have spent three hours this morning in the gallery and I have made up my mind that if of all the treasures I have seen in Italy I were to choose one room it would be the Tribune of this gallery.  It contains the Venus de’ Medici, the Explorator, the Pancratist, the Dancing Faun and a fine Apollo.  These more than outweigh the Laocoon and the Belvedere Apollo at Rome.  It contains, besides, the St John of Raphael and many other chefs-d’oeuvre of the greatest masters in the world.”  It is interesting to compare Mr Pontifex’s effusions with the rhapsodies of critics in our own times.  Not long ago a much esteemed writer informed the world that he felt “disposed to cry out with delight” before a figure by Michael Angelo.  I wonder whether he would feel disposed to cry out before a real Michael Angelo, if the critics had decided that it was not genuine, or before a reputed Michael Angelo which was really by someone else.  But I suppose that a prig with more money than brains was much the same sixty or seventy years ago as he is now.

Look at Mendelssohn again about this same Tribune on which Mr Pontifex felt so safe in staking his reputation as a man of taste and culture.  He feels no less safe and writes, “I then went to the Tribune.  This room is so delightfully small you can traverse it in fifteen paces, yet it contains a world of art.  I again sought out my favourite arm chair which stands under the statue of the ‘Slave whetting his knife’ (L’Arrotino), and taking possession of it I enjoyed myself for a couple of hours; for here at one glance I had the ‘Madonna del Cardellino,’ Pope Julius II., a female portrait by Raphael, and above it a lovely Holy Family by Perugino; and so close to me that I could have touched it with my hand the Venus de’ Medici; beyond, that of Titian . . .  The space between is occupied by other pictures of Raphael’s, a portrait by Titian, a Domenichino, etc., etc., all these within the circumference of a small semi-circle no larger than one of your own rooms.  This is a spot where a man feels his own insignificance and may well learn to be humble.”  The Tribune is a slippery place for people like Mendelssohn to study humility in.  They generally take two steps away from it for one they take towards it.  I wonder how many chalks Mendelssohn gave himself for having sat two hours on that chair.  I wonder how often he looked at his watch to see if his two hours were up.  I wonder how often he told himself that he was quite as big a gun, if the truth were known, as any of the men whose works he saw before him, how often he wondered whether any of the visitors were recognizing him and admiring him for sitting such a long time in the same chair, and how often he was vexed at seeing them pass him by and take no notice of him.  But perhaps if the truth were known his two hours was not quite two hours.