was　an　altogether　ideal　valet　de　place；　and　I　was　glad　enough　to
  leave　my　Murray　at　home；　and　gather　facts　and　opinions　alike　from　his
  gossiping　commentary。　　He　talked　of　Florence　like　a　lover；　and
  admitted　that　it　was　a　very　old　affair；　he　had　lost　his　heart　to　her
  at　first　sight。　　〃It's　the　fashion　to　talk　of　all　cities　as
  feminine；〃　he　said；　〃but；　as　a　rule；　it's　a　monstrous　mistake。　　Is
  Florence　of　the　same　sex　as　New　York；　as　Chicago？　　She　is　the　sole
  perfect　lady　of　them　all；　one　feels　towards　her　as　a　lad　in　his　teens
  feels　to　some　beautiful　older　woman　with　a　'history。'　　She　fills　you
  with　a　sort　of　aspiring　gallantry。〃　　This　disinterested　passion
  seemed　to　stand　my　friend　in　stead　of　the　common　social　ties；　he　led
  a　lonely　life；　and　cared　for　nothing　but　his　work。　　I　was　duly
  flattered　by　his　having　taken　my　frivolous　self　into　his　favour；　and
  by　his　generous　sacrifice　of　precious　hours　to　my　society。　　We　spent
  many　of　these　hours　among　those　early　paintings　in　which　Florence　is
  so　rich；　returning　ever　and　anon；　with　restless　sympathies；　to　wonder
  whether　these　tender　blossoms　of　art　had　not　a　vital　fragrance　and
  savour　more　precious　than　the　full…fruited　knowledge　of　the　later
  works。　　We　lingered　often　in　the　sepulchral　chapel　of　San　Lorenzo；
  and　watched　Michael　Angelo's　dim…visaged　warrior　sitting　there　like
  some　awful　Genius　of　Doubt　and　brooding　behind　his　eternal　mask　upon
  the　mysteries　of　life。　　We　stood　more　than　once　in　the　little　convent
  chambers　where　Fra　Angelico　wrought　as　if　an　angel　indeed　had　held
  his　hand；　and　gathered　that　sense　of　scattered　dews　and　early　bird…
  notes　which　makes　an　hour　among　his　relics　seem　like　a　morning　stroll
  in　some　monkish　garden。　　We　did　all　this　and　much　morewandered　into
  dark　chapels；　damp　courts；　and　dusty　palace…rooms；　in　quest　of
  lingering　hints　of　fresco　and　lurking　treasures　of　carving。
  I　was　more　and　more　impressed　with　my　companion's　remarkable
  singleness　of　purpose。　　Everything　was　a　pretext　for　some　wildly
  idealistic　rhapsody　or　reverie。　　Nothing　could　be　seen　or　said　that
  did　not　lead　him　sooner　or　later　to　a　glowing　discourse　on　the　true；
  the　beautiful；　and　the　good。　　If　my　friend　was　not　a　genius；　he　was
  certainly　a　monomaniac；　and　I　found　as　great　a　fascination　in
  watching　the　odd　lights　and　shades　of　his　character　as　if　he　had　been
  a　creature　from　another　planet。　　He　seemed；　indeed；　to　know　very
  little　of　this　one；　and　lived　and　moved　altogether　in　his　own　little
  province　of　art。　　A　creature　more　unsullied　by　the　world　it　is
  impossible　to　conceive；　and　I　often　thought　it　a　flaw　in　his　artistic
  character　that　he　had　not　a　harmless　vice　or　two。　　It　amused　me
  greatly　at　times　to　think　that　he　was　of　our　shrewd　Yankee　race；　but；
  after　all；　there　could　be　no　better　token　of　his　American　origin　than
  this　high　aesthetic　fever。　　The　very　heat　of　his　devotion　was　a　sign
  of　conversion；　those　born　to　European　opportunity　manage　better　to
  reconcile　enthusiasm　with　comfort。　　He　had；　moreover；　all　our　native
  mistrust　for　intellectual　discretion；　and　our　native　relish　for
  sonorous　superlatives。　　As　a　critic　he　was　very　much　more　generous
  than　just；　and　his　mildest　terms　of　approbation　were　〃stupendous；〃
  〃transcendent；〃　and　〃incomparable。〃　　The　small　change　of　admiration
  seemed　to　him　no　coin　for　a　gentleman　to　handle；　and　yet；　frank　as　he
  was　intellectually；　he　was　personally　altogether　a　mystery。　　His
  professions；　somehow；　were　all　half…professions；　and　his　allusions　to
  his　work　and　circumstances　left　something　dimly　ambiguous　in　the
  background。　　He　was　modest　and　proud；　and　never　spoke　of　his　domestic
  matters。　　He　was　evidently　poor；　yet　he　must　have　had　some　slender
  independence；　since　he　could　afford　to　make　so　merry　over　the　fact
  that　his　culture　of　ideal　beauty　had　never　brought　him　a　penny。　　His
  poverty；　I　supposed；　was　his　motive　for　neither　inviting　me　to　his
  lodging　nor　mentioning　its　whereabouts。　　We　met　either　in　some　public
  place　or　at　my　hotel；　where　I　entertained　him　as　freely　as　I　might
  without　appearing　to　be　prompted　by　charity。　　He　seemed　always
  hungry；　and　this　was　his　nearest　approach　to　human　grossness。　　I　made
  a　point　of　asking　no　impertinent　questions；　but；　each　time　we　met；　I
  ventured　to　make　some　respectful　allusion　to　the　magnum　opus；　to
  inquire；　as　it　were；　as　to　its　health　and　progress。　　〃We　are　getting
  on；　with　the　Lord's　help；〃　he　would　say；　with　a　grave　smile。　　〃We　are
  doing　well。　　You　see；　I　have　the　grand　advantage　that　I　lose　no　time。
  These　hours　I　spend　with　you　are　pure　profit。　　They　are　SUGGESTIVE！
  Just　as　the　truly　religious　soul　is　always　at　worship；　the　genuine
  artist　is　always　in　labour。　　He　takes　his　property　wherever　he　finds
  it；　and　learns　some　precious　secret　from　every　object　that　stands　up
  in　the　light。　　If　you　but　knew　the　rapture　of　observation！　　I　gather
  with　every　glance　some　hint　for　light；　for　colour；　or　relief！　　When　I
  get　home；　I　pour　out　my　treasures　into　the　lap　of　toy　Madonna。　　Oh；　I
  am　not　idle！　　Nulla　dies　sine　linea。〃
  I　was　introduced　in　Florence　to　an　American　lady　whose　drawing…room
  had　long　formed　an　attractive　place　of　reunion　for　the　foreign
  residents。　　She　lived　on　a　fourth　floor；　and　she　was　not　rich；　but
  she　offered　her　visitors　very　good　tea；　little　cakes　at　option；　and
  conversation　not　quite　to　match。　　Her　conversation　had　mainly　an
  aesthetic　flavour；　for　Mrs。　Coventry　was　famously　''artistic。〃　　Her
  apartment　was　a　sort　of　Pitti　Palace　au　petit　pied。　　She　possessed
  〃early　masters〃　by　the　dozena　cluster　of　Peruginos　in　her　dining…
  room；　a　Giotto　in　her　boudoir；　an　Andrea　del　Sarto　over　her　drawing…
  room　chimney…piece。　　Surrounded　by　these　treasures；　and　by
  innumerable　bronzes；　mosaics；　majolica　dishes；　and　little　worm…eaten
  diptychs　covered　with　angular　saints　on　gilded　backgrounds；　our
  hostess　enjoyed　the　dignity　of　a　sort　of　high…priestess　of　the　arts。
  She　always　wore　on　her　bosom　a　huge　miniature　copy　of　the　Madonna
  della　Seggiola。　　Gaining　her　ear　quietly　one　evening；　I　asked　her
  whether　she　knew　that　remarkable　man；　Mr。　Theobald。
  〃Know　him！〃　she　exclaimed；　〃know　poor　Theobald！　　All　Florence　knows
  him；　his　flame…coloured　locks；　his　black　velvet　coat；　his
  interminable　harangues　on　the　beautiful；　and　his　wondrous　Madonna
  that　mortal　eye　has　never　seen；　and　that　mortal　patience　has　quite
  given　up　expecting。〃
  〃Really；〃　I　cried；　〃you　don't　believe　in　his　Madonna？〃
  〃My　dear　ingenuous　youth；〃　rejoined　my　shrewd　friend；　〃has　he　made　a
  convert　of　you？　　Well；　we　all　believed　in　him　once；　he　came　down　upon
  Florence　and　took　the　town　by　storm。　　Another　Raphael；　at　the　very
  least；　had　been　born　among　men；　and　the　poor　dear　United　States　were
  to　have　the　credit　of　him。　　Hadn't　he　the　very　hair　of　Raphael
  flowing　down　on　his　shoulders？　　The　hair；　alas；　but　not　the　head！　　We
  swallowed　him　whole；　however；　we　hung　upon　his　lips　and　proclaimed
  his　genius　on　the　house…tops。　　The　women　were　all　dying　to　sit　to　him
  for　their　portraits　and　be　made　immortal；　like　Leonardo's　Joconde。
  We　decided　that　his　manner　was　a　good　deal　like　Leonardo's
  mysterious；　and　inscrutable；　and　fascinating。　　Mysterious　it
  certainly　was；　mystery　was　the　beginning　and　the　end　of　it。　　The
  months　passed　by；　and　the　miracle　hung　fire；　our　master　never
  produced　his　masterpiece。　　He　passed　hours　in　the　galleries　and
  churches；　posturing；　musing；　and　gazing；　he　talked　more　than　ever
  about　the　beautiful；　but　he　never　put　brush　to　canvas。　　We　had　all
  subscribed；　as　it　were；　to　the　great　performance；　but　as　it　never
  came　off　people　began　to　ask　for　their　money　again。　　I　was　one　of　the
  last　of　the　faithful；　I　carried　devotion　so　far　as　to　sit　to　him　for
  my　head。　　If　you　could　have　seen　the　horrible　creature　he　made　of　me；
  you　would　admit　that　even　a　woman　with　no　more　vanity　than　will　tie
  her　bonnet　straight　must　have　cooled　off　then。　　The　man　didn't　know
  the　very　alphabet　of　drawing！　　His　strong　point；　he　intimated；　was
  his　sentiment；　but　is　it　a　consolation；　when　one　has　been　painted　a
  fright；　to　know　it　has　been　done　with　peculiar　gusto？　　One　by　one；　I
  confess；　we　fell　away　from　the　faith；　and　Mr。　Theobald　didn't　lift
  his　little　finger　to　preserve　us。　　At　the　first　hint　that　we　were
  tired　of　waiting；　and　that　we　should　like　the　show　to　begin；　he　was
  off　in　a　huff。　　'Great　work　requires　time；　contemplation；　privacy；
  mystery！　　O　ye　of　little　faith！'　　We　answered　that　we　didn't　insist
  on　a　great　work；　that　the　five…act　tragedy　might　come　at　his
  convenience；　that　we　merely　asked　for　something　to　keep　us　from
  yawning；　some　inexpensive　little　lever　de　rideau。　　Hereupon　the　poor
  man　took　his　stand　as　a　genius　misconceived　and　persecuted；　an　ame
  meconnue；　and　washed　his　hands　of　us　from　that　hour！　　No；　I　believe
  he　does　me　the　honour　to　consider　me　the　head　and　front　of　the
  conspiracy　formed　to　nip　his　glory　in　the　buda　bud　that　has　taken
  twenty　years　to　blosso