Of the artistic sense of Germans, and of their artistic life,—of these one may well say, one hears sounds, but they are not in unison. When now I bethink myself what glorious objects are in my neighbourhood, and how little I have profited by them, I am almost tempted to despair; but then, again, I console myself with my promised return, when I hope to be able to understand these masterpieces, around which I now go groping miserably in the dark.
But, in fact, even in Rome itself, there is but little provision made for one who earnestly wishes to study art as a whole. He must patch it up and put it together for himself out of endless, but still gorgeously rich, ruins. No doubt but few of those who visit Rome are purely and earnestly desirous to see and to learn things rightly and thoroughly. They all follow, more or less, their own fancies and conceits; and this is observed by all alike who attend upon the strangers. Every guide has his own object, every one has his own dealer to recommend, his own artist to favour; and why should he not? for does not the inexperienced at once prize as most excellent whatever may be presented to him as such?
It would have been a great benefit to the study of art—indeed a peculiarly rich museum might have been formed—if the government (whose permission even at present must be obtained before any piece of antiquity can be removed from the city) had on such occasions invariably insisted on casts of the objects removed being delivered to it. Besides, if any Pope had established such a rule, before long every one would have opposed all further removals; for in a few years people would have been frightened at the number and value of the treasures thus carried off,—to do which, there is a way of obtaining permission secretly, on some occasions, and by all manner of means.
