The rest of the morning was spent in the Vatican.

I stood to-day for some time between those two great masterpieces, the Transfiguration of Raffaelle, and Domenichino’s Communion of St. Jerome.  I studied them, I examined them figure by figure, and then in the ensemble, and mused upon the different effects they produce, and were designed to produce, until I thought I could decide to my own satisfaction on their respective merits.  I am not ignorant that the Transfiguration is pronounced the “grandest picture in the world,” nor so insensible to excellence as to regard this glorious composition without all the admiration due to it.  I am dazzled by the flood of light which bursts from the opening heavens above, and affected by the dramatic interest of the group below.  What splendour of colour!  What variety of expression!  What masterly grouping of the heads!  I see all this—­but to me Raffaelle’s picture wants unity of interest:  it is two pictures in one:  the demoniac boy in the foreground always shocks me; and thus from my peculiarity of taste the pleasure it gives me is not so perfect as it ought to be.

On the other hand, I never can turn to the Domenichino without being thrilled with emotion, and touched with awe.  The story is told with the most admirable skill, and with the most exquisite truth and simplicity:  the interest is one and the same; it all centres in the person of the expiring saint; and the calm benignity of the officiating priest is finely contrasted with the countenances of the group who support the dying form of St. Jerome:  anxious tenderness, grief, hope, and fear, are expressed with such deep pathos and reality, that the spectator forgets admiration in sympathy; and I have gazed, till I could almost have fancied myself one of the assistants.  The colouring is as admirable as the composition—­gorgeously rich in effect, but subdued to a tone which harmonizes with the solemnity of the subject.

There is a curious anecdote connected with this picture, which I wish I had noted down at length as it was related to me, and at the time I heard it:  it is briefly this.  The picture was painted by Domenichino for the church of San Girolamo della Carita.  At that time the factions between the different schools of painting ran so high at Rome, that the followers of Domenichino and Guido absolutely stabbed and poisoned each other; and the popular prejudice being in favour of the latter, the Communion of St. Jerome was torn down from its place, and flung into a lumber garret.  Some time afterwards, the superiors of the convent wishing to substitute a new altar-piece, commissioned Nicolo Poussin to execute it; and sent him Domenichino’s rejected picture as old canvas to paint upon.  No sooner had the generous Poussin cast his eyes on it, than he was struck, as well he might be, with astonishment and admiration.  He immediately carried it into the church, and there lectured in public on its beauties, until he made the stupid monks ashamed of their blind rejection of such a masterpiece, and boldly gave it that character it has ever since retained, of being the second best picture in the world.