Rome of the Artists
"The Pantheon, the Apollo Belvedere, some colossal heads of roman statues and recently the Sistine Chapel, have taken possession of my soul to the point where I see almost nothing else. However, it is difficult, small as we are and used to smallness, to come close to such nobility, grandeur and perfection. I believe myself to have been reborn into a true life the day I arrived in Rome”
J.W. Goethe -Trip to Italy-1786
"After all kneeled to once again implore the help of God, the architect leading the project sounded the horn. With great effort, they began to work the 140 horses, who in turn moved the 44 pulleys with 800 men supporting them, carefully working until the machines worked in harmony and reached a perfect union with their force. Slowly the enormous obelisk was erected, rising carefully to its feet and causing stupor and marvel among the people. And at the late hour of 11:00 pm, it finally stood firm in its destined spot.”
St. Peter's square, September 10th 1586 - Carlo Fontana

But my soul wanders; I demand it back
To meditate amongst decay, and stand
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track
Fall'n statues and buried greatness, o'er a land
Which was the mightiest in its old command,
And is the loveliest, and must ever be
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand,
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,
The beautiful, the brave - the lords of earth and sea.

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome!
And ever since and now, fair Italy!
Thou art the garden of the world, the home
of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other climes fertility;
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood and Fire
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire,
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide
Temple and Tower went down, nor left a site:--
Chaos of ruins! Who shall trace the void,
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,
And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly night?

Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV: XXV, XXVI, LXXX

“In plainer words, these steps are the great place of resort for the artists' "Models," and there they are constantly waiting to be hired. The first time I went up there, I could not conceive why the faces seemed familiar to me; why they appeared to have beset me, for years, in every possible variety of action and costume; and how it came to pass that they started up before me, in Rome, in the broad day, like so many saddled and bridled nightmares. I soon found that we had made acquaintance, and improved it, for several years, on the walls of various Exhibition Galleries. There is one old gentleman, with long white hair and an immense beard, who, to my knowledge, has gone half through the catalogue of the Royal Academy. This is the venerable, or patriarchal model. He carries a long staff; and every knot and twist in that staff I have seen, faithfully delineated, innumerable times. There is another man in a blue cloak, who always pretends to be asleep in the sun (when there is any), and who, I need not say, is always very wide awake, and very attentive to the disposition of his legs. This is the dolce far' niente model. There is another man in a brown cloak, who leans against a wall, with his arms folded in his mantle, and looks out of the corners of his eyes: which are just visible beneath his broad slouched hat. This is the assassin model. There is another man, who constantly looks over his own shoulder, and is always going away, but never goes. This is the haughty, or scornful model. As to Domestic Happiness, and Holy Families, they should come very cheap, for there are lumps of them, all up the steps; and the cream of the thing, is, that they are all the falsest vagabonds in the world, especially made up for the purpose, and having no counterparts in Rome or any other part of the habitable globe.”
Charles Dickens - 1846 Travel Log, Pictures from Italy