When he saw the photograph of my model he desired to have it, and I was delighted to give it to him. He wished me to choose something of his as a remembrance, and I did not need to be urged. I had set my eyes on a most beautiful study of a lion from life in dry clay, and so I asked him for that; but as that was a thing precious to him, he asked me if I would not content myself with a cast of it in bronze instead of the clay. On my answering that I would, he called his caster, who worked for him in his own great foundry, and ordered it to be cast at once. Two days after this I received it, and keep it as the dear remembrance of an excellent friend, and as a valuable work of art.

At that time Marrocchetti had finished his great equestrian statue of Richard the Lion-hearted. It is a singular thing that Marrocchetti, in his long and glorious life, made four equestrian statues—Emanuele Filiberto, the Duke of Orleans, Carlo Alberto, and Richard the Lion-hearted. Each one of these statues bears a different stamp, both as regards composition, feeling, and mode of treatment; one would say that they were the work of four different artists. This difference of work can be reasonably explained by the diversity of the subjects and the distance of time that occurred between each work, necessarily producing notable changes in the mind and style of the artist; and also because Marrocchetti, on account of the multiplicity of serious work he had in hand, thought it advisable to have help, not only in the marble work, but also on his clay models; and as those who helped him were not always of his school, so every one brought just so much of their own individuality to bear upon the work as to alter the master's character and style. These are the sad but inevitable results for him who has the bad habit of getting assistance with his clay models.

While I was there in 1856 he had under his directions a very able modeller—I think he was a Roman, by name Bezzi. Bezzi went on modelling, and Marrocchetti directed his work, whilst he sat smoking and talking with me and others. Sometimes he would make him pull down a piece he had been at work on and begin afresh. This method seemed to me then, as it does now, a most strange and dangerous one; and it has not resulted happily, even amongst us, with those who have been induced to follow it.

Marrocchetti was distinguished from other sculptors by another originality—I was almost going to say oddity—and this was, that he coloured his statues often to such a degree that you could no longer distinguish the material of which they were made. I remember to have seen an imposing monument composed of several figures that had been put up in honour of Madame de la Riboisière in the chapel belonging to the hospital which bears that name in Paris. It is completely coloured—I should better say painted all over—with body colour,—the heads, hair, eyes, draperies, all coloured so that it is impossible to distinguish the material in which it was sculptured. You could distinguish absolutely nothing; and if it had not been for the custode, who affirmed that the work was in marble, you might have thought it was coloured plaster or terra cotta. And this worthy man was so sure of having thus added beauty to his statues that he was much astonished that others did not imitate him.

Marrocchetti, there is no doubt, was wrong in loading on colour as he did; but it is a question not yet solved or to be lightly put aside as to whether a delicate veil of colour may not be tried on the fleshy parts. Grecian sculptors used colour, and ours also in the middle ages, although only on particular parts of the figure and on the ornamental portions of their monuments. The only one that I know of, amongst modern artists, who used colour with discretion, was Pradier. The English sculptor Gibson was more audacious. I have seen a Cupid by Gibson entirely coloured—the hair golden, the eyes blue, his quiver chiselled and gilt, and, incredible as it may seem, the wings painted in various colours with tufts or masses of red, green, blue, and orange feathers, like those of an Arara parrot.

Having seen the Kensington Museum, and the other sculpture and picture galleries in which London is so rich, I take pleasure in recounting a little occurrence that happened to me at Sydenham. Sydenham is a place some fifteen miles from London, in an open country, healthy, and rich in green vegetation. There is the famous Crystal Palace, where one can see a permanent exhibition of all the most beautiful things that are scattered about in different parts of the world, beginning with ante-diluvian animals reconstructed scientifically from some fossil bones found in the excavations of mines in Scotland and elsewhere. There are gigantic trees from Australia, one of which, having been cut in pieces, bored, and the centre extracted, to enable it to be transported, had been put together again and planted inside this palace. It is as high as a veritable campanile; at its base a door has been made, so that one can enter inside it; and it holds comfortably some thirty persons. All the tropical plants are there in fine vegetation, in conservatories heated by stoves, where the heat is so oppressive that one longs to go out and breathe the fresh outside air. There also can be seen that famous plant that grows in the water, with its flower floating on the surface. This gigantic flower, when I then saw it, measured not less than two metres in diameter, and the leaves flattened out on the water looked like open umbrellas. It seems really as if one were dreaming, to see such gigantic vegetation. Besides plants and animals from all parts of the earth—from the polar as well as from the tropical regions—there are the full-sized models of men taken from life, and coloured according to nature—Cretins, Esquimaux, savages, Tartars, Mongols, and anthropophagi, all in most natural attitudes, and in their various costumes. There are also full-size reproductions of pieces of Egyptian, Indian, Assyrian, Mongolian, and Moorish architecture; parts of the Alhambra Palace; some rooms from Pompeii; minarets and Chinese temples; sculpture (I mean, be it understood, reproductions in plaster) of the best Egyptian, Indian, Greek, and Roman works, as well as those of the middle ages; Ghiberti's doors; the equestrian statues of Colleoni, of Gattamelata, of Marcus Aurelius; and even some modern works, amongst which is my "Abel."

I knew that this statue of mine must be there, for I had it cast by Papi, who had the mould ever since he cast it in bronze; and when I saw it amongst these masterpieces as a specimen of modern art, I felt a certain feeling of complacency that I hope will be forgiven me. But this complacency of mine was disturbed when I saw that one of the fingers of the left hand had been badly restored, not merely formed inelegantly, but actually distorted, as the last phalange was much too short. That little stump of a finger so irritated me, that I gave it a blow with the stick I had in my hand, and it fell on the ground. Ill-luck would have it that one of the guards saw me, and seizing hold of me, he carried me off to the commissary of the exhibition. I was asked why I had damaged that statue; and I answered that the finger was badly made, and that I had broken it off by an involuntary movement. They replied that I could not judge whether that finger or anything else was well done or badly done, and in any case it was not permitted for persons to damage the objects exhibited there; that therefore, for this violation of the rules, I had incurred the penalty decreed in such and such an article, and that they intended to keep me in custody. To tell the truth, this Signor Commissary spoke French rather badly; but I understood him very well, and with the best grace possible begged to be forgiven, saying that the wish to damage the statue had never entered into my thoughts, that the finger I had broken was positively ugly, that it must be remade as it ought to be, and that, as to having it restored, I would myself bear the expense. But the commissioner was firm, and was about to consign me to a guard, who was to conduct me not exactly to prison, but to something of that kind. I then felt obliged to make my name known. At first he had no intention of yielding to my explanation, and there was an expression on his face that might be translated thus: "It seems to me strange; it cannot be; I don't believe it." Then he went on to say, "Your position as author did not give you the right to do what you have done, even admitting that what you affirm is true—and we shall soon see if it be really true (tout de suite). You are the author of that statue; then remake the finger that you have broken." I was completely taken aback by this new judgment of Solomon, so simple and just. Calling to my aid a young modeller who was employed there, working a little and directing a little, the finger was soon remade. And so this odd adventure came to an end, proving the justice of the proverb, "Who breaks, pays."

I returned to Sydenham several times, because the quantity and importance of the things to be seen required time and attention; but when I found myself near my own statue, I gave it a wide berth.

One day I found myself, or rather I should say I was taken by William Spence, to a great dinner given by the Artistic and Industrial Society in the dining-hall of the great Palace of the Exhibition. We were no less than four hundred, and Lord Derby presided. About the end of the dinner the toasts began, with speeches of which naturally I understood not a word; but fortunately "Mino" translated them to me in a few brief words. At last an Indian officer of the English army arose with a face the colour of copper, and began to speak; but after the first words, here and there in that immense hall, first in undertones, and then louder and louder, there arose a confused noise of voices of disapprobation. I understood nothing, and begged "Mino" to explain; and he replied that I must keep quiet, and he would afterwards explain everything. In the meantime the noise of disapprobation increased, and some loud words were repeated. The orator's voice could hardly be heard any more, but he was not disturbed, and waited until the tempest was a little calmed down before continuing. Then I heard a word repeated louder and louder, which "Mino" explained to me was "Enough." The only one who remained cold, passive, and silent was the president; and when the speaker saw that it was an impossibility to make himself heard, he bowed and sat down. After a little while every one rose from table.

"Now, then, relieve my curiosity. What has that officer said of so extraordinary a nature as to compel him to silence in a country like this, where really such entire liberty prevails?"

"What he has said," replied "Mino," "he could have said and repeated most freely; but he was badly inspired, and had the imprudence to name the Queen. Now amongst us the Queen, whatever may be the question, is never mentioned. The law—and more than the law, respect for her person—prohibits us from naming her. The officer who spoke is a colonel in our Indian army, and is, as you can see by the colour of his face, an Indian. He only arrived a few days ago on a mission, they say, of some importance. Now this is what he has said: The Indians, subjugated by the force and cunning of the English Government, having borne as much as is humanly possible to bear—the loss of their liberty, of their wealth, and of their religious faith; aggravated by the odious sight of their oppressors; every modest demand of theirs rejected; weighed down every day more and more by additional taxation,—for some time past have burned with impatience to shake off their yoke and regain their lost liberty. The English Government, being aware in part of this movement, and in part ignoring it, he felt himself in duty bound to proclaim it loudly, as much for the good of his own people as for the English themselves. After having in vain attempted all ways of adjustment with the Government of the Queen (first time of mention), he hoped at least by these means to open the eyes and move the heart of the Queen (second time) in favour of those poor pariahs, assassinated by a Government who, in the name of her Majesty the Queen (third time), add to insult the derision of a people whom it has enervated with the pretext of civilising it. Revolution and war being imminent if their just demands are this time again rejected, the Government being responsible for this disaster, and the Queen ... and the Queen——Here the orator, as you saw, was unable to continue, and already they had allowed him to say too much. Neither the gravity of his revelations nor his injurious assertions against the Government had been able in the least to excite our delicate organisation, but it was only and entirely on account of the sacred name of the Queen being mixed up in his speech so imprudently and with so little judgment."

The fact is, however, that in less than five weeks from the day that this poor Indian attempted to make the truth known—explaining what was wrong, and revealing the consequences that would follow, and counselling a remedy—the telegraph, with its flashing words, announced the Mutiny, the peril the English were in, and their calls for help. It is true that the Queen was not then mentioned, but for all that, men did not the less die. Methinks I can hear it said, "What has this to do with your memoirs? In our opinion, it has nothing to do either with your life or with any artistic reflection that can be of interest to us."

But this objection bears only the appearance of reason. With this scene I wished to depict the temper and character of the English in general, and in particular of the two most prominent persons of that assemblage—namely, the Indian colonel and the president of the banquet. And who is there who does not see how useful and good these studies of character, taken from the life, are to the artist? The essential thing required to make a work of art beautiful and valuable is, that it should be a just expression of the passions and feelings of the various characters the artist wishes to represent. It is vain to look for the right expression amongst the mercenary models that one ordinarily makes use of. The model is used for all that is on the outside—movement, proportions, physical characteristics, beauty of form,—for all, in fact, except, however, just that turn of the head and look of the eye, that movement of the lips, dilation of the nostrils, and a thousand other signs and indications on the face which reveal the inner struggles of the soul. These passions and feelings are more or less intense according to the temperament, habit, and education of different individuals; and in the mysterious sea of the soul, tempests gather, and become the more dreadful in proportion as they are not kept in check by reason. Not to give a false expression to the subject we wish to treat, we must study all these differences. Love in Francesca does not manifest itself as in Ophelia, the madness of Orestes is not that of Hamlet, Ugolino's grief is not the grief of Prometheus, and Penelope's sadness is different from that of Ariadne's. There are natures in whom the soul is of such delicate fibre, and who revolt so haughtily against an insult, that, oblivious of physical weakness, they flash into anger, and rush blindly against the offender, whoever he may be. There are others, strong and robust in body, who take things comfortably and easily, and let alone the calumnies launched against them; which, in fact, have rather the effect of mosquitoes upon them,—they are disturbed for a little while, and then go quietly to sleep again. The acute thrusts of love wound but the external epidermis of these well-wadded souls. Giuseppe Giusti created a couple of these curious beings—man and woman—and he called them Taddeo and Veneranda. For them the sea that I spoke of is always becalmed, and their tranquil souls float peacefully about therein. There is, however, a calm very different from this, brought by reason into these fierce struggles of the soul. The first, instead of being a calm, is indolence, and all the fibres that make our whole being move and throb, are, as it were, dormant. But this calm I speak of is caused by the force of reason, and strengthened by the sentiment of temperance and charity.

How much self-control that Indian officer must have exercised over himself, knowing that he was proclaiming a great truth, which, had it been listened to and reparation made in time, would have prevented that most unfortunate war that he knew to be imminent, certain, and homicidal! To hear the shouts crying silence to him, and not to be disturbed by them, continuing with a firm voice not any louder (which would indicate anger), nor lower (which would be a sign of fear), only stopping a little when the other voices grew louder and prevented him from being heard, and then again taking up his discourse without turning to the right or to the left, and repeating over again the last word that had been drowned by the noise,—I say that this produced on me the impression of a profound admiration for the man. Even now, after twenty years have elapsed, I seem to see that grand figure before me, and I feel all his manly tranquillity.

One of the peaceful natures, always content, so well described by Giusti in his 'Amor Pacifico,' and whom I knew well, was Professor Clemente Papi, an excellent caster in bronze. When I knew him he was between fifty and sixty years of age, of moderate height, stout build, and high colour, always laughing, always full of bright stories and little jokes. The muscles expressive of indignation had, as it would seem, been left out of his composition by mother nature. His brow was always smooth—there was never a frown on his face when speaking or listening, whatever might be the subject of discussion; and this constant habit of laughing made him laugh, or shape his mouth into a smile, even in the most serious moments of life. This man, who was in many respects most excellent, in his art, in his family, and as a master, appeared as if he had no heart, or as if it were made of sugar-candy; and yet he died suddenly of heart-disease. As I have said, he had a heart, but it was sugar-sweet; the bitterness of sorrow and the harshness of anger never in the least disturbed his state of calm, careless joviality. The following occurrence depicts Professor Papi's nature to the life: The Grand Duke having ordered a cast in bronze of my "Abel," and all the preliminary work for the fusion of it having been accomplished,—that is to say, the mould made on the original plaster, the earth pressed into that mould to form the kernel, or nocciolo, so as both to obtain lightness and to strengthen the cast—the wax cast having been made and the necessary touches given to it by myself—the whole cased in its heavy covering, armed and bound about by irons that it might bear the stream of liquid metal, and placed in the pit and heated to allow the wax to escape from the fissures, then baked that it might become of the consistency required for the operation,—the composition of the metal was prepared, placed in the furnace, and set on fire. After fifteen or twenty hours, the melting was accomplished—an operation easily related, but which was the result of many months of labour and great expense. The valve was then opened, that it might descend into the mould below. The strangeness of the enterprise, the time and sacrifices of those employed in it, the strange and almost mysterious spot where the operation took place, the heat from the furnace-fire, the gases that came from it, the anxiety of the workmen, their extreme fatigue in that decisive moment, the lamp that burned before the crucifix, and prayer that preceded the opening of the valve—all filled me with an undefined sense of the marvellous and unknown, of the fearful and sacred. The valve was opened, the metal flowed down the pipe into the main channel clear and liquid, as all metal is during this process. Joy was depicted on all the faces of those anxious persons who had toiled so long on the work. The metal had been already poured into the greater part; the mould, which had resisted well, cased as it was in its thick covering, and bound with hoops of iron, gave no signs of cracking, nor was any noise heard, as not unseldom happens when, as the metal flows in, the air inside has not an easy escape. Papi stood upright and beaming, ready to embrace his scholars, when all at once some little violet flames from the mouth of the furnace announced the cooling off of the metal, which gradually slackened its flow and lost its splendour. Stupor and depression were depicted on all faces—a mortal pallor, rendered stranger still by the light reflected from the furnace, making them look like spectres. The metal no longer flowed along, but began to drop in flakes like polenta, then became coagulated, and then stopped still. The statue was little more than half cast, and all was lost! At this sight the poor workmen, tired out, and torn with grief, threw themselves on the ground with violent contortions and weeping. I, between stupor and regret for the failure of the work, the seeming despair of those poor people, and the grief—although not visible, but still great—that Papi must feel, did not know what to say; it seemed as if my tongue were tied. I wanted to get away from that place of misery: it seemed to me as if those people, master and workmen, must be left alone to give vent to their sorrow. Papi came to my rescue. He came up to me, and said that he had promised the Grand Duke to give him the news of the casting, and that he had hoped to do so himself; but as it had failed, he did not feel courage enough to carry him the bad news, and begged me to do so. He shook hands with me, and turned to take leave of others that he had invited or allowed to be present at the casting.

The evening was well on when I went to the Pitti. I spoke to Paglianti, the royal valet of the Grand Duke, and asked if I could be permitted to have an audience. Paglianti knew me, and also knew that the Duke liked to see me. In a few moments I was shown into his study, and briefly told him what had happened. According to his wont, he listened thoughtfully and attentively, but did not seem disturbed by it. One would have thought that he was listening to a thing that might be anticipated as possible or probable. Then he began to speak—

"Poor Papi! poor man! Who knows how disappointed he must have felt, and how miserable he is now? And your work, too, which gave you so much trouble—all is lost! I feel deeply for your misfortune and that poor man's unhappiness. Let us think about consoling him. Return to him, and tell him in my name to be of good cheer, for there is a remedy for everything, and that I am certain he has nothing to reproach himself with; for, when one has taken every possible precaution to secure success in the execution of anything, and notwithstanding all, the work does not turn out well, no one can blame him for it, and I least of any one. Tell him that battles are won and lost in the same way. Sometimes even a mistake makes one win, and one can lose in spite of every forecast. Tell him this and more, all that comes into your head, to comfort him, and speak in my name. Go at once to him, console him, and your words will bring him a little calm. I am certain that you will do him a great deal of good, and that he may afterwards be able to rest to-night; but I am sure that if you do not speak to him, the poor man will not sleep."

I went almost at a run, and from Palazzo Pitti to the Via Cavour is a good bit of way. I was all in a perspiration. I knocked at his door, and after a time his maid-servant appeared.

"Who is it?" says she.

"It is I; open the door."

"Oh, is it you, Signor Professor?"

"Yes, it is I; open the door, I have a word to say to your master."

"The master is in bed; you could speak to him to-morrow."

"No; I must do so now. If he is in bed, no matter; he will be glad all the same."

"But if he is asleep, do you want to wake him?"

"Asleep!" said I; "is he asleep?"

"Yes; he is asleep, I assure you. He has been asleep more than two hours, he was so tired when he came home."

"Well, then, since you assure me that he is asleep, my commission is at an end; and when he wakes up, which will probably be to-morrow morning, you may tell him that I had come in a great hurry to say two words to him that contained the power of making him sleep, but having found him in his first sleep, I shall tell him another time, although they may then seem quite stale."

To speak sincerely, such an extraordinary feat I have never been able to explain. To sleep after a similar misfortune—to go to sleep at once, immediately, two hours after, at his usual hour, the hour when those who have nothing on their minds sleep! And yet, now that I think of it, Napoleon slept on the night that preceded one of his greatest battles. So at least he wrote in his biography, and because it is printed, a great number of simple-hearted people believe in it as they do in the Gospel; and you, gentle reader, do you believe it? "Mi, no!" as Sior Tonin Bonagrazia would say.

It has been necessary to make this digression on character,—that is to say, on the difference between those who acquire calmness by virtue of their reason, and those whose senses are obtuse to all passions—differences which are visible to any one who observes with care, and that escape many, indeed most people who do not think. Let the young artist be persuaded that the study and observation of the true nature of love and human passions are most essential. Let them give up all thoughts of seeing these expressions in their models. One's studio models are common people, who certainly have their feelings and passions, but they are generally vulgar; and in any case, during the time that they are posing as models, they are thinking of everything except the moral condition of mind of the person they are representing. One may answer, "We know this; the artist should himself give the expression required by his subject." Quite right; but how can the artist seize hold of the right expression if first he has not seen it in life, and studied with attention beyond words? Then it is evident to me, and other works show it without my words, that not a few artists expect and insist on finding expression in their models. I remember an artist who flew into a passion because his model did not assume an expression of grief. The model naturally laughed louder and louder, every time this simpleton said, "Don't laugh; be serious and sad; I want you to express grief."

It is true that this kind of study may occasion some little inconvenience—as, for instance, one may pass for being very stupid, because absorbed in observing and committing to memory, and hearing nothing that has been talked about. One may answer at random, and be extremely ridiculous. One may appear as a somewhat offensive admirer, and give umbrage to some jealous husband. One may even pass for a scatter-brain and imbecile. But have patience! With time and practice the artist will gain his point, and be able to study as much as he wishes, while assuming an air of indifference that will shelter him from the above-mentioned misconceptions.

He may, however, fall into other mistakes; and I here take note of them that he may avoid so doing. One evening I was at a ball at the Palazzo Torlonia at Rome. I have no fancy for balls, but I like to see a great many people,—beautiful ladies, elegant dresses, and naked arms,—and more than all, the expression of eyes now languid, now animated,—smiles now ingenuous, now coquettish,—the weariness of the fathers, and the eager concern of the mammas,—the reckless joy of the Don Giovanni in erba, and the deceitful, washed-out look of the Don Giovanni in ritiro. It is a pleasant as well as useful study, as long as one does not change parts, and instead of a spectator become an actor in the scene. The "lime-twigs are spread out, the little owls are at their places; so beware, ye blackbirds, not to be caught." There I stood; the painter Podesti, with whom I had come to the ball, had left me, carried away by the attractions of the card-table. In one of the many rooms open for the circulation of the company, and for the repose of dancers and those not dancing, seated on one of the divans I saw a young woman of singular beauty. She was about thirty: several gentlemen surrounded her like a garland, and she had now for one, now for another, some trivial gay word; but in strange contrast with her careless words and smiles was her austere brow, and the haughty looks that came from her eyes. The turn of her head was stately and attractive; and a clasp of diamonds that was fastened in her dark shining hair flashed every time she moved. I never saw a more assassinating beauty than hers! Leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, studying that face with its strangely variable expression, all the women of history and fable with which this singular beauty had affinity rose before my mind. Less full of passion than Norma, less ferocious than Medea, almost Helen, and, without an almost, a Circe,—in fact, one of those women who promise one paradise and prepare one an inferno—capable of killing the body, the soul, and the memory of a man. When I had got so far in my reflections, the young lady rose, and coming straight towards me, she said these simple words—"Monsieur, tandis que vous pensiez, je ne sais pas à quoi, la cire a coulé tout à son aise sur voire habit"—and she passed on slowly, demolishing in two words my castles in the air. I found, in fact, that the shoulder and sleeve of my dress-coat were covered with wax, to say nothing of the suppressed laughter of the beautiful Circe. Of two things one must therefore be warned—to put one's self out of the dangerous proximity of lights, and to be careful to look at people with some reserve.

CHAPTER XVI.

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.