is sufficient to stand near,
I think; one scarcely can escape contagion. The sudden and violent
powers observable in this lake should at least check the computists from
thinking they can gather the world's age from its petrefactions.

But we are called to the Vatican, where the Apollo, Laocoon, Antinous,
and Meleager, with others of less distinguished merit, suffer one to
think on nothing but themselves, and of the artists who framed such
models of perfection. Laocoon's agonies torment one. I was forced to
recollect the observation Dr. Moore says was first made by Mr. Locke, in
order to harden my heart against him who appears to feel only for
himself, when two such youths are expiring close beside him. But though
painting can do much, and sculpture perhaps more, at least one learns to
think so here at Rome, the comfort is, that poetry beats them both.
Virgil knew, and Shakespeare would have known, how to heighten even
this distress, by adding paternal anguish:--here is distress enough
however.

Let us once more acknowledge the modesty and candour of Italians, when
we repeat what has been so often recorded, that Michael Angelo refused
adding the arm that was wanting to this chef d'oeuvre; and when
Bernini undertook the task, he begged it might remain always a different
colour, that he might not be suspected of hoping that his work could
ever lie confounded with that of the Greek artist.

Such is not the spirit of the French: they have been always adding to
Don Quixote! a personage whose adventures were little likely to cross
one's fancy in the Vatican; but perfection is perfection.

Here stands the Apollo though, in whom alone no fault has yet been
found. They tell you, he has just killed the serpent Python. "Let us beg
of him," says one of the company, "just to turn round and demolish those
cursed snakes which are devouring the poor old man and his boys yonder."
This was like the speech of _Marchez donc_ to the fine bronze horse
under the heavenly statue of Marcus Aurelius at the Capitol, and made me
hope that story might be true. It is the fashion for every body to go
see Apollo by torch light: he looks like _Phoebus_ then, the Sun's
bright deity, and seems to say to his admirers, as that Divinity does to
the presumptuous hero in Homer,

Oh son of Tydeus, cease! be wise, and see
How vast the difference 'twixt the gods and thee.

Indeed every body finds the remark obvious, that this statue is of
beauty a