ascertained whether the painting, so
clearly pointed out by Vasari, was or was not in existence: several
months, however, of wearisome labors in the same pursuit taught me
to judge more leniently of the failures of my predecessors. Mr.
Wilde put Moreni's note before me, and suggested and urged, that
being an Italian by birth, though not a Florentine, and having
lived many years in England and among the English, I had it in my
power to bring two modes of influence to bear upon the research;
and that such being the case I ought to undertake it. My thoughts
immediately turned to Mr. Kirkup, an artist who had abandoned his
art to devote himself entirely to antiquarian pursuits, with whom I
was well acquainted, and who, having lived many years in Florence,
(I believe fifteen,) would weigh the value of Moreni's testimony on
this matter, and effectually assist me in every way, if I took it
in hand. So I called upon him, either that same day or the next;
and I found that he, like most other people, had read the passage
in Vasari's life of Giotto, in which it is explicitly said, that
the portrait of Dante had been painted with others in the Palazzo
del Podesta, and was to be seen at the time the historian was
writing; but that he had not read, or had not put any confidence
in, the note of the Florence edition of Vasari published in
1832--1838, in which it is stated, that the Palazzo del Podesta had
now become a prison--the Bargello; that the Chapel had been turned
into a _dispensa_, (it was more like a coal-hole where the rags and
much of the filth of the prison was deposited); that the walls of
this dispensa exhibited nothing but a dirty coating, and that
Moreni speaks of the painting in some published work; the annotator
concluding thus--'It is hoped that some day or other we shall be
able to see what there is under the coating of the walls.' So
everybody hoped that some day or other the thing would be done, but
nobody set about heartily to do it; and it is inconceivable to me
that Mr. Kirkup, who shows in this letter, if it be his, such
jealousy for the credit of the recovery, should have lived so many
years in Florence either entirely ignorant of that which every
shop-boy knew, or knowing there were chances of bringing such a
treasure to light, that he s