A PROPHETIC DREAM—GIOVANNI STRAZZA—SIGNOR VONWILLER AND SOCIETIES FOR PROMOTING ART—RETURN FROM NAPLES TO ROME, AND MY DAUGHTER LUISINA'S ILLNESS—OUR RETURN TO FLORENCE—DEATH OF TRIA THE MODEL—THE MOSSOTTI MONUMENT AT PISA—HOW IT WAS THAT I DID NOT MAKE THE PORTRAIT OF HIS MAJESTY THE KING—THE COMPETITION FOR CAVOUR'S MONUMENT—I GO TO TURIN TO PASS JUDGMENT ON IT—THE "CHRIST AFTER THE RESURRECTION," A COMMISSION OF SIGNOR FILIPPI DI BUTI—RELIGIOUS ART AND ALESSANDRO MANZONI AND GINO CAPPONI—THOUGHT IS NOT FREE—CAVOUR'S MONUMENT—THE DESCRIPTION OF IT.

A And yet I do not feel in the vein to stop talking of the dead. It is so sweet to go back in memory to those dear persons that we have loved and esteemed, and who have returned our love. One day in Rome—it was in the summer of 1864—a young painter of the brightest promise had received a letter from his betrothed, who was a long way off. In it she expressed the great anxiety she had been suffering on account of a dream she had had, in which she had seen her dear one drowning; and she beseeched him in the warmest manner to pay attention and not expose himself to danger. The ingenuousness and affection in this letter made the young painter smile, and in his answer he jokingly expressed himself as follows: "With regard to your dream, set your mind at rest, because if I don't drown myself in wine, I shall certainly not drown in water." A few days after this some of his friends proposed to him to go and bathe, but he refused decidedly, and said, "Go, the rest of you; I don't want to bathe, and shall go home," and he left them. Shortly after this his friends went, as they had decided, to bathe, and they saw a young fellow struggling in the water; recognising him, they at once undressed and ran to his rescue, as it was evident that he did not know how to swim. Their attempt, as well as that of others, was vain, for the poor young man went down and was carried away by the current of the Tiber to a great distance from the spot where he had thrown himself in. This young man was universally and sincerely regretted. Painting lost in him one of her brightest geniuses, and Siena, his birthplace, a son that would have been a very great honour to her. Some studies sent by him to Siena, and a picture of San Luigi in the Church of the Madonna del Soccorso at Leghorn, bear witness to Visconti's talent, a name dear and revered amongst all artists. He studied at the Sienese Academy, under Luigi Mussini, who, besides his sound principles in art, had the power of being able to communicate them, and carried persuasion and conviction through the weight of example. Visconti was buried in Rome in the Church of San Bartolommeo all'Isola,[15] a short distance from the place where his body was found, and Siena honoured him by having a modest but touching monument made by his friend Tito Sarrocchi and placed for him in the Church of San Domenico. Visconti was a handsome young man, healthy and strong, of olive complexion, black hair and beard, endowed with an open, frank, loyal, and at the same time modest, nature.

I return to the living, I return to Naples. About this time the competition for the statue of Victory, as a monument for the martyrs of the four revolutions, 1821, 1831, 1848, and 1860, was to be decided on. Many were those competing for it, and all Neapolitans—amongst these Pasquarelli and Caggiano, pupils of mine; and for this reason, as well as on account of my ill health, I could not accept the position of judge. Giovanni Strazza was therefore invited to come from Milan; and he too died a few months ago, my poor friend! He had a very cultivated mind, and was as amiable and polished in manner as he could be. I knew him first in Rome in 1844, when he was very young, and when artists, amateurs, and all people crowded round his first statue of Ishmael. To all, as well as to me, he was open-hearted, loyal, and sincere, and his words were always urbane and pleasant. I saw him again at Vienna in 1873, when he was my companion in the jury for our section of sculpture at the great exhibition. But let us really return to the living, if that be possible.

The prize for the statue of Victory was adjudicated to Emanuele Caggiano, and justly so. I think this statue is one of his finest works. I have heard nothing of him now for a long time, and am afraid that he does not occupy himself with the same fervour that he displayed when he began to work under my direction.

I revisited all the things that I had seen the first time I was in Naples, with a feeling of ennui, and only gave some attention to Pompeii, because there I had the good fortune to meet the Commendatore Fiorelli, director of the excavations, and some artists that I have forgotten. I remember, however, the brotherly solicitude shown me by my friends Morelli and Palizzi, and this time even by Angelini, and the particular courtesy of Signor Vonwiller, a most cultivated man, and so great a lover of art that he has converted his house into a real modern and most select gallery. Here one finds in perfect harmony all the best products of Italian art. At that time (and many years have since passed) the pictures of Morelli, Celentano, Altamura, Palizzi, and other clever painters of that beautiful school, were admirably exhibited; there too, Vela, Magni, Angelini, and Fedi had works; and in the midst of these I felt honoured also to find myself represented by my two statues of Bacchini, the "Festante" and the "Dolente." If every city in Italy had a gentleman like Vonwiller, it may easily be believed that art would derive great benefit from it; for taste backed by great fortunes has more direct and potent efficacy than all the societies for promoting art, where, with small sips and small prizes, the genius of poor artists is frittered away. Until the day when these societies make the heroic resolution of only conferring two or three prizes (be it for pictures or statues of small dimensions; the size does not matter, as long as they are really beautiful), art will not advance one step. But in the meanwhile, let us take things as they are and push on.

The repose and the balmy airs of beautiful hospitable Naples worked a wonderful change for the better in my health. Sleep, that beneficent restorer of the forces, which for some time past had gone from me, verily without my having murdered it, as Macbeth had, or even in the least offended it, returned with its blandishments and its calm smiling visions full of pleasant happy memories. It was the season of the year when nature dons again her green mantle. In that happy country, her awakening is more precocious, and one could say that nature was there a very early riser; and whilst the mountains were still all covered with snow, on those sweet slopes, on those enchanted shores, the little green new-born leaflets mix with the blossoms of the apple, almond, and peach trees. The light morning breeze makes these leaflets and blossoms tremble, and wafts to the air a sweet delicate perfume, that revives the body and rejoices the spirit.

This reawakening of nature has in it I know not what of harmony that is difficult to describe. It seems as if the chest expanded to drink in the air with unusual longing; the eyes are never weary of looking again at the budding flowerets, whose odour one inhales with a chaste voluptuousness, as of the breath of our children in their mother's arms. The mysterious wave of life, that insinuates itself in the earth, penetrating even into its most infinitesimal parts, that prepares the nuptial bed, and makes the budding vegetation fruitful; the wave, that in the profound depths of the sea gladdens the life of its mute inhabitants, gives joy and swiftness to the flight of the birds in the air, makes the animals of the earth walk with more erect, ready, and joyful step,—the wave of life, more than all, operates wonderfully on man. And I—I felt myself born unto a new life; nature seemed to me more beautiful, her bounty more desirable; the wish to observe and to work returned to me, the enjoyment of conversation, attention in listening, temperance in discussions, and courtesy in controversies, all impulses of the mind, wherein, it seems to me, lies the mysterious harmony of body and soul in perfect union—mens sana in corpore sano.

Having therefore recovered my health, and taken leave of my friend Mancinelli and his good family, I again left for Rome, with the intention of passing the approaching Holy Week there; but it so happened that my poor Luisina, the youngest of my daughters, fell ill. Some symptoms of her illness had already manifested themselves in the first days after our arrival; then she had to take to her bed, and became so much worse, that we were all in the greatest anxiety—two months of such anxiety as only a father can understand; and she was so sweet a creature, and so intelligent! Then she improved a little, but did not recover. We left hurriedly, because the bitterness of losing her away from home was unbearable to us. The affectionate solicitude of our friends at this juncture was really brotherly. Majoli, Marchetti, Mantovani, Wolf, and Tenerani came forward and showed us indescribable kindness, and I remember it with gratitude, that no time can ever efface or weaken.

After our return to Florence, under treatment the disease seemed to have been got under; she recovered her health, and we thought no more about it.

I took up my studio life again. As I stood before my work that I had left when in a state of such utter prostration, it seemed to me that I had almost a new spirit within me. The head of the Madonna, who, when I left, looked as if she was sorrowing for me, now seemed to me so full of sadness that I did not touch it again, and it remains just as it was when I left, tormented by the insupportable, atrocious, and stunning noise in my head. Tears of emotion, of gratitude, and of feeling ran down my cheeks as I stood before the clay, and, full of confidence, I set myself again to work. In thought I returned to the days of my sufferings, when the fear of losing my mind frightened me, and I dared not look at my children or at my good wife. These remembrances quickened the pleasure I felt in my new state of health, and I thanked the Lord from the bottom of my heart.

I had taken Tonino Liverani (nick-named Tria) as a model for my "Christ." He was rather too old for a "Christ," but I was not able to find another who united such majesty and grace of movement and of parts. Hardly had I put the whole masses together and begun to define some of the outlines, when he fell ill and died in a few days. I went to see him when he was at his worst, and the poor man was glad to see me, and was pained (as he said) not to be able to finish the "Dead Christ." With his deep sunk eyes, mouth half opened, and with the pallor of death upon him, he looked marvellously beautiful, and strangely like that type of Christ that good artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries have handed down to us. Poor Tria, I still remember the long, piteous look you gave me when we bade each other good-bye!

Scarcely had I finished the model for the "PietÀ," when I modelled the statue of Astronomy for the Mossotti monument, which is in the Campo Santo at Pisa, a work that I had pledged myself to make for its mere cost; and I did so most willingly on account of the reverent friendship that I had had for Mossotti. But even the expenses were not covered, and to all my pressing inquiries I never got a word of answer from the treasurer of the committee, in consequence of which the committee itself was never able to publish a report of its administration. But, that the word expenses may be clearly understood, I wish it to be known that that statue, with its sarcophagus, base, and ornamentation, I had pledged myself to make, and did make, for six thousand lire. I have received five thousand eight hundred and fifty; there remain the hundred and fifty, which I am obliged to make a present of, after having given gratuitously my work on the models and the finishing of it in marble. I don't know if it is so with other artists, but with me it has always happened that the works I have been desirous of making for their mere cost—which is like saying, as a present—have not been accepted, or, besides giving my own work, I have been obliged to add something from my pocket! Before these memoirs are finished the reader will find something else of the same kind which will serve as a lesson and warning to young artists, even if they ever feel within them the "softness" to work for nothing.

In another place I have said that, in the enumeration of my works, I should not make mention of the portraits. I was obliged, however, to deviate from that promise to speak of one that had occasioned a great deal of talk and false reports about me. I must now speak of another that I was to have made, and did not—that is to say, the portrait of his Majesty King Victor Emmanuel. Why I never made it I cannot say myself, and perhaps the reader himself will not know after he has read the following account, unless he is satisfied with the explanation that I shall presently give.

The Superintendent of the Archives, Commendatore Francesco Bonaini, after having put in order and nearly reconstructed the archives of Pisa, wished to put in the main hall a marble bust, of almost colossal size, of Victor Emmanuel; and in order to determine the size and study the light, I went with him to Pisa to see the place itself where the bust of the King was to stand. Having seen it and fixed upon the size of the bust, I made one condition, agreeing to all arrangements as to price and time for making it. The condition that I made—a most natural one—was that his Majesty should concede to me the sittings required, that I might model him from life and not from photograph. The syndic of the day (Cavaliere Senatore Ruschi, if my memory serves me) went to Florence, accompanied by some of the assessori, to ask the King, first for the permission of placing his portrait in the Great Hall of the Pisan Archives, and then to grant the necessary sittings to the artist, and settle the place, the time, and the length of the sittings, according to his Majesty's pleasure. Both the one request and the other were granted most graciously by the King with his usual affability, and he added that he knew the artist and was well satisfied, and that, in the meanwhile, they were to wait for notice to communicate to me that I might begin my work. Months passed, and this notice never came; Bonaini was pressing me, being in a hurry to have the archives inaugurated, and I appealed to his Excellency Marchese di Breme, Minister of the Royal House, to beg the King to let me have the required sittings, but my request met with no good result. Later, after the death of Di Breme, I made the same appeal to the Marchese Filippo Gualterio, who succeeded him in that office; but this appeal not only had no good result, but did not even receive an answer. As the affair of the inauguration of the Pisan Archives had boiled over, Bonaini did not speak of it again, and naturally neither did I. Here there would be some observations to be made on this favour having been asked for and granted, and then given up. As for me, I resolve the question in a few simple words and say, that as it is a most boring thing to all to stand as model, for a king it must be excessively so and insufferable, and therefore the notice to begin this boring business never came from the person who was to undergo it; and it is reasonable enough, and even satisfies me, who have posed as model two or three times.

About this time the Syndic of Turin invited me to form part of a commission of artists to pass judgment on the models sent up for Cavour's monument. I was then at Leghorn with my family, as my little girls were in need of sea-bathing. I had no need for it myself, and, in fact, I think that the damp salt air was not good for me, and I stayed there most unwillingly, so that when the invitation to go to Turin came I instantly accepted it with pleasure as a fortunate opportunity to change the air and have something to occupy my mind; and leaving my wife with the two youngest little girls, I took Amalia with me.

This competition, of which we were to judge, was a second trial, as the first had failed; the competitors were many, and some of them praiseworthy. My colleagues in the jury were, if I remember right, the Professors Santo Varni of Genoa, Innocenzo Fraccaroli of Milan, Ceppi of Turin, and another whose name I cannot recall. The examination was a long one, and the discussion, although opinions differed, was a quiet one: the majority pronounced itself favourable to a project of the architect Cipolla, which was in drawing; my vote had been for one of the two designs in relief by Vela. The reporter of our decision was Professor Ceppi. I returned to Leghorn to my family, and from there to Florence, where I again took up my work.

Signor Ferdinando Filippi di Buti, whom I had met at Leghorn, showed himself desirous of having a statue of mine to put in the mortuary chapel that he had built from its very foundation close to one of his villas on the pleasant hill that rises above the town. The subject was a beautiful one, and, after the "Dead Christ," I could not have desired anything better to make than "Christ after the Resurrection," and this was the very subject that Signor Filippi wanted of me.

The "Triumph of the Cross," the "Madonna Addolorata" that I spoke of further back, the "PietÀ," and this "Christ after the Resurrection," are the strictly religious subjects that I have made—rather, that I have had the good fortune to make, because I believe that such subjects, always beautiful in themselves, when they find the soul of the artist disposed to feel them and comprehend them, are also capable of high serene inspiration, and secret efficacy to the soul of those who behold them, be they in spirit even thousands of miles distant from the number of believers.

Let the truth prevail. Religious sentiment has its root in the heart, in the intellect, in the imagination, and, in a word, in all the impulses of the soul. A heart without God is a heart without love, and will not love woman but for the brutal pleasure she procures, and, in consequence, not even the children that are the fruit of, and also a burden upon, his selfishness. He will not love his country except for the honours and the gain that can be got out of it, and will sacrifice it carelessly for a single moment of pleasure or interest, because a heart without God is a heart without love. An intelligence without the knowledge of God is wanting in a basis as starting-point for all its reasoning—it is without the light that should illumine the objects it takes hold of to examine. Such an intellect is circumscribed within the narrow circle of things perceptible to the senses, where, finding nothing but aridness wherein to quench its burning thirst, which is always insatiate for goodness and truth, it ends either in a fierce desire of suicide, or as a vengeance of nature's own in that saddest of nights, madness. An imagination deprived of the splendid visions of the supersensible, loses even its true functions, because, not seeing or divining through time and space, through life and death, in the stars and in the atoms, anything but a casual mechanism, it is cruelly condemned to inertia, and with clipped wings can no longer sustain its flight—those wings which so potently upheld Dante as he passed from planet to planet, leaving the earth down in depths far beneath him. The eye accustomed to matter is besmeared with mud, and can no longer bear the bright light of the sun and the planets, which seem as if they were the eyes of God.

Religious sentiment has existed in all times, amongst all people, and it exists in the conscience of man independent of all education and example. The immense vault of the heavens; the innumerable planets resplendent in light; the sun that illuminates, warms, and fertilises the earth; the expanse of the waters of the sea; the prodigious variety and beauty of animals, plants, and fruits; the loveliness of colours, harmony of sounds from everywhere, and for all our senses,—come to us as the proof of God. But more even than from exterior things we feel it within ourselves. The blood shed by the martyrs fighting for the faith; life given in large profusion for the defence of country, liberty, and honour, or our women and children; active indignation against tyranny, cowardliness, and injustice; the tender charm we feel for innocence, admiration for virtue, and charity towards the poor, orphans, and those in trouble,—all these are signs that God has placed within us a part of His very nature. We feel within us the impulses of charity, and in prayer we feel our heart expand with hope; out of frailty we fall, and faith renews in us the strength to rise again. Religious sentiment makes the heart glow, illuminates the intellect, fertilises the imagination, and creates not only the good citizen and good father, but also the artist.

Our hundred basilicas, the paintings and statues of our Christian artists that Italy and the world is so rich in, bear witness to this tribunal of truth to which anxious humanity, even from its earliest days, appeals. Phidias, Homer, Dante and Michael Angelo, Brunellesco and Orgagna, Raphael and Leonardo, Donatello and Ghiberti, and a hundred others, prove that religious inspiration is of so large a source that one can always draw from it; and although in the application of it the form may in a measure vary, yet it will always be great and admirable, because the mind that lifts itself up, though it may deviate more or less salient in curves, will always remain elevated. Correggio and Bernini, Guido Reni and the Caracci, were under the bad influence of their time as to method, but the intention was always good. And coming down to our recent fathers, and speaking always of artists, were Canova, Rossini, and Manzoni not great, for the very reason that they took their inspiration from religious subjects?

As the venerated name of Manzoni has fallen from my pen, I shall describe the visit that he made to my studio. When his visit was announced to me, I had but just finished the bas-relief for Santa Croce and the "PietÀ." He was in company with the Marchese Gino Capponi, Aleardi, and Professor Giovan Battista Giorgini. After having seen several of my works, he stopped before the model in plaster of the bas-relief for Santa Croce, and said—

"I see here a vast subject that speaks to me of lofty things; it seems to me that in parts I can divine its meaning, but I should wish to hear the artist himself speak and explain his entire intention."

It is always unwillingly that I act as cicerone to my very poor works—and to say the truth, I only do so most rarely with my intimate friends in order to ask some advice; but the abrupt request made by such a man as he was did not displease me, and I began my explanation. But after I had been talking a few minutes, Marchese Gino Capponi began to stammer out something full of emotion in his sorrow not to be able to see the things I was explaining, and had to go out accompanied by Giorgini, if I mistake not. And here was another of those great souls that warmed itself in the rays of that faith which broke asunder the chains of the slave—opened the mind and softened the heart of the savage—restrained the flights of fancy within the beaten road of truth and good—willed that power, justice, and charity should be friends with each other, and made one taste of peace and happiness in poverty—and that enlarged and extended the confines of the intellect, of morality, and of civilisation.

I beg pardon if I have enlarged too much on this subject, but I do not think it can be superfluous to endeavour to correct the tendency of the day, when from every side one hears repeated that, for the future, in art the study of religious subjects is at an end, as if society of to-day was entirely composed of unbelievers or free-thinkers, who, by way of parenthesis, amongst other fine things have never thought that thought itself is not at all free. It seems to me that thought is an attribute of the soul that is moved with marvellous rapidity by means of a strength and impulse superior to itself, which depend upon physical constitution, education, and example. Thought, with all its freedom, all its flights, is subject, dependent, and, as one might say, formed by those forces and those impulses.

In the infinite scale of human thoughts there are some good, but a great many more are bad. In the moral order of things, those contrary to good are evil; as in the intellectual, those contrary to truth—and in the ideal, those contrary to the beautiful.

Now thought moves inconstantly from the beautiful to the ugly, from the true to the false, from good to evil, until our will, which is really free, either repulses it or takes possession of it according to the power, more or less, that reason has over the will. It is clear, therefore, that thought is not free, but, on the contrary, is subservient to laws independent of and superior to itself. How this happens is quite another pair of sleeves; but the fact is this, our thought is moved, and so to speak, subject to this power. Will comes and accepts it, weds it and makes it its own, good or bad though it be, with or without register of baptism, and snaps its fingers at the syndic or the priest. Once stirred, thought moves the will, and the will assenting, commands it as with a rod. And now, for the second time, let me really beg pardon.

After my "Christ," his Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Constantine of Russia gave me an order for an angel that he wanted as a present for a German prince, whose name I do not remember. This angel was to be the Guardian Angel; the subject was determined upon, and I don't know if, in the mind of the giver, it was to guard the prince or the principality. If it was the prince, I hope my poor angel will have done the best he could; if the principality, I am afraid that he has been overcome by cunning and force. His head is crowned with olives, and his lifted right hand points to heaven. Will the prince feel any consolation looking at the statue? I hope so; and in any way, he will be persuaded that true peace is not of this world.

It is now the time and place to speak of Cavour's monument. As I before mentioned, I was one of the judges on that committee. My vote had been for Professor Vela's design, but the prize was obtained by the architect Professor Cipolla; and as he was an architect, he naturally could not carry his work into execution: he therefore went the rounds, and it was not difficult for him to find several sculptors who assumed, each and all of them, certain parts, either a statue or bas-relief. For the principal statue of Cavour, it was the intention, I know not whether of Cipolla or the Giunta Comunale, that I should make it, but their reiterated request I did not think well to accept.

In the meantime, in Turin there began to be a sort of persistent, dull warfare against Cipolla's design. All sorts of possible and imaginable doubts were raised as to its general character, meaning, proportions, and effect. That excellent artist, Professor Cipolla, proposed to put an end to all this talk by setting up in relief, in largish proportions, a model of his so-much-contested design. Would that he had never done so! The aversion to it grew beyond bounds, and pronounced itself by means of the press to such a degree, that the Giunta thought it best no longer to intrust him with the commission for the work; for, by virtue of an article in the programme for this competition, the committee were not in the least tied down to commit the execution of the monument to the gainer of the prize at the competition, having left itself full and entire liberty of action. From this began a sequel of remonstrances and appeals on the part of the artist, and answers backed by law on the part of the commission, which was then broken up and another formed, for the purpose of studying anew the whole affair.

I hurry over these things quickly as they come to me and as my memory has retained them after many years, without searching amongst letters, newspapers, or elsewhere, wishing, as I have done until now, to make use only of my memory.

The new Giunta, presided over by my illustrious and lamented friend Count Federigo Sclopis, took up this tangled affair, discussed in so many ways, and came to the determination of not having any more competition. They decided that the best thing to be done was to choose an artist, and order the work directly from him, leaving him free to determine the rendering of the subject, the size of the monument, the materials to be employed, and choice of the site, and all other matters, except, naturally, as to price and time,—which latter could be but short, owing to the two years that had passed in competitions! The choice fell on me, who was a thousand miles away from thinking of such a thing. However, before saying a word to me, and much less, writing to me, I was interrogated by a most estimable person if I would accept that work, and I answered at once that I would not: in the first place, because the subject was a difficult one, on account of its purely political significance,—so extraneous, not to say tiresome, to my nature and studies; in the second place, because, having been one of the judges on that commission, it did not seem delicate to accept it; and finally, because I thought Vela's design most praiseworthy. But neither my refusal nor the reasons I put forth availed to alter the resolution they had now taken to make me accept the work, which, for the matter of that, if it presented great difficulties, and even rather rough ones, in the rendering of its great conception, yet offered a most rare opportunity, that would have flattered many other artists of more ambitious hope than I, who have always been temperate. With all this, however, I should always have replied in the negative, had not a gentle and most noble lady begged me to accept, touching on certain family affections that have always found in me an echo of assent.

I accepted this commission, therefore, not blinding myself to the great difficulties that I was going to encounter, or the many little annoyances that I should undergo on account of the disappointed hopes of those who had competed for the work. I saw and felt all the seriousness of my undertaking, and thought of nothing else but carrying it out most conscientiously. I asked for eight years' time, which will not appear much, to execute the work; but I was begged to be satisfied with six, and I wrote my adhesion, still declaring in the contract that it would be impossible for me to complete it in that short time. Although I worked with all possible energy, and provided myself with additional workmen besides my own usual ones, yet the monument could not be finished and put in its place until after the eight years that I had asked for.

My composition of the architectural part of the monument was a quadrangular base, with two spherical bodies on each side, whereon reposed another base, with the corners cut off, that sustained the principal group of Italy and Cavour. In front, on the lower base, is the half-reclining figure representing Right in the act of rising, who leans with the right hand on a broken yoke, and clenches the left on his breast in a menacing attitude. His head and back are covered by a lion's skin, signifying that right is strength. Opposite is Duty, in a quiet attitude of repose. His head is crowned by a wreath of olives, signifying that in the fulfilment of duty peace is to be found; his right elbow rests on a block, where, on the two sides exposed to view, are sculptured in bas-relief the two extremes of human activity. On one of these there is a king distributing a crown and prizes to a virtuous man, whilst behind him there is a chained delinquent undergoing his penalty; and on the other there is a husbandman ploughing the ground. On the two lateral sides there are two groups. That on the right is of Politics, with two little genii, Revolution and Diplomacy. Politics is seated, but alert, and almost in the act of rising: her head is turned to the little genius of Diplomacy, who has unfolded the treaties of 1815, and is gravely showing it to her with his right hand, whilst with his left he hides behind him a sword and olive-branch, demonstrating that he brings with him either war or peace. The other little genius of Revolution, in the act of wishing to dash forward, is held back by Politics, who keeps her eyes on him, and, with a caressing expression, tries to temper his ardour; one of his feet rests on a fragment of medieval architecture, and he holds in his right hand a brand, the symbol of destruction. The group on the left is of Independence, tightly clasping in her embrace the little genius of the Provinces, at whose feet still lies a link of his chain of captivity. Independence has Roman sandals on her feet, and a warrior's helmet on her head; her right arm is uplifted, and she holds a broken chain in her hand, in the act of dashing it from her. The other genius is that of Unity, crowned by an oak-wreath; he holds the fasces, to show that union is strength. The principal group stands up on the top, and represents Cavour, wrapped in his funereal mantle. Italy, at his side, in the act of rising from her prostration, is offering him the civic crown, with expressions of gratitude, more decidedly expressed by her left arm, by which she holds her great politician tenderly around the waist; whilst he, with kindly act, shows the people a chart, on which is written his famous formula, "Libera Chiesa in libero Stato," or free Church in free State. On the two faÇades of the great base are two bas-reliefs in bronze. In one of these is portrayed the return from the Crimea of the Sardinian troops, who, by Cavour's advice, took part, in union with France and England, in the war against Russia, to put a check to the ambitious designs of that Power in the East. The other bas-relief represents the Congress of Paris, where for the first time, on account of Cavour, Italy's voice was listened to.

The architectural part is made in rose granite of Baveno; the ornaments—that is to say, the arms, cornices, and trophies—and the statues are in clear white marble of Canal Grande, which withstands all attacks of weather. The entire monument is elevated on three steps, and surrounded by a garden enclosed by railing.

The inscriptions are: On the front, "To Cammillo Cavour, born in Turin the 10th of August 1810, died the 6th of June 1861." On the side over the Politics, "Audace prudente;" over the Independence, "L'Italia libero;" and behind, "Gli Italiani, auspice Torino." These inscriptions are by Professor Michele Coppino.