put his own feeling and poetry in it, and therefore it is his own. Schadow, whom I am often glad to spend my time with, a truly modest artist with a clear, calm understanding of great work, lately said to me that Titian had never painted a meaningless or dull picture, and I believe he is right, for all the master’s works speak of life and inspiration and the power of health; where these are is great art.
To-day I was in St. Peter’s, where the ceremonies of the “Absolution” at the Pope’s death have begun. They last till Tuesday, and then the Cardinals will enter the conclave. The edifice is beyond all conception. It seems to me like some great wonder of Nature, a forest, or a mountain of rock; one loses sight of the human contrivance. It seems to tax the sight to look up to the roof; it is like looking up to the sky. You start on a journey in the interior and soon find yourself tired of walking. The services are being said and sung in one part, and one only becomes aware of it on arriving there. The angels of the font are uncouth giants, the doves huge as eagles; one forgets all the relations of perspective, yet it is a grand sensation to stand beneath the dome and let the eye pierce the unbroken height above. At present a monstrous catafalque stands in the nave, shaped something like the drawing I send. The coffin is placed in the centre beneath the pillars, a tasteless arrangement, but with a weird effect. The two biers and their decorations are thickly studded with lights, an altar lamp hangs above the bier, and beneath the statues again are countless tapers. The whole
