ces him. Perhaps it is the smell of
turpentine that goes to his head. Or more likely it is the idea of
immortality. Goethe was one of the handsomest men of his day, and
(remember) vain, and now in the prime of life; so that he was specially
susceptible to the notion of being immortalised. 'The design is already
settled, and the canvas stretched'; and I have no doubt that in the
original German these words ring like the opening of a ballad. 'The
anchor's up and the sail is spread,' as I (and you, belike) recited in
childhood. The ship in that poem foundered, if I remember rightly; so
that the analogy to Goethe's words is all the more striking.

It is in this same letter that the poet mentions those three great
points which I have already laid before you: the fallen obelisk for him
to sit on, the white mantle to drape him, and the ruined temples for him
to look at. 'It will form a beautiful piece, but,' he sadly calculates,
'it will be rather too big for our northern habitations.' Courage! There
will be plenty of room for it in the Baptistery of San Lorenzo.

Meanwhile, the work progressed. A brief visit to Naples and Sicily was
part of Goethe's well-pondered campaign, and he was to set forth from
Rome (taking Tischbein with him) immediately after the close of the
Carnival--but not a moment before. Needless to say, he had no idea of
flinging himself into the Carnival, after the fashion of lesser and
lighter tourists. But the Carnival was a great phenomenon to be studied.
All-embracing Goethe, remember, was nearly as keen on science as on art.
He had ever been patient in poring over plants botanically, and fishes
ichthyologically, and minerals mineralogically. And now, day by day, he
studied the Carnival from a strictly carnivalogical standpoint, taking
notes on which he founded later a classic treatise. His presence was
not needed in the studio during these days, for the life-sized portrait
'begins already to stand out from the canvas,' and Tischbein was now
painting the folds of the mantle, which were swathed around a clay
figure. 'He is working away diligently, for the work must, he says,
be brought to a certain point before we start for Naples.' Besides the
mantle, Tischbein was doing the Campagna. I remember that some years
ago an acquaintance of mine, a painter who was neither successful nor
talented, but always buoyant, told me he was starting for Italy next
day. 'I am going,' he said, 'to paint the Campagna. The Ca