Thus, with so much to divert my mind, during the day going to see the public monuments and the churches in which this immense city is so rich, and at evening to the theatre, my recovery was completed. Nor were there wanting splendid works of art, besides the collection of ancient bronzes, unique in the world, and wonderfully useful to the students of sculpture. The Church of San Gennaro, with its monuments, amongst which are those of Carlo d'Angio, Carlo Martello, and Clemenza his wife; San Paolo, built on the ruins of the Roman theatre where Nero used to appear in public and declaim his verses, and where Metronate gave his lessons in philosophy, which were attended by Seneca as his pupil (what a lesson to young men!); Santa Chiara, with its monuments to the ancient kings of Naples, which once was all frescoed over by Giotto, and has been most barbarously whitewashed by Berio Nuovo; Sant'Angelo a Nilo, with that splendid monument to Cardinal Brancaccio, one of Donatello's finest works; and San Domenico Maggiore,—all these monuments, as much for their beauty as for the historical records they contain, are worthy of the greatest attention and study, and are calculated to inspire ideas and a desire to work.

But often it happens that the most valuable things one has, so to speak, at one's very door, are not thought anything of—not even noticed; and such was the case then with some artists in Naples, who either did not remember or were not acquainted with their own artistic treasures. I remember a young sculptor who often lamented that Naples was wanting in art of the middle ages. I reminded him of the monuments above mentioned, dwelling especially on that by Donatello, to which he answered that he did not know it. "Go to see it," I said; "it is unpardonable in you not to know it."

After some time I saw the youth, and said to him—

"Well, did you see the monument by Donatello, and what did you think of it?" to which he answered, "I found that I had already seen it once before, but did not remember it."

"Then," thought I to myself, "there is an end of all hope for you."

It is certainly a most painful fact that some of the finest works of our elders are either entirely ignored or not cared for, but it is most sad when this indifference comes from young men who have dedicated themselves to art. That the usual ignorant ciceroni who show strangers the sepulchral chapel of the Princes of Sangro take no notice of the monument by Donatello is natural enough, but it is none the less disgusting to hear them pouring forth their opinions after the following fashion: "See, gentlemen, these statues are the stupendous work of the famous Venetian Antonio Corradini. Observe the two statues that stand in the arch by the columns of the high altar; they are miracles of sculpture; one is by Corradini, and one by Quieroli. The first represents the mother of the Prince Don Raimondo, who restored and enriched this chapel—which was founded by the Prince Don Francesco in 1590—with precious marble. The statue represents Modesty—one of the principal virtues that distinguished the Princess. See, gentlemen, she is enveloped in a transparent veil, beneath which is revealed the whole of her figure: this is a method of sculpture unknown even to the Greeks, for the ancients only painted their draperies, but did not cut them in marble. The other prodigy of art is a statue representing the father of the Prince himself as 'Disinganno.' In this statue behold a man caught in a net; you see all the meshes of the net, and inside it the body itself." The stranger, meantime, stands there open-mouthed, admiring these statues, in which, to tell the truth, one could not too deeply deplore the time and patience that have been wasted on work whose only object is to arrest the attention of vulgar people, who take all these material and mechanical difficulties for the essential and only aim in art. All this, I repeat, is disgusting if you like, and rather ridiculous; but the people of the country, and most particularly artists, ought to laugh at such works as these, as well as their admirers. This mania for the difficult and surprising, to the detriment of beauty itself, which is so simple, has carried corruption into art itself as well as to its amateurs—so much so, that dresses of rich stuffs, embroideries, laces, and like trifles, which need but a little patience and practice to produce, have to-day become so much in vogue as to really make one fear that art is in danger, and that research and study to reproduce the beautiful will be replaced by work of a sort of asinine patience, which surprises and impresses only simple-minded, vulgar people, and dilettanti. And àpropos of dilettanti, I wish to express my opinion that although they may take pleasure in painting and sculpture they are not of the slightest use to these arts. Dilettanti are generally gentlemen—fine gentlemen, sometimes even princes—and in consequence of their station and wealth, are surrounded by a cloud of small-minded people, who, owing to the respect and deference they feel for them, are induced to praise them. This cheap praise, which is taken so unceremoniously, engenders in those who give it a false and sophistical tone, with which they quiet their consciences, ever muttering, "You ought not to have said this; it is not just—it is not true." As this internal grumbling is irksome, the mind builds up a sort of reasoning that holds out as long as it can, and then falls for want of that solid foundation, Truth, that alone can uphold any structure, be it scientific, artistic, or literary. With him who receives the praise, matters go far more easily; he does not give it another thought, or if he does, it is from excess of vanity that he sniffs the remaining odour from that small cloud of incense.

In Naples there were two of these dilettanti princes,—one a painter, the other a sculptor. His Royal Highness Don Sebastian, Prince of Bourbon, brother-in-law of the King of Naples, was the painter, and His Royal Highness Count of Syracuse, brother of the same king, was the sculptor. The last named died a little after the revolution in 1860, and of his artistic merits I have already spoken. I shall therefore now say two words about his Highness Don Sebastian. I had the honour of being presented to him by the Grand Duke Leopold, who was at that time in Naples with his daughter the Princess Isabella, married to Count Trapani, who was expecting to be confined. Having been some time in Naples myself, I went to pay my homage to him, and he then made me acquainted with his Highness Don Sebastian, who was without pretensions, a simple, modest man. He asked for advice, and he asked for it with such eagerness and persistency that it showed a desire to know the absolute truth, that he might correct himself—and not truth disguised under a veil of complimentary praise, which only misleads. And I, with the mildest words that I could find in the vocabulary of truth, gave him briefly and generally some advice; for his wish to do something really good was above his school and the studies he had followed. Although, as I have said, he had a sincere desire to hear the truth, yet I became aware that the language I used was quite new to him. I can add, however, that he did not feel hurt by it, as he often wished to see me and hear me, and corrected himself or tried to do so in many things, thus indicating confidence and goodwill. At this time he was painting a large picture for an altar, which he presented to the church of San Giacomo degli Spagnuoli, above Toledo, and I remember that he gave me a drawing of it. He had taken refuge in Naples with the king his brother-in-law, owing to the part he had taken as a Legitimist against the government of Queen Isabella, who had confiscated all his revenues; and he mitigated the bitterness of exile and poverty by his devoted love for art. After some time he was restored to his country, and reinstated in his property, so that at last he must have comforted himself with his own bread, having known how salt was that of exile. He returned to his country, and who knows if he did not cut off his beard, which he used to wear full and long, after the fashion of Spanish Legitimists? Strange to say, in Italy at that time, especially in Naples, a beard was the sign of just the contrary—that is to say, of a Liberal; and the annoyances caused by the police on this account were so ridiculous as to be quite disgusting. One was obliged, however, to conform to all this, for if a young man desired not to be exposed to worse annoyances, he was obliged to shave his chin. He might keep his moustache and whiskers after the German fashion, or wear his whiskers alone like the English—he was quite free to do that; but a beard on his chin, be it long or short, indicated Liberalism: and as I have said, he was immediately marked by the agents of Del Carretto, Minister of Police, and, willing or no, was obliged to shave to avoid something worse. At that time, therefore, the manliness of a Neapolitan showed itself everywhere but on his chin. In all Naples—with the rare exception of some foreigner, the Prince Don Sebastian, who was anything but a Liberal, the Count of Syracuse, and Count of Aquila, brothers of the king, whom the police hounds could growl at but not bite—not for a million of money could a beard be seen, unless it were mine, which, although not so luxuriant as it is now, was still more than enough for the police.

During the days that the Grand Duke remained in Naples, he desired to see the museums and other monuments of this great city, and wished me to accompany him, out of simple kindness, for his Highness acted as my guide, being much better acquainted with them than I was. This driving up and down the streets of Naples in a Court carriage, with a full beard on my face, upset all the ideas of those poor sbirri. Some people took me for a Spanish Legitimist; and others—especially the sentinels at the palace—christened me at once a relation of the royal family,—so much so, that they presented arms to me every time I passed by. Must I admit that I took pleasure in this, returning their salute and passing before them as if I had been a true prince? "Viva my beard!" said I to myself; "but see how things are going in this country! Some people are sent almost to the gallows for wearing a beard, and to me they are presenting arms." One evening, however, even I came very near being sent to prison. I was walking in the Strada Toledo, and about to return home. Near the turning of the Orefici by the Palazzo dei Ministeri, there was a print-shop lighted by a reflected lamp, that threw a light upon it as brilliant as day. There were some French engravings, such as the Death of Richelieu, the Death of the Duke de Guise, and I know not what else. I felt a hand on my shoulder; turning round I saw some one gazing attentively at me, and before I had time to ask him what he wanted, some one else took the man by the arm and said, "Don't occupy yourself with him; he is one of the royal household;" and away they went in the crowd, and I saw them no more.

I hurried home, for fear of finding others who might not share the same opinion. My wife and little one were waiting for me to go to the theatre, and I remember that they were then giving 'Edmondo Dante, Count of Monte Cristo,' a monstrous production which lasted twelve hours—divided, however, into three evenings. My little box was on the first tier near the orchestra,—and such an orchestra! Two violins, one double-bass, a clarionet, and a flute, the music being pieces adapted from the 'Trovatore'; and such an adaptation! Good heavens! All this cost me—that is to say, cost the Grand Duke—four carlini, including "the bottle," for in Naples one must always pay for "the bottle" to every one. Really in that fortunate country one required to have a carlino always in hand. I don't know how it is now, but then every one was constantly drinking. Ushers, inspectors, custodi—all asked for "this bottle" with the utmost frankness and in perfect seriousness. I, who went often to the museum, wished to have my cane to lean on, as there were no chairs to sit down on; but "No, sir,"—the porter, with his great cocked-hat, came and took it away, having the right to do so, as it was against the regulations. When I left he gave it back to me, always saying, "Your Excellency, the bottle," pronouncing these words with such dignity that you would have thought they were part of the royal regulations; and I used to give it—that is to say, a half-carlino at every section. Pompeian paintings, statues and bronzes, Etruscan vases, Renaissance paintings and drawings—each had a custode, and all wanted a drink. Perhaps now they are no longer thirsty, which will be all the better for the poor visitor. I paid these half-bottles, or rather half-carlini, most unwillingly, for to be always paying out is in itself most tiresome; and I was more out of temper than really tired, not being able to find a seat anywhere. One day a painter who was copying there was moved to pity, and offered me his stool. It is not unnatural that a man who was both poor and unwell, should be unwilling to pay out money in gratuities, and should look upon that given to the porter as the hardest part of all, as it was to pay him merely for taking away the stick he had to lean on. The consequence was, that not being able to bear this lucro cessante and danno emergente, as they say in law, I made bold to say to this high personage (he was at least a palm taller than I), "Listen, signor; I will no longer give you the bottle."

"Why not, Excellency?"

"Because you take away my stick, which would be a comfort for me to lean on."

"Well, well," he answered, "keep your stick, Excellency; but remember the bottle."

"I understand, I quite understand—and add a little more to it."

And the eyes of that Argus brightened, although he was by way of shutting them as far as the regulations were concerned. The necessity for drinking, it seems, belongs to this people, and it must be on account of the hot air they breathe, all impregnated with the salt from the sea. Therefore I fancy this desire of theirs has not yet been allayed, for even I drank a great deal when I was there, only it was water, which is so good, so fresh, so light, that it is a pleasure to drink; but alas! so many prefer "the bottle." If, however, even against the natural order of the country, this has been suppressed amongst the subalterns, it has been adopted by the heads themselves, as the Minister of Public Instruction has decreed an entrance-tax for every one who wishes to see in our galleries the works of Raphael, Michael Angelo, or our other glorious fathers, who in their simplicity certainly never thought of being obliged to show themselves at so much a head like some wild beasts.

It is a curious thing (which induces me to think that thirst must be in the air of Naples) that this bottle-tax was instituted by a Neapolitan, the Honourable Ruggero Bonghi, who, be it said with all due respect, seems to be less anxious for the decorum of art and the advantage of artists than for an economy which, to say the truth, is but a shabby one. I know quite well that artists are free from this tax, but they must be provided with a certificate, which is always a restriction; and it is also true that artists, and those who are not artists, can enjoy free entrance, but only on festa days. It comes to the same as if to one who said, "I am hungry," you answered, "You shall eat next week." Is it believed that only those students who are provided with certificates are to become artists? Art learns more from example than from precept, as it is with every other thing. I should be curious to know if Demosthenes and Cicero lived before or after the Treatise on Eloquence, or if Phidias studied at the Academy, and paid a tax for admission. Then, also, this is the common property of all, and therefore its advantages should not be restricted. The answer is, that the entrance-tax is used for the maintenance and decorum of the galleries themselves. The decorum and support of the public galleries never suffered from the want of this in bygone days; why should they feel the need of it to-day?

CHAPTER XIII.

T The church of Gesu Nuovo was at that time under the ordinance of the Jesuit Fathers, and one of these fathers, who was devoted to the church, set on foot a work which did him much honour. Though the church was beautiful in its design and decorations and rich in marbles, the high altar was of wood, and this was quite out of keeping with the general effect. Padre Grossi, who was as learned as he was zealous in his religion and a lover of art, made the resolve that this altar should be entirely renewed and reconstructed of precious marble, and he succeeded in carrying this into effect. Everybody contributed—the Court, the nobility, the people, owners of marble, and artists. It was not, however, yet finished; some ornaments were still wanting, and among these the panels of the pyx. I was asked by Padre Grossi to make a model for this to be cast in silver, and I cheerfully accepted the commission. The subject, which was singular and unusual, but extremely pleasing, was suggested to me by the Padre himself. It represented a youthful female figure, accompanied by an angel, at the foot of the altar, who came to partake of the mystic bread. As soon as I had finished the model, I sent it to Padre Grossi, who expressed his satisfaction with it. Not so the superior and the other fathers, to whom the subject seemed to be too unusual. The superior wrote me a very courteous letter of thanks, the substance of which, stripped of all its sweet and useless phrases, was that he could not give his approval to the work. I then took back my model and presented it to Professor Tommaso Aloysio Juvara, who kept it as a pleasant memorial of me; and thus this work also, which was intended as a present, fell through.

The time for my return to Florence now drew near, for my health could now be considered as quite restored, save that a slight melancholy still hung about me, induced by an importunate and persistent feeling that made me doubt my own powers to overcome the difficulties of art, and of that art upon which I had at first entered, as it were, in triumph. I was oppressed by a torpor or indecision, a sense of something vague and undefined, resembling that state of moral weakness which shows itself in sudden impulses and as sudden prostrations—all indications of lively fancy and active sensibility, together with a great weakness of judgment and will. In a word, I had become a coward. In my excited imagination I felt the beauty of art, but I could not bring myself to lay hold of it, and express it, and reproduce it. I desired to go back to my first steps, and so felt my vanity offended. The bello ideale, ill defined and ill understood, smiled upon me with all its flattering and illusory charms. At slight intervals I seemed to feel these allurements, and then again I suddenly fell into uncertainty.

this was my state, and it afflicted me.

The decision which was to overcome all my uncertainty came to me from an idealist, or rather from an imitator of Greek art, Canova, and from one of his works not drawn from the ideal, but from life. I was about to return from Rome to Florence, when, as I stood looking vaguely about one morning in St Peter's, a prey to fleeting and changeable thoughts, my eyes were arrested by the statue of Pope Rezzonico. How often I had looked at that grandiose monument and passed on! This time the movement and expression of concentrated feeling in this statue, united with a sentiment of imitation so strong, and yet so free from minute and servile detail, made a great impression on me; and this was all the more vivid, because I could confront it with the other statues of the same monument, all of which are characterised by mannerism and imitation of the antique. This comparison stood me in stead of the most powerful of reasonings and criticism, and I seemed to hear a voice issue from those marbles which said, "See the great affection and study that Canova has given to these statues, and still they do not speak to your heart like that praying figure of the Pope. Why is this? Reflect!" And, in fact, I know no subject more worthy of consideration than to seek among the statues of Canova for the reasons of his oscillation between the imitation of nature and the imitation of the antique; for exactly here is the knot of that grave question which even to-day keeps artists divided into two schools—that of the Academicians and that of the veristi.

Doubtless nature is the foundation of art, as beauty is its object; and to forget either one or the other is to fall into error. If we kept these two cardinal points in our mind, and made them both subjects of study in our works, all our discussions and disputes would cease. But it too often happens that the Academicians, holding too strongly to the beautiful as the end to be attained, forget that its foundation is in the truth or nature; while the Realists, blindly trusting to nature, which when it is not subjected to selection is a bad foundation, lose sight of the true end, which is beauty. Now in the works of Canova we see a constant endeavour to harmonise the beautiful with nature; but as the cry of bello ideale (a magic phrase invented at that time) was then loved, with the painter David leading the chorus, and the imperial cannon sounding the accompaniment, the interior voices and protests of the Christian artificers were either drowned or lifted to the hundred pagan deities whom the epicurean philosophy of the time demanded, and to whom they burned their incense. But the genius which nature had given to this great artist triumphed over the tendencies of his time, over the cry of pedants and the imperial favours; and the Pope Rezzonico, and Pius VI., and the Magdalen, are there to demonstrate the singular force of that genius which alone battled against the torrent of the schools and the tyranny and customs of his age. These works of his are rays of that light which first illuminated the mind of this great artist, when, still young and free in his inspirations, and unbiassed by rules, counsel, and praise, he conceived and executed that wonderful group of Icarus.

In this careful spirit of examination and reasoning I again reviewed and studied the masterpieces of ancient and modern art, and many of the judgments which had been distorted by my poor brain during my first visit were afterwards rectified. I became attached with reverent friendship to Minardi, Tenerani, and Overbeck; and although all three followed the school of the mystical ideal, which was far from conformable to the rich and inexhaustible variety of nature, I admired in them their profound conviction in the excellence of their school; and although Tenerani united to his mysticism the graces of antique form, still it seemed to me that precisely on this account he was often a timid friend to nature. When, however, he was not dominated by a preconceived idea—I mean in his portraits—he was really and incontestably true to nature. His Count Orloff, though inspired by the statues of the philosophers in the Vatican, is not inconsistent with this opinion; and his Pellegrino Rossi and his Maria of Russia are perfectly original, and show no preoccupation of his mind except with nature. And it then seemed to me strange, as it still seems, that an artist, in portraying a fact or a personage, however ideal, should attempt to draw it purely from an idea, and not from living nature; for his idea is for the most part only a remembrance of what he has seen. The two processes are quite different; for the idea reaches out for the source of truth or nature, which is infinitely varied, while the memory retains types and figures of other works of so small a scale in variety that its extreme ends soon meet each other.

Overbeck was more ideal and mystical than Tenerani. He placed all the charm of art in the conception alone, and rarely or never used a model. One day he said to me, in a tone of the most absolute conviction, that models (or nature) destroyed the idea. This theory, which is eminently false as a general proposition, has a certain truth when applied to sacred subjects and representations of divinity, and specially in regard to those artists who in painting a Madonna make a portrait of a model. The imitation of life is certainly necessary even in sacred subjects; but it is difficult so to select and portray them that the religious idea does not become obscured, as well on account of the vulgarity as of the excessive realism and expression of the model. The expression it is absolutely necessary that the artist should create, if he has it in him,—and only so far as this Overbeck was right. Then, indeed, is the opportunity for the bello ideale, which is so ill understood and ill treated; for the ideal is in substance nothing else but the idea of the truth in nature, and diffused over all creation, as well in the material as in the intellectual world. And every artist of heart and just perceptions feels it and sees it, and recomposes its scattered parts by means of long study and great love.

Minardi, the father, so to speak, of all the artistic youths of his day, strove to reform them in taste and composition, founding himself on the works and the canons of the Cinquecentisti. This recognition is all the more due to him when we remember that precisely at this time, when he was endeavouring to carry out this reform, he had before him Camuccini and all his school in full vigour, and that now Minardi's school is flourishing and strengthened as much by the conquests he has made in variety of imitation from nature as in mastery of colour. I have said that Minardi was like a father; and so he was. He treated his young pupils as if they were his children, kept them in his own studio, and I have seen three—Consoni, Mariani, Marianecci—and many others around him gaily jesting with their venerable master. His portfolios and albums were always open to all, and he delighted to show them, and, while looking over their studies and compositions, to add those words of explanation, counsel, and warning which are so useful to young artists. I seem to see him now in that great studio of his, which was somewhat in disorder, and encumbered with easels, drawings, cartoons, books, prints, and antique furniture—the air filled with clouds of tobacco-smoke which issued from the pipe he had always in his mouth, and he himself always working or talking, reading or writing. He was affable, gracious, and eloquent, and, with those little eyes looking through his spectacles, he seemed to read into your soul; and if he found it sad, he threw out a word, and awakened it again to life and courage. One day, seeing me more than ordinarily melancholy, he rose from his work, took me by the hands, and puffing from his pipe a larger volume of smoke than usual, asked what was troubling me; and when I had made a clean breast of it to him, he laid his pipe down, and embracing me, said, "Cheer up, my son! drive away from your head all those whims: go back to Florence, take up your work again with courage, and have more faith in yourself and in your powers. It is an old man who is speaking to you, who neither can nor will deceive you." The words of the excellent master went straight to my heart, and filled it with courage, hope, and peace.

In this way, with studying the ancient monuments, and going about among the living artists, I passed several days in Rome. The models, and particularly those of the artists I have named, I found more robust and rounded than our Florentine models, which are for the most part slender and lymphatic. Among our girls you will not find, though you should pay a million, such necks, so firm and robust, and at the same time so soft and flexible, and like the examples which Greek and Roman art has left us. So it seems that, without seeking for the cause of the contradiction between the living nature I had found in Florence, and that which was represented in antique art, I had come to the conclusion that the Greeks and Romans worked purely from ideas, and corrected nature according to that established rule which we call convention. Nothing is more erroneous than this notion, and the proof of it I found in Rome itself, as I shall now tell.

Whoever is familiar with the Roman people will have observed a notable difference between the figures of the common people, and especially those of the Trasteverini and the Monti, and those of the higher classes who are in better circumstances. The latter are more slender, with a fine and white skin, and often with chestnut hair; while the former have dark eyes, skin, and hair, are harsh and short in their ways and voices, and for a mere nothing throw up their barricades, and blood runs without much lamentation over it. You can easily see in these people their uninterrupted derivation from those fierce legions who planted their eagles over all the then known earth. Nor is the blood in the women different from that in the men; and if the men carry their knives in their pockets (they certainly did then), the women carried, thrust across their massive knots of ebon hair with much taste, a sharp dagger with a silver handle, which was in every way capable of sending any poor unfortunate devil into the other world. One day (it was Sunday towards evening) I was, as usual, dreaming about those busts or necks of Minerva and Polymnia, and the Venus of Milo, and I know not how many other antique statues, which seemed to me to give a solemn contradiction to all my little models of pastry that I had left in Florence, and I fixed my eyes on the neck of every woman that I passed. This examination induced me to modify in measure my opinion as to the conventionalism of the necks of the antique statues; and I should have been satisfied, and have changed my mind entirely, even had I not purely by chance gone on into the Trastevere. Here there was a great number of young persons, both male and female,—the men either in the pot-houses, or gathered around the doors, or standing in groups, and the girls in companies of three or four walking up and down the street of the Longaretta. Among these I saw one who, if she had been made on purpose to prove that the necks of the antique statues were not conventional, could not have here offered a more absolute proof. There were three girls, two small, and one large who was between them. She walked along with a slow and majestic step, talking with her companions. A sportsman who spies a hare, a creditor who meets a debtor, a friend who finds another friend whom he thought to be far away or dead, these give a weak notion of my surprise in beholding this girl. My dear reader, I do not in the least exaggerate when I say that I seemed to look on the Venus of Milo. Her head and neck, which alone were exposed to view, were as like that statue as two drops of water. I was astounded. I turned back to look at her again, and it would have been well for me had I contented myself with this; but I wished to see her yet once more. The girl, who had not an idea within a thousand miles of what I was pondering, nor of the corrections that I was formulating on an æsthetical opinion of such great importance, suddenly stopped, and taking the dagger from her hair, advanced towards me, and with a strong and almost masculine voice, said to me, "Well, Mr Dandy, does your life stink in your nostrils?" I shot off home directly, looking neither to the right nor left; and when I arrived I told my wife what had happened, and she reproved me gently for making my studies so out of time and place. Now I ask, why this disdain? Had I been guilty of anything improper in looking at the girl? Is it possible that she could have really been offended? I do not believe it. I know something about women, and I know that it is their weakness to try to attract attention. It is more probable that there was some one near her to whom the girl wished to show that in respect to anything touching her honour she was too fierce to allow any other person even to look at her. Leonardo none the less counsels us to study from nature, in the open air, not only by looking, but also by taking notes; and he makes no exception as to the Trasteverini. For the benefit of young artists, I propose to add a note on this subject to all new editions of Leonardo.

The discovery of this beautiful head and neck of the antique style and character set upon a living girl (and what a complexion!) led me to consider how many other parts of incontestable beauty which we find in the antique statues, and so readily believe to be born of the imagination of the Greek sculptors, are really to be found in nature; and the Greeks only selected them for imitation. But if this be so, how can the absolute deficiency of such models in our day be explained? Then I considered the different education of this people, their warlike lives, their games, and prizes at throwing the disc, racing, boxing, and the esteem in which physical beauty was held. If, indeed, for these reasons there is in our day a deficiency of fine models, we are not absolutely without them, as this spirited and beautiful girl clearly proves; and I firmly believe she must have been in respect to all the rest of her body an excellent model. Hence the necessity of carefully selecting our models. In this respect, however, we find ourselves in a much more difficult position than the ancients. First, because, as I have said, their education lent itself more efficaciously to the development of the body; and then, because the public games afforded far greater opportunities to see and select among them.

The first thing which assures a good result to a work is the selection of good models; and after taking great heed of this, good imitation is of absolute necessity. I have observed that he who exercises little or no selection, and contents himself with the first model he sees, belongs to that class of conventional artists who allow themselves such an infinity of additions and subtractions, and corrections of the model, that generally only the remnants of nature are to be found in their works; while those who follow the opposite school copy the model minutely just as it is, and even with all its imperfections. If the former remain cold and false, the latter are vulgar and tasteless; for they carry their love for truth to such an excess, that they do not distinguish the beautiful from the ugly. Nay, they prefer the ugly, because to them it seems more true because it is more common. It happened to me once to be in the studio of one of these young artists, who was engaged on I do not remember what work. When the model was stripped he was beautiful to see: a small head, squared breast, an elegant pelvis, delicate knees and ankles, and, in a word, seemed the "Idolino" itself, living and speaking. Will you believe it?—he was set aside.

"But what are you doing?" said I. "Don't you see how beautiful this boy is? Copy him fearlessly. He is beautiful as Idolino himself."

"That is exactly why I do not want him as a model. I am afraid it will be said that I have copied my Idolino."

To such a point did their aberration arrive. But at the same time, I am sure that if this model had fallen into the hands of one of the idealistic reformers of nature, he would have been corrected (that is, ruined) in every part, according to the suggestions of his stupid conventionalism. This mania of correcting nature is in itself extremely injurious, and the young artist must be constantly on his guard against it. A finished artist may sometimes do this, because in his skill and experience he finds the limits and the measure of the liberty which are permissible. Indeed he is not aware of the corrections that he is making, and believes that he sees it so; but this depends on the habit of seeing and portraying beautiful nature. But a youth who once is set going on this incline never stops; for he finds it far easier to draw freely on his memory than to keep within the proper bounds of imitation.

I repeat, then, that he who does not select from beautiful nature with studious love shows little faith in her beauty, and thence come carelessness and unwillingness to portray her, and then a headlong fall into the conventional. He, however, who finds the beautiful in everything, or rather, he who despises antique art and calls it conventional, even though it be by Phidias, is quite as conventional himself in his realism. His wish is to be considered naturalistic and realistic at all hazards, even to denying nature itself, in case it reminds him of anything classic (as we have already seen), and at last he goes so far as to puzzle his brains and struggle to arrange the model and draperies so as to make them appear naturalistic.

I have seen an artist get into a rage because his draperies would not come upon the natural model just as he wished, and who kept tossing them about and disarranging them so that they should not seem to be artificially disposed. I observed to him that he was really arranging them artificially, so that they should not appear to be so arranged. He was making a seated figure in a cloak. After the model had seated himself, and thrown the cloak about him in folds which were perfectly natural, and fell beautifully about his body and knees, the artist kept foolishly changing them, putting them out of their proper place, because, he said, that as they came naturally, they looked as if they had been artificially disposed.

"But that is not so," said I. "They arrange themselves naturally, and you keep disarranging them exactly like those artists whom you blame for being imitators of the antique and conventionalists, and you are in this neither more nor less than a conventionalist like them, and even worse, for they always strive to put the folds in their proper place, in a certain number and a certain disposition; and though this is detestable and tiresome pedantry, because it destroys that variety which is the first attribute of nature, still they are not renegades to it as you are, when you thus obstinately insist on placing the folds where they cannot possibly be, with the pretence that otherwise they would seem adjusted. You, even more than they, are an illogical conventionalist."

But to be just, I must say that at this time the neophytes of the new school were few and scattered. The school, indeed, is new only in so far as it has carried us into the excessive, the negative, and the illogical; for the school of the veristi is as old as art itself, and its principles are correct. Indeed, strictly speaking, it has one single principle, the imitation of nature; but what the ancients meant was imitation of life in its perfection, while the moderns (at least some of them) mean all life, all nature, even though it be ugly. More than this, they prefer the ugly and deformed, not perceiving that the deformity of nature is outside of true nature, since any defect alters the essential character of nature, which consists of a harmony of parts answering to beauty. In a word, the deformed, which is the same thing as the ugly, is nature debased, and thus ceases to be nature. I am well aware that the veristi deny that they prefer vulgar and ugly nature; and if their denial were justified by their works, I should entirely agree with them, and my discourse on this subject would be entirely futile. But saying is not the same as doing.

I returned to Florence quite restored in health, strengthened by the example of the works of art in Rome, and inspirited by the brotherly words of those old and venerated artists, who, alas! now sleep the eternal sleep, or rather, who have waked from the brief sleep of life to one eternal day. The discovery of the famous head and neck of that Trasteverina had cured me of my prejudiced belief that the ancients corrected nature according to their completely ideal mode of looking at it—a belief which induces in the mind of the artist a weak faith, slight esteem of nature, and thence an unwillingness to imitate it, and an effrontery in correcting it.

Before going to work in my studio I wished again to see and study, in view of my new convictions, our own monuments. I made the tour of the churches, palaces, and public and private galleries, just as if I was a stranger. To many things indeed I might call myself really a stranger, for I had either never seen them, or but slightly and superficially. From this examination I came to the conclusion that the artists of all times studied their predecessors, and only imitated nature after having studiously selected what was conformable to the idea which first rose in their minds. Henceforth the way was clear, the light shone upon it, and the objects of art which I examined came out distinctly and really in their true aspect. Never to my intellect had the veil which covers the subtle and recondite reasons of the beautiful seemed so clear and transparent; and I felt tranquil, satisfied, strong, and ready to devote myself to my new works in the studio. One incident, however, did momentarily disturb this peace and security of mine.

One day I was in the Pitti Gallery, and passing through the room where the two statues of Cain and Abel are placed, I saw a youth who was drawing from the latter. He seemed from his aspect to be a foreigner. I spoke to him not only to assure myself of this fact, but also (I confess) because it gave me pleasure to see him copying my statue, and I wished by exchanging a few words with him to taste still more strongly this pleasure, which, for the rest, is excusable in a young author. Approaching him I said—

"Do you like this statue?"

"Yes, very much; and that is the reason I am copying it."

"It seems," I said, as I saw he did not recognise me, "to be a modern work, does it not?"

"Certainly; so modern that the author is still living—though one might say that he is dead."

"What! I do not understand you. How can one say that he is dead when he is living?" and I could scarcely restrain the wonder and emotion that these singular words created in me.

"It is indeed a very sad fact, and is very much talked about; but it seems that the poor artist, so young and full of talent——"

"Well?" I interrupted him suddenly.

"It seems that he is going mad."

I was silent. These last words wounded me to the quick, and I remembered that during my past sufferings I too had a fear lest I should lose my head, but I never suspected that this idea had entered into the minds of others. I went out of the room without even saluting the young foreigner, and walked up and down in the open air, going over in my memory my past suffering, my voyage to Naples, the cure I had undergone, and my re-establishment in health both in body and spirit, and at last I became tranquil, and almost smiled in recalling this strange conversation with the young foreigner.

I set myself to work with good will, and threw down the first model of the Bacchino dell'Uva Malata, which I had left without casting in order to remake it according to a new conception that had come to me in Naples. Secure of the road I meant now to take, convinced in my principles, which in substance did not differ from those that had guided me in my first statues, I modelled with great rapidity the small Bacchus, the Bacchante, and a figure of the daughter of the Marchese Filippo Gualterio, lying dead.

I first made the acquaintance of Filippo Gualterio at Siena, in the house of my friend Count dei Gori, in the first revolutionary movement of 1847. He was a thorough gentleman, of careful education, a lover of art, an enthusiast for beauty, a facile writer of the moderate party, not then in favour of the unity of Italy, but attached heart and soul to the theories of Gioberti as set forth in the 'Primato.' Out of pique, on account of some annoyance he had received from the Pontifical Government, of which he was a subject, he exiled himself from his native country, Orvieto, and joined the revolutionary movement of Turin, Florence, and Genoa. Later he took a prominent part in the revolution of 1859, embraced the cause of unity, became Minister, and shortly after died of paralysis of the brain.