style, immense
leather gauntlets with silver fringes, a long rapier at his side, light
grey stockings drawn up above his bony knees and gartered with yellow
ribbons, whilst he had bows of the same sort of yellow ribbon on his
shoes.

This remarkable figure was standing before the picture like one
enraptured: he raised himself on tiptoe; he stooped down till he became
quite small; then he jumped up with both feet at once, heaved deep
sighs, groaned, nipped his eyes so close together that the tears began
to trickle down his cheeks, opened them wide again, fixed his gaze
immovably upon the charming Magdalene, sighed again, lisped in a thin,
querulous, mutilated voice, "_Ah! carissima--benedettissima! Ah!
Marianna--Mariannina--bellissima_," &c. ("Oh! dearest--most adored! Ah!
Marianna--sweet Marianna! my most beautiful!") Salvator, who had a mad
fancy for such oddities, drew near to the old fellow, intending to
engage him in conversation about Scacciati's work, which seemed to
afford him so much exquisite delight Without paying any particular heed
to Salvator, the old gentleman stood cursing his poverty, because he
could not give a million sequins for the picture, and place it under
lock and key where nobody could set their infernal eyes upon it. Then,
hopping up and down again, he blessed the Virgin and all the holy
saints that the reprobate artist who had painted the heavenly picture
which was driving him to despair and madness was dead.

Salvator concluded that the man either was out of his mind, or was an
Academician of St. Luke with whom he was unacquainted.

All Rome was full of Scacciati's wonderful picture; people could
scarcely talk about anything else, and this of course was convincing
proof of the excellence of the work. And when the painters were again
assembled in the church of St. Luke, to decide about the admission of
certain other pictures which had been announced for exhibition,
Salvator Rosa all at once asked, whether the painter of the "Magdalene
at the Saviour's Feet" was not worthy of being admitted a member of the
Academy. They all with one accord, including even that hairsplitter in
criticism, Baron Josepin,[2.14] declared that such a great artist would
have been an ornament to the Academy, and expressed their sorrow at his
death in the choicest phrases, although, like the crazy old man, they
were praising Heaven in their hearts that he was dead. Still more, they
were so far carried away by their