ouched them
with a certain grace and dignity, emanating from the mind alone, which
only mind could give, and mind perceive. I have seen within the last
few days, three copies of this picture, in all of them the charming
simplicity and rusticity, but in none the exquisite expression of the
original: even the hands are expressive, without any particular
delicacy or beauty of form. An artist who was copying the picture
to-day while I looked at it, remarked this; and confessed he had made
several unsuccessful attempts to render the fond pressure of the
fingers as she clasps the child to her bosom.

Were I to judge of Carlo Cignani by his works, I should pronounce him
a man of elevated character, noble by instinct, if not by descent, but
simple in his habits, and a despiser of outward show and ostentation.

The other painter I alluded to, is Sasso Ferrato, a great and admired
manufacturer of Virgins, but a mere copyist, without pathos, power, or
originality; sometimes he resembles Guido, sometimes Carlo Dolce; but
the graceful harmonious delicacy of the former becomes coldness and
flatness in his hands, and the refinement and sweetness of the latter
sink into feebleness and insipidity. Were I to judge of his character
by his Madonnas, I should suppose that Sasso Ferrato had neither
original genius nor powerful intellect, nor warmth of heart, nor
vivacity of temper; that he was, in short, a mere mild, inoffensive,
good sort of man, studious and industrious in his art, not without a
feeling for the excellence he wanted power to attain.[W]

I might pursue this subject further, but my memory fails, my head
aches, and my pen is tired for to-night.

* * * * *

Both here and at Rome, I have found considerable amusement in looking
over the artists who are usually employed in copying or studying from
the celebrated pictures in the different galleries; but I have been
taught discretion on such occasions by a ridiculous incident which
occurred the other day, as absurdly comic as it was unlucky and
vexatious. A friend of mine observing an artist at work in the Pitti
palace, whom, by his total silence and inattention to all around, she
supposed to be a native Italian who did not understand a word of
English, went up to him, and peeping over his shoulder, exclaimed with
more truth than discretion, "Ah! what a hideous attempt! that will
never be like, I'm sure!" "I am very sorry you think so, ma'am,"
re