stroke with my pencil in the gallery.
I made the inspector, and all the artists who had been to Italy, tell
me of the land where art flourishes. The day and hour at length
arrived. The parting from my parents was painful, as they felt a
gloomy presentiment that they should not see me again. Even my father,
generally a firm, resolute man, had difficulty in containing his
feelings. 'Italy! you will see Italy!' cried my brother artists, and
then my wish shone forth with greater power, from my deep melancholy,
and I stepped boldly forth, for the path of an artist seemed to begin
even at my parents' door.'

"Berthold had studied every department of painting, but he had
especially devoted himself to landscapes, at which he worked with
ardent love and zeal. In Rome he expected to find abundant nurture for
this branch of art, but it proved otherwise. The very circle of
artists and _dilettanti_ in which he moved, continually told him that
the historical painter alone stood on the highest point, and that all
the rest were but subordinate. He was advised, if he wished to become
an artist of eminence, to abandon at once the department he had chosen,
and to devote himself to the higher branch; and this advice, coupled
with the novel impression which Raffaelle's mighty frescoes in the
Vatican had made upon him, determined him to give up landscape painting
altogether. He sketched after the Raffaelles, and he copied small oil
paintings by other celebrated masters. All these things were very
cleverly done by his practised hand; but he plainly felt that the
praise of the artists and _dilettanti_ should only solace him, and
encourage him to further efforts. He himself saw that his sketches and
copies wanted all the fire of the originals. Raffaelle's and
Correggio's heavenly thoughts--so he thought--inspired him to creations
of his own, but he wished to hold them fast in his fancy, they vanished
as in a mist, and all that he sketched was like every obscure, confused
thought, without motion and significance. During his vain endeavours
deep melancholy took possession of his soul, and he often escaped from
his friends, privately to sketch and paint in the vicinity of Rome,
groups of trees--single pieces of landscape. But even these attempts
were less successful than formerly; and, for the first time in his
life, he doubted the truth of his calling as an artist. His proudest
hopes seemed on the point of vanishing. 'Ah, my revere