It may be considered heresy, but I confess I did not at first go into raptures, nor perceive any traces of superhuman beauty.  The predominant feeling, if I may so express it, was satisfaction; the eye dwells on its faultless outline with a gratified sense, that nothing is wanting to render it perfect.  It is the ideal of a woman’s form—­a faultless standard by which all beauty may be measured, but without striking expression, except in the modest and graceful position of the limbs.  The face, though regular, is not handsome, and the body appears small, being but five feet in height, which, I think, is a little below the average stature of women.  On each side, as if to heighten its elegance by contrast with rude and unrefined nature, are the statues of the Wrestlers, and the slave listening to the conspiracy of Catiline, called also The Whetter.

As if to correspond with the value of the works it holds, the Tribune is paved with precious marbles and the ceiling studded with polished mother-of-pearl.  A dim and subdued light fills the hall, which throws over the mind that half-dreamy tone necessary to the full enjoyment of such objects.  On each side of the Venus de Medici hangs a Venus by Titian, the size of life, and painted in that rich and gorgeous style of coloring which has been so often and vainly attempted since his time.

Here are six of Raphael’s best preserved paintings.  I prefer the “St. John in the Desert” to any other picture in the Tribune.  His glorious form, in the fair proportions of ripening boyhood—­the grace of his attitude, with the arm lifted eloquently on high—­the divine inspiration which illumines his young features—­chain the step irresistibly before it.  It is one of those triumphs of the pencil which few but Raphael have accomplished—­the painting of spirit in its loftiest and purest form.  Near it hangs the Fornarina, which he seems to have painted in as deep a love as he entertained for the original.  The face is modest and beautiful, and filled with an expression of ardent and tender attachment.  I never tire looking upon either of these two.

Let me not forget, while we are in this peerless hall, to point out Guercino’s Samian Sybil.  It is a glorious work.  With her hands clasped over her volume, she is looking up with a face full of deep and expressive sadness.  A picturesque turban is twined around her head, and bands of pearls gleam amidst her rich, dark brown tresses.  Her face bears the softness of dawning womanhood, and nearly answers my ideal of female beauty.  The same artist has another fine picture here—­a sleeping Endymion.  The mantle has fallen from his shoulders, as he reclines asleep, with his head on his hand, and his crook beside him.  The silver crescent of Dian looks over his shoulder from the sky behind, and no wonder if she should become enamored, for a lovelier shepherd has not been seen since that of King Admetus went back to drive his chariot in the heavens.