In the few pictures I have seen of Carlo Cignani, I have been struck by the predominance of mind and feeling over mere external form:  there is a picture of his in the Rospigliosi Palace—­or rather, to give an example which is nearer at hand, and fresh in my memory, there is in the gallery here, his Madonna del Rosario.  It represents a beautiful young woman, evidently of plebeian race:  the form of the face is round, the features have nothing of the beau-ideal, and the whole head wants dignity:  yet has the painter contrived to throw into this lovely picture an inimitable expression which depends on nothing external, which in the living prototype we should term countenance; as if a chastened consciousness of her high destiny and exalted character shone through the natural rusticity of her features, and touched them with a certain grace and dignity, emanating from the mind alone, which only mind could give, and mind perceive.  I have seen within the last few days, three copies of this picture, in all of them the charming simplicity and rusticity, but in none the exquisite expression of the original:  even the hands are expressive, without any particular delicacy or beauty of form.  An artist who was copying the picture to-day while I looked at it, remarked this; and confessed he had made several unsuccessful attempts to render the fond pressure of the fingers as she clasps the child to her bosom.

Were I to judge of Carlo Cignani by his works, I should pronounce him a man of elevated character, noble by instinct, if not by descent, but simple in his habits, and a despiser of outward show and ostentation.

The other painter I alluded to, is Sasso Ferrato, a great and admired manufacturer of Virgins, but a mere copyist, without pathos, power, or originality; sometimes he resembles Guido, sometimes Carlo Dolce; but the graceful harmonious delicacy of the former becomes coldness and flatness in his hands, and the refinement and sweetness of the latter sink into feebleness and insipidity.  Were I to judge of his character by his Madonnas, I should suppose that Sasso Ferrato had neither original genius nor powerful intellect, nor warmth of heart, nor vivacity of temper; that he was, in short, a mere mild, inoffensive, good sort of man, studious and industrious in his art, not without a feeling for the excellence he wanted power to attain.[W]

I might pursue this subject further, but my memory fails, my head aches, and my pen is tired for to-night.

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Both here and at Rome, I have found considerable amusement in looking over the artists who are usually employed in copying or studying from the celebrated pictures in the different galleries; but I have been taught discretion on such occasions by a ridiculous incident which occurred the other day, as absurdly comic as it was unlucky and vexatious.  A friend of mine observing an artist at work in the Pitti palace, whom,