opportunity；　of　inspiration；　and　all　the　rest　of　it。　　The　worthy　part
  is　to　do　something　fine！　　There　is　no　law　in　our　glorious
  Constitution　against　that。　　Invent；　create；　achieve！　　No　matter　if
  you　have　to　study　fifty　times　as　much　as　one　of　these！　　What　else　are
  you　an　artist　for？　　Be　you　our　Moses；〃　I　added；　laughing；　and　laying
  my　hand　on　his　shoulder；　〃and　lead　us　out　of　the　house　of　bondage！〃
  〃Golden　wordsgolden　words；　young　man！〃　he　cried；　with　a　tender
  smile。　　〃'Invent；　create；　achieve！'　　Yes；　that's　our　business；　I　know
  it　well。　　Don't　take　me；　in　Heaven's　name；　for　one　of　your　barren
  complainersimpotent　cynics　who　have　neither　talent　nor　faith！　　I　am
  at　work！〃and　he　glanced　about　him　and　lowered　his　voice　as　if　this
  were　a　quite　peculiar　secret〃I'm　at　work　night　and　day。　　I　have
  undertaken　a　CREATION！　　I　am　no　Moses；　I　am　only　a　poor　patient
  artist；　but　it　would　be　a　fine　thing　if　I　were　to　cause　some　slender
  stream　of　beauty　to　flow　in　our　thirsty　land！　　Don't　think　me　a
  monster　of　conceit；〃　he　went　on；　as　he　saw　me　smile　at　the　avidity
  with　which　he　adopted　my　illustration；　〃I　confess　that　I　am　in　one　of
  those　moods　when　great　things　seem　possible！　　This　is　one　of　my
  nervous　nightsI　dream　waking！　　When　the　south　wind　blows　over
  Florence　at　midnight　it　seems　to　coax　the　soul　from　all　the　fair
  things　locked　away　in　her　churches　and　galleries；　it　comes　into　my
  own　little　studio　with　the　moonlight；　and　sets　my　heart　beating　too
  deeply　for　rest。　　You　see　I　am　always　adding　a　thought　to　my
  conception！　　This　evening　I　felt　that　I　couldn't　sleep　unless　I　had
  communed　with　the　genius　of　Buonarotti！〃
  He　seemed　deeply　versed　in　local　history　and　tradition；　and　he
  expatiated　con　amore　on　the　charms　of　Florence。　　I　gathered　that　he
  was　an　old　resident；　and　that　he　had　taken　the　lovely　city　into　his
  heart。　　〃I　owe　her　everything；〃　he　declared。　　〃It's　only　since　I　came
  here　that　I　have　really　lived；　intellectually。　　One　by　one；　all
  profane　desires；　all　mere　worldly　aims；　have　dropped　away　from　me；
  and　left　me　nothing　but　my　pencil；　my　little　note…book〃　（and　he
  tapped　his　breast…pocket）；　〃and　the　worship　of　the　pure　masters
  those　who　were　pure　because　they　were　innocent；　and　those　who　were
  pure　because　they　were　strong！〃
  〃And　have　you　been　very　productive　all　this　time？〃　I　asked
  sympathetically。
  He　was　silent　a　while　before　replying。　　〃Not　in　the　vulgar　sense！〃　he
  said　at　last。　　〃I　have　chosen　never　to　manifest　myself　by
  imperfection。　　The　good　in　every　performance　I　have　re…absorbed　into
  the　generative　force　of　new　creations；　the　badthere　is　always
  plenty　of　thatI　have　religiously　destroyed。　　I　may　say；　with　some
  satisfaction；　that　I　have　not　added　a　mite　to　the　rubbish　of　the
  world。　　As　a　proof　of　my　conscientiousness　and　he　stopped　short；　and
  eyed　me　with　extraordinary　candour；　as　if　the　proof　were　to　be
  overwhelming〃I　have　never　sold　a　picture！　　'At　least　no　merchant
  traffics　in　my　heart！'　　Do　you　remember　that　divine　line　in　Browning？
  My　little　studio　has　never　been　profaned　by　superficial；　feverish；
  mercenary　work。　　It's　a　temple　of　labour；　but　of　leisure！　　Art　is
  long。　　If　we　work　for　ourselves；　of　course　we　must　hurry。　　If　we　work
  for　her；　we　must　often　pause。　　She　can　wait！〃
  This　had　brought　us　to　my　hotel　door；　somewhat　to　my　relief；　I
  confess；　for　I　had　begun　to　feel　unequal　to　the　society　of　a　genius
  of　this　heroic　strain。　　I　left　him；　however；　not　without　expressing　a
  friendly　hope　that　we　should　meet　again。　　The　next　morning　my
  curiosity　had　not　abated；　I　was　anxious　to　see　him　by　common
  daylight。　　I　counted　upon　meeting　him　in　one　of　the　many　pictorial
  haunts　of　Florence；　and　I　was　gratified　without　delay。　　I　found　him
  in　the　course　of　the　morning　in　the　Tribune　of　the　Uffizithat
  little　treasure…chamber　of　world…famous　things。　　He　had　turned　his
  back　on　the　Venus　de'　Medici；　and　with　his　arms　resting　on　the　rail…
  mug　which　protects　the　pictures；　and　his　head　buried　in　his　hands；　he
  was　lost　in　the　contemplation　of　that　superb　triptych　of　Andrea
  Mantegnaa　work　which　has　neither　the　material　splendour　nor　the
  commanding　force　of　some　of　its　neighbours；　but　which；　glowing　there
  with　the　loveliness　of　patient　labour；　suits　possibly　a　more　constant
  need　of　the　soul。　　I　looked　at　the　picture　for　some　time　over　his
  shoulder；　at　last；　with　a　heavy　sigh；　he　turned　away　and　our　eyes
  met。　　As　he　recognised　me　a　deep　blush　rose　to　his　face；　he　fancied；
  perhaps；　that　he　had　made　a　fool　of　himself　overnight。　　But　I　offered
  him　my　hand　with　a　friendliness　which　assured　him　I　was　not　a
  scoffer。　　I　knew　him　by　his　ardent　chevelure；　otherwise　he　was　much
  altered。　　His　midnight　mood　was　over；　and　he　looked　as　haggard　as　an
  actor　by　daylight。　　He　was　far　older　than　I　had　supposed；　and　he　had
  less　bravery　of　costume　and　gesture。　　He　seemed　the　quiet；　poor；
  patient　artist　he　had　proclaimed　himself；　and　the　fact　that　he　had
  never　sold　a　picture　was　more　obvious　than　glorious。　　His　velvet　coat
  was　threadbare；　and　his　short　slouched　hat；　of　an　antique　pattern；
  revealed　a　rustiness　which　marked　it　an　〃original；〃　and　not　one　of
  the　picturesque　reproductions　which　brethren　of　his　craft　affect。
  His　eye　was　mild　and　heavy；　and　his　expression　singularly　gentle　and
  acquiescent；　the　more　so　for　a　certain　pallid　leanness　of　visage；
  which　I　hardly　knew　whether　to　refer　to　the　consuming　fire　of　genius
  or　to　a　meagre　diet。　　A　very　little　talk；　however；　cleared　his　brow
  and　brought　back　his　eloquence。
  〃And　this　is　your　first　visit　to　these　enchanted　halls？〃　he　cried。
  〃Happy；　thrice　happy　youth！〃　And　taking　me　by　the　arm；　he　prepared　to
  lead　me　to　each　of　the　pre…eminent　works　in　turn　and　show　me　the
  cream　of　the　gallery。　　But　before　we　left　the　Mantegna　he　pressed　my
  arm　and　gave　it　a　loving　look。　　〃HE　was　not　in　a　hurry；〃　he　murmured。
  〃He　knew　nothing　of　〃raw　Haste；　half…sister　to　Delay！〃　　How　sound　a
  critic　my　friend　was　I　am　unable　to　say；　but　he　was　an　extremely
  amusing　one；　overflowing　with　opinions；　theories；　and　sympathies；
  with　disquisition　and　gossip　and　anecdote。　　He　was　a　shade　too
  sentimental　for　my　own　sympathies；　and　I　fancied　he　was　rather　too
  fond　of　superfine　discriminations　and　of　discovering　subtle
  intentions　in　shallow　places。　　At　moments；　too；　he　plunged　into　the
  sea　of　metaphysics；　and　floundered　a　while　in　waters　too　deep　for
  intellectual　security。　　But　his　abounding　knowledge　and　happy
  judgment　told　a　touching　story　of　long　attentive　hours　in　this
  worshipful　company；　there　was　a　reproach　to　my　wasteful　saunterings
  in　so　devoted　a　culture　of　opportunity。　　〃There　are　two　moods；〃　I
  remember　his　saying；　〃in　which　we　may　walk　through　galleriesthe
  critical　and　the　ideal。　　They　seize　us　at　their　pleasure；　and　we　can
  never　tell　which　is　to　take　its　turn。　　The　critical　mood；　oddly；　is
  the　genial　one；　the　friendly；　the　condescending。　　It　relishes　the
  pretty　trivialities　of　art；　its　vulgar　cleverness；　its　conscious
  graces。　　It　has　a　kindly　greeting　for　anything　which　looks　as　if；
  according　to　his　light；　the　painter　had　enjoyed　doing　itfor　the
  little　Dutch　cabbages　and　kettles；　for　the　taper　fingers　and　breezy
  mantles　of　late…coming　Madonnas；　for　the　little　blue…hilled；
  pastoral；　sceptical　Italian　landscapes。　　Then　there　are　the　days　of
  fierce；　fastidious　longingsolemn　church　feasts　of　the　intellect
  when　all　vulgar　effort　and　all　petty　success　is　a　weariness；　and
  everything　but　the　bestthe　best　of　the　bestdisgusts。　　In　these
  hours　we　are　relentless　aristocrats　of　taste。　　We　will　not　take
  Michael　Angelo　for　granted；　we　will　not　swallow　Raphael　whole！〃
  The　gallery　of　the　Uffizi　is　not　only　rich　in　its　possessions；　but
  peculiarly　fortunate　in　that　fine　architectural　accident；　as　one　may
  call　it；　which　unites　itwith　the　breadth　of　river　and　city　between
  themto　those　princely　chambers　of　the　Pitti　Palace。　　The　Louvre　and
  the　Vatican　hardly　give　you　such　a　sense　of　sustained　inclosure　as
  those　long　passages　projected　over　street　and　stream　to　establish　a
  sort　of　inviolate　transition　between　the　two　palaces　of　art。　　We
  passed　along　the　gallery　in　which　those　precious　drawings　by　eminent
  hands　hang　chaste　and　gray　above　the　swirl　and　murmur　of　the　yellow
  Arno；　and　reached　the　ducal　saloons　of　the　Pitti。　　Ducal　as　they　are；
  it　must　be　confessed　that　they　are　imperfect　as　show…rooms；　and　that；
  with　their　deep…set　windows　and　their　massive　mouldings；　it　is　rather
  a　broken　light　that　reaches　the　pictured　walls。　　But　here　the
  masterpieces　hang　thick；　and　you　seem　to　see　them　in　a　luminous
  atmosphere　of　their　own。　　And　the　great　saloons；　with　their　superb
  dim　ceilings；　their　outer　wall　in　splendid　shadow；　and　the　sombre
  opposite　glow　of　mellow　canvas　and　dusky　gilding；　make；　themselves；
  almost　as　fine　a　picture　as　the　Titians　and　Raphaels　they　imperfectly
  reveal。　　We　lingered　briefly　before　many　a　Raphael　and　Titian；　but　I
  saw　my　frien