The reserved picture of St. Peter and St. Paul, kept in the last chamber
of the Zampieri palace, and covered with a silk curtain, is valued
beyond any specimen of the painting art which can be moved from Italy to
England. We are taught to hope it will soon come among us; and many say
the sale cannot be now long delayed. Why Guido should never draw another
picture like that, or at all in the same style, who can tell? it
certainly does unite every perfection, and every possible excellence,
except choice of subject, which cannot be happy I think, when the
subject itself is left disputable.

I will mention only one other picture: it is in an obscure church, not
an unfrequented one by these pious Bolognese, who are the most devout
people I ever lived amongst, but I think not much visited by travellers.
It is painted by Albano, and represents the Redeemer of mankind as a boy
scarce thirteen years old: ingenuous modesty, and meek resignation,
beaming from each intelligent feature of a face divinely beautiful, and
throwing out luminous rays round his sacred head, while the blessed
Virgin and St. Joseph, placed on each side him, adore his goodness with
transport not unmixed with wonder: the instruments of his future passion
cast at his feet, directing us to consider him as in that awful moment
voluntarily devoting himself for the sins of the whole world.

This picture, from the sublimity of the subject, the lively colouring,
and clear expression, has few equals; the pyramidal group drops in as of
itself, unsought for, from the raised ground on which our Saviour
stands; and among numberless wild conceits and extravagant fancies of
painters, not only permitted but encouraged in this country, to deviate
into what _we_ justly think profane representations of the deity:--this
is the most pleasing and inoffensive device I have seen.

The august Creator too is likewise more wisely concealed by Albano than
by other artists, who daringly presume to exhibit that of which no
mortal man can give or receive a just idea. But we will have done for a
while with connoisseurship.

This fat Bologna has a tristful look, from the numberless priests,
friars, and women all dressed in black, who fill the streets, and stop
on a sudden to pray, when I see nothing done to call forth immediate
addresses to Heaven. Extremes do certainly meet however, and my Lord
Peter in this place is so like his fanatical brother Jack, that I know
not what is come to hi