Domenichino seems very unequal in his pictures; but when he is grand and free, the energy of his genius perfectly satisfies.  The frescos of Caracci and his scholars in the Farnese Palace have been to me a source of the purest pleasure, and I do not remember to have heard of them.  I loved Guercino much before I came here, but I have looked too much at his pictures and begin to grow sick of them; he is a very limited genius.  Leonardo I cannot yet like at all, but I suppose the pictures are good for some people to look at; they show a wonderful deal of study and thought.  That is not what I can best appreciate in a work of art.  I hate to see the marks of them.  I want a simple and direct expression of soul.  For the rest, the ordinary cant of connoisseur-ship on these matters seems in Italy even more detestable than elsewhere.

I have not yet so sufficiently recovered from my pain at finding the frescos of Raphael in such a state, as to be able to look at them, happily.  I had heard of their condition, but could not realize it.  However, I have gained nothing by seeing his pictures in oil, which are well preserved.  I find I had before the full impression of his genius.  Michel Angelo’s frescos, in like manner, I seem to have seen as far as I can.  But it is not the same with the sculptures:  my thought had not risen to the height of the Moses.  It is the only thing in Europe, so far, which has entirely outgone my hopes.  Michel Angelo was my demigod before; but I find no offering worthy to cast at the feet of his Moses.  I like much, too, his Christ.  It is a refreshing contrast with all the other representations of the same subject.  I like it even as contrasted with Raphael’s Christ of the Transfiguration, or that of the cartoon of Feed my Lambs.

I have heard owls hoot in the Colosseum by moonlight, and they spoke more to the purpose than I ever heard any other voice upon that subject.  I have seen all the pomps and shows of Holy Week in the church of St. Peter, and found them less imposing than an habitual acquaintance with the place, with processions of monks and nuns stealing in now and then, or the swell of vespers from some side chapel.  I have ascended the dome, and seen thence Rome and its Campagna, its villas with, their cypresses and pines serenely sad as is nothing else in the world, and the fountains of the Vatican garden gushing hard by.  I have been in the Subterranean to see a poor little boy introduced, much to his surprise, to the bosom of the Church; and then I have seen by torch-light the stone popes where they lie on their tombs, and the old mosaics, and virgins with gilt caps.  It is all rich, and full,—­very impressive in its way.  St. Peter’s must be to each one a separate poem.