cstatic and devout
contemplation, there is in it a touch of melancholy, "all sorrow's
softness charmed from its despair," which is quite exquisite: and the
attitude, and particularly the turn of the arm, are perfectly
graceful: but why those odious turnips and carrots in the foreground?
They certainly do not add to the sentiment and beauty of the
picture.--Leonardo da Vinci's Vanity and Modesty, and Caravaggio's
Gamblers, both celebrated pictures in very different styles, are in
this collection. I ought not to forget Raffaelle's beautiful portrait
of a young musician who was his intimate friend. The Doria and Sciarra
palaces contain the only Claudes I have seen in Rome. Since the
acquisition of the Altieri Claudes, we may boast of possessing the
finest productions of this master in England. I remember but one
solitary Claude in the Florentine gallery; and I see none here equal
to those at Lord Grosvenor's and Angerstein's. We visited the church
of San Pietro in Viscoli, to see Michel Angelo's famous statue of
Moses,--of which, who has not heard? I must confess I never was so
disappointed by any work of art as I was by this statue, which is
easily accounted for. In the first place, I had not seen any model or
copy of the original; and, secondly, I _had_ read Zappi's sublime
sonnet, which I humbly conceive does rather more than justice to its
subject. The fine opening--

"Chi e costui che in dura pietra scolto
Siede _Gigante_"--

gave me the impression of a colossal and elevated figure: my surprise,
therefore, was great to see a sitting statue, not much larger than
life, and placed nearly on the level of the pavement; so that, instead
of looking up at it, I almost looked down upon it. The "Doppio raggio
in fronte," I found in the shape of a pair of horns, which, at the
first glance, gave something quite Satanic to the head, which disgusted
me. When I began to recover from this first disappointment--although
my eyes were opened gradually to the sublimity of the attitude, the
grand forms of the drapery, and the lips, which unclose as if about to
speak--I still think that Zappi's sonnet (his acknowledged
chef-d'oeuvre) is a more sublime production than the chef-d'oeuvre it
celebrates.

The mention of Zappi reminds me of his wife, the daughter of Carlo
Maratti, the painter. She was so beautiful that she was her father's
favourite model for his Nymphs, Madonnas, and Vestal Virgins; and to
her charms she added virt