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.

CHAPTER XVII.

M My stay in London had been rather a long one, but it was necessary for the restorations (and what restorations!) of my work, and also to see the wonders of art collected by that powerful nation, by force of will, money, and time. I stayed there about two months; and notwithstanding the many and novel distractions which that vast city offered, and the good health I enjoyed at that time under a climate so different from ours, I felt every day more and more keenly the ardent desire to see my family, so that when I arrived in Paris I delayed very little. The letters which I received from home breathed the same affectionate longing that I felt myself; and the gay, thoughtless life of Paris, instead of attracting me, disgusted me. My daughters by their mother's side in our little parlour were always present to me; and knowing their dispositions, and the loving wisdom of the mother, I felt that tender, holy joy which is difficult to describe, but such as a loving and beloved father feels for his dear ones. I had lost two years ago my poor father from cholera. The poor old man had at first resisted the fury of that tremendous disease. He lived at the Carra, beyond Porta al Prato. All around death reaped its victims,—young and old, poor and rich; it spared no one. Almost every evening, at dusk, I went to him to assure myself of his health. One evening I found him unwell and in bed; but he had no fever, and his servant-maid, a good girl, served him with affectionate zeal. I left him quiet. On going away I urged her to be attentive to my father through fear of the epidemic then raging. The girl assured me that I need not doubt of her being so, and that I might be tranquil. The next evening I went back to see him: he was still in bed, and was better; but he told me that he stayed there as a precaution, and that he was to get up the following day, having the physician's permission to do so. The door had been opened for me by a little boy, to whom he gave lessons in drawing and ornamentation—Gabriello Maranghi—who to-day is one of our ornamental marble-workers.

"Oh, Rosa," I said to my father; "where is she?"

"Rosa, poor thing, died this morning. She came back from marketing, put down her things, went into her room, and I have not seen her since. They carried her away a short time ago!"—and the poor old man was much moved.

This sudden news of a death so instantaneous upset me and frightened me for my poor father. It was the same whether he stayed there or was carried elsewhere, for in every district they died in the same way. I went away sad at heart. The next day he got up, and was pretty well, even gay—in fact, for several days continued well, and went on with his work as usual. One morning—it was Sunday—my wife, who had got up before me, came into the bedroom, waked me up, and said—

"Nanni, get up; father is ill."

I looked in my wife's face, and read there the nature and gravity of my poor father's illness. I ran to him; he recognised me, and said—

"My good Giannino, you have done well to come quickly to your father; I am so glad to see you before I die."

He lived all day, but had spasms of pain and wandered in mind. Then he died, and his face became serene, as if he were sleeping peacefully. Whoever has lost a father knows the kind of grief it is!

As I have said, I stayed but a few days in Paris. I saw, on the wing as it were, and without being able to study them, the monuments of art in which that great capital is rich. I repeat, I felt an irresistible desire to return home. Of the artists, I saw only Gendron, whom I had known in Florence; Anieni, a Roman; and Prince Joseph Poniatowsky, then in his prime. What was most to my taste was to ride up and down the streets of Paris in an omnibus to get an idea of the movement and grandeur of that city; but an incident occurred to me that prevented my having that desire any longer, and I should have put an end to this going up and down even if I had not already determined upon my departure. This was what happened. I had just come from a walk in the Champs Elysées, when I saw the omnibus which goes from the Barrière du Trône to the Madeleine standing still. I said to myself: "Very good; I will get in here, go through all the Boulevards as far as the Barrière, and without even descending, turn about again, and when I get back to the Rue du Helder (where I lodged), I will get out and go home." The omnibus started, drove through all the Boulevards des Italiens, des Capucines, Poissonnière, &c., and arrived at the Barrière. The passengers got out, the omnibus stopped, and the conductor said to me—

"Monsieur, descendez, s'il vous plait."

I answered, "Je ne descends pas moi."

"Pourquoi donc?"

"Parce que je retourne sur mon chemin."

The ill-concealed laughter made me aware of my mistake, and the conductor, with good manners, gave me to understand that the drive ended there, and on account of the lateness of the hour there was no return trip. I got out, and was at least four miles from home. To find a carriage, I was obliged to take a long walk towards the centre of Paris, and finally found one, and had myself conveyed home, muttering against my own stupidity. The next day, without turning either to the right or to the left, I returned to Italy,—to dear, beautiful Florence; to the bosom of my family; to my studies; to my works; to my good pupils; to my faithful workmen; and to my dear friends. Fortune had favoured me in London: my work had gained one of the first prizes in the competition. Another prize was obtained also by Professor Cambi.

I had scarcely got back from London when Count Ferrari Corbelli ordered from me the monument for his wife, the Countess Berta, whom he had lost a few days before. This work, which he wished to see finished as soon as possible, was the cause of my abandoning the group of the "Deluge," which I had already sketched, as I have before stated. The monument was composed of a base, on which was placed the urn containing the body of the deceased. Modesty and Charity, the principal virtues of the departed Countess, stand leaning on the angles of the sarcophagus, and above these the Angel of the Resurrection points the way to heaven for the soul of the Countess, snatched from the love of her husband and children. The monument stands under an arch, on which are three putti who hold up some folds as if they were opening the curtain of heaven. The background is encrusted with lapis-lazuli. This monument is placed in the Church of San Lorenzo, in the chapel next to the sacristy. My friend Augusto Conti liked the conception of this monument, but objected to the nudity of the child of Charity. I have a sincere respect for his criticism, as I respect also the one he made on the monument to Cavour. He is a profound and conscientious critic of art; and besides this, he has had, and has, for me and my family, a truly fraternal love, and I remember with emotion the part which he took during the illness and death of my daughter and my wife.

Contemporaneously with this work I modelled a "Sappho," and put it at once into marble, by order of Signor Angiolo Gatti, a dealer in statues; but it happened that when he should have received the statue he had no funds, and so I sent it to our Italian Exhibition. The Government, which had set apart a sum of money for the acquisition of the best works of art, decided not to take my statue, so I have it by me now. It seems to me (I confess the weakness) as if I had been wronged, so to speak, and as if my poor "Sappho" resented this wrong from the new Phaons: so I have wished to keep my faith with her, since the desertion of her lover had caused her death; and although I have several times had offers not to be despised, yet I have never been willing to sell her. Who can tell where this poor "Sappho" will be, and how situated, after my death?

At this same time—that is, in 1857—I made the model of the "Tired Bacchante"; and the idea of this figure was suggested to me by a little model who was brought to me by her mother, and who had never before been seen naked by any one. The freshness of this young girl, her unspoiled figure, the delicate beauty, somewhat sensual, of her face, suggested as a subject the "Tired Dancer," which afterwards was converted to a "Bacchante"; and as some time before I had made a little statue, representing Gratitude, for the Signora Maria Nerli of Siena, the general lines of that statuette served me as a sketch for this. But were I to say that it was only the beauty of the model, the subject suggested so spontaneously to me, and the composition already made, that persuaded me to keep the girl and make the statue, I should not be telling the exact truth. The mother of this girl was one of those women who not only throw aside all a mother's duty and responsibility, but despising all decency, show that they are capable of worse things. I tried at first to dissuade her from taking the young girl about to studios, and so forcing her to lose all that a maiden has most precious—modesty; nor was I silent about the perils that she was exposing her to. But my words were thrown away, for she smiled at them as if they were childish: so I kept the young girl and made the statue. I can assure you that she was a good young creature, and when I had finished the model I dismissed her with paternal words. I saw her many years after, so changed and sad, that one could hardly recognise her. She told me her sad story,—a name was on her lips, but a daughter's love made her conceal it. I repeat, she was good, and suffered, but not by any fault of hers. I have never seen her again: perhaps she is dead—the only good thing that can befall any of those unhappy creatures.

To some it may seem as if I have been rather tedious about this poor Traviata; but most people, I hope, have found my indignation reasonable, for the condition of such a girl as this is most sad and humiliating,—forced by her mother, who ought to be the jealous guardian of the modesty and innocence of her child, to strip herself naked before a man. Even though her mother remain there present, it is always a hard thing, and most disagreeable to a young woman jealous of her good name, and dreading the looks and thoughts of the man there before her. It is not even impossible that it may be thought I have studiously and affectedly deplored such cases as these, as if I wished to show myself better than I am. I have no answer to give to any one who thinks thus, for in these papers he will find nothing to justify such an opinion. I only desire to remind the profane in art, that when we have a model before us, our mind and all our strength is so absorbed in our work, and the difficulties are so great in taking from nature just so much as is required for the character, expression, and form of our subject, that nothing else affects us. He who does not credit this is not an artist, and does not feel art.

I see a little smile of incredulity, almost of triumph, come over the face of my unbelieving reader, and the old story, so often sung and perhaps exaggerated, of Raphael and the Fornarina placed before me, to belie my words. This case of Raphael and the Fornarina was a unique one, and quite different from the ordinary relations that exist between the artist and his models. A model is for us like an instrument or a tool, necessary for our work. If good and beautiful, we prize her and respect her as we would a good tool; if neither beautiful nor good, we bid her be off. The Fornarina was beautiful, and perhaps she may have been even good; but unfortunately she was of a sanguine temperament, imaginative, and ardent, as she appears from the portraits Raphael has left of her. The graceful nature, the delicate figure of the young artist, and the prestige of his fame, roused the love and ambition of the beautiful Trasteverina.

seized hold of that angel and smothered him in its embrace. What has this most fatal story to do with our usual artistic life? To-day there are no more Fornarinas, and, above all, there are no Raphaels; and if by chance an artist falls in love with his model, why, he marries her, and there is an end of it. In conclusion, a good and beautiful model that willingly and honestly (I use this word for want of a better) does her business, I like and employ; but a simple, good-natured, ignorant young girl forced to this shame by her own mother, irritates me and makes me sad.

At this time they were making the façade of the Church of Santa Croce, with the most valuable aid of Cavaliere Sloane, to whom we are chiefly indebted that it was possible to complete this work. In the design of the façade there were bas-reliefs in the arches over the three doors: over the middle door the "Triumph of the Cross"; over that of the right nave the "Vision of Constantine"; and over the other, on the left, the "Refinding of the Cross." I had already made for the façade the Madonna, who stands high up over the cuspide of the middle door; and because the subject was dear to me, as also the idea which it should convey, I was content with a price which would barely cover the cost of making it, without counting my work on the model. But these three bas-reliefs were much more arduous work; and as I could not make them at the same rate as I had made the Madonna, I refused. Cavaliere Sloane, however, who much desired that these bas-reliefs should be made, came to me and begged me to accept them. As to the price, he assured me that we should agree, and that he would himself pay it, because he wished that the façade should be made by me. I took time to reply, and reflecting that the three bas-reliefs would take much more time than I had to dispose of, and desiring to help my two clever and affectionate pupils, I proposed to Cavaliere Sloane to divide this labour into three parts. The larger bas-relief, that over the central door, I would make; the other two, over the lateral doors, should be made, one by Sarrocchi of Siena, and the other by Emilio Zocchi of Florence. Sloane was satisfied with my proposition, but with the understanding that I should be answerable for the excellence of these works, and while I should leave these artists freedom in their conceptions, I should direct them in such conceptions as well as in the execution. This I formally promised to do, and the work was decided upon.

These bas-reliefs, which I relinquished to my scholars, recall to my mind other works also given up to scholars, but not mine. Among these is Professor Costa of Florence. In the beginning of my artistic career, when I was making the "Cain" and "Abel," "Giotto," and "Pius II.," I had also a commission to make a statue representing Summer, for one of the four seasons which ornament the palace once called Batelli. This commission, though a poor one, I should have executed, because I had engaged to do so, and poor Batelli had urged it in a friendly way; but Pietro Costa, then very young, studious, and needy, begged it of me, and I, with the consent of the person who had given the commission, gave it up to him, and it was a great success.

Now that I am speaking of my scholars, it is but just that I should mention my daughter Amalia. She used at that time to come and see me in my studio with her mother and sisters; and while the little Beppina and Gigina stayed out in the little square playing together and gathering flowers, Amalia remained in my studio silently watching me at work. When her mother was getting ready to take her home, she was so unwilling to tear herself away from gazing at my work, that I asked her one day—

"Would you like to do this work?"

"Yes, papa," the child quickly replied.

"Well, then," I said, "stay with me."

Then I turned to my wife and said, "Leave Amalia with me for company; she can return home with me." I arranged a slate on a little easel in form of a reading-desk for her, prepared some bits of clay, and showed her how to spread the clay to a certain thickness on the slate as a foundation; then I placed before her a small figure of one of the bas-reliefs from the doors of San Giovanni, by Andrea Pisano, and I said to her,—"With this little pointed stick you must draw in the figure, then you must put on clay to get the relief; but first I must see if your drawing is like the original. Only the outline is necessary, and this line should only reproduce the movement and proportion of the little figure you have before you. Do you understand?" The child understood so well, that, at the first trial, she traced all the outline of the figure correctly. It must, however, be remembered that Amalia and her sisters had taken lessons in drawing from me, and had always kept them up.

From that day to this Amalia has never left the studio, and art has become so dear a thing to her that she can now no longer do without it. Her works are well known. Besides portraits, of which she has many, the greater number of them in marble, she has modelled and executed in marble various statues and bas-reliefs. The statues are: the "Child Giotto," Dante's "Matelda," "St Peter in Chains," the Monument of the Signora Adele Stracchi, and that of our dearest Luisina—statues all life-size, and except the "Matelda" and "St Peter," all cut in marble; also two small statues, a "St John," and an Angel throwing water, for the baptismal font in a rich chapel of one of Marchese Nerli's villas; also a little Angel, still in plaster, and a group of the Madonna and Child with a lamb, for the Church of Badia in Florence. The bas-reliefs are: the Madonna, accompanied by an angel, taking to her arms the youthful soul of the daughter of the Duchess Ravaschieri of Naples. For Arezzo: the Sisters of Charity conducting the asylum children to the tomb of Cavaliere Aleotti, in act of prayer and gratitude; eight saints in bas-relief for the pulpit of the Cathedral of San Miniato; four bas-reliefs for monuments in that same cathedral to the following persons—"Religion" for Bishop Poggi, "History" for Bernardo Buonaparte, "Physics" for Professor Taddei, and "Poesy" for the poet Bagnoli; a font, with a small statue of Sant'Eduvige, for the Countess Talon of Paris; a bas-relief for the lunette over the door of my new studio at Pinti; a little bronze copy of the "Pietà"; a copy of the "Justice," also in bronze; a statuette of St Joseph, and a statue of St Catherine of Siena, in terra cotta, for the chapel of a pious refuge for poor children at Siena; a little group in marble of the Virtù teologali for Signor Raffaello Agostini of Florence; and a large statue, life-size, of the Madonna Addolorata, in terra cotta, for the Church of St Emidio at Agnone. All these works, you understand, were done by her as a pleasant way of exercising herself in her art, gratuitously, as is most natural; but it did not so appear to the tax-agent, who, however, was obliged to correct himself by cancelling her name from the roll of taxpayers, where it had been put. Poor Amalia, working from pure love of art, doing good by giving your work away, and often the worse for it in your pocket; and then to behold yourself taxed in the exercise and sale of your work! A pretty thing indeed!

As I am now on a subject that attracts me, I cannot tear myself from it in such a hurry. It is not permitted me to speak of the artistic merit of my daughter. My opinion would be a prejudiced one, both as father and as master, and therefore I have restricted myself only to note down the works that she has done so far; but I cannot refrain from making known the internal satisfaction I feel in seeing my teaching productive of such good fruit. It fell on ground so well prepared that it sprouted out abundantly and spontaneously. The consolation a master feels when he sees his pupil understand and almost divine his thought, is very great; and when this pupil is his own daughter, one may imagine how much the greater it is. And when I think of her modest nature, shrinking from praise, desirous of good, tender and compassionate with the poor in their sorrow, grieving as I do for the many irreparable family misfortunes, I still thank the Lord that He has let me keep this angel, and also my other daughter Beppina, who is not less loving to us and to her husband, by whom her love is returned in a Christian spirit. She also is endowed by nature with sentiment for art, and her drawings and certain little models in clay are the indications of wide-awake, ready aptitude. I treasure a bust of Dante that she modelled, and that was cut in marble, and deplore that the new life she has entered upon, and perhaps a delicate feeling of consideration for her sister, have made her desist from the continuation of a career well begun. Now she is a mother; and the duties of a mother are so noble and so arduous as to repress any other tendencies even more natural to her and more attractive.