THE GARDENS. OF ITALY. 
their scanty, short-waisted Empire frocks, and the 
men in Jacobin costumes, Robespierre hats, and long 
hair and canes. Lingering here at sunset, when 
all is hushed, for a moment you may still see 
the wave of feathers and fans, may hear the rattle 
of scabbards, the echo of light laughter, the click 
of high-heeled shoes, and catch a glimpse of those 
bowing, smiling, vanishing visions, which the 
statues seem still to watch with their blank eyes. 
There is no space to tell of the marble halls 
within, frescoed by Zucchero or Archita of Lucca, 
a favourite artist of the day. The old museum was 
sold to Napoleon I., and the antique statues collected 
by Cardinal Scipione, when every dealer in Rome 
brought him his best ¢rowvail/le, made the chief 
nucleus of the Louvre gallery. Much of the present 
collection has been transferred from the Borghese 
palace. There still remain the groups ordered from 
Bernini, the rising young sculptor about whom all 
Rome was going wild. Pauline is here as Venus 
Triumphant. Upstairs are gems of Perugino and 
Francia, none sweeter than that little panel of 
St. Stephen kneeling in robe of vivid carmine which 
copyists toil after in vain. ‘The Cardinal bought 
Raphael’s famous Deposition from the monks of 
San Francesco, in Perugia, in spite of the expostula- 
tions of the descendants of the Baglioni, who had 
placed it there. Last and best of all, we come to 
that noble masterpiece of Titian, one of the most 
famous pictures of the world, a picture for which 
Prince Borghese could have got as much, had 
free sale been allowed, as he was paid for the villa 
and all its contents. 
Call it what you will, Medea, sacred and 
profane love, Art and Nature, it remains the very 
embodiment of the religion of beauty. The rich 
Italian sunshine bathes the country-side, the foun- 
tain sparkles against the mellow marble, the rose 
leaves drop lazily one by one, the cupid  frolics 
with the water, the little censer burns away in 
the blue and breathless air, the fair women dream 
for ever of love in idleness. It breathes the whole 
spirit of Italy and the very air of the Renais- 
sance; dreamlike, joyous, sad, with the remem- 
brance of things long past, its possession is a fitting 
crown to the enchantments of this enchanted palace. 
