gazed upon these tokens of a better spirit in his pupil.

"I rejoice to see, Antonio," he began, "that you already feel, how ever
imperfectly, the soothing and hallowed influence of the Beautiful in Art
and Nature, and the peril to soul and body of delighting in imaginary
forms of horror. If you indulge these cravings of a distempered fancy, you
will sink to the base level of those Flemish artists who delight in
painting witches and demons, and in all fabulous and monstrous forms. You,
who are nobly born, devoted to poetry and fine art, and possess manifest
power in portraiture, should aim at the Heroic in painting. Make this your
first and steadfast purpose. Devote to it your life and soul; and, should
the power to reach this elevation be wanting, you may still achieve the
Beautiful, and paint lovely women in lovely attitudes. But tell me,
Antonello!" continued he, resuming his wonted kindness, "how came that
horrid visage across thy path, or rather across thy fancy? for surely no
such original exists. Say, didst thou see it living, or was it the growth
of those distempered dreams to which painters, more than other men, are
subject?"

"No, padre mio! it was no dream," eagerly answered his pupil. "Yesterday I
went in our gondola, as is my wont on festivals, to the beautiful church
of San Moyses, which I love for its oriental and singular architecture.
When near the church I heard a melodious voice calling to Jacopo, my
gondolier, the only boatman in sight, and begging a conveyance across the
canal. Issuing from the cabin, I saw a tall figure, closely veiled,
standing on the steps of the palace facing the church and occupied by the
Archduke's ambassador. Approaching the steps, Jacopo placed a plank for
the stranger; but, as she stepped out to reach it, a sudden gust caught
her large loose mantle, which, clinging to her shape, displayed for a
moment a form of such majestic and luxuriant fulness--such perfect and