which stands in a niche over the sacristy door of San Giovanni Fiorentino in Rome.  It was placed there a few years ago, when, owing to the prevalent mania of rebuilding, it became necessary to demolish the little oratory on the Corso which belonged to the Mother Church close by.  The statue was scarcely seen in its old home:  how it got there is unknown.  The church itself was not founded by the Florentines until after Donatello’s death, and this statue looks as if it had been made before Donatello’s visit to Rome in 1433.  But its authenticity cannot be questioned.  We have the same type as in the Martelli Baptist, with something of the Franco-Gothic sentiment.  This St. John is rather younger, a Giovannino, his thin lithe figure draped with the camel-hair tunic which ends above the knees.  Hanging over the left shoulder is a long piece of drapery, falling to the ground behind him, and giving support to the marble, just as in the other Baptist.  We have the open mouth, the curly hair and the broad nostrils:  in every way it is a typical work of the sculptor.  There are two other early Baptists, both in the Bargello.  The little relief in Pietra Serena[63] is a delightful rendering of gentle boyhood.  The modelling shows Donatello’s masterful treatment of the soft flesh and the tender muscles beneath it.  Everything is subordinated to his object of showing real boyhood with all the charm of its imperfections.  The head is shown in profile, thus enabling us to judge the precise nature of all the features, each one of which bears the imprint of callow morbidezza.  Even the hair has the dainty qualities of childhood:  it has the texture of silk.  It is a striking contrast to the life-sized Baptist who has just reached manhood.  We see a St. John walking out into the desert.  He looks downward to the scroll in his hand, trudging forward with a hesitating gait,—­but only hesitating because he is not sure of his foothold, so deeply is he absorbed in reading.  It is a triumph of concentration.  Donatello has enlisted every agency that could intensify the oblivion of the world around him.  It is from this aloofness that the figure leaves a detached and inhospitable impression.  One feels instinctively that this St. John would be friendless, for he has nothing to offer, and asks no sympathy.  There is no room for anybody else in his career, and nobody can share his labours or mitigate his privations.  In short, there is no link between him and the spectator.  Unless we interpret the statue in this manner, it loses all interest—­it never had any beauty—­and the St. John becomes a tiresome person with a pedantic and ill-balanced mind.  But Donatello can only have meant to teach the lesson of concentrated unity of purpose, which is the chief if not the only characteristic of this St. John.  Technically the work is admirable.  The singular care with which the limbs are modelled, especially the feet and hands, is noteworthy:  while the muscular system, the prominent spinal cord,