But if I pat the right cheek of Canova with one hand, I must cuff his left cheek with the other.  Here is a Cupid by him, executed in 1787.  It is evidently the production of a mind not ripened to its fullest powers.  In other words, I should call it “a poor, flat thing.”

We approach the far-famed MAGDALEN.  Immediately opposite the boudoir, where the last mentioned treasures are deposited, you observe a door, or aperture, half covered with silken drapery of a greyish brown tint.  There was something mysterious in the appearance, and equally so in the approach.  I had no intimation of what it led to; for, as I told you, not a creature besides myself was in the rooms.  With a gently raised hand I drew the drapery aside, entered ... and looked before me.  There stood the MAGDALEN.  There she was, (more correctly speaking) kneeling; in anguish and wretchedness of soul—­her head hanging down—­contemplating a scull and cross, which were supported by her knees.  Her dishevelled hair flowed profusely over her back and shoulders.  Her cheeks were sunk.  Her eyes were hollow.  Her attitude was lowly and submissive.  You could not look at her without feeling pity and compassion.

Such, in few words, is the Magdalen of Canova.  For the first five minutes I was lost in surprise and admiration.  The windows are hid by white curtains; and the interior is hung all over with the same grey silk drapery, before noticed.  A glass, placed behind the figure, affords you a view of the back while you are contemplating the front.  This is very ingenious; but it is probably too artificial.  The effect of the room, however—­from the silken drapery with which it is entirely covered—­is, although studied, upon the whole excellent.  Of course the minutes flew away quickly in such a place, and before such an object; and I think I viewed the figure, in every possible direction, for full three quarters of an hour.  The result of that view—­after the first feelings of admiration had subsided—­I proceeded forthwith to impart:  and shall be most happy to be set right if I have erred, in the conclusion which I draw.  In truth, there can be only one or two little supposed impeachments of the artist’s judgment, in the contemplation of this extraordinary figure.  The Magdalen has probably too much of the abject expression of mendicity in her attitude; and, for a creature thus poor and prostrate, one is surprised to find her gazing upon a golden cross.  It is a piece of finery ill placed in the midst of such wretchedness.  But Canova is fond of gilt; yet what is appropriate in Hebe may be discordant in the Magdalen.  This penitent creature, here so touchingly expressed, is deeply wrapped in meditation upon her crucified Master.  She has forsaken the world ... to follow the cross!—­but surely this idea would have been more powerfully expressed, if the cross had not been visible?.  Was this object necessary to tell the tale?—­or, rather, did not the sculptor deem it necessary to balance (as is called) the figure?  Nor am I over well satisfied with the scull.  It is common-place.  At any rate, if scull and cross must be there, I wish the cross had been simply of stone—­as is the scull.