CHAPTER XVII.

THE palaces of Rome may well be illustrated by the same comparison which Faber uses with regard to those of Genoa-"Old pages of history torn from some illuminated manuscript of the Middle Ages, and whereon the illuminations are well nigh faded or effaced, by time and violence." Historically many of them are interesting, bearing the names of the noblest families of medieval days, by whose descendants they are still occupied. Others remind us only of the nepotism of the Popes, whose first care sometimes was to ennoble their nephews, and then their short reigns were spent in building up the power of these newly risen houses, at the expense of the Church and country. And when in addition to this, we find some of them, like the Farnese, erecting their palaces by despoiling the Coliseum and other monuments of ancient Rome, we cannot look without indignation on the sacrilege of these upstart princes.

The only palaces—if we except the modern ones of the Torlonia family-which are kept up with any degree of splendor, are those of the Doria and Borghese. For the general appearance of the rest, one description will answer. You find a vast pile of buildings, often running round the four sides of a square, with the quadrangle in the centre surrounded by a marble colonnade. Entering the large arched gateway, some old servitors are lounging about, bearing in their appearance evidences of their master's dilapidated for

tunes.

One of them takes you in charge and commences the ordinary routine of sight-seeing. You first enter an immense Hall, often hung round with the largest and worst pictures of the palace, and on one side a throne with a high velvet canopy, covered with the armorial bearings of the family. From this elevated seat, until feudal privileges were abolished, the prince was accustomed to administer justice. You follow your guide on, up marble stair-cases, and over mosaic floors, till you come to long suites of rooms, the walls covered with paintings, while here and there antique statues are dispersed about, and richly inlaid cabinets stand against the sides. Through these you wander, gazing on the works of art, until you have gone round the square, and find yourself in the Hall from which you set out.

It would be useless to attempt describing many of these collections, for while a catalogue of paintings might recall to my mind the beautiful forms on which I have gazed hour after hour, it could awaken no corresponding feeling in the mind of the reader. Some of them are celebrated for one or two remarkable pictures, while the rest of the collection is made up of inferior ones and old family portraits. Such is the Palazzo Rospigliosi, where in the Cassino of the Garden is the far-famed Aurora by Guido, so many copies of which have been brought to our own country. It is a large fresco on the ceiling. Around the chariot of the Sun are seen female figures advancing most gracefully hand in hand, to typify the Hours. They are decked in gay and flowing drapery" pictis incinctæ vestibus Hora"-while before them is Aurora, scattering flowers. It is called Guido's most brilliant performance, and certainly nothing could exceed the glory he has spread around the chariot of the God of way, combining in one matchless performance, all the beautiful features in which the poets have arrayed the Morning. In the Villa Lodovisi, which is without the city walls, occupying a part of Sallust's gardens, is the rival

picture, the Aurora of Guercino. The Goddess is in her car drawn by fiery horses, while the shades of Night appear to be vanishing at her approach. Tithon, whose couch she had just quitted, is seen half-awake, while the Morning Star, as a winged Genius bearing a torch, is following her course. The Hours, unlike those of Guido, are represented as infants, fluttering before her and extinguishing the stars -an idea perhaps borrowed from Statius, who describes Aurora as chasing the stars before her with her whip—

"Moto leviter fugat astra flagello."

In the other compartments are Daybreak, represented as a youth with a torch in one hand and flowers in the other— Evening, a young female sleeping—and Night, personified as an aged woman poring over a book. The first rays of light seem just penetrating into her gloomy abode, scaring her companions, the owl and the bat, who are shrinking from the unwelcome intrusion.

In the Palazzo Spada, the great attraction is the colossal statue of Pompey, nine feet high. For three centuries it has been asserted to be the one "at whose base great Cæsar fell," and notwithstanding the discussion of critics has retained its name and authority. It was certainly found buried on the spot where we are told Augustus had it placed, before the Theatre of Pompey. The statue holds a globe in its hand, an emblem of power, which seems hardly in republican. taste, and rather brings it down to the days of the Empire. The answer to this is, that it was only a well-merited compliment to him who found Asia Minor the boundary, and left it the centre of the Roman Empire. Could we believe this view it would certainly be with no ordinary interest that we stand at its pedestal. We should call back eighteen centuries as we gaze upon the lineaments of him, who was second to Rome's great Master, in fortune only, remembering that tragedy in the Senate House, when in the retributions of Ne

mesis, that rival was prostrated at the base of this stern looking statue, bathing it with his blood.

Gibbon describes the manner in which this relic of antiquity was found in digging the foundations of a house. When first discovered, the head was under one building and the body under another. The two owners therefore quarrelled, and were on the point of dividing the statue-thus rivalling the judgment of Solomon-when Julius III. interposed, and gave them five hundred crowns which they thankfully received, as being susceptible of a more easy partition. This antique figure has since then made one appearance in public. When the French held Rome, they determined to have Voltaire's tragedy of Brutus performed in the Coliseum, and to give it greater effect decided that their Cæsar, like the original Dictator, should fall at the base of this statue. It was accordingly transported to the place of exhibition, although in so doing they were obliged temporarily to deprive it of the right arm.

One of the largest collections of paintings is found in the Palazzo Borghese. Among them is the Cumaan Sibyl of Domenichino, so familiar through copies dispersed every where, though no copy can give the beauty of the original. Nameless and by an unknown artist, this picture would any where arrest attention. We look upon it however with a new association of interest, since Bulwer has adopted it as the portrait of the high-souled Nina di Raselli, and in his own fascinating language, thus added the description-" Why this is called the Cumæan Sibyl I know not, save that it has something strange and unearthly in the dark beauty of the eyes. I beseech thee, mistake not this sibyl for another, for Roman galleries abound in sibyls. The sibyl I speak of is dark, and the face has an Eastern cast; the robe and turban, gorgeous though they be, grow dim before the rich but transparent roses of the cheek; the hair would be black, save for that golden glow which mellows it to a hue and lustre

never seen but in the South, and even in the South most rare; the features, not Grecian, are yet faultless; the mouth, the brow, the ripe and exquisite contour, all are human and voluptuous; the expression, the aspect, is something more; the form is perhaps too full for the ideal of loveliness, for the proportions of sculpture, for the delicacy of Athenian models; but the luxuriant fault has a majesty. Gaze long upon that picture: it charms, yet commands the eye."

There is another portrait in this gallery on which too we may gaze with interest, for it gives us the lineaments of one who in his day was the troubler of Italy, shrinking from no means to gain his end, using the dagger and the poison with perfect recklessness to remove a rival, and without compunction throwing aside his priestly office and Cardinal's rank to become the leader of armies, when a temporal principality was within his reach. It is the picture of a young man, but with no flush of youth upon his countenance. The face is pale and sallow, the lips compressed, and the look keenly intellectual. You would decide that every line and feature revealed the character of an accomplished, yet unprincipled intriguer. The judgment would be right, for that is Raphael's portrait of Cæsar Borgia.

Look at one more picture, which is founded on a legend of the Church of Rome. It is "St. Anthony preaching to the fishes" by Paul Veronese. The sermon which he delivered on that occasion can be purchased in any of the bookstores in this city. It commences with the salutation“Cari et amati pesci”—(dearly beloved fish)—and at its conclusion, the legend tells us the fish bowed to him, gesti di profonda umiltà e con reverente sembiante di religione" (with profound humility, and a grave and religious countenance.) The artist seems to have endeavored to exhibit this happy close of the Saint's lecture, and the upturned eyes of the fish are certainly very edifying. After the discourse was over, and this flattering testimonial in its behalf

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