The church of San Severo is falling to ruins, owing to some defect in the architecture.  It is only remarkable for containing three celebrated statues.  The man enveloped in a net, and the Pudicita draped from head to foot, pleased me only as specimens of the patience and ingenuity of the sculptor.  The dead Christ covered with a veil, by Corradini, has a merit of a higher class:  it is most painful to look upon; and affected me so strongly, that I was obliged to leave the church, and go into the air.

I went to-day with two agreeable and intelligent friends, to take leave of the Studeo and the Museum.  I have often resolved not to make my little journal a mere catalogue of objects, which are to be found in my pocket guide, and bought for a few pence; but I cannot resist the temptation of making a few notes of admiration, and commemoration, for my own peculiar use.

The Gallery of Painting contains few pictures; but among them are some master-pieces.  The St. John of Leonardo da Vinci (exquisite as it is, considered as a mere painting), provoked me.  I am sick of his eternal simpering face:  the aspect is that of a Ganymede or a young Bacchus; and if instead of Ecce Agnus Dei, they had written over it, Ecce vinum bonum, all would have been in character.

How I coveted the beautiful “Carita,” the Capo d’Opera of Schidone!—­and next to it, Parmegiano’s Gouvernante—­a delicious picture.  A portrait of Columbus, said to be by the same master, is not like him, I am sure; for the physiognomy is vacant and disagreeable.  Domenichino’s large picture of the Angel shielding Innocence from a Demon pleases me, as all his pictures do—­but not perfectly:  the devil in the corner, with his fork, and hoofs, and horns, shocks my taste as a ludicrous and vulgar idea, far removed from poetry; but the figure of the angel stretching a shield over the infant, is charming.  There are also two fine Claudes, two Holy Families, by Raffaelle, in his sweetest style; and one by Correggio, scarcely less beautiful.

The Gallery of Sculpture is so rich in chef-d’oeuvres, that to particularise would be a vain attempt.  Passing over those which every one knows by heart, the statue of Aristides struck me most.  It was found in Herculaneum; and is marked with ferruginous stains, as if by the action of fire or the burning lava; but it is otherwise uninjured, and the grave, yet graceful simplicity of the figure and attitude, and the extreme elegance of the drapery, are truly Grecian.  It is the union of power with repose—­of perfect grace with perfect simplicity, which distinguishes the ancient from the modern style of sculpture.  The sitting Agrippina, for example, furnished Canova with the model for his statue of Madame Letitia—­the two statues are, in point of fact, nearly the same, except that Canova has turned Madame Letitia’s head a little on one side; and by this single and trifling alteration has destroyed that quiet and beautiful simplicity which distinguishes the original, and given his statue at once a modern air.