University of Virginia Library

45. LETTER XLV.

I have spent a morning in the studio of Thorwalsden.
He is probably the greatest sculptor now living.
A colossal statue of Christ, thought by many to be his
masterpiece, is the prominent object as you enter. It
is a noble conception—the mild majesty of a Savior
expressed in a face of the most dignified human beauty.
Perhaps his full-length statue of Byron is inferior to
some of his other works, but it interested me, and I
spent most of my time in looking at it. It was taken
from life; and my friend, Mr. Anchmuty, who was
with me, and who had seen Byron frequently on board
one of our ships-of-war at Leghorn, thought it the
only faithful likeness he had ever seen. The poet is
dressed oddly enough, in a morning frock coat, cravat,
pantaloons, and shoes; and, unpromising as these ma
terials would seem, the statue is classic and elegant to
a very high degree. His coat is held by the two centre
buttons in front (a more exquisite cut never came from
the hands of a London tailor), swelled out a little above
and below by the fleshy roundness of his figure; his
cravat is tied loosely, leaving his throat bare (which,
by the way, both in the statue and the original, was
very beautifully chiselled); and he sits upon a fragment
of a column, with a book in one hand and a pencil
in the other. A man reading a pleasant poem
among the ruins of Rome, and looking up to reflect
upon a fine passage before marking it, would assum
the attitude and expression exactly. The face has
half a smile upon it, and, differing from the Apollo
faces usually drawn for Byron, is finer, and more
expressive of his character than any I ever met with.
Thorwalsden is a Dane, and is beloved by every one
for his simplicity and modesty. I did not see him.

We were afterward at Gibson's rooms. This gentleman
is an English artist, apparently about thirty,
and full of genius. He has taken some portraits which
are esteemed admirable; but his principal labor has
been thrown upon the most beautiful fables of antiquity.
His various groups and bas-reliefs of Cupid
and Psyche are worthy of the beauty of the story.
His chef d'œuvre, I think, is a group of three figures,
representing the boy “Hylas with the river nymphs.”
He stands between them with the pitcher in his hand,
startled with their touch, and listening to their persuasions.
The smaller of the two female figures is an
almost matchless conception of loveliness. Gibson
went round with us kindly, and I was delighted with
his modesty of manner, and the apparently completely
poetical character of his mind. He has a noble head,
a lofty forehead well marked, and a mouth of finely
mingled strength and mildness.

We devoted this morning to palaces. At the Palazzo
Spada we saw the statue of Pompey, at the
base of which Cesar fell. Antiquaries dispute its
authenticity, but the evidence is quite strong enough
for a poetical belief; and if it were not; one's time is
not lost, for the statue is a majestic thing, and well
worth the long walk necessary to see it. The mutilated
arm, and the hole in the wall behind, remind one
of the ludicrous fantasy of the French, who carried it
to the Forum to enact “Brutus” at its base.

The Borghese Palace is rich in pictures. The portrait
of Cesar Borgia, by Titian, is one of the most
striking. It represents that accomplished villain with
rather slight features, and, barring a look of cool determination
about his well-formed lips, with rather a
prepossessing countenance. One detects in it the capabilities
of such a character as his, after the original
is mentioned; but otherwise he might pass for a handsome
gallant, of no more dangerous trait than a fiery
temper. Just beyond it is a very strong contrast
in a figure of Psyche, by Dossi, of Ferrara. She is
coming on tiptoe, with the lamp, to see her lover.
The Cupid asleep is not so well done; but for an
image of a real woman, unexaggerated and lovely, I
have seen nothing which pleases me better than this
Psyche. Opposite it hangs a very celebrated Titian,
representing “Sacred and Profane Love.” Two female
figures are sitting by a well—one quite nude,
with her hair about her shoulders, and the other
dressed, and coiffed a la mode, but looking less modest
to my eye than her undraped sister. It is little wonder,
however, that a man who could paint his own
daughter in the embraces of a satyr (a revolting picture,
which I saw in the Barberigo palace at Venice) should
fail in drawing the face of Virtue. The coloring of
the picture is exquisite, but the design is certainly a
failure.

The last room in the palace is devoted to Venuses—
all very naked and very bad There might be forty,

I think, and not a limb among them that one's eye
would rest upon with the least pleasure for a single
moment.

The society of Rome is of course changing continually.
At this particular season, strangers from
every part of the continent are beginning to arrive, and
it promises to be pleasant. I have been at most of
the parties during the fortnight that I have been here,
but find them thronged with priests, and with only the
resident society, which is dull. Cards and conversation
with people one never saw before, and will certainly
never see again, are heavy pastimes. I start for
Florence to-morrow, and shall return to Rome for
Holy Week and the spring months.