist. In design, the
action and expression of the features, the arranging of the
scene, and the knowledge and invention in the accessories ;
in execution, the solidity, hard and learned drawing, grim
and gorgeous colour : all contributed to realize the beginning
of the sixteenth century. Even the peculiarities of his style
aided this important end. But the great triumph of the pic
ture is in the delineation of character. That of the mighty
quack stirring the inexplicable potion, and looking abroad
upon his auditory with infinite mastery, is beyond all price.
The jaw large, with its yellow beard and ample mouth,
wonderful in the action of the lips, which also extends to
the nostril ; the nose high and cartilaginous, and the eye
almost terrible in its acuteness of observation. Then the
gaunt Operinus, that union of studious ardour with the

210 ASSOC. FOR PROMOTION OF FINE ARTS.
blindly- violent temper so frequently met with in the his
tory of these times, as the painter describes him. And the
two Italian students, travelling for adventure as much as
knowledge, among whom is an Englishman in black listen
ing attentively — no other than David Scott himself, whose
sympathies would decidedly have been with the lecture, and
against the lecturer.
In purchasing this picture, the Association for the Pro
motion of the Fine Arts first proposed £150, and afterwards
agreed to £200, Mr. H. G. Bell accompanying his ratifica
tion of the purchase by an intimation, that it was only by a
majority of one that the Committee had so agreed. To this
David Scott replied, deprecating the system of abating the
prices affixed by artists to their pictures. The question is,
on which side did the evil begin, on that of the artists, by
their affixing too high prices on their pictures, and thus
making it necessary on the part of the Committee, as stew
ards of the public money, to require reduction, or on that of
the Association, inducing the artists to place a high price on
their pictures, in order to allow of abatement ? The sale of
this picture was further curious to those interested in fhe
working of Art-Unions. The individual to whom the pic
ture fell at the distribution, by lot, of the annual purchases
of the Committee, was resident in the country, one who did
not know or care much about either alchymists or pictures,
who consequently gave it up to its present enlightened pos
sessor ; proving that, but for the constitution of the Associ
ation, placing the purchase of the works to be selected in
the hands of a Committee, this great picture might never
have found a purchaser. So also with the " Duke of Gloster
rowed into the Water Gate of Calais," exhibited by Scott
three years later. Let this be weighed against the chance
of favouritism, which is one of the great arguments in

WRITING ON THE MASTERS. 211
favour of the public being allowed to select. There is no
doubt that the best pictures for sale in the London Exhibi
tions are not those that appear on the lists of the Art-
Union. For some time before the painting of the Alchymist,
Scott had employed himself occasionally in writing on art.
He now had etched several large plates of figures from the
sketches he made in Rome of portions of the Last Judgment,
by Michael Angelo. These he intended for publication,
with an essay " On the Peculiarities of Thought and Style"
in the Picture. Publishers, however, appeared just as little
inclined to undertake Michael Angelo's works as his own,
and the scheme of separate publication being abandoned,
the article was accepted by the editor of Blackwood, and
appeared in that magazine in the number for February
1839. This was followed, in June, by a paper On the Ge
nius of Raphael; in January 1840, by one on Titian, and
Venetian Painting ; in August of the same year, by Leo
nardo da Vinci, and Correggio ; and in March 1841, by an
article on the Caracci, Caravaggio, and Monachism.
Of these valuable contributions to the literature of the
Fine Arts, or rather to criticism, we will not now speak,
but rather proceed with the yearly notice of pictures, till we
find him, in 1841, commencing his great picture of Vasco
de Gama encountering the Spirit of the Cape.
1840.
In this year's Royal Scottish Academy, he exhibited
the "Agony of Discord, or the Household Gods destroyed,"
the picture whose progress we have seen often noted in his
Journal ; " Philoctetes left in the Isle of Lemnos by the Greeks,
in their Passage towards Troy ;" " Cupid sharpening his

212 EXHIBITION OF 1840.
Arrows," and "The Crucifixion" — the last two of these being
of small dimensions.
When the Discord arrived from Italy, and was again
extended on a frame, filling the end of the room in which
he then painted, the artist sat down before it, grimly silent,
for a length of time. At last he said, " Yes, it was well to
persevere ; that is the work I must live by." Then, again,
" It is like the Laocoon ; it is drawn as the Laocoon is mo
delled." Some misgivings had crossed his mind, but he felt
reassured by the presence of the picture. The execution,
however, did not satisfy him, and he set to work again, and
while the Queen Elizabeth at the Globe Theatre was under
his hand — which was two years nearly in progress — he again
repainted this picture. It was now for the first time exhi
bited. Let us try what the press has to say. " ' Discord ; or,
The Household Gods Destroyed.' This is a large, unwieldy
picture, to which Mr. Scott has appended, not a large, but
certainly an unwieldy explanation. The figures in the
picture are of colossal proportion. A man is represented
straggling with a youth and two females, the child of one
of whom has fallen back from its mother's arms, while an
older youth holds up his hand to the refractory hero of the
picture with a warning manner. Mr. Scott says the whole
is meant to have an abstract reference. This may be very
true ; but the object referred to is, from the mythic nature of
his reference, so completely abstracted, that it is impossible
to find it out."
Here is another of a different colour, which we learn was
written by the Rev. J. Fairbairn : —
" The group of mortals, the sky, the earth, the still life,
the symbols of religion, by a oneness of scope and sentiment,
are powerfully bound together. And how can we hope, by

CRITICISMS ON "FAMILY DISCORD." 213
descriptions of individual parts, to convey a notion of that
which, as it emanates from every portion of the work, and
lightens from every inch of the canvass, is in danger of being
interrupted and impaired by analysis, however skilfully
managed ?
" The picture represents a family of men, or let us rather
say of demi-gods ; for it distinctly belongs to the fabulous
ages. They are the primeval occupants of the earth — ' in
glory and in pride' wandering over its recently created, and
hitherto uninhabited tracts — masters of their own thoughts,
and fashioners of their own destinies — of vast stature — strong
in limb and sinew — cast in the boldest mould of form and
proportion. The females are the fit associates of this Saturnian
race — lofty — compactly built — daughters of noble daring,
and invested with a certain severe and awful beauty. Each
figure is a type of humanity ; an idealised model, embodying
and exhausting all imaginations of grace and symmetry.
They are typical, not real ; generalisations, not individuals.
Imagination sees such in her happiest moods, and in her
highest caelum, for
" Each passion there idealised is seen,
Moving in likeness of a demi-god."
But in vain should we look for them in the world of living
men, and every-day realities. So much for the figures con
sidered abstractly. Such the epic poet chooses for the actors
in his epopee, and the epic painter to be the vehicles of
those passions and sentiments which he wishes to exhibit to
the admiration of men.
" The evil genius of the scene occupies the immediate
foreground ; this figure is full of the character we have de
scribed — a Prometheus unbound, or like one of Milton's
colossal draughts in the Pandemonian council. He is ac-

214 CRITICISMS ON
tuated we know not with what malignity of purpose and
perversity of will. He has arrived in breathless speed,
and supporting his recumbent strength upon his falchion,
stretches his right arm against the patriarch of the house.
Do the evil workings of his own heart fly off like the effluvia
of the plague, and shrivel their miserable victim, or, like
the finger-guided stream of magnetism, radiate upon the
soul, and master it by a fatal ascendancy ? However at-.
tained, his influence has not only instantly become supreme,
but also terribly efficacious. Like the stoical Fate, it has
overcome, without an effort, all resistance. All equanimity
has disappeared — all love, hope, pity, resignation. All the
household relationships are disturbed — all human feelings
dissipated. The frame of the patriarch is wrenched with
agony, and his spirit no less. His expression is that of
utter prostration, and despair insupportable, and, by reason
of its intensity, collapsing into unconsciousness. The ma
tron and the rest of the group are equally torn by fierce
passions. Humanity instinctively impels to soothe the head
ofthe household, but jealousy interrupts the native outgoings
of the heart, and regards him with an evil eye and upbraid
ing countenance, as the plotter against their happiness, or
even their existence. They unconsciously cling to him, as
ivy to some venerable trunk, whence it draws its life : they
consciously wound and poison, as the snake inflicts its sting
upon the bosom that cherished it. The matron has dashed
the infant to the ground, where it lies neglected ; the altar
is overturned — the household god thrown down and broken.
Nor can the mind gain a resting-place, or anything to miti
gate its feeling, as long as we look upon the picture. No
gleam of hope comes down on a sunbeam ; the heaven is
dark and troublous, cloven with hurricane and lightning.
Hesiod has described discord in chaos, before order was

HIS OPUS MAGNUM. 215
called out of confusion, and beauty out of the formless
abyss : this picture enforces the idea of harmony falling
headlong into chaos. It impressively exemplifies the divine
text, ' a house divided against itself cannot stand.' "
Here is a later description of this picture and its proper
ties, worthy of preservation : — " The scene is laid in the
porch of a doom-laden home ; and the imagination of the
spectator is transported into some Pelasgic or other primeval
epoch of the world. The son has risen up against the sire ;
the patriarchal giant, closing his eyes, and bowing his head
under the mighty sorrow of such a conflict, has left his
native seat between the pillars of the house, and he struggles
impotently forward ; the house-mother and a daughter hang
upon his arms, dragging him down with their very efforts
to sustain him against the glorious rebel. Trailing on the
ground before them, yet erecting his head and trunk like a
young lion, the first-born lifts up the right hand of an ac
cusing child with a passion of energy which is truly grand.
There is a cincture round his temples, and a sword under
the pressure of his brawny left hand ; his scanty raiment is
partly of skins and partly of crimson-purple ; for he is pre
destinated to the ascendancy, as Saturn superseded Chaos,
and was overthrown by Jove ; the latest being still the best.
Beside him lies a fallen tripod and an image of stone — a
household god — broken in pieces. The father had made
unto them gods that were no gods ; but the son had been
with the Assyrian on the tops of the mountains, seen the
stars, subdued their adorers, and could no longer worship
the paternal idol.
" The patriarch himself, however, is the principal and
the greatest figure in this representation of the eternal strife
and tragedy of the progress of humanity from generation to
generation ; and that whether considered dramatically, sym-

216 TREATMENT BY THE R.A. LONDON.
bolically, or anatomically. Blind and helpless fury, pain
never to be assuaged, and a certain consciousness of the
dutiful necessity to succumb, are all presented to the eye
with irresistible force. Of the artistic properties of this
sublime production, we refrain from speaking at large, as
well as from the attempt to describe the other figures of the
group. The treatment of the colour and shadow of this
work is the very best exemplification of Scott's mature ideas
concerning the sensuous portion of pictorial art. The whole
canvass is as dark as necessity and fate could render it;
the breadths of colour are small when compared with the
deep, dead shadow of the piece ; and most assuredly no
bright hues are employed for the purpose of relieving the
mind, as some critics would express it — that is to say, for
the spurious purpose of conveying a pleasure in discord
with the essential sentiment of the work." *
While this picture was in the Royal Scottish Academy
Exhibition, that of " Queen Elizabeth witnessing the per
formance of the Merry Wives of Windsor" was finished
and forwarded to the Royal Academy of London, where it
met with that probationary fate that all have to abide at its
hands. It had an obscure place out of the reach of par
ticular examination. This treatment, with the rejection
two years before of " Achilles addressing the Manes of
Patroclus" — the excellences of which he found, in conver
sation with some members of the Academy, to be largely
acknowledged, but it was considered unfinished in its style
of execution — determined him to send there no more. This
was infinitely to be regretted, but he held by the determi
nation, and sent no more, except that in 1845, by some
chance, a small picture by him — Pan Awakened — appeared
there. * North British Review, May 1849.

DEATH OF JANE SHORE. 217

1841.

" Queen Elizabeth in the Globe Theatre" made its
appearance in Edinburgh, and, along with it, the large
picture of " Queen Mary receiving the Warrant for her
Execution," " The Death of Jane Shore," " Ave Maria,"*
and " A Parthian Archer." f The Queen Mary has some
of the highest qualities both of art and of the particular
artist, combined with a misapplication of his own powers,
as well as mistaken style of colour. Besides, it is scarcely
true to historical narrative, and if any one were to assail the
artistic character of David Scott, this undoubtedly is one of
the most vulnerable of his productions. But to the mind of
the public, the Jane Shore seemed much more so. While
all other artists were working to please, Scott seemed here
directing his abilities, not only as in tragedy, to awe, in
struct, and lay bare the holiest sympathies, but to terrify
and disgust. And why did it seem so ? Because the pic
ture was viewed in juxtaposition, and in comparison with
works directed only to excite the pleasurable emotions of a
certain class of society — that class most likely to reward the
artist. In relation to the first aim and varied powers of the
art of painting, it holds quite another significance. Viewed,
too, in relation to humanity and to history, it is not exces
sive — it is barely true. Perhaps the half of the products of
Christian art have had a sad and terrible sentiment. This
Jane Shore is nothing to Poussin's Plague, or Domenichino's
Medusa, in our National Gallery, to stay at home for illus
tration. But with the delicacies of the day, real or assumed,
such pictures jar most foully. Death must not be exhibited
* Tn the possession of Mrs. Littlejohn.
f Painted for Mr. Dunlop of Brockloch, and sent by him to America.

218 ELIZABETH IN THE GLOBE THEATRE.
to eyes polite : it was' very impolitic. He did not avoid the
subject, as he might have done, because it excited painful
feelings ; but, having adopted it, he did not misrepresent it.
But Scott's great picture of the year, and the most
laborious and extended exhibition of character ever accom
plished by him, was the Globe Theatre. The musicians,
the crowd of groundlings and balcony men, the great literary
lights of the Elizabethan age, and the patrician and political
notables of the time, including the implacable and stiff
" Virgin throned in the west," are all characterized in his
most powerful manner, both individually and in relation to
class. The heads of Shakspere, of Spenser, and of Fletcher
and Sackville, are among the most beautiful male heads
ever painted, for intellectual clearness, simplicity, and re
finement. And yet, withal, they belong to their age, and
are the men who sparred with sharp wits in the Mermaid
— rare Ben Jonson being among the number, who is here
in plain black, a humble dress in those gay days — (Old
Aubrey describes his doublet as somewhat slit under the
arm) ^clenching his hand, and enjoying the practical jibes
of the Merry Wives.
Except a little sketch of the harlequin, fool, and the
long lean basso in the foreground, made apparently to be
painted as a small picture, none of the studies for this pic
ture are extant ; neither are those for the Alchymical Adept,
nor for the Preaching of the Crusades. Ample evidence,
however, is afforded of the study this picture cost, by the
mass of notes relating to the men of the era, their ages,
costumes, and portraits, and on the form and fittings of the
theatres of the time.
On the appearance of the " Globe Theatre," the artist
received some letters, the subject being one that interested
men of literary tastes. One of these congratulatory letters,

ELIZABETH IN THE GLOBE THEATRE. 219
from a gentleman well known in the critical circles of Lon
don, calls in question the figure of the Queen, both as to
age and expression, seeing that we have Rowe's authority
for the anecdote of her having desired the dramatist to write
the play she is represented as witnessing so staidly. David
Scott's reply, on the back of this letter, however, puts the
question, we think, right on both points. On the most
important one — that of the expression of Elizabeth — he
says : — " Doubtless among equals, or indeed in any society,
politeness and indulgence would mark the reception of any
effort to please, but in the case of a queenly command, this
would not be necessarily seen — in a proud-tempered queen
certainly not ; and, after all, the right thing to be done was
to give the general and true character of Queen Elizabeth,
in which I hope I have in some measure succeeded."

LETTEK VIII.

FAMILY CHANGES — AN EPISODICAL PAGE.

Heigh ho ! on we go,
Wave after wave.
Until we reach, high up the beach ;
The tide is full, then hack we pull,
Out we go, heigh ho !
And then, again
Comes sweeping on another flow. L. S.

It may be recollected by the reader that the family circle
was diminished before David Scott left home, by the death
of his sister. To a mind bent entirely on study and attain
ment ; constantly — from the rising of the sun to the going
down thereof — with the chalk or the palette in his hand,
and one predominant idea in his mind, the most serious
occurrences of life fall comparatively harmless. They affect
him only as the great object before him may be influenced
or interrupted. Apparently it is so, but the nature of such
a man is to feel profoundly, and to bear the memory of the
calamity too long.
His brother Robert, many years before the date we have
now reached, after much opposition and deliberation, had
sailed for Demerara, in the hopes of finding El Dorado.
Open-hearted, and a little erratic, he was much beloved by
his friends. Painting was not, however, more deeply in
teresting to him than many other sciences or arts, and this

DEATH OF HIS FATHER. 221
was enough to divide the sympathies of the brothers to a
certain extent. On his departure, however, David, who
had participated but little in the family anxieties in the
matter, placed among his personal luggage a letter, to be
read at some future time. Robert read the letter, and
crushed it to pieces in his hand, which was not weak. He
did not however destroy it : going across the Atlantic, this
evidence of his brother's interest, dictatorial, and rather
paternal than brotherly as it was, came back among his
other papers, and now lies before us, with the evidences of
its rough treatment upon it, among lists of Belmont gangs
and Vreezen-Hoop gangs, Venus, Cato, Nap, and Bobby.
" 11th March 1830. Formal advice I have none to
give you. I would only again say, dear brother, watch
your health, consider the consequences in the climate you go
to, of the violation of the strict resolve to pursue a regular
and uniform tenor of conduct. You have enough determina
tion if you exert it properly. Keep observation around you
always, and strong attention to what you are engaged to do.
Many men far inferior in ability have only this to recom
mend them. Keep these words in mind. David Scott."
On his return from Italy, our painter found his father
much debilitated, and verging into blindness. This con
tinued till the beginning of 1841, when the end approached.
" Dear William — I have no doubt you will be in possession
of my note written this morning. I now write you a little
more fully. I mentioned repeatedly the state of our departed
father's health in such a way, that I hope you were in some
measure prepared for the intimation my letter conveyed. I
had on a former occasion taken blame to myself in some
measure for having alarmed you needlessly, and I was loath
to say anything that might again distress you, if it were at
all to be avoided. During this last illness, he has repeat-

222 DEATH OF HIS BROTHER.
edly, for about a day at a time, appeared worse than formerly,
being somewhat confused; but even to the very last I
expected that this immediate or added illness would pass off,
and that he would rally again. Just two or three minutes be
fore he died, I had been assisting him to eat a little, and that
being finished, I sat down at the foot of the bed. Mother
immediately thought she heard him speak ; she rose, went
forward to the bed-side, and called to me — ' Oh David !
your father is looking up.' I started to his side, and he
gave another bright look, when the easy flight of his spirit
began. Uncle and Robert were called into the room, but
he breathed no more ; all passed under the awful change.
He died a few minutes before twelve."
A month afterwards, the death of his brother Robert
followed, in a manner altogether unforeseen. " 1st March
1841. Dear William — I am scarcely able to write you.
Some time ago, you are aware, Robert was far from well.
I am soon called upon to repeat the intimation that the hand
of death has been with us ; our dear brother died this
morning very suddenly. Yesterday, Sunday, he complained
of his chest, but was down stairs, and walking about. This
morning I went into his room, when he said he had not
slept all night. In a little time I returned with a letter,
which I wished him to read, and, on entering his room,
found him expiring ; he could not speak, and before a sur
geon arrived he was gone. What poor short-sighted nothings
we are. Last night he spoke of the kind of person his wife
was to be ; this twilight he lies for ever silent in that white
linen. * * *"
Such short records must suffice for these events.

EASTER DALRY. 223
Immediately thereupon he took a lease of the house at
Easter Dairy, and began the building of his studio there.
This was the more necessary, as he had determined to paint
a historic picture larger in dimensions than any yet accom
plished by him, and fulfilling in power of design and
execution the advanced ideas of the artist. This picture
was destined to be the last great demonstration of the man —
the great work of the last ten years of his artistic life, as
that of "The Agony of Discord" was of the first. This
studio, the sphere of his future labours, was built with ample
room and verge enough. Had it been in Paris, or in Rome,
or Munich, or even in London, it would have been only one
of many maintained by their possessors with eclat and ease ;
but in Edinburgh, which is nearly double the size of the
little city of Munich, it was a hazardous experiment this
width of canvass and height of wall.
But here we must open a new page of the inner life of
the man. All we can do is to suggest, and that by merely
giving some entries half erased in his early diary, leaving
them to the reader without note or comment. The influence
of woman, and the passion and sentiment of love, were too
potent and sacred in his nature to allow him to speak of
them. They were over him like heaven, and beyond him
like the promised land to Moses. His friends thought him
insensible to much that rules the heart, and that he was
" like age that cannot hear the glad birds sing ;" but his
coldness did, in truth, resemble the chemical ice produced
within the red-hot electric circle. The following mysterious
notes are all we have at present to say on this subject.
They are here given, because they belong to years whose
artistic history we have already treated : —
"August 1830. August again. I have been there
again for the last time I am afraid. * * * (much

224 A FANCY OF THE HEART.
elaborately scratched out, and a green ivy leaf wafered to
the edge of the page.) Since coming home I have painted
an embodyment of myself as ' a cloud ;' — a floating figure
gazing at the moon.
" September 1831. Another summer has passed, and again
*****
We will not see you then for two years, cried  ,
and her sister said nothing. They lighted me across the
lawn at parting, she bearing the lantern. They left me:
I watched them recede, dark against the light they carried,
and disappear. I have left with them a sketch of 
done in the twilight ; when shall I see it again, and them ?
" May 1832. Met my friend, who told me much that I
feared to learn. The forms of society, are they above all ?
*****
" March 1836. Life goes forward opening many doors.
I am strange even to myself: hoping and not doing. 
has now left Scotland, and one dream of my youth ends : a
long hope that lived with me for many years is dispelled."
*****
In a sketch-book the following paper is found, which
may refer to the same story : —
" The hedges and flowers of June are in full blossom,
and I am in the country. The air is fresher, the leaves
more green, and the blue sky more intense, than they ever
were before : a day of gladness. Than they ever were be
fore ? yes, to me. Yet am I looking back upon days marked
in the memory by strong feelings, but now intellect and
sense are alike alive in harmony.
" On such a day as this I saw a youth accompany his
elder friend down a rocky road from the village. Their
track was a winding one, leading from the heights to a level
strath. The youth appeared to have the gaiety natural to

A FANCY OF THE HEART. 225
his years, and to the anticipation of some good ; but his
friend, who was clad in black, and who was also of stature
above the ordinary height, was calm and undisturbed.
From his measured steady pace, and head declined, a stran
ger might have supposed he was brooding over more sombre
thoughts than the youth seemed ever to have dreamt of.
However, if properly observed, he might have been dis
covered to be but temporarily exhilarated, and not endowed
either with the God's-gift of a joyous nature, or the blank
impressibility of an idle mind. Perhaps, too, there was an
assumption of superiority about him. Their course was
directed to a mansion of an unassuming appearance, situated
in a hollow to which they had descended, and through
which a great river wound, with a mountain range beyond.
Trees surround the house, and hide it as they approach.
Now again it is disclosed, and they approach the green
sparred wicket. The beech trees are thick above, and the
leaves are beginning to fall on the gravel walk and on the
steps of the door ; but, before they enter, a fair face appears
at the window, whose recognition the youth returns, not
without some hurried embarrassment. And now they are
within and I see them no more.
" This is one of many visits to that white house with its
green gate in the strath. Less, and yet more happy, more
embarrassed and yet freer, these visits became ; but still a
progressive gloom kept more than even pace with joy, till
all was lost and absorbed.
" At the first of these visits the youth was yet a boy.
Fathers and mothers were there on both sides. Full of life
and health, the lady of the mansion came out to meet her
guests. With gladness and hospitality she welcomed them,
and every one partook of the sunshine : her children were
running about her, and the daughters were all laughter.

226 A FANCY OF THE HEART.
" The next visit was in autumn. There are fewer house
hold faces now ; two of the blythest are gone and taken their
blythness with them. But are not the trees as thick, and
the flowers as fair, and the slight figures taller, than before ?
" Again the number is decreased. A great flat stone is
newly placed in the churchyard, without an inscription, for
the father has said that his name may shortly be cut upon
it, as -well as others. There is silence about the house, and
sadness within. But such is the law of nature, and she is
still there, and, doubtless, will smile again. The brother,
too, has gone, for times are changed, and all they have from
him is a letter written months ago in a new country.
"Another year and the daughters are alone. The
letters are now their hope, and they look upon the old
house as if they wished to care less for it than they do.
If they should have to leave it ? The beech trees are heavy
and black, and they speak of ships sailing ; and so the last
of our visits is paid."
To this we may add these verses, since their date refers
them to the same period of time : —

Love stood listening to my song,
With Hope upon my shoulder leaning;
While the early sun along
The strings was brightly gleaming.
I sang with joy ; and thought Love smiled,
And Hope looked proudly on,
And then a voice all heavenly mild
Accompanied each tone.
I sang ; the voice soon died away,
Then died away mine own ;
Hope soon fled, and Love, once gay,
Changed and became unknown.

THINKING TO HIMSELF. 227
Oh ! could I once more touch that lyre,
And live amidst its joys again,
I would .bring down the heavenly fire
To melt away all grief and pain ! 1832.
Having extracted these few allusions from their environ
ment in the note-book, and written them out here, we con
fess there is something of the boy about the incident — too
much perhaps. It may have been altogether only a dream,
unsuspected by living soul, and nourished by himself as a
little stolen romance — not, by any means, like a later but
somewhat similar incident. Still we have retained it : it
is characteristic of him ; in some matters, and those of the
deepest importance in life, he was a boy to the end. More
over this noting down in sealed books has a tendency to
give things that will not bear the test of discussion, or even
of sympathy, an undue importance in the eye of the writer.
Doing so is the resource of morbid and solitary natures — it
nourishes egotism. Incidents and thoughts that are shaken
from the mind in contact with the world, like dew from
off the lion's mane, thus become crystalized, and pierce the
flesh. The habit of watching feelings and noting them, is
like that of the timid invalid watching his own symptoms :
the irregular action is increased, the disease confirmed. The
white house with the green wicket, however, was rather a
poetic than a painful dream, as far as possible, in a nature
whose every sensation and experience partook of the dark
and probationary.

Q 2

LETTER IX.

WRITINGS ON ART.

Reading makes a full man ; Conference a ready man ; and Writing an exact man.
Lord Bacon.

We have mentioned the series of papers of the Great
Masters published by David Scott in five numbers of Black
wood, ending March 1841; ending then, but not with his
will, as a long paper on English, German, and French
painting, considered comparatively, and in relation to the
application of the fine arts to the interiors of the new houses
of Parliament, was ready to follow, when some disagree
ment or cause of separation intervened. Willing to quote
the opinions of others instead of putting forward our own,
whenever we can do so with propriety or advantage, we
quote the following remarks from an article in the North
British Review. Any one who has gone so far with us,
and perused the Journal in Rome, and other occasional ex
tracts, will be prepared to find in those magazine papers
more than is usually met with on the subject of art, and he
will not be disappointed. The criticism, however, does not,
as might naturally be expected from an artist, deal either
with the technical or scientific properties of the great works
noticed. It deals only with the sesthetical and metaphysical
relations and tendencies of the works in question.

A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITING. 229
" The most decided attempt he ever made to give a perma
nent literary expression to his ideas concerning the theory and
practice of plastic art, was published some nine years ago in
the pages of Blackwood's Magazine. It consisted of a series of
remarkable dissertations on the distinguishing characteristics
of Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Titian, Correggio, the Caracci,
Caravaggio ; and of the schools of art, as well as the kinds
of men and circumstance, they severally represent. It needs
scarcely be mentioned that the differentiating qualities of
these great artists are not sought in the external properties
of their works, but in principles holding directly on the
generic constitution ofthe human mind — the modifying in
fluences of time, place, and personal idiosyncrasy, not being
overlooked. The differing creations of the masters are con
sidered as the natural and necessary — though the plastic and
variable — exponents of the differing ideas by which they
were severally possessed. They habitually looked upon
nature and man from totally diverse points of view, and
therefore their representations of the ideal of human life
were wholly dissimilar ; circumstances which obligated
modes of treatment equally dissimilar and diverse. Those
classifications, for example, which designate the Venetians
as the school of colour, or as the ornamentalists, are shewn
to be insufficient. Our author penetrates to the secret of
Venetian life, and finds it sensuous to the core. He seizes
the theory of Titian and his subordinates, and discovers that
it is essentially material. And then he tries to deduce all
the characteristics of their colour — their light and shade,
their ornament and their composition — from these premises,
with what success the student must judge for himself. But
the central and deepest idea of the remarkable pieces of
critical literature now described, is the proposition that the
sole purpose of art is the sustaining of humanity in man : a

230 HIS STYLE.
simple, obvious, yet profound principle, which never forsakes
him in these essays, and which was never forsaken by him
in life. " This way of criticising works of art from within, is
certainly far from peculiar to this professional critic. In
truth, the existence of any other mode of investigating such
subjects will hardly be credited by the more secluded stu
dent of modern aesthetics. Yet it is equally true that neither
the artists nor the public are much accustomed to consider
those things from this exalted point of view, although it is
the only one which is tenable to-day. Those dissertations,
then, are not without their every-day value, as well as their
intrinsic worth. The studious reader will find them sur
charged with thought, and plentiful in illustration. They
glitter with quaint allusions, and they are sprinkled over
with many a felicitous image. They sometimes soar into
the neighbourhood of eloquence, and quite as frequently
they dive towards unknown metaphysical depths, which
they never reach. In a word, they are so crowded with in
formation, knowledge, fancy, reasonableness, imagination,
and poetical, if not philosophic insight, that they should
unquestionably be republished in a separate volume, in spite
of their literary defects.
" In respect of mere style, they are surely the oddest
incarnations of good thought one ever perused. At the very
first glance, you perceive that page after page is spotted all
over with eccentric, pedantic, and even altogether question
able phraseology. The Latinism of Isaac Taylor, the
rugged word-coinage of Chalmers, or the gigantic Teuton-
ism of Carlyfe, seems the quintessence of purity when
compared with the wanton vocabulary of these otherwise
excellent pieces. As to their syntax, it must just be con
fessed at once, that never were there composed such sentences

HIS AIM IN WRITING. 231
for length, involution, and confusion. The style reminds
one of old Beccher the phlogistician, who professed to write
in Latin, but thrust in a German word or two whenever he
was in distress, and that was every other comma ! Yet, if
all these knotted and intertwisted heaps of rich and radiant
speculation were combed out with care, they would deserve
the grateful acceptance of the commonwealth of letters."
Admiring the general scope of these remarks, as point
ing out the peculiar excellences of the papers in question,
with their counteracting defects, we do think the strictures
on the literary style more severe than called for. .That the
complexity of parts in his sentences only served to obscure,
not to clear his meaning, as he thought it did, is doubtless
true, but scarcely to the extent above insisted on ; and it
must be recollected that he opened a field hitherto hardly
touched by English critics on art. To give in few words
some of the results of his investigation into the motives and
intentions of the Italian caposcuoli, we may say, — In the
first place, he finds a predominating quality in each, whereby
a permanent independence was established. These pre
dominating qualities result from general causes, influencing
not art only, but all the intellectual endeavour of the age or
locality where and when the artists lived, modified more or
less by the mental constitution of the master. Thus he
finds the different schools to be separated, not superficially
— for many superficial qualities are alike possessed by all —
but profoundly, by the central idea or purpose to be found
in each. This last point was one of great importance in his eyes.
The comparisons of the technical properties of works dis
similar in their basis or intellection, and the preference of
this one or that one because of greater technical excellences,
distressed him beyond every thing. In general, indeed, he

232 GENERIC AND SPECIFIC DISTINCTIONS.
was silent in the company of such critics, but it was the
silence of hopelessness to contend against mere darkness.
To descend to the particular masters he treats bf. He
considers Michael Angelo as the exponent of the intellectual
element in man. Raphael is greatest in the moral ; or, to
quote the last sentence ofthe essay on that beloved painter —
" Raphael represents moral distinction under the influence
of reposed benevolence; from which, in common with Pytha
goras, Plato, and the Evangelist St. John, he derives his
title — the divine." Titian and the Venetians is the third
of this trinity, and is most expressive of the physical or
material side of humanity.
These three divisions he calls generic, and by the sub
division of these into specific qualities, he places the next
in rank, Da Vinci, Correggio, the Caracci, Caravaggio, and
others. This last name he associates with the corrupt
monkism, instigating to the establishment of inquisitorial
authority. Enough has been said, perhaps, to draw the attention
of those who wish to study art in its more philosophical
than popular aspects, to those essays ; and it may not be
inappropriate here to collect such detached scraps upon the
subject of painting as have been found scattered among his
papers. These may be called

FRAGMENTS ON ART.
Who is the student of high art ? Before answering, we
would first require to define art, and afterwards to find out
what are the mental and moral qualities necessary towards
appreciating, exercising, and inculcating its essence.
Of Form. Squareness is most characteristic of death:

MAXIMS AND DEFINITIONS. 233
roundness of life. Squareness intimates termination ; round
ness expresses infinity.
Imagination is the faculty or power of bringing natural
things, or incidental circumstances, under the relation of
sentiment, or gifting them with intellectual or moral signi
ficance. Fancy is the outskirts of the imaginative faculty,
or the power of characteristically combining outward things
without an interior sentiment. Wit lies in the joining of
salient corners of things which resemble each other partially,
but of which the inward meanings widely differ.
Art, in an elevated acceptation, is an attempt to satisfy
the desires ofthe mind. — (See Bacon's definition of " Feigned
History.") In this attempt it removes all peculiarity which
is . in no wise essential to the significance in hand, and
carrying its purpose forward, represents physical beauty and
greatness in connection with, and as significant of, mental
beauty and elevation. In various degrees this is the case
with every work worthy of the name of art.
The most valuable property found generally in the pro
ductions of art,, is the simplification of meaning ; making
the complex impressions of nature, from form, colour, and
chiaro-scuro, strike home to the mind as an unity, clearly
and uninterruptedly.
There is no standard of correctness of style, except such
as may be found in the meaning of the work. There are
many faults in the antique- — no measurement-standard of
form — and frequently what we call mannerism. The frieze
of the Parthenon may be given as an illustration. But in
spite of unequal size, stiff action, and so on, the strong
meaning and elevated style places them in their high
position. The superiority of the French in high as well as in
ornamental art, is consistent with the national idiosyncrasy;

234 MAXIMS ON ART.
it is of a scientific tendency, and in that way attains a great
deal, but not in the highest manner.
The divisions of style in the history of every art and
school : style of advance, that of attainment, and that of
relaxment. The first is often mere labour and timidity;
the second is exemplified only in grand instances, each on
its particular summit ; the last is generally discursive and
varied. The mind that works with special and particular things,
when it endeavours to generalize, either becomes vague or
shows incompatibility, by petty style unequal to the aim in
view. There is also another character of mind which gives
birth to meaningless generality, namely, those whose works
are the effect of mere culture. With them mannerism is
carried to a great extent.
Those only can effectually generalize who truly exist in
a wide perceptive sphere, who appreciate the references of
all things. These are very few. Throughout all their pro
cesses there is seen an elemental war for a time, more or
less triumphant in establishing their own peculiar relations.
Dante, Milton, Michael Angelo, Pindar, are high examples
of this class : Blair, the author of the " Grave," Young,
and others, are small examples.
To remain intact and unharmed, the mind must retain
a mastery over the affecting cause that may operate upon
it. In passion, the moment the mastery is lost, weakness is
the consequence. If an actor becomes inspired with the
passion he represents, that moment he ceases to wield it.
He should always be showing passion as through the desire
to hide it — the straggle for the mastery. The work of a
master only can shew the virtue that is in art. Directing
his materials according to his intention, he never loses his
individuality in the labour ; his work is a part of himself.

AND DEFINITIONS. 235
Art may be divided into three degrees or circles — 1st,
Abstract or intellectual art — the epic and religious; 2d,
Moral, or belonging to human passion — displayed in history
and the drama ; 3d, Material or physical — displayed in the
expression of all qualities distinguishing the superficies of
bodies. In each of these, beauty (that of the human form, and
especially of the female) is an element, and often usurps an
important place as a, final end or aim.
The accessories in a grand development of art become
the essentials in a lower walk. In the highest the idea is
one, and derives confirmation or force from every direction,
admitting details and subsidiary matters as far as they do
not interfere with it. So in the secondary or subordinate
classes, ideas of detail or episode in the highest order of
works, become those of expression or essentiality.
The highest art embraces all qualities of the lower, but
keeps them general, or receives them only partially. Some
times it rises above them altogether, as for instance in the
statue of the Apollo, which is thoroughly the supermundane
or godlike. In the Venus we find the texture of the flesh,
with the fluidity of the blood, an essential feature. The
Elgin marbles shew irregular but flesh-expressing folds of
skin and muscle. The Apollo, in its higher aim, does not
admit of these particulars, but simply adopts form as its
• necessary means of medium.
The end of art may be best defined as the reproduction
of the impressions of being. These reproductions are for
the most part confined to the more pleasurable impressions ; -
hence the narrow mistake has arisen that the fine arts exist
for the production of pleasure. To confine the arts to this
sphere, would be altogether to destroy their truth. It is by
the admixture of painful impressions with those of pleasure

23'6 MAXIMS ON ART
(always, however, under certain laws, which keep mean
suffering at a distance), that their grandest and boldest
results are produced.
It is not in shapes of government, or in the regulated
institutions of society, that the change or advance of civili
zation and thought is to be looked for ; and it is a striking
fact how little the tendencies of thought are watched by
those in political power ; how little the subtle movements
of popular taste, knowledge, and habits, are observed by
them, until these matters force themselves into notice on
the political arena, which they do at last, as a confirmed
portion of the mind of the time. In our country, this is in
a great measure the result of its freedom ; we admit no
interference in whatever is not strictly within the sphere of
politics, but politicians would see much before them in
popular tendencies.
Of Beauty. There are different kinds of beauty, ac
cording to the senses. The widest definition of beauty
would be the pleasure-giving qualities of nature. There
is beauty for the eye — form and colour. Beauty for the
ear — melody and harmony. Beauty for the touch, taste,
smell — going little further than the nerves. Then there is
beauty for the mind — all gracious qualities, moral and in
tellectual. The figure of the Discobolus reminds me of a definition
of the ideal — that it was the representation of figures in
action as if they were in repose. This foolish definition has
some sense in it: the antique always subdues expression.
In this statue, however, the expression is false ; it is a
caput mortuum of motion. There is little of the abstract in
it ; it is an individual in a particular action, and the motion
not given.
All strong expression is considered extravagance by

AND DEFINITIONS. 237
those who do not enter into the feelings expressed. Ex
travagance or bombast depends altogether on the subject,
and on the executive force employed being more than the
subject demands.
Without being sublime, a thing may be energetic ; but
there is no sublimity without energy.
We may separate works of art into those that represent
the positive and the negative, the active and the passive, in
nature. The passive is the general favourite, for it allows
superiority, in a certain sense, to the spectator ; the other,
the active, claims superiority, which to many is, even in a
work of art, an unpardonable offence. Those minds who
have no conscious participation with the power depicted,
feel this way, and also those who have the power, but not
in an abstract or transcendental relation, which would enable
them to identify or sympathise with the work before them.
Many again hate all pictures of passion or imagination,
because they cannot understand them.
Nature, although made up of a number of particulars,
makes but one impression or sensation. The Venetians
imitated the one sensation of the colour of every object.
They made it what it appeared to be without minute exami
nation : its effect on the mind was their aim.
Remarks while sketching from the Last Judgment in
the Sistine Chapel : 1st. A sharp hard outline in general —
in some measure the result of the strong tracing of the style
from the cartoon. 2d. The joinings of the lime in the darks
all appear light now. 3d. Often bad drawing, seldom poor
drawing. 4th. Here is the character of the age connected
with the individual style ofthe artist. 5th. Here is not nearly
the detail in anatomy we find in modern French and other
pictures. 6th. The ancients are in general correct, but in fol
lowing onthis idea Buonarotti often departed from correctness.

238 MAXIMS ON ART.
In all the old masters of the greatest time of art there is
a species of materialism, a transcribing from particulars,
both in regard to sentiment and execution. All parts of
their works, including even saints, angels, &c, may or
might have been an actual copy from nature. At the same
time their conventions in the general treatment of the sub
ject, remove it from nature. This particularly belongs to
the older time of art ; and, after the termination of advance
ment in Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Titian, merged into
systematic allegory.
Michael Angelo reached to the head of that path, whose
progressive steps are marked by Mantegna, Signorelli, and
Donatello. He announces the struggle of man in endea
vouring after the infinite, and that in the highest connection
painting can hold — namely, religion. Many small varieties
of this great announcement afterwards appeared, wherein it
was diluted, weakened, or altered. The genius of Fuseli
may be said to have expressed the struggle of man in
relation to the superstitious. This was the origin of his
leathery extravagant mode, which appeared to him the true
mode. Blake touched the infinite in expression or signifi
cation, without distraction from lower aims, and in a kind
of Christian purity. He is very abstract in style or meaning,
but very defective in execution. (To analyse my own en
deavours, I may say, that I have attempted to unite this
relation of man to the infinite with his historical appearances.
Hence my style is a purified realism, and ought to exhibit
physical strength, while it is also abstract and general.) •
The ground of union or resemblance existing between
many men of different characters, is this : They have a
common centre, or grand idea, towards which they look, but
they see it from widely diverging points.
At Windsor the Vandykes are of different periods of his

REMARKS ON PICTURES. 239
career. The family of Charles I. gives a union of his Italian
and English modes ; the different groups of children almost
exemplify the strong firm richness of his Genoese pictures.
The portrait of Charles I. in three views is in a dry style ;
it has not the rich surface or Venetian tone. The portrait
of Charles standing, in St. George's Hall, is open and
agreeable. The often copied portrait on horseback is not
altogether distinct in style.
Rubens' pictures, in one of the state rooms, present his
works in a very favourable point of view, with rich and clear
surface. St. Martin dividing his cloak is beautiful, fresh,
and light. The portrait of Philip is fine; the horse and
figure dark against a light sky.
Holbein is here in great truth, and even agreeable effect.
Various portraits have even a degree of amenity in style.
The Waterloo gallery, with the exception of the portrait
of Wellington and Gonsalvo, and a few others not done for
it, does not raise Lawrence in my mind.
Wilkie is pedantic and poor in the portrait of William
IV. The ignorant display of the anatomy of the knees,
high fronts to the feet, &c, give it the appearance of a
juvenile production.
Wilkie mistakes flimsiness for refinement in the execu
tion of Napoleon and the Pope in the R. A. 1836. There
is no dramatic power in the work, Napoleon is perfectly
milk and water; for the Pope I think he is indebted to
Lawrence. Delaroche. The Princes in the Tower (Luxembourg
Gallery) is excellent in conception and study. The execu
tion is very careful, and in eveiy respect true ; in painting
it may be considered perfect, but for the skin of the figures,
which is too red, and tinted in some parts, also dirty and
blackish.

240 PARALLEL BETWEEN
Vernet. " Raphael and Michael Angelo in the Vatican"
is one ofthe most unexceptionable works in the Luxembourg,
in regard to design, colour, and execution. In character it
is good and strong, but in real truth it is much below the
productions of Delaroche.
Scheffer. My recollection of his picture of the Father
and his Dead Son, which I saw four years ago, is in no way
disappointed. It is exceedingly fine, both in expression and
execution. Parallel between Canova and Thorwaldsen. The names
of these two artists are frequently linked together in notices
of the sculpture of our day. Is posterity likely to do the
same ? The works of the two men are very different — they
result from mental and physical constitutions totally distinct.
You have seen the head of Canova in marble, cast, or por
trait ; it is keen in expression, sharp in form, not without
breadth in the parts, bony, and a physiologist would declare
characteristic of a nervous temperament. For Thorwaldsen's
expression we do not require to depend on picture or bust.
His head is large and round in general form ; his face of a
fair equal colour ; his long hair and large blue eye are very
uncommon in appearance ; his temperament is phlegmatic.
I have looked upon the works of Canova with more
satisfaction than on those of any other artist since the days
of the authors of the Apollo, Venus, and Antinous. They
are particularly fitted to generate such a feeling, combined
with pleasure, in the beauty and cultivated modern grace
which exists in them. This is the peculiarity of Canova —
all his works are satisfactory and graceful.
It has been said that the greatest artists have always
produced the most numerous works. Canova and Thor
waldsen have been very unequal in this respect. The com
mencement of the career of each was different. Before

CANOVA AND THORWALDSEN. 241
Canova had gained much attention, he had worked out
ponderous productions. Thorwaldsen, on the other hand,
was sent as a pensioner to Rome, and was employed on an
occasion of emergency — that of the reception of Bonaparte.
His dexterity pleased, and the subject of his work — the
Triumph of Alexander — flattered the vanity of the con
queror. What was at first a crude sketch, was expanded
into a finished work executed in marble, and the reputation
of the young sculptor was established.
Within the walls of St. Peter's, the two sculptors might
be compared by their monumental works with justice to
each. The general design of Canova's is superior, the
style more studied, and the execution more highly finished.
That of Thorwaldsen appears, on the contrary, common,
and leaves little distinct impression. In Canova's Pope,
there is much peculiar to himself in invention : Thorwald-
sen's is more like figures that have been done before — there
is more simplicity, but less originality.
Throughout Canova's works we find scientific attain
ment, and some of his subjects require and exhibit all the
knowledge of the artist. Thorwaldsen has displayed little
of this ; what he has done has been of a more simple cha
racter. His reputation must stand upon the figure of Christ,
and those ofthe Apostles ; works, certainly, of great ability,
but, after the numbers that have been previously done,
similar in many respects, no man of a certain degree of
executive power could mistake his way very far in dealing
with the characters again. During his early pensionary
years in Rome, it is reported Thorwaldsen did little, and
now, in his advanced life, he has relaxed his application in
a great degree, while Canova was a close student from first
to last, and continued' producing works to the end. A Roman,
talking of the two, spoke of the greater coraggio of Canova.

242 CANOVA— THORWALDSEN.
I have spoken of the fine beauty of the works of the
Italian sculptor. It is a beauty peculiarly belonging to our
time : it is that of women conscious of its possession. Were
they to speak, it would be in modulated tones, and refined
language. His Venus is the greatest beauty of the nine
teenth century; and his male characters are also of the
same time. This cultivated conscious grace is his strongest
characteristic : it constitutes his main difference from the
antique : it is considered by some as so much that is bad —
by others as a new and charming aspect of nature. At all
events, it gives him a claim to originality. Moreover, we
find a fantastic minuteness in many of his works which
belongs entirely to himself — the result of modern fashion,
and a taste for decoration that becomes at times petty and
trifling. His studio in Rome is an exemplification of this
taste. A rude, disjointed, half-stable half-shed looking
building, similar to the majority of the studios in Rome, he
decorated by sticking into the wall a multitude of fragments
of antique sculpture of every description. The Italian par
tiality for display had its effect upon him, and he carried
not a little of this love for ornament into his works : in his
drapery it is especially obvious.
Neither of the two can be considered as rising to the
grand. The Hercules and the Perseus of Canova are strong
and energetic, but no more — their great size aiding their
effect ; while Thorwaldsen, with the exception of the Divine
Strength, on the monument in St. Peter's, which is too ma
terial and gross, has done nothing to merit such an appel
lation.

Among the ancients there appear to have been decorative
artizans of the most mechanical kind, distinct from artists.

IMITATION OF THE ANTIQUE. 243
Before the appearance of great Greek productions, these
possibly supplied the place of art proper to the Romans,
never remarkable for ability in sculpture tjt painting. And
at a later time all was again broken down into decoration,
before merging into utter imbecility. The remains in Her-
culaneum and Pompeii belong to a period when methods
and certain forms facilitated production as a trade ; origi
nality, thought, and adaptation, have nothing to do with
them. They are copies of the common-places of the ancients
in painting and sculpture ; but with us they all have their
loads of applause. They are inferior specimens of the man
nerism of the ancients. Yet we find imitations of them
even by the most able modern sculptors, and those com
mended ! This imitation does not seem to be deprecated in
regard to the works of Greece or Rome, although it is so
in regard to works of more modem times. Our artists are,
at this day, producing what passed from one to another
before our era had commenced. They find commendation,
because they obviously suggest the works of antiquity, and
these Pompeian remains have advanced from being merely
valued in an antiquarian way, to being lauded as fine works
of art !

r 2

LETTER X,

DETACHED THOUGHTS AND SPECULATIONS.
Sent up from ages past, and from those late days given.
The spirit facing its life absolute. J). S.
Perhaps I cannot do better than insert in this place a
variety of maxims, notions, and short speculations, of a
miscellaneous character, but chiefly presenting a metaphy
sical aspect, which have been found interspersed among his
more serious studies. They will follow appropriately enough
the few fragments on art given in the last letter ; and as
they do not belong to any particular year or time of life,
cannot with more propriety be introduced elsewhere. Some
of these are not very new, but many also are thoroughly
original in their character.

Could we meet the angels Gabriel or Michael, we would
recognise in them combinations of number, as an ancient
Pythagorean would have expressed it, or, as we shall now
phrase it, of qualities in such harmonious quantity, as would
approximate to completeness. There would be found in

DETACHED THOUGHTS. 245
them at once the evidence of both spiritual and outward
beauty. They would be related at all points to our inti
mations of divinity. But men are only related to the divine
at particular points. Hence one possesses moral beauty,
another intellectual, another physical, in all their different
modifications, positions, and degrees.
The ideal — God; the generic — man; the essential —
men in classes ; the historic — action or character ; the indi
vidual — partial or accidental qualities.
Men, when numerously and closely compacted together,
growing in constant contact, are like a bed of turnips too
thickly sown, where one prevents the growth of the other,
and all are alike stunted. The largest growths will be
found on the outskirts, where a seed has fallen on the rough
mould separate from the rest.
Every man who lives in a principle, when he has the
opportunity of enforcing it, becomes great.
Big square-headed men are those who care most for
their own interests, which are generally of a selfish kind :
when endowed intellectually, they are the great men in
politics or other spheres of exertion which combine action
and reflection. Men of smaller, or of prominent and sloping
foreheads, have more passion and impulse : they are usually
the subjects of a principle or of a passion. If the former,
they may be poets or painters, or the victims of self-sacrifice
in any great form : this is their selfishness. If they are the
subjects of the latter, i. e., passion and impulse, they form
the dissipated classes. The square-headed men usually
keep these tendencies in obedience to the laws of society,
and manage to advance themselves, taking these laws as
their standard. The one is the judging, the other is the
intuitively perceiving head. So far my phrenology goes.
Why is wit mean ? It is admired, and yet it is con-

246 NATURE OF THE MIND.
sidered inferior. The witty man is not often able to think
deeply. All this is the case, because wit is the contrary to
direct thought. It consists in discovering resemblances, not
in the ultimate meanings of things, but in their specialities
or coverings, which are non-essentials. Wit is therefore
very attractive to those who are blind to essentials, and by
practice becomes their faculty. They are continually busy
ing themselves about individualities and subordinate points.
To the definition of wit, " That it is the finding of resem
blances in things very different," might have been added,
" dealing with inferior or subordinate meanings."
The history of mind is analagous to that of the natural
world ; it presents its chronological varieties or strata. It
has undergone successive formations, violent displacements,
and gradual changes.
Every species of fruit reared from seed changes its cha
racter in a degree : reared by slips, it presents exactly the
same character as the original stock. This suggests an
analogy to mental influence. One mind is produced from
another, inoculated or grafted from it ; hence are found fol
lowers in a given track, pursuing. certain ideas and purposes
to their furthest end ; while the generation, from father to
son, does not necessarily produce any similarity whatever in
character and mind.
Every mind is a procession from some other mind or
minds, but each succeeding mind attaches to itself a variety
of qualities from foreign sources ; and hence arises increase
or advance, and new features of combination.
The philosophy of the present age endeavours to embrace
the whole nature of man, to look down upon him, and to
discern his relation to absolute being. The philosophy of
the last age made man the centre, and saw but short way
from the individual.

THE SOUL — THE WILL. 247
The outward world meets the inward by sight, sound,
and touch ; the inward meets the outward by speech and
act. The mental world lies in the relations between the
inner and outer, and bears two very opposite fruits — passion
and intellectual sway. Passion belongs to the sensuous —
intellect to God.
This assertion of the Godhead, or supreme truth, is
carried forward by some men as the prime object of their
being, sometimes even in a way that does not appear praise
worthy. Others acknowledge it only, and are unfit to assert
it in the world ; they feel its influence, and are often re
ligious people in an obvious sense, looking to a future life
as the substantiation of the good, and the reward of their
faith in things difficult to believe.
The first thing the aesthetic critic has to do, is to ascer
tain from whence, and consequently with what aim, the
work has been produced, whether from the intellectual, the
moral, or the merely imitative faculty.
Is not the solution of that strange question, the freedom
of the will, this, That man is partially free, different men
being so in different degrees, and in relation to different
spheres of being, action, or thought ? Thus one man finds
the strength of his personality above particular objective
things. Another can assert his personality in the face of
surrounding influences ; while a third, although unable to
do this, has more independent power in higher directions.
Thus no man is free in relation to the absolute, of which
every one is a portion ; but he may be free, or above many
manifestations of this absolute in other men, in the world or
in himself.*
* In nearly all these maxims, &c, we have had to alter words and sentences
to make their meaning clear. This one we have given as illustrating the cha
racter of the author, not for its truth, as the reader will see at once that it does
not touch the question of freedom of the will, but relates to comparative strength

248 THE COURSE THROUGH THE STARS.
Philosophy compels itself to walk with crutches, when
it makes the lamentable mistake of subordinating the mental,
or deriving it from the senses. This is the constant error in
discussions respecting the reality of ideas on the one hand,
or of sensations on the other. One party may be found
asserting, that the mental origins of the sentiments of justice,
honesty, &c, are abstract ideas. Another party, feeling the
sophistry of this, denies them altogether ; yet these are
positive to man, as much so as the ground beneath, his
feet, and the existence of the one is susceptible of just the
same proof as the other. Man is " midway from nothing
to the Deity." There is beyond him that which is superior,
around him that which is akin and similar, and below him
that which is inferior— dead matter. Philosophy is not to
take up its abode in either of these directions exclusively.
The activity of the whole being of man, through the reason,
is required to apprehend or recognise each of these, and to
unite them. Sophistry has arisen through the attempt to
apply the laws of one portion of our nature to explain the
entire nature.
The course through the stars. — It was night, and a new
human soul was born. Gradually it comes out into con
sciousness through the struggling senses ; through pain, and
striving many ways, it feels the upward longing desire, as
if it needed to find the sun, which seems to be reflected in
its nature. It endeavours to find it out of that. Looking up
into the firmament, through the night in which it was born,
it sees the shining of many lights. To one of these it bends
its course, reaches, and dwells in the new light for a time
of will. One of his Monograms of Man is directly opposed to the above in its
meaning and inference ; but, as he had great strength of will, he could not admit
in words that he had no freedom. Nevertheless, it is clear that the mind operates
in obedience to laws which transcend itself, and that any assertion of will is only
the substitution of one necessary motive in place of another.

BLIND AND JEJUNE ACTION. 249
with happy experiences ; for it has approached, but has not
reached its sun. It obeys other desires, and flies to a further
circle, colder than the last, yet it imagines it has found what
it sought. Becomes aware that this is not the case, and
hastens on to the bounds of the starry sphere, then hither
and thither in search of the brightest, still unsatisfied. At
last it sees the earth it has left below lying in the starlight,
and returns ; experiences the solidity and the earthiness,
united with all good, which it has elsewhere met. And here
it lives until the day breaks, and it dies away into -the
absorption of the mighty radiance.
" Victory, or Westminster Abbey," says Nelson ; " Vic
tory, or my brains scattered on the deck," says the sailor.
Which of the two enters the battle with most calmness and
courage? Which is the greater hero? The leader, the
mover ; the other is a passive agent ; when his blood is
mopped up from the deck, no one inquires to whom it
belonged. It is surprising that the actions of a boy-man, such for
instance as Bonaparte's expedition to Egypt, should have
the importance attached to them that they frequently gain.
Crude objects, pursued in a base manner, even because they
are played on a' wide theatre, instead of being done in an
after-dinner fashion, assume the importance of history con
sidered and discussed by all men. The subjects propounded
at the table of Bonaparte, during the passage to Egypt,
bespeak the state of mind of the principal and his col
leagues — a state of mind we can only smile at, contented
with vague solecisms and juvenile apings of intellect.
It is only in relation to a principle that actions become
great, although they often are bold or striking. All young
or useless acts, having no such relation, are boy's nonsense
or mischief.

250 HAPPINESS  AGE, ETC.
The desire to effect some objects, and to substantiate
some conceptions, results partly from the indefiniteness of
these in the mind, and the difficulty of effecting the end
proposed. To enable some men to be happy, all that may be wanted
is the means of providing food and clothing ; others require,
in addition, the means of keeping their position ; and others
again demand the means of asserting it. With the deficiency
of these, in either case, misery commences. There can
scarcely be any measure of happiness or morality where
there is a continual struggle in these respects.
How old are you ? I am just the age' of the gods. You
do not understand me, I will explain myself. The Greeks,
in their sculptures of heroes and demigods, represented them
as not more than thirty years of age ; and the same with
the celestial gods, excepting the first triad. The mundane
gods being of a more material nature, as Pan, Silenus, &c,
are represented in middle life, or aged. Cupid is a boy.
What may be inferred from this? That they considered
man progressing into materiality, and at last, it maybe said,
dying into it, to be regenerated.
The history of the world always shews us one nation
dominant over the others ; not, of course, in general, as con
queror or ruler, but in superiority or influence of some kind
or other, operating over all the others. One particular
nation will be always found either as the head or centre of
the civilization of the age.
Diseases may be divided into three classes, according to
their originating causes : — 1st. From derangement of the
physical system through internal causes — stomach, blood,
&c. 2d. From derangement of the system by external
causes, also physical — as damp, heat, cold, wounds, &c. 3d.
Super-physical causes operating on both the before men-

LIMITED MEN  ASPIRATION, ETC. 251
tioned sources of disease, proceeding from the diseased mind,
acted upon by despair, anxiety, social anomalies, &c. The
derangement operates on the nerves, and these again on the
entire system. The diseases proceeding in this last manner
puzzle medicine. The aim of medicine ought to be to reach
the root of disease in each specific case, and adopt the treat
ment accordingly.
A man, though great and useful in a certain position of
affairs at a certain time, may be altogether unfit to remain
a continued leader. Oliver Cromwell, in relation to the mis
takes of the Cavaliers and Charles I., was well fitted. For
the period of his government, he was a great man — needed
and proper. The necessities that brought him out being
past, he, and all such as he, pass away, and we recur to a
broader basis. Cromwell's style and policy only recognised
one portion of the public mind of England. The same with
Napoleon. But he failed from being in a measure false to
the principles by which he rose. His sway was founded
on a wider basis than the Protectorate of Cromwell, which
lasted so short a time, and utterly disappeared.
Nations, like men, shew various predominating charac
teristics : One is characterized by falsehood, and perhaps
show ; another by artifice, and perhaps art ; another by
force ; another by an excess of animal life ; another by
culture, religious or moral.
The mind seldom reaches what it seeks : it oftener finds
an illusion in a worthless formal substitute — a seeming
reality, but only a poor equivalent for its desires. Oh !
longing after the undefinable — how is it ever to be gratified ?
Polite men frequently take precedence of the intellectual,
or of original-minded men, in point of success. Their man
ner is their genius. They sustain the very necessary con
ditions of society, and are rewarded accordingly. Their

252 THE MICROCOSM  MUSIC.
province is to smooth the way of life, and, if not selfish,
they do so. In a state of high civilization, where men are
brought into constant intercourse on indifferent occasions,
a mutual regard and common understanding is indispensable.
And possibly the more this is under conventional forms the
better. Politeness becomes the atmosphere of some men.
They carry through the most trivial as well as the most
important affairs in the same fashion.
Beware of the rejection of any exercise of our faculties
or element of our being. Such must be an error. If re
jected in its just use, some defect or. imperfection must
follow. Every exercise of our powers, physical or mental,
has its right purpose ; and all those systems which are
founded in some view which demands the total negation of
admitted elements, must be defective or wrong. Depend
upon it, the world has not been altogether astray for thou
sands of years for your new discoverer to detect her at last.
Synthesis will find her true and right, although the rejected
element may have had some time an undue activity, or,
at another, it has been cloaked and covered.
Every work or performance (of the voice in music for
instance) may be considered in two ways. It may be con
sidered by itself as an expression of nature,, and as spiritually
related ; and comparatively, as it affects others by the com
pass and power displayed. A voice not high, gracious, or
good, in its spiritual expression, may have great extent of
capacity. This is the case in regard to the singing of Jenny
Lind. Her voice has great modulation and compass, but
it is not in itself gracious, or related to the transcendental
good in nature. The lady who sang after her, a stouter,
shorter woman, had a far more humanizing, heart-win
ning voice, without the same capacity.* It was moral or
* Was this Alboni ?

IDEAS IN RHYME. 253
loveable in its nature. Neither of them had an intellectual
or grand character. Lind's voice belongs to the brilliant
and capacious, having at the same time simplicity. Thus
it has an advantage over most modern brilliant things in art
or literature : they have capacity and brilliancy, but without
simplicity. They end in artificiality, which she does not.
But still, although her voice is pleasing, it is not that of a
woman in idea — it is not either morally or sensuously love-
able, still less is it seraphic. It is a rare thing, shewing
great power highly cultivated ; it possesses the qualities de
manded by the present day — finish and extent.
Most men can act from personal motives, when they
cannot or do not act from principles. That is more difficult ;
the relation between the principle and the action being ob
scure and uncertain. Is not this the cause of the backward
ness of thinking men to action ?
I.
I saw the Eternal seated on the Heaven,
All time surrounded him, and through all space
His arms extended, fates and souls and worlds
Were underneath his feet in order firm,
And throughout all the might of justice burned.
II.
The world rolled darkly on :
When I saw Life descending, —
I saw him rending
The breast of the deep.
In his mighty embrace
He strained the earth : —
It crumbled from its place
And Life remounted his high source of birth.
All the repose, as well as all the fruit of life, comes from
participation— the flow of thought into thought, of act into

254 OF MUTUAL SYMPATHY.
act. To be met, understood, known and trusted, loved and
respected, is necessary. Without this participation, the
spirit is bent down, or wandering outwards. It does not
move simply erect, looking freely round and before. With
out this it is not strong-willed, unless through ignorance,
which always directs the gaze to one side, and makes the
foot stumble — though many go on stumbling, and out-strip
those who see better. All our efforts of introversion and
self-analysis are seekings for participation in ourselves; and
the return to intuitive impulsive strength is only its having
been found. Many live from birth participating with others,
and thus pass through life in comparative unconsciousness and
happiness. Some never participate ; they want the power
entirely, and pass through life in a state of mental and moral
slavery. Others feel its want, but cannot gain the power :
they are constitutionally miserable. Hence the power of
true, full, enlightened love, which is one great form in which
this want is supplied. — (This maxim is dated October 1848,
the last we find in his writing. The psychologist will see
much in it to apply to the mind of the author. It seems as
if his own life had been getting clearer to him at the time
he was leaving it.)

PART IV.

LETTER XI. NOTICES OF PICTURES CONTINUED.

LETTER XII. "NOTES FOR MEMORY."

LETTER XIII. POETRY.

LETTER XIV. HIS WAY OF LIFE AT THE END.

LETTER XV. THE END.

LETTER II.

NOTICES OF PICTURES CONTINUED.

" It has heen said, but let us repeat it : the proportion of will and power is not always re
ciprocal. A copious measure of will is sometimes assigned to ordinary and contracted minds ;
whilst the greatest faculties as frequently evaporate in indolence and languor. When will
and power agree, then we find greatness." Henry Fuseli,

Our former notices of David Scott's professional labours
came down to 1841, and the pictures exhibited by him
that year, which was, perhaps, the most eventful year in
his life. In it he began his great picture of Vasco de Gama
encountering the Spirit of the Cape, and arranged his works
in his new studio. This was enough to distinguish the year
as the most memorable in his later career ; but another cir
cumstance contributed to make it so. This circumstance it
is not necessary to allude to here more particularly, nor
indeed can it be further disclosed in this brief Memoir,
except as it may be indicated by some poetical pieces to be
given in a future letter.
In this year also he made the sketches of forty designs
for the Pilgrim's Progress, * and painted the Duke of
Glocester taken into the Water Gate of Calais, and other
pictures — in themselves enough to distinguish an artist.
Accordingly we find exhibited, in the following year 1842,
* This series of Illustrations will shortly be published by Messrs. A. Fullarton
& Co., Edinburgh and London. s

258 GLOCESTER CARRIED TO HIS DEATH.
" The Duke of Glocester," " Silenus praising Wine," and
" The Challenge."
The first of these pictures is one of the most striking of
the painter's works, and also one of the most admired, and
generally acknowledged as possessing extraordinary artistic
power. It is, indeed, a remarkable tragic embodyment of
an obscure historical record. The Duke of Glocester,
brother of John of Gaunt, quits mysteriously the page of
history. He was suddenly arrested by order of Eichard
the Second — a measure necessary for his own preservation —
hurried on board a ship in the river, which conveyed him
to the prison of Calais, where he disappeared. Let us ex
tract a notice of this work from the Observer Newspaper of
that year : — " There is a mystery and grandeur of effect in
this picture irresistible — a moral dignity overawing the
spectator. The calm, yet anxiously inquiring gaze of the
doomed victim, seated near the stern of the small boat,
behind whom, dark against the sky, cower the savage
messengers of his fate : the gloomy portal, with its ponderous
portcullis; the strange half satanic aspect of the stooping
rower as he holds up his hampered oar, are all highly
suggestive of the deed of darkness to which this passage
forms the prelude. The artist has skilfully heightened the
sensations of mysterious dread by the judicious management
of the secondary parts of the picture. The introduction of
a pair of brawny arms and hands, in violent action turning
the fatal bolt, which will for ever separate the doomed
Glocester from the world of light, contrasted with the spec
tral glide of the figure in armour of whom little is seen,
carries the mind forward into a dread futurity of suspense ; —
all these give token of a work of deep study and creative
power. * * * In this subject Mr. Scott has happily
adopted a style of colouring more in accordance with every-

THE CHALLENGE. 259
day nature than has hitherto been his wont, and, in con
sequence, we doubt not it will find favour in the eyes of
many who judge of little else than the effect of colour ; and
to that extent he will have increased the circle of his
admirers." This last sentence must refer to the moonlight
effect, and the simplicity of light and shadow over the
picture. The total absence of detail was far from likely to
satisfy the admirer of imitative execution. This absence of
detail however, it is, in a great measure, that gives the
sentiment its force. Many remarks tending to elucidate
this, as a principle in painting, will be found in his Journal
and Notes. The treatment of the details in the " The
Challenge," and in some of his other pictures, is still more
remarkable in this respect. The execution of " The Chal
lenge" is analogous to that of Turner in landscape. There
is in both the same indistinctness and variety, the same
massive execution without particularity of form. The prin
ciple worked out by Turner, which has given him the
highest standing in the world of landscape, is undoubtedly
the same as that here exemplified with consummate force
and facility in history.
The variety of the details of landscape nature are
always of a pleasing, and generally of a poetic kind ; but
still the mental image, the one sensation impressed upon
the mind, is the great object of the artist. And this is what
Turner effects ; and, in this view, his detail is infinite — not
by particularising objects and working them out individually,
but by giving infinite variety of colour, infinite variety of
effect and touch. And so it is in certain of David Scott's
pictures, especially this called " The Challenge." " Pilgrim
entertained in the Palace Beautiful," and "The Triumph
of Love," may be also mentioned as instances — the last
indeed is the greatest. If this treatment be admitted in
s 2

260 PAMPHLET ON PAINTING.
landscape, it is evidently much more appropriate in history,
where the details of costume, &c, are often antagonistic to
the historic expression. Any one who has seen the works
of the French painters, must remember the distracting effect
of the care and display in the dresses and accessories. So
it is with one or more of our greatest English painters, and
in the productions " of nearly all our second rate artists.
The novelty of this style of execution effectually prevented
the picture being understood in the true light : it was a
venture, and the principle we have pointed out was carried,
perhaps, too far; but, doubtless, it is a most remarkable
production. The grand topic of 1842, in the artistic world, was the
employment of painting in the New Houses of Parliament.
Scott being one of the few artists in the country who had
done any thing in fresco, looked forward to this with much
interest. In February he published his pamphlet, entitled
" British, French, and German Painting : being a reference
to the grounds which render the proposed painting of the
New Houses of Parliament important as a public measure."
In this pamphlet we find an able exposition of the cha
racteristics and properties of the three schools, and a review
of the English artists who have made the higher walks of
art their study. The causes of the want of encouragement
of our artists whose aims have been the highest, were par
tially pointed out — for unsupported they have all been;
and even the designs of Flaxman, so much admired over
all Europe, and published in Rome, were a dead stock in
the London market for years. The truth is, that the sphere
of the arts in England is social life, and it is well that such
is the case. The painter must take with him the sympa
thies of the day ; he must aid the gentler virtues. High
art, like epic poetry, has embodied itself in certain ages of

POPULAR ENCOURAGEMENT. 261
the world, freely and with energy, but the English mind
has never manifested itself in that form. Our artists must
address both sexes. Of the various branches of painting
among us, that of landscape is the most sought after.
Somehow or other, landscape scenery is now considered the
most poetic of all things, not only in painting but in verse-
making. Portrait or animal painters can appropriate to
themselves Iago's advice ; and among those who aspire to
depict human nature, they who limit themselves to familiar
illustration are most successful. Very extraordinary are the
limitations to be found among the latter ; one book or two
of a popular kind will be often found to constitute their
library, and over these will their lives be spent. Whatever
is intended to be popular, must be easily understood ; and
the constant reiteration of the same subject and class of
subjects, insures that at least. Another result of popularity
is, that prettiness is substituted for beauty and character.
An amusing instance of this was related by an artist lately
engaged on a series of Shakespere's female characters. On
presenting his embodyment of Mrs. Page to the gentleman
superintending, the work, it was objected that the face was
too old. " " Why," said the artist, " as it is, I have made her
very little older than her daughter." " But," said the other,
" you must make her just as young and as handsome, if you
can. We can put them at separate parts of the work. Who,
do you think, will buy her, if she is not young and pretty ? "
A softening down of all peculiarity and emphasis has re
sulted from the exclusive desire to please, incompatible with
great efforts, and that in the works of even our men of
genius the first in rank. Wilkie, whose perception of cha
racter and power in depicting it has never been surpassed,
in his later years, in pictures of a large size, studied even
his male characters from female models. The hands of

262 VASCO DE GAMA
Tippoo Saib dead in battle, are the hands of a woman —
studied, as those will recollect who saw his sketches, from
the female model ; and even the head of Palafox defending
Saragossa, if we are not mistaken, is studied from the
female model so well known in his pictures. That Wilkie
was not without his object in this is clear enough ; but he
did not work on this principle in any of his best pictures,
either those done in his earlier or later time — the Rent Day
or the Knox Administering the Sacrament.
These remarks may fitly introduce our notice of the
next public appearance of David Scott — the exhibition of
his large picture of Vasco de Gama, the discoverer of India,
passing the Cape of Good Hope, and there encountering
the Spirit of the Storm. We have said it is well that social
life should be the sphere of the arts in England. In France,
historic painting on a large scale is publicly honoured, and
that because of the military tendencies of the nation, luckily
little favoured by us. But the grand exhibition of noble
daring and endeavour will, we hope, never be foreign to the
national feelings ; and if those artists among us who have
dedicated themselves to this high class of invention had
possessed the power as well as the will, as Fuseli phrases
it, the lofty historic walk of art would have been more
respected among us. Fuseli, Barry, West, and Haydon,
in the majority of their works, shew weakness that every
tyro can detect.
The exhibition was opened in the Calton Hill Rooms
in December. The artist had received assistance in the
accomplishment of the long labour, by a friend becoming
half-proprietor in the work, and participator in the results.
That the exhibition should be successful was, therefore,
most important to him, not only on his own account, but
that the friend who embarked with him should not be a

PUBLICLY EXHIBITED. 263
loser. It was, however, a total failure ; the loss being
more than seventy pounds, and that although all means
were taken to insure its success. The exhibition was open
during two months ; and although the number of visitors,
in one day, rose to fifty-two, generally it was very small.
The reason for this, it may be however acknowledged, was
not only public apathy towards high art, but may be found,
in some measure, in the subject. The name even of this
Portuguese navigator, second only to Columbus in import
ance, is scarcely known in this country. A few readers of
the history of discovery, and a few acquainted with Meikle's
bad translation of " Camoens," comprise all those who were
likely to be interested in the subject for its own sake ; and
it is absolutely necessary to the popularity of any effort,
that the public be prepared to receive it. Any one might
have told him that, perhaps did tell him, if he confided his
intention to friends ; but the pictorial and poetic capability
of the subject was great, and fitted to his powers — the only
rule of choice for him. So this intense labour of nearly two
years — one of the greatest works of modern art — recoiled
upon its author with a sadly depressing effect.
The incident and mere body of this imperishable work,
although taken from " Camoens," is very freely altered to
afford the pictorial elements required by the painter. The
appearance of the terrible genius of the then solitary seas,
is described by the poet as coming suddenly upon them in
a cloud during prosperous weather; but on the canvass,
Adamastor gathers himself up from the weltering waters
over which he reigns, and rises gigantic above the surge.
Ashy pale, his head bristling with hairs of withered red, this
potent monster opposes the advancement of the gallant ex
plorers with all his armoury of terror and of tempest in vain.
" In the picture it is a thick night- scene. The good

264 DESCRIPTION OF THE
ship is caught and entangled in a wild chain of lightning
dashed from the hand of the fiend, which not only furnishes
the rapid light and shadow of the circle, but signifies the
thunder-crash of the moment we are permitted to gaze upon
the hero and his companions. And what a ship-board it
displays ! In the centre is rooted the figure of Gama, full
in the blinding but momentary light, his right hand tight
ening the helmet upon his head, and shading his eyes, his
left hand pressing his cross-hilted sword upon his faithful
heart, his manly countenance full of concentrated purpose,
his feet planted immoveably upon the reeling deck, and his
whole frame and attitude expressive of the imperturbable
trust and courage of genius and of virtue. He searches the
thickest of the storm with his unquailing glance, and ques
tions the disclosing lineaments of the apparition.
" The spirit is ahead of the labouring vessel — a vast,
vague,-half-visible and fearful colossus, conjured out of the
palpable darkness of the distance.
" Such are the circumference and the middle of the
work. It is in the antagonism of these principal elements,
and in the equipoise of these opposing forces, that the painter
has most signally displayed his poetical insight. Around
and against the hero are arrayed the treacherous night, the
lightning with its angry roar, the enraged billows, the
demon of that lonely zone, the distracted ship and her self-
abandoned or mutinous crew, and the impending ruin of the
great undertaking for which he had prayed and toiled his
whole life long; but he is steadfast, self-contained, and
equal to them all. It is a heroic man filling his sphere,
sufficient for his circumstances, and a match for fate. It is
a universal text. It stands for Homer, St. Paul, Dante,
Michael Angelo, Luther, Shakespere, Cromwell, Kepler,
Luis de Camoens, or for Scott himself, as truly as for De

PICTURE OF GAM A. 265
Gama. Nor is any man alive who may not, or ought not,
to see the express image of himself in this self-sufficing
Vasco, with his faith in the cross, his confidence in himself,
and his ready-handed use of means. This is one of the
great and beautiful lessons of this noble epic.
" The various figures which crowd around the pillared
hero of the scene, present the diverse effects of the same cir
cumstances on a number of the different characters humanity
takes on; and they help to insinuate the moral purpose of
the artist more effectually into the heart and imagination of
the docile spectator. The bitterness and cursing, even in
the hour of trial, of the sensual mutineers, one of whom
draws a dagger from behind his back ; two pairs of mariners
deriving a diminution of their courage from clinging to one
another ; the dependant but chivalrous audacity of a young
nobleman drawing his sword against the immaterial, and a
group of mailed knights bristling forward with their spears
beyond the noble youth; an old pilot on all-fours at his
captain's feet ; an athletic soldier daring the demon with a
cross held up before the mast; a monk paralyzed with
horror ; a Moor upbraiding him for the impotence of his
creed ; and a dog howling to the winds, are some of the
features which are scattered with equal prodigality and skill
between the hero and the surrounding night.
" The technical qualities of this grand work are very
great. Not only is the drawing true, powerful, and ex
pressive, but its vigour is supported by an equal strength
and virility of touch. The colour is remarkable for its pre
dominant unity of tone over the whole canvass ; while it is
clear, distinct, and satisfactory in the details. When you
go near the painting, you are struck by the massive body of
colour which has been used in the production of a surface
so homogeneous. In addition to these things, and far above

266

FAILURE OF EXHIBITION.

them when intellectually considered, is that unity of cha
racter pervading the style of the whole multitude of figures,
which gives a genuinely epic feeling to the work. It is our
opinion, however, after years of acquaintance with it, that
this crowning creation of the genius and industry of David
Scott is more than epic; it is also a symbolical picture,
representative of humanity in its august and perilous voyage.
The painter worked at it under this idea also; and it is
from such a point of view alone that all its significance can
be drunk into."*
The failure attendant on the exhibition of Vasco de
Gama deterred him from sending it elsewhere as he had
intended, although letters from Dundee, and other towns,
held out hopes to him in those quarters, and it stood in his
studio as one of the sights to be there enjoyed by the visitors
of his later years. Some parts he partially repainted, and
very much harmonized and strengthened the effect, before
its last appearance in this year's (1849) R. S. Academy,
* This excellent description of the picture is from the pen of Samuel Brown.
In the illustrations to the " Ancient Mariner," the weird old man —
" Long, and lank, and brown, as is the ribb'd sea-sand,"
was made like the rain of a Hercules. Here the frightful water-goul of Camoens
was changed into a vast phantom of sulphurous storm clouds. Such changes does
the artist fiDd necessary to unite the text and the picture in one common mental
effect. The following is a literal translation of some of the verses of the
" Luciad," Canto v., stanza 37, et seq. —

But now five suns had passed
Since we had left from thence, thus cutting
The seas never hy others navigated,
Prosperously breathing the winds :
When one night unsuspecting
As we watched on the cleaving prow,
A cloud that the air obscured
Over our heads appears.
So awful it came, so surcharged,
It put in our hearts great fear,
Moaned the black sea with far-off roar
As if in vain against a rock.

" Oh, potentate sublime ! " I said,
" What threat divine, what secret
Doth this clime and this sea present ?
"What wonder appears, what tempest ? ':
I had not finished, when a figure
Is shown in the air, robust and broad,
Of unshapely and greatest stature,
With visage heavy and squalid beard,
And eyes encased — menacing us —
Evil disposed— all earthy and pale,
Clotted the strange woolly hair,
Yellow teeth in the black gorge seen.

RICHARD III. AND THE PRINCES. 267
from which it has been taken finally to the Trinity House
of Leith. Letters from the Brazilian Legation in London,
and the British consul in Rio de Janeiro now lie before us
regarding it. These missives are in consequence of an
application made by some friends of the painter, and there
is some probability that the picture might have made a
voyage half as long as that of Gama himself, had not a
public subscription for its purchase been earned out by some
gentlemen of taste and spirit, as will be afterwards seen.
At this period he was occupied on " Richard III. receiv
ing the children of Edward the Fourth from their mother,"
" The Four Great Masters, being Michael Angelo, Raffael,
Titian, and Correggio," in separate pictures, but connected
together as a series; and "The Belated Peasant," from Milton,
¦  Elves,

Whose revels some belated peasant sees,
Or dreams he sees. 
all of which appeared in the exhibition of 1843. They are
among his best pictures. The character of Richard, the
Shaksperean Richard, is unrivalled, both in expression of
body, action of hands, and peculiarity of face. The visage
is that of a cruel, strong, noble, cunning man at once, a
mixed nature most difficult and masterly; while the dra
matic moment of his grasping the children that stand be
tween him and royalty, gives him the expression of atrocious
joy. In execution this picture is altogether different from
that of The Challenge, being strongly defined in all its parts,
dark and firm. The Elves is similar to it in this respect,
and the figures of the quaint lank fairy folk, apparently of
the cavalier order of their society, are among the most vivid
pieces of fancy he ever expressed. The great moon in
yellow haze, serrated by the corn-heads, completes the
scene. The treatment here, and in the Triumph of Love,

268 PREPARES CARTOONS.
and other pictures of David Scott, puts us in mind of an
anecdote, well told by one of the eminent artists now in
the northern capital. The anecdote, as far as we can give
it, is this : Turner was touching on one of his very extra
ordinary pictures on the walls of the Academy before the
opening of an annual exhibition, just then Constable en
tered, stood looking at the magical, but strange surface, of
Turner's landscape for a long time, and at last said to the
master, that really he must tell him he had never seen
anything resembling it in nature, when Turner replied,
"Very likely you haven't, but don't you wish you could?"
The Four Great Painters is also among the notable pictures
of Scott. In depicting these he entered into their spirit, and
the diverse positions of the illustrious artists admirably
embody and signify the nature of the respective genius of
each. Doubtless with these men art and life were one and
the same thing, and the aspect of the man exhibited the
animus of his work.
We have alluded to the Westminster Buildings about
to employ the energies of English artists being the great
topic of the day, and an object of hope and solicitude to
David Scott. He had published his pamphlet, and now the
time came when the decisions should be made by competi
tion. For this competition he prepared two cartoons, but
prepared them in his own way, and as if he had no one to
please but himself. In vain a friend in London wrote him
again and again, himself trying his fortune, and therefore
informing himself of the requirements of the case, that care,
precision, and correctness, technical qualites of design, and
the prevailing taste in sentiment, would afford the criteria.
His reply was, that all these qualities were very well for
those who belonged to particular schools — that for his part
he did not need to expend so much care over the preparation

MANNER OF HIS DOING THEM. 269
for his work, and that the great thing was to give the idea
in its full force — that this, from the first rough sketch to the
last finished work, should be the great care of the artist.
True enough, but this was little to the matter in hand.
Here was a competition to ascertain, not only if there was
genius to be found, but also if there was cultivated talent,
and exact artistic knowledge, the judges being men whose
tastes and education led them to view the decision almost
entirely in regard to technical qualifications. Indeed no
public competition can take place on any other basis, and
the man who asserts his individuality, and claims to have
formed his style — to have completed it with a view to his
own intentions, and only in accordance with principles
worked out by himself — must not submit himself to a tri
bunal whose decisions are made by rules mutually re
cognised and commonly understood. These few remarks
will place his failure in the true point of view ; many
thought the worse of him for it, but a man of powers so
original must stand alone. Some no doubt concluded, and
that reasonably enough, that it was want of ability, or want
of knowledge ; but he had undoubtedly more than enough
of both. What he required was conformity to a standard
not his own, and that rather in execution than in anything
else. The reason of his failure here was the reason of his
failure in every other case, and none other. Strength of
will, the source of determination, perseverance, and success —
and wilfulness, the source of peculiarity, and in public life of
failure, are twins — indeed, generally of the Siamese order,
inseparable. In setting about the drawings to be forwarded to the
commission, his first idea was to do a series, which should
carry forward in narrative and dramatic form the different
steps and aspects of some great event in history, the last of

270 SPANISH ARMADA.
the series showing the grand conclusion and result. The
labour attending the execution of such a series was Her
culean ; but no amount of labour ever seemed to incommode
him. Never robust, but at this period strong, and possessed
of great certainty of manipulation, he feared nothing.
The subject he proposed to treat in this manner was the
History of the Spanish Armada ; and four designs were
sketched, the subjects being — The Merchants of London
making preparations to oppose the Armada ; Queen Eliza
beth reviewing the Army; Drake on the Quarter-Deck ;
and the Sinking of a great Spanish Ship. Lord Meadow
bank, whose assistance and consideration is amply evinced
by letters on his affairs from time to time, appears to have
been consulted on the subject, and the following reply may
have had some effect in changing his mind on the matter: —
" My Dear Sir — I have been so constantly engaged in
business that I had not a moment to devote to the conside
ration of the letter with which you favoured me. Those
occupations still subsisting, and from other causes, I am quite
unequal to making observations upon your statements ; but
I may generally state, that I rather think you are embar
rassing yourself by mixing up the object of an epic poet
with those of a painter in fresco. For it is totally out of
the question, as it seems to me, for any mortal hand, while
performing the operations of the latter, to accomplish what
may be in contemplation of the same genius, and not un
attainable, within reasonable compass, in the composition of
an epic poem. It seemed to me that, by adopting the plan
I took the liberty to suggest, while you might exhibit to a
certain extent the powers of your mind to execute, were it
practicable, a series of designs having those very objects in
view which your letter makes it clear that you contemplate,
you could prove your capacity to perform that which is

LORD MEADOWBANK's ADVICE. 271
within the reach of human exertion — painting in fresco
individual pictures powerfully ; leaving the past and the
historian to shew the progress of events. The multitude
of circumstances necessary to express the history of a period
is decidedly not within the scope of a painter ; at the same
time there are remarkable scenes in our history, leading to one
great event, capable of making one or two interesting pic
tures. I fear all I have written is not much to the purpose ;
but I have been eight hours in Court, and have only been
able to snatch a few minutes from reading my papers to
acknowledge your letter. — In haste, yours faithfully, Alex.
Maconochie." The subjects ultimately fixed upon were one of the above
mentioned scenes — that of Drake witnessing the Destruction
of the Spanish Ships, and Wallace defending Scotland ;
the latter being a design done some years ago, which he
was at that time painting on a larger scale than formerly.
We find by his correspondence, that, even while making
these preparations, he avowed his determination, should he
be successful and appointed, he would only have undertaken
the duties on condition of having an entire department
under his own management. But he was not destined to
have the chance of making any conditions — his cartoons
meeting with no notice, nor his frescoes of a subsequent
year. On this remarkable exhibition, we find some judicious
remarks from a friend in London, addressed to him on his
return to Edinburgh from seeing the cartoons deposited in
Westminster : — " My Dear Scott — I have been at the private
view of the cartoons to-day, and have been much gratified
indeed. A number of works have been produced, in which
fine composition and treatment of subject, and fine drawing,
are exhibited. A power, indeed, has been shewn in English

272 THE GREAT EXHIBITION IN
art that probably was not anticipated, and which hold out a
certainty that, if this school is duly encouraged, great things
will spring from it. The first prize has been gained by a
pupil of Delaroche. This is remarkable, and it will assuredly
be quoted as a triumph in France. There is much energy
in the composition, and, whilst it contains many figures,
there is no confusion. There is, however, a want of ideality
in the forms ; they are too literally like the models. The
Fight of the Beacon is another — perhaps the best ; and this
seemed to be the general opinion. As a cartoon, it is equal
to any I have seen in Germany. Caractacus, another prize,
is very well, and shews much good knowledge, and also
considerable cribbing. Una and the Satyrs, another, is very
excellent in many respects : there is, I think, as much well
chosen form in this as in any one. I should say the exhi
bition is excellent ; but, while there are cartoons equal to
any German works, there are many so incredibly bad — nay
absurd — as to make one wonder there are beings found to
exhibit such things. But the good ones make up for the
bad. I must not omit Bell's — a capital cartoon. He has
always some weak points to do mischief; but this design is
by no ordinary man.
" I wish I could enter more particularly into the subject,
but before doing so, I would require to go several times. I
feel confused by all I have seen, and cannot make up my
mind very well. I find some works exhibiting some origi
nality ; in others I am reminded of certain schools. In
looking at Florentine or Roman pictures, or at those of any
other locality, we see a certain direction of thought, fall into
the current in a short time, and our feelings harmonise with
those of the artists. But Westminster Hall offers a chaos
of thought, exhibiting itself in such a variety of action,
that no current can be fallen into. Every new cartoon gives

WESTMINSTER HALL. 273
a new blow to the mind as we turn to it. We may look at
one, and think With the artist ; we turn to another, and must
begin to think over again. Criticism is difficult under such
circumstances. Thus I can't tell you what I think at pre
sent, nor write you any satisfactory account of the most
interesting exhibition yet seen in this country.
" There is less of the frippery of English art than might
have been expected. It does, however, peep out now and
then, especially in the Boadicea, one of the prizes. As
to manipulation, I feared that little knowledge would be
shewn ; but it is wonderful. I saw Mr. Joseph Hume ;
he said Sir Robert Peel had remarked to him—' Here the
prizes have been carried off by men whose names we never
heard of.' ' So much the better,' said Hume. He thinks
we should frequently have such competitions. Very truly
yours." Here is another scrap of writing from the memoranda of
an artist, himself concerned in the scene. Every thing
connected with this competition is interesting, as it must
always form an important point in the history of English
art ; therefore we give it : — " I went down with David Scott
on the first day for receiving the works. There, in the
great scaffolded hall, with the carpenters hammering and
artists directing their workmen, every one full of his own
affairs, his cartoons were standing ready to his hand. I felt
certain in a moment their peculiarities would debar them.
They were vast sketches, without mural or fresco adaptation ;
crowded with vigorous but slightly made-out figures. He had
done them, as he will do every thing, purely in the manner
suitable to evolve his own conception. Many competing
works were very imperfect productions, applications of style
imperfectly acquired or totally misunderstood. Others seemed
to have been sent by people utterly ignorant, enthusiasts,

274 CARTOON EXHIBITION IN
amateurs, or madmen, coming forward to ' assist' on the great
occasion. All who recollect the exhibition need not be told
that these were the exceptions. The majority shewed free
thought and much talent ; grandeur and mastery were in
deed only found there to a limited extent — much study and
care, with oftentimes strong feeling, stood in their place.
The novelty of the method seemed little felt. It was a
greater triumph than either artists or the public expected.
On the second day I had my own to look after, but could
not help forgetting my production for a moment, when a
little man like a village schoolmaster, with an umbrella
in his hand, and something like a quire of paper under his
arm, came up to where I was working. Laying down his
umbrella and taking off his hat, he began to unfold and
spread out the quire of paper, which was indeed some thirty
sheets or so pasted together. Two carpenters followed him
with the materials for a stretching frame, and soon it was
all tacked on. This drawing afterwards became well known
to every one as a sort of lion for surpassing badness, although
placed far up between the ribs of the roof. A line or two
across the middle of the paper represented a table, on the
other side of which was seated King John, with a crown on
his head, ample as a lobster-trap, and a festoon over him
bearing the word ' Runnimede' in legible characters — that
being the best part of the work in its execution. As for the
face of this doubtful king, it is needless to try to describe it.
Innocent body ! the author of this delectable work did not
seem conscious of any absurdity either about himself or his
work. Mr. Eastlake advanced to get the title : I was curi
ous enough to observe him. At first he looked grave — on
turning round, perhaps, there was the least smile in the
world on his face— but when he accosted the author (I am
doubtful whether to call him author or artist) no one could

WESTMINSTER HALL. 275
have said he thought less of this than of any production in
the hall. I recollect, after leaving the place on the first of
the two reception days, we repaired to dine. David leaned
his head upon his long white hands, and as he sat thus buried
in thought before me, I speculated on his meditations. Had
he any doubt of the appropriateness of execution or choice
of subject he had made ? To ask him were needless ; he
would disown the idea. His effects were black and rough
— his drawing, vigorous and gigantic, was uncompleted —
yet nobody knew better what was expected in a preparatory
cartoon for fresco." * * * *

That this disappointment was not strongly felt by him,
it is impossible to deny, and much more that of a year or
two later, when fresco was the subject of competition. The
two specimens he sent were much inferior to one care
lessly painted on the wall of his own studio, now exposed
to the open light of heaven on the part of the wall yet re
maining. One of these specimens was very large, expensive
in carriage, and rejected. The other has been frequently
mentioned as of the highest excellence by some of the
greatest of our artists, but no notice was taken of it, pro
bably from the nature of the design, which was only a
fraction of a larger one. Of indomitable courage, and pride
commensurate with his power, he proceeded from this time
in a track still further deviating from the beaten road, both
in art and habits of living, working much alone.
This year, also, the office of master of the Antique, in
the Academy of the Honourable Board of Trustees of Edin
burgh, was vacated by Sir William Allan, and Mr. Duncan
appointed his successor. David Scott was his competitor
for the ^appointment. Mr. Duncan had been for some years
t 2

276 BOARD OF TRUSTEES
connected with one branch of the Trustees' Schools, and this
gave him a legitimate advantage.
Here is the letter shewing the result of the matter : —
Royal Institution, Edinburgh,
18th July 1844.
Sir — Having laid before the Honourable the Commis
sioners of the Board, when deliberating on the arrangements
consequent on the retirement of Sir William Allan, yours of
the 14th November, offering yourself as candidate for the
chair in the Academy for the Antique, and the testimonials
of your qualifications for that office, I have been instructed
to acquaint you, that they have incorporated the chair of
the class for drawing from the Antique with that for the
theory and practice of Colour, and appointed Mr. Duncan"
who filled the latter, to be head master or director over the
whole establishment, with the assistance of Mr. W. Crawfurd
and Mr. J. Ballantyne as preceptors under him. — I am, Sir,
your most obedient servant, J. Wilson, (for the Sec.)
The arrangements here expressed were in consequence
of a change of views regarding the direction of the schools
of the Board; and it is questionable how far he could
have been serviceable in carrying out the plans of others.
The man of a limited exact nature, who does nothing
but what is required of him, is, in such situations, more effi
cient than a comprehensive, original, or penetrating mind —
at least the fortunes of the masters of the English Schools of
Design seem so to prove. Even respectable incapacity is
successful before him. This last character is often, indeed, a
very fortunate official functionary, where much business is not
required, standing in need of pleasant patronage and assis
tance : he does nothing in opposition ; and if it is absolutely
necessary to lay him aside, perhaps it is done by promotion —
a small situation at least can be additionally endowed for him !

SCHOOL OF THE ANTIQUE. 277
To work with any one was difficult to David Scott ; and,
in an institution like that under the management ofthe Board,
harmonious co-operation has been very necessary, and, we
are told, highly successful.
Less than a year from the above date Duncan died. His
death was an event deeply regretted, not only by artists, but
by the public Universally esteemed and acknowledged as
an artist the most likely to sustain and extend the fame of
the Edinburgh School of Painting, he died exactly at the
time when his powers had attained their full vigour, and
surmounted all external difficulties. David Scott again
offered himself for the chair of the Antique, but the views of
the Board to which we have alluded having been pushed
still further, he was informed, that no new appointment was
to be made, but that the office would be divided, by the
promotion of the two senior masters. It has been necessary
to give this detail, although not very interesting now. This
Trustees' Academy had been for a century the college of art
in the north. In the absence of native artists, or for the
introduction of better methods, it was first under the direc
tion of a Frenchman, De la Croix. When the appointment
became vacant, at the time Runciman had returned from
Italy, he was elected to the office. To him succeeded David
Allan, under whom the studies pursued were more of a
decorative than of a high art description, as the drawings
of the father of David Scott, done there towards the close of
the last century, now before us testify. They consist of
ornaments, combined with figures, in French taste, animals'
heads, and roughly drawn parts of the figure, such as are
used to this day in the School of Design in Paris, under the
direction of M. Belloc, so much valued and spoken of in the
Committees of Inquiry, relative to our own greatly superior
institution at Somerset House, and in the leading towns of

278 WALLACE, AND OTHER PICTURES.
England. The fine arts in Scotland rose up and waxed strong
— the Trustees' Academy became exclusively a school of the
Antique. Now, however, that decorative art schools engage
more public attention, or at least more of the attention of
government, than their more aristocratic brothers of fine art,
the governors of this institution have bent it back to what
appears to have been its original occupation. At the time of
its institution, and indeed until lately, however, there was
abundant reason for the ornamental being its principal sphere,
as no body of artists, or room for such, existed in Edinburgh.
1844. In this year the pictures exhibited by David
Scott were, " Wallace, the Defender of Scotland," to which
we have already alluded ; " Sir Roger Kirkpatrick stabbing
the Red Cummin in the Cloisters of the Greyfriars, Dum
fries ;" " The Baron in Peace ;" and " May," from the
Merchant's Tale in Chaucer. The first of these is by far the
most notable, and possesses many of the best qualities of his
best productions, some of them indeed in greater force than
almost any other picture we recollect. The picture had
been thoroughly studied by the sketch, or rather small
picture of the subject which he now repainted, and by the
cartoon. None of these pictures were sold.
1845. Two pictures were exhibited, " Christian listening
to the Instructions of Piety, Charity, and Discretion ;" and
" The Dead rising at the Crucifixion," two of his most re
markable productions. In design and in execution both of
these works abounded in his peculiarities, now confirmed.
They are in all respects different from each other however,
and it would be very difficult to say they were the work of
the same hand, or had proceeded from the same mind. In
the " Piety, Charity, and Discretion," the whole picture is
made up of positive colour, there is scarcely any shadow ;
all is solidly painted but not detailed — both of which cha-

BEAUTY  THE DEAD RISING. 279
racteristics offended the critics. The method peculiar to the
Scotch school of painters is considered in London to involve
an inordinate use of glazing. If a picture makes its appear
ance in which the effect is produced by relays of thin
transparent colour, with shadows of asphaltum, it is at once
put down as a Scotch picture. This is not so much followed
as it used to be, but any picture painted without much
depth, is certain in Edinburgh to meet with condemnation.
The greatest excellence of the picture under notice, is,
however, independent of its execution, and lies in the heads
of the three virtues represented. It has been said David
Scott could not paint a beautiful face. Perhaps not, as those
who make the remark interpret beauty ; and two kinds of
beauty he certainly could not. One of these is the faultless
beauty of form, admirable as being the purest and most
perfect development on given principles, as the antique in
the grand and elevated, and Canova in the sweet and en
gaging aspects of female nature. The other is the beauty
of refinement, of fine physical development under the
culture of modern manners ; and this seems to be the beauty
demanded. Every face he ever painted is soul-informed,
and the beauty resulting from the soul shining through the
countenance was within his range. These three virtues
have an ineffable sweetness, and the elevation of truth
above timidity, or modesty, or any shade of perishable
passion. In the " Dead Rising" the figures are larger than
life. It is a revelation of the supernatural in nature. It is
abhorrent to the artistic conventional ideal of Christian sen
timent — it is to be looked upon once with awe and wonder,
not to be imitated, not be spoken lightly of. Behold, is it
not possible that the dead should wake ? The earth breaks,
the lids of the sarcophagi lift themselves, and the faces of
the dead are below them, with open eyes for a moment,

280 THE DEAD RISING  PETER THE HERMIT.
dead and yet living. Respect the man that painted that
picture. Had there been any attempt, or any tendency to
shock or horrify, we might say, turn its face to the wall ;
but no, it is altogether another thing. Lovers of the do
mestic, of the pastoral, of the delicate, even of the beautiful
and the dramatic in art, we pray you say nothing against it ;
for the things you admire all men admire, and thirst after.,
But beyond life there is death, and beyond day there is
night and the infinite, within us indeed, and waiting for us.
When the writer of these pages first saw this picture, he
spoke to the painter sternly against it ; such a treatment
did not seem warranted — all ought to have been elevated
beyond nature — nor likely to be powerfully realized, without
some dangerous effect on the mind of the artist himself;
and the intention of sending such a picture to a public
exhibition, among smiling portraits, was quite absurd. The
painter answered sternly ; and, perhaps, he was right both
to paint and exhibit it,' God knows.
1846. His labours brought before the public this year
were — Peter the Hermit preaching the Crusades ; Dante and
Beatrice ; Fragment from the Fall of the Giants ; Rhea
bewailing the Overthrow of her Titan Sons ; and a small
but excellent picture of the Ascension. In the first of
these he again took his place in the walk of history, and
many of his friends congratulated him thereon. This was
the last picture in this department he painted, and in all
mechanical qualities the best. Here, again, the power of
throwing himself into the epoch of his subject, is productive
of marvellous effect. Thoroughly and wonderfully does he
realize the scene. The mixture of romance and coarse rea
lity elevates the work altogether out of the sphere of the
mere novel writer into that of the historian of manners.
Peter himself is eminently true and dramatic : Emaciated and

PETER THE HERMIT. 281
haggard from penance and pilgrimage; wild as a wolf; in
spired with the one idea of revenging Christendom on the
Infidel — he holds in his right hand the cross and the palm
of martyrdom together. In an age of faith without reason,
and adventure without forethought — such is the effective
preacher. After five hundred years of change and comple
tion, history diverges into the poetic in our conceptions of
men and things. The imagination of the young fancies to
itself every great mover in history to have been a god-like
man ; but Shakspere shews us Caesar and Brutus otherwise.
In the first centuries of Christianity, we are accustomed to
regard the church through the red glare of persecution, and
every Roman Christian as a heroic sufferer. But no such
thing appears on the innumerable inscriptions in the cata
combs, or very few. On the contrary, the love-feasts appear
as joyous occasions, and the cup carved on the tombs has
quite another meaning from that of martyrdom.
The heart beats the same in all times ; the manners —
the embodyment of social humanity — being only different.
The old enthusiastic widow presses her reluctant son into
the service of the Cross ; he has got his book, and would
far rather be a scribe. The warrior and the bearer of the
papal banner ; the mace-armed retainer bowed down on the
steps ; the old harper, and the queer young apothecary, of
whom incredulity; — except perhaps in the matter of the
philosopher's stone — has already taken possession, are all
powerfully described.
1847. One picture only appears in the Royal Scottish
Academy catalogue of this year, and a small fresco formerly
exhibited in London. This picture is the Triumph of Love.
We have mentioned the execution of this work in connec
tion with " The Challenge." It is a marvellous piece of
colour. Altogether conventional in style, it is profoundly

282 his "theory" of colour.
thought ; the colour itself is a gorgeous web of fancy. None
of his pictures are truly rich and surprising in colour but
this, and the Peter the Hermit in a lesser degree, as befitting
the subject ; also Time and Love, and some few other pic
tures, might be mentioned as secondary instances. David
Scott's theory on the subject of colour has been frequently
discussed ; and many would have it that he despised colour
as a means of art. There cannot be a greater mistake ; and
his theory, if it be one, may be expressed in very few words,
at least as far as a general announcement goes. Colour, then,
he considered subject exactly to the same law that regulates
the other elements of a picture ; namely, design, disposition
of drapery, chiaro-scuro, &c. Colour, in his opinion, was as
strong a means of impressing the sentiment as any other at the
command of the painter. It was not to be considered merely
as addressed to the eye to afford pleasure. In a severe sub
ject the colour was to be severe ; in a historic subject, treated
with greater or less brilliancy or sombreness, as the nature
of the incident was joyful or the reverse. Such a subject
as the Dead rising at the Crucifixion, in this view, would
have little or no bright colour ; all colour belonging to light
and life — the ghostly supernatural scarcely admitting colour.
This is simple enough, and, it is to be hoped, is generally
easy of comprehension ; but it will be found in these later
days, and ever since Rubens particularly, this has not been
recognised in practice. People constantly criticise the colour
of a picture, as if it were at the option of the artist, quite
independently of the idea or sentiment of the work. Artists,
on the other hand, are to be found — they do generally, in
deed — who view this portion of the picture as the pleasing
portion, on which to expend their seductive powers.
To carry the subject one step further, we must admit
conventions in colour as well as every other branch of treat-

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 283
ment, and in relation to some subjects much more so, colour
being the most intellectually limited of all the elements of
a picture. His execution, also, was considered the result of
some theory. Its peculiarity was firmness, body of colour,
and consequent opacity. We say consequent opacity ; but
that consequence is not the necessary result of painting with
a thick body of colour, although very likely to ensue — and
in many of his pictures it did so — to their disadvantage.
Nearly all the masters, earlier and later, are more or less
opaque to our notions ; so fond are we of repeated applica
tions of thin colour, that even the deposit left by dust and
varnish is considered more valuable than the master's touch,
as was evinced by the outcry against cleaning in the
National Gallery. It appears to us that he had nearly as
much knowledge and power in colour and execution, as in
drawing and design.
The invention and imagination in this picture of the
" Triumph of Love," is also of the very highest order. This
is a poor phrase ; it is analogous for variety, richness, and
fulness of thought and fancy, to the finest passages in
Spencer ; it has vigour and penetration greater than that of
the poet, and quaintness as strange. This quaintness, in
deed, stood dreadfully in the way of the public. Few could
make any thing of it at all. In old poetry we look for it,
and are delighted with it — in modern pictures it is never
seen ; and where it is faintly hinted at, it is only as a comic
feature. So new and strange was this quaintness to the
public, that no one ever hif upon a name for it. It was
seen quickly enough in his designs, but it only puzzled the
critics — they could not make it out at all ; and some of the
draperies in the picture we speak of are the most absurd
and arbitrary ever invented. The only time we have seen
it noticed, was in a very intelligent notice of the exhibition

284 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.
of his works consequent on his death, in the North British
Mail. Here the writer says, that David Scott's love of the
quaint marred the expression he arrived at. Perhaps it did
not mar the expression, but the beauty of the expression ?
In the " Triumph of Love," some of the figures are more
than quaint — they are grotesque in the extreme — and these,
unfortunately, are female figures. Now love very seldom
causes women to play such excessive antics as men are
guilty of under its influence : it is too serious, and less pas
sionate with them. This picture — perhaps on account of
these portions of it — was received with great derision, which
may have originated some sentences written on the back of
it in pencil. " Beware ! View nothing abstractly or directly,
so as to shew that your mind is independent of common
rules. If you do, you will be punished, denied, feared :
you will be looked upon with jealousy, or as dangerous.
If you wish to be popular, to be a favourite, view things in
the light in which they are seen by the majority, with the
eyes of other men, and work in accepted modes. Eat, drink,
and sleep, and whatsoever ye do, not according to an abso
lute or essential standard, but according to fashion and
contingence." During these years he did a number of small sketches,
designs, and portraits. These it is not necessary to par
ticularise. One professional adventure we must mention,
however unwillingly. This was his entering into the com
petition for a large premium offered by some gentlemen of
the Baptist persuasion. The subject for competition was
the Baptism of Christ by immersion, according to the forms
of the sect, to be painted on a large scale. David Scott's
father, it will be recollected, belonged to this denomination
of religious professors, and had himself often thought of
propagating his creed by an engraving of this nature, and

BAPTISM OF OUR SAVIOUR. 285
for this purpose had procured a drawing, which is still
extant. David Scott, in communicating to his brother his
determination to execute a picture for the scheme, alludes
to this ancient idea of his father, and says, " who knows
but the Baptist church, productive of so much mixed good
and bad in my life, may yet be the appointed means for
restoring my falling fortunes ? " On such a slender basis,
and finding every thing else fail him, he toiled over the
great canvass, and produced a picture very fine only in parts.
Undertaken in the way it was, with his temperament and
genius, it could not be otherwise.
The result is well known. The works with which he
found his own associated, the manoeuvres of the competitors,
the nature and style of the whole affair in its full develop
ment, struck him with horror, and humbled his head, proud
as it was, and now beginning to be struck by nervous disease
to the very dust. One who works by rule, and without any
feeling at all, but can do in an equally unobjectionable way,
by the square foot, whatever comes to hand, is the man for
a competition of this kind ; or, rare alternative ! the man of
genius who is equally ductile and powerful. The artist
whose meritorious picture was rewarded, was so ignorant of
the intention of the competition, as exhibiting the primitive
ordinance of baptism by immersion, that his picture made
its appearance with the cup of water held over our Saviour's
head by John the Baptiser, as in the ordinary representa
tions of the subject ! The cup was easily blotted out, how
ever, and the hand being altered, the figure did just as well
to express John imploring a blessing before the act. About
this, his greatest professional mistake, it is not necessary to
say more.
Before closing this letter, we may introduce some men
tion of his business avocations. In the affairs of the Royal

286 PUBLIC BUSINESS.
Scottish Academy he had for many years made himself
useful, supporting that great body of artists, and efficient
representative of Scottish art, in their claims to national
and local support. Even with a list of members approach
ing in talent and influence to that of the Royal Academy of
London, with Sir William Allan in its presidency, and a
secretary efficient in his business capacity as he is notable
in landscape painting, the Academy had much need of vigi
lant aid from David Scott, or any other of its members.
We may allude particularly to his letter to the Lord Advo
cate of Scotland on the discussion between the Academy and
the other chartered bodies in Scotland, incorporated for the
support of the fine arts. Regarding these disputes, the
present writer is not sufficiently informed to speak; but
that the Academy has been and must be successful, the
general history of the matters in debate has proved.
That this kind of interference and influence was not
unpleasant to David Scott, is true, and that in other matters
wherein he was not called upon to arbitrate. Granted that
he was ever conscientious, and a hater of all lubricity in
matters of fact in others, he was, on the other hand, per
fectly arbitrary in his own affairs, and did not confine him
self to these in his correspondence and decisions. Never,
however, did he lose the respect of others, although often
their assistance. Thus the influential body in the purchase
of pictures in Edinburgh, who efficiently aided him up to
1843, ceased from that time forth. Whether we have right
fully or wrongfully here connected cause with effect, we
know that continued friendship with him began to be
accounted difficult. Among his papers and letters, more
over, there are numerous evidences of his having voluntarily
taken up public questions, and thrust his oar into troubled
waters. He always did so with penetration, it is true ;

HABITS OF BUSINESS. 287
sometimes strangely so, as might be expected from a truth
ful man of large acquirements viewing the matters in debate
from a distant and extreme point. He was like a Dominican
stepping from his cell into a masquerade, and forcing the
masques to swear on their oath that they were truly enjoy
ing themselves.

LETTER XII,

"notes for memory" — 1844-8.

The following extracts from an MS. book, beginning with
the date 22d September 1844, and headed " Notes for
Memory," are highly interesting, written down, as they
have been, to preserve passing thoughts, feelings, and con
versations. Life was grave, even awful, to him now.
Morning a bright Sunday — calm within and without.
Of late, more than in all my previous life, I have been con
scious of repose and consolidation of thought. At first there
was a long straggle in darkness ; then a growing out into
dimness ; and now into the light, but with the same pur
poses as ever. These were before felt : now they are reached
by my understanding. A dreadful state is that of doubt
conflicting with faith in the intuitions ; the conflict aided by
all the divergences that outward life, in its many shapes,
presents. Am I deceived in this calm — do I flatter myself
in a delusion ?
The nobility of tragedy results from the idea of sacrifice;
the suffering unto death in the cause of high motive, either
in the intellectual or moral man. It is, in its true sense,

TRAGEDY — AGE. 289
man dying for principles, and action proceeding from a
principle is the highest kind of action. Hence arises the
improvement to the mind in beholding tragic suffering in its
right sphere, which is greatly different from tragedy founded
on mere retributive justice, as Macbeth for instance. Many
of our English plays, Lillo's and others, leave a heavy and
useless impression ; suffering in them is unsupported by ele
vated relations. This kind of writing, however, especially
in connection with the common circumstances of social life,
makes forcible work of a kind. Such is Lockhart's Adam
Blair. Some may say, what has Romeo and Juliet, for ex
ample, to do with this elevated struggle ? It pictures loving
truth, risking all, and dying in faithfulness ! Love is the
most powerful moral sentiment. Thus it is the foundation
of so many tragedies. The moral is the proper field for the
tragic, in distinction from the epic or lyric. In iEschylus,
and some other ancient instances, the intellectual has been
the basis of the drama ;~ but its true sphere is in the moral
nature. The epic, on the other hand, is more abstract, and
belongs to the genus man.
What is age ? Not altogether years ; although betwixt
one individual and another that is the scale of measurement.
Otherwise it is only partially definable to others. We form
the best idea of a man's age by his disposition, capacity, &c.
It is not possible to fix the impression by knowing the num
ber of his years. The highest point of completeness of any
one, is his midway. But some take longer to grow, physi
cally and mentally; others longer to decay. From the
highest attainment, which is to true fruit, proceeds the con
trary process towards extinction. Some vegetate here for a
long time, but their meaning in the world has departed. —
This is not life.
The meaning attached to art is differently understood

290 OF ULTIMATE FORM, ETC.
now from what it was some very short time ago. There are
now frequent indications of this extending itself in proper
directions. My papers were the first of their kind in the
periodicals. Since then, art in its intellectual relations is a
frequent subject. An article in the Westminster Review is
certainly a descendant from mine, although it was written
by an Italian in England.
20th October. Painting theDead rising at the Crucifixion,
and a portrait of Samuel Brown. Have read the " prelu-
dium" to a work he proposes, of great power and scope.
Walking with him from Musselburgh, I stated my notion
that man had not proceeded from a single individual pair>
but had become an idea known to himself as one of a
race and multitude ; and that nothing anterior can be known.
This perception being changeable in its features, man or a
race of men may again cease to be known to themselves, or
become extinct, while other consciousnesses may rise into "
view. Brown asked, if man were a clothing animal ? Un
doubtedly. " Why ? " " Because clothes supply an imper
fection in the outward nature." " How — individual or of
the species?" "Of the species, and consequently of the
individual; of all beings in nature remote from the final
idea or type, yet aspiring to it." He then asked, if the Apollo
was ultimate ? Yes, of a kind. " The Hercules ?" Yes, of a
kind. There can be no invariable standard of form in con
nection with character. Proportion is, in a certain sense, all
form ; and to apply the proportion of the Apollo to the
Hercules would destroy all character. Almost every figure
of the antique is of a different proportion. I recollect the
young Monro's opening lecture in the anatomical class was
perceptive in this matter : unpretending, elegant, and gene
rally truthful.
I used to hesitate about making people act as domestic

DEATH OF HIS UNCLE. 291
servants, or in any inferior nr servile offices, or even as ordi
nary tradesmen. Some are fitted by nature for nothing else ;
others by circumstances. Also, it is by means of this help
that those who should devote themselves to mental work are
enabled to do so ; and thus every one in the community in
some measure promotes an abstract end, although it be only
by saving the intellectual labourer a minute or two, or a dis
traction of trifling importance.
Duelling. The best argument in defence of it is, that it
is the strongest assertion a man can make of the truth, that
he stands by it to the death ; in modern manners, also, it
asserts the value of the amenities of society. To go to the
duel is the only service some men can render to society, to
offer themselves as victims, or endangered assertors of a
truth, although often a mistaken one.
February 1845. Interruption and change. Death has
been with us. My old, simple, sincere, child-like uncle, has
passed away : a good true nature, in a limited circle. To
him a dog or a pigeon — any breathing animal — had the
largest interest, and was the best of companions. A man
with no pride in himself, but such as would resent a decided
wrong ; seeking nothing, but passing life with vast content
ment; not seeing many great things, but enjoying many
small things. His large dark eye was dim for a few days ;
and then he died, saying he was very well. A peaceful
memory is his !
Basis of a Theory of Beauty. — Beauty is not dependant
on any combination of sensuous qualities, as Burke attempts
to say : nor is it dependant on association with other per
ceptions or sensations : it is by itself and ultimate. — See
D. R. Hay's well-studied books, assigning a geometrical
basis to beautiful form. It may terminate in itself, and
u2

292 OF BEAUTY.
has no necessary connection with other qualities, mental or
corporeal. In a super-human existence, we must imagine
it always present. The subject is often confounded with
fashions, conventions, or passions, operating to modify our
perceptions of beauty. Another confusion of tongues on the
subject has resulted from the so-called difference of opinion
of different nations on this head. But there is, in reality.
no such difference of opinion, except in the degree of per
ception or in the grounds of decision. A negro may think
a white man the handsomest, but, without experience, can
not decide between different specimens; nay, suppose he
thinks the black the handsomest, he still gives his prefer
ence to a quality similar in its nature to that which guides
the decisions of the white. Beauty of form is founded, in
all instances, on one and the same perception : all manner
of forms may be exemplified as various degrees of it. Beauty
of colour is again founded, in all cases, on the same percep
tion, but all the colours may be given as different degrees.
In form and colour, however, there is a highest, and here lies
the transcendental root of the matter. This highest is purely
elemental and abstract — the most primitive sensations in
both resulting from lines and the several colours, without
relation to combination in things. The human form is the
highest combination. We can easily refer the feeling pro
duced in us by it to certain properties, but the reason of this
feeling is beyond the understanding.
Oh, hopeless, and yet hopeful, these years have been.
Months must yet grow upon months before there arises the
chance of my expectations being realised — before any ele
vation of the shroud which now, for four years, has wrapped
a beloved vision, can be looked for. A wretched fate is
mine. Days all dim : nights only quiet in sleep. No faith,

PROFESSOR WILSON — EMERSON. 293
no joy, all torpor and unrepose. No good to meet, nor good
to do. June 1st. A joy visited me one day, and in the next
unaccountable darkness. When is this perplexing net to
resolve itself into a strengthening mantle ? Are these per
plexities to result in a greater confirmation and support of
the true in my efforts ; or must I break through and leave
them, associated as they have been with years of my life ?
Trust troubled with doubt !
Read lately the essays of Emerson — a worthy thinker.
The other day mentioned him to Professor Wilson, who
proposed to read him, and said he fancied he was both
better and worse than Carlyle — higher and lower. Speak
ing of the French revolution, brought Carlyle up again. The
professor objected to his incessant fault-finding with the
appearances of men, even on their way to the guillotine.
If one joked and was indifferent,, or another was pale and
his lip quivered, both alike met the sarcastic criticism. " I
wonder," said he, " how Carlyle would look himself, roused
of a morning, and no time allowed for shaving, put into a
tumbril with five-and-twenty others, in the way of the wind,
would he not look pale ? I fancy he would afford a pretty
remarkable description? They were all so young too."
He had cut his foot wading while fishing, and is a water
drinker. Long may he drink it and wade in it. The best
moral philosophy is in the generous breath of his nostrils,
in the beaming of his bright eye, in his ready word, and
in his streaming hair.
In Emerson I find many things that meet conclusions
formed, and feelings experienced by myself. He is a less
sectarian and more unfettered doctrinist than I have yet
met. As yet, however, I have not arrived at the basis (if he
has indeed defined such) of the superstructure of his mind.

294 COLERIDGE  GREEK PHILOSOPHY.
Painting portrait of Kirkpatrick Sharpe. Peter the
Hermit is well advanced. Sketch of the Countess de
Montfort claiming protection for her son, commenced. Still
tortured by this nervous affection or weakness of the neck.
My services are rejected in the affair of the Trustees' Aca
demy. Old promises have been broken here, but the whole
matter has passed very much out of my mind. I have sent
the book to  , and am satisfied in doing so.
Made a discovery. There is a species of interchange
between animal and vegetable nature that makes it impos
sible to divide them as we try to do. The insects that live
on vegetables partake of their nature. Vegetable becomes
animal matter in decay, and constantly. Man is the maggot,
not of a rose-stalk, but of a country, or rather a country is
the rose-stalk of the maggot man, who is always vegetating
in hair, skin, nails. Decayed animal matter is the strongest
support to vegetable life.
Coleridge constantly refers to principles, and intends, in
certain instances, to state them, but does not. His final
principles are nowhere apparent. I question if they had
ever been resolved in his own mind. They did " not come
into a full circle," and that was the cause of his partial and
uncertain efforts. He saw into far-stretching avenues, but
he could not go into them. He asserted certain religious
doctrines which he could not evolve in connection with his
whole philosophy, without which they were useless. This
has been always the difficulty, and has driven men into
terms, and dogmas, where they cease from inquiry. But
all systems of religion and philosophy, when not pursued
into forms, but only so far as they are vital, are a part of the
true whole. No man presents this whole.
We moderns cannot properly pursue the arguments of
the philosophy of the Greeks. Their terms, and the rela-

PHYSICAL VITALITY. 295
tion of those terms to life, have become obsolete to us, or
transposed, or worse — we attach our own, although a differ
ent, meaning to them. If Plato ever presented an intelligible
and complete system, it is lost to us. Aristotle is still darker,
and again the lesser philosophers. Had their systems pos
sessed great virtue, this would not have been so much felt.
But man, when he attempts to grasp the whole, the visible
and invisible, the God with his manifestations, fails to reach
and unite; the nexus is wanting, and at one end or other of
the chain, or in the middle, he becomes blind, partial, wrong,
absurd, useless.
September. Peter the Hermit progressing. Have writ
ten letter to the Lord Advocate on the discussion between
the Academy and the Royal Institution. Felt called upon
to do this in defence of art in the country in general, as
well as in the particular matter in hand.
Strongly persuaded that the immediate contact of the
human body with the natural substances about us must be
influential in preserving it in a just and healthy state. The
contact of the naked feet with the earth, for instance. The
beneficial effect of exercise may result from the increased
rapidity of respiration — the inhaling of an extraordinary
quantity of air in a pure state. If the attention be concen
trated on any subject of study, it represses the operation of
the lungs; but the lungs should be fully inflated every
inspiration. The application of water to the body, too, is
important. After being wet in a shower of rain, we feel a
certain sharpness of the senses very remarkable.
Standing in the sun (not after exercise), and placing a
sheet of white paper so that the shadow of the person so
standing may fall upon it, a vaporous exhalation may be
seen. It cannot be seen from the body itself, but its shadow
may be seen on the paper.

296 PASSAGE OF TIME.
A year has passed since I closed this book. I now open
it to mark the change that has come over me. The inter
vening time has added mental strength, but not vividly
experienced. Upon the whole, I have reason to rejoice that
the Benevolent Power takes me nearer to himself, by har
monizing my nature. This added harmony originated in
the darkness of a great desire and hope, which has in some
measure brightened, and there I am happier. It also ori
ginated along with a strange symptom of disease, this
nervous affection of the neck, which the past year has rather
diminished. Commence, or rather review with a more distinct aim,
my long contemplated poem of " Late Times and British
Efforts." Feel more and more how few the things are that
are truly worth effecting in life. To act, or to write espe
cially, is one, if it be to illustrate a great end. I feel more
enthusiasm in this proposed work than in aught I have
lately been engaged in. If I can effect my idea with any
success, it will be a mighty advance on any thing I have
done. Picture of Peter the Hermit still progressing. Have re
ceived replies from Lord Melville and the Duke of Buccleuch
to my pamphlet. Lord Melville is clear the Academy must
go to the wall. We shall see. A meeting of the Trustees
has been held, and they are nearly unanimous in favour of
the Academy. I have had a letter from Dr.  , proposing
to form a society for literary communion. Cannot join, lest
it might interrupt my own proposed literary labours. I am
now also more desirous to put into form the conclusions at
which I have already arrived.
May 1846. A strange passage of time to me since last
I wrote here: tearing down, disturbing, and exhausting;
yet I am confirmed and strengthened. In one vital desire

REPOSE OF MIND, NOT OF BODY. 297
of my life all expectation is now baffled. Professional suc
cess, too, appears further from me than ever. Repose in
mind, nevertheless ; but the body is affected. Much dis
appointment I have lately experienced, and some satisfac
tions, and much worthy sorrow, in , which I at the end
rejoice. To-day conclude re-writing the first book of my poem,
" British Deed ; or, Trafalgar." Nearly two books are now
composed. I am now painting the Triumph of Love. It
must be a gay, brilliant, poetic picture, or none at all. Wil
liam sent me his poem, " The Year of the World," about to
be published — the cope-stone of all the perfectionary alle
gories that have been done.
William has been here. Much thought and something
said. Visits from two old acquaintances, but both appeared
dimmer and less alert than they used to do. Samuel Brown
has returned to Edinburgh, which is a satisfaction.
Through the winter various meetings, not without their
present pleasure. No money got from my exertions — a
shortcoming in pecuniary matters. Commenced large pic
ture, for the parliamentary competition, of the Countess of
Montfort, but have determined to relinquish it for the
Baptism. Sunday, 14th June. Have read 100 pages of " Festus,"
by Bailey. Had no idea that a man of such poetic power
was at this moment in existence in London. His power in
the use of simile is very large. His comparisons, however,
are not great in solemnity and strength, but they are lavish
and well used. His thought is wonderful for so young a
man (?) although it is in a degree going again over old
ground. When S  B  brought the book, I was in
credulous about it. There are some phrases and modes of
expression which attract me by their resemblance to my

298 HEALTH BROKEN — HOPE.
own. He calls " America half brother of the world."
Speaking of America in my poem, I call it " broad-breasted
demi-world." I find coincidences of resemblance, also, in
" The Excursion," induced by similar tracts of thinking.
Mr. Dunlop has been several times here. Had he the
power of Buccleuch, how the world would wonder and
reverence him. Propose going with him to Arran and other
places. On my return retouch some past pictures, and advance
a little with others. Feel somewhat relieved in health, but
I see slowly rolling away from me the sunny high-piled
clouds with their electric fire. Month after -month passes
away in grey confusion. The " Triumph of Love" is now
finished, and off to the exhibition.

It is now two years and a half since I began to write in
this book. I then recorded an advance into calmness of
mind, and a higher state of consciousness. Has that state
been maintained? As a whole, certainly; and now I feel
it in daily life. Still I am deeply troubled in health. All
my irritability has, I believe, centered in the strange spasm
that bends my neck. Is it to be the last of the phases of
excitability by which I have been so often enslaved — the
last of a series of nervous pests that have always domineered
over me ? For I yet hope to overcome it.
I now enjoy Brown's society much. Mrs. Crowe admires
the intellectual in his portrait. I have had, nearly all about
the same time, visits from De Quincey ; Miss Fuller, the
American authoress ; Marston, the author of the Patrician's
daughter ; Smith, the translator of Fichte's Scholar ; Des-
seret, who has a new theory to propound in relation to

VISION OF LOVE DISPELLED. 299
spirit. The Academy refuse to exhibit Vasco de Gama, on
the ground of its having been exhibited before. How many
times the law that precludes pictures previously exhibited
has been broken ; but in this case they enforce it. So be it.
1847, June. Fixed and immovable now in mood of
mind. Writing poem of Trafalgar. Hard I write, and hard
I feel. Wonder at the trouble I took to record some of my
former memoranda, in respect to things now to me lifeless
dry bones or dissipated mists.
July. Memorable to me is this past month — memorable,
but not to be recorded. The vision is gone, dispelled utterly.
Why was it ever formed? Memory and hope can ye answer.
Time must yet smooth it all out, and show me a holier
trust. Again, in regard to my works, suffer defeat — no reward,
great loss. And my brother too, why can he not do what
I want ?
Portrait of Emerson nearly done during his stay here.
My first impression of him was not what I expected it would
have been. His appearance is severe, and dry, and hard.
But, although he is guarded, and somewhat cold at times,
intercourse shews him to be elevated, simple, kind, and
truthful. March 1848. Rain and chill — much troubled health —
fettered means. Working on pictures, " Hope passing over
the. Sky of Adversity." Hope is the gracious angel that abides
with us last. " Marius and the Executioner;" " Queen Mary
on the Scaffold" also; and retouching finally " Time sur
prising Love," and " Children following Fortune." Months
ago completed the fourth book of " Trafalgar," and offered
it to some publishers.
The idea of going abroad is forced upon me. Must I, to
endeavour to gain a living, break up and destroy years of

300 THE SPECTRE OF THE FUTURE.
long labour? Am I to go out upon the world, and give my
time up to things totally away from all the bearing of my
efforts, and the endeavours of my life ? Lose all my hopes,
position, friends ? I act struggling against the thought ; it
is sore to think of, and much denied by my wishes and
feelings ; yet, what is to be done ?

LETTER XIII.

POETRY.

Towards me across the stream she bent her eyes,
Though from her brow the veil descending, bound
With foliage of Minerva, suffered not
That I beheld her clearly ; then with act
Full royal, still insulting o'er her thrall,
Added as one, who speaking, keepeth back
The bitterest saying to conclude the speech :
Observe me well, I am in sooth, I am
Beatrice. What, and hast thou deigned at last
To seek the mountain ? Knowest not O man,
Thy happiness is here. Dante.
The reader will now begin to see the commencement of
the end. We do not mean to enter into any analysis of the
character or condition of this man, passing through the time
to which these notes refer. If the light they afford is not
sufficient for that end, we must put up with the imputation
of withholding assistance where it is wanted. One or two
points may be mentioned : The Athenaeum, lately speaking
of poetry, said very well, if Milton himself were to walk
down the Row with Paradise Lost in his hand, he would
not even get the ten pounds for it; and the Athenamm
sometimes illustrates the truth of the remark by their own
treatment of the muses. David Scott positively sent an epic
poem to the booksellers, and expected them to take it, as if
it had been as valuable as a railway guide, another history
of the French Revolution, or a coloured book of natural
history. If any one had shown him the true state of the

302 HIS FUGITIVE POEMS.
case, and how utterly mad the tradesman must think any
man expecting money for an epic poem, he would have
replied, that such a state of things should not be, that true
poetry was of the highest worth, and (confident in his own)
he would act as if it were so.
In several of these notes the reader will see references to
some profound affection of long standing, deep as life in his
heart. The attention is directed to these references merely
to introduce his fugitive poetry, much of which refers to the
same subject. Once only we have heard him reveal himself
regarding it, and never had we seen him so overcome. He and
the writer were sitting in his large studio before his picture
of the " Dead Rising at the Crucifixion," when we pressed
upon him the necessity to live less alone— less removed from
varied and social sympathies. He explained how it was not
his wish to be apart from the world of the affections, but that
it was forced upon him — David fell upon Jonathan's neck.
A packet was found in his desk marked, " to be burned
without being opened," which was done. In transcribing
these fragmentary pieces, however, it must be premised, that
their main value is in the illustration they afford of the mind
of the author. As poetry, they are not to be considered as
approaching what he has done in his much valued poem
called " Trafalgar." I.
A DREAM.
I dreamt I walked with thee as I have done
Before, beneath the broad light of the sun,
And with thy hand in mine — one time at least
It has been so — and that time was a feast
Of all that love delights to look upon
Present or hoped for — a delicious tone

A DREAM. 303
Of most melodious pleasure ; all around,
Each flower, each tree, the sky, and the fresh mound
We stood on, had its part. Now in thy hand,
As showed my dream, there was a small flower, and
Upon thy brow another ; silent there
We stood, but soon with an accordance rare
Our voices met, and things that in themselves
Were poor, became like marble blocks, where dwells
The beauty that the sculptor makes all worth
Of royal crowns excel ; so in the gleam
We held our way along a wandering stream.
The same by whose side dwellest thou —
Though it seemed broader. Neither branch nor bough
Of oak or shrub disturbed the even course
Which it held on, so smooth and without force
Of even a ripple. In your charmed words
Then said you " If we viewed as do the birds,
We'd find this stream soon deeply narrowed, and
Rapidly rush over a broken strand,
With great rocks hemming its free play,
Or tossing it against the winds in spray."
" Ah ! wherefore didst thou teach me that," I said,
" I taught it thee,'' you gentle answer made,
Because I know it : I speak truthfully :
" And if thou sufferest," you said truthfully —
" I suffer too : oft times to all else blind
I've looked upon the moon and stars to find
Good peace when troubled, and I ever found
Thine image rise before them, as if bound
Before mine eyes : I've followed thoughts like dreams
Linking our fates : — and much to me oft seems
Like truth in symbols looking from beneath
Everyday things. But should I now bequeath
A moment's doubt, a little touch of pain,
'Tis all unmeant, for those who have been slain
In some just cause, have given no more than I
Could give, if aught required that I should die."
" Oh, must it be, that you shall teach," I said,
" How soon the shine on life's stream may be fled,
Here in the sunshine, even thy breathing heard
In the great stillness, must that dreadful word

304 FACT OR ALLEGORY, OR BOTH.
Be spoken, that I may be taught to know
The struggle yet to come — much dreaded woe ;
Should it be thus ? " You seemed to say, " 'Tis just,"
But your face smiled benignly. " Trust, yet trust."
II.
A FACT, OR AN ALLEGORY, OR BOTH.
I stood at eve within a cloisteral nook ;
Over against me in like stillness leaned
Regarding me a form whose dignity
And gracefulness combined to fix the eyes
In loving homage. But I turned in fear
To gaze too much : the sun was set, the west
Was red and gold, and then another form,
Not of a like proportion, but in part
Endowed with loveliness, before me passed :
And passing smiled, and in her smiling said,
" Show me myself." With that beneath my hand
A white page and a style appeared, and much
I longed to fix that portraiture for ever.
But fate from this withheld my fruitless skill,
Nor will nor passion lent their gracious power.
But that first form that late opposed to mine
Sat in the shade erewhile the day declined,
Rose softly, and majestic'ly approached,
Beaming command. At once the power returned,
And from the deep impression on my soul
The image grew upon the page, and lo,
Despite the wondrous excellence, it lived,
Shedding delight on all who looked that way.
And on my brain in bright hues it remains
Indelible and fadeless, until death
Scatter the memory and the hope for ever.
ITL
That great star Jupiter looks in on the lover. What is
it to him ? A mere speck of fire burning far away : but it

LOVE VERSES. 305
brings to him the likeness of his adored, the countenance of
his mistress : her clear eye, her radiant brow, her gentle
smile, her watchfulness, her unwearied devotion, her happy
thoughts, her holy religion, her silent goodness, her repos
ing tenderness, her sparkling joy.
Girl of beauty so excelling —
Girl of eyes all gladness telling —
Girl of smiles so brightly shining,
And of locks so love entwining,
Of sweet graceful motion,
And of truthful pure devotion ;
Girl of firmest gentleness,
And of tender strengthfulness ;
Girl so quick and all perceiving,
And so hopeful and believing ;
Girl so eagle and dove hearted,
Girl so newly from heaven parted ;
In thee all of goodness joining,
Beauty, heart, and mind combining,
All about thee love enshrining.
IV.
TO  , JUNE 1847.
A lady told her lover that his love
Must be no more than friendship, as he strove
To gain her heart : and added that a vow
Had been recorded to which both must bow : —
Recorded that another gain her hand.
While thus he heard, seemed loosened every band
Of life and trust and hope ; high heaven
Not stintedly had to his spirit given —
'Twas like an earthquake crumbling temples, domes,
And august palaces, the shining homes
Of the high thoughts of this ambitious mind.
Friendship for love ! oh utterly confined —
Nought but a masquerade of life with death :
Unto the burning heart like winter's breath

306 LOVE VERSES.
Shot icy into all the throbbing veins —
Still adding to the draught that thirst maintains.
Clouds ofthe dry sand, desert sterility.
A day, in which the sun no man can see :
For love is the true sun, the blessing borne
Through life, the ever shining raiment worn
Upon the spirit, best of all our joys,
The salve that every pain alloys.
He heard his doom, looked round, but nothing knew,
Blankness had hidden all the sunlit view :
He felt as if he was no more the same ;
Tossed up and broken ancient fancies came
On his stunned consciousness : he stood alone,
The sky around him whirling with a moan,
The sun was there, but all its brightness gone,
The glad green face of earth was turned to stone.
He tried to speak, but his voice too was changed,
It trembled, and its words were disarranged.
He stretched his hand to work with former skill,
But only toiled, and toiled against his will.
He left his hopeless labours — tried to pass
From place to place, but his step tottered as
He moved, and fell : the heavens are dark above
A soul that is forsaken of its love.

V.
TO 

Thou who dost rule me with delights and pains,
Release me from thy power, or all thine own
Make me, and guide me certainly to peace.
Or if some wondrous destiny attends,
That I should shrink from, even teach it me ;
I ask the awful benison or the curse
Of love accepted or rejected : joy
And strength and light, or prostrate desolation,
One is my portion, but the choice is thine.
Then pour thou out the draught, the wine of life
Or its slow poison. With an humbled head
I court and dread my doom, and unto thee
Lady commissioned to be my guide

LOVE VERSES. 307
Through heaven's light still on earth, who holdest power
To doom me to the suffering of long years,
Throughout the waves of change, the gulf where hope
Is scarcely seen, and the heart shrinks : to thee
Lady, who hold'st this might of good or ill,
I now address with all-devoted soul,
A solemn prayer. Oh, hear me, and believe
An unshorn beam from God's own face will fall
Upon me with the boon, or shades of hell
From its denial. A vast gift it is,
This soul seeks — the ineffable of trust
Another self participating all —
Passion all passionless from its high aim,
The tossing world shut out, or reconciled,
All good confirmed in one embracing good,
Being beloved and loving. Before thee
* * * I bend, I seek
Love's benediction ; shall I raise mine eyes
To thine and find it, find all joys confirmed,
All that I live for, all that I desire ?

VI.

Oh, where hast thou wandering been,
For these long summer months have dulled the year
And chilled it with thy absence. Hast thou been
Wandering by streams and woods, and art become
Dryad or Hamadryad ? woe's the change !
Even for an immortality, midst boughs
And leaves and sedgy waters. Or hast thou
The duties of a rustic nymph assumed ?
Tending of bees, a-milking of the ewes,
And such things silly poets sing as so
Delightful, and sing beautifully too. —
Perhaps thy day is spent with ennui o'er
Magazine pages two weeks old, or conning
Music without a listener : or with thoughts
But half awake, o'er sunlit banks astray,
Or drinking with the ear at slumbering streams
Their sweet but drowsy tune. But I forgot
Thou holdst a living power o'er that fair art
x2

308 LOVE VERSES.
That fixes thought in forms and hues, to lead
Minds less endowed to recognise the truth
Of beauty, mixed and lost in passing things.
Even now, perhaps, this great delight is spread'
Around thee, drawing all eyes to thy hand —
Announcing inward fulness and repose.

VII.
Oh, thought ! why lead me wearily about
And leave me in dead heaviness at last ;
Looking from out this numbness, scarce I feel
A glimpse of joy or warmth of heart, or rest.
With hope so paled, and doubt so near and dark,
All trust seems nearly from my life gone out —
All its fresh waters dried up from my soul,
Which late drank in the kind belief that Time
Had carried me beyond the barren ways,
And shingly rocks, with much forced labour climbed ;
I did believe the ways of peace were reached,
Where I should find participated good,
And forward fare with bright intelligence ;
That being I so long have sought and known —
Being beloved and loving ; faithfulness
Inspiring and endowing. Is this past,
Is it all sunk in hopelessness and gloom ?

1843.

VIII.

Is there a name I breathe at noon and even ?
Is there a name I shout upon the winds ?
Is there a face that makes the sun to me
Seem to shine brighter, makes the sky of even
More overspread with richness, and the dawn
Fills with more life ? Is there a voice which tunes
All sounds to harmony ?
A presence about which some perfect joy
Attendant ever is ; in whose sweet speech
Life is suffused with radiance, and all cares
Thwarting and weakening, scatter like grey clouds
Before the sun. By it

DEAD MEMORIES. 309
Even things valueless are sanctified
To higher purposes of nobler aim,
Lending devotion and triumphant power.
Its love is every happiness to me,
Its love my every blessing brings to me,
My warrantry of heaven, assurance strong
Of good and truth, my seal of peace to come
By charity with what seeks charity ;
Its love provides seclusion from all ill —
It is my heart's pulse — but, alas ! it is
Inebriation, love athirst for love.

IX.
DEAD MEMORIES.
1. Silent, sad, yea mournful,
Breathing low and slow ;
Thinking of hours past that full
The cup of grief o'erflow.
2. I sat and twilight sinking down
Made gradual way for night ;
Now seemed for ever to have flown
The gladness and the light.
3. Love now like a sheeted ghost
Dogged every thought, and brought
Swarming uncountable the lost
Joys that it once had wrought.
4. All changed indeed am I, now dark,
Benumbed, and cold and old,
Memory now hath every spark
Of gladness in her fold.
5. Spectres pass in woful crowd,
And from the heart they part
All joy, and leave, it passion-bowed
Waiting the final dart.
6. Spectres ! they cry without a voice,
But heard all round and round,
Till the air is filled with wailing noise
That all the senses wound.

310 INFLUENCE OF THE
7. Spectres ! they writhe about in wrath,
Upbraiding and accusing ;
Whirling round our maddened path,
The brain in frenzy losing.
8. Spectres 1 they lower with doubling gloom,
Dreadful as pall on pall,
Flitting from out and in the tomb,
A fearful carnival.
9. Looks once joy, and smiles once bliss,
And rapture's once warm breath,
Made then the earth all heavenliness,
Now but a moving death.
10. Of words and sighs and each fine grace,
Of glancing thought on thought,
Memories of each day and place,
Have now their grave-clothes wrought.
11. Hopes aspiring to high heaven,
To live transcending life,
Saddest change ! all from me riven
Leaving me only strife,
12. Nakedness, barrenness, and dearth,
Waste stretching beyond waste, —
Fruitless and flowerless, arid earth,
Unsightly and defaced.

Such are the exultations and wailings of this passionate
spirit in affection and repulsion. Perhaps there never was
a man with passions more violent, absorbed though they
were in the ideal of art and intellectual ambition. Alas for
the success of such a lover ! He has not approached to a
knowledge of the sex by the vulgar avenues : the perfect
and immaculate idea remains in its purity over even man
hood ; and when the time comes and the revelation is made,
he would rush through flames of fire and walls of brass — or
treble brass — of social convention, to clasp it; he would
serve it as a slave — bow down before it as a worshipper.

IMAGINATION ON LOVE. 311
The cold and still feminine nature wonders before him :
reveres and laughs. What can the old ladies in silk make of
it ? After all, he might be utterly mistaken in his ideal.
And the young ? — Has not Dante recorded of Beatrice her
self that she joined in raillery against him ; and returning
to his chamber, and there weeping, and blushing as he wept,
he said to himself — " She should not have done it /" but
quickly returned to his allegiance. He might have said
with Drummond, —
Too long I followed have my fond desires,
Too long I've tried to paint the ocean streams —
Too long refreshment sought amidst the fire, —
but without avail. Imagination, the poet's blessing, is some
times in the emotions of the heart, which are also affairs of
life, a constitutional curse. All else failed him; success
seemed most obscure and uncertain — had he been less gifted
perhaps, or less ambitious ; but this great affection was to
surmount all evils. And perhaps it might : he would have
been, through it, harmonised with the mixed, and homely,
and prudent world ; his antagonism would have melted
away; he might have been like the elephant — stronger
when domesticated than in the woods.
Some of these fugitive pieces, indeed all of them, we
have found it necessary materially to alter. They are, in
the originals, too incoherent to express what they are in
tended to convey, sometimes hopelessly obscure. The passion
that gave them birth was too strong to allow the full exer
cise of artistic command ; as they are now transcribed, their
meaning is as closely as possible retained. " Passion," he
says, in a detached maxim, " is like the spring to the
strength of the tiger, like the large wing to the condor, or
the descending course to the stream." In the productions
of art, present passion most resembles the last. The passion

312 EXTRACT FROM A
must be comprehended and seen in its true bearings fo life
as a whole, before it is available to the artist. And here
we may find a clue to a peculiarity in many of David Scott's
works : he entered so fully into the passion he depicted, that
its representation is not comprehensive but fragmentary,
vivid but shattered, and fully intelligible only to natures
resembling his own.
We shall now give some other specimens of his poetry,
premising that they are evidently but the first rough sketches.
Some single lines and similes, written on slips of paper, are
very fine and significant. For instance, he says disappoint
ments Come like a misty squall along the deep.
The coming-in of a new year he thus describes : —
Now winged Time again,
Down swooping, on my brow another kiss
Imprints.
The men of an early age he describes like Hesiod : —
Men that in strong essential nature lived,
Giving their strong breath out against the sky,
Giving their strong arms to the ancient plough.
The following is also very fine : —
The energy that conscious power confers,
Goes straight unto its object without pause,
Or deviation, into winding tracks, —
And looks with the full eye of him who loves,
Living and gaining confidence.
Here is a soliloquy from the fragment of a drama on the
history of Rizzio, in which Knox and Queen Mary, Both-
well, Darnley, and the favourite, were to have played their
parts. The soliloquy is from the jester to the court, who is
jealous of the favour in which the musician is held.

FRAGMENTARY DRAMA. 313
Jester. — There's that Italian mongrel — curse on his
Allegros — sentimentos ; there's no order now
But his for mime, or mystery, or still more,
For place in the good graces of our mistress.
We both came here alike —
He rode with our troop in at this gate, where
I drank a pot before him : then his sleeves
Were scarcely fuller than my red hose are — now
His beaver might buy my Candlemas wages.
He is as sleek as a cat before the fire,
And has less to lack than a dog with a full belly.
Holy mother ! what things happen. Once
To chain the shoes to the knees was fashion, but
They got no higher. Now I see how low they reach !
But my mouth is no flytrap, trees nor stones
Shall have occasion to use their ears for words
Of mine — but stop — [Enter the servant of Knox clad in black,
with a book under his arm.']
Friend ! Are you for the palace ?
What news in the burgh this morning, friend ?
[The servant passes on without replying.]
His news
Are more than a town-crier's, or less than the death
Of Dame Scantling's cat. But he has plenty of them.
News soft or sharp as the ear that hearkens to him,
Or as the listeners' skin is thick or thin.
Reports are news, and with a twilight face,
Evening or morning, be they good or bad.
Fancies, suppositions, mistakes, are news
To him who has no breakfast of facts —
Or to him who deals on commission —
But if truth is fo be heard now-a-days and here,
It must be from the tongue of St. Giles' bell,
Or the clock which discreetly confines its talk
To the times o' the day. Where else can it come from ?
There are your blustering nobles, your kerns and chorls,
Your royalty men, and your churchmen and kirkmen,
Your enlightenment men, and your townsmen and burghers,
It would need seven tongues to count them,
For sure this poor kingdom is troubled,
Although one cannot always weep.

314 THE FUNERAL OF NELSON.

THE FUNERAL OF NELSON.
Four sable barges slowly cleave the Thames
Pendant with emblems of his honours won,
In standards, bannerols, escutcheons, crowns.
Beneath the sable plumes and sacred folds,
In that third ofthe solemn line is borne
The great remains ; while following reverently,
With silent oars, the barges of the King,
The Lord High Admiral, and Civic Mayor,
And all the companies in their degrees,
Are seen,
And guarding with a space on either hand
Gun-boats and row-boats of the river, tend
The passage through its covering of tall ships,
Crowded like leaves upon a forest stream,
Each sad in drooping colours half-mast high.
The ancient Tower, hoar heart of London, past
With its great knelling guns, and Whitehall reached,
For ever from the rocking tides that were
His waving fields of triumph — is consigned
All that remains of Nelson to his land.
And now the second pageant takes the way
To the chief sacred dome this country owns,
'Neath which his dust may mingle with the earth.
Preceding lead, trumpets and muffled drums,
Next these, a pursuivant of arms, and then
The standard by a captain borne ; again
A trumpet and a pursuivant of arms ;
Next is the standard of the empire borne,
And again trumpets and a pursuivant ;
Then comes the pennons ofthe dead, as Knight
Ofthe high order ofthe Bath, and then
Two trumpets and a herald making way
For his great banner with its ancient marks
Of rank accorded him for recent deeds.
The crested helm, gauntlet and spurs, surcoat,
And sword and shield, each borne by herald : then
Six trumpets, Clerenceux, the king-at-arms,
Holding the coronet, his last reward.

THE FUNERAL OF NELSON. 315
And now with strength devoted to their sad
And solemn duty — with no semblant grief,
But stilling dead emotion in stern looks —
Eight ofthe sailors ofthe Victory —
The victor sailors of the victor ship —
Yet all sore losers, bear upon its bier
The body covered with a ponderous pall
And overlaid escutcheons ; above which
Six admirals a tall canopy support,
And on each side rise bannerols of birth
And lineage. The supporters ofthe pall
Princely and noble, and of highest place
In legislation, and in public life
Sacred or civil, men most notable
In various paths, the greatest of the land.
Then garter king-at-arms and admirals,
Captains and admirals again, all those
Appointed mourners : — last the trophies came
Collected from the battles in all climes,
Amidst the smoke of death. Beyond, a line
Of bended heads receded, until lost
In the hushed populace, a multitude
From Whitehall to the great church of St. Paul,
The tomb of Britain's mightiest man of war.
Easter Dalry,
Sunday Evening, Ihth December 1844.
Lo, here I be in chained freedom bound :
Oft in far glancing thought excursioning,
And again sinking into humblest mind,
All feeling narrowed to a little nook.
A strangely strengthening and yet weakening force,
These-late years have exerted over me.
Through deep experiences I've wandered on,
And passed a heavy way along life's road : —
What have I reached, and how much left behind !
Ah ! there are some strange marks upon those days,
Remembrances I scarcely can believe,
Of things now memories only. Is it thus
With all the holy brightness of those scenes
In which I met thee, queen of these my dreams,
Where yet I cannot cease to hope I yet

316 A PRAYER.
Shall meet thee, and thou me, with outspread arms.
Dark but burning time —
I cannot pass thy influence, wakening power
Rousing me from a troubled antique state
Like swoon or restless sleep to a clear day,
Of which I see tie sun yet rising up,
And the birds soaring out from dewy fields.
A season still must come, a summer time
Must shed its strength. But with me too has grown
A sense of other struggles : that of mind —
This ofthe body, and its health and weakness —
Both than before are stronger in confliction.
What all is to resolve in — lo, I wait.

Easter Dalry House, July 1846.
My God, give ear
To a prayer uttered from the depth of sad
O'er-burdened thought, of heavy care, and cold
Oppression ofthe spirit, which has struck,
Borne down, and dissipated all my power,
All my reliance, and my energy,
Through unfilled mental longings and demands,
And through much bodily ailment and disease.
I am as one who bears a load of days
And years — as many as old age sums up,
With their attendant aimlessness of mind,
And interest dimmed, obscured, in all things else.
Like one who nothing knows, or cares to know —
Like one who neither looks on sun, or moon,
Or stars — who plucks no flower, nor marks the grass
With print of foot, nor knows if now the leaves
Be budding out or falling. My God, thou
Only can now remoisten this dried heart —
Pour on its gloom arid and dreary, dew
Requickening from thine awful countenance,
That this shrunk soul revive once more, and give
Its humble worship due, be it through thought,
Or work, or daily life, make it yet meet
For the endeavouring and adoring thee,
And still more trying to express its love.

LETTER XIV.

HIS WAY OF LIFE AT THE END.

Behold, the world is full of trouhle, yet heloved : "What if it were a pleasing world ? How
wouldst thou delight in her calms, that canst so well endure her storms ? 5. Augustine.
When the spirits spend too fast,
They will shrink at every hlast.
You that always are bestowing
Costly pains in life preparing,
Axe hut always overthrowing
Nature's work hy over caring. Qiiarles.

So he went on, faithful to himself and his conviction ;
faithful to the high character of the artist in the apprehen
sion and philosophy of his art : not swerving or deviating
from that aim by these dealings with mental speculation
and poetry, but aiding his understanding of himself and
nature. We are told that a man cannot be both a painter
and a vocal poet ; and that one expression alone is all that
we can attain with full command. Art is long, life short.
But he did not try to be a poet, it came to him as far as he
exercised the faculty. In this present time of division of
labour, such a doctrine, namely, that a man can only be
one thing — that the cobbler should stick to his last in short
— must be true in relation to the executive. It always was
true of the majority of people in relation to that, but now it
may have still more force. Thus, if an artist were all his

318 GREAT MINDS FREE.
life to paint nothing but snow pieces, or sunsets, or portraits
of females, or flowers, he would attain a dexterity that an
expenditure of application on various objects could not
reach. But just in as much as his study and his mental
exercises are confined, will his productions be without value
in the scale of intellect. Even the highest executive quali
ties will not be found in his works. It is impossible they
can be. We hear it said too that the artist is inarticulate —
that Thorwaldsen could only speak in stone. If it was so,
we are much afraid that this was an evidence of limitation,
and that what he said even in stone was not the best that
could be said. The man who does the highest things will
shew his greatness in many ways, not equally in reiterated
elaboration, but equally in regard to perception, and more
direct in expression. This maxim of limitation is altogether
a modern maxim. Go back two centuries, and not a single
great name will be found that does not contravene its truth.
The wide range of the great Masters is now a common ob
ject of wonder. But the observation and apprehension of
emotion and the aspects of things, and the mental powers
and education necessary to give form or articulation to these
observations and apprehensions, are fundamentally the same.
When, however, we find also executive crafts of scientific
mechanism, as architecture, engineering, music, and so on,
in the same hand, there is some room for wonder, and more
for veneration. These, the greatly gifted, seem never to
have slept ; with them life was long, art easy.
Having now come to the last year of the life of David
Scott, we feel but little inclined to enlarge. Perhaps these
few sentences, which have wandered somewhat from the
point, shew the unwillingness of the writer to speak in his
own person on the subject of our narrative. David Scott,
imperious and impulsive when in health and high spirits,

EXTRACT FROM NORTH BRITISH REVIEW. 319
was now reflective and shaken, but still resolute and hope
ful, and intellectually stronger and more clear than ever.
Unbending he stood at his post to the last. Had he gone
abroad two years ago — but it is needless to speculate on
what might have been; his strength was his destruction,
and the affections once ignored, even despised by him, now
haunted and devoured him like the pitiless Eumenides.
We cannot do better here, nor more gratefully for our
own feelings, than to quote at some length from a discerning
and loving writer in the North British Review. This paper
we have before referred to, and now again acknowledge its
friendly aid.
" In the course of the last fifteen or twenty years, Scott
had steadily become one of the most noteworthy of native
artists. Without fortune, without office, without profes
sional success commensurate with his undisputed superi
ority, and hving in a state of seclusion, if not alienation from
society, he exhibited a wonderful series of pictures from
year to year, recognised by all but the most frivolous spec
tators, to be the manifestations of a powerful and exalted
soul. In fact, the large and solemn studio, in which he
painted and preserved his picture-poems, had gradually be
come one of the most curious and significant features of
Edinburgh and its School of Art ; and its master spirit, one
of the most individual of Scottish characters belonging to
the age in which we live. It was there that men of emi
nence in the church, in politics and law, in science, in
literature and in life, discovered what manner of man he
was ; and left him with surprise, seldom unmingled with
pain, and always ennobled by admiration. It was there
that intellectual strangers, of all the more elevated classes
of mental character, found another "wise man in a little city,"
not without astonishment that they had scarcely heard of

320 HIS STUDIO.
him before. It was there that many a tender-hearted lover
of whatsoever is great and good was at once melted and
uplifted by the spectacle of so much cool self-possession,
such unquenchable perseverance, such intrepid independence,
and such height of contemplation ; displayed in circum
stances which were evidently the reverse of propitious. It
was there that enamoured students of poetry, in its essence
rather than in its manifold embodyment, stood with reverence
by his side, and, perhaps as proudly indifferent to particulars
as he sometimes was himself, penetrated by means of imag
inative sympathy to the soul of truth and beauty, that stirred
under the surface of all his happier efforts. It was there that
congenial poets took his cold hand in theirs, and bade him
God-speed, with tears threatening in their eyes. It was
there also, still more than at the household hearth, that his
friends descried the heart of unflaming fire, which glowed
within the distant quietude of his manners. It was there,
alas ! it may almost literally be said, that he died. * * *
In his conversation in those later years of his life, he
was elevated, thoughtful, and original ; but also dim, cir-
cumvolved, and half-spoken. Yet there was every now and
then a vivid phrase or two, and occasionally a point as bright
and sharp as a rapier. His more exalted talk was like the
hurtling movements of overcharged clouds : and a fork of
unmistakable lightening sprang up from the cumulus at
intervals. In general society he was accordingly slow and
unintelligible. One required to meet him among congenial
friends to descry the wealth he owned ; but even in such
propitious circumstances, he was the least articulate of
thinkers. * * * *
The English opium-eater visited him one day a few
years ago for the first time. After having left him, that
great conversationist exclaimed, " Is it possible ! when I met

HIS CONVERSATION. 321
him the other evening, I thought him the dullest of mortals ;
but now I have been an hour with him among the tombs,
I find him quick with thought, and the most interesting of
men ! " The terror-loving imagination of the great dreamer
had been instantaneously fascinated and held down by the pic
ture of the Resurrection on the Day of the Crucifixion ; and
he had scarcely examined the other works around him. Emer
son was strangely impressed with a sense of the greatness
of Scott's character ; but noticed the inadequacy of his ver
bal communications in ordinary circumstances, and said,
" How rich I find him in the studio ! " There one was alone
with him, in the midst of his natural sphere ; and whosoever
was equal to the conference, was sure to be entertained with
many a genuine gleam of intellect and feeling. It was there
and then that he glowed. " They told me he was cold,"
was the remark of Margaret Fuller after a morning in the
studio ; " but he is as ardent as man can be !" If, however,
he was in the presence of such as were not in unison with
him and his Ways of thinking, he was either dumb or singu
larly inexpressive of his protest. There was a gulf between
him and the numerous disciples of certain schools in philo
sophy and art which he had no skill to bridge ; a thing
which" any one may do with the help of courtesy and the
open recognition of those broad humanities which are com
mon to all the systems in the world. It was his cue to
hold his peace, not without contempt ; or else to try assault
and battery upon his enemies without skill, without under
standing either their positions or their method of fence, and
without any success, for nobody understood a word he said !
Even in the most favourable circumstances, indeed, he was
far from fluent or clear. Nor was he unacquainted with the
fact. Shortly before his last illness, he said to one of his
friends, " I have just been thinking how you always seem to

322 HIS PUNCTUALITY.
say exactly what you wish to say. Now, I have never been
able to do that." It was quite true, but not to be lamented,
for it is not every man's duty to talk ; and those are cer-
tainly the greatest and the happiest of mortals to whom the
task, not of criticism, but of creation is assigned.
It will be readily understood, that this secluded mystic
was not calculated to shine in society. Even in the social
circle of friends, he was never gay nor sprightly ; and in
society, formally so called, he was both rigid and impedi
mental. Without any talent for the easy interchange of
common thoughts and ordinary sentiments, he could not un
derstand that the superficial may be elegant, and the obvious
humane. Accordingly, he visited the hero of a hundred
drawing-rooms with more contempt than the creature de
serves ; and even treated the man of equal culture with
himself, who also relished the pleasures of society, with un
due severity.
In this connexion should be mentioned a minor feature
in the character of Scott, which is not only curious in itself,
but which could not have been easily deduced from the
phenomena of his higher life. It consisted in the most con
densed detestation of all lubricity as to matters of fact in
others. If the grave will pardon the phrase, he was too
conscientious, and was apt to be troublesome in the affairs
of business. He was as punctual as a clock to his engage
ments, and you could calculate him like a planet. Those
slippery people, whom you cannot count upon, were the ob
jects of his unmitigable aversion, for he could scarcely se
parate the culprit from the crime. He put a summary close
in several instances to the closest amities he was accustomed
to admit of, on account of single broken appointments. The
pain was greater to him than to the frivolous truce-breaker
of course, but he was inexorable. He reminds one of

HIS PERSON. 323
Beethoven, who relentlessly and at once dissolved every
friendship which began to be incomplete. Scott, perhaps,
carried this high temper to excess ; but the principle of it
is sound, if applied with charity and moderation. It is to
this intense antagonism that his want through life of those
humbler, warmer, more nestling and enduring relationships
of affection, may have been partly owing. It was one day
asserted by Emerson, that there was little or no essential
poetry in Bailey's Festus. Scott contested the point. He
was requested to quote a single verse, to which Tennyson's
definition could be applied with propriety, — " those jewels
five-words-long, which sparkle on the forefinger of time."
He accepted the challenge, and repeated these words, with
his peculiar and melancholy cadence : —
Friendship hath passed me like a ship at sea.
*****
The person of David Scott was unusually expressive of
what was within the mask. The inner man had fashioned
its bodily semblance with extraordinary power and precision.
Those who knew him only in the sore decay of his latter
end, cannot form any conception of the uncommon beauty of
his face and form. His fellow-student, Steell the sculptor,
carved a somewhat idealized bust of him at twenty-five ; in
the reproduction of which that skilful artist is now engaged,
with the intention of placing it in the possession of the
Scottish Academy as his presentation-work; a work of
genius and of love. Scott painted a severe and simple por
trait of himself about the same age. It is in these that the
look of his prime is to be seen.
He was a little above the middle size ; slender, but not
emaciated ; lean and stript for the contest, but full of vigour
tempered by nervous irritability ; spare, but energetic. His
y2

324 HIS BEAUTY.
shape was handsome, and his hands remarkable for their ap
proach to sculpturesque perfection. His countenance was
pale and thin, but lighted up with poetical intelligence.
The chin was of that fine mould which usually denotes
sensibility, not blunted by the animal passions of our nature.
The eye came forward, and was somewhat conical in form :
its colour was a peculiar blue, the blue of night rather than
of day. The brows were ample, and they projected over
the outlooking eyes. His forehead retired, without sinking,
under a loose and copious mass of brown-black hair, which
it was his way to toss about his temples with a degree of
carelessness, perhaps not unmindful of effect. His head
was not very large, especially behind. But the most notice
able feature of all was his exquisitely chiselled lips. The
lower one was full and round : the upper one wavered ; and,
in later years, it seemed to curl with something not unlike
the shadow of disdain. There was an air about him, which
forbade the too near approach of any other man. There
was a singular unearthliness and spirituality, in fine, in the
total expression of his physiognomy. It was the suitable
apparel of so purged and exalted a spirit. x
Pure as a maiden, simpler than a child ;
Wilful as both, in life as well as art ;
Still as a priest, in manner, not in heart ;
Prouder than any chief, yet more than mild,
Yea, very meek and humble when he smiled,
With awful joy, before the shrine of duty ;
That shrine which was to him the home of beauty,
Beauty, austere indeed, but undefiled.
So walkt and workt and worshipt through the world
Our painter true. His crescent brow half seen,
His shadowy night of hair, his star-blue eyne,
His melancholy lip, which sadly curled
In chill contempt of everything below it,
Expressed the man he was, and that was poet."

HIS PICTURE OF HOPE. 325
Such a noble and yet faithful estimate of the man, saves
the present writer the painful task of writing in adequate
terms of so near and dear a relative. During the long
and sorrowful indisposition which led forward his last
illness, many of the asperities of his temper were worn off,
while many of his peculiarities increased. Still, as of old,
he noted down new thoughts, and analysed his experiences,
or at least expressed them legibly to himself, and endea
voured to profit by them. Still he laboured at his easel,
and prepared new work for future years, not diminishing
his efforts either in elevation of purpose or grandeur of
scale. Indeed, in the exhibition of 1848, his powers of
production had apparently increased. In the catalogue of
that year we find " Time surprising Love," " Children
following Fortune," " Queen Mary of Scotland at the place
of Execution," " Hope passing over the sky of Adversity,"
and the large picture of the " Baptism of Christ."
The first of these, however, was a picture painted in
Rome, now finally finished, and thus bringing two epochs
of his life together. The second had been painted a year
before: a picture much prized by himself. The third he
had executed with much care — it had been said the size of
his pictures prevented their sale — and here he elaborated in
small dimensions a historical picture with many of his best
qualities. The fourth is a large work, and one of those true
and elevated humane conceptions that, once seen, never
utterly fade from the mind. Like the brazen serpent in
the wilderness, the luminous and beautiful vision of Hope
appears over the heads of an outcast tribe of a fallen race ;
golden and glorious in the night-sky of trouble and death
the rainbow — that sign of the covenant that all shall not be
destroyed — follows her track, and the eyes of men and of
women look up with wonder and godly fear. The young

326 " MENTAL LIFE
man supports his sister, lays his hand upon her breast, and
finds her dead: he looks up at the celestial visitant as if
he doubted whether it were indeed the good angel or the
avenger. The noble daughter of the fallen house holds up
her patriarch father from sinking heavily to the ground, and
turns her head, gorgeous in its crimson-filletted black tresses,
with confidence to the vision. The figure of Hope was
never excelled, perhaps never equalled by him, for purity
of expression. It had the beauty indicated by Collins —
And Hope enchanting smiled and waved her golden hair.
This was the last of his greater works — significantly so.
In it he accomplished more fully what he considered the
true style in design and execution for works of a severe
poetic class, and in it he believed he had attained a fitting
harmony between the sentiment and its expression through
colour and effect. No verdict, however, passed upon the
picture at this day, and in any particular circle — either by
the present writer or by any other — will decide upon the
correctness or incorrectness of his belief : but the incessant
labour and wide study of a life gave him some right to
judge for himself.
The last fragments of notes may be here presented to
the reader. Here is one written indeed before the death of
his good old uncle, but as it illustrates " The Way of his
Life at the End," it has been reserved for this place. We
shall call it Mental Life and Life-in-Breath.
" Scene in the country near a large town, hills, hedges,
fields, dark evening. — Look upon a house standing solitary
among, garden fences, in total silence. Look into a room in

AND LIFE-IN-BREATH." 327
that house: it is a wainscotted parlour. The light of a
single candle is very dim, its long black wick scarcely
suffering it to burn. A flickering fire contends with it in
the ineffectual attempt to enlighten the apartment. In this
half obscurity are three figures. One seems asleep in a
great chair by the fire: another dozes with her arms crossed
upon her breast, and her aged head bent forward over the
table, between which and the fire the third is seated — a
man at the mid-year of life. A book is laid open upon his
knee ; and the palms of his hands are clasped together. It
does not appear he reads; his face is raised, he might almost
be supposed in the act of prayer. His eye, however, is not
devotionally fixed, though his features are calm. These
three are silent, and have been so for some time ; but their
silence is different: one sleeps, another drowses, the third
thinks. The sleeper — an old man — moans in his sleep,
coughs, and awakes. He has a large eye, good-natured,
unspeculative. He looks towards the young man, and
addresses him merely to say something, and to break the
silence, but which only interrupts his train of thought.
These thoughts have been far off searching in the memory,
or aspiring to the future, self-humbling and self-elevating.
They have been tracing life past, and endeavouring to give
form to that yet to come. They have been still further;
leaving the to-come in this world, they have passed to the
infinite. Recollections have crowded past him of unrealised
endeavours and once inexplicable sufferings — and blessings
too — his face speaks of both, he is at once lowly and proud.
The querulous voice of the good old man now addresses
him. His reply is brief, but it must be repeated, for the
ear of age is dull. The question has been but a trifling
one — it is now answered, and there is stillness again.
Now open out the life-picture of these three human

328 BOOKS — THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
beings. They dwell together — do they live together? here
in this silence ? for summer and winter, for year after year ?
*****
Oh, what power do I not ask ! To be able to tread the
worlds before me, of life, and death, and beyond death. To
look into the depths of all things, to see the roots of all that
is growing around us ; day and night and futurity, light and
dark and the grave — to see the figures of love, and hope,
and joy, and twenty years to come. Oh, strong man, man,
O riddle and earth-clod.

Books were to me once as a world above,
A life beyond, looked up to reverently ;
Now they are life around me and beneath,
They must obey my spirit now, not I
Submit to them. I look on all, and each
Has shrunk into a little part, within
The mind, their nooks and corners humbly filling.
January 1848.
We have said he projected works to the last of his life.
One of these is called " The Haunted House, in a series bf
Designs." On the title-page was to be a vignette, " Grannie
telling a ghost story, only the heads of the children seen
listening." The subjects of the designs are thus written
out —
1. Servants looking through the rooms of a baronial house.
2. Servants making merry and laughing at their fears.
3. One rushes in alarmed.
4. A group of them listening on a staircase or passage.
5. Country people at the door — servants telling them what has hap
pened.
6. The story going the round of the village — people pointing to the
house.

INTENDED DESIGNS. 329
7. Evening — all sitting crowded over the fire.
8. Some running in terror — informing the master.
9. The master interrogating all the household — the lady beside him.
10. The master listening alone.
11. Passing through rooms with a sword in his hand.
12. An attempt to exorcise the ghost.
13. Servants leaving the house.
14. The master and lady left alone. „
15. Standing outside looking at their house in the dark.
1 6. A dog wandering through the empty rooms.
17. An old man locking up the house with a padlock.
18. A view into a room in ruins — birds flying out and in at the broken
casement.
This is very suggestive, and admirably constructed to
tell its tale. Another series of designs were to be entitled,
" The Centuries ;" each century was to be characterized by
its peculiar development — in some, mankind crushed down,
in others elevated. His beautiful set of drawings for the
Pilgrim's Progress were also earnestly in his mind for pub
lication. To this end they were sent to a publishing firm,
one of the members of which was an early friend ; but,
after they had been under consideration a great part of the
year, his heaviness of heart was only increased by their
return. Since his death, frequent inquiries have been made
after them, and they will shortly be published. Here is
another paper — a series of literary subjects, seemingly
written out merely to amuse his thoughts in these days of
ill health from personal troubles. All the names attached
to the supposititious articles are those of personal friends,
except perhaps that of the first mentioned lady, now Mrs.
Eastlake. THE BOOK OF THE YEAR —49 OF THE 17th CENTURY.
Spiritual Morphia  De Quincey.
The frozen Baltic  Miss Rigby.

330 SEEKS HEALTH IN THE COUNTRY.
Soul Magnetism  Samuel Brown.
Rhapsodies on certain faces... G. Gilfillan.
Journies among the stars  J. P. Nichol.
Steps of the throne  David Scott.
Day-life  Mrs. Crowe.
The heart of a child  Delta.
A man's venture  Mr. Cupples.
The demon and the thought... David Scott.
The monk  W. B. Scott.
Rays from flowers  Miss Frances Brown.
Other sets of designs he did — one for a short unpublished
poem called " The Anchoret :" and two others ; " Unhappy
Love," a series of seven scenes ; and " Scenes from the
Life and Thoughts of a Student Painter."
In the early part of the year 1848 he painted the por
trait of Emerson, then on his visit to Edinburgh, and,
gradually failing in health, visited his relative and friend
the minister of Crawford. From thence he visited Professor
Nichol, having engaged himself on a series of inventions
to accompany a new edition of the Architecture of the
Heavens. These designs, some of which are among his
finest thoughts, employed him to the latest day he could
hold a pencil. Thence to the village of Kippen, where he
painted, noth withstanding his debility, the portrait of a lady.
Here he saw once more the manse at which as a boy his
weeks of vacation had been passed. But he who used to
welcome him there was gone. He returned in September.
Good friends he had about him, and here is a letter from
one wishing him to spend a day in the country: — " My Dear
Friend — I am sorry to learn you are still suffering, but I
trust by this time in a mitigated degree. I regret having
missed seeing you before I left. Are you a seer or vatic
person, that you divined the reason of my absence ? I am
very happy here — I live much in the open air ; on braesides,

A FRIEND'S INVITATION. 331
in woods, within natural bowers, among the winds, and in
caves. In my study, which is just the little drawing-room
of my mother's house, I have a few books spread over the
table at which I sit. There is the Bible, in which I have
been pondering the mode of being of Jesus Christ with
passionate interest ever since I came ; there is Shakspere ;
there is Meister, Goethe's wonderful experiences ; there is
Rabelais' Gargantua ; there is Sir W. Hamilton's Reid ;
and there is Berzelius' Chemistry. A little writing, a little
reading, a little conversation with my sisters, a little walk
ing, and much endless cogitation, make up my little day.
This native place of mine always does me the highest sort
of good. It is as if Adam could .have had occasional visits
to the dear paradise of his innocence. Scheiermacher says,
infancy is the perpetual Messiah. Home, the first home, is
in many instances a perpetual paradise, not without its tree
in the middle of the garden. It is a place to cool the heated,
wounded spirit. The soul seems to become pliant, smooth,
fresh and sweet-savoured under its breezy influences. I
feel here that I could yet become a good man. My heart
seems purer for a while. There is a hill in the neighbour
hood on which I know a secluded knoll that no one knows
of, and there I find a mount of transfiguration for my ima
gination. I wish I could show it you. I wish I could lead
you to it. Could you come out for a day ? I scarcely dare
ask you ; but, if you will come, we shall have a wander.
Will you ? I am sure I could make you happy for a day.
I should receive you at the station. — Your affectionate
friend, 
The portrait of Emerson is the best of the few pic
tures of that kind he did. That poet, on leaving London,
writes him : — " I carry with me a bright image of your
house and studio, and all your immortal companions therein,

332 end of 1849.
and I wish to keep the ways open between us, natural and
supernatural. If the Good Power had allowed me the oppor
tunity of seeing you at more leisure, and of comparing notes
of past years a little ! And it may yet be allowed in time ;
but where and when ?  "
As the year 1849 approached, he prepared for the Exhi
bition. The pictures he sent were — " Delusive Pleasures,"
a Sketch of the Fire of London, and the "Domestic Ar
cadia," on the last of which only he had employed his
hand lately. Mr. Lees, in the course of painting the admir
able portrait of David Scott, a few months before, having
had some conversation with him regarding his great picture
of Vasco de Gama, now proposed to the Academy that it
should be exhibited, which was followed by an unanimous
vote of the council ; and thus that grand work was before
the public when the artist retired for ever.
One or two more memoranda, and this letter is closed.
" A bee had lost its way in my studio ; to-day I ob
served it. Ah ! poor bee, you have been shut up in this
prison, and you are now right slowly labouring along the
floor towards the open door. Your wings have lost their
power. No flowers here ; no sun upon your back : Ah !
poor bee. But now you are right, you have scented the
breath of the air. Straightly but slowly your feebleness
tries to reach it. I will assist you. Now, and now, golden-
winged hummer, you are in freedom again, in the light and
the breeze."
" Long fife — God's gift — gives a longer proof with God.
It is the great proof of our harmony with God."
In the end of a memorandum book is written in different
kinds of pencil and ink, as if he had opened it once a-year
to inscribe a single word : —
1844. Desolate, and very weary of suspense.

YEARLY RECORD. 333
1845. A gleam of sunshine this year; but again a
storm, and a night of hail, of sleet, and a long chill.
1846. Silence, the sullen salve of suffering.
1847. A broken ray in turbid rain.
1848. Withering.

LETTER XV.

THE END — AGED FORTY-TWO.

The door of Death is made of gold
That mortal eyes can ne'er behold;
But when the mortal eyes aTe closed,
And cold and pale the limbs reposed,
The soul awakes — and, wondering, sees
In her bright hands the golden keys. Make.
See how the great Goliah now lies still. Blair.

Royal Scottish Academy,
16$ February 1849.
My Dear Scott — The bustle of preparation has prevented
me doing what I feel I ought to have done before now — to
communicate to you, that at the reunion of the Academy on
Saturday last, which throughout seemed to give great grati
fication to the members present, the President proposed your
health in a speech of much feeling and fervour, dwelling on
your artistic achievements, especially your great one, with
pride and exultation, and on your private character with
affection and kindness. His speech, I do assure you, was
most warmly received by every one present.
I cannot allow myself to doubt that the time is coming soon
when your Vasco de Gama may adorn some other great hall
than that in which it is now placed. I have been cogitat
ing as to the proper manner of bringing the subject before
the India House, or some other body powerful enough to

LATEST CORRESPONDENCE. 335
carry such a measure ; and will assuredly, at no remote
period, make the attempt. My admiration of the work in
creases as I endeavour to enter into your intention. It
would be a very agreeable morning's work to congratulate
you on the permanent disposal of your master work. — Be
lieve me, yours most truly, D. 0. Hill.
To David Scott, Esq., Easter Dairy House.
My Dear Hill — I had your very attentive communica
tion, but having been rather more unwell these some days,
I have been prevented from answering it. Being, however,
somewhat better to-day, I gladly take the opportunity of
doing so.
It was very regardful of our amene and highly talented
President to remember me in the way he appears to have
done at the dinner of the Academy ; and I trust soon that
I may have an opportunity of expressing to him personally
my consideration of it.
I might say much in regard to what were, and have in
some measure continued to be, my hopes or suppositions in
respect to the disposal of the picture of Vasco de Gamar
and many others. The interest you express in regard to it
leads me most briefly to state, that if you can advance that
purpose in the way you suggest, or otherwise, it will be a
very important service to me. I do not say this as mere
words of form.
I should greatly like, if you should have as much leisure
some morning soon, you could do me the favour of a visit,
and let me know your ideas more fully on the subject. Do
not suppose that I have trusting expectations, but I have
much confidence in your efforts. — I remain, most faithfully
yours, David Scott.
D. O. Hill, Esq., &c.

336 d. o. hill's interview. Edinburgh, 31st May 1849.
My Dear Sir — I have this morning received your note
of the 30th, requesting me to state the particulars of my
latest communications with your brother.
I called at Dairy some days after the receipt of his last
note, which I enclose, and on my name being taken to your
brother, he expressed a wish to see me. Thinking that it
was not proper to engage him in a long conversation, I pro
ceeded at once to speak of the scheme for purchasing the
Vasco de Gama for a public hall. I may here mention,
that when I wrote to your brother I thought we should aim
either at the India House or the Trinity House of London,
or some Liverpool hall, as its most fitting receptacle, and I
thought it not impossible to interest some persons of influence
connected with these places. It was Mr. Thomas Hamilton,
the architect, who mentioned the Trinity House of Leith;
and what was awanting in splendour and wealth was com
pensated by its being so near our own door, and among the
admirers of your brother.
I told him of the scheme as having (so far as Leith was
concerned) originated with a friend, and that Dr. Robertson
of Leith had already opened the matter to the master, and
found him favourable. Your brother was satisfied with the
place, and was anxious to know that the mode of -setting
about obtaining the money would not be such as to com
promise his position as an artist, saying, that rather than
surrender anything on that score, he would consent that all
his works were brought to the hammer. My reply to his
misgivings on this head was entirely satisfactory to him.
I explained to him that the first step of the gentlemen in
terested in the matter would be, to meet and embody a series
of resolutions explanatory of the principles on which the
subscription was to be made; and these I briefly stated.

LAST ILLNESS. 337
I also informed him that we would aim at the original sum
of £600, but he expressed his consent, if that could not
be obtained, to be content with £400 ; that our reliance was
in making the subscription of a popular kind ; and that we
would consider the tribute to his genius a more perfect one,
if it was done by a large number of people, rather than by
larger subscriptions from a limited number. In all this he
concurred ; perhaps I should say, on hearing my explana
tions, he lay back on his pillow, and covered his face with
his hands for the space of a minute or two, as if he would
suppress some deep emotion ; which, however, broke forth
in a few sobs and tears.
This was my last interview with your brother. I doubt
not I might be able to call to remembrance more of what
was said, if you think it desirable. Your brother, during
our meeting, expressed himself with much kindness, and
yet with a manliness and dignity that never forsook him. —
I am, my Dear Sir, most truly yours, D. O. Hill.
To W. B. Scott, Esq. Easter Dalry, 27th February 1849.
Dear  , I write to you from my brother's bed-room,
after taking a cup of tea, which he is now too weak to share.
He has been in bed for some days, and has been ill indeed.
I find him very weak — much altered : his face emaciated
and ridged, still noble, but dreadful for me to look upon :
his eye larger than ever : his voice often scarcely audible,
and only at times reminding me of what it was. I fear that
I lost my self-possession on first seeing him, bending over
him with his hands round my neck ; but, after all that has
passed, how could it be otherwise ?
I must not, however, alarm you more than need be : he
is not worse than we had been led to believe him. In the
z

338 LAST ILLNESS.
studio, where there have been no fires for months, all the
pictures seemed to stand up like enemies to. receive me.
This joy in labour, and this desire for fame, what have they
done for him? The walls of this gaunt, sounding place,
the frames, even some of the canvasses, are furred with
damp. In the little library where he painted last, in much
bodily suffering,. was the word "Nepenthe?" thus interro
gatingly written with white chalk on the wall. Ah! if
some beatified Matilda, with her sacred sisterhood, could
have led him to the living spring of Eunoe, so that he had
Returned
From the most holy wave regenerate !
On the table were the Bible, Fichte's " Scholar," and Vidal's
" Christianity " lent him by his good friend Dunlop —
sketches and papers all as they used to be.
When the doctor came, I spoke to him about my stay
here. He said, " Your brother may yet recover, but it will
be a miracle almost. On Saturday, night I did not expect
to find him alive on Sunday morning." This internal in
flammation, chronic dyspepsy, or whatever it may be, pains
him considerably; but this day he feels better than he has
done for some time past. He hopes the worst is past; but,
to say the truth, he appears conscious of being on fhe ex
treme verge of life. * * *
Do you care to know that my railway journey was very
quickly overj and the day very fine. Ploughing was going
on in field after field; the breath of the horses shining in
the frosty air. Over the border, the snow was lying on
some of the heights very white. Arthur's Seat was powdered
over as if he had become bald in his old age. At this
moment — half-past seven in the evening — my mother, ex
hausted with watching, of which duty I shall now relieve
her, has just left us. David sleeps : his long white face,

ATTENDED BY HIS BROTHER. 339
with its unshaven beard, lies among the pillows in the half-
light — not easily forgotten. I, between him and the fire, at
this little table, with pens and paper. Upon the whole, I
am not without hope ; and he thinks my visit will do him
good. — Yours, William B. Scott.
Easter Dalry, 2d March 1849.
Dear  , I intended to have written you yesterday,
but one matter after another made me forget it. Constant
and unremitting attention to David is absolutely necessary,
and in so many little things, and at stated quarters of hours,
one is incapacitated for any foreign interest. Even moving
to get paper, or to ask for wax, is at certain times too much
noise. I am sorry to say there is no change for the better ;
and till that is the case, I must remain with him through
the chances of the future. To-day, indeed, has been rather
a bad day; he has appeared weaker than before. This
evening, for the first time since my coming, he would get up.
Some change is his craving : some change. He sat still,
wrapt up, for a while. I asked if I could read anything
to him. He assented, but added, " Some how or other, I
have lost interest in every thing for a week or two." No
book could be found to which he could attend. He wanted
a rose — perhaps the monthly rose-bush in the garden might
have a flower. I did not find one, but brought in a wall
flower, some snow-drops, and a ranunculus. The sight of
these gave him a few moments of pleasure ; they were of
the air and the earth, a world now removed from him by
the walls of a sick-room — a removal how very far, almost
infinite ! He is fully conscious of his weakness, and now
and then says something that shows he considers the ulti
mate is at hand. I give him hope, and find a fond listener.
" Yes, I am receding — gradually," were his words, on find-
z2

340 THE SICK-ROOM BY
ing his debility so much increased since the last time he sat
in a chair. All this is the dark side ; there is also a light
side, although not very luminous. Sometimes he looks much
as he used to do. * * * *
3d March.
I write you a few lines again. My dear brother is easily
moved either into hope or depression. If any thing is done
quickly in regard to the purchase of the picture of Vasco de
Gama, it would undoubtedly have a favourable effect on his
condition. Yesterday, some cards and notes were sent up.
Two by post: one expressed thus — "An admirer of the
genius of David Scott takes the liberty of sending the en
closed, in the hope that the divine blessing will attend it."
The enclosed, you may suppose, was a tract ; but much as
I appreciated the motive, I could not lay it before him.
Another was a poem, " To David Scott, R. S. A., from a
respectful admirer," beginning —
Mourn not, art-worshipper, thy fading years,
Though they decay.
The verses were good, but too much for him at that time.
He had them in his hand when I entered the room, but he
handed the paper over to me, and asked what the verses
said. " They express sympathy with your illness, and hopes
for your recovery," I replied. To-day I have had ten times
to go down stairs to see friends calling, which has kept me
in exercise ; but that bed-room door, in this old house, will
neither shut nor open without noise. * * *
Mrs. T. has been very kind — hearing of David's wish for
flowers, she sent some out to-day. Ever since my coming
here, the wind has been high ; through the long night hours
it goes on, making a wailing sound at the sky window in
the dressing-room. About three or four the Gock crows

DAY AND NIGHT. 341
from his roost in the lower regions. Somewhat wonderful
are these sounds to me at present. * * *
Two o'clock morning.
David awoke. I asked him if he would like to hear a
criticism in yesterday's paper on De Gama and the Spirit
of the Storm. It was compared in grandeur to the works
of Michael Angelo and JEschylus, the Prometheus Bound.
" Ah, vEschylus ! " he said, and continued at intervals in a
low voice — " That is praise indeed. But they are doing
these things because I am suffering. I've been told Haydon
mentioned my subject as a good one for a picture ; he did
so perhaps after he visited me. Well, what I have done
and said have always been alike ; what I have effected has
been with much pains, and much suffering, long fighting,
never at once, many times my whole nature struggling.
And that picture is one result — to get the same character
throughout, and adequate execution — no feebleness. The
knee of the sailor might be carved in ivory — it is not mere
paint — and the shoulder of the next figure too. Flesh is
palpitating, and I try to give that ; but I speak of the
manner of painting. * * * If I could but
have time yet, I think I could meet the public in their own
way more, and yet do what I think good. But it is over,
and here 1 lie. Life is ripe, disease is dark
Upon the blossom and the fruit ;
Ripe is life, the certain mark
That blight will soon invade its root.''
Here he repeated some verses, so far as he remembered
them. I asked what they were : " Some verses I made a
few days ago. Somewhere you will find them when I am •
gone." I endeavoured to excite hope, and to encourage him
in the belief that yet he would be well again.

342 REQUIEM.
" If it were but so ! This chest, this neck, no it cannot
be — it seems too great a prize ; too awfully grand a thing
to enjoy life again with this experience overcome — to have
been thus ill — to have seen into the darkness, and return
to the clearness of life. It takes a long time to know how
to live and work. For three years I have lived in a greater
freedom than ever before, but for this prostration."
Wishing to terminate his dwelling upon painful thoughts
and exciting himself, I enlarged on what he had just said —
the length of experience necessary to understand all the
bearings of any activity, intellectual or social. As one goes
forward, varied position gives various views of life, and it is
only by many steps that the whole can be understood and
harmonized into right action. This diverted his attention,
and sent him to sleep a little, while I wrote these lines : —
Four o'clock morning, March 1849.
The blast is wandering through the night,
Hushing and moaning round chimney and roof;
The ashes fall dead from the dull fire-light,
The great shadows dance on the walls aloof,
While the soul of my brother recedes.
Fitfully drop the ashes away ;
Abroad over all flies the roaring wind ;
And the clouds from the dim obscurity,
Hurry along the moon silently kind,
Like an opened window in heaven.
The everlasting Norns are visible now,
Between the gates of gold and of horn ;
For the nimbus of death is o\er the brow,
And for ever hath left the hand outworn
Its power in the art divine.
Go back, go back, doth the spirit say
To the in-pressing darkness and walls of stone ;
For the eye of hope is as wide as day

REQUIEM. 343
Out through the falling infinity ;
,The great work of time is but partly done,
And still young the manifold heart.
Come back, come back, doth the world demand,
For the clearness of life is heaven indeed ;
And the kindred labourers on the strand
Of this dear human region plead —
" Go not, of thee we have wondrous need" —
How they hail him with strong right hands
But the infinite hears not, the ages dead,
And the ages to come are one family,
Under the great Father's mantle hid ;
All the records of art and of poetry
Are but chaff from the garner of time.
The blast is wandering through the night,
Yet within still continueth mortal pain —
Beneath the white curtains the straight limbs lie ;
But, hark, the cock crows ! for morning is nigh,
Sternly breaking through cold and rain,
While the soul of the martyr recedes.

16th March 1849.
To the Rev. J. Fairbairn.
My Dear Friend — I have left Edinburgh for a day or
two, and feel as if that dense cloud that had got confused
about me were lifted partially away. That death-bed and
that funeral ! How many forms there are, proper enough
to be gone through, that I cannot manage to attend to.
You wished me to write you, and I now do it.
I told you I had been a week beside my brother, day
and night, before Monday the 5th, fatal to him. He was
weak in all bodily forces, but still in mind the same. When
he could converse, he spoke of his views of life and of art,
as now fuller and simpler than ever they had been ; and as
each day he appeared a little better, he began to speak a

344 DEATH.
little freer, till the last night of his life, when he lay easy,
but without sleep. Often, during' the long hours, I turned
round in the silence to know if he slept, and always saw
his eyes open and looking at me. He spoke a good deal,
which I shall repeat to you. * * *
It was nearly six o'clock when I rang up one of the ser
vants, and left him to get a little rest, but I had not been gone
half-an-hour, when I was recalled, and found him suffering
dreadfully. This he continued to do till two o'clock after
noon. May the good God have few such mornings of watching
in store for either of us ! During that time the doctor came ;
he felt his wrist, and signified to me that pulsation was gone.
The sufferer steadily watched our eyes. He could scarcely
articulate ; but his breathing became less violent about one
o'clock, an hour before he died, when he said, " I am now
going, William — all is becoming dim — it cannot be long,"
opening his eyes wide, as if to see the world clearly once
more. My dear mother said some words of Christian hope ;
he replied, very softly, " Yes, mother, I wish every thing
you desire for me."  I led her away and returned. I
should now have drawn the curtain round him, but I had
no power to move. Body and soul clung together, but the
inexorable Hand was upon him, and the unspeakable
change.

APPENDIX.

CIRCUMSTANCES RELATING TO HIS PICTURES, ETC. AFTER
HIS DECEASE.
ESSAY ON RUBENS AND HIS WORKS (A FRAGMENT).
OBSERVATIONS ON THE STYLE AND PRACTICAL METHODS
OF THE WORKS OF ART HE VISITED DURING HIS
JOURNEY IN ITALY.

APPENDIX.

CIRCUMSTANCES RELATING TO HIS PICTURES, ETC;
AFTER HIS DECEASE.
We have seen in Mr. D. O. Hill's letter just given, that a
movement had begun for the purpose of purchasing Scott's
large picture of Vasco de Gama for some public hall. The
Trinity House at Leith was suggested by Mr. Hamilton,
and warmly advocated by Dr. D. H. Robertson of Leith,
whose effective aid has largely contributed to the success of
the result. A few days subsequent to his death, a meeting
was held in Edinburgh, for the purpose of carrying out the
scheme, at which- many of the principal gentlemen connected
with the arts, either by taste or profession, were present, and
Dr. Samuel Brown took the chair, when the following reso
lutions were passed : — " 1. That this meeting of the friends
of Scottish art expresses its opinion, that the picture of
' A^asco de Gama, the Discoverer of India, encountering the
Spirit of the Cape,' painted by the late David Scott, R. S. A.,
is an epic production of the very highest order ; and that
the circumstance of its having been realized by one of our
own academicians, confers a high honour on Edinburgh as
a school of art. 2. That while this meeting recognises
with feefings of great interest and satisfaction the efforts

348 SUBSEQUENT CIRCUMSTANCES
that have of late years been made by Government to de
corate with works of a high order by our native artists the
new Houses of Parliament, it is desirous of impressing upon
the community of their own and of other localities, that the
principle of combination, successfully exemplified throughout
the country by associations for the encouragement of art
generally, might and should be applied to the promotion of
art in its highest manifestations — namely, in the purchase
of great pictures, with a view to their lodgment in public
buildings. 3. That in consonance with these opinions and
principles, subscription lists be straightway- opened, with
the specific view of placing this picture of Vasco de Gama
in the Trinity House of Leith, that building and its associa
tions being more congruous with the subject-matter of the
picture than any other in Edinburgh or the neighbourhood."
This experiment is the first of the kind in Scotland,
and it is of some consequence to know that it so far suc
ceeded ; not, indeed, to the full extent of the sum required,
namely £400, but in raising an approximating sum, which
the executors of the artist met by resigning the picture into '
the hands of the committee, several of whom had put their
right hands to the work with good will ; indeed, the list
was filled up by the exertions of these few. There can be no
doubt, that if a similar occasion were again to occur, there would
be no difficulty in accomplishing the object, even were the
amount much greater. The works left by David Scott at
his death are likely also to originate a more permanent
scheme for the purchase of great historic pictures, which,
however, has not yet taken form ; so that the future Scottish
artist in that unremunerative walk may, be benefited by
his career, although it was to himself eminently one of
sacrifice. A number of these pictures, left by the artist's death in

RELATING TO HIS PICTURES. 349
the hands of his executors, are among his best works —
Queen Elizabeth in the Globe Theatre, and Peter the Hermit
preaching the Crusades ; the great picture of Family Discord,
and Hope passing over the Sky of Adversity ; Richard III.,
Jane Shore, the poetic Caliban and Ariel, and Achilles ad
dressing the Manes of Patroclus, and many others, besides
a number of his smaller and more popular productions.
All these, with the Alchymical Adept ; Gloucester carried
into Calais gate ; and others lent by their proprietors ; and
about sixty of his designs and sketches being collected — an
exhibition was opened to the public in Castle Street, Messrs.
Bonnar and Carfrae having generously offered their gallery
for that purpose. These works thus collected together made
an impression on the Edinburgh public not easily forgotten,
and the intention of the promoters in this respect was fully
successful, as well as in the disposal of many of the smaller
pictures. At the close of this exhibition, the remaining pic
tures, except the Family Discord, were removed to Mr. D. R.
Hay's gallery, also liberally offered for their accommodation.
Proposals to publish a series of etchings from his
pictures and designs were also circulated. It was the ear
nest desire of the artist, during the latter period of his life,
to have his works so published, and it will be the endeavour
of his representative to fulfil this wish. Already some of
the hopes most dear to him have been accomplished ; the
public exhibition of his collected works was one of these ;
the disposal in a public hall of the Vasco de Gama at the
Cape of Good Hope was another ; the publication of the
present book may be considered as a third contribution to the
fulfilment of his desires ; and the engraving of various series
of his illustrative designs is in progress. The answer afforded
by his works to Rosalind's question — " What manner of man
is he? Is he of God's making?"- — cannot be lost.

350 A FRAGMENT
When the clerk in this exhibition of his works was
placing the little placard " sold" on one of his pictures, a
young lady said to him — " Ah! you are putting the finishing
stroke to a great, man's work ; you are doing what David
Scott could not do." Indeed, he died, as the eagle in the
fable, the arrow that slays him being fledged by his own
feather ; and realized the lines of Milton, which were the
motto to his first exhibited picture —
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise,
(That last infirmity of noble minds)
To scorn delights and live laborious days ;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life.

OF RUBENS, HIS CONTEMPORARIES, AND
MODERN PAINTING.
A FRAGMENT.
Let us try to read the works of the masters in painting,
as we read the works of the poets, philosophers, and his
torians. During the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth
centuries, we find in Italy not so many written volumes
as painted tablets, illustrating the religion, sentiments, and
manners then influencing Europe, and passing current in
that country, which took the lead in the revival of civiliza
tion. There are few memorials of the past, but such as
are handed down by literature and fine art. From the
mouldered but yet animate hands of their poets, chiefly —
"blessings be on them, and immortal praise" — we derive

ETC. 351
our knowledge and experience. There poets are in books,
and also on frescoed walls and carved structures ; although
there are both pictures, and sculptures which will not come
under that high denomination, but must, be classed as his
tory, or merely valuable as records of social forms.
The admission of this, which may be termed the philo
sophic acceptation of painting, has yet to be fully recognised.
It has been misapprehended, and often* overlooked. The
art was almpst entirely rejected at the Reformation, because
it had been a vehicle of Roman Catholicism. It was ex
cluded as a channel of thought by our zealous partizanship,
and by the greater facility afforded by the invention of
printing for the diffusion of intelligence. Its large theo
logical use in former times, and sudden interruption in our
own country particularly, led to its denial, and gross mis
apprehension. Later, also, and in continuance of this, after
the partial subsidence of the excited energy and turbulence
attendant on the Reformation, its exercise was almost denied.
This arose from some of the reformed doctrines in connection
with religion, on the one hand, and on the other, from the
direction of the new modes of philosophising. The philo
sophy of the time was of a one-sided kind, and dealt largely
in dreary negations. Still poetry was written, and painting,
as occasion demanded, was talked of; but the age of even
Addison and Pope rather asked the geometer's question of
the arts — " what they proved" — than relied on and accepted
their essential and revivifying strength. Mind had thrown
itself into outward life ; and the understanding, attempting
to regulate the. reason, endeavoured to build a pyramid of
earth, straw, and stubble, which was to overtop and look
down upon all the relations of the spirit and premonitions
of the soul. But the inefficiency and blindness of this led
us into waste and howling scepticism, or into the immobile

352 A FRAGMENT
and ungenerative dread of denying Locke, on the one hand,
or the existence of intuition, on the other.
Such influences, and their attendant modes of life, with
held painting from any valuable manifestations, and until
the close of the last century, almost entirely prevented its
being contemplated in a philosophical point of view. Add
to this, that it had in Italy already run a triumphant course
of growth, completion, and decay, in its highest circle, and
in other countries had been also similarly developed in more
familiar spheres.
There was no proper faith in it and for it during a suc
cession of generations. The notions regarding it — for of
right ideas there were scarcely any — were limited and crass,
and in ability its practice arrived at nothing worthy. Alto
gether, art, for the time, seemed to have exhausted its
nature and materials ; and it seemed necessary that a period
should pass, leading into other fields of effort, with new
stamina and renewed life.
This revival took place in England, as might have been
expected, in a country where art had not yet taken native
root — a country bearing, in its civil and politic nature, rela
tions far different from those in which the genius of painting
had hitherto dwelt. We say this advisedly and firmly, in
opposition to the universally received opinion that England
has not been productive in painting. The most native and
vital form of modern art, was that which arose in England
during the last centuiy. In France, it was a la mode and
in i less permanent shape ; while the movements in both
countries have preceded that in Germany. German art
having taken a peculiarly different direction, performs a
prominent part at the present day. Each nation has of late
established claims to attention, by enlarging the scope of
pictorial art.

etc. 353
The purpose proposed in this paper is to connect the
different growths of modern art, and to do so the more
clearly, we begin with the great school of Holland, and
Rubens as the most prominent figure, after the settlement
of the reformed modes of thought. The painters of the Low
Countries were the opposites to those of Italy. They de
tailed the features of life individually : one after another
might be enumerated, each supplying his distinct portion,
his pictured intimation, of traits of society and inanimate
nature. Rembrandt, making his subjects of all variety of
objects, showed how much the spirit of the time allowed
him, in every instance, to subject these diverse elements to
the same mode of treatment. Every scene in his hands
addresses us in the same manner.
In Italy, the school of the Carracci, the most eminent
school of the middle order, had fallen from elevated and
pompous art down to a comparatively limited sphere as re
gards intention, while its style may be said to have extended
in range. Painting was there becoming verbose and mean
ingless ; but by the hand of Rubens it was to be emanci
pated. When art was connected with religion, it had a
distinct and noble aim ; now it had ceased to be so, and
Rubens neither restored nor elevated art, he only accelerated
its freedom. The works of this extraordinary man of talent and
genius form an epoch in the history of painting, the just
appreciation of which is necessary to enable us to take a
connected view of the manifestations of our art, and to esti
mate its future prospects. Along with him, we must take
his contemporaries and immediate followers, as seconding
(in conformity with a coincident impulse) the bearing of his
more important and very extensive labours.
I have before had occasion to distinguish the character-
2 a

354 A FRAGMENT
istics of the great Italian masters, by assigning them to
grand divisions in the nature of the human mind. I have
referred the diverse features of art to various components in
the human constitution, and the forms of thought and action
developed therefrom by circumstances. It is, doubtless, in
this view, that the comparative value of its manifold ex
amples is to be found. By this analysis, we discover the
unity as well as the diversity of art, throughout the centuries.
Any art only can and must produce a reflex of the prevail
ing qualities of mind, and shew us the existing combinations
in life and society. This seems so obvious, that its denial
were scarcely possible, but still it has not been recognised ;
indeed, it has been abundantly ignored by the stress fre
quently laid on exterior and minute qualities, as if these
were the main distinctions. The true differences between
the schools is by no means so superficial a matter ; it is not
a subject for individual preference, or what is called " a
matter of taste." Any one who makes such a preference,
fancies he selects the best, and gives up all the rest to night
and the past. The history of art to a man in this state,
presents a confusion of fragments heaped up by different
ages and times, thrown together or sundered seemingly only
to lead speculation into labyrinths, and to land it in uncer
tainty and dissatisfaction. But the whole ought properly
to be discerned as one consolidated and connected unity, one
portion of which is the adjunct and successor to another —
every division and subdivision lending additional light to
the understanding of any one department or epoch.
In this wide connection, the works of Rubens, like every
distinct manifestation of mind, demand to be considered in
two respects : in regard to their intrinsic value, and to the
surrounding movements of the time in which they were
produced.

ON RUBENS, ETC. 355
The entire history of imitation may be separated into
two grand divisions. That which found its completion in
Greece, having originated in the symbolic or merely hiero
glyphic shape, most noteworthy to us in Egyptian remains,
and which terminated in the rude historical art of Rome ;
and that which originated in the early Christian centuries,
and proceeded under the revived civilization, and religious
creed, contributing,- through partial interruption, the art of
the present day. In both of these, some similar ultimate
purposes have been pursued ; but in tracing some resem
blance in the history of their different stages, and in their
more important coincidence in the endeavour to represent
the permanently good and true — in tracing this resemblance,
their great difference is also strongly forced upon the mind.
We see two great streams of thought winding, widening,
narrowing, and again expanding to the future. Both Gre
cian and Christian art have their destination yet in the
future. In their powers and weaknesses, their intellectual
ities and moralities, and in the features of exterior and lower
life to which they resort, they are widely different. But it
is not necessary here to enter further into this field of in
quiry, although we found it necessary to advert to it before
going further, and in reference to a general view of modern
art. Greek art, then, with the philosophy and theology of
the ancients, having been long since consummated, is in
some sense passed, although it still holds the highest autho
rity. Modern civilization and Christianity have proceeded
to a confirmed mastery in art through the principal Italian
schools and painters, and from thence through successive
but less eminent stages, to the termination of their primary
period. This period embraces the origin, completion, ahd
sundering of the connection of painting with Romanized
2 a2

356 A FRAGMENT
Christianity, when we arrive at the age when the separation
fully took effect, and in the distinct announcement of which
I consider the essential character of Rubens is most clearly
seen. He is the most complete artistic manifestation of that
great movement which took place throughout Europe in the
middle -of the sixteenth century. His works are the sub
stantiation or result of that impulse which had influenced
opinion, and taken form in the reformation by Luther.
Changes in the sphere of the fine arts are noiseless and
bloodless, but the same instigating causes may be traced in
these as in the more obvious convulsions of society: art
follows those, and gives us a new embodyment of them in
their results. Rubens was a great innovator, and in some
sense a reformer. Italian painting had announced much
that its almost exclusively ecclesiastical character failed to
confirm. He made art general : he is the first and princi
pal master in substantiating its universality. His works
intrinsically conform to this end, and this connection with
his period is their meaning in history.
As in matters of state, church, and letters, the tendency
to burst all narrow control, had from time to time been also
exhibited in art. Unlicensed action had been gradually
accelerating, but it was only in him that it was broadly
established. His works broke down both the elevation and
the circumscription of Italian painting. He added to the
range of art by taking a different, and, in comparison with
the most eminent Italian masters, a lower ground. . He
recurred to elements which were rejected or little admitted
by the greater essentialists of Italy. He enforced a new
direction of style, which had the merit of throwing off much
conventional falsity, but at the same time was very limited
in greatness and dignity.

etc. 357
Italian painting had always much that was theologically
mystic. Through the votive works of the precursors of the
great men of the fifteenth century, it had proceeded till it
reached its connection with general intelligence in the grand
time of Roman painting, in the works of Michael Angelo and
Raphael. In these two the intellectual and moral were dis
played on a common ground with the subject they illus
trated, namely, religion. Roman Catholicism ceased to affect
deeply the character of their labours. Their purposes and
sentiment were purer and larger. But in the hands of their
successors, art again became involved in ecclesiastical shapes,
and even theological in its subjects, although after a new
form. At times it attempted to be classic, and at others
subordinated to church forms, imbued with the vapidity of
empty church ceremonials and state, or connected in senti
ment with the septarian features of Romanism, and the
influence of monachism. The characteristics of monastic
life, its calendar of saints, martyrology, and morality, in
fluenced it. Secondary invention, and inferior objects,
formed its staple ; it maintained an apparent union with
religion, but in spirit there was but little.
With no intention of being so, seeing Rubens professed
the tenets of the Church of Rome, he was the painter of the
Reformation. He has at times been compared artistically
with Buonarotti and Raphael, but it is not thus his distinc
tion or difference are to be found. He is, indeed, like these,
one of the great movers of the art, but he belongs, both in
his individual character, and in the union of circumstances
which his times presented, to an altogether different spirit
from that which directed their labours.
The aspect of Europe throughout had been wonderfully
altered in the course of the century preceding his appear
ance. The states of Italy had been gradual organisations

358 A FRAGMENT
from out the confusion and decay of the Roman empire.
They had brought out most important features in civilisa
tion, but having given form to these, no further result had
followed. Their most eminent centre, and that of Italian
superiority for centuries, was the spiritual and temporal
jurisdiction of the Pope. This had been in the sixteenth
century largely encroached upon ; it was no longer the only
source of spiritual guidance, or of civilisation. Commerce
spread from Venice and Genoa to Portugal, England, and
Holland: literature in other countries presented rivals to
Petrarch and Dante. Politics were discussed on the basis
of right. India and America opened up novel sources of
knowledge and adventure. In the body of the church
itself, disputes had previously arisen. Savonarola, the
Dominicans, and Franciscans, contributed their portion to
the ferment of opinion, and Guttenberg threw the tremen
dous weight of his invention into the balance, quivering
with the momentous question of liberty of person and con
science. In a word, from a sacerdotal oligarchy, which ex
tended to a temporal tyranny, that swayed both princes and
peoples, ruling in letters and art as in everything else, the
freedom of judgment, and even its duty, was now asserted.
What Frederic Barbarossa, trampling the plains of Italy
with his heavy-armed horse, had failed to effect, the German
monk had done.
And what has been the result? A mighty strife of
opinion ever since. New forms of church government, it
might be almost said of religion itself ; new shapes in legis
lation, in civil law, in all the arts and sciences, and even in
morals. The " disastrous twilight" that shed its "fear of
change" over the pontificates of Leo X. and Sextus VII.,
was now to terminate. Other countries were now to take
the lead in the scale of nations.

ON RUBENS, ETC. 359
D'Aubigne, in his History of the Reformation, has cur
sorily alluded to its influence on art, evidently with little
knowledge of the subject, although with sufficient prejudice,
and has arrived at a very impotent conclusion. M. Villiars,
also, a writer of marked difference of character, in his Essay
on the Effects of the Reformation, has fallen into a similar
error. What the knowledge of the latter was on the sub
ject, it is not easy to say, his observations being very brief.
But, from their tenor, he had not been able to trace the
effects of the general movement here as he does in respect to
literature and science. This, however, is not the case with
M. D'Aubigne, who ventures on some general assertions re
lative to the nature of the arts, to refute which, is foreign to
our present purpose. He does not separate art from its
abuse. He says, " We behold painting unceasingly com
bined with serious immoralities and deadly errors ;" not
perceiving, through all the objections that may be made to
Italian painting, the essentially elevated meaning of every
one of its great works. On painting, he says the Reforma
tion exerted little influence, and notices Cranach and Dilrer
as the few examples. The works of Cranach might, at the
time, serve a particular end, and aid the cause, without
being, as some of the works of Luther himself, even truly
in its spirit.
But let us pass on in our general remarks. The found
ing of the Republic of Holland, was one of the most noted,
accomplishments of the time. Saxony and the Netherlands
became in religion, commerce, and politics, the opponents
and rivals of Italy. France and England, Austria and
Spain, appear less distinctly at this period than Holland :
each endeavoured to sustain, as of old, and to extend its
power, but were secondary in the assertion of the great new
principles. Could we look for this act of independence of

360 A FRAGMENT
the Netherlands to be the same as that of the early Italian
states ? The mental stage of questioning and throwing off
the papal supremacy was passed, and the despotism of
Philip II., and the power of the Inquisition, were not to be
endured. That prince was declared by the States General
at the Hague to have forfeited the sovereignty, by violating
the privileges of the people. Art, like the opinions in reli
gion, was thrown back upon rational principles and popular
every-day things. It had to deal with new, and, in some
measure, original and essential elements.
The result of the change, which arrived at a distinct ac
climation in Rubens, has been the wider circle it has since
embraced, and its variety of power. So far as the versati
lity of treatment, in subjects of every kind, was an object
to be gained, it was completely successful. In himself
Rubens embraced a larger range than any other painter had
done, or has since his time. With characteristics of the
most marked peculiarity, he is yet the Proteus of art. He
turns on every side, and, with consummate alacrity, evinces.
the mastery of his language. Departments which had been
considered totally distinct or scarcely touched, to him were
common ground, or assumed form, under his hand. Man,
animate and inanimate nature, were alike his province. An
overwhelming control over outward features of every des
cription, from the Fall of the Damned, the Coronation of
Philip, to the Rainbow over the Corn-Field ; from the Lion
Hunt to the Poultry Basket, is exhibited by his hand.
Raphael painted a battle, and mounted some of his comba
tants on horses, but in these he shows us that the divinity
of his moral nature found its sphere only in man. Michael
Angelo rarely required to refer to the forms of inferior or
outward creation, but scarcely ever did so without subject
ing them to his abstract purpose, which was widely different

ON RUBENS, ETC. 361
from the imitations of Rubens. Leonardo is said to have
furnished the original pattern for the lion hunts of Rubens.
But it is scarcely so in the letter even ; in spirit his are far
different. Leonardo's impulse in this matter was an antici
pation of what, at his time, art did not reach : then it had
but one paramount intention. In Correggio, alone, was
there any acknowledgment of variety of object, and his
endeavour was to unite, in a homogeneous combination,
elements which were separate in their natures. He desired
to amalgamate or approximate these, and so produce a
beautiful whole, in which the mind might repose. This was
a species of universality, but it was altogether different from
that of Rubens. Correggio, in his subjects, moved within
a limited circle ; he applied his art to a confined range :
Rubens, in the elements of his art, was much less general,
but in his range of application much more so.
His combinations were not those of pure essentials, as in
Correggio, but partook of a much interrupted mixture. And
this brings us to the consideration of what Rubens' univer
sality consisted in ; what were his derelictions ; and in what
his style requires to be corrected by a recurrence to other
modes.- Rubens, with vast power, is, in regard to the elevation
of the greater Italians, their inferior; and in strength of
materials, much below the third name in painting — that of
Titian : as well as below Correggio, as has just been stated,
in certain essentials. But, as a whole, the school of Rubens
goes beyond all others. This, however, must not be either
asserted or accepted without being justly understood. I
have before assigned the intellectual to Michael Angelo, the
moral to Raphael, and the outward or material to Titian.
These were all greatly modified by their association with
the Church, and cast in the moulds of thought presented by

362 A FRAGMENT
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Such being the case,
their works are therefore removed, at the present day, in
some degree, from popular apprehension, although their
peculiarities afford them an auxiliary confirmation. In this,
indeed, they stand uponv common ground with all that is
highest in intellectual manifestations — with creeds them
selves. They appertain to that centre from whence radiates
truth in literature, politics, science.
Rubens stands at a distance from them; he is below
their elevation. This may be said, even while we admit
that, in occasional instances, the impressiveness of his senti
ment absorbed his libertinism, and enabled him to engross
the mind of the spectator with an irresistible force. Rey
nolds felt, on standing before his greater works for the time,
as if they left nothing to be desired ! Their sensuous, and
also their mental strength, left no room for any deficiency
to be felt. They are, indeed, the productions of a man
widely informed in respect to all the previous manifestations
of thought, without being biassed in any particular past
direction — in one sense, knowing all without being limited
to any. * * * *
But none of those his successors arrived at this power ;
and amidst all the diversity of talent which immediately
succeeded, nothing was produced of the same eminence.
This is now nearly two centuries ago.
And has art stood still since that date? This is a
question which must in some points be answered in the
affirmative. No genius of an equal exuberance and bril
liancy has appeared, but in many directions the scope of
painting has been still amplified ; its powers more exactly
displayed in numerous directions ; its capacities opened up;
and new facilities for the extension of its influence origin
ated. A productive, though unelevated, and an interrupted,

ON RUBENS, ETC. 363
but apparently necessary, portion of its history has passed
over. The result of those impulses under which it rose and
culminated are now before us — they are substantiated. Let
us endeavour to turn the experience of the past to the benefit
of the future, that both the eminence and the derelictions
of former practice may afford a guide in the right direction
of the present. *****
At this moment, there are some who would again reduce
the wide field of art to the narrowest limits. There are
some who look upon themselves as the truly enlightened,
and who take an important standing on this ground. The
kind of art we speak of may be an offshoot from a wider
movement, and in a measure connects itself with a moment
ary false activity in theological matters. It is a compound
of antiquarianism and of gentle religious sentiment, not
without sanctimoniousness and superciliousness in the mix
ture, although this is exhibited in a form resuscitated from
a time so long past that we view it as poetic. The endea
vour is not to enter into the spirit of Christianity, but to
enter into its forms of thought, as expressed by men some
centuries ago : things that, to the British mind, cannot, or
ought not, to have even vitality. To do so, even as an
admirer, or in a dilettante manner, is to sacrifice our birth
right. The Romanist is honestly ahead of this movement.
He accepts his creed, and the forms come with it, more or
less cared for or tedious to him ; his assthetic culture is not
limited. What may be called contingencies in his case,
become essentials in the mind of the convert.
This novelty in the treatment of painting is remarkable
in this country, inasmuch as it is completely at variance
with the current of English art hitherto, and also with that
of Germany, in which it has already spread to a large extent

364 NOTES ON PRACTICAL METHODS.
over all the different departments of painting, and where,
indeed, it originated.
By this recurrence to past standards, the German mind
does violence to its own eminence in philosophy. It goes
backward to seek one phase of that which it was most for
ward in denying. There is something like exhaustion or
senility in the process. But in our day we are beginning
to lose national distinctions. Northern and central Europe,
from the increased facility of communication, printing, and
the arts of engraving and lithography, are becoming united
in culture ; and the revival of which we speak may indi
cate some under-current not yet seen. In this view, that
portion of German painting and literature that falls back
upon the past, either in spirit or method, and which coin
cides with a like inclination among ourselves, having also
its representatives in France, is like the mistaken efforts of
an individual, and never will or can become more than a
sectional and limited movement ; for it is evident that it is
not an accession of wisdom, and that it is obviously sup
ported by party feeling singularly at variance with the
general tendency of thought in the present day.

NOTES ON CHARACTERISTICS OF STYLE AND PRACTICAL
METHODS OF WORKS OF ART IN ITALY.
VISITED 1833.
Milan. In the Academia. Worthy of recollection are
the frescoes in the passage, by Gaudenzio Ferrari. An
unfinished Leonardo da Vinci is on a very smooth plaster
ground. The Holy Family, by Luini, remarkable.

ACADEMY  MILAN. 365
Daniel Crespi; strong, firm, and throughout well in
formed : belonging to the middle day of the revivers. Some
by Francia, worthy of study : clear, rich in the colour, how
ever hard and primitive.
Here are two heads by Titian, painted on a dark grey
ground. A large Giorgione: dryish, but full of gusto:
rather brown.
The Marriage of the Virgin, by Raphael. Expression
beautiful : in the colour of the different parts fine, but de
ficient in harmony.
A Feast, by Veronese. Different in effect from that in
Paris : not so successful : wants the light and life.
Here is the beautiful Virgin and Child .by Raphael, in
which the Virgin stretches out her hand and lifts the cover
ing of the Child. Round, soft, and yet strong.
A remarkable picture of a female about to be broke upon
the wheel, by Piombo. (?)
The Last Supper, by Bonifazio, much cracked and sunk.
Here is a large picture by Enea Salmeggia: dark rough
ground : plenty of colour, but black. Also a savage Sal
vator. A round head, by Rembrandt, ought to be remem
bered. The Giorgione is brown, without the Titian surface ;
but the touch and the tone are fine. In some parts the
ground seems prepared ; but it is hard, not sunk. His St.
Sebastian is a copy from life, without decided style. The
flesh is whitish, on a dark ground. The shadows painted
solid : not so in Titian.
Two pictures by Giacomo Bassano, and two by Leo
nardo. Those by the first are the richest.
A sketch in brown, by Raphael, is masterly, without
mere dash : very round in the forms. A Dead Christ, by
Giovanni Bellini, is very meagre.

366 ACADEMY  MILAN.
All the parts of the Marriage of the Virgin, by Raphael,
are very precisely told. The flesh soft: the colour, as a
whole, yellowish. It is painted on a light ground : some
parts very thin, merely glazed : but it has been prepared in
black and white, the blacks very thickly laid.
Saints, by Moretto, in good design. A Tintoretto : red.
A Girolamo Genga : strange and crude. A Mary wash
ing Christ's Feet, by Veronese : dark, not lucid, like the
large Louvre picture. A black hard picture by Giacomo
Francia. Andrea Mantegna. His saints are in a grand style of
design : the drapery hard but well formed : the drawing is
great and fine : background gilt. There is another frame
of saints by him, not so good, seemingly earlier ; but a large
picture by him is in a less liny manner, with the same
greatness of attitude.
In a very large Gentile Bellini, the cloth is prepared as
in Titian. Tintoretto: two old men breaking a loaf, de
serves notice.
A large fine Domenichino : a strong picture. The colour
in many parts of the right kind : in others too tangible and
red ; but varied throughout.
The Woman of Samaria, by Annibal Carracci, is simple
and strong. Procaccini : too brown. A grand old saint
by him ; also female saints ; also some other pictures : bad.
A St. Jerome by Titian, generally brown ; the rocks very
brown : very worthy of remembrance.
Paris Bordone: Baptism of Christ: feeble. Guido Reni:
St. Peter is good, but has a painted appearance.
Vandyke is brown and toneless here. A Wise Men's
Offering, by Titian, is without his usual fine quality. Maroni
d' Albino : dark-toned figures : simple and veritable.
Veronese : a large Offering of the Wise Men, dark and

MILAN  BRESCIA. 367
confused: and a Baptism of Christ by him, without the
virtue of the Louvre picture.
A Dead Christ, by Tintoretto, is striking : almost black
and white. A very good Jordaens. This gallery, as a
whole, is very splendid and valuable.

Church of St. Maurice. The whole of this church is
covered with pictures : some of the later schools, others of
the older. Those on each side of the altar are by Luini :
they are stiff and dry.
Church of St. Ambrose. The style of architecture of.
this old church is curious : the pulpit is very old, in an un
formed or transition style. Some of the ornaments have a
very Scandinavian aspect. The palace of the Visconti is
also curious in architecture.
Ambrosiana. A large cartoon by Tibaldi: somewhat
like Buonarotti, but of no remarkable character. Here are
four large bad productions by Cesari. Christ Crowned
with Thorns, by Titian, is on a dark ground, rich and deep
in the tone. The drawings, by Da Vinci, are very careful,
sharp, and true. The Virgin, Infant, and St. John: the
same design as the light picture in the Louvre: darkly
painted: the carnations very fine: the face of the Virgin
very soft. Two Holy Families, by Luini. A fine drawing
by Polidoro. A picture by ¦  Bassano of the Adoration
of the Shepherds, is all of a light colour: much after Titian:
a very superior work. BRESCIA.
In the church of St. Afrais an altar-piece by Tintoretto;
it appeared black, but I saw it in the evening. The ceiling

368 BRESCIA  VERONA.
is by Caliari. In a house connected with the church is a
picture, said to be by Titian, of the Woman taken in Adul
tery — splendid in colour. There has been a preparation of
the ground, but in many places the effect is produced by
solid colour. The ground is very rough, but the flesh is
very smoothby load of colour, and in parts the drapery also.
Even the shades look as if they were floated on. In no
work I have yet seen by Titian has there been clear light ;
the retiring parts, or background, are usually very deep
The same with Tintoretto. Veronese's Marriage of Cana,
in the Louvre, is the grand example of open light. I have
now seen two others by him of the same subject, and one
of Mary washing Christ's Feet, nearly resembling it in de
sign, and affording an opportunity for similar treatment,
had he been master of it when they were done. But it ap
pears to me the old masters did for themselves what ages of
art usually effect — repeat the design, idea, or intention,
until they brought it to a more perfect state than one effort
allowed.

VERONA.
Duomo. In this church is an Assumption of the Virgin,
in a brown, rotten, burnt-up tone of colour.
Church of St. Euphemia (I think this is the name).
Two good pictures ; one of the Dead Christ, another of St.
Elizabeth and the Infant Jesus in the Clouds, and saints
below, in a dark Giorgione style. But there were lamps
lighted before it, the morning being very dark, nor could
I get near enough to see the handling. My first great
impression of this last picture was curiously dispelled by
my second visit, on again passing through Verona. I then
saw it in clear morning light.

VENICE. 369
In the Cathedral, above the altar, are frescoes, said to
be by Julio Romano, in an incorrect but great style of de
sign. The subject is the Assumption of the Virgin. The
drawing is monstrously defective, but the execution in a
clear fresh mode.

VENICE.
St. Maria della Salute. Here are four pictures by
Titian: one small, of the Virgin and Saints; the other
three large, on the roof of the sacristy, in a grand style of
design, and noble breadth of colour. One beauty of the
best Venetians is the expanse of their tints, and the variety
of their tones in the drapery ; a colour is seen here from its
lightest to its deepest. The small picture is in a dark rich
style, something like the Bellini in San Zaccharino. The
others are broad, great, and solemn, both in design and
colour; nothing introduced merely for ornament or for
colour. The subjects are David and Goliath, Abraham and
Isaac, Cain and Abel. On the whole, I have yet seen no
pictures equal to them. How different are the three fres
coes in the Scuola of S. Antonio, Padua : their colour is
strong, varied, and clear — more so than in these — but in
design they are almost puerile. These pictures are essen
tially great, although they differ from Titian's general sub
jects and treatment.
Manfredi Palace. A splendid collection. Here are seen
Giorgione and Titian; and here Giorgione appears more the
author of Titian's style than any where else — particularly
in the portraits of a man and woman: the female whom
various of the painters of the time made their model. This
portrait is broad ; rich brown ; the flesh quietly handled
and deep ; none of the stippling of the older painters. Two
2b

370 ACADEMY  VENICE.
of Titian's are near it — a portrait on one side, a Virgin and
Child on the other.
Church of St. Maria dell Orto. Some of Tintoretto's
finest works. A knowledge of his style might be here
gained without visiting any other place. The two great
pictures on the sides of the altar are stupendous works, even
in size. They must be fifty or sixty feet high, but they are
not proportionally broad. The figures are very large ; the
style of form after Michael Angelo, but the composition con
fused. In this church Tintoretto displays varied powers,
great design, strong fresco colour. The Presentation in the
Temple is a finished work ; and in the Virgin ascending
the Steps of the Temple, there is originality of invention
and effect.
Accademia. Titian's greatest work is here, the Assump
tion of the Virgin. It is in a grand style of design, powerful
colour, and striking effect. The carnations are all very red,
dark, and strong ; and, in the under part particularly, of a
sombre or rather heavy gusto, but exceedingly clear, from
the mode adopted in the execution. In this work, Titian
has attempted to go more in the sphere of the Roman or
Florentine art than in any other — excepting, possibly, those
in the Salute. This is the case even in the manner of
painting ; it is lightly wrought over the ground. This
picture has been evidently prepared in black and white, and
much produced by glazing or transparent colour ; the light
ground shines through everywhere. In this respect it is
amazingly different from the pulpy full flesh of Titian — it
is light and dry in the handling, but not so in effect, though
the general air of the picture is dark and light. The upper
part is separated from the group below by a grey sky, of a
more solemn than Venetian sentiment. The under group
is almost all dark against the sky — at least all the parts that

ACADEMY — VENICE. 371
come in contact with it are so. The upper portion of the
Virgin and Cherubs are also dark against the yellow of the
glory in which the Eternal Fa,ther, supported by two angels,
floats above.
The Miracle of St. Mark by Tintoretto is a great work,
but confused in character. Open daylight will not palliate
the scattered effect ; the lining of dark with dark to lead out
the effect — the turbans and local dresses — give it a disagree
able effect and inferior impression to me. The handling is
most masterly; of this it is a complete example. It is
painted on a soft but smooth surface, and the flesh is in
most parts smooth, but touched with sweeping strokes.
However there is in some parts — about the hands — a hatch
ing with the brush which is disagreeable, and which is like
a sample of the whole, which is chequer-like. In this pro
duction, technic ability is the whole excellence. The tones
of the flesh are very valuable ; the drawing is bold ; the
composition, in lines and in effect, is complex. It is Tin
toretto's most notable work, as that in the Louvre is of
Veronese, and opposite it in this gallery that of their master,
the Assumption of the Virgin.
There is something about this Assumption strikes one
may have originated from Raphael's Transfiguration, in
competition with which Piombo painted his principal work
now in London — the Raising of Lazarus — which is inferior
to any of them in distinct power, although in intention
it is much higher than either Veronese's or Tintoretto's,
and, with the exception of Raphael's, has most expression.
What I have seen most valuable to recollect since
leaving Edinburgh — First, in London, Reynolds: a por
trait of Goldsmith, in a broad, pulpy style, resembling
Which 'is a head by Titian in the Accademia at Bergamo.
Next, in the Louvre. The first room, with its early
2b2

372 ACADEMY  VENICE.
works : then the great Veronese, and some modem French..
The red and blue Le Bruns ; David ; the picture from The
Flood. Poussin, with his severe, and, at the same time,
free pencil ; Lesueur with his sober and strong expression.
After them a varied collection, leaving little trace ; the great
Medici pictures not what I expected. The Bolognese, in
the Louvre, make little impression. Titian and Giorgione
much : the Christ crowned with Thorns, and the Entomb
ment of Titian, and a Fete Champetre, by Giorgione.
Then Raphael, his large Holy Family, and others smaller :
his fidelity notable in some portraits. Then a mass of
Dutch pictures, each one excelling another.
Next, in Milan. Leonardo's heads, beautiful exceed
ingly, in the Ambrosiana : a fine Titian, the Holy Family :
the best Bassano I have seen, also a Holy Family, light
and clear. The care and truth of Leonardo and Luini
dwell on the memory. Here is also the drawing of the
School of Athens, by Raphael.

Accademia, Venice. St. Peter surrounded by Saints, by
Palma the Elder, very real, firm design. Superior in sim
plicity to most such subjects I have seen, even Titian is not
sustained throughout with the same force. The Murder of
the Innocents, by Bonifazio is in a deep Venetian style : the
flesh is strong, red, and deep, and also the draperies, which
are of a very inlaid character, as those of most of his pic
tures are, although true in tone. They produce an effect
which would overcome everything else, were the pictures
large. This Academy of Venice is splendid in its antique cast
department. Here I have met old friends, and recognised-

ACADEMY — VENICE. 373
new perfections. It is the finest collection I have seen, ex
tensive, and of the best works. To these are added a few
by Canova, not unworthy of their place. The Christ, by
Michael Angelo, here, is the first great work by him I have
yet seen, with which I was not yet previously acquainted.
Not what I expected : a want of true dignity : in attempting
to be real, Michael Angelo has become eyen common-place:
in some parts incorrect: in others the form is bad.
The Son of Niobe warding off the arrows with his hands :
bent on both knees : a noble figure : different in style from
anything antique I have seen : yet truly excellent. It is
difficult to characterise the style of this figure : it is round,
broad, rich, full in all the lines, combining particular truth
with ideality. I hope to remember well this wonderful
work — its expression, its beauty, all is alike ; each quality
keeps pace with the other, and testifies the mighty power of
the ancients in this art. And yet a great portion is a res
toration by Canova. The remnant had inspired him, and a
transcendant work is the result.
The Flora Farnese. An enormous figure, great in de
sign, and its vast size gives no sense of emptiness. One of
the " Early Gods " of Keats.
The Niobe. The drapery is very peculiar : as if it was
wet, and a strong wind against it ; this seems to be the idea
of the sculptor, or, it may be, (in such an epic work) the as
sociation merely he wished to suggest, or wrought under in
his own conception.
Agrippina. Very fine, dignified, and characteristic. Statue
of Zeno. Full of the stoic : the hand clenched : the figure
staunch and short : the attitude determined. Antique Boxer.
The original of this was lost in transporting it to Rome : it
is simple in style, strong and beautiful. Aristides. Simple
and composed, characteristic : also a Roman orator opposite.

374 VENICE  ACADEMY  PAL. REALE.
All these antique portrait statues worthy of great attention.
The French painters have studied them much.
Terpsichore, by Canova, is beautiful. The Magdalen is
one of the most soul-inspired figures of modern sculpture. A
Pieta, by Canova, is a beautiful group, wanting in richness
and fulness : his design in a group appears generally
meagre. Laetitia Bonaparte, by Canova, is after the manner of
the Roman seated figures. His Paris is beautiful, but
general and vague in form. His Boxer is strong in exe
cution; but the design linear and profile like, which may
result from a bas-relief style applied inappropriately; per
haps, however, it is a symptom of poverty of invention.

The undefinable tints of Veronese are his greatest beauty :
these are produced by the washing over and sinking of the
colour, by the light grounds, and painting at once. His
half shadows, his similar tones uniting different objects, his
generahbreadth, are all to be remembered.
Tintoretto, in the Miracle of St. Mark, is both touchy
and flat — which is bad. Veronese has more harmony of
method, and little appearance of handling.
Palazzo Reale. Two Tintorettos, from the history of
St. Mark, are painted on dark grounds with a rushing pencil.
The draperies are in some parts all done over with one
colour, over which another is driven to form the lighter
folds. These pictures are carelessly and rapidly done :
forcible in all respects ; , original and poetic. Four works
by Bonifazio, all in a simple strong hand; the colour local.
They are severe productions, although formed on Venetian
taste, and, in applying this to Iristorip subjects, I suppose
he may be considered original. Jacopo Bassano appears

VENICE — CHURCHES  MANFREDI P. 375
here with a full weighty pencil of great strength and cha
racter. Here are frescoes by many of the Venetians, some
being very inferior productions, but still marking the ability
of the lesser men.
Practically, the most remarkable observation I made to
day, was respecting the touch of Jacopo Bassano — its great
force and heavy load. The handling of Bonifazio is simple
and- stern.
Church of S. Barnabas. A Bassano ; dark, with small
lights, as very usual with him. Also some saints, rather
brown in colour.
Church of S. Sebastiano. A great many pictures by
Veronese. The greatest painters have been most prolific.
Arches, front of the balcony, chapels, doors of the organ,
the roof, are all by him. The frescoes are very much decayed
and broken. Two squares of the roof are strong and fresh,
altogether different in this respect from those round them. I
suspect they are in oil on cloth. Oil was preferred by the
Venetians wherever they could get a canvass stretched. Tin
toretto's enormous pictures of Paradise in the Ducal Palace,
and the Judgment in Dell Orto, are on cloth, cut to the shape
ofthe part ofthe wall they cover. Here is also a beautifully
toned small picture by Veronese of the Virgin and Infant ; a
saint with long yellow hair presenting a dove; a dark figure
standing by. The colour of the whole is brown rather than
clear ; it is firmly painted. In the sacristy are four or five
pictures by Bonifazio. One of these is a saint with folded
hands looking up from the dark towards a light in the
sky. Also a Christ Rising, by Tintoretto, splendid in
effect. The yellow used by Veronese is evidently different from
any now in use.
Manfredi Palace. Sketched Titian's Dead Christ, and

376 VENETIAN SCHEME OF COLOUR.
afterwards a small Annibale Carracciof Lot and his Daughters.
This Titian is cold, and without much life and reality. On
coming from the Entombment, was much struck by the
difference. Here, as in the Louvre, was struck by the want
of consistency and truth, causing the fine design in some
works to be lost. The scene from the Deluge in the Louvre
is powerless from the want of verisimilitude to nature. The
Marriage of Cana, beside it, tries it as a furnace seven times
heated. This evil operates also against the Wreck of the
Medusa. Venetian art is incompatible with the historic, dramatic,
or epic ; its colour costs it much. The Venetians resort to
many tricks to make out their scheme ; to keep a colour alive
throughout, or to scatter a light. They would hang the
haberdasher up among his wares, merely to give a change
of material. In many of their works we find great sacrifices
to produce relief by a dark striking against a light. If
necessary for this purpose, a drapery becomes both dark
and light at once, or an arm or a leg takes a black shade —
the light must be got by whatever means.
The method of the colouring of the carnations seems to
be this : One tone or tint is made to prevail over the whole
surface of a part, and the other tints, of warmer or cooler
colour, are grafted on this general tone, which serves as a
harmonizing medium. In draperies, whatever be the colour,
they have no hesitation in breaking it by lights, and making
these of an entirely different colour. This effect is proper
enough in silks, or any glistening stuffs, but they use it even
in painting the strongest materials.
In one of the smaller domes of St. Mark's, a Byzantine
painter, in a History of the Creation, has made God literally
drawing a rib out of the side of a curiously whiskered Adam
asleep. In another compartment, an angel or God, in the

VENICE  DUCAL PALACE. 377
presence of angels, is erecting a clay man, and a little genius,
fluttering at the mouth of the brown earthy figure, breathes
into him the breath of life. The representations of God
reproving Adam and Eve express their degradation in the
same manner as since adopted, by their crouching and bend
ing the knees.
Ducal Palace. A Doge kneeing before Faith; the
figures larger than life, painted in oil. The design is simple
and grand, being unaffected and inartificial, and the colour
is in accordance. The head of the Doge is the simplest
nature expressed by the simplest means — it is nearly one
colour, but excellent in connection with the rest. The
drapery displays the grey tones and browns of Titian ; the
sky and back-ground are free and lucid ; the folding of the
stuffs freshly touched.
On one of the roofs are chiaroscuros by Paul Veronese ;
the figures very large, in a heavy vague style of design, and
deficient in force for their size. A roof by Tintoretto dis
plays force and strength. Europa, by Veronese, is fine ; and
four small works in oil noticeable; Bacchus and j^riadne;
Peace and War; a Cyclop, with oddly bent legs; and Venus,
or something meant for her.
Tintoretto's Paradise is in his strongest gusto. The
effect is confused, but the colour of the parts individually
forcible and rich. Black, dark blue, dark green, and a deep
brown lake predominate ; the lights are yellow. It is sixty-
four feet in length. On the ceiling of the election room of
the Doge are three large frescoes, one by Veronese, orna
mental and careful ; the centre one by Tintoretto ; and
another by Jacopo Palma, partially resembling both the
others. On the side walls are other immense pictures.
Veronese here, beside Tintoretto, appears soft, careful, and
even timid. His works gay and florid ; Tintoretto's strong,

378 POWER OF TINTORETTO.
rich, full, often confused and black, but always powerful.
The Paradise is without general effect.
Church S. Bartolomeo. Two large pictures by Palma
giovine, (they may be indifferent Tintoretto's) the Gather
ing of the Manna, and the Plague of Serpents: also one on
each side of the altar, from the life of the saint, in a clearer
and better style.
Church San Rocco. Some magnificent Tihtorettos ofthe
saint's miracles. One iD the nave, and two on the sides of
the altar, are stupendous in their full, massy, clear, free
colour. One corner of the picture, on the right of the altar,
ruddy in light, and strong : genius, great genius. Dark and
light strive together, and strong health is embodied ; equality
everywhere appears with a living energy : a life is here, not
to express much thought, but to breathe, to leap, and run.
Tintoretto outdoes every other painter in impetuous deter
mination of colour ; whole limbs are brown, red, yellow, or
grey ; each part must be made to speak powerfully.
Here his immense genius displays itself in the grandeur
of the school. It contains what have been his greatest
works : mighty power, uncommon conception, and great
design. His Crucifixion is one of the wonders of art. The
centre part, and about it, is amazingly fine. The group at
the foot of the cross seems as if expressive of some dreadful
superincumbent ill. It is one of the most striking utterances
of painting. It has no details of expression, no dramatic
turns, but its impression is heavy with the unutterable. It
is a unity in meaning, a product of intuition, the result of
unhesitating faithful powers, whose course it is difficult to
track, not to be taken up, pursued, or even communicated :
the result is a there-created sentiment, once done, and once
only. Towards the ends of the picture (which should be cut

VENICE — CHURCHES. 379
off) his subject appears exhausted, though the colour is still
fine : the effect of the grand scene is weakened by being too
much extended.
The light of the sky, in almost all the Venetian pictures,
is an important part of their machinery. This is opposed
by the strong fight or substantial texture of the light parts
of the figures : the darks are all massed and broad in the
best masters, Titian in particular, but they are less so in
Tintoretto. Yesterday I did not think anything of him, to
day, he is, in my mind, one of the greatest of painters ; but
he is very unequal, and produces a corresponding impres
sion. San Rocco is his triumph. No Venetian has done
so much in number and extent. The Crucifixion is about
thirty-three feet long. The immense roof is also by him,
divided into different compartments. The labour here, alto
gether, is prodigious.
Church S. Chrisostomo. Here is an altar-piece by
Piombo, in a solemn style of effect and composed design :
the draperies rich.
Church of the Jesuits. The roof of the sacristy by
Jacopo or old Palma. The design resembling Michael Angelo
and Tintoretto. Also pictures round the walls by the same
hand : one of these a Virgin on a cloud. The Assumption
of the Virgin, by Tintoretto, lately restored : the upper part
very fine : the head of the Virgin Titian-like. The group
of the Virgin and angels are against light, which is strong
behind the dark blue and red of her draperies, and the green
and yellow of those of the angels. There is more of the
movement of ascending in this picture than in any other
of the same subject which I have seen here.
Martyrdom of St. Laurence, by Titian. In the figure of
the saint, a pure style of drawing is intended, but it is feeble.
The saint is in the foreground, on the gridiron : small lights

380 VENICE  MANFREDI PALACE.
fall on the heads, shoulders, and arms of the torturers. All
this is near the bottom of the picture : then far up are two
torch lights, and higher again, within the circular top of the
picture, is a small speck of a glory. The picture is on a
dark ground, which is peeling off in some places: it is
crudely arranged, hard and dry, black and disagreeable. A
poor fellow has a scaffold up before it, and is copying it
St. Julian. In this church is a rich altar-piece, by
Campana; three saints below, and Christ crowning the
Virgin above: the upper figures dark, against a yellow
light. The Assumption, by Veronese, rich, full, and strong;
real and individual. The flesh is pearly and rosy : draperies
solemn and clear, with coolness. Not so red as usual. At
first sight I thought this a work by Titian. Also, by
Veronese : the body of Christ carried to heaven by angels,
and entering between two lines of cherubs with ruddy faces
and dark blue wings.
Manfredi Palace. A picture of Fra. Bartolomeo of very
great design. He is certainly the greatest of the older
masters : those not confirmed as the highest. The colour of
this is open in tone, and soft. Various works by Pordenone.
He was the rival of Titian, and certainly, if his style was
formed coeval with Titian, and without imitation, he was
worthy of being so considered. Here is Poussin: the Hours
dancing to Time. The colour stronger than is usual with
him. Was this a Venetian production by him when he ex
pressed the fear of becoming a colourist ? Here is a fresco
by Raphael — Noah entering the ark — hard in the outline .
no effect, colour weak, weak and indifferent; the drapery
good in design. Christ at Emmaus, by Bellini ; the figure
of Christ is simple and beautiful ; upon the whole, a fine
picture. How much these old men did !
Two landscapes by Tempesta, free and natural. Another

VENICE  BARBERIGI PALACE. 381
Poussin : Time unveiling Truth : hard and red, the lights
spotty. Here is a saint in armour, by Andrea Mantegna ;
very bold in design for that day. A Mercury and Nymph
by Giorgione : light and fresh, almost like English colour
ing : deficient in drawing. A Magdalen, by Correggio : the
flesh all light : the background dark. Some fine pictures
by Giorgione : a male and a female head particularly : rich
and powerful.
Barberigi Palace. The Magdalen, by Titian, which has
made so much noise. I cannot admire it: he has often
coloured better : the face is ugly : the design, however, good.
A darkness about the mouth and point of the nose injures
it — an unsuccessfulness in the execution which is disagree
able. The picture altogether is wanting in the felicity we
might expect from Titian's powers in treating such a sub
ject : this Magdalen is not merely contrite, she is gross and
miserable-looking. Some good portraits by Titian, but nearly all are in his
drier and harder style ; not pulpy and lucid. The other
pictures by him not much worthy of remark ; a Venus with
Cupids is among the best.

~ My ideas of Bellini and Perugino have changed since
seeing their works. They certainly did much — possibly as
much as their successors — :but their steps were not so near
the top of the ascent.
Ch. S. Giovanni e Paolo. Titian's St. Peter Martyr. It
seems paintedon a dark ground, as the effectverges into black
ness. In style of design, the same intention seems followed
as in the three pictures fixed on the roof of the Salute, being
an inspiration of the sentiment of Michael Angelo through

382 VENICE — CHURCHES  PAL. REALE.
his own solid manner. This is certainly a great picture, but
it is not consummate ; it is in no way wonderful, as has been
often said. In Titian's principal power, that of colour, it is
too dark, or rather blackish, to allow full manifestation.
The drawing is in parts defective ; it is an exemplification
of a man great in one way trying to do a great work in an
other. Here is a Bellini of the old subject, a Virgin mounted
on a throne, and saints below — the figures larger than life.
It is rich and soft in effect. Some parts retain a little of
the old stiffness, but there is great materiality in the colour,
and well composed design. Also a curious Saint Christopher
carrying the Infant Christ, by him. Upon closer inspection,
the first of these pictures is seen to be much laboured. The
. noses have the oddly turned-up character. Every line is
denned, but still the whole has great harmony.
Ch. S. Giovanni. The Last Supper, by Tintoretto, is
strong and dark in effect. The lights shine out clearly — the
glory of Christ and a yellow in the sky very brilliant ; the
whole rich ; the light and shade is systematic, and skilfully
carried out. Here is a portrait work by him, ahd an As
sumption. Behind the altar is a Palma, a picture of great
genius, the Fall of the Angels, or rather the trampling down
of devils. The lights are flat and strong ; the tone deep
and rich. The shoulder of an angel against the dark drapery
of the Deity rises out from the canvass ; the toning of the
under figures very full and strong.
Pal. Reale. Tintoretto's two works here relating to the
Translation of the body of St. Mark, possess a vividness
which gives a relief from the constant sameness of sentiment
in church pictures. Here is a juvenile Titian, the Passage
of the Red Sea. St. Jerome in the Desert, by Jacopo Bas
sano, ponderous and full ; also the Annunciation, with the

VENICE — P. RE ALE — MANFREDI P. AGAIN. 383
same heavy touch. The roof by Schiavone ; rather large
style of design. Paulo also large and finished. Three divi
sions by Batista Franco ; one by Genovese ; two by Giovanni
del Mio — all good for little. Three by Salviati, great in
style ; three by Pordenone, rather ridiculous in design ;
divided in effect, and dark.
The Madonna and St. Barbara, by Bonifazio, very broad
and strong ; many of the parts laid in at one sweep ; flat
and remorselessly raising a great edge. Another Bonifazio,
flowing in method ; much cracked ; and a third picture by
him, on a hard prepared ground, also cracked where it has
been thickly prepared.
A single figure by Titian ; some parts a little retouched.
This is a fresco, and is somewhat small in style, though dis
playing the colour of the master.
A fine Dead Christ supported by Angels, &c, by the
son of Veronese ; nothing, however, peculiar in it.
A Christ by Albert Diirer very much resembles some of
the old Venetians. Leonardo : Christ playing with a lamb.
How different is his sphere from that of the Venetians !
Manfred! Palace again. Observed a curious Domenico
Riccio, an Allegory of Calumny, &c, rich in colour. _ The
effect of a figure in this picture worthy of memory. Dark
in itself, and with dark drapery twisted about it, the figure
is against a dark grey ground, only relieved by a slight light
in the flesh — little more than an outline. Some remarkable
Giordanos — dark in the shades, strong in the lights ; black
and white drapery.
A picture by Giov. Mio, of the old school : hard, care
ful, particular. Julio Romano, in the picture of Jupiter,
particularly good in design and colour.
Dead Christ by Titian is somewhat dry in the handling
It has been liquidly painted on a rather hard ground;

384 VENICE  MANFREDI PALACE.
floated, no touch, except the edges of the draperies. Two
sketches by Veronese of great rapidity and firmness, both
on light grounds ; some parts very thin, others thick ; the
architecture all outlined by a sharp dark line, and the colour
thin over it.
Third Room. Leonardo Bassano : very red in hue. A
small sketch by Rubens appears very free, compared to the
Venetians. Here is a portrait of Michael Angelo by Morone,
but it is not the awful head sometimes represented. Three
good Pordenones : the Circumcision ; the Marriage of the
Virgin ; and Himself with his Scholars. A small and pretty
laboured portrait of herself by Angelica Kauffman.
Fourth Room. Two Bonifazios, of poetic subjects ; large
in style, flat in colour ; all the figures light. Indeed all
the pictures so ; in some respects remind me of Stothard.
These resemble very little Bonifazio's work in general ; pos
sibly Pordenone's light style and these pictures have a
similar origin. A Supper by Bellini, light in the back
ground. The figures dark against it, but at the same time
light in many parts. There is more freedom in this than in
any other work of his I have seen. The Bonifazios are called
"parte della tavola di cobete." (?)
Giotto. A Virgin and Child, with angels. The intention
of the expression of some of the angels is beautiful ; the
virgin is simple and nearer the sublime and more elevated
than in some subsequent works. Art lost much in symbolic
elevation as technic ability advanced.
Cimabue. A Madonna and Child, within a various
coloured circular figure ; two saints below. The back
ground gold, as in Giotto's, but the contrasts much more
harsh ; altogether much more infantine.
Sixth Room. A Lucretia, by Guido ; very round and
true in tone, but of a northern colour. Piombo, as I before

TITIAN  BONIFAZIO  VERONESE. 385
noted ; rich, excellent, rough, full. Campagnola (Girol, I
believe) ; good and great in design ; the subject an old
saint ; dark. Here is a small Raphael, Taking down from
the Cross. Raphael is very fine even in material colour I
have already seen.
Accademia again. Bonifazio is often clotted and thick ;
sometimes, however, light colour under the surface ; at other
times he paints freely on the ground. Again, his carnations
are almost entirely glazed (that is, the shades of them with
the reds) over a light flat surface. He is sufficiently free
from anything like bungling.
A portrait by Titian on my left while sketching Boni
fazio ; very systematic in execution ; from the first the
painter thoroughly aware of his intention. Masses are laid
in with a reference to and reliance on after treatment, and
a touch of solid, or a touch of glazed colour, completes the
effect. The first colouring seems little more than a wash
over the soft ground ; bold, however, if necessary. Veronese
frequently lays this flat or primary effect, then touches the
lights and darks above it, and glazes the colour, lake, blue,
or yellow over all. He frequently produces the colour of
drapery by glazing. Bonifazio does more by painting and
glazing, and again painting and glazing. The strength and
darkness of his works required this. He often does figures
or ornaments over finished drapery, painting them upon it
solidly. Veronese glazes them over the finished drapery in
the Europa. Titian uses many modes — frequently seems
to have altered his pictures, adds a head, a piece of light
drapery, a hand ; if upon a dark, he must paint them solidly.
The head of the old egg«woman in the Virgin ascending
the steps of the temple, is added or altered, and a good deal
bungled ; but it stands out white and clear. On this picture
there is a great quantity of white preparation roughly done —
2c

386 TITIAN.
the small heads lightly painted over it ; some parts glazed,
some solid. The faces have been done over a dark ; the
canvass is rough and joined ; the ground often spread by the
palette knife ; large surfaces of the picture are without a
crack, while other parts are dreadfully rent. These parts
seem to be where a re-preparation has been used over the
oil painting. Where the ground is rough, and the oil paint
thick and laid on dryish, cracking has not taken place, nor
where the ground is thin, and the threads of the cloth
traceable. But where plenty of a liquid sinking colour has
been used over a flat thick preparation, which does not follow
the threads of the cloth, cracking seems to have followed.
This picture of the Virgin on the Steps is the freest I have
seen by Titian — -it is even rude ; the hands, eyes, ears, &c,
are dashed or slurred in for effect at a distance. The little
figure of the Virgin comes out with great force — it is thick
and clotted ; seems to have been repainted with considerable
alterations. The yellow round the blue drapery is partly
solid, partly glazed. The pillars behind are executed at
once. The back-ground outdoes Veronese in tone — two
lines of pillars are amazing for roundness and perspective.
This picture requires to be attentively examined before
its general disagreeable impression is overcome, and its
beauties admitted — it is one of Titian's principal works.
There are many figures, a number of them rather of a small
size. There is also a great space of vacant wall — the end
of the flight of steps which the little and rather ridiculous
figure ascends. The majority of the heads are portraits ;
the high-priest, and others above, are very stern in character,
and splendid in colour ; but it is' not an elevated work. The
portraits are evidently an important part. In the introduc
tion of portraits, the Venetians were peculiar — painting was
devoted to the church ; only great or notable men ventured

BONIFAZIO  TINTORETTO — TITIAN. 387
to have their portraits separately done ; they and humbler
people were only stuck in as worshippers or spectators in
foreground comers.
Bonifazio's canvass is usually very coarse ; the surface
of his paint rough. His is the true execution for the grand
expression in merely human sentiment. In its own sphere
it is complete. His design is often vulgar and disagreeable,
not elevated, but of great strength and simplicity, which
last quality gives greatness. I write this standing before
his " Wise Men's Offering." The Venetians unite the most
rigid individuality with their peculiar generalizing principles.
Tintoretto fails to give purity when he tries it ; when
he seems to have a strict purpose to fulfil, he is feeble. The
anatomy in Adam and Eve, and in Cain and Abel, is small,
as his drawing usually is when regularity is attempted by
him. He seems to fail between individuality and study to
produce select form.
Titian's " Assumption" is painted on wood, and is nearly
all finished by glazing on thin painting over light colour.
The design of the whole is great and solemn, the draperies
noble, and the characters expressive. The whole surface
retains some roughness from the stroke of the brush ; the
glazing running between and over the streaks, truly an epic
and historic style of colour. The heads are almost awful
by simplicity of design and unity of tint ; they seem mostly
produced by one colour. My opinion of this work has,
however, partially changed from one visit to another.
Palma the elder is one of the stern old naturalists : the
son is poor. There is a cast of the Gates, by Ghiberti, in
the gallery of casts : the Creation of Man is the best division
of the whole. The design of this very excellent, and, in
deed, that of the whole : the ideal parts, angels, &c, still
finer than the rest. The Creation is graceful and grand.
2c2

388 VERONESE.
I observe Veronese frequently lets one dark or one light
slide so upon another, that the work must be looked upon
with care to ascertain the parts. This gives an air of acci
dental verity. Breadth is a great principle with him : this
figure against the green pillars, in the Feast, is dressed in
green from head to foot: even the lining of his cloak is
green. Against this figure is a negro, in a purple or lake
red, also all in one colour with the exception of the arms,
which are white and gold. The folds of the drapery are
often merely a deeper tint of the same colour as the lights.
The flesh is all very flat : sometimes a face all red, with
brown for the shades, then another all yellow, with a little
red for the nostrils and mouth. One part is flat against
another. The face of a servant on the stair is more laboured than
any other, except that of an old man at the other end of the
picture, which has been painted against the pillar afterwards.
This face of a servant is just so much the worse : it is streaky,
and touched with red : the dark side of the nose is red : the
simplicity of his style is lost: it almost appears not his.
The other head mentioned — that; of an old man, painted over
solid painting, is also touchy, and no absorbance having
taken place, it is also somewhat dry. Had he painted all
these great pictures in the same mode, though with equal
ability, we would not have admired Paul Veronese as we do.
His Marriage of Cana here is a much less splendid pro
duction than that in the Louvre. The one here is on a
darker ground, and has not the general lightness. The
principle in light and shade is dark brought against a light:
the darks oftenest nearest the eye, and the lights behind.

ST. MARK'S  ACADEMY. 389
In the Carmine are some beautiful small pictures by
Schiavone (Andrea), more Titianesque than any others I
have seen. These small pictures are very fine ; this church
very rich and splendid. Also a large work in parts, very
excellent, and like Titian, and a rather good Tintoretto.
In the great entrance to St. Mark's are very large
mosaics, in a grand style of design (by the Zuccari ?) The
centre subject is Christ, St. John and the Virgin on either
hand the cross, and angels below. Along each side are
two great divisions of saints, apostles, and angels. Next the
other two inferior divisions are the blessed and the damned.
This is a stupendous design; no part feeble; throughout
grand. Sculpture Gallery, Venice, 17th October 1832. Oh,
divinely refreshing works of the ancients, destined to live
for ever, and to spread the life of -art throughout the world.
I thirst after your purity, and you only can revivify my
desires, broken by multitude of aims, the contagion of a
degrading school, and many things to which those who fight
their way through life make sacrifice. In your presence I
live well again. Let me lie down here and die ; or pursue
my way heedless of all else, and regardless of those who
look not upon the mind of man for any reflection of the
divine, who see no image of the god-like, no absolute
sublimity and beauty. From your presence how many
recollections bear down upon me; old days, and old thoughts
and hopes. Here are all that, from the first opening of my
mental eyes, excited my enthusiasm: thou Laocoon, ye
remnants of Phidias. For ever let me be with you ; for ever
attempting to emulate, and add something more to so grand
an influence. May this be in store for me ? Are my prayers
vain, or do they await me yet in some propitious day?
" Rejoice and be glad," as has been said of old.

390 JULIO ROMANO  L. CARRACCI.

MANTUA.
Both the strength and the weakness of Julio Romano
very apparent here. His strong qualities are very much
those of Raphael, his weaknesses are very much his master's
also, but a good deal his own besides. His giants are very
absurd and ridiculous. Most of the small designs have
poetic invention and classic taste, but very often incorrect
drawing. The colouring appears retouched and destroyed :
it is wretched.
PARMA.
Academy. Two large works by Ludovico Carracci.
Enormous figures, very closely grouped ; the subject is the
Apostles carrying the Virgin to the Tomb. The style is
great, solemn, and real ; very powerful. The effect is broad
and ponderous ; altogether massy and full. The closeness
of the composition aids this, also the size of the figures.
Great breadth is in the hands, faces, hair, every part. The
portion of the picture of the body carried to the tomb, is
mighty in style, and without affectation. These manly
works shew the Carracci in a very different light from the
mere admirers of Correggio. The figures in the foreground
of this Entombment are larger than the Farnese Hercules.
They are painted without much preparation, thin and flat ;
the draperies are sometimes prepared. The sentiment is
strong and sustained.
Now I stand before the famous Marriage of St. Cathe
rine, of Correggio. A deliciously-toned picture : round,
delicate, and strong. Nothing can be more delicate, yet
firmer, than the tone of some of the flesh, its union with the
hair : the hair itself, and the altogether. The touch is free,

PARMA — CORREGGIO. 391
light, and takes its place deliciously. It has ease, with ra
pidity and power. The colour in the lights, by means of
the preparation, is thick ; in the shades it is also so — a kind
of glutinousness appearing to pervade the whole of the dark
shadows. They have cracked much. The lights of some
of the draperies are laid over the darks, blue, red, &c, then
glazed ; while, again, the shades are repeatedly glazed. The
execution is complicated, yet apparently simple, being toned
and glazed over and over again. This is, as a whole, the
finest — I mean the most delicate and sweetest — picture in
existence. Holy Family, by Anselmi, after the mode of Correggio,
but without all his fineness and delicacy. This picture
shews the manner, however, better possibly from its being
less perfect. Here is more of solid painting, less of semi-
transparent than in the Venetian. The original ground is
dark — a light preparation is made for parts — and the whole
wrought out by glazing, smooth solid painting, and a de
cided touch produces the toes, eyes, &c.
The Virgin with the Shell, in the same style as the St.
Jerome, or the Marriage of St. Catherine. Here the shining
light of the half-shaded flesh is astonishingly clear. This is
also striking in the Martyrdom of St. Flavia. The expression
here is very fine. The smile of the angel in St. Jerome is
exquisite. The child is exquisite, as a healthy active imp ;
but of course altogether below the subject : — all is pleasing.
The Bearing of the Cross (an early work) is like the older
painters, flat and in pieces — the draperies and the flesh
separated. Here is Raphael's Christ in Glory — St. Peter and St.
Catherine below. The colour cannot be said to be bad, and
yet the effect is black. A Virgin with the Child by Van
dyke looks raw and modern ; good in design. The En-

392 PARMA — CORREGGIO.
tombment, by Schedoni, is black and heavy. Apparition
of the Virgin to Saints Augustine and Jerome, by Rondani,
pupil of Correggio, is good, solemn, and strong.
There are here two enormous granite figures ; one of
Bacchus, the other Hercules : they are in a monstrous style.
A peculiar antique Torso, different from any I have seen.
John de Bologna's Triton is worthy of remembrance, and a
cast of Cellini's Mercury.
In Correggio the white is toned and subdued: all is
modest, but not weak. In the St. Jerome the figures are
small — considerably less than life ; well suited to the cha
racter of the picture.
S. Giovanni Evangelista. Christ Bearing the Cross by
Gio. Batista, in the style of Correggio — dark and deep. A
Virgin and Child by Parmegiano. A Virgin in Glory by
Batista, somewhat Venetian. A Virgin and Child by Fran
cisco Francia, strong and excellent.
Palace San Vitale. An excellent small picture of the
Adoration of the Shepherds by Girolamo de Carpi. The
drawings by Parmegiano are very fine.
The seeming rapidity and curious confusion of touch in
Correggio is partly produced by careless application of pre
paratory colours. This first dauby painting is very visible
in some parts. There are employed in his process solid
painting, semi-transparent painting, and glazing, over almost
the whole. The richness of the tone in the shading of the
face of the Madonna — nose, mouth, and eyes ; the purple
hue in the darker, and the brown hue in the broader shades,
I should like to remember well. The large, silvery-grey
tones of the arms, legs, &c, of the child, and the delicate
red of the smaller parts, fingers, toes, and so on, also me
morable. Ducal Palace. Agostino Carracci's frescoes are varied

PARMA  CORREGGIO. 393
and well-toned in colour, studied and firm in design. There
is always a strong line left by the tracing from the cartoon;
also in those of Parmigiano. His Moses, and a Sibyl op
posite to it, are both great. The Moses is lost from being
placed so high. The dome of the Stoccata is powerfully
done ; the angels and clouds actually appear to come below
the windows. The architecture is simple and grand. The
dome is painted by Salviati : Bramante is the architect.
Ch. San Paolo. The Stanze of Correggio. The figures
of children here illustrate the origin of the style afterwards
used and abused by the mannerists. The style of these,
however, is larger, the execution very strong. They are
red against the grey or light blue sky. Their expression is
playful and easy. The broad and flat shades have a power
ful effect against the fight background. The ornaments and
fruit above are in the same rich taste. The whole cloister
has naked boys in the centres of the arches, in the style of
Correggio. They are miserably decayed.
The Cupola. The feet of all the figures sink from view
behind the projection of the painted plinth. The knees of
some even do so. The whole of the figures are shortened
perpendicularly ; some appear thrown back. The parts are
somewhat vague in detail. By a later painter this would be
considered superficial ; but the effect of space which is given
to the whole is amazing. Looking from below, I actually
thought that the wall went straight up for some distance,
while in reality the wall is convex. The perspective is
overcome by actually painting short or deformed men, and
intrepidly cutting down the multiplicity and size ofthe parts.
The indefinable tone of the shades in some of Correggio's
works is very excellent and peculiar. The angels in the
Repose in Egypt are very light, against a very dark sky :
the contrast very strong.

394 OLD SCULPTURES AT REGGIO.

REGGIO.
We begin to meet here the school of the Carracci. In
the church Santa Maria are some of them. This church is
much ornamented ; it is covered with carving and painting.
Above the altar is a lunette of the Annunciation, an imita
tion of Correggio. Above the door of the Duomo are Adam
and Eve in sculpture, closely resembling Michael Angelo's
Night and Morning. In this church is a Doloroso by Palma,
in his better style, painted at Rome I was told. The face
of the figure of Christ is in shade, and the head throws a
shadow upon the breast ; as a Dead Christ also by Palma
at Venice. Here is an old statue of St. Sebastian, with
wooden arrows sticking in the side, and an ancient tomb,
likewise worth notice — the pillars of which form sand
glasses ; on the top a figure of Christ ; saints at the sides.
BOLOGNA.
Academy. Here I am amidst the hard obvious painting
of the Bolognese : and before me is Raphael's St. Cecilia,
and St. John, both heavy and rusty ; far inferior in colour
to his early works in Milan — so I think at present. A
certain kind of design may be well studied in the Bolognese ;
effect at times also ; colour very rarely.
The St. Cecilia is exceedingly carefully laboured ; the
draperies all made out, yet ineffective after all.
Dead Christ by Guido : a large strong work ; black in
the effect as all the Bolognese are ; but great and composed.'
The Murder of the Innocents is expressive and broad : more
of the black of Guercino than I expected.
One recollects the St. Peter Martyr by Domenichino,

BOLOGNA — CHURCHES. 395
even after Titian. The colour of the murderer is good, but
oil-paint like ; the design amazingly careful, every bit of it :
this picture in its smooth look belongs to the same class of
works as some of the better modern French.
Ludovico Carracci, in the Transfiguration, is great in
many parts of the design, but the figure of Christ is poor,
and its colour bad — light-blue and white in portions. A
figure raising his cloak is impressive. Conversion of St.
Paul by Ludovico, is an ineffective disagreeable work.
Domenichino's two pictures — a Martyrdom, and the
Virgin of the Rosary — are painted strongly out, but the
colour heavy and unillusive ; the expression is dull ; all the
parts are made out, even dirty toe-nails. His painting
stands out much rounder than any other Bolognese, and
next him in this respect is Guido.
Ludovico has often a brown greyness. Albano is brown
— feeble in design ; the worst of the Carracci school.
Church S. Bartolomeo. Here is a remarkable picture :
an old bishop standing in the " desert drear " before a stone,
which is in a bright light. Another picture of a bishop,
dressed' in dark red and white ; his feet dark, upon light
ground. Venetian in gusto : memorable.
Church San Nicolo. A Saint among Fiends. He
sketches out his hand ; his head receives a strong light ;
the body dark on both sides against light in the sky : angels
above. Church San Martino. A picture, by Brizio, of Saints
Praying : black and light effect. An Old Saint, by Ludo
vico Carracci : great in design, solid in effect : he stretches
out his hand on a book: he is nearly naked: angels
above. Here is a large Perugino, The Assumption: the
colour good ; drapery dark and solid ; strongly resembling
the Marriage of the Virgin, by Raphael, but without the

396 BOLOGNA  CHURCHES.
delicacy. The Virgin on an Arch, by Fran. Francia:
of good colour : early design. The colour is really fine ;
all is careful : monks, saints, angels, virgin, the moon.
Church San Pietro. A lunette in fresco, The Annun
ciation by Ludovico Carracci, light in effect. The whole of
the arch over the altar is painted : the Deity in the centre :
numerous groups in the divisions : angels against the blue
sky at the sides. The Contrition of St. Peter by him also.
Dark and subdued : all solemn and undertoned. Here are
four Saints by Guercino, dark and deep. A Virgin by
Ludovico Carracci: fine face — but dark, very dark. A
Bomewhat curious Dead Christ also here, by Lombardi
Ferrarese, in terra cotta.
Church S. Jacopo Maggiore. A Chapel by Pell.
Tibaldi, which I am exceedingly glad to have seen. This
is really grand art : it is in fresco ; well preserved. All is
true, and all is great ; every part studied. The colour is
broad, and the parts round ; the drawing of the whole very
carefully formed, not by labour, like Domenichino, but with
the ease of true ability. A female with a child, and a
beggar, in the under division of one of these, which is
Christ, angels, &c, above. In the other, which I think is
John Baptising, are to be well remembered — the head of an
old man, a woman with her hands clasped, another on her
knees in the foreground, the angels and demons flying off
above. An under chapel, in fresco also, said to be by Francia :
the subject, the Life of the Virgin. The Virgin clothed
quite to the neck : she has a crown ; the child is in her
arms. The altar-piece is Christ bursting from the tomb,
with angels round : on each side of this are two large saints.
Zampieri Palace. Jove in Glory, and Hercules, by
Ludovico Carracci, in fresco. The clouds roll back ; dark

BOLOGNA  ZAMPIERI P. 397
blue, white, and dark brown. The wings of the eagle, the
draperv, and the head of Jove, dark against the golden sky.
All very large, full, and strong : one hand appears exagge
rated. Hercules and Omphale on a mountain top, by
Annibale. The clouds rolling back, and the yellow sky
shining behind. On the side of the room is a giant sinking
under rocks, by the same.
Two Fighting Cupids, by a scholar of Guido (Samenti?)
A sketch in oil, by Michael Angelo ; sharply touched ; the
hair scattered ; the drawing imperfect ; the colour light and
broad : the subject, Angels supporting a Dead Christ. The
Circumcision by Tibalbi : small picture in oil ; the colour
broad and flat, of good quality.
Hercules and Atalanta, frescoes on the roofs, by Agostino.
These works are not so well sustained as the others. A
landscape by Titian ; simple and general as his figures.
A fresco, by Guercino, of Hercules strangling Anteus ; is
stronger than Carracci's, but not so harmonious.
At this time, and throughout my Italian journey, I was
mainly occupied in studying processes and styles. The
meaning of the works, for the greater part, I pass over
here. In such as these frescoes, there is a wide distinction
from other works of which I speak in much the same man
ner. Both were alike distant from anything that I felt I
could be connected with. After all, however, I was too
much influenced for a time, though not to a very great
extent; they produced a distraction in practice, and dis
turbed me in thought. This effect I now do not regret ;
copying these notes in 1843.
Here is the first thought of Leonardo's Last Supper,
drawn by him with a sharp pen and blue ink on bare cloth ;
much decayed, but exactly what was afterwards the picture.
The Infant Hercules, by Guercino : a small round fresco.

398 BOLOGNA  CHURCHES, ETC.
Design by him, drawn and shaded in black chalk for his
picture in the Instituto ; very exactly finished. A head in
black, done by the pen, also by him, is like an engraving,
even dotted.
Sketch in red chalk, by Domenichino, of Adam and Eve,
done with all the care of a finished work. A Christ, in
black, by Guido, more free than the others. A small pen sketch
by Poussin, very sharp and free ; slightly shaded with brown.
In the Church of the Madalena are three good pictures
of the school of the Carracci ; they are superior to many in
the public gallery. One, of a female saint striking her
murderers with fear, is lighter in effect, and more agreeable
than the Bolognese in general. Another, of a virgin ele
vated, and saints below ; quite like the Carracci. Another,
of a saint tied to a stake, with an angel overhead, like Guido ;
grey toned and good.
Church San Paolo. Jacob Wrestling with the Angel.
Wanting in harmony of design. Cain and Abel opposite
this, broad, and yet broken in effect ; the front of Cain is
all dark ; the back of Abel all light : Tomioli. Here is a
strange dark picture of monks ; one lying dead in the fore
ground, with his face forward (reminding me of some of my
own illustrations to Coleridge.)
There are many fine pictures in this church : one is a
Christ in Glory. Another, Releasing the Souls in Purgatory,
by Guercino. Breadth of the parts is the Venetian mode,
while the Carracci are all cut up by blacks.
Zambeccari Palace. A picture by Simone Pesarese ;
the subject is Lot ; either borrowed from or suggesting the
Aurora to Guido. A large fine cartoon, by Lud. Carracci,
Of the Repentance of St. Peter. The picture from this
somewhat less in size I have seen in some church.
A strange wild Andrea Mantegna, of a wonderful gusto.

BOLOGNA — ZAMBECCARI P. 399
The subject is the gate of Limbo, or Purgatory; the expres
sion of all the figures is worthy of Michael Angelo. Fra.
Francia ; early looking, rich, well made out.
Here are some curious specimens of the old masters. A
Venetian called Crevelli : a virgin with horns and black
wings, the Christ has also horns ; figures stand below as
usual ; in execution it belongs to the infancy of art.
Crespi. Three muses or graces standing on a heath,
with a naked sky behind. An excellent old saint, by
Spagnoletto ; rich, full, all made out, strong dark colour.
Carlo Cignani : picture of Samson ; dark, but good colour.
A severe unadorned portrait, by Guido : a lady, by Veronese,
one of the Medici by Domenichino. A fine luminous Titian,
portrait of Carlo Quinto of Spain; the armour of steel mixed
with gold, very powerful. A poor Albano, with good
cherubs. Four fine small heads by Niccolo dell' Abate, in a
strong real style, easily executed. A curious splashing Sal
vator. Gessi is a poor pupil of Guido. Leon. Spada : picture
of a Sleeping Soldier ; vulgar and cold.
Here is a terra cotta, by Albert Dtirer, amazingly minute,
as if it were engraved.
Picture of Bacchus, by Mantegna, and also a feast by
him, both very curious. Lucretia, by Tibaldi ; altogether
grey in hue, the flesh flat. A very fine Veronese, with
white figures on white clouds ; blue sky, dark pieces of
drapery, broad shadows on the flesh, light yellow hair, light
purple drapery, much grey, and only dark towards the
centre ; the subject Apollo.
A chalk drawing by Michael Angelo, of the Deity
issuing from beneath an Arch ; very grand. A slight, rapid,
but very tender sketch, by Correggio, of the Child in the
Manger. A drawing by Veronese ; the outline strong, washed
in with brown. Drawings in red chalk by Parmigiano.

400 BOLOGNA — MARESCALCHI P.  CHURCHES.
A Descent from the Cross, by Cellini, wrought in bas-
relief in silver, a style something between Raphael and
Michael Angelo. Abraham and the Angels, by Ludovico ; -
good design ; also Joseph's Dream, and Moses Breaking the
Tables, all well designed, but musty in colour.
A St. Francis, by Guido ; grey in hue. Here is an early
Correggio, hard and antique looking. If this was ever his
study and manner, he made a great vault. The Muses, a
picture of the school of Julio Romano.
Marescalchi Palace. Here are two pictures by John Van
Eyck ; very hard, the draperies crumpled and sharp.
A Rubens : easy and graceful picture of ladies ; the most
elegant Rubens I have seen. Compared with this, the Vene
tians never painted ladies ; they made coarse women.
Piazzetta. A shrivelled old woman horridly real.
Venery, by Albano ; fine in comparison to himself. A fresco,
by Tibaldi ; the subject, a nymph pouring wine on the
mouth of a warrior ; like the design of Michael Angelo.
Church St. Salvadore. Here is a dark and blue Assump
tion, ofthe school ofthe Carracci ; also a Christ on the Cross,
with large figures below ; great in design, and not so black.
A large Joseph, with Mary, by Benvenuto ; dark and blue.
(Startled in the dark corner of a little altar by a man rising
up from his knees. I had passed him as a part of the
ornament.) San Michele in Bosco. Domenico Canuti, a pupil of
Guido : great and inventive. An altar here by a pupil of
Raphael, some of whose figures are copied. Two large
copies, from what must have been very fine pictures, by
Guido. A monument here, of a warrior asleep, very good.
The cloisters are painted in oil ; dreadfully rained ; the
division figures are very fine. In the refectory are small
frescoes by a pupil of Raphael.

FLORENCE  MEDICI CHAPEL. 401
Aldrovandi Palace. Here are six sketches by Correggio,
parts of the cupola. They are on grey, freckled grounds,
others on a darker ground, painted with a heavy pencil.
Here is a Raphael, amazingly piccolo, it seems to have been
painted with size. No wonder Michael Angelo burlesqued
such work. Another larger and freer. A Sea Goddess by
Ludovico is hard. Rubens here strikes one as a vital'
genius. Also a Rembrandt, and a Christ on the Cross
by a scholar of Rembrandt. A Madonna by Schidone :
a sort of furious execution.
Zampieri Palace. The first room is hung with pictures,
and converted into a gilder's work-place, dirty and confused.
The hump-backed and crooked gilder himself a good subject
for a sketch. His brow high and square, his hair curly
and black, twirling down all round his face and head.
FLORENCE.
In the Medici Chapel : the monuments by Michael
Angelo. Here is the full power of art. The frowning
Lorenzo, seated between the tremendous figures of Night and
Day, is fierce, solemn, and terrible ; likewise the other
monument with Dawn and Twilight. The head of Morning
is unfinished ; nor does it appear to me to have been ever
intended to have been finished by the sculptor. In a cer
tain point of view it rises in indistinctness over the shoulder
of the Dawn, like the sun over the mountains in the
mysterious opening of the Inferno of Dante. These are
among the principal of the very few things in art that
strongly excite me.
Baptistry. On the roof are some strange productions of
the revivers of art. Apollinus, a Greek ; and Andrea Taffi,
his pupil ; Taddeo Gaddi ; Alexis Baldovinetti ; and Do
menico Ghirlandajo. A figure of Christ, by Taffi, is very
2d

402 FLORENCE  CHURCHES.
monstrous. After such a picture as this, Richo of Candia
is like a god. His faces have all curious noses, one the fac
simile of the other (the pictures at Paris attributed to-
Cimabue appear to be duplicates of his). Then comes
Cimabue, and, according to the catalogue, he is wonderfully
different. The Greek origin of the works on the dome over
the altar, and many others in St. Mark's at Venice^ I now
understand, Ch. Santo Spiritb. A fresco by Perugino is in the
cloisters ; the material he uses here has not induced hard
ness so much as oil colour does ; his care in this instance is
merely finish. In this church, as in most in Italy, the
covering of pictures and statues by dresses is truly disgusting.
Here is a copy of Michael Angelo's Dead Christ ; the neck
of the Virgin is covered by hearts, flowers, and other stuff,
and on the head is a crown. On the draperies, in an old
picture near it, complete shapes of cloth are patched. In
Venice, I recollect a Christ on the Cross with a muslin
petticoat. Here is a Giotto of much character and expres
sion; it has a gold background, but otherwise exhibits much
developed painting.
Ch. Santa Croce. Here' is a picture by Rossi, rather
good, but nothing characterized in it. Here is Christ
bearing the Cross, by Vasari, the best work I have seen by
him ; the Descent of the Spirit, and another Christ bearing
the Gross, both by him, want expression, are confused,
and cold in colour. Here we have again Richo, Taddeo,
and Angelo Gaddi, Cimabue, and Giotto. On examining
Giotto, found by a piece broken off that it was painted on a
board covered with cloth, and that laid with a thick ground
of white composition. An altar-piece in the sacristy by
him is a very finished production, in as perfect preservation
as when it was done. On the sides of the altar, towards the

FLORENCE — EARLY MASTERS. 403
roof, Angelo Gaddi ; and very large spaces on the wall of
the sacristy by Taddeo ; the figures not-large, the course of
his story divided by lines. The altar in this church was
designed by Vasari ; it is rich and fine.
Ch. Santa Maria Novella. Many pictures. Immense
planes of wall covered in fresco. The choir to the roof is
in this method by Ghirlandajo ; there are likewise extensive
labours by Gaddi and Memmi. Here the Virgin and Child
enthroned, surrounded by angels, by Cimabue, his noted
work, which was borne in procession to the church. The
convent attached to this church is remarkable for the num
ber of frescoes by the early masters. Cimabue's Virgin and
Child is in expression the best work I have seen by him ;
the head is simple and solemn. How different is the treat
ment of the Virgin, saints, angels, &c. of these primitive
masters from that of the later schools !
A chapel by Filipo Lippi. The stiffness is abating
in him ; varied expression^ dignity and grace, design and
drapery. A puerility in the costume pervades all these
works. Those here are not quite so well preserved as in
Santa Croce, which are as perfect as when they were done.
Many of Giotto's pictures shame the durability of later
works. The choir to the roof is a series of Scripture histories by
Ghirlandajo. In these there is much confirmation, and not
much feebleness; much individuality, nature is copied in
the particular, not in the general. The mixture of the con
temporaneous costume with a species of Roman is curious
here — it is so in all the older, and in most of the later
masters — the subject figures are in the usually appropriated
dresses, the accessory figures exactly in those of the painter's
day. The difference between Ghirlandajo and Lippi ob
servable, there is more breadth and simplicity, less tortuous-
2d2

404 FLORENCE  EARLY MASTERS.
ness in the drapery, and more squareness and solidity in the
forms of the former.
A chapel in fresco by Orcagna. The subjects are, The
Judgment, Heaven, and Hell. His Heaven is square ; in
the middle are Christ and the Virgin ; below these are two
angels, smaller in size ; and below these, still smaller, is a
line of human figures, which is continued head above head
up to the top, and along it, forming, without diminution in
size, the square for the principal group. In the Judgment
there is something of the same arrangement : the dead are
being lifted or dragged out of square holes — two or three
only are visible. The back of a female in the foreground
of this is really beautiful. Hell presents punishments similar
to those of Dante; In these. works appear much that may
be called the commencement of the style of Michael Angelo
in the mode and in expression.
There are two tombs after the designs of Michael Angelo
in the chapel of the Gaddi ; the frescoes on the roof of this
chapel are broad in execution, and great in design. There
is much difference of character between Cimabue and Giotto.
Cimabue is more exalted, typical, and graceful: Giotto
more earthly, laboured, and heavy. The frescoes of Gaddi,
Ghirlandajo, and Orcagna, cover the churches to the roofs,
and pictures are everywhere in the convents, even in dark
damp passages. These monasteries strongly impress one
with their former importance, although in wandering through
them scarcely a being is . to be seen ; perhaps one monk
looks out of his window on the quadrangular plot of grass
and sky. There is usually a garden too. I am reminded
of Maturin's romance.
Santa Croce. The picture of St. George and the Dragon
has a more ancient appearance than any other I have seen.
The Dragon is within a circle, or moon, and also St. George,

FLORENCE  EARLY MASTERS. 405
with a multitude of angels who support him. Opposite this
production of the early dawn, is another representing a
mountain, out of which a bull issues ; an angel stands at a
little distance, and behind him a group of priests ; on the
other side a man seems surprised, and another holds a wea
pon in his hand. In a third picture, of very early date, a
bull or cow kneels to the Virgin enthroned ; is it one of the
? beasts of the Apocalypse, or is it the cow ofthe Scandinavians,
or is the picture votive, and connected with some story of a
cow? Here is a picture by Vasari of a mystical kind. Saints
and fathers below, and in either comer half figures of Adam
and Eve : a dead and unintelligent work. The processes of
thought in some of the early men seem to have been curious,
there often appears either childish inadvertance or a con
sciousness of the untrammelled demands of art. Taddeo
Gaddi, for instance, makes a man as large as a bridge he
looks over, a house not big enough to hold a leg of the man,
and lines of trees the size of box-wood borders. Is this
resembling Bottom's Wall, is it sheer blindness to size and
perspective ? or was it understood as a portion of the essen
tial principle in all high art, namely, the subordinating of
the lesser to the greater?
In the Cloister of San Spirito, the fresco, by Perugino,
is fresh in colour and free in execution : more so than his
oil pictures ; but his pictures in the Academy of the Arts
here, are above all I have seen elsewhere by him — The
Virgin on Clouds, with angels and saints, and Christ in the
Garden, both of which are rich, elevated in character, and
full-toned in colour.
Imperial Gallery (Uffizi.) In an unfinished Adoration of
the Shepherds, Leonardo displays the greatest facility and
the greatest patience. His labour, to be sure, has not been

406 FLORENCE — ADVANCE OF ART.
completed.; .the mode he adopted was tedious, and, perhaps,
his genius felt enthralled:; Leonardo neglected painting very
often. His method required a large endowment of patience.
His great Last Supper, expcuited with the most elaborate
carefulness, and stippled on a very smooth ground, presents
now but a very few fragments of the original work. A
tumbler with wine in it is one of the largest scraps of the
picture now left perfect.
From viewing the works of the fathers pf painting and of
sculpture, I conclude that very gradual progress takes place
till one man masters the materials by accumulated labour,
,(as Perugino, Bellini, Ghirlandajo,) whose followers show
facility, and form .the completion of advance. And when
this advanced practice is adopted for a length of time sub
sequently, without addition or original study, flimsy art and
manner succeeds. Raphael united the study and care of
tiie advance of art with thp facility of its maturity in the
different stagps of his career. Michael Angelo also did so .:
his Bacchus is poor and stiff, [Uniting pariy .dryness with his
own rising vigour ; ^ind jn ,the Dead Christ, in the Duomo
here, he displays, as Titian also did— for both lived to vitiate
their own style — an unstudied looseness. Raphael began
to give symptoms of a similar consummation in the Sibyls
in the Pace at Rome, but he was cut off before going further.
Luini, and, before him, Leonardo, reached the highest sum
mit of the elder age of art.
After the dash of the Venetians, the extreme finish of
the Dutch painters here strikes one amazingly. Gerard
Dpw, Metzu, Netcher, Terburg, and a line of pictures by
Francis Mieris.
Pitti Palace. Here is the Holy Farnily by Parmigiano ;
a Head of Christ, by Titian; a Baptism, by Veronese.
Samson slaying the Philistines, by Schidone, has pepuliar

FLORENCE  DUCAL PALACE. 407
colour : the fallen Philistine is grey, Samson, above, is rich
brown. The grey figure is only heightened by brown in
the fleshy parts ; great indefiniteness in the tints here. There
is a good deal of the peculiar quality resulting from the
method of the Venetians apparent here ; indeed this seems
to be the distinct character of the work.
Here is the Sylva de Philosophe, by Salvator ; and a
Battista Franca, after Michael Angelo. A female head by
Titian is of most accomplished simplicity of execution ; the
colour is in his flat, soft, brilliant method : the dress is blue,
the tints evidently copied; all is easy, and even slight; the ex
pression of the whole is that of life and reality. The Infancy
of Bacchus is of finished excellence in colour, by Tintoretto.
Martelli and Pietro Benvenuti are here in their modern
frescoes. Ducal (Pitti) Gallery again. Ghirlandajo was a great
man ; strong and true. Some gilding on his works, but also
effect ; the colouring is powerful. The stern truth of his pro
ductions is a fit ground for the education of Michael Angelo.
Frate Bartolomeo is another of the giants of the elder art.
Manzuoli of Florence : the subject is Memphis by the
Sea, Apollo descending: wildness and poetry of invention.
The Raising of Lazarus, by Veronese : very low tone, all
brown, relieved by green. A Holy Family, by Bonifazio,
more simple painting, and touch of solid colour than I have
elsewhere seen by the painter. Here is a very fine work by
Luini. The sculptures of Donatello, of large size, are meagre in
the forms, but strong in character and design. Michael Angelo
must have studied them ; he has even borrowed the manner
of Donatello. Here is St. John, young and old, and David,
with the head of Goliah at his feet.
Bacchus, by Sansovino, and a Bacchus by Michael Angelo.

.408 FLORENCE  DUCAL PALACE.
The first is the best, but it is small. Michael Angelo has much
of the little hardness of Donatello; in the head in particular,
with its mouth open and teeth represented. The arms are
poor : the limbs are copied from a model. Here is a statue
of Melpomene : the face is somewhat individual— maddened
expression. Daniel da Volterra is regular and learned in design.
His picture of the Murder of the Innocents is an evidently
contrived circular composition. Bonifazio has borrowed
from this, or he from Bonifazio. In colour it approaches
the Venetian. A Venus, by Annibale Carracci, is like the
Venetians. Here are Raphael's St. John, and two beautiful
Nativities; also two Saints, by Bartolomeo, in his large,
rough style : the red and blue drapery is strong and well-
formed. Albert Diirer has more drawing and more style than the
earlier masters of the Italian schools, with great detail, and
an easy reality.
Palazzo Strozzi. Here is a Bacchanalian Scene by
Testa — a compound of Rubens ahd Titian; dry in the
method, however — full and free in design. Some Salvators
very true ; three of them green and confused. A portrait
by Allori, Bronzino, dark and simple.
Old Palace. Portrait of Giovanni de Medici by Bandi-
nelli. Giotto again. The History of Hercules in sculpture,
by Rossi. Immense sheets of painting by Vasari. A Vic
tory, by Michael Angelo, unfinished. Adam and Eve, by
Bandinelli. Virtue overthrowing Vice, by John di Bologna,
a pure imitation of Michael Angelo.
Ducal Palace again. Here is a small copy of Vasari's
Assumption of the Virgin. The prophets are all chained to
the tree with Adam and Eve, a singular piece of invention.
An Infant Christ lying on the Cross by Allori, Bronzino,

FLORENCE  DUCAL PALACE. 409
is soft in design and good in colour. Here is the
Medusa by Leonardo ; the labour and finish of this is ex
treme. Angelico da Fiesole. Light, delicate, and very spiritual;
much gentleness. This painter must have been a good, and
a good-natured man. The picture is on gold ; the glories
are as if engraved. Portraits by Raphael. In these there
is extreme finish : single hairs are attempted against the
dark background. Great truth in the hands ; also in the
ornaments, and every part.
The Venus of Titian is on a very rough cloth. By this
roughness the carnations of the fingers, cheeks, knees, &c,
is aided in effect ; the light is reflected from the surface in
different directions ; refraction takes place from the nature
of the painting — reflection from the irregularity of the
surface. The antique Venus (de Medici) : both arms and hands
are modern ; the head ancient ; one arm is renewed from
the elbow, the other from the bottom of the deltoid. These,
and the tail-fin of the dolphin, are the only modern portions.
Andrea del Sarto's Virgin mounted on a pedestal is great
in design. His grey lightness is somewhat muddy in the
faces — even in the whole of the flesh it is so. The colour is
more essential in means than the Florentines in general:
There is a short strengthiness in the forms, and the draperies
are well considered and fine.
Andrea Mantegna. Firm and strong ; all the attitudes
bold and composed. The draperies are small but well di
rected ; they cling much to the form. All is hard and some
what meagre : there is no bad, and very little poor drawing
in his works. Parmigiano's Holy Family is green and
wiry. A Michael Angelo here displays care and finish like an

410 FLORENCE— DUCAL PALACE.
engraving. The colour is dry, brown, and hard. The drapery
is folded much after the style of Mantegna.
Here is a large half-figure of Christ by Lucas of Ley-
den. The drapery seems to have been attempted after
nature, but too much compounded : the figure is infantine.
A broad dark shade under the head gives sentiment.
Julio Romano. The Virgin and Child; she with her
finger in a book. The attitude of the Child is good ; but
the whole picture fails in expressing the sentiment of his
master, Raphael, of whom this is in some degree an imi
tation. Correggio. Here is an Angel's Head by him, with
wonderful eyes ! no eye-lashes — a dark line of shadp instead :
soul looking from full round form. Bartolomeo's Job is
grand. Sarto's style is an imitation of the middle styles
of Raphael and Michael Angelo.
Raphael, in the portrait of Julio II., is simple, strong,
and true ; the colour is rich and broad. The Holy Family :
the Virgin is beautiful, with light hair, and the moon. The
delicacy and gentleness of this is beyond all — Correggio not
.excepted. The sculpture of the Wrestlers has been much destroyed,
and much repaired and joined. All the parts, however, are
antique, with the exception, I think, of the raised arm.
The patterns on the different parts of the furniture, mat
tress, &c, in the picture of the Venus by Titian, all aid the
«ffect — giving a full diaper richness to those parts, and leav
ing breadth to the figure and the light drapery round it.
Groups of singing figures, sculptured by Luca della
Robbia, 1388, have much truth and character.
In the instances wherein Titian has painted on a dark
ground, he is heavy, and often brown. His most beautiful
handling and colour is on a light grey ground. Here

FLORENCE — CHURCHES, ETC. 411
his St. Catherine is round and true, but somewhat dis
agreeable. Academy of the Fine Arts. Here is a sketch by Sarto on
cloth — an evident imitation of Michael Angelo; a cartoon by
Romano, imitation or copy of Raphael. A Virgin and Child
in Perugino's style, a cartoon. Also chalk-cartoons by Bar-
tolomeo : the figures are larger than life : they are correct,
but mostly scribbled. Here is a cartoon in grey and white
by Michael Angelo. It is evidently a production of his
youth. The 'style is very grand ; the incorrectness of it would
almost make me call it wretchedly poor. Also good cartoons
by Dell Sero, a Milanese, and some by Barocci.
Luca Signorelli, among the older masters, is free and
full. Ch. Santissima Nunziata. One of the altars is a Judg
ment by Allori, most of the figures borrowed from Michael
Angelo. The Madonna del Sacco by Sarto: all is broad
and simple finished first-tone and lightness. The Court is
also his, a noted work.
Ch. Del Carmine. The frescoes of Masaccio are here ;
the Adam and Eve, and the figure Raphael borrowed. As in
all the works of great men, there is throughout simplicity in
accordance with the sentiment and expression. The gene
ral arrangement of Masaccio's work has been studied by
Raphael — the style of his drapery, and mode of clothing his
figures. The character of his heads, too, afterwards shone
forth in Raphael.
Here is Christ on the Cross, by Vasari, better than his
pictures in general. A cupola by Luca Giordano.
Church of the Apostles. An Annunciation, by Vasari,
curious in allegoric invention : Adam and Eve are tied to
the tree below ; wound round which is the serpent : it looks
up with a human winged head, supporting the foot of the

412 DRAWINGS IN THE DUCAL PALACE.
Virgin. She is also sustained by angels. The grouping in
this work is good ; it is of fully formed Florentine kind ; the
execution dry ; the tone cold and heavy ; the canvass closely
filled. In the Piazza of the Hospitale is a large fine Annun
ciation, in the style of Vasari : it is the most gorgeous of
that subject I have seen.
Church San Miniato, is rich, old, and romantic. The
sacristy is painted in fresco by Spinelfi: the subjects,
Dominican monks : the style is dry and stiff, without genius.
The carving of the pulpit and screens is exceedingly rich.

Ducal Gallery again. Here is a collection of 484 draw
ings by the masters. Parmigiano. — A St. Catherine, evi
dently after his mistress.
Maturino . — Great.
Polidoro. — Great power and breadth.
Julio Romano. — Rich, very full.
Perino del Vaga. Small in the style, minute, rather
scratchy. Bandinelli. — Great and free, though somewhat loose.
Battista Franco. — Strong, the lines cut by the pen.
Carpi. — Sharp and round.
Campi. — Subject, the Pranks of Love.
Titian. — In black chalk, the broadest and greatest in
style of the whole.
Tibaldi. — Free and broad, — white and brown chalk.
Rubens. — A head in red and black chalk, the eyes in
ink. Dolci. — Four heads, soft and tame.
Church St. Ambrose. Here is a fresco by MasaPcio,

FLORENCE — PITTI PALACE AGAIN. 413
more ornamental than those in the Carmine. Dignity,
freedom of attitude, great truth ; the drawing always good :
a dome in this church, perfectly dark, is all painted. Here
is a quantity of poor modern trash.
Ghirlandajo was a dramatist: he drew from individuals;
hence he has not the feebleness which the earlier and more
mystic painters often show. Lippi has more simplicity, but
less strength. In Orcagna there is a fine squareness of
form. His Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, are all like Dante.
Pitti Palace again. The Triumph of David, by
Rbsselli, is a good conception. David is in the centre : a
female on each side of him, in front, ascending a rising
ground. Rembrandt produces an effect equal to Titian ; for
individual veracity and variedness, possibly superior. This
is done in his portraits by a means totally different from
Titian. Rembrandt is repeated and accidental, loaded and
glazed again: all the execution in Titian is settled from
the first. Here is almost the only allegorical picture that I
ever felt to be "expressive; indeed it is one of the few
pictures giving me a hew and vivid feeling. The picture is
not in any way eminently produced : the subject is love :
a female is biting the arrow of Cupid, who pours money
into her hand from his quiver.
Michael Angelo's Fates are more openly painted than his
Holy Family, but still elaborate and minute. Burgonone's
Battles are spirited, but they are black, and not agreeable
in execution. The Virgin in Glory, by Sarto, does not
impress me. Rubens' Bacchanalian subjects show great
genius in design, as he always does, but in this one there is
much in common with Cortona ; in colour it is brown and
rusty. A Battle, by Salvator, is inferior : in the foreground
is a gross incident, a man with his arm cut right through.
¦Satyr and Nymphs, by Giorgione, is inexpressive. Here is a

414 FLORENCE  PITTI PALACE.
Head of the Virgin, by Vandyke; truly very fine,- not
altogether so' in expression, but an astonishing head, the
eyes are alive.
In the Finding of Moses, by Giorgione, the origin! 0f
the rich method of the Venetians is exemplified : there is
gilding, but there is also mastery and a full pencil; the
colours flow thick ; the landscape is exactly as Titian after-
wards' painted. The Hours; by Romano, is on a gold
ground. A Descent from the Cross, by Perugino; not so
strong as he frequently is in the reds; more solemn and
sober. A Head, .by Annibale Carraccij on rough cloth, freely
treated ; no illusion in the method.
Raphael's Vision of Ezekiel is fully formed and' soft,
but dark; freely executed: the dark wings and figures
ought to be sublime against the glory. Titian's God the
Father, in the Assumption, is so : the size of this work-is
too small for the subject. Guido's Cleopatra is beautiful;
but pale colour. Piombo's Martyrdom of St. Agatha' looks
older than some anterior Venetian works. The colbur of
the saint is like the first colour of Giorgione: the effect is
altogether hard, cold, and' gross ; the executioners pinch
the nipples with black irons.
The Martyrdom of Forty Saints, by Pontormo, is a small
picture; of true Florentine thought, design, and colour:
imitative of Michael Angelo.
Professor Salviati has painted the roof and lunettes of
this room, which is to the east of the larger room. His
productions show great labour, study, and learning.: the
subject is the Council of the Gods. The modem fresco
wants breadth.
Giorgione's portrait in The Concert is one of his finest
works: the hands are worth remembering. Sarto's large
Assumption is a true but a dry performance to me at pre-

FLORENCE — PITTI PAIjACE. 415
sent. Veronese's portraits have great simplicity and. truth,
but are dry also. Again a Virgin and Saints, by Frate :
simple and large in design, but very black and heavy. Carlo
Dolci is a crude painter : his picture in the Ducale, and his
St. Peter here, are both dull in thought, and raw in colour.
Salvator, by himself — a spirited man. The Head of
Christ, by Titian — profile : the finest Christ I have seen :
it possesses strength and mildness, simplicity and dignity.
The brow is simple and rather small — at least not attractive
in size; the eye is rather so likewise; the nose nearly
straight ; the hair and beard are dark ; the drapery red and
blue ; a blue sky above ; a slight nimbus before, behind,
and above the head. How simple the colour is !
Schiavone : a great and broad colourist ; a little coarse,
but rich. Adam and Eve, with the Creator, designed by
Bandinelli, and painted by Andrea del Minga — s.tyle of
Michael Angelo. The Expulsion, by the same. A picture
of a number of figures kneeling, by Titian, possesses the
simplicity, as well as rich breakings of Titian.
Pitti Palace. (On returning homewards, without refer
ence to former notes.) Saloon of Venus.
Cortona.— His frescoes are crystal-like.
Rubens. — A landscape, very green, and somewhat hard.
Rosselli — The Triumph of David is bold and strong.
Titian.— This Marriage of St. Catherine ; a duplicate in
the Campidoglio.
Titian. — The Magdalene is red and hard!
Salvator.— A sea piece ; not good, chalky, painted-like.
Rembrandt. — A philosopher of immense breadth and
strength. Saloon of Apollo.— The frescoes are washy;
Palma the Elder.— The supper at Emmaus, clear light
and dark ; bright as the Prodigal in the Borghese at Rome.

416 FLORENCE  PITTI PALACE.
Cigoli : a Descent from the Cross ; an imitation of Titian,
and a mixture of Guido, Sarto and Perdenone.
Titian. — Portrait of Aretino, in a yellow crimson cloak ;
rich and deep.
Romano. — A copy of Raphael's Virgin, with the lizard.
Frati.— Descent from the Cross ; contrasted with this
Sarto appears grey ; he has not the richness, clearness, nor
tone. Saloon of Mars. — There is great genius on the roof.
Guida Cagnacci : Mary Magdalen ; strong firm art ;
dark ; the figures are in the air. Cigoli : Ecce Homo, an
imitation of the Venetian. Raphael's Leo X. This is pro
bably Julio Romano's copy ; the picture at Naples is less
dark, and more brilliant. Vandyke : a portrait of Cardinal
Bentivoglio; broader and lighter than Vandyke in general.
Rubens : the effects of war ; almost like Cortona.
Carlo Dolci. — St. Peter weeping; bad; blue and yellow.
Titian. — Portrait of a young man : life and truth.
Raphael. — Called dell impannata ; more like Romano.
Rubens.— Portraits, his brother, Lipsius, and Grotius; a
very rich work.
Allori Bronzino. — Almost like Guercino.
Guido. — A Rebecca in his rather white style ; some of
the heads round.
Saloon of Jupiter.
Titian. — A Bacchanalian scene of doubtful authenticity.'
Salvator. — The oath of Cataline; strong style ; flesh bad.
Bartolomeo. — This St. Mark the largest work by him I
have seen; bold,- and great in design ; very distinet in colour.
The mode of painting is simple : on cloth thickly prepared ;
outlined with the pen ; solid in the lights with white, and
the shades also with dark colour in some parts ; finished by
glazing.

FLORENCE  PITTI PALACE. 417
Salvator. — A battle, very rapid. A female portrait ; his
favourite face by Titian, is exquisite and wonderful in the
finish, and, at the same time, ease of the hair, the execution
of the blue and purple dress, the hands, indeed the whole.
This must have been a dangerous face to look upon. Rubens,
beside this, looks tinted.
Saloon of Saturn.
Vandyke. — Charles I. and his Queen ; miniature-like.
Raphael. — Portrait of Julius II. ; this is the first, that
of the Ducale second.
Giorgione. — Nymph pursued by a Satyr ; early style.
Schiavone. — Cain killing Abel ; immensely strong, the
form of the whole is severe ; the sky, leaves, hills, &c.
Carlo Dolci. — St. Rose ; wretched.
Giorgione. — Doubtful ; thickly coloured, no cracking.
Andrea. — A beautiful Annunciation.
Raphael. — The Virgin enthroned ; imitating Bartolomeo
and Sarto; very slight. The Vision of Ezekiel is very
sharp and finished ; all bold and black ; still the colour is
fine. This is probably Raphael's grandest work, in spite of
its small size. -
Piombo. — St. Agatha ; strong, coarse, but very severe.
Manner of Morone. — Such portraits as this are called
Titian at Naples.
Titian. — Portrait of Hypolito de Medici ; rich and
simple. Frate. — The Virgin enthroned ; blackish ; painted on
wood. Perugino. — The Infant adored by the Virgin, &c, is
more like Raphael ; or, if this is Perugino, and an early
work, Raphael has derived the value of his heads of the
Virgin from Perugino.
Titian. — Christ ; very fine in character and execution.
2 B

418 FLORENCE  TITIAN.
Parmigiano. — The Virgin, called " du long col," original
and absurd.

Sarto appears latterly to have painted slightly and
rapidly — his works are many of them flimsy. The female
in blue dress, by Titian, is worthy of being well remem
bered. The sleeves trimmed with white, the purple part
being black and white glazed with lake, and touched with
gold. The solidly painted blue dress, ornamented with
gold ; the chain ; the gold tassels. The face, above all, I
wish to remember : the grey shade of the cheek, tempered
with vermilion ; the neck cooler ; the breast all one colour,
the inflections being produced by the ground, which I think
was a warm grey ; the hair, and the glorious eyes. The
simplicity of the whole ; the slight degree of indistinctness
throughout very different from either labour or looseness.
This portrait, as a piece of straight onward work, producing
a delightful impression, is the finest female portrait in the
world. Ducal Gallery. The Flora, by Titian, is all light, and
thinly painted, possibly on both light and dark preparation
of ground, as the parts required. At the joining of the hair
with the brow there is the appearance of dark underneath,
and on the hair evidently a white preparation has been used;
the picture is perfectly admirable in colour, both strength and
simplicity; the hair is terminated by ringlets falling over the
breast, done by a glaze floated over the light of the skin.
Metzu here, in a picture of a woman playing on a guitar,
is exquisite in method; and also Terburg, in a woman
drinking, and a man leaning on a table, asleep. The
lucidity and general breadth of tone in both is very excel
lent, and makes one respect these non-aspiring, self-satisfied

PERUGINO IN PERUGIA. 419
northerns. Mieris is inferior to both ; his colour is brown,
and wants the tone. Here is Rubens' bacchanalian scene
again — it is in the manner of Spagnoletto — Silenus sup
ported by Satyrs ; a female back is light ; the rest of the
picture is in an under tone.
Bourdon.— A Holy Family somewhat in imitation of
Poussin. Philip Champagne. — A bold portrait.
Baccio Bandinelli. — A very good portrait.
Leonardo. — A front face ; clear and light ; possibly on
a light ground.
Allesandro Allori. — A small Crucifixion, after Michael
Angelo ; he has known Correggio. Sodoma. — A St. Sebastian
in a fine style. Ridolfo Ghirlandajo. — The author of two
strong black, red, and white pictures here ; very fine rich
colour. Piombo. — A most splendid portrait ; its strength
is ponderous : painting rich, and touched with immense
force ; the colour floating. A sumptuous head by Gior
gione ; more light and dark, and broader in its parts than
the other. Aurelio Luini here appears the author of the
Florentine light manner. Benedetto da Rovezzano, a sculp
tor of early date, has some subjects here — the deaths of
monks, martyrdoms, &c. There is a classic air about them,
with individuality. Luca della Robbia is more strong and
free ; the Escape of Peter, musical trumpet players, and
others, are really fine. PERUGIA.
Perugino's works here display much of the best style of
Raphael. In the finish of these frescoes there is attention
and the degree of labour, which Raphael renounced only
when he gave symptoms of deterioration.
These frescoes display in a degree the same thought
2 e 2

420 PERUGINO IN PERUGIO.
which is embodied in the Stanze of the Vatican ; and in
one or two instances Raphael has copied the idea, and even
the position of individual figures. The heads are similar
to Raphael's even at the last. The colour is rich, even as
colour it is superior. In a church near the gate on entering
on the road from Rome, there is a picture of Christ among
the Doctors, similar in design to Leonardo's in the National
Gallery, London ; soft and clear in mode like Leonardo's,
evidently of good quality, but placed beyond reach of exa
mination ; said to be by Perugino.
I like Perugino in Perugia, with all his warriors,
philosophers, sibyls. He taught Raphael too to get works
executed by pupils ; the chapel of the Cambia being by
them after his designs ; its room or hall is by himself.
SIENA.
Cathedral. Pastorino is the painter of the lunette over
the altar. The chapel, by Raphael and Pinturicchio, is
admirable ; a beautiful, youthful, and spirited emanation.
Domenico Beccafumi was the designer of the frescoes on the
altar ; and the floor in grey and white marble. Here is an
altar by Giovanni da Pisa. Here saw the first mosaic that
deceived me — a copy from Maratti. Two statues by
Bernini.
ROME.
The Vatican. The Loggie, with their stores of ornament,
and three corridors. The upper corridor painted with terre
incognite in abundance ; owls in clouds, winds blowing,
monsters wrecking ships, and other things curious enough.
On another side is a series of allegorical designs, in which
there is much poetry ; among others, a Morning superior in

VATICAN. 421
freshness to Guido ; he must have seen this, and also
another which is here.
The second corridor has a series of church histories in a
flat Florentine style, with some good in them ; they are late.
The ceilings are rich, but they produce a minute effect.
Opposite to Raphael's, in the quadrangle, is a series by a
Florentine ; the design often good, and colour fresh ; the
spaces between the windows, as in Raphael's Loggia, filled
by figure grotesques.
The ceilings of Raphael are simple ; the comers being
painted either in figure grotesques or with angels, as in the
two end divisions. The higher portions are against white,
the next against yellow, the lower against blue, deep blue.
Blue is also strong in the interspaces ; it occurs also in the
Cupid and Psyche ; it is arbitrary, and merely archi
tectonic. Large Pictures of the Stanze. Heliodorus. Attilla. The
difference between the colour of these and of Julio's Battle of
Constantine is very marked. For dramatic mythos, or this
theologic-dramatic, colour of these is as fine as any that exists.
The Miracle of Bolsena has in some parts more individual
ising strength and greatness ; in this it is like Titian.
The armour in St. Peter delivered from Prison is very
real ; a little more Venetian breadth would have lowered it,
and perfected it at once, as mere colour.
The school of Athens is possibly the most perfect of the
series. It is quieter both in design and colour than some of
the others, but there is throughout strength in both respects ,-
the tone of the whole is very mellow and subdued.
In his frescoes there is nothing of the hardness often felt
in Raphael's oil pictures. The Dispute of the Sacrament
is the most timid and the earliest of this series, but there is
great unformed strength in the style of the heads, hands,

422 VATICAN.
feet — of all of it indeed ; and it is only when he comes into
coincident sentiment with that of Perugino, in Angels and
Saints, that the remains of ancient feebleness is strikingly
visible. '
In the school of Athens the drawing is in many parts
very incorreet, sometimes poor, but often wrong. There is
the strength of the master however thrown over the whole.
Great part of the Incendio del Borgo, it appears to me, is
not his painting. The Decapitation picture is not by him,
scarcely even his in design.
On the roof of one of these chambers, Apollo flaying
Marsyas is a counterpart to Adam and Eve. How does
this consist with the idea of a connected whole ? The truth
is, Raphael's works here only illustrate theology by inci
dental dramatic scenes, or sometimes by expositions. They
have no great or abstract unity complete and coherent.
This is much more the case with Michael. Angelo's epic
work, but still it is not completely so ; but even the Bible
itself — a theologic whole, through the dramatic, epic, and
all other forms — partakes of accident, and many foreign and
exterior matters.
Parnassus is the poorest, the most timid picture of the
whole ; in effect it is likewise so. The gold behind the
figures on the roof of this room has a rich effect ; the divi
sions of the roof are white and gold. In the first room the
backgrounds are blue. In the Sacrifice of Abraham the
figures are light against strong colour.
BARBERINI PALACE.
The Fornarina by Raphael. The original picture, full of
fidelity ; the bare trueness of the hands, their defective paw
like attitude, and the same quality in the face — all is tran-

ROME — BARBERINI PALACE. 423
scribed. Fine eyes ; she must have been a beautiful
animal. "Raphael Urbinus" is painted on her bracelet.
It is painted smooth, on a hard ground ; the shades, as very
usual with Raphael, clotted, the lights thin ; the tint of the
whole is brown.
Titian. — A Slave ; broad in effect, but not very notable
for colour beside Raphael. Lanfranco. — St. Cecilia, an
irregular production, somewhat Venetian, a foot well painted,
the cherubs behind good. Diirer. — Christ among the Doctors,
an extraordinary work ; here are the rudiments of amazing
strength of design ; very thinly painted on a light ground ;
in that respect different from the early masters of other
schools. The figures of the doctors express distorted intel
lects ; date 1506.
Two beautiful small landscapes ; one by Claude, the
other by Albano ; the effect of Claude is very broad,
divided into two, half sky and half ground ; Albano's more
blended. Domenichino. — God reproving Adam ; his best work I
have seen ; not large ; his vigour is equal to this scale.
Fra. Francia. — A fine Madonna ; the child white.
Albert Diirer. — A Madonna; the child with a glass
globe in his hand ; here the shades are clothed like the
Italians. Pygmalion, by Peruzzi, a Florentine. — Good.
Sarto. — A Holy Family resembling Correggio ; broad,
simple, and true.
Mengs. — St. Peter ; bad ; brown colour.
Guido. — Christ releasing Souls from Purgatory ; black.
Farnesina Palace. In the upper rooms are worn out
frescoes, green and light ; a narrow line of pictures. All of
them fine imaginative compositions, by Julio Romano and
Raphael's pupils.

424 ROME  CORSINI PALACE.
Alexander and Roxana, by Sodoma. A whole room by
him. The style completely Raphaelesque. Are these
anterior to Raphael ? It cannot be ; they are certainly
in imitation of Raphael ; there is good fancy in the
whole. Corsini Palace. A Holy Family I supposed by Sarto,
I find to be by Bartolomeo. Somewhat like Correggio.
Here is a dark Spanish Martyrdom picture; a very pithy,
nervous picture ; excellently real ; a dark figure is all of
one yellow-brown colour.
Caravaggio. — A woman and child meant for the Virgin ;
astonishing for individual truth. Albani. — Dark blue
sky and dark ground ; skin light ; certainly peculiar.
Baroccio. — Flimsy and pithless. Maratti. — A Virgin;
black enough.
St. Jerome, by Titian. — Forcibly struck by the difference
of colour here, and in the pictures round about. The same
colour in different tones carried throughout the work, and
contrasted with the strongest opposition diffused in the
same way. The effect is mellow : there is only one piece of
white drapery ; the yellow sky bears out the tint of the
flesh ; here is red upon red. The pictures round look crude.
Valentino, a pupil of Caravaggio, is, like him, indi
vidual and strong.
Spagnoletto. — Here not so rich, but possibly more true.
L. Carracci. — A Pieta, very solemn, almost grand.
Guido. — Cupid asleep, very soft fine colour.
Polidoro. — His drawing reminds me here of Niobe.
Salvator's Prometheus, with the intestines exposed, is
mean. Titian. — Bacchanalian ; the flesh perfectly luminous.
Luca Giordano. — Dead Adonis: a strong, dark style,
simpler than his picture in Venice, and rich.

ROME  ROSPIGLIOSI PALACE. 425
Raphael. — A school-boy imbecility of St. George and
the Dragon.
Pandolfo. — A landscape after Salvator.
Titian. — The Woman taken in Adultery : before his
style was formed : the shadows of the flesh painted hard,
the hair minute, the drawing poor, but the colour rich,
the drapery free.
Rubens. — St. Sebastian, graceful in design.
Garofolo. — Christ bearing the Cross, quiet design, with
colour. Luca Giordano. — A curious Christ among the Doctors,
in style between the lower Venetians and the mannerists.
Rospigliosi Palace. Guido's Aurora. This is a splen
did fresco. The variety of tone in it is greater than in any
other fresco of this school, or indeed of any other. The
Venetians are certainly not prominent in fresco. The
Winds at either end are poetic.
L. Carracci has an enormous picture here, seemingly an
early work, very little Domenichino in colour and handling ;
the design is poor, and in many parts stiff, often feeble.
Domenichino. — Two great pictures : Adam and Eve, and
the Triumph of David. They are black, but very strong
and substantial ; the Adam and Eve in Paradise, in particu
lar: the animals are powerful, the figures are his best.
Rubens always appears, in comparison with others in
these Italian galleries, patchy, brown, and crude, particularly
in the flesh. Some of his pictures are, however, exceptions
to this, as Christ and the Doctors, in the Pitti Palace.
Guido. — The Andromeda, tender in colour, in his washy
style ; here he is light, but not worthless. Here is a portrait
of Guido, said to be by himself; I consider it by Vandyke.
Poussin. — Bacchus, leaning on a wine-flask and a cor-

426 ROME — CHURCHES — DORIA PALACE.
nucopia, is very fine. Poussin is happy in his bacchanal
scenes, he seems to enjoy them ; his histories are often told
without being felt.
Carlo Cignani. — A picture of Charity, sharp and strong,
rich colour, almost like a Spanish work.
Cammuccini's collection, (brother of the painter.) —
Garafolo. — Virgin and Child. Portrait of Benedict, by
Titian ; the combination of stern reality and execution is
astonishing ; the finest male portrait I have seen.
Mazzolino. — This old Venetian has more than any
other the colour and style, the drapery, and even the cha
racter, of the heads of Titian ; the date on this picture is
1527. Church St. John Lateran. Giotto. — A fresco of Bonir
face VEIL, dated 1300. The most picture-like of his pro
ductions : the colour is rich, and the execution not so pain
fully laboured as in general ; three figures in the picture,
the pope and two priests.
Doria Palace. Titian. — A Holy Family, on a hard
ground : surface colour, and not good.
Filippo Lauri. — The Repose in Egypt : noteworthy.
Rembrandt. — An Old Saint, said to be by him.
Carracci. — A picture of simple design, and solemn effect.
Titian. — His portrait, and his Abraham's Sacrifice.
St. Jerome, by Spagnoletto : vast individuality. He is
a man of great force of purpose: unmodified strength within
a narrow range, compared to the greatest.
Church San Jesu. In the sacristy is a roof like Guercino
in effect, painted in the studied manner of Vasari : the sub
ject is a saint dying. He is in a black dress against a blue
and black sky. The ceilings of the altars are by Salviati
or Vasari ; they are comparatively good. The roof of the
church is more modern, by Pozzo ; it is bad, but, in a certain

ROME  COLONNA PALACE. 427
way, well done; the rolling of the clouds down upon the
walls is potently effected: the whole is magnificent, but
confused. There are two good pictures in the sacristy of
Gregory XV. and Cardinal Ludovici.
Church San Luigi de' Francesi. Domenichino is in force
here at various altars. He appeared white in the flesh, but
simple and expressive; the church, however, is so badly
lighted there is no seeing the pictures.
Colonna Palace. Romano. — A Madonna, in a red and
yellow dress.
Castiglione. — Strong and well-toned, armour and cloth.
Albani. — Two harmonious and very fine landscapes.
Europa, by him, not good.
Tintoretto. — An old man playing an organ: the sun
rising. This is a portrait on a dark ground, the shades are
the black left.
Sarto. — His eternal subject — the Holy Family.
Annibale Carracci. — A peasant feeding on snails.
Paris Bordoni. — The rich and strongest work I have
seen by him : the Holy Family in the Desert — very dark
and very rich, like Titian or Giorgione in parts.
Vasari. — The best I have seen by him: a Nativity.
Holbein. — A very fine portrait.
Veronese. — A fine portrait ; the finest I have seen by
him. Sacchi. — Cain, running wildly away, might have been
very grand : the style of the other figure does not quite keep
up with that of Cain.
Gaspar Poussin. — Rich in landscapes, painted in dis
temper. Breugel and Paul Brill good in their little way.
Borghese Palace. The Release of Peter, by Mola ; the
design without dignity or appropriateness; the execution

428 ROME — COLONNA P.  ALBANI P.
bold, full, and free. The Danas of Correggio is painted
exactly in the mode of the Parma picture of the Repose in
Egypt; it has not the fulness and boldness of the St.
Jerome ; the flesh has a grey feebleness, all the' parts have
indeed ; the yellow cloud is a good idea.
The Madonna, S. Anna, and infant Christ trampling on
the Serpent, by Caravaggio, is a very disagreeable, black,
low production. Garofolo. — Madonna with St. Michael,
very studied and careful : resembles Raphael. Lanfranco. —
A picture of Polyphemus, called " La tavola di Lucilla," in
a very bold style,
Albani Palace. Here is a roof by Mengs, the subject,
Apollo and the Muses. This is the studied work of a
learned man in art, but one who lived in an age when criti
cism, armed at all points, requires the painter to be the
same ; thus his works are apt to become tame by attempting
too much. Mengs is good both in drawing and colour; the
effect is appropriate, but still the whole is without effect on
the mind of the spectator ; the work wants depth of gusto.
This performance by Mengs is far superior to the Cortona
school ; it is much before the more modern studied works of
the Italians.
Colonna Palace. Giorgione. — A portrait, grand in atti
tude. Moretto.- — A good Lombard portrait, much like Titian.
Claude. — In this picture the trees and sky, the sky and
clouds blend ; the trees are often thin over the sky ; clouds,
sky, and distance solid. Albani. — An Ecce Homo, very soft.
Mola. — Rebecca, in a dark, good, solemn tone. Rubens. —
An early picture : an equestrian portrait : tame. Poussin. —
A remarkable picture by him: Love flies like his own
arrow, a female is prostrate. This is a kind of imitation of
Titian — Poussin was " afraid of becoming a colourist."
Salvator. — St. John and another picture, both in a poor

ROME  BORGHESE PALACE. 429
style of execution. Tintoretto. — Two fresh portraits ;
in the background of one is a vine-walk ; also, a Nar
cissus, by him, very fine in the landscape. Lucas Cranach.
A Temptation of St. Anthony, a fearful mixture of man,
rock, and monster. Vasari. — Sleep and Night ; and two by
Salviati; here there seems to have been modern drapery
put upon the naked.
Church of the Capuchins. Guido Reni's Michael and
Satan is a pompous, unmeaning affair. Sacchi. — A Virgin
in clouds, with saints, &c, painted with a light, free gusto
in colour, belonging to the material Venetians. Cortona. —
Paul opening the eyes of the Centurion : individual in
colour : in this picture there is much nature, and that often
after a mode of his own ; the design is in his own curious
manner. Domenichino's fresco here, of St. Francis dying,
is most excellent, also an oil painting of the same, but not
to be compared to the fresco.
Borghese Palace. The Deposition, by Garofolo, is in a
grand, I may almost say the grandest style. The design is
studied ; the effect is dark without blackness : the colour is
greatly the result of labour — it has strength and breadth.
In a small picture of the Marriage at Cana he has no
method. Spagnoletto. — St. Peter, hard, brown, and dry. Head
of a Prophet, by the Carracci, an imitation of Correggio :
sweeping and great. Domenichino's Diana is really fine.
colour, design, drawing — everything. But still it is short
coming : the knees and the noses are tinted. Veronese
sometimes worked on a dark ground, and used his colours
veiy dry. He painted a mass of drapery nearly all one
tint, then thinly toned it with colour and oil, or turpen
tine only ; afterwards touched in the dark and the lightest
folds with sharp colour.

430 ROME  DORIA PALACE AGAIN.
The famous Titian of Venus binding the Eyes of Cupid
is on a very rough cloth — dashily and slightly painted at
once ; broad and brown ; it is truly careless sweeping work.
Petrarch. — A very early portrait.
Sacchi. — A felicitous portrait by him.
Pordenone. — His Family : dry, and very real.
Albani. — Four circular pictures, among his best.
Caravaggio. — A Child Trampling on a Serpent, dry in
style ; different from his picture in the Vatican. The pic
tures of his school are very unequal ; their mode is some
times illusive, at others dry and merely surface. Rubens is
always raw, red, and crude, in the neighbourhood of the Ve
netians. In his picture here, the Presentation of the Virgin,
fhe design is powerful, but a cock and hen is the best piece
of the colour. In my observations in these notes, I confine
myself to the material and technics. Such was my subject
of investigation, and I felt little else to study in the great
mass of these pictures, in connection with the vocation of a
modern artist, as regards ideas and sentiment, expression or
meaning. For these characteristics I trusted to memory in
the finer distinctions ; and, in a broader classification, had
already come to understand how they ought to be placed.
Doria Palace. — Filippo d'Angeli: landscapes in tem-

Gaspar Poussin. — Splendid, with great breadth.
Cartiglione. — A Hunting-piece : strong painting, but of
a disagreeable gusto : an obscurist, an imitator of Caravag
gio. Here are bad Bassanos. Mere workmen, both the
family and the followers. Spagnoletto. — Hagar and Ish-
mael ; a Work of genius, without any propriety of treatment:
the dark dress of the mother against the wild sky, fine ; the
dying boy amazingly true. The intention in the expression
is good.

ROME  DORIA PALACE  VILLAS. 431
Rubens. — Endymion, in imitation of Caravaggio.
Salvator. — Cain and Abel, and another, simple and
greater in style.
D'Arpino. — The Doria Barge: ponderous colour; imita
tive of Giorgione.
Caravaggio. — Vulgar.
Spagnoletto. — A fearful St. Jerome.
Claude. — A piece of reality called the Mill. This is the
finest Claude I have seen : it is not paint, but sky, hill, and
tree : it has more strength and truth than any other Claude
I have seen. Annibale Carracci.— Two landscapes below the
Claudes are wretched : they are only called landscapes, but
are merely paint.
Caravaggio. — In a new shape, light and dry. Andrea
Mantegna.— Two wild-looking subjects : the costume is like
German. The imitators of the Neapolitan style of Cara
vaggio and Spagnoletto, are very numerous.
Two small Claudes are hard and weakly painted in the
lights ; the shades are not sharp. Caravaggio. — A Girl ;
very modern looking. Padovanino. — A Dead Christ; strong
and true ; a union of the Carracci with a good deal of Ve
netian quality. Here" is a portrait of the Queen of Naples,
said to be by Leonardo.
Borghese Palace, in the Country. The Jacob More here
is a poor raw performance ; it is in the same room with the
David by Bemini. The Council of the Gods by Lanfranco
is an inane production, but lightly coloured. The cariatidse
and the whole roof, pleasant and light. These figures are
in black-grey : they are more made out than the green of
Annibale Carracci. The Triumph of Bacchus, by Poussin, is
the most toned production he has left ; it is without parti
cular effect, but the colour is fresh.
Villa Massimi. Here are the rooms painted by the German

432 ROME  ACADEMY OF ST LUKE.
artists of the present "school. Schnorr. — Subjects from
Ariosto. Koch. — From the Inferno of Dante.
Ph. Veit. — A roof from the Paradiso.
Overbeck. — From Tasso. Entire room, very good and
true. Academy of St. Luke. Here are two landscapes by
Gaspar Poussin, deep and strong.. Mola. — A fine Old
Woman's Head. Bronzino is like Sarto in breadth of
colour here in a picture of St. Andrino.
St. Luke painting the Virgin, by Raphael, is in his
finest colour : the naked is broad in design : the heads are
as essential and massy as Titian ; the flesh is excellent in
colour, the draperies good. This is not an early work — I
should think it belongs to the period of the Cartoons, and
the Massacre of the Innocents, after he had passed from his
first clear and open method, through the heavy or dingy style
of treatment exemplified in the St. Cecilia and St. John.
Here there is nothing of that style — all is firm, rich, and open.
The design is in his fullest and most urbane sentiment.
Titian. — Christ and a Pharisee : amazing strength in
the latter. Albani. — A Virgin, very feeble. He was scarcely
a painter ; at least not one to rank with Guido, the Carracci,
and others with whom he is associated. By intercourse
with art, and such men as these, he effected some pictures
which have been too much praised. He is a composite
painter, of a productive class, made up like the mass of ar
tists of the present time.
Spagnuolo. — A good group of sculpture by him. Har
low's picture is quite the English production. The effect
broad but scumbly ; it has too much artificiality. Titian. —
St. Jerome, the flesh of the saint nearly all one tint ; drapery
red, ground light. Here is a little picture by Camuccini:

DOMENICHINO. 433
it is pretty ; and a portrait of Kauffman, like the painting
of Reynolds. A Vestal, by a Neapolitan, striking. Sal
vator. — A small picture of a long-bearded saint. Guido. —
Cupid taking an Arrow from a Dove ; and a Madonna by
him, sharply painted : the chin and the eye are fine.
Ch. St. Andrea della Valle. Frescoes by Domenichino :
the figures of the Evangelists on the dome are a compound
of Michael Angelo and Correggio — of the former in form of
design ; of the latter in style of drawing and tone of colour,
which is strong, open, and massy. They may be said to
be very entire works : they are among the most perfected of
a middle class I have seen. Domenichino was a hard-labour
ing artist : it must have been to him, as it is to those who
look upon his works, an effort to arrive at their beauties :
there is no innateness, no impulse in the sentiment. In these
works, which are his finest, and which are certainly great, he
arrives at a mediocre and earthy transcendentalism, totally
different from the super-sensuous transcendency of the im
pression produced by the works in the Sistine Chapel.
These last, to be rightly judged, must be taken as a whole.
Here I observed an effective instance of a broad piece of
demi-tone, in a group of children, all in shade, contrasted
with two figures above, all in light. The ground behind
the Evangelists is all light grey.
The frescoes below, round the altar, are by an imitator
of Domenichino. Considering Domenichino as an artist
who went out of himself, one who raised the character of his
•works by reference to those of others, and to nature in a
certain way, he is the most assiduous, and one of the greatest
painters. In considering him in this particular view, the
question arises, whether the whole of his power did not
arise from the extrinsic, without any interior vitality or
'strength? This I would affirm, that he rather heard and
2r

434 NAPLES — ANCIENT PICTURES.
learned from others what was great, than felt it. The older
masters, even before the great heads of the schools, had each
a marked predisposition which they united to the imitation
of nature ; but Domenichino, in his idea of the study of
nature, follows others, and copies them, although only in
those respects that have been pronounced good.
NAPLES.
Second visit to the Pompeii pictures. In my first slight
look at these, I mistook their mode of execution — they are
•in general so smeared with modern varnish. I observe that,
like distemper colour, they have been apt to rub off. The
colour is solid above the plaster, which is not incorporated
or tinged by the colour. A ground is spread — it is often
red, dark green, amber, black, &c, seemingly according to
whim, or the workman's idea of harmony — and the figures,
small birds, flowers, fruit, &c, simply painted over it. If
these figures are large, and the back-ground dependent on
their shape, they are each done independently of the other
— the figures first. In regard to perspective, they are in
the position of the Chinese — they observed its effects, but
had no principles, and could not understand or draw from
nature. The plunging dexterity, and the grace of some of these
productions, is beautiful. In some there is a unity of form
or character even to the finger-ends, while at the same
time they are mere mechanical productions. The rapidity
of execution makes them mannered and worthless. There
is, however, no effort, but great mastery — the result of a
long apprenticeship. These are the slight productions of
their time, but in various instances are the work of great
ability. The compositions are at times full and studied,

NAPLES — ANCIENT PICTURES. 435
also the draperies; and objects are introduced with the
greatest rapidity in the most complicated way. But such
pieces are few in number ; the majority are worthless, judged
by any standard; and the good instances can only be
accounted for, in their strange mixture of good and bad, by
supposing them copies by inferior hands of fine works.
The principle they follow is not that of literal imitation
of nature, it is representative by general sentiment. In this
they pursue the same course as the sculpture of the ancients.
In the poorer works the attempted dexterity becomes affec
tation ; and this dexterity seems the sole aim. In almost all
the large works there is feebleness : china painting ; there
is not the character of great works in any respect in them.
The effect is always produced by the colour of the object:
the composition has a good deal of the bas-relief. The
pictures present a fund of materials, in ornament, &c, of
the ancients; red and gold appears often employed in
interiors. The Pompeian decorative painting itself is bar
barous, and without principles.
The collection of vases, dishes, armour, instruments, &c,
&c, makes us acquainted with even the household manners
of the ancients. Were a modern town in Italy to meet the
like fate, its exhumation would present a very different
spectacle in all that relates to taste. Every form here is of
a superior order.
It seems to me that there is something in common
between the material used in coating and painting their
vases, and that used on the walls. Both appear to have
been applied when hot.
Fauns Dancing, and Satyrs ridden by Fauns : on black
grounds : effective. Medea contemplating the Death of her
Children, one of the best in thought of the Pompeian pictures.
It is throughout almost one colour, having been originally
2 f2

436 NAPLES  GALLERY.
considerably so, and now changed by heat. Paris, with a
dog beside him, a female descending, and two others behind,
has been a good picture. It is deeper, more finished, and
less touchy. The colours of the draperies dark, the back
ground light ; the style of drawing is also more round than
in these pictures in general: it is much destroyed. A
large picture of Hercules, now all of a brown colour, is
rather a poor production : it is not sufficiently large in style
for its size ; it seems painted by one accustomed to minute
small work: the remarkable sharpness of the material
employed is here instanced. The Toilet is beautiful, and
another picture — Three Females in Conversation ; these two
are by far the best pictures of all these remains ; a good
deal of white in them.
The Concert, No. 314, possesses beauty with dexterity ;
composition and style in drapery and the nude. Nos.
319-20-21-22 may be all by the same hand, but are not so
distinctly done ; they are airy in design. Also No. 388,
of three figures called Venus, Pallas, and Juno : very fine.
Briseis, taken from Achilles : the bold eyes strike one, but
this seems to have been a common expression.
Nos. 665 and 67. — Ceremonies of Isis, or of Osiris.
Here are figures of three colours — some fair, others black,
and others brown ; these last are few, and may be servants.
Observe parts which may have been originally yellow, as
helmets, &c, are now a dark brown.
Achilles discovered by Ulysses is very fine in design.
Gallery, Studi: Naples. Lanfranco imitated Domen
ichino at times ; Domenichino never Lanfranco. The school
of the Carracci is bad, often mean, and at the same time vacant.
It came after the best ; perhaps felt that, and attempted
to gain something else. Annibale has much strength of
gusto, and also Ludovico ; yes, truly. Here is a Saint, by

NAPLES  GALLERY. 437
Agostino, more true, correct, and learned, than either of the
others, but the work has no elevated relation.
Lionello Spada — A grey brown imitation of the Obscu-
rists. Guido here is finely toned ; his colour seems to have
changed a little. Here are two pictures, by Parmigianino
(Mazzuoli), which may be called monstrosities. In dis
playing his knowledge, he shows how small it is : no true
anatomy: poverty attempting great style: these might be
the work of a boy, and probably were so : they should have
been destroyed.
Niccolo dell Abate. — The Virgin with an Angel, &c,
very deep, strong, and true, of the Leonardo gusto, but
richer in the draperies. This is very carefully finished, the
foregroundj distance, and other parts. This picture is
exquisite in its style, which is possibly the noblest for high
dramatic works. Here is none of the halting with all the
care of a studious mind : the shades are thick, but no part
is clotted : done at a time when that mode seen in Raphael
was dying out : all is sharply and smoothly done, and thin
in colour. Another picture, by Abate, an imitation of
Titian and Veronese : dark and heavy ; the draperies heavy
like the late Venetians. What a fall is here ! the picture
of the Virgin must have been an imitation too.
Parmigiano. — Hard, laboured, and little : subject,
Lucretia : afterwards it appears he had imitated Correggio.
Luini. — A fine St. John.
Cesare da Sesto. — A large Adoration of the Magi : all
well drawn, both Michael Angelo and Raphael seemingly
assisting the style. Its grey tone, with the reds, blues, and
browns, is worthy of remembrance: the flesh very much
one grey-sand hue : all the making out is excellent. The
antique hardness seems somewhat affected, but I find the
same in another large picture of the Virgin, seated with two

438 NAPLES — GALLERY.
cherubim, and more breadth, by means of large masses of
dark drapery. This first picture is a grand production,
combining light with the strength of dark : the contrasts of
nature are strictly followed. I am here strengthened in my
resolutions respecting certain treatments of effect.
Bernardino Campi. — A disgusting style.
Parmigiano. — An Annunciation; fine inventive genius.
Schidone. — A good painter, but black and disagreeable.
Correggio. — Some huge studies, and a Virgin and Christ,
very interesting, having been prepared in water colours, on
a canvass, without a ground, this colouring being nearly
what he intended it to be, when finished. Where the
shadows were to come in, some parts the canvass scarcely
touched; in others, as in the darks below the eyes, the
threads quite filled up. It is all relatively produced : the
effect is that of a sketch.
r Dosso Dossi : a capital old fellow : rich and deep, of
the school of Mantegna ; in this Murder of the Innocents he
is odd-looking enough, but in a female saint, simply clad,
deep and grand: intense red, purple, black, and yellow.
Here is a copy of the Last Judgment of Michael Angelo, by
Venusti, most ably done : being small, it does not'reach the
full extent of expression, but it is very valuable. The
Father and Holy Ghost are placed above the figure of
Christ. Fra. Bartolomeo.— The author ofthe style of Sarto, and
the instructor of Raphael, if not also of Michael Angelo.
Garofolo. — A Descent from the Cross, as in the Borghese at
Rome, very grand art : the bearing of these two pictures,
and their expression, is most worthy of remembrance :
here he appears the most elevated of Raphael's followers.
Polidoro, in his oil pictures, expresses a very distinct cha
racter. Raphael himself is here most noble in portraiture.

NAPLES — GALLERY. 439
Titian. — A portrait of a young man, a direct and iden
tical copy of his sitter : the dress blue, cold, and without
full colour. Correggio. — Hagar in the Desert, painted in a
thick broken style, the shades clotted; crumpled appear
ance of undried colours: much here that constituted the
mannerists — facile, softening, and blending. Annibale Car
racci, in the Choice of Hercules, is brown and dry beside
Correggio. Sebastian del Piombo. — On a ground nearly
black, of a cold grey-blue colour, almost as smooth as glass,
spread with a palette knife on the wood.
Titian. — Portrait of Paul II., of which I have seen
copies. Camuccini of Rome has a small one, seems painted
on a light hardish ground ; the breadth and tone preserved,
but the whole awanting in the richness of his more pre
pared works : this head is a perfect art-reality.
Agostino Carracci. — Here is thought ; splendid colour :
a ruddy Rinaldo, dressed in red, Armida pale above : the
background simple green.
Raphael here shows the large measure of his power in
diverse directions : no portraits are superior to his — Titian
alone disputes with him. A beautiful romantic head, with
helmet and mace behind it. Cardinal Passermi, Cav.
Tibaldeo, and Leo X., with two attendants, are splendid
proofs of his ability. The colour of the picture of Cardinal
Passermi may class with the finest ever painted ; its reality
and circumstantiality: the draperies, bell, book, &c, in
Leo, are not surpassed by the most perfect instances of the
material imitators.
Spagnoletto. — His imitation is unelevated, but truly
stupendous in force. On dark soft grounds, his lights forced
out with pulpy colour peculiar to himself, and seen some
times in Caravaggio. The strength or simplicity of his
design is equal to his execution, but coarse to the last

440 NAPLES — GALLERY.
degree. His Silenus here makes Titian's Magdalene near
it appear dirty and tame. This Magdalene is more finished
than that in Venice. The expression is of an individual
sort, somewhat disagreeable, the face a little out of drawing.
The sweep of Spagnoletto's pencil on the flesh is expressive ;
it softens away in the shades. The shades of the white
drapery are effected by the dark ground in a great measure.
M. A. Caravaggio. — Judith cutting off the Head of
Holofernes is brown, coarse, and infernally ugly. Christ
bearing the Cross, by Polidoro. Caravaggio is more scat
tered and picturesque than I should have expected from
Polidoro: colour broken, rich, deep, and full, a freely
executed work ; no imitation of Raphael in it : red, and the
peculiar dark asphaltum-like brown predominates, with
yellow grey. Parmigiano is unfortunate in having per
petrated some boyish productions collected here.
An unfinished Titian of Paul II., begun perhaps on a
soft ground, but seemingly intended to have been finished
by the ordinary process of oil. Here is a Parmigiano in
water colours ; if it is a preparation for further painting, it
is very much , finished ; most probably little more was
intended to be done than to oil over. The shadows in parts
prepared thin, in others covered up opaquely. Polidoro
Caravaggio. — Six works in oil, all in the same dark, rich
style ; three large, three small : these confirm me in chang
ing my opinion of his style formed from his frescoes.
Raphael. — The Madonna : a most beautiful face, no one
but himself ever painted this Madonna beauty : Correggio,
in his own Madonna, is the only painter that rivals this,
but on a different ground, a face of physical lustiness.
Titian. — Erasmus; and a Boy blowing a Match, by
Spagnoletto, are both things to remember.
Church of S. Paul. Here are two pictures by Solimene,

NAPLES  CHURCHES. 441
in the most wretched style of the mannerists. Here is a
roof, by Masini, grey, green, and bad. Another by Vasari,
an immense work : the Apostles, two and two, the Martyr
dom of St. Peter, and other matter. Here is a rather good
statue of the Virgin, by Luca Napolitano.
Church San Filippo Neri. Four Evangelists, by
Mazzanti, imitation of Domenichino. Figures of David
and others, by Solimene, are vapid. Two small works in
the Chapel of S. Filippo, by Cavallino, after Caravaggio,
are very good. Bernardo Siciliano, of the same school :
two pictures ; this school is always strong. Luca Giordano
is a genius in his way : the breadth of reds and yellows is
marked. St. George, by Gandolfi ; a spirited work.
Luca. — The Money Changers ; a huge affair.
In Ch. St. Peter and Paul. A very fine deep-thoughted
work, by Marco, of Siena : a large work of the two saints
meeting as they go to their death ; colour rich, shades deep.
Below this picture a Madonna and Angels, by Zucchero,
the best of the yellow and green Florentine sort.

The Danse of Titian seems to have been painted almost
in water colour, but again there is much shrinking, which
only takes place in oil painting. It may have been solid
in oil, and glazed while wet. (There is a method, I have
found since, which includes and reconciles these appear
ances.) The practice of Titian undoubtedly varied. After
all, the superiority of Titian over Raphael and others in
colour consists greatly in the method, — he is not essentially
superior in colour to Raphael, or in the perception of the
use of colour. This method is only shown in a few

442 NAPLES  GALLERY.
examples in its entireness and efficacy. A few only of his
pictures are to be preferred to those of the best Roman
masters. The chief of these are, the Assumption, the
Florentine Venus, the Entombment, the St. Peter Marytr,
and Christ crowned with Thorns.
Gallery. Canaletto. — Here are twelve of his finest
works, painted with a most daring facility: Bonnington
imitated Canaletto; Prout is like him. There is little
cracking; they appear to be on a hard ground. Great
sharpness in the lines of the pillars, windows, &c. ; ropes
done with one stroke.
In the great room a Satyr and Nymph, by Annibale
Carracci : an attempt at the colour of Titian, but it is brown
and somewhat dirty.
In the other gallery. Calabrese, a black and white
coarse painter, but possessed of genius : subject, the Devil
falling before Christ.
Salvator. — Three figure frescoes; clever, but black: a
battle, wherein the figures are rather small, is fhe best, this
size not being beyond his power. An old Hermit in a
Hood, by him also ; here his ability fully appears, small in
size, dashing in execution.
Cav. d'Arpino. — One of the trashy imitators.
Caravaggio. — St. Sebastian : light true colour.
Marco of Siena. — A large and a small work ; Florentine
mode. Pontormo. — Much like Sarto.
Rubens. — Christ bearing the Cross : looks like a picture
painted in Naples from the colour of some of the figures :
the effect that of the obscurists. If the heads attributed to
Vandyke here are really his, he painted poorly and hardly
at times. Here is an old Dutch picture of much finish, on
unprepared cloth, in water colour, Brugel mdlxvih. care-

NAPLES. 443
fully marked in the corner ; the subject is the Blind leading
the Blind. Observed here, among other copyists, a poor
fellow making a laboured imitation of the handle of a
sword. - Gallery of Sculpture. (The notes on this gallery were
lost.) Church of St. Dominico. Here is a Titian ; a Flagel
lation, by Caravaggio ; and a Glory, by Solimene ; and in
the Church of St. Maria Nuova, the Annunciation, by
Santafede ; a Crucifixion, by Marco da Siena ; and above
the organ are children, painted by Giordano at nine years
of age.

THE END.

EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY ROBERT CLARK.

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