atch or
a bite, one could rescue the corner of a Tintoret, or Paul Veronese, and
push it through the bars into a place of safety.

85. Literally, I assure you, this was, and this is, the fixed impression
on my mind of the state of matters in Italy. And see how. The professors
of art in Italy, having long followed a method of study peculiar to
themselves, have at last arrived at a form of art peculiar to
themselves; very different from that which was arrived at by Correggio
and Titian. Naturally, the professors like their own form the best; and,
as the old pictures are generally not so startling to the eye as the
modern ones, the dukes and counts who possess them, and who like to see
their galleries look new and fine (and are persuaded also that a
celebrated chef-d'oeuvre ought always to catch the eye at a quarter of a
mile off), believe the professors who tell them their sober pictures are
quite faded, and good for nothing, and should all be brought bright
again; and, accordingly, give the sober pictures to the professors, to
be put right by rules of art. Then, the professors repaint the old
pictures in all the principal places, leaving perhaps only a bit of
background to set off their own work. And thus the professors come to be
generally figured, in my mind, as the monkeys who tear holes in the
pictures, to grin through. Then the picture-dealers, who live by the
pictures, cannot sell them to the English in their old and pure state;
all the good work must be covered with new paint, and varnished so as to
look like one of the professorial pictures in the great gallery, before
it is saleable. And thus the dealers come to be imaged, in my mind, as
the monkeys who make ropes of the pictures, to swing by. Then, every now
and then at some old stable, or wine-cellar, or timber-shed, behind
some forgotten vats or faggots, somebody finds a fresco of Perugino's or
Giotto's, but doesn't think much of it, and has no idea of having people
coming into his cellar, or being obliged to move his faggots; and so he
whitewashes the fresco, and puts the faggots back again; and these kind
of persons, therefore, come generally to be imaged, in my mind, as the
monkeys who taste the pictures, and spit them out, not finding them
nice. While, finally, the squabbling for nuts and apples (called in
Italy "bella liberta") goes on all day long.

86. Now, all this might soon be put an end to, if we English, who are so
fond of travelling in the b