St. Bartholomew.
Lat. S. Bartholomeus. Ital. San Bartolomeo. Fr. St. Barthélemi. Aug. 24.
As St. Bartholomew is nowhere mentioned in the canonical books, except by name in enumerating the apostles, there has been large scope for legendary story, but in works of art he is not a popular saint. According to one tradition, he was the son of a husbandman; according to another, he was the son of a prince Ptolomeus. After the ascension of Christ he travelled into India, even to the confines of the habitable world, carrying with him the Gospel of St. Matthew; returning thence, he preached in Armenia and Cilicia; and coming to the city of Albanopolis, he was condemned to death as a Christian: he was first flayed and then crucified.
In single figures and devotional pictures, St. Bartholomew sometimes carries in one hand a book, the Gospel of St. Matthew; but his peculiar attribute is a large knife, the instrument of his martyrdom. The legends describe him as having a quantity of strong black hair and a bushy grizzled beard; and this portrait being followed very literally by the old German and Flemish painters, gives him, with his large knife, the look of a butcher. In the Italian pictures, though of a milder and more dignified appearance, he has frequently black hair; and sometimes dark and resolute features; yet the same legend describes him as of a cheerful countenance, wearing a purple robe and attended by angels. Sometimes St. Bartholomew has his own skin hanging over his arm, as among the saints in Michael Angelo’s Last Judgment, where he is holding forth his skin in one hand, and grasping his knife in the other: and in the statue by Marco Agrati in the Milan Cathedral, famous for its anatomical precision and its boastful inscription, Non me Praxiteles sed Marcus pinxit Agratis. I found in the church of Nôtre Dame at Paris a picture of St. Bartholomew healing the Princess of Armenia. With this exception, I know not any historical subject where this apostle is the principal figure, except his revolting and cruel martyrdom. In the early Greek representation on the gates of San Paolo, he is affixed to a cross, or rather to a post, with a small transverse bar at top, to which his hands are fastened above his head; an executioner, with a knife in his hand, stoops at his feet. This is very different from the representations in the modern schools. The best, that is to say, the least disgusting, representation I have met with, is a small picture by Agostino Caracci, in the Sutherland Gallery, which once belonged to King Charles I.: it is easy to see that the painter had the antique Marsyas in his mind. That dark ferocious spirit, Ribera, found in it a theme congenial with his own temperament;[218] he has not only painted it several times with a horrible truth and power, but etched it elaborately with his own hand: a small picture, copied from the etching, is at Hampton Court.