The bridge of the Rialto, thrown over the Great Canal, is still, and no doubt was formerly in a greater degree than now, "a place where merchants congregate." It is lined with the shops of those who work that beautiful fine gold chain, for the manufacture of which Venice is famous; and, at a little distance, is the ancient place of assemblage for the traders of this great commercial city. The latter spot is not now so employed; but, when it was, the Rialto, being in the immediate neighbourhood, must have been much frequented by merchants. Shakspeare has been accused of ignorance in his notice of the Rialto, but this is superficial criticism. His selection of the name is good evidence of his having had authority for his description of the place, for no man was ever better acquainted with the current information of his time, or had a more happy memory and feeling directing him to the appropriate employment of his knowledge. The bridge of the Rialto is so connected with the pursuits and residence of the merchants of Venice, particularly in former times, that it is impossible to consider Shakspeare's notice of it as a mere blunder; there is no reasonable ground, then, for doubting that his allusion to it had been suggested to his fancy by the writings of Italians, or the accounts of travellers. The passage in the Merchant of Venice leads people in general to think of the Rialto as an Exchange, or spacious mart: they are disappointed when they find it a bridge;-but one of the most interesting results of travelling, in the estimation of those who ought to travel, is the new and unexpected way in which things, with which our imagination had been familiar, present themselves to actual observation; offering a very different appearance from what we had

anticipated, yet reconciling themselves perfectly to the facts on which our suppositions about them had been formed. One might moralize, or philosophize, on this circumstance but it is scarcely worth while. The Rialto is the pride of the Venetians rather than the admiration of strangers. A Frenchman, indeed (so mỹ servant informed me) never fails to express disappointment and contempt when he first sees it. It is not made of cast iron, like that of Austerlitz, at Paris;-nor is it flat for the convenience of carriages, like that of Jena. "What is there, then to admire about it?" It must be regarded in something of the spirit and character of a Venetian to be properly felt,-and this no Frenchman, and but few Englishmen, can do. In the first place it is the largest bridge of Venice, and this to a Venetian is all one with being the largest in the world. In the next place, it was a miracle of art at the time it was built, and since then the Venetians have been working no miracles to eclipse it, but on the contrary have seen their achievements become less and less every day. The Rialto, then, is still their pride, because it was the pride of their proudest days. Thirdly: whatever the bridge itself may be-(and it is a piece of massy and picturesque architecture, in pure marble)-it opens on a view of magnificence which Venice may justly regard as peculiar to herself. single arch is sprung across the great canal, the banks of which may be described as one continued line of marble palaces!

Its

The material of the buildings here is noble; their proportions are noble; they bear witness to a noble and powerful state. Here we find external magnificence, not introduced occasionally, as an exertion, or as an extraordinary celebration of some rare and extraordinary occurrence; but constituting a natural and common element of the social condition. It belongs to the Venetians in the same way that steam-engines, hospitals, and a navy, belong to the English. It is not to be found in monuments of royal ostentation, as in France; but as the result of a diffused prosperity, a high-minded competition, and a wide and zealous ambition of greatness. It is the offspring of commercial wealth, united

with heroism, and a genuine love for the grand and beautiful. No sooner did the Venetians find themselves waxing powerful and opulent, than they exerted themselves to render their wooden piles the foundation of the most costly and splendid monuments of art and greatness. They raised, on the sandy marsh, mighty palaces, and temples, and trophies, that were to challenge the admiration of a long succession of ages, resisting the fluctuations to which the power that created them has been compelled to submit. This innate, spontaneous tendency to ornament and illustrate the aspect and history of the state, by calling in art and elegance to cope and keep pace with valour and policy, seems to have always belonged to the Venetians. Their sculpture, their painting, and their architecture, are to be seen running through all the periods of their republic-varying in manner and excellence, according to the lights of the time, but always denoting the same thirst for distinction in these things. Their spoils were chiefly of this nature; and, considering the structure of their government, which forbade any one man to constitute these national glories his own property, or to consign their fame to his family as an heritage, their emulation in this respect is to be taken as the sign of a proud, vigorous, and patriotic, public character. In these latter qualities it may be considered analogous to that of England, both countries owing to the popular will and means, the public works which attest the national condition:-but England has shown no decided taste for the showy and poetical in form and appearance: her enthusiasm takes quite another turn. She was engendering the reformation, and her patriots were waging war against the theatre, when the Venetians were raising columns, and building palaces, and cultivating music. Her natural accomplishments have all reference either to practical fitness, or to moral propriety. The plastic arts convey their appeal to the imagination through the senses; but it is only passion or reflection that forcibly touches an English imagination.

Whatever superiority we may ascribe to the latter disposition, when compared with others, there can be

no doubt that it is imperfect in itself, and that its union with more re fined sensual perceptions, would add much even to its dignity. Nothing well can be more majestic than the Venetian school of art, or more intimately allied,-to all appearance, at least,with a strong, energetic, magnanimous public character. It is serious, as well as voluptuous; intellectual in its cast of beauty; distinguished by calm force, and self-possession. Titian's painting may perhaps safely be considered a mirror in which Ve netian character is reflected; and if so, nothing can be more imposing in its qualities. The expressions of his women breathe a grandeur and ma jesty of soul which would seem likely to awe and chill the softer passions, but which he has reconciled to the very intensity of voluptuous sensibility. They are the noble wives and mistresses of a glorious race of men ; a spirit of superiority seems circulat ing in their veins as the essence of their life; fulness of mind is in their eyes, while enthusiasm and energy seem reposing in their breasts, in quiet consciousness of their own force, ready for the occasion, but not forc ing or affecting display.-But a few scattered notices of the various places where fine pictures by the Venetian artists are to be seen, will afford me the most convenient means of introducing such remarks as I dare venture on this refined and difficult subject.

The old Venetian artists (previous to Titian) form a most interesting class to study. In the chapel of Milan, in the church of the Frari, there is a picture by Carpaccio which pleased me much. How well we may see that these early men were taking the right road. In their heads there are force and gravity of character; in their draperies, dignity, and simplicity. The forms are incorrect, poor and hard,-but drawn with intention and sincerity. There is nothing of the coxcomb, no affectation about them. Then their simple colours, reds, greens, and blues, clothe in an imaginative brightness their creation of persons and scenery. We seem to regard, in these pictures, a world fitted for a saintly romance. In the church of our lady of the nativity, (Madona del Orto) there is an admirable example of this old striking style, in a

picture by Simon di Conneggiano. It has wild castles, and walls, and blue mountains, and rivers, and strange trees in the back ground, looking like an enchanted land: the outlines are all taken from the imagination, rather than from the daily earth. We fancy the world might have been so before the flood. The limbs of the figures are meagre, but strongly and truly handled; and an earnestness and solidity of sentiment give a character of dignity to the whole composition, in comparison with which, with deference to better judges, I would say the manner of Tintoretto appears to me to degenerate. Some of the earliest pictures of Titian are in this style; though bearing evidence of that more masterly hand and intellect, which were to give ease, elegance, and technical perfection to the practice of the art.

The two Palmas, also, rank amongst the early Venetian painters: the elder (Palma vecchio) is much the cleverest. The manner of the younger is thin, feeble, and false; that of his senior, stedfast, grave, and expressive. In the works of this last mentioned artist, as in those of the older, and much greater master, Giovanni Bellino, you see faces of a surprisingly elevated character, yet by no means in the style which is commonly known by the name of Italian. The grand historical air is not sought; nor excited expression; yet the heads are lofty and striking nevertheless, for in their lineaments we see evidence of a sublime capacity resting inactive, like a lion couched, of great faculties in a latent state, ready to start into play on an animating call. The Venetian manner is a degree or two nearer common nature than the Roman: the habits of a republic seem to have helped to form their style of art,-while Raphael and Michael Angelo addressed themselves to popes and cardinals.

The children of Bellino are particularly beautiful. In the sacristy of the Redemptore, there is a small picture by this artist, in which there are two children and the virgin: one of the two, a tiny angel, is singing from a music book, while the infant Christ, in the other corner, is attentively and seriously regarding his melodious companion. From the full, open, childish,

but beautiful mouth of the first, there pours a gush of sound, as if it was the vociferous call of a child, taking the turns and flows, and prolonged "linked sweetness" of celestial music. Bellino is fond of this expression: he often introduces chorister infants in his pictures. The look of the little Christ is the quintessence of what is pure, and engaging, and serious, in childish expression. In children who are well-treated, and placed in a tolerably protected situation of life, there may be observed a certain air of composure and confidence,-which we would call an air of authority in men,

originating in their ignorance of fear and suspicion, and their habit of finding their desires gratified without trouble to themselves. Their sense of assurance and undisturbed reliance, blends with the consciousness of weakness, the simplicity natural to their early age, and the imperfect expansion of their mental powers, and altogether there is thus produced a physiognomical expression of a most exquisite nature,-which constitutes at once the true and the poetical character of a child's head, but which, though very commonly seen, it is most difficult to seize. Parmeggiano, Correggio, and Sir Joshua Reynolds, gave much of the beauty of this expression, but without its depth, its gravity, its intensity. But the elder Venetian artists, and Titian, convey a fair idea of the sublimity of the original. I have seen no children, in any pictures, at all equal to theirs. The many groupes of infant angels, hanging in festoons from clouds, which we find in the church paintings of Venice, present an astonishing variety of this sort of head, retaining its essentials in each individual instance. But who shall paint this look up to the remembrance of it in the breasts of those who have been most interested to observe it! They who have closely and quietly watched the external indications of the developement of an infant's mind,-putting forth to day a tendril, to-morrow a bud, next day a flower,

spreading, like a woodbine, by clinging to that which it beautifies and enlivens,—they will not expect to see these indications done justice to on canvas. In a child's face cu riosity and love appear like cherubs ready to fly from his eyes: his mind

is ever active, and ever making new discoveries; ever rewarding its own activity, and ever seeking the assistance of others:-here then are all the qualities and circumstances necessary to constitute the very antipodes to misanthropy, and the only very agreeable view of human existence. To be melancholy when regarding a healthy and well-used child, one must think of him when he shall be a child no longer.

In the church of San Zaccaria there is what is called the chef d'œuvre of Bellino,-who was the master of Titian. It had been taken to Paris and is now restored to its place. While I was standing looking at this painting, Maria Louisa, late Empress of France, now Duchess of Parma, came in to see it. She had but two attendants with her; her chamberlain, a one-eyed, ugly Austrian officer, called Neipperg, and a female. She was dressed in a very plain black silk pelisse, with an equally simple bonnet over-shadowing her face. It was pale, reserved, and melancholy even to sorrow. Her look was that of one who has long practised selfrestraint. She regarded the picture intently for some time.

The church of the Jesuits is of wonderful workmanship. The walls are all covered with mosaic work of verd-antique and marble of Carrara. The steps that lead to the great altar are in mosaic, which so well imitates a superb Turkey carpet, that the eye is actually deceived. The altar is supported by eight tortuous columns of verd-antique, and the tabernacle which contains the sacrament is of lapis lazuli. Here is the martyrdom of Saint Laurence, by Titian, which was also taken to Paris, and is now restored. In the sacristy there is a series of paintings by the younger Palma, representing the history of Helen, the mother of Constantine, she who was praised in a tone of pious gallantry by Saint Jerome. The roof, by Tintoretto, is in the forcible manner of that artist. Here is the tomb of the Doge Cicogna, under whom the Rialto was built. It was commenced in 1587, and finished in 1591. "He died in the odour of holiness," says a certain author, "for while he was present at the celebration of the mass in Candia, the host sprung from the hands of the VOL. III.

priest, and placed itself in those of Cicogna !'

The church of La Madona del Orto (already mentioned by me) contains the tomb of Tintoretto, which has no inscription; and there are two of his pictures over the great altar, which, with that of Paradise in the palace of the Doge, and the Slave released by a Miracle, which was at Paris, and is now in the school of the Fine Arts at Venice, are considered by the Venetians his finest works. The Crucifixion, so eloquently prais ed by Fuseli, is in the chapel of San Rocco. The two large pictures in this church are of the Day of Judgment, and the Adoration of the Golden Calf; there are also several others, smaller, behind the altar.. The Idolatry of the Israelites is a noble painting. The figures in the air come like clouds moving in their own element. They seem as if they would pass like gusts of wind. Tintoretto's force appears to me to be chiefly that of movement:-it does not lie deeply in character and intellect, like that of Titian and some of his predecessors. His figures have little or nothing of that majestic. weight, that impressive reality, that dignity of the soul, that rich exuberance of life, which we find in those of Titian. His colouring is impressive,

often producing a phantasmagoric effect: his compositions are striking and well-ordered. In one of the. smaller pictures, behind the great altar, there is a power shown of the most poetical kind, and the expression is here all that can be wished. A prophet or patriarch is seated, with an open book on his knee, and looking up to heaven. His eye seems to have caught the objects of his faith: he sees what the crowd of men dare not imagine-what it would not be lawful or possible to utter. His characteristic look is severe: he appears to be one of those who lived upon the manna which fell from heaven in the morning, who drank of the water which gushed from the rock, and whose way was marked by a cloud and pillar of fire. His daily communications are with the God of the Hebrews, who is a jealous god, and whose chief minister broke the tables of his law, in a fury excited by the idolatry of his followers. A cross traverses this picture, and forms a

D

great beauty in the composition. As for the picture of the Day of Judgment, I cannot make any thing out in such a crowd of confused, distorted figures: Michael Angelo's in the Capella Sistina, seemed to me very turbulent, and nothing more.

The Palace Grimani is well worth the particular notice of strangers. It contains some fine morsels of sculpture, particularly the statue of a Grecian orator, with his arm folded in his robe, from whom eloquence seems pouring, in a full but unruffled stream. There is no violent action in this speaker; no sign of professional oratory. It is not Demosthenes nor Æschines, but more probably Pericles-some ruler of the state,-personally concerned in public measures, conscious of his authority, yet amenable to popular opinion. A passage in Anarcharsis (Chap. 14.) represents Themistocles, Aristides, and Pericles standing almost immovable in the tribune, and, with their hands wrapped up in their cloaks, striking as much by the gravity of their mien as by the force of their eloquence. In the room No. 3, of this palace, there is an admirable roof by Giorgione, the subject of which is the four elements, fire, air, earth, and water. Looking at this,and at the several pictures of Titian in the different rooms; -at his Four Ages in another palace, the most truly and unpretendingly poetical of all the productions of the pencil I have ever seen-with the exception of Poussin's Sun Rise, which is in another of the Venetian Collections;-looking at his Mistress, and his many portraits, can we agree with those who would undervalue the Venetian school as unintellectual and unpoetical? The fact, as it appears to me, is, that this school demands, more than any other, powerful imagination, a quick sympathy with character, a deep feeling of passion in the breast of the spectator, to be rightly appreciated, and for this reason it has been often misrepresented. It is said that the Venetian painters do not tell a story; and this is one reason why they are favourites with me. Painters generally, I think, succeed ill in telling a story: wherever they enter into competition with words they fail: but their noble art can convey to the mind and feeling much of which words can give no distinct or just

idea. Beauty of face and form; the silent dignity of physiognomical expression; the enchantments of scenery, and the various effects of colour, light, and shade,-these constitute the natural domain of the pencil; over these it has peculiar, and even almost exclusive power; neither poetry nor prose can cope with it in conveying a clear, distinct, lively sense of these to the imagination. The German author of Observations on the respective limits of Poetry and Painting, lays it down-very justly as it seems to meas a fundamental rule, subject to modifications, that bodies, and their visible properties, are the painter's business; actions, and their accompanying thoughts, the poet's. It is true, that, as actions have their visible indications, they may fairly, and do commonly, become the subject of painting; but in regarding the great specimens of the art throughout Italy, I must say that I have been more struck by that which is called character in such works, than by their examples of expression with reference to action,—or of a dramatic nature. The immortal artists have never seemed to me so far to surpass the bounds of common intellect and feeling, in the latter as in the former; nor have ever so succeeded to set my imagination wandering into a previously unknown world of beauty and sublimity. The character of a countenance reveals itself without words, in spite of words, and better than by words. The expression of the features is that which denotes the excited passion of the moment; sentiments, and, by means of these, events. Passions may be well displayed by the painter; but can always be better described by the poet: sentiments, and thoughts, can be but imperfectly given by the painter, and they form the glory of poetry. Michael Angelo, and Titian conveyed character; Raphael is called a dramatic painter,but my remembrance of him delights to rest on his exquisite representation of character, glowing with all the brilliancy of love, and youth, and fond desire; melting, like the other ripe fruits of the south, with innate sweetness, and rich fragrance. The beauty of the heads of children, in which the great painters so excel, consists in this, that character only is