CLOSE IMITATION FROM LIFE—MY ILLNESS—I AM IN DANGER OF LOSING MY LIFE—LUIGI DEL PUNTA, HEAD PHYSICIAN AT COURT—THE GRAND DUKE FURNISHES ME WITH THE MEANS FOR GOING TO NAPLES—I LEAVE FOR NAPLES—A BEGGAR IMPOSTOR—ANOTHER AND MY BOOTS—SORRENTO—MY NEAPOLITAN FRIENDS—PROFESSOR TARTAGLIA AND THE HYDROPATHIC CURE—THE MUSEUM AT NAPLES—LET US STUDY THE GOOD WHEREVER IT IS TO BE FOUND—A STRANGE PRESENTATION.

T That my words may not be obscure, and that one may see with sufficient clearness the difference that exists between the details that constitute different types and the minutiÆ that must be left out, I will mention where this sound principle of art is to be found. For greater brevity and clearness I will speak of busts. The bust in bronze of Seneca in the museum at Naples, the bust of Scipio Africanus in the statue-gallery at Florence, the Vitellius, Julia and Lucius Verus, the Cicero of the British Museum, and another Seneca at the Capitol, each has a distinct character of its own. So firm and decided are the details of those different faces, the planes are so clear and certain, the life so shines in the eyes, the breath so seems to come from the lips, that they have been for centuries the study and stumbling-block of all artists; for after that period you do not find anything, unless it be some terre cotte of Luca della Robbia, and a bust of a bishop by Mino da Fiesole, in which you do not find every hair, and, in fact, every possible minutia.

The error into which these two schools run—that is to say, the Academic and Naturalistic—is this, that the one, exaggerating its general rules, neglects detail, and so becomes hard and cold; whilst the other, multiplying them ad infinitum, falls into minutiÆ which make art vulgar. These are both errors, both ugly, both false.

Does this brief tirade, half dictatorial and half careless, bore you, gentle reader? If so, skip it, for I cannot let go the opportunity, from time to time, of making a good critical observation when it occurs to me, and I think it well not to omit doing so. Young artists will, I am sure, be grateful to me; and besides, though these few words may have bored you, they serve as a warning to them on the importance of different characteristics, and are also of use to me, I do not say as an excuse, but as a frank statement of opinion, for in my Sant'Antonino this rule is not clearly carried into practice. The importance of speaking the truth and loving it is clearly given by Dante when he says:—

As I am an ardent lover of truth, I wish to speak it now. With regard to this statue, if I had not the strength of mind to reproduce the saint just as he was, with all his peculiarities, in other statues it has been my study to do so, and I believe not without success.

But in the meanwhile—I do not know for what reason—a general feeling of uneasiness took possession of me, and a prostration of strength, that prevented me from thinking or working. Added to this, I had attacks of giddiness, and was obliged to spend entire days sitting down without being able to do anything, and feeling sad and melancholy. My medical friends—Alberti and Barzellotti—recommended exercise, meat diet, and a little good wine, which in those days (1852) could scarcely be found genuine. They ordered me to take preparations of iron and zinc, but my health grew worse every day. It was now three months since I had gone to the studio. I went out sometimes in the carriage with my poor wife, and we used to go into the country, or on the hills of San Domenico, Settignano, or Pian di Giullari. Sometimes I went out on foot, but accompanied by and leaning on the arm of Enrico Pazzi, Luigi Majoli, or Ciseri, who one day took me by the railway to Prato, where we remained until evening. After that I began to feel a want of appetite, nausea, and sleeplessness, and then my friends really became alarmed about my health.

The Grand Duke Leopold, that excellent sovereign, who was called the babbo—I know not if from affection or derision—was for me (and for many others who do not think proper to admit it) really paternal in his care and timely help. Almost every day he wished to have news of my health; and constantly sent Luigi Venturi, his secretary and a friend of mine, to make inquiries. When he heard that matters had come to this bad pass, he charged his private medical attendant, Luigi del Punta, to come and examine me, study my disease, and suggest a remedy. Del Punta, before coming to see me, acquainted my medical advisers with the order he had received, and a consultation was fixed for the following day, which was the 8th of September, 1852—the Feast of the Virgin. On that morning Alberti and Barzellotti arrived first, paid me a little visit, and then retired into the sitting-room to wait for Del Punta. The sitting-room was next to my room. Del Punta came in, and they talked for a long time, but in an undertone, so that I heard nothing, except one word pronounced by Del Punta, which put me in a great state of apprehension, and that was "tape-worm." The idea that I could have that ugly malicious beast inside me frightened me, and when they came into my room they found me in a much worse condition than when they had left me a little time before. I always remember the piercing look of Del Punta, anxious and penetrating. Then he began to question me, and examine me all over, by auscultation, thumping, and squeezing me. His inspection was a long one; but as he proceeded little by little, his expression became more open, his beaming frank eyes met mine, and I could almost say that a mocking smile played about his lips. Seeing me still staring at him, he gave me a little tap with his hand on my shoulder, and said, "Well, be of good cheer; there is nothing serious the matter." And seeing that I did not believe him, he added, "I tell you you haven't a cabbage-worth the matter with you!" and he said this with emphasis.

Well, my dear reader, that foolish expression did me good. If he had assured me in the usual way, and with select phraseology, that I had nothing serious the matter with me, it would not have had the eloquence or efficacy of that slang word blurted out with such force in the face of the sick man, before the other medical men, with my poor wife listening sadly and anxiously, my little ones about me, not understanding, but full of vague fears on account of their mother's sadness and the novelty of the thing. It brought with it, I say, such a sense of conviction, that it was for me a true and positive affirmation.

Poor Luigi! as learned in medicine as you were genial as a friend, on that day you gave new life to me when I seemed to see it fleeting from me. You so vivacious, so full of health—I so weak and ill; who would have then said that so soon you would be gone?

After having assured me and my wife that there was no serious disease, that I should certainly recover, he added that I required a special method of treatment that had more to do with a regimen of life than with medicine, and that he would refer the result of the consultation and his examination to the Grand Duke. In fact, he reported to the Grand Duke (as I afterwards learned), that in the condition in which I was, I could not have lived; my nerves were so shattered that I had become very weak, and that I suffered from vertigo and could hardly stand, and at last had lost my appetite and power of sleeping. It was urgent that I should have rest; and this would consist in taking me away from home, away from my studio, from Florence, from all—in one word, sending me off on a journey, not a long one, but far enough to distract me from cares and thoughts that oppressed; this was the only remedy, he said, and could be freely adopted, as I had no internal disease. It was necessary that I should have a companion that I liked with me, and he suggested that my wife should accompany me.

A few days after, the Grand Duke informed me by means of his secretary, Venturi, that it was necessary for me to have a change of air, and that Professor del Punta had advised Naples, as it was a bright cheerful place to stay in—where the air was mild, and where there were many pleasant things to distract one: that I must therefore make my arrangements to go there; that my wife and one little girl must accompany me; and that I was not to give a thought to anything, as he provided for everything during the time that was necessary for my recovery, and he recommended me to his minister Cavaliere Luigi Bargagli.

Every day that preceded my departure, Professor del Punta came to see me, and encouraged me to be of good cheer also, on the part of the Grand Duke. The preparations for our departure were many, and by no means trifling. It was necessary to make arrangements so that the work in the studio should not be without direction, and should be carried on carefully. Tito Sarrocchi, then my scholar and workman, was intrusted with the direction of it. The works in hand, besides the statue of Sant'Antonino, were, "Innocence and the Fisherman," for Lord Crawford of London, and some busts. As to models in clay, I left a Bacco dell'uva Malata, that Sarrocchi had charge of until my return. My friends, artists and not artists, came during those days to say good-bye to me, some of them consoling themselves with hopes of my recovery, and others fearing that they should never see me again, so emaciated and sad was I; and Antonio Ciseri wept in saying good-bye.

Good gracious! how long and tedious is this narrative of your illness!

Long! yes or no. Long for you perhaps, who, as it would seem, have never been ill, and who do not know what a consolation it is for one who is suffering from the same malady as yourself to hear about such illness from one who is at present quite well. If it annoys you, have patience—some one may benefit by it; and at any rate, for the present I have done.

The night that preceded my departure, that dear saintly woman my wife remained up all night to put everything in the house in order, and to prepare what was needed for us—that is, myself, my wife, and Beppina, our second daughter. I had at that time four daughters: Amalia, who is the eldest; Beppina, who went with me; and Luisina and Emilia, who remained at home with their grandmother and Amalia. I lost Emilia quite young, dear little angel. Her little body rests in the cemetery of San Leonardo. Gigina I lost when she was grown up, and will speak of this in its place.

The journey had to be made by short stages in a vettura, so that it was necessary to hire a carriage and keep it at one's own expense as far as Naples. We left on the morning of the 20th of October 1852, arrived on the 28th, and lodged at the Hotel de Rome, Santa Lucia. That eight days' journey in the sweet company of my wife, the pretty, innocent questionings of Beppina about the fields, the rivers, and the villages that we passed by one after the other, the novelty of the life, the pure country air, and the hope of regaining my health, had softened the asperity of my suffering. Apathy and sadness gradually gave way to a desire to see new things; my wife's questions and those of my little one obliged me to answer, and sometimes to smile. I felt my appetite for food return, and I slept peacefully some hours every night.

In this way I arrived in Naples—in that immense city, so crowded with people, so noisy and deafening on account of the numbers of carriages, shouts of the coachmen, of the people offering things for sale, of jugglers, beggars, all speaking in a strange difficult dialect most unpleasant to a Tuscan. In this city the first impression made upon me was a mixture of wonder and anger. It seemed to me as if one could do all that those good people were doing without being obliged to scream and throw one's self about so much. Here a coachman smacked his whip within four fingers of your ears, to ask you if you wanted his carriage; there a man, selling iced water and lemonade, screamed out at the height of his voice I don't know what, and, to give it more force, beat with his lemon-squeezers against his metallic bench, like Norma or Villeda on Irminsul's shield; a little farther on a half-naked beggar, with his ragged wife and children, shouted out, "I am dying with hunger," with lungs that a commander of a battalion in the battle-field might envy. These beggars, however, are for the most part impostors. One day—it was a festa—I was returning from San Gennaro, where I had been to Mass with my wife and little girl. I saw a man extended on the ground with his body and legs inside a doorway, his head and his arms out into the street; his mouth was green with grass that he had been chewing, and some of which was hanging out of his mouth. The people passing by looked, and then went on their way talking and laughing as if it was nothing. I was stunned, indignant, and full of pity, and turning to my wife (and even I flinging about my arms in the Neapolitan fashion), said, with all the Christian and human resentment that I was capable of, "How is it possible that, in such a flourishing and civil city as this, a poor Christian is left to die of hunger in the street for want of a little bread which is denied him by his unnatural brethren, and is obliged to feed upon the food for beasts?" And I ran at once to a pastrycook's near by for some cakes, because I thought bread would be too hard food for a man reduced to such a state; and with a light heart on account of the good action, I took them to him that I might see him eat them, and as soon as he was a little restored give him some soldi. Clever indeed! You little thought that the man was an impostor! I bent over him, called him; he did not answer. I put a cake to his mouth, and he looked at me, took the cakes, and hid them in his bosom between his shirt and his skin, and this kind of a bag was crammed full of bread and other things. Some inquisitive people had stopped to look on, and seeing this, it seemed to me as if they laughed at my simplicity.

And as I am on this question, and my memory serves me well, I will tell you of another beggar. In front of the Hotel de France, Largo Castello, where I was staying, is the Church of San Giacomo. At the door of this church a poor man stood from morning until night trembling, half naked, and barefoot. It made me feel badly, comfortably lodged as I was, and sitting smoking my cigar on the terrace, to see that poor creature out in the cold with his feet in the mud. More than once my poor wife had given him some soldi; but one day when it was raining heavily, and the poor man was out in it all, with his feet nearly covered by water, a happy thought struck me, inspired by Christian charity, and I said, "I am here under cover, and have boots on my feet, while that poor wretch is there outside with no shoes on; I will give him my boots." I rang the bell; the servant came, and I said to him, "Raffael, take this pair of boots to that poor man over there by the door of San Giacomo."

"Yes, sir," said Raffael, and away he went.

I went back on to the balcony to enjoy the effect of my good deed, imagining that I should see an expression of amazement and joy on the man's face. Nothing of the sort; he remained there with the boots in hand as if he did not know exactly what sort of things they were, and when Raffael told him that I gave them to him, and pointed me out to him on the terrace, the man turned, looked up, and, always holding them in his hand, made signs of thanking me; then he put them down on the ground near his feet, and continued to stretch out his hands to the people entering the church! "Ah, poor man," I said, "he wished to put them on to-morrow morning; he must wash himself, of course, and dry his feet before putting them on. How stupid of me! The people are just going in for the novena (it was Christmas-time), and he does not want to lose a chance grano to buy him some bread." But the next morning he was still barefooted, and it was raining. I said to my wife—

"Look, I sent that poor man my boots yesterday, so that he should not wet his feet, but he has not put them on. What do you think is the reason? What should you say?"

"He probably wishes to keep them for Sundays," was the serious answer of that dear simple woman.

"You are joking, my dear; that man is old, and if he keeps them for Sundays he will not see the end of them. I say that he has sold them."

"And I say, that if he had two or three lire to spare, he would have wished to buy a pair, poor man!"

We each remained of our own opinion. Late in the day we went out, and, approaching the poor man, I said to him—

"Why have you not put on the boots that I gave you? Are they tight?"

"Your Excellency," he replied, "if I put the boots on, no one will give me another penny. I have sold them, your Excellency; and may the Virgin bless you."

A few days after my arrival at Naples I went to Sorrento. The discordant noise of the town annoyed me, and I wished to try that little place, so much praised for its climate and for its quietness, and so full of association with that illustrious and unhappy man, Torquato Tasso. I went there with my friend Venturi, who had come to Naples for a few days with the Grand Duke.

Sorrento is a charming little town seated on the crest of a hill called the Deserto. It is surrounded on the left by woods of orange, citron, and lemon trees, and on the right by the sea with the island of Capri, that seems to rise up majestically from the deep blue waters. On the far horizon one catches a glimpse of Nisida and Baia. This small town is inhabited by fishermen, orange-packers employed on the large landed possessions in the neighbourhood, and by most clever workers of inlaid wood, who have made their art so much in request by the thousand little trifles, so pretty in design and so carefully executed, that they make. Garguillo's manufactory is much renowned, and justly so. Not only do you find on the pieces of furniture cornices, fillets, meanders, and other graceful ornaments, but also extremely pretty figures inlaid on the boxes, little tables, and other nick-nacks with which well-to-do people embellish their rooms. Here the air is mild, and the sun is tempered by the shade of laurels and orange-trees. The character of the inhabitants is gentle and laborious, and through their acts and their words there breathes a quiet, ineffable melancholy, like the memory of a sweet pure dream. Their complexion is dark, and also their hair; their eyes have long lashes, and are cut in almond shape. It seems as if they looked with infinite sweetness at something immeasurably far off; their smile is sad, as if it recalled to them a lost existence that hope induced them to think not irretrievably lost. This favoured, I should almost say ideal, bit of nature, at a few miles' distance from the thoughtless vulgar noise of the inhabitants of Naples, is a thing commented on by all, but by no one reasonably explained. The climate so temperate, the air perfumed with the scent of orange-flowers, and the sweet melancholy on those faces, instead of rendering the place agreeable to me, made me profoundly sad. Why did my heart not open itself to the enjoyments of that pure, serene, and most beautiful nature? Why was it that that bright sky, that tranquil sea, that quiet industrious life, rendered me more sad and thoughtful? Perhaps it was because being so very weak I did not feel the strength within me to reproduce in art any of those many impressions that the mind took in and fancy clothed in most varied forms. One day I visited Tasso's house; and whilst, as usual, the cicerone explained in his way the singularity of that abode, I dwelt in imagination on the life and vicissitudes of that unhappy poet, and recalled the secret joys of that passionate soul after he had finished his Christian epic: I saw the courteous, handsome cavalier, the inspired poet, envied and conspired against by the favourites of the Duke and the literati, his rivals; the looks of the ladies, whose frank admiration was veiled in the shadow of profligacy; then the disorder, confusion, first in the heart, and then in the brain of poor Torquato, the suspicions of the Duke, his imprisonment, his lawsuit, his resignation and death; and I wept.

I decided to return to Naples—for this quiet full of fancies drove me back into myself, and made me more sad. I took up my abode in the centre of the great city, in Piazza Castello, at the Hotel de France, on the angle of the Strada dei Guantai Vecchi. In this hotel strangers were continually coming and going, and changing every day. The windows of my little apartment opened on the Piazza, and the mid-day and westerly sun bathed them in heat and light. Some artists, in compassion for my condition, came to give me courage; and among them I remember with profound sadness, for almost all of them are now dead, Cammillo Guerra, Giuseppe Mancinelli, Gigante, and Tommaso Aloysio Juvara, who had such a tragic end in Rome. The warmth of your heart turned your brain, my poor friend! but in your last moments you acknowledged your sin, and God will have been merciful to you. The other younger artists who are still alive are the sculptors Solari and Balzico, the miniature-painter Di Crescenzio, and Postiglione the painter. But my health was always the same. Professor Vulpes, to whom I had brought a letter of recommendation from Professor del Punta, continued to follow the same treatment as that indicated by the other Florentine doctors,—that is to say, prescribing preparations of iron, meat diet, rest, and tranquillity of mind. And in the meanwhile I had no desire to eat; my sleep was restless and of short duration; my legs would ill support me, and my mind was so depressed that I could not endure to read more than a few pages. As to writing, I was obliged to stop every moment or so; ideas got confused, and I could not separate them from each other or give them any proper shape. It was a great fatigue to me to give my news to Venturi when he desired to hear from me.

At last the longed-for day came which was to decide the question of my health. It was already two months since I had left my home; and although the journey to Naples and the air there had been somewhat beneficial to me, yet I was very far from entertaining the slightest hope of recovery—or rather this recovery was so slow as to make me lose all patience. At this stage good Professor Smargiassi, seeing me always so weak and melancholy, said to me, "Why do you not try the water-cure?"

"What do you mean by water-cure?" I replied; and he explained it to me, adding, "Here in Naples there is Professor Tartaglia, who has effected some wonderful cures." He told me of some, and he added that he himself had tried this cure and had got well. As Smargiassi was a serious man, with a temperate habit of speech on all matters, his words carried weight with them, and I consented willingly to consult this hydropathic professor, and so sent for him.

Professor Tartaglia was an exceptional Neapolitan—that is to say, he had nothing of the vivacity of speech and manners that is peculiar to this warm-hearted, exuberant, and imaginative people; he spoke little and quietly, listened a great deal, and observed attentively. When he had heard of my complaints, he examined me, and after that said: "You have no disease, although you may not feel well; you will recover quietly and easily—of that you may be sure. In the meanwhile I will tell you that I shall not come again to see you; but instead, you must come to see me every morning at twelve o'clock to give me an account of how you feel. To-morrow you must take your first bath. Don't be alarmed—it is not a bath by immersion; you are not to go into the water," and he gave me the directions to be followed; and as he was going away he said, "Let alone the medicines that you have taken thus far."

The first morning this hydropathic cure seemed very arduous. To get out of one's bed and put on a sheet drenched with cold water is not the pleasantest thing in the world, especially at that season of the year (it was the last of December); but after the first impression, I can assure you that the external warmth finally produces a pleasant effect, and gives strength and elasticity to the body. After the bath, walking exercise should be taken for at least an hour. To my objection that I could not walk, the Professor answered, "Walk as much as you can, rest a little, and then continue to walk, and so on; you will see day by day that your strength will return, and with your strength, courage and happiness." In short, after a month of this treatment I was so well that I could walk easily eight miles during the day. When I wrote to Florence of the new cure that I had begun, Del Punta was frightened, and said that he would not be responsible for the result of this resolution of mine, which, to say the least, was hazardous; and that I ought not to have undertaken it without the advice of an ordinary practitioner—that is to say, of an allopathic doctor. His making this a condition tranquillised me, as Professor Tartaglia was really an allopathic doctor; but in some cases that were rebellious to that system of treatment he adopted hydropathy. Then, too, the result was so satisfactory, so decided, that all objections fell to the ground, and nothing more was said about it.

By degrees I felt my strength returning, and my heart expanded with hope. Delightful artistic thoughts, that had so long lain dormant, sprang into life within me, one by one, like the first leaves in April; and Will, precious gift, mysterious, immortal power, again took and held its empire over me, and pronounced itself. During the days just passed, the smiling country, the glorious sun, the terrible beauty of the sea, the joys of men, the creations of art, and (sad to say) even the affectionate care of my dear ones, were irksome to me; and now, with pleasure, slowly and by degrees I began to feel a desire and thirst to enjoy these good things, thinking about them and loving them with more intensity of understanding and hearty sincerity. Every day there was a new excursion to be made: Capodimonte, with its immense park and rich gallery; that beautiful walk, the Strada Maria Teresa, now Vittorio Emanuele; the Certosa of San Martino, where one enjoys a view of the whole city, of the sea and all the Campagna-Felice, of Vesuvius, of Monte Somma, of Portici, Resina, Capri, and Nisida. Then I felt a desire to see the Royal Museum, unique in the world for its great riches in ancient bronzes; the Flora, Venus Victrix, Callipige, Aristides, the equestrian statues of the Balbi, father and son; the seated Mercury; the Sleeping Faun, and a thousand other statues, big and little; busts, in marble and in bronze, of exquisite beauty, all or almost all of them having been dug out of the ashes of Herculaneum and Pompeii. On certain days, or I should rather say at certain moments, a sight of these works of sculpture sets one on fire, and fills one with courage and a strong desire to do something; but at other times it gives one a feeling of dismay, discouragement, and fear that cannot be described. This difference of impression deserves to be examined a little, and he who is bored must here skip; the young artist, however, I am certain, will follow me attentively. I have made a promise to myself not to leave these papers as food for mere curiosity, for, seriously speaking, there should be no satisfaction in that; whereas a little value and profit will be found by every one who has the patience to follow me.

Yes, dear friends, sometimes, in seeing certain works of art, one burns with enthusiasm, with a fire, a desire to do, that is really marvellous, and we ease our minds with the conviction that this is a sign of our strength. Illusions, dear sirs—illusions! To the eyes of the artist all works of art ought to be the occasion of examination and serious hesitating thought; and when these outbursts of immoderate confidence in ourselves occur, they are a sign that our sight is obscured by pride, or that we are not able to comprehend the degree of beauty in such works, and consequently the difficulties that have been overcome to produce them. We must correct ourselves of both these defects, and learn to respect even mediocre things, as by this method we arrive at the discovery of something good even in these, if not as a whole, at least in their intention and germ, and this will always be something gained. As a young man, I have found myself laughing compassionately at some of the most beautiful works of art, both ancient and modern, and this merely because my natural pride had been excited by light or false praise. The complacency that we feel in ourselves and our works comes in part from a species of exclusiveness and belief in the infallibility of the principles we profess. Not that I would counsel any disloyalty to the principles that are our guides in art—no, indeed, for we must keep entirely true to them; but it is a very different thing to despise all other schools that are removed from ours. For instance, why despise the Academicians, who are tenacious of the study of antique statues, in order to keep within bounds the turbid torrent of the veristi, who in their turn, through their coarse adherence to nature, lose the idea of the beautiful? Let us, on the contrary, respect them for their intentions and motives, at the same time that we make certain reservations as to the final consequences that would result from this distrust and refashioning of nature. The fault of the Academic school lies in this, that instead of saying, "Study the antique; look how well they knew how to choose from life and how to interpret it," they say, "Here, copy these casts; apart from them there is no health or safety for you. Nature is imperfect; you must improve on it, and, imitating the Grecian and Roman statues, you will learn to purge nature from all her imperfections." So saying, the intention, which is good, is spoiled by its application of exaggerated rules. But, I repeat, the intention is good; therefore let us look to that whilst we reject its application. On the other hand, why should we despise the naturalisti in all that they have that is good—I mean, in their axioms and rules—which, in short, putting aside amplification and exaggeration, means the imitation always in everything of nature? We have always accepted and insisted upon the imitation of nature, that is of beautiful nature, putting aside that exaggeration which leads to folly, absurdity, and licence of conception, and to ugliness of form, detail, and minutiÆ.

The same may be said of the mystics, the purists, colourists, lovers of effect and barocco, &c. Let us take the good where we can find it: not, indeed, make a mixture, a medley, as some have been fantastic enough to imagine, by which we should arrive directly at eclecticism, which is the most foolish thing in this world; but putting our minds into the study of all these schools, we shall be able to find good reasons for their teachings. Separating them from excess and exaggeration, we shall find ourselves in a wider, clearer, higher atmosphere, and the impressions that we receive from works of art will not produce despondency or rejoicing, our judgments will be more temperate and just, and our own work will be done quicker and better. This does not mean, indeed, that we are to remain indifferent before works of art. Alas for the man who is indifferent! for the artist who before some work of art stands cold and without feeling! A young man who is ardent, boasting, and proud, can correct himself, can be trained by difficulties and instances, by emulation or jeering. The timid will become animated, and take courage, moving with measured and cautious steps on his arduous journey, and, by reason of his timid, gentle character, conciliate the goodwill of his masters and fellow-students; but the indifferent and cold of nature has too much the air of a simpleton or an arrogant person, and he is fled from and left in his stupid ignorance.

And here, gentle reader, is one of these happy mortals who live their little day in dreamland. A person came to see me one day bringing with him a young man who might have borne a quarter of a century weight on his shoulders. He was of medium height, with broad shoulders, bent slightly, owing, perhaps, to his being twenty-five years of age; he had a black beard, bronzed complexion, and wandering eyes. He looked all about him and saw nothing. I say that he saw nothing, for he paid the same attention to my cat as he did to the head of the Colossus of Monte Cavallo, which stood on a stand in the room, and to my "Abel" as he did to me or my stool. He spoke no Italian, not even French; but the person who accompanied him, and who was competent in all respects, spoke for him, or rather of him, for the young man himself never opened his mouth to utter a word, although he kept it half open even when he was looking at the cat. This very polite person said—

"You will forgive me, Signor Professor, if I take you away from your occupations for a few brief moments; but I could not forego the pleasure of regaling you with a visit from, and making you acquainted with, this young sculptor, who is on his way to Rome, where he goes, not, indeed, to perfect himself as an artist, but to practise the profession which he has so nobly and splendidly illustrated by his genius. As he is undoubtedly born to fame, and the whole world will talk of him, I wished to bring him to you, and make you really acquainted, that you might some day be able to say, 'I have seen him and spoken with him.'"

I stood there like a bit of stucco, looking at the young man, and then at the person who had spoken to me thus. Then I answered—

"Tell me, does this gentleman speak, or at least understand, Italian? Has he understood what you have just said of him?"

"Oh no! he only speaks English; he is an American."

"The Lord be thanked," muttered I to myself, "that the poor young man understood nothing!" But this polite person, misunderstanding my question, began—

"Now I will tell him what I have said to you."

And he began in English to repeat the little tirade that he had given me, and this genius of a young man nodded his head at every phrase, looking at me, at the stool, and at the cat!