ON THE STUDY OF EXPRESSION FROM LIFE—THE CARE ONE MUST TAKE IN MAKING STUDIES FROM LIFE—A GENRE PICTURE AND RAPHAEL'S CARTOON OF THE "MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS "—I LOSE MYSELF IN LONDON—THE HOUSEMAID AT HOTEL GRANARA—THE INCONVENIENCE OF BEING IGNORANT AND ABSENT-MINDED—RISTORI AND PICCOLOMINI IN LONDON—THE CARTOONS OF RAPHAEL AT HAMPTON COURT—FANTASY RUNS AWAY WITH ME—A CURIOUS BUT JUST LAW—THE RESULT OF FASTING—THE VILLA OF QUARTO AND A PRINCE'S "EARLY HOUR"—AGAIN OF PRINCE DEMIDOFF.

B But it is time to return to the point I started from, and to speak of the study of character and spontaneous expression from life. In fact it was in London that I had occasion to see a picture of extraordinary beauty for strength and truth of expression, in which the result of that study was clearly demonstrated. This picture, on exhibition at the School or Academy of Fine Arts, was of small dimensions; the subject, a familiar one, or, as it is usually called, genre, was as follows: To the right of the person facing the picture is a gentleman's country-house, and outside by the garden-gate a mother is seated near her little girl, who is ill, and reclines in an arm-chair, supported by pillows. The mother has left off working, and looks anxiously at the pale exhausted girl, whose eyes are sunk deep in their sockets, and who smiles and looks languidly at two little children, a boy and girl, little peasants, strong, healthy, and robust, who are dancing, and have evidently been invited to do so by the parents of the little invalid. It is autumn, the hour a sad one. The last rays of the sun are gilding the dead leaves on the trees and on the bushes. On the left you see the father in close conversation with the doctor, questioning him with anxious eyes, whilst he, very serious and sad, hardly dares look at the unhappy father. To speak the truth, when genre pictures are so full of interest and life as this, I prefer them to all the gods of Olympus. But, generally, they are entirely wanting in this first quality, and abound in the second, which becomes vulgarity; and so the foundation of art, which is the beauty of truth, is wanting, and only the "business" remains, with its puerile attractions.

I saw many other works of art, both in painting and sculpture, at this exhibition of living English artists, but none of them compared with that marvellous work. I do not remember the name of its author, and much I regret it; but I have given a minute and exact description of it.

In the National Gallery, rich in pictures of the Italian school, I admired a marvellous cartoon of Raphael's, slightly coloured, of the "Massacre of the Innocents." It is jealously guarded under glass. Of the beauty of this work as to form, I do not speak—it is Raphael's, and that is enough; but what most struck me was the brutal movement of murdering soldiers, the desperate convulsive resistance of the mothers, pressing to their breasts the little babes, whilst they scratch and tear at the faces of the executioners; and it would seem as if one heard their sharp screams mingled with the cries of the murdered infants. The calm and flowing grace that are the characteristic notes of that divine genius, do not appear in this; but instead one sees and hears parole di dolore, accenti d'ira, voci alte e fioche, of the desperate mothers. Those who have not seen this cartoon and the others at Hampton Court, of which I will soon speak, cannot entirely appreciate Raphael.

I advise young artists who want to go to London to learn a little of the language of the country; they will find themselves the better for it. It happened to me, who knew nothing of it, one day to lose myself in that interminable city, and another day, very little to my taste, to find myself carried off in the train to Scotland. If, therefore, they learn a little English, they will understand that Leicester Square is pronounced Lester Squere. As I said, I lost myself in London, and this was how. I lodged at the Hotel Granara. Granara is an honest Genoese, who knows how to attend to his own affairs, as all the Genoese do, and more than that, knows how to secure the goodwill of his customers, almost all of whom are Italians. His hotel was at that time, in 1856, in Leicester Square. It was my habit then, as always, to go out very early in the morning and take a little turn before breakfast. I made it a study to observe well all the turnings, the names of the streets and their peculiarities, so as to be able to return home, but did not succeed. I tried again and again for about two hours, before asking my way, to see if it were possible for me to find a street, a name, or a sign that I had seen before, but all was in vain. I was tired, had had no food, and had not a soldo in my pocket; and although I had with me the key of the place where I kept my money, this was of no avail in getting me a breakfast. Driven by hunger I put aside my pride, or rather my pretence, of finding my way to the inn, and asked a policeman. I asked him both in Italian and in French, but he did not understand me, and presented me to another, but with the same result. There I beheld myself lost in that immense city, without a penny, and very hungry. It must be admitted that my position was a rather serious one—not that those excellent policemen did not perfectly understand that I had lost the way to my hotel, and were most desirous of putting me on the right road to it, but they did not know how, as they were not acquainted with the name of the square that I inquired for. At last, and it was quite time, one of them took out of his pocket his note-book and pencil and gave it to me, saying in good French, "Écrivez le lieu oÙ vous Êtes logÉ." I had hardly written the first word when the policeman quickly said, "Lester Squere?" "It may be so," said I; but to make sure I finished writing out the address, adding even the name of the hotel, and showed it to him, to which the policeman said, "Yes, very well." He took the paper and begged me to follow him to another policeman at the end of the street, to whom he consigned me and the paper, and having exchanged a word or two with him, returned to his post. The new guard, without uttering a word, took me to another and consigned me to him, and so on, until in about half an hour I was reconducted home.

You understand me, therefore, in England the knowledge of a little of the English language will do no harm, and not be de trop, and by it you may avoid another inconvenience, that of finding a teacher at the wrong time and place. Let me explain myself. The maid-servant who had the care of my room got it into her head that she would teach me to speak English, and she set herself to work to teach me with a method entirely her own. She seized hold of a chair and called it by name, then the chest of drawers, then the bed, then the looking-glass, &c., and she insisted that I should repeat these names after her in her language. The thing in itself was innocent enough, but foolish, as both she and I lost our time by it. For me it was not so much matter, but for her the neglect of her duties might have lost her her situation; and therefore, with the language common to all—that is, by gesticulations—I made her understand that she must stop her lessons. Let the reader not think, however, that I refused that good, and, let me add, beautiful teacher in a rough way; no indeed, I am not a satrap. I said to her—(beg pardon!) I gesticulated all this to her nicely, and with a good grace. One must always have every care to treat women in a gentle and respectful manner.

Here is another story, always Àpropos of the necessity there is of knowing at least a little of the English language. Hampton Court is a palace of the Queen's, about an hour's distance from London by rail. It is open to the public on holidays. The palace is beautiful, and contains many precious things; the country about is green, fresh, and pleasant: therefore, as can easily be imagined, there is always a large concourse of people. I wished also to procure myself this outing; so, betaking myself to the northern station, I took my ticket for Hampton Court, and got into the train. In that country one goes along at the pace of twenty kilometres an hour. Enchanted by the sight of the beautiful country clothed in its deep-green mantle,—so new to us who are accustomed to ours, so much more pallid, and burnt in streaks by the greater fierceness of the sun,—I forgot the pace we were going at, paid no attention when we stopped, and did not hear them call out the name Hampton Court. I suppose similar things must happen to the touristes who visit our Italy. Let us imagine one of them to have taken a ticket for Certaldo, desiring to visit Boccaccio's house; the train stops, and the guard, with a stentorian voice, more calculated to slur over than pronounce the name, calls out, "Who is for Certaldo?" (chi È peccettardo). Naturally the touriste does not understand, and allows himself to be carried on maybe even as far as Siena. But this is not so bad as my case, for I ran the risk of being taken on to Edinburgh. Fortunately I began to suspect that I had passed by the station where I ought to have got out, and asked. The answer was, that we had passed Hampton Court some time since.

"What must I do?" I asked.

"Stop at the first station; and this evening, by the Edinburgh train, you can return to London."

"Are there no other trains before this one, that I may return to London during the day to dine?"

"No."

"Many thanks!"

I got down at the first station, paid the difference in my ticket, and, in the very worst of humours, took a turn in the little village or hamlet,—I did not even care to ask its name. I had some wretched food, and everything seemed to me bad and ugly.

Yes, yes; a little of the language of the country is even more necessary than bread or than money, for the English—and I think they are right—speak no other language than their own. But they go so far as to pretend, when they come amongst us, that we should speak English like them; and here they are in the wrong.

When I got home to the hotel in the evening, Avvocato Fornetti and Caraffa, my friends and companions at the hotel, came to me smiling, and said, "Have you amused yourself?"

I said, "Yes;" I did not tell them what had happened, for they were the kind of men who would have ridiculed me for a long time.

Beyond these few little mishaps, my time passed most pleasantly in London. My fellow-citizen Marietta Piccolomini was singing at the Queen's Opera House with Giulini and Belletti. Ristori was acting at the Ateneo Italiano. There were very often concerts of music, instrumental and vocal, where Bottesini, Giovacchino Bimboni, and the violinist Favilli played. I knew De Vincenzi, who was afterwards in the Ministry; and I again met Count Piero Guicciardini, Count Arrivabene, the maestro Fiori, that scatter-brain of a Fabio Uccelli; Monti, the Milanese sculptor; our Fedi; Bulletti, a carver in wood; Romoli, the painter and sculptor; and others,—in fact, a perfect colony of Italians.

Among the tragedies which Ristori acted in at that time, and which I already knew, I saw one that I liked extremely. It was the 'Camma,' by Professor Giuseppe Montanelli,—in my belief, a very fine work, and superlatively well interpreted, in its proud and passionate character, by the first actress, Signora Ristori. I heard the Signora Piccolomini, with her usual grace and intelligence, sing in the 'Traviata' and the 'Figlia del Reggimento.' Although these entertainments, be they prose or music, were deserving of all praise, yet the price of the entrance-ticket, according to us Italians, was enormously dear, being one pound sterling, which is equal to twenty-five lire and twenty centimes of our money. May I be forgiven if that is little? One must also take note that at that time, A. D. 1856, everything was done in a small way,—reasonable incomes, few requirements, small expenditures, and, smallest of all, taxation. The ciphers of millions in the great book of 'Debit and Credit' had not yet been invented; the floating debt did not even exist in dreams. So that thirty lire codine at that time represented nearly a hundred francs of to-day. Who is there (I mean amongst us) who would wish to spend a hundred lire for a 'Traviata'? Not I, indeed; for I remember, when I was an abonnÉ at the Cocomero (now Niccolini), to have heard Ristori for four soldi a-night, and she acted equally well, without taking into account her youth and beauty, that inexorable Time will not respect, even in celebrities.

"Then you went to a foolish expense; and you contradict yourself without even turning your page, for you say that you would not spend the money, and at the same time you inform us that you heard Ristori act in 'Camma'!"

I answer, "'Camma' cost me absolutely nothing, as the Signora Ristori, who is as amiable as she is eminent as an artiste, favoured me with an entrance-ticket;" and so I clear up the apparent contradiction that the critical reader was in such haste to bring forward. Go on, however, and look sharply through these papers, where you will find something of everything. Moreover, you will be often bored, but I hope you will never find any contradictions. I have also a very good habit—that is, of re-reading what I have written: and then, with a little art, one succeeds in putting everything nicely in its place. You understand? Then we will push on.

In order not to fail a second time in my intention of seeing the royal villa of Hampton Court, I wrote that name on a card and showed it to the guard every time we stopped. I got there at last. The place all about is very pleasant, with a wide, clear horizon, for the fogs only have their home in London. The palace, as may be imagined, is large and majestic. I don't remember the style of its architecture, and don't want to refer to the easy expedient of consulting a guide-book. I promised myself that I would write my life, the thoughts that came to me one after another, without help, trusting only to memory. So I have done thus far, and intend doing so to the end. The villa, as I have said, is majestic, enclosed on all sides by gardens and orchards. The interior consists of innumerable halls richly decorated with paintings, somewhat out of repair, as they are no longer used, it would appear, as a royal residence. People crowd more particularly to the Queen's own private apartments, to see her sitting-room, and even her bedroom with its bed-furniture, and the thousand rich, pretty, and curious things with which these rooms are filled. The rest of the place, or the greater part of it, such as the gallery of pictures and cartoons, is generally deserted. Yet the English are great lovers of art; we see them with great interest frequent our galleries in Rome, Florence, Venice, and Naples. But perhaps the people brought by curiosity to Hampton Court belong to the lower class, which has not in London the feeling for art that the people even of the lowest class have in Italy. In a great long hall, like a gallery, I saw the eight cartoons of Raphael that were made for the arrases in the Vatican. They consist of "St Paul preaching to the Athenians;" "St Peter and the miracle of the fish;" "St Peter and Ananias;" "St Peter receiving from Christ the charge of guarding His sheep;" "Peter and John healing the lame man at the gates of the Temple;" "Elymas the Sorcerer punished by losing his sight;" and others that I do not remember. He who has never seen these cartoons, and the "Massacre of the Innocents" above mentioned, can form no idea of the strength of Raphael in that grandly fierce style initiated by Michael Angelo, who spread therein so broad a sail as to make him terrible to the beholder, and to occasion the shipwreck of many in a smaller craft, who perished miserably, desirous of following him on that fearful ocean.

There are other cartoons in the same gallery by Mantegna representing the "Triumph of Caesar." Mantegna, as all know, as an artist is an imitator of the antique: the execution of the work which is merely the material part alone is his own, for he took the conception, character, and style, in generalities and detail, from the antique.

Besides the treasures of art contained in the London museums—and one may also call Hampton Court a museum—there are the beautiful public walks called parks. The largest, richest in avenues, fields, and lakes peopled by innumerable ducks and fish, is called Hyde Park. This is the promenade where all the fashionable world meet. Ladies and gentlemen on horseback dash down the interminable avenues of this park, giving loose rein to their fiery steeds. It is a fine sight to see these animals, so elegant in form, and at the same time full of fire, pawing the ground, neighing, and fretting at the bit, from their desire to be off: but still more beautiful to look at are those gentle ladies on their backs; and when they are going at full pace, bending slightly forward on their fiery steeds, their flowing skirts, in ample undulating lines, giving a slender, flexible look to their figures, you feel carried away, and as if you would like to follow them in that rapid, anxious race, where peril changes into pleasure, and where the inebriation of the senses becomes ideality. Such is the fascination youth, beauty, and strength produce on the mind and senses of all natures susceptible of feeling. It is a pungent pleasure; the soul struggles in these meshes of flowers, and their perfume inebriates and captivates it. I beg pardon of the reader, if, for an instant attracted by this race of beautiful ladies, my head galloped away with them. Another time I will hold the reins tighter; and it ought not to be difficult to stop this little horse of mine, sixty years old.

Hyde Park, as I have said, is larger than the two others, St James's Park and Regent's Park, and is about five miles in circumference, which seems a good deal; but so it is. These country spaces in the middle of London are, as have been justly said, the lungs of the great city. By means of these green oases, impregnated with oxygen, the air of that gigantic body of London, where millions of men swarm like ants, is constantly renovated. These parks are rich in timber, and flowers are there cultivated with every art. There are very few guards, for great respect is shown for the laws prohibiting the damaging of the plants. A curious but very just penalty is inflicted by them, and this is it: If Signor Tizio has damaged a plant, or only picked a flower, Signor Tizio, according to the gravity of the mischief he has done, is prohibited from entering those precincts for fifteen or twenty days. And this is not enough—it would be too little; his name is posted up to view at all the park entrances, specifying the damage he has done and the penalty inflicted on him, that everybody who goes there may read and laugh!

I was present in Hyde Park at the distribution of medals to the troops on their return from the Crimea. That great national fÊte was a splendid success—the whole army in arms and full uniform, every part of it in its proper place, cavalry, artillery, marines, and infantry. At the end of a large camp a throne was erected for the Queen, her children, and her husband, Prince Albert. The Ministers, Court dignitaries, and Lords surrounded her. The ceremony was a long one. The troops had been on foot since early morning, and many were the numbers who received medals. The sun beat down with great force on our heads, for it was in the month of June. It is a fine sight to see the youth of England, tall, square-shouldered young fellows, with upright bearing and brilliant colouring; but notwithstanding all this, it would seem that for all their strength of nature they cannot endure hunger. I was present at some little occurrences that astonished me extremely: two or three of those young men fainted as if they had been delicate girls, although they had herculean chests and arms. But so it is: the Englishman, when the hour has come, requires absolutely to have his tea; if this fails, he can no longer stand on his feet.

That this must really be the case, was demonstrated to me by the affectionate solicitude shown by their comrades and the people carefully conveying these fainting youths to the ambulances. Instead of this with us Italians, we see young men of twenty bear long marches, discomfort, and hunger with a bright face. It is the difference of nature and habits in the two nations. I do not mean, indeed, to say that we do not feel hunger—in fact, I can say for myself that I feel it most ferociously; and if this expression seems exaggerated, I will correct myself and add, brutally and insolently, and will recount a little anecdote in proof of my appetite, especially after fasting. It is a trifling matter, that goes as far back as thirty years. At that time of juvenile effervescence one wishes for much and feels much, and is not very fastidious about ways and means. The fact is a curious one, and, to say the truth, would not be very pleasant for me to narrate were it not that it is peculiar, and with the touch of a brush paints to the life the character of my early youth. I had quite forgotten it, and it really would have been a mistake to do so. Those fasting English soldiers reminded me of it, and I am very glad of it.

The benevolent reader must betake himself back to the time when I was twenty-six years of age, which, in a young artist, sometimes means being possessed of twenty-six devils. True it is that with time and increase of years these devils, alas! diminish. Therefore, at my present stand-point, I feel myself absolutely free of them, and could bear fasting and hunger without dreaming of committing the impertinence that, without other preamble, I am about to narrate.

Lorenzo Mariotti, an agent of the Russian Government, as I have before mentioned, brought me a paper, on which were written the following words:—

"Professor DuprÈ is requested to come at an early hour to-morrow morning to Quarto. A. Demidoff."

Quarto is an enchanting villa that was afterwards in the possession of the Grand Duchess Maria of Russia; at that time, it was the property of Prince Anatolio Demidoff, who had bought it from Prince Girolamo Buonaparte, the father of Princess Matilde. It is four miles distant from Florence, on the skirts of the steep hill of Monte Morello, enclosed by beautiful gardens and a fine park. I therefore betook myself there at an early hour; and in the hopes of quickly despatching my business, I had not thought of breakfasting before starting, but merely took a cup of coffee. I got into the carriage, and arrived there at about eight o'clock. It was a good season of the year, being May, and the day was a splendid one; in its quietness and fragrance it reminded me of those most sweet verses of the divine poet:—

So I tasted the voluptuousness of these first warm days in the pure quietness of our hills, and I looked forward to a short conversation with the Prince (as I imagined the motive of his summons), and a speedy return to Florence. I dismounted, and told the coachman to wait; he lighted his cigar, took a turn round the villa, and then placed himself in the shade. I asked for the Prince, and was answered that he was not up. Then I feared that I should be obliged to wait; but the message was, "at an early hour." Who knows, however, what is an early hour to a gentleman? I found out afterwards, as the reader will soon hear.

I walked about in the apartment, in the court, in the garden, and in the park, and from time to time I came back to see if the Prince had asked for me; but the Prince had not yet called. Two good hours were already past. The pure air of the beautiful country, the pleasant shade in the park, the odour of the violets and roses, all had served to sharpen my appetite. I risked asking a servant if he could give me some breakfast, but he answered that no one could have anything to eat before his Excellency had ordered his breakfast.

"And is it late before his Excellency orders his breakfast?"

"Ah! that is as it happens,—at mid-day, at one o'clock—when he thinks best." So saying he left me, and I began my walks again. The beautiful country seemed to me less beautiful, the shady avenues of the park had assumed a certain sadness and obnoxious freshness, the odour from the flowers made my head giddy! What was I to do? Return to Florence? It was far. And what then of the Prince's message? I did not wish to fail to meet his invitation. I reflected a little, and then resolved to make a somewhat rash attempt, but which succeeded admirably. I had caught sight of the breakfast-room, with its table all set out with cups, plates, glasses, cakes, confectionery—in fact with everything, even with flowers in crystal vases that were a wonder to look at. I went into the room and rang the bell with violence; in an instant a servant appeared dressed in black, to whom I turned, and with my head well in the air pronounced in a harsh firm voice the one word—

"Breakfast!"

The servant disappeared, and returned almost on the instant with a silver soup-tureen, which he placed on the table before me, and then stationed himself behind me. Two other servants brought me ham, tongue, caviale, veal cutlets, cold galantine, and then asked if I wanted Madeira, Bordeaux, or Marsala. I was satisfied with the Bordeaux, and also partook of a plate of strawberries; and as a last sacrifice, I sipped a cup of Mocha coffee—really inebriating—lighted my cigar, and lost myself in the thickest part of the park. I was really beaming. I felt restored in body, and in a state of perfect wellbeing, feeling a certain sort of complacency with my spirit, my genius, my quickness—my impertinence, let us say—which, au fond, was of good service to me and did nobody any harm. Carlo Bini assures us that the prison so sharpened his brains that it was as much use to him in expressing his ideas as style was:—

and does not hunger, I say, sharpen the brain? I could cite a thousand examples of well-known geniuses who have grown up in the midst of privations and hunger, but I do not wish to be pedantic. This I know full well, that I should never have been capable of such an escapade had I not had that formidable appetite, nor should I have had the idea of satisfying it in that way. Necessity sharpens the intellect to invent and to act; health and physical wellbeing kindle and spur on the fancy through flowering pathways of flattering hopes. Who knows with how many beautiful grilli and beautiful bright-coloured butterflies, swift of flight, a little glass of Bordeaux, or better still, a glass of our good Chianti wine, has brightened the life of poets and artists? I found myself in one of those beautiful dreams. My mind wandered from one thing to another; the past and the future were mixed up together. History and fable, religion and romance, light and serious love, the fantastic and the positive, fine statues, fine commissions, friends distinguished for rectitude and genius,—all passed before me. The flowers in the garden seemed to me more beautiful and more odorous than ever, the sky brighter and purer; and never did the hills of Artimino, Careggi, or Fiesole, populous with villas, seem to me so fair. I never gave a thought to the Prince or to his having sent for me, any more than if it had been all a dream. And all was a dream; for I fell asleep seated on one of the sofa-chairs made of reeds, and in my sleep my thoughts went back to those beautiful legends of history and fable—beautiful women, fine statues, sweet friends—and to the delightful country, when a slight touch on my shoulder woke me from my placid sleep. It was one of the Prince's servants, who was in quest of me to take me to him. To judge from their dress, the Prince and Princess must have only been up a short time. The Prince was standing; he had a cup in his hand, and dipped some pieces of toasted bread into it. From the odour, I became aware that it was consommÉ. The Princess was seated, turning over the leaves of a book of prints. She was of rare beauty, and the time, the place, and mild season of the year made her seem even more beautiful. She ought therefore to have seemed and to have been an object of love and profound admiration to her happy husband; and if you add to the attractions of youth and beauty, grace of education, culture of mind, and prestige of birth, the affection of the man who possessed her should have verged on idolatry. But, alas! in life such perfect happiness never lasts; and the reader remembers what I told of the end of this union.

"My dear DuprÈ, you have arrived a little late, have you not? I sent for you, but you had not yet come."

"Your Excellency, let me tell you. I arrived betimes—in fact, very early, as your Excellency indicated I should do in your note; but——" And here I told him the whole story already known to my reader; and I cannot describe how delighted he and the Princess were with it. Now and again the Prince held out his hand to me, saying, "Bravo! In faith, I like this. Bravo!"

Then he told me what was the object of his sending for me. It was to give me an order for a life-size statue of Napoleon I., in the very dress which he possessed, and would furnish me with. He would procure me a good mask and some authentic portraits; but he begged me to make it in the shortest possible time. It was very evident that he wanted to please the Princess, because whilst he was speaking to me he looked with loving intensity at her, and from time to time caressed her with a gentleness almost childlike.

It has been said that this man was extravagant and almost brutal; but when I remember the expression of radiant joy he had on his face when he was looking at his wife while proposing to give her a statue, as if it had been only a flower or a fan—when I recall that I have seen him shed warm tears for the death of Bartolini, and when I remember his great charity in founding and maintaining the Asylum of Saint Niccolo,—I cannot but deplore the bad feeling and injustice of those who take pleasure in blackening his character, in misinterpreting facts, and maligning his intentions.

The order for the statue of Napoleon proved a failure, as also for that of the Princess, owing to the separation of husband and wife. And now let me go back to my place, for oh, how I have wandered away from the fainting young soldiers in Hyde Park!

The exhibition of the models competing for the Duke of Wellington's monument was about to be opened, so I thought it better to return home—all the more, because I wished to stop in Paris on my way back, as I had been in too great a hurry to see it when I came through. By this time, nothing that there was to be seen in London had escaped me, and I could describe with great precision the Docks, the Tunnel, Westminster, St Paul's, the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament, &c., &c.; but to what use? Are there not guide-books? And my impressions are many, it is true, and not of the common run; but they would require no little space, and this would change the simple design and form of these papers.

Two or three days before the opening of the exhibition of these models, the Minister of Public Instruction, accompanied by the royal commissioner and other officials, visited the great hall at Westminster, where the models were exhibited. Some English and a few foreign artists thought proper to accompany the Minister when he went to inspect these works. As for me, I felt no such wish; and not wanting to be thought rude, and as neither the commissioner nor any of the people with the Minister knew who I was, I reclined in my shirt-sleeves on one of the cases belonging to these monuments, and so passed for a common workman in the hall. The commissioner, in fact, only knew me as a person of trust, who had some ability in restoring a work in plaster. I hope the reader has not forgotten that little affair. I was consoled, however, by seeing that the Minister stopped some time to look at my work, although he passed by others in too much haste, excusable in many instances, but not in some, where attention and praise were merited. Be it as it may, I was well pleased that he stopped before mine—and all the more so, that I did not form a part of his Excellency's suite. In fact I have been always very slow in putting myself forward with Ministers of Public Works, and I don't know to what saint I owe this feeling of respect for the Ministry. With certain members I have had frank cordial relations, before they became Excellencies; afterwards, when once they were in the Ministry, as if by a sort of magic they became for me such respectable personages that I retired into myself, and kept most willingly to my own place. Then those poor gentlemen have so much to do that, without a doubt, if you wanted to see them, you would be told that they could not receive you. So the fact of it is, that I have so much respect for them, and just so much for myself, as not to be willing to annoy them, and there is not a Minister of Public Works who can say, "This fellow has bored me about this or that thing." True it is, that by the grace of God I have never felt the necessity of doing so. Once only, and that not on my own account, but from a sentiment of dignity and justice, negotiations were entered into with the Ministers Natoli, Correnti, and Bonghi, as to the completion of a base for my Tazza, which I mentioned some time back; and as it just fits in here, I shall now bring this story to a close. The subject is a delicate, and for me a trying one, but I shall discuss it with calmness, and in as few short words as truth and reason can be clothed.

The base of the Tazza that I had modelled was either to be cast in bronze or cut in marble, and the last was decided on. Whilst they were looking for a pure piece of close-grained marble, the revolution took place, and the Grand Duke left. My model had already been paid for, and I hoped that the present Government, sooner or later, would have confirmed the commission; but I hoped in vain. After several years had passed, I asked my friend Commendatore Gotti, Director of the Royal Galleries, to make known my claim to the Ministry, which was done; but I obtained nothing. Later, Professor Dall'Ongaro spoke about it to Correnti, the Minister, and also obtained nothing. At last Commendatore D'Ancona was most pressing in speaking to Bonghi the Minister, and Betti the Secretary; but then came the fall of the Minister with his Cabinet, and I was really tired out by the whole thing, with its long, wearisome, and useless negotiations. I must add, that as the model had already been paid for, the expense for executing it was all that was required; and yet, notwithstanding all these recommendations, this little sum was not granted, and I was not given a hearing. And here it is to the purpose to remind the Ministers of our Government that I for more than fifteen years have occupied the gratuitous post of Master of Finishing; and as in the statute creating this office it is declared that the Royal Government is not wanting in funds to pay the professors who shall have done the most for the good of their young pupils, it is to the purpose, I repeat, to remind them of the office that I have filled, and to declare to them that the pupils I have taught are now for the most part young living artists—some of them already professors, cavalieri, and masters in the schools—and that meanwhile I not only have not obtained a recompense, but even my demand, which to my belief was but a matter of pure justice, was not even listened to. But enough of this. I return to London, or rather let me say I leave it, as my work was finished and in place, only waiting for the judges. I therefore packed my trunk, paid my landlord, said good-bye to my friends, and got into the train, thinking of that blessed Channel where I had suffered so much in crossing.