After having assured me and my wife that there was no serious disease, that I should certainly recover, he added that I required a special method of treatment that had more to do with a regimen of life than with medicine, and that he would refer the result of the consultation and his examination to the Grand Duke. In fact, he reported to the Grand Duke (as I afterwards learned), that in the condition in which I was, I could not have lived; my nerves were so shattered that I had become very weak, and that I suffered from vertigo and could hardly stand, and at last had lost my appetite and power of sleeping. It was urgent that I should have rest; and this would consist in taking me away from home, away from my studio, from Florence, from all—in one word, sending me off on a journey, not a long one, but far enough to distract me from cares and thoughts that oppressed; this was the only remedy, he said, and could be freely adopted, as I had no internal disease. It was necessary that I should have a companion that I liked with me, and he suggested that my wife should accompany me.

A few days after, the Grand Duke informed me by means of his secretary, Venturi, that it was necessary for me to have a change of air, and that Professor del Punta had advised Naples, as it was a bright cheerful place to stay in—where the air was mild, and where there were many pleasant things to distract one: that I must therefore make my arrangements to go there; that my wife and one little girl must accompany me; and that I was not to give a thought to anything, as he provided for everything during the time that was necessary for my recovery, and he recommended me to his minister Cavaliere Luigi Bargagli.

Every day that preceded my departure, Professor del Punta came to see me, and encouraged me to be of good cheer also, on the part of the Grand Duke. The preparations for our departure were many, and by no means trifling. It was necessary to make arrangements so that the work in the studio should not be without direction, and should be carried on carefully. Tito Sarrocchi, then my scholar and workman, was intrusted with the direction of it. The works in hand, besides the statue of Sant'Antonino, were, "Innocence and the Fisherman," for Lord Crawford of London, and some busts. As to models in clay, I left a Bacco dell'uva Malata, that Sarrocchi had charge of until my return. My friends, artists and not artists, came during those days to say good-bye to me, some of them consoling themselves with hopes of my recovery, and others fearing that they should never see me again, so emaciated and sad was I; and Antonio Ciseri wept in saying good-bye.

Good gracious! how long and tedious is this narrative of your illness!

Long! yes or no. Long for you perhaps, who, as it would seem, have never been ill, and who do not know what a consolation it is for one who is suffering from the same malady as yourself to hear about such illness from one who is at present quite well. If it annoys you, have patience—some one may benefit by it; and at any rate, for the present I have done.

The night that preceded my departure, that dear saintly woman my wife remained up all night to put everything in the house in order, and to prepare what was needed for us—that is, myself, my wife, and Beppina, our second daughter. I had at that time four daughters: Amalia, who is the eldest; Beppina, who went with me; and Luisina and Emilia, who remained at home with their grandmother and Amalia. I lost Emilia quite young, dear little angel. Her little body rests in the cemetery of San Leonardo. Gigina I lost when she was grown up, and will speak of this in its place.

The journey had to be made by short stages in a vettura, so that it was necessary to hire a carriage and keep it at one's own expense as far as Naples. We left on the morning of the 20th of October 1852, arrived on the 28th, and lodged at the Hotel de Rome, Santa Lucia. That eight days' journey in the sweet company of my wife, the pretty, innocent questionings of Beppina about the fields, the rivers, and the villages that we passed by one after the other, the novelty of the life, the pure country air, and the hope of regaining my health, had softened the asperity of my suffering. Apathy and sadness gradually gave way to a desire to see new things; my wife's questions and those of my little one obliged me to answer, and sometimes to smile. I felt my appetite for food return, and I slept peacefully some hours every night.

In this way I arrived in Naples—in that immense city, so crowded with people, so noisy and deafening on account of the numbers of carriages, shouts of the coachmen, of the people offering things for sale, of jugglers, beggars, all speaking in a strange difficult dialect most unpleasant to a Tuscan. In this city the first impression made upon me was a mixture of wonder and anger. It seemed to me as if one could do all that those good people were doing without being obliged to scream and throw one's self about so much. Here a coachman smacked his whip within four fingers of your ears, to ask you if you wanted his carriage; there a man, selling iced water and lemonade, screamed out at the height of his voice I don't know what, and, to give it more force, beat with his lemon-squeezers against his metallic bench, like Norma or Villeda on Irminsul's shield; a little farther on a half-naked beggar, with his ragged wife and children, shouted out, "I am dying with hunger," with lungs that a commander of a battalion in the battle-field might envy. These beggars, however, are for the most part impostors. One day—it was a festa—I was returning from San Gennaro, where I had been to Mass with my wife and little girl. I saw a man extended on the ground with his body and legs inside a doorway, his head and his arms out into the street; his mouth was green with grass that he had been chewing, and some of which was hanging out of his mouth. The people passing by looked, and then went on their way talking and laughing as if it was nothing. I was stunned, indignant, and full of pity, and turning to my wife (and even I flinging about my arms in the Neapolitan fashion), said, with all the Christian and human resentment that I was capable of, "How is it possible that, in such a flourishing and civil city as this, a poor Christian is left to die of hunger in the street for want of a little bread which is denied him by his unnatural brethren, and is obliged to feed upon the food for beasts?" And I ran at once to a pastrycook's near by for some cakes, because I thought bread would be too hard food for a man reduced to such a state; and with a light heart on account of the good action, I took them to him that I might see him eat them, and as soon as he was a little restored give him some soldi. Clever indeed! You little thought that the man was an impostor! I bent over him, called him; he did not answer. I put a cake to his mouth, and he looked at me, took the cakes, and hid them in his bosom between his shirt and his skin, and this kind of a bag was crammed full of bread and other things. Some inquisitive people had stopped to look on, and seeing this, it seemed to me as if they laughed at my simplicity.

And as I am on this question, and my memory serves me well, I will tell you of another beggar. In front of the Hotel de France, Largo Castello, where I was staying, is the Church of San Giacomo. At the door of this church a poor man stood from morning until night trembling, half naked, and barefoot. It made me feel badly, comfortably lodged as I was, and sitting smoking my cigar on the terrace, to see that poor creature out in the cold with his feet in the mud. More than once my poor wife had given him some soldi; but one day when it was raining heavily, and the poor man was out in it all, with his feet nearly covered by water, a happy thought struck me, inspired by Christian charity, and I said, "I am here under cover, and have boots on my feet, while that poor wretch is there outside with no shoes on; I will give him my boots." I rang the bell; the servant came, and I said to him, "Raffael, take this pair of boots to that poor man over there by the door of San Giacomo."

"Yes, sir," said Raffael, and away he went.

I went back on to the balcony to enjoy the effect of my good deed, imagining that I should see an expression of amazement and joy on the man's face. Nothing of the sort; he remained there with the boots in hand as if he did not know exactly what sort of things they were, and when Raffael told him that I gave them to him, and pointed me out to him on the terrace, the man turned, looked up, and, always holding them in his hand, made signs of thanking me; then he put them down on the ground near his feet, and continued to stretch out his hands to the people entering the church! "Ah, poor man," I said, "he wished to put them on to-morrow morning; he must wash himself, of course, and dry his feet before putting them on. How stupid of me! The people are just going in for the novena (it was Christmas-time), and he does not want to lose a chance grano to buy him some bread." But the next morning he was still barefooted, and it was raining. I said to my wife—

"Look, I sent that poor man my boots yesterday, so that he should not wet his feet, but he has not put them on. What do you think is the reason? What should you say?"

"He probably wishes to keep them for Sundays," was the serious answer of that dear simple woman.

"You are joking, my dear; that man is old, and if he keeps them for Sundays he will not see the end of them. I say that he has sold them."

"And I say, that if he had two or three lire to spare, he would have wished to buy a pair, poor man!"

We each remained of our own opinion. Late in the day we went out, and, approaching the poor man, I said to him—

"Why have you not put on the boots that I gave you? Are they tight?"

"Your Excellency," he replied, "if I put the boots on, no one will give me another penny. I have sold them, your Excellency; and may the Virgin bless you."

A few days after my arrival at Naples I went to Sorrento. The discordant noise of the town annoyed me, and I wished to try that little place, so much praised for its climate and for its quietness, and so full of association with that illustrious and unhappy man, Torquato Tasso. I went there with my friend Venturi, who had come to Naples for a few days with the Grand Duke.

Sorrento is a charming little town seated on the crest of a hill called the Deserto. It is surrounded on the left by woods of orange, citron, and lemon trees, and on the right by the sea with the island of Capri, that seems to rise up majestically from the deep blue waters. On the far horizon one catches a glimpse of Nisida and Baia. This small town is inhabited by fishermen, orange-packers employed on the large landed possessions in the neighbourhood, and by most clever workers of inlaid wood, who have made their art so much in request by the thousand little trifles, so pretty in design and so carefully executed, that they make. Garguillo's manufactory is much renowned, and justly so. Not only do you find on the pieces of furniture cornices, fillets, meanders, and other graceful ornaments, but also extremely pretty figures inlaid on the boxes, little tables, and other nick-nacks with which well-to-do people embellish their rooms. Here the air is mild, and the sun is tempered by the shade of laurels and orange-trees. The character of the inhabitants is gentle and laborious, and through their acts and their words there breathes a quiet, ineffable melancholy, like the memory of a sweet pure dream. Their complexion is dark, and also their hair; their eyes have long lashes, and are cut in almond shape. It seems as if they looked with infinite sweetness at something immeasurably far off; their smile is sad, as if it recalled to them a lost existence that hope induced them to think not irretrievably lost. This favoured, I should almost say ideal, bit of nature, at a few miles' distance from the thoughtless vulgar noise of the inhabitants of Naples, is a thing commented on by all, but by no one reasonably explained. The climate so temperate, the air perfumed with the scent of orange-flowers, and the sweet melancholy on those faces, instead of rendering the place agreeable to me, made me profoundly sad. Why did my heart not open itself to the enjoyments of that pure, serene, and most beautiful nature? Why was it that that bright sky, that tranquil sea, that quiet industrious life, rendered me more sad and thoughtful? Perhaps it was because being so very weak I did not feel the strength within me to reproduce in art any of those many impressions that the mind took in and fancy clothed in most varied forms. One day I visited Tasso's house; and whilst, as usual, the cicerone explained in his way the singularity of that abode, I dwelt in imagination on the life and vicissitudes of that unhappy poet, and recalled the secret joys of that passionate soul after he had finished his Christian epic: I saw the courteous, handsome cavalier, the inspired poet, envied and conspired against by the favourites of the Duke and the literati, his rivals; the looks of the ladies, whose frank admiration was veiled in the shadow of profligacy; then the disorder, confusion, first in the heart, and then in the brain of poor Torquato, the suspicions of the Duke, his imprisonment, his lawsuit, his resignation and death; and I wept.

I decided to return to Naples—for this quiet full of fancies drove me back into myself, and made me more sad. I took up my abode in the centre of the great city, in Piazza Castello, at the Hotel de France, on the angle of the Strada dei Guantai Vecchi. In this hotel strangers were continually coming and going, and changing every day. The windows of my little apartment opened on the Piazza, and the mid-day and westerly sun bathed them in heat and light. Some artists, in compassion for my condition, came to give me courage; and among them I remember with profound sadness, for almost all of them are now dead, Cammillo Guerra, Giuseppe Mancinelli, Gigante, and Tommaso Aloysio Juvara, who had such a tragic end in Rome. The warmth of your heart turned your brain, my poor friend! but in your last moments you acknowledged your sin, and God will have been merciful to you. The other younger artists who are still alive are the sculptors Solari and Balzico, the miniature-painter Di Crescenzio, and Postiglione the painter. But my health was always the same. Professor Vulpes, to whom I had brought a letter of recommendation from Professor del Punta, continued to follow the same treatment as that indicated by the other Florentine doctors,—that is to say, prescribing preparations of iron, meat diet, rest, and tranquillity of mind. And in the meanwhile I had no desire to eat; my sleep was restless and of short duration; my legs would ill support me, and my mind was so depressed that I could not endure to read more than a few pages. As to writing, I was obliged to stop every moment or so; ideas got confused, and I could not separate them from each other or give them any proper shape. It was a great fatigue to me to give my news to Venturi when he desired to hear from me.

At last the longed-for day came which was to decide the question of my health. It was already two months since I had left my home; and although the journey to Naples and the air there had been somewhat beneficial to me, yet I was very far from entertaining the slightest hope of recovery—or rather this recovery was so slow as to make me lose all patience. At this stage good Professor Smargiassi, seeing me always so weak and melancholy, said to me, "Why do you not try the water-cure?"

"What do you mean by water-cure?" I replied; and he explained it to me, adding, "Here in Naples there is Professor Tartaglia, who has effected some wonderful cures." He told me of some, and he added that he himself had tried this cure and had got well. As Smargiassi was a serious man, with a temperate habit of speech on all matters, his words carried weight with them, and I consented willingly to consult this hydropathic professor, and so sent for him.

Professor Tartaglia was an exceptional Neapolitan—that is to say, he had nothing of the vivacity of speech and manners that is peculiar to this warm-hearted, exuberant, and imaginative people; he spoke little and quietly, listened a great deal, and observed attentively. When he had heard of my complaints, he examined me, and after that said: "You have no disease, although you may not feel well; you will recover quietly and easily—of that you may be sure. In the meanwhile I will tell you that I shall not come again to see you; but instead, you must come to see me every morning at twelve o'clock to give me an account of how you feel. To-morrow you must take your first bath. Don't be alarmed—it is not a bath by immersion; you are not to go into the water," and he gave me the directions to be followed; and as he was going away he said, "Let alone the medicines that you have taken thus far."

The first morning this hydropathic cure seemed very arduous. To get out of one's bed and put on a sheet drenched with cold water is not the pleasantest thing in the world, especially at that season of the year (it was the last of December); but after the first impression, I can assure you that the external warmth finally produces a pleasant effect, and gives strength and elasticity to the body. After the bath, walking exercise should be taken for at least an hour. To my objection that I could not walk, the Professor answered, "Walk as much as you can, rest a little, and then continue to walk, and so on; you will see day by day that your strength will return, and with your strength, courage and happiness." In short, after a month of this treatment I was so well that I could walk easily eight miles during the day. When I wrote to Florence of the new cure that I had begun, Del Punta was frightened, and said that he would not be responsible for the result of this resolution of mine, which, to say the least, was hazardous; and that I ought not to have undertaken it without the advice of an ordinary practitioner—that is to say, of an allopathic doctor. His making this a condition tranquillised me, as Professor Tartaglia was really an allopathic doctor; but in some cases that were rebellious to that system of treatment he adopted hydropathy. Then, too, the result was so satisfactory, so decided, that all objections fell to the ground, and nothing more was said about it.

By degrees I felt my strength returning, and my heart expanded with hope. Delightful artistic thoughts, that had so long lain dormant, sprang into life within me, one by one, like the first leaves in April; and Will, precious gift, mysterious, immortal power, again took and held its empire over me, and pronounced itself. During the days just passed, the smiling country, the glorious sun, the terrible beauty of the sea, the joys of men, the creations of art, and (sad to say) even the affectionate care of my dear ones, were irksome to me; and now, with pleasure, slowly and by degrees I began to feel a desire and thirst to enjoy these good things, thinking about them and loving them with more intensity of understanding and hearty sincerity. Every day there was a new excursion to be made: Capodimonte, with its immense park and rich gallery; that beautiful walk, the Strada Maria Teresa, now Vittorio Emanuele; the Certosa of San Martino, where one enjoys a view of the whole city, of the sea and all the Campagna-Felice, of Vesuvius, of Monte Somma, of Portici, Resina, Capri, and Nisida. Then I felt a desire to see the Royal Museum, unique in the world for its great riches in ancient bronzes; the Flora, Venus Victrix, Callipige, Aristides, the equestrian statues of the Balbi, father and son; the seated Mercury; the Sleeping Faun, and a thousand other statues, big and little; busts, in marble and in bronze, of exquisite beauty, all or almost all of them having been dug out of the ashes of Herculaneum and Pompeii. On certain days, or I should rather say at certain moments, a sight of these works of sculpture sets one on fire, and fills one with courage and a strong desire to do something; but at other times it gives one a feeling of dismay, discouragement, and fear that cannot be described. This difference of impression deserves to be examined a little, and he who is bored must here skip; the young artist, however, I am certain, will follow me attentively. I have made a promise to myself not to leave these papers as food for mere curiosity, for, seriously speaking, there should be no satisfaction in that; whereas a little value and profit will be found by every one who has the patience to follow me.

Yes, dear friends, sometimes, in seeing certain works of art, one burns with enthusiasm, with a fire, a desire to do, that is really marvellous, and we ease our minds with the conviction that this is a sign of our strength. Illusions, dear sirs—illusions! To the eyes of the artist all works of art ought to be the occasion of examination and serious hesitating thought; and when these outbursts of immoderate confidence in ourselves occur, they are a sign that our sight is obscured by pride, or that we are not able to comprehend the degree of beauty in such works, and consequently the difficulties that have been overcome to produce them. We must correct ourselves of both these defects, and learn to respect even mediocre things, as by this method we arrive at the discovery of something good even in these, if not as a whole, at least in their intention and germ, and this will always be something gained. As a young man, I have found myself laughing compassionately at some of the most beautiful works of art, both ancient and modern, and this merely because my natural pride had been excited by light or false praise. The complacency that we feel in ourselves and our works comes in part from a species of exclusiveness and belief in the infallibility of the principles we profess. Not that I would counsel any disloyalty to the principles that are our guides in art—no, indeed, for we must keep entirely true to them; but it is a very different thing to despise all other schools that are removed from ours. For instance, why despise the Academicians, who are tenacious of the study of antique statues, in order to keep within bounds the turbid torrent of the veristi, who in their turn, through their coarse adherence to nature, lose the idea of the beautiful? Let us, on the contrary, respect them for their intentions and motives, at the same time that we make certain reservations as to the final consequences that would result from this distrust and refashioning of nature. The fault of the Academic school lies in this, that instead of saying, "Study the antique; look how well they knew how to choose from life and how to interpret it," they say, "Here, copy these casts; apart from them there is no health or safety for you. Nature is imperfect; you must improve on it, and, imitating the Grecian and Roman statues, you will learn to purge nature from all her imperfections." So saying, the intention, which is good, is spoiled by its application of exaggerated rules. But, I repeat, the intention is good; therefore let us look to that whilst we reject its application. On the other hand, why should we despise the naturalisti in all that they have that is good—I mean, in their axioms and rules—which, in short, putting aside amplification and exaggeration, means the imitation always in everything of nature? We have always accepted and insisted upon the imitation of nature, that is of beautiful nature, putting aside that exaggeration which leads to folly, absurdity, and licence of conception, and to ugliness of form, detail, and minutiæ.

The same may be said of the mystics, the purists, colourists, lovers of effect and barocco, &c. Let us take the good where we can find it: not, indeed, make a mixture, a medley, as some have been fantastic enough to imagine, by which we should arrive directly at eclecticism, which is the most foolish thing in this world; but putting our minds into the study of all these schools, we shall be able to find good reasons for their teachings. Separating them from excess and exaggeration, we shall find ourselves in a wider, clearer, higher atmosphere, and the impressions that we receive from works of art will not produce despondency or rejoicing, our judgments will be more temperate and just, and our own work will be done quicker and better. This does not mean, indeed, that we are to remain indifferent before works of art. Alas for the man who is indifferent! for the artist who before some work of art stands cold and without feeling! A young man who is ardent, boasting, and proud, can correct himself, can be trained by difficulties and instances, by emulation or jeering. The timid will become animated, and take courage, moving with measured and cautious steps on his arduous journey, and, by reason of his timid, gentle character, conciliate the goodwill of his masters and fellow-students; but the indifferent and cold of nature has too much the air of a simpleton or an arrogant person, and he is fled from and left in his stupid ignorance.

And here, gentle reader, is one of these happy mortals who live their little day in dreamland. A person came to see me one day bringing with him a young man who might have borne a quarter of a century weight on his shoulders. He was of medium height, with broad shoulders, bent slightly, owing, perhaps, to his being twenty-five years of age; he had a black beard, bronzed complexion, and wandering eyes. He looked all about him and saw nothing. I say that he saw nothing, for he paid the same attention to my cat as he did to the head of the Colossus of Monte Cavallo, which stood on a stand in the room, and to my "Abel" as he did to me or my stool. He spoke no Italian, not even French; but the person who accompanied him, and who was competent in all respects, spoke for him, or rather of him, for the young man himself never opened his mouth to utter a word, although he kept it half open even when he was looking at the cat. This very polite person said—

"You will forgive me, Signor Professor, if I take you away from your occupations for a few brief moments; but I could not forego the pleasure of regaling you with a visit from, and making you acquainted with, this young sculptor, who is on his way to Rome, where he goes, not, indeed, to perfect himself as an artist, but to practise the profession which he has so nobly and splendidly illustrated by his genius. As he is undoubtedly born to fame, and the whole world will talk of him, I wished to bring him to you, and make you really acquainted, that you might some day be able to say, 'I have seen him and spoken with him.'"

I stood there like a bit of stucco, looking at the young man, and then at the person who had spoken to me thus. Then I answered—

"Tell me, does this gentleman speak, or at least understand, Italian? Has he understood what you have just said of him?"

"Oh no! he only speaks English; he is an American."

"The Lord be thanked," muttered I to myself, "that the poor young man understood nothing!" But this polite person, misunderstanding my question, began—

"Now I will tell him what I have said to you."

And he began in English to repeat the little tirade that he had given me, and this genius of a young man nodded his head at every phrase, looking at me, at the stool, and at the cat!

CHAPTER XII.

To return to ourselves. "Appetite comes with eating," as the proverb has it; and in fact, by degrees, as I visited the museums, the churches, and the studios of the Neapolitan artists, I felt an increasing desire to do something, to try again to draw or to model, were it but a mere trifle. One day, after having gone over the whole breadth and length of the excavations at Pompeii, I was examining a mosaic pavement made out of a great many pretty little coloured stones, some of them broken away from their place; and bending down to examine it closer, I touched one of the stones. The custode hastened to say to me, "Don't touch, signor—the regulations prohibit it." It cannot be denied that I have always been disposed to respect all regulations; but since I had seen them broken, even by those who ought to have been the first to respect them, I had taken them in dudgeon. I looked at the custode, and he at me, and we understood each other at once. I took a turn, went to the door, looked to the right and to the left of me, and coming back, as I was taking something out of my pocket I dropped some money on the ground.

My friend picked it up for me, and I gave him a carlino. We returned to the room where the mosaic pavement was. It represented a race of animals, hares and dogs, on a yellow ground. Some of the little stones were loose, and already many were missing; they were small squares about as large as my little-finger nail. I bent down again, and stretched out my hand, looking at the guard, who for decency's sake turned in the other direction; and I took the little stone, on which, with a great deal of patience and increasing gusto, I drew and engraved a small head after the fashion of a cameo, roughing it out at first with the point of a penknife, and finishing it off with sharpened needles fastened into little handles, which I used in the place of small chisels and burins. I always keep this little head, which was set in gold as a pin, and sometimes wear it in my necktie. When I look at this small piece of workmanship, I am astonished at my patience and my eyesight at that time.

To tell the truth, when I picked up that little stone I had no idea of working on it, but merely took it as a remembrance of the day and the place. In touching it, I thought that it had been shaped and put there by a man like myself, two thousand years ago. In holding that little square stone between my fingers, it seemed to me as if my hand touched the hand of that man, who then was full of life. I thought of his scant dust, now dispersed, transformed but not lost! Where is this dust now? I, where was I then? While I was thinking on this, my good Marina approached, and said—

"Do you find any beauty in that little stone?"

"No. I was thinking that it is very old. I was thinking that it is a fusion of fire, and in substance lava. But was not Vesuvius unknown at the time that this city was constructed? Could you imagine that they would have been so insane as to have built on the outskirts of a mountain vomiting fire? Have you not observed that in all the many paintings on these houses, where you find over and over again landscapes, sea views, animals, figures, in fact everything, that there is never the slightest trace of a view of Vesuvius? If it had been there, surely they would not have failed to reproduce in painting such a marvellous phenomenon. Therefore it could not have been there; and yet all these mosaics are made of lava, and all the surrounding country at a certain distance below the surface of the ground is covered with it. It was not there, I say, in their memory; but when was it there?"

"Do you know?" said my wife.

"I?—no, indeed."

"Then you can imagine if I do."

After this small cameo, I wished to model a little figure in bas-relief, which it was my intention to have executed on a shell cameo, and I gave the order for it; but the workmen employed for this kind of work are so unintelligent that if you take them away from the work they are accustomed to do almost mechanically, they are not able to succeed in doing anything. The little figure represented Medicine. She was seated on a stool, and with a little stick was pushing aside the bushes to look for some medicinal plants; but in doing so a serpent had wound itself around her stick, as it is said to have happened to Æsculapius. Behind the stone on which she is seated flows a little stream of water, to denote the salutary action of water by which I was cured, and to which she turns her back.

I also made a new sketch for the Bacchino della Crittogama, which was the one that I afterwards made of life-size on my return from Naples. The one I had left behind me in clay was very different, and I destroyed it. I had this new sketch baked, and I remember one day when I went to get it from the man who sells terre cotte, near Santa Lucia, to whom I had given it to bake, that I found him arguing with a stranger who had taken it absolutely into his head to buy it. It was useless for the man to say that the statuette did not belong to him; that he could not sell it; that it was not finished; and that his little figures of Apollo, the Idolino, Venus, and Flora were far better and more finished than this sketch: he only kept repeating, "I like this, and want to buy it;" and all persuasion was useless. I put an end to the discussion in two words, saying to the man—

"Sell it to him."

"How much must I ask?"

"A thousand lire."

At which the good touriste immediately put down the Bacchino, and went away in peace. Some two months after this I presented this little sketch to a priest from Verona, whose name I do not remember, but who came to preach the Lenten sermons at our cathedral in Florence. I regret to have given it to him, for it is always well that a man's sketches should remain in his family, and also because, for all his eloquence, he has never since reported himself to me. Can he really be dead? Requiem æternam.

In this manner the time passed by, alternating the long walks in the neighbourhood of Naples with a little work and some artistic visits to Mancinelli, to Balzico (then but a young student), to Smargiassi the landscape-painter, and to Gigante, the famous water-colourist. I did not fail to try to find the sculptor Cavaliere Angelini, whom I had already known in Florence; but for some inexplicable reason I could not see him, and this was what happened. I went to his studio, and his men told me that he had gone to the Academy to lecture to the young men. I went to the Academy, and was told that he desired me to wait, because he was giving his lessons. I waited a good long time, and when he came out he said that he was in such a hurry he could not pay any attention to me then, but that I must come to his studio on a certain day at a certain hour. I went there and knocked; no one answered, and the soldier who was mounting guard at the Serraglio dei Poveri close by said that every one had gone away more than two hours before. It seemed to me a little strange, after having named the day and hour; but more or less forgetfulness in an artist means nothing—in fact it is a sort of sauce or dressing to an artist's character, be he young or full-grown, on horseback or on foot. Dear me! such things are easily understood; and if I had not been a little tired, I should not even have thought of it, and would have returned another day. But when, and at what time? Should I have ever found the door open?

My hotel was very far from the poorhouse, but the two places were not very dissimilar; for although all my expenses were paid by the Grand Duke, it had not yet become the fashion to squander and waste after the ways of to-day; and be it from education, temperament, or other motives, I felt it my duty to economise for that good gentleman's purse even more than for my own, and therefore my inn could really be called a poorhouse in spite of its pompous name, for it was a third-class hotel; but the distance was great, and, to mortify the Professor a little, I wrote on his studio door—"G. Duprè at home on such a day and such an hour."

He will come, he will certainly come, to see me at my inn to make his excuses. Poor Angelini! he is certainly absent-minded, and am I not also absent-minded? He will come to find me out. Yes; I stayed in Naples six months, and never saw him. Something beyond absent-mindedness, I think; but so it was. I told all this for amusement to his colleagues, but they took it seriously to heart,—so much so, that at one of their academic meetings they proposed me as an Associate-Professor: and Angelini seemed delighted, and warmly supported my nomination, so that naturally it was passed; but I never went into his studio. Oh no.

Yes; I repeat it ten, twenty times over. My dear colleague, this happened in the month of January 1853; see what a good memory I have. You, it is quite natural, have forgotten it, because he who is guilty of such things does not take heed of them, neither should the person to whom they are done, unless he be as black as Loredan, who wrote down the death of the two Foscari in his book of Debit and Credit. Therefore let it be understood, that I did not take note of it, and don't remember it; but if you ever take it into your head to return to Florence, and, passing casually through the Via della Sapienza, you would like to rest a little in my studio, you can do so; and the best of it is, that I do not name the day or the hour, only take this journey and make this visit soon, for we are now both old, and I shall not return to you, for I am afraid of finding the door shut!

Here I come to the moral. I speak of artists. The desire to see the works and also become acquainted personally with contemporary artists is a good sign; it indicates a spirit of emulation, a wish to learn, and form bonds of friendship, so to discuss and bring to light errors and doubts on questions of art. But if the artist with whom you desire to speak names a certain day and hour, then answer at once, "Thank you very much, but I cannot come." Tell him this untruth—it will be but a small sin; whereas he who imposes upon you a day and hour gives himself so much importance that he resembles that ugly and haughty signor called Pride.

There are some medicines so proper and efficacious, that once you have taken them, you are radically cured, and for good. Angelini cured me of the wish to knock at studio doors; and the Signora Marchesini cured me of another habit, formed either by custom or stupidity, of shaking hands with everybody, especially with women. The Signora Marchesini was at that time (I am speaking of about thirty years ago) an aristocratic lady of a certain age—one of those persons who, without even taking the trouble to turn to look at any one who came to see her, would answer the salutation and bow prescribed by good breeding with an addio and a "good evening" when one took leave, were it even at midnight. Such was the Signora Marchesini.

One night I went into her box at the Pergola, and going up to her I bowed and put out my hand. Ass that I was! I did not know that this act of familiarity was not allowed to inferiors; and putting aside nobility of birth, I was her junior by thirty years, and perhaps this offended the austere lady more than anything else. The lesson, however, was a good one; and from that day, in fact from that evening, I have never since been the first to offer my hand to any woman, old or young. All this nonsense reminds me of a much rougher and more vulgar instance of haughtiness, from which my beloved wife was the sufferer. She was as simple and good, poor darling, as the woman who offended her was hard and proud.

I had gone to pay a visit to a friend of mine, a gentleman of noble birth, education, and tact, with whom I had friendly relations. My wife was with me, and he was in the drawing-room with his, who was French by birth, much younger than himself, and whom he had lately married. As soon as my friend saw me he spread out his arms, and we embraced each other; my wife, with a feeling of spontaneous tenderness, pressed forward to embrace the young lady, but she drew back, perhaps not thinking it beseeming or according to etiquette to embrace a woman the first time she saw her, even although she was much older than herself. My poor Marina, with her purity of soul, did not feel offended, but turning to me she timidly asked, "Have I done wrong?"

"You! no, my dear; but another time stand on your own ground. That woman did not deserve to be embraced by you."

My friend took no notice of anything, and shortly after we left the house. I do not know why, but this remembrance goads me more and more every day; it stimulates my love for her who now smiles at all these miseries—she who was so worthy of all honours, who desired and was able to keep herself always good, mild, and compassionate—a good wife, a good mother, truly a lady by her virtues, and not by reason of her birth and riches. More I should like to say, but cannot; I look with anxious love for the words that fail me, and I think that the innermost lineaments of that temperate, strong, patient soul can be felt but cannot be portrayed.

I continued to get better and better in Naples. The medical man insisted that I should walk a great deal and take simple and abundant food—a little soup, roastbeef, and a plate of vegetables, and nothing else, for dinner; for breakfast, after my bath and walk, a glass of cold milk and some bread. As a distraction for my mind, he recommended my seeing and talking with people I liked, and going to the theatre of an evening. At first the theatre bored me; I did not understand those little bouffe comedies in dialect at the Fenice and San Carlino, and all those repartees of Punchinello irritated me. It was bad for me to go to the San Carlo, where they were giving the 'Trovatore' with the Penco, Fraschini, and the Borghi-mamo, and 'Othello' with the Pancani, for they made me weep, not on account of the dramas themselves, which I already knew, but on account of the music, which had such a strong effect on my nerves. For these reasons I was obliged to give up the music at San Carlo, and 'Punch' at San Carlino and the Fenice, and took refuge in the Sebeto, a very small theatre, where for the most part were represented dramas in bad taste, artistically speaking, but not as far as morals are concerned—exaggerated characters, forced situations to create immoderate effects, &c.,—in fact, dramas of the Federici stamp, to touch the hearts of the populace, but not calculated to influence them with voluptuousness, the more dangerous when veiled in the attractive, graceful, and polished forms of cunning sophistry. Then these dramas were not in dialect, and 'Punch' only came in at the farce, and for such a very small part that I could bear him, and little by little began to understand and appreciate him. As I have already said, the theatre was a necessity for me, and it entered into my sage's system of treatment; but he added that I was not to take the recreation by myself, but in the company of my wife and child, and with as much ease as possible, so that it was necessary to take a small box, which, as the theatre was so small and unpretending, was not a very great expense. Perhaps the idea of economy never once occurred to the generous sovereign who came to my aid, but I used to think of it, as I have before said.