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 derived 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 govern

ment 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 Nuova 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;

and the sculptor of Venus, with all her smiling train of Loves and Graces, could not do justice to the frantic Giant, maddened with the pain of the poisoned mantle, and hurling its wretched bearer into the gulf-a horrible subject, which would have suited Michael Angelo,-if it had suited statuary at all.

The fresco of the Marriage of Cupid and Psyche, by Camucccini,-incomparably the first living historical painter of Italy,-unhappily reminds one of Raphael's beautiful Fable in the Farnesina. But the composition is good, without plagiarism, and it is admirably designed. In design, indeed, Camuccini excels; and it is no light praise. I cannot say so much for the colouring; and on this account, the original sketch, which we saw at his own Studio, is far superior to the finished painting.

CAMUCCINI'S COLLECTION.

In his own house, he has a select collection of the works of the best masters, chosen with great taste and judgment, and forming a most delightful

cabinet.

The Gods and Goddesses, travestied, holding a sort of burlesque masquerade, is a very curious and valuable painting, by Gian Bellini, the master of Titian, and father of the Venetian School. As might be expected, the design is not very correct, but the expression is admirable, the colouring very good, and the landscape, which is painted by Ti

tian, is, like all Titian's landscapes, truly beautiful. It is delightful to see how far the scholar surpassed the master; but this performance of Gian Bellini's is extremely original and clever. He was far superior to his brother, Gentil Bellini, whose fame, however, must have spread, even to the utmost depths of the Ottoman Seraglio, for Mahomet II. invited him to Constantinople, sat to him for his picture, loaded him with presents, and treated the painter of Venice with all the pomp and splendour of Asiatic magnificence. But it unluckily happened that Gentil painted a Decollation of St John the Baptist; and Mahomet, who, no doubt, had frequently studied the subject in nature, descried a defect in the manner in which the blood spouted out in the picture, and, after making his criticism, very coolly turned round, and ordered the head of a slave who happened to stand near him, to be instantly struck off before their eyes, by way of illustration, in order that Gentil might see his error. The unfortunate painter was so terrified at this sight, that he scarcely felt certain that his own head was upon his shoulders, and neither could sleep by night nor rest by day, till he obtained Mahomet's permission to return to Venice, where heads were not chopped off by way of experiment.

But I am forgetting Camuccini's Collection, where every painting is good, and offers subject for admiration and remark; but it would be endless to describe them. There is one by Guido, the Two Mary's weeping at the foot of the Cross. Dark