from a fine painting of his I remember seeing in the Corsini Palace at Florence. Viewed at a little distance, however, it has not that power of expression, which is the charm of Carlo Dolce's painting. That he had not acquired much of the Florentine correctness of design, the distorted arm and shoulder of this very saint is one proof. I remember the same deformity in the original. Never was any thing worse drawn.

But Carlo Dolce knew his own weakness; he only did single figures, and these very rarely at full length. He knew nothing of composition. The only attempt at it I ever remember to have seen, is in his Martyrdom of San Andréa, in a palace* at Florence. The figure of the saint is wonderfully fine, and every separate figure is fine-but every figure is separate; they have nothing to do with each other; there is no grouping and no keeping; the lights fall scattered upon every part; and beautiful as parts of it are in detail, a worse composed picture can hardly be imagined. But single heads were his forte; and the finest of his works are certainly to be seen at Florence. His Magdalen and St Cecilia, in the gallery, and his Poetry, in the Corsini Palace, are sufficient to render him immortal.

He painted with extreme slowness, and it is related that he actually lost his senses from vexation, at seeing Luca Giordano, or Luca fa presto, as he

*The Pelazzo Girini.

was called, do more in six hours than he could have done in as many months.

But the high finish of his pictures is one of their chief beauties, and that is unattainable without much time and labour.

The painting that I admired the most in this collection, was the Salutation of Elizabeth, originally painted in fresco, on the wall of the church of Santa Maria della Pace, (in which are the Sybils of Raphael,) and taken off on canvas, that hazardous operation, in which the French destroyed the masterpiece of Daniel de Volterra.* It is now divided into three parts. It was designed by Michael Angelo Buonaroti, and painted by Sebastian del Piombo. But I dare not trust myself to enter upon its merits. I feel I have already transgressed my promise, and though, while I write, numbers of unnoticed paintings swim before my remembrance, I turn from them all, and resolutely walk up Cardinal Fesch's staircase to the French School.

The French School!-But why are the Poussins and Claude Lorraines ranked in it, because two of them happened to draw their first breath in France? Why are painters, who studied, and lived, and died in Rome, whose every thought was deri

I am happy to hear that this celebrated painting, which is in the Church of the SS. Trinità at Rome, has been almost miraculously restored since I left Italy, by a secret process invented by Camuccini.

ved from the classic forms of ancient sculpture and painting-the ruins of Grecian architecture-and those scenes of beauty, which no pencil but theirs could paint-why are those minds of genius, whose fancy fed on all that is most graceful in the glories of art, or enchanting in the majesty of nature, to be confounded with the common herd of the low, imitative, artificial artists of the French School?

There is, Heaven knows, nothing French about any of their works.

The Hours Dancing, the Repose in Egypt, and the Deluge, by Nicolas Poussin, bear, in their very names, evidence of their excellencies.

The Storm, by Gaspar Poussin, is in his best style; but the animals in the foreground, do not seem to be his. There are several other fine compositions, but we saw them in very bad lights, and to unavoidable disadvantage.

Of the five Claudes, one is a gross and palpable imposition, and the authenticity of the rest is somewhat dubious. The "Morning" and "Evening" are beautiful compositions; but the original of the latter I have certainly seen, I think, in Lord Grosvenor's collection. They are, however, excellent copies; but some of the small ones, I suspect, would not be found in Claude Lorraine's Liber Veritatis.

Cardinal Fesch wishes to sell this large and valuable collection of paintings, for an annuity of £4000 per annum. I wish the British government would become the purchasers; it would form the nucleus of a grand National Museum of Paintings, which would speedily be formed, and even of

itself, it would be invaluable for the cultivation of the arts. The works of the great masters are still too inaccessible in our country, to those who most require their study-young artists, whose early promise is often entirely blasted by the want of this inestimable advantage. Would Sir Joshua Reynolds ever have been the boast of our country, if he had not studied the works of the ancient masters, and the treasures of painting which Italy laid open to him?

Madame Mére, for such is the name given from respect to the mother of Buonaparte, lives in the first floor of Cardinal Fesch's palace.

We obtained permission to view the paintings in her rooms, but were much disappointed in them.

LETTER LXVI.

PALLAZZO NUOVA DI TORLONIA-CAMUCCINI-
CAMUCCINI'S COLLECTION..

NOBILITY is more certainly the fruit of wealth in Italy than in England. Here, where a title and estate are sold together, a man who can buy the one secures the other. From the station of a lacquey, an Italian who can amass riches, may rise to that of a duke. Thus, Torlonia, the Roman banker, has purchased the title and the estate of the Duca di Bracciano, fitted up the Palazzo Nuovo di Torlonia, with all the magnificence that wealth can command; and a marble gallery, with its polished walls, lofty columns, inlaid floors, modern statues, painted ceilings, and gilded furniture, far outshines the faded splendour of the halls of the old Roman nobility.

The new gallery is adorned with Canova's Collossal Groupe of Hercules and Lychas, which is by no means one of his finest works. Like Guido, the forte style is not suited to his beautiful genius;