vention that his risks are greater, which is by no means necessarily the case, and that the sale is less immediate. Experience shows that in the few cases on record where a better of the The first, slightly the fine-art agent has given a special price for a picture, and been unsuccessful in selling it, the price ultimately asked is calculated, not on the value of the work, but on the length of time during which the capital has been invested. A notable instance of this occurred in the resale of the so-called Gainsborough, known as the "Duchess of Devonshire," where a price enormously in advance of that originally given was asked. guineas. The other bidder was a and obtained, purely on the ground of the time during which the picture had remained hidden. Not the least strange part of this matter was, that the authenticity of part at least of this picture was by no means assured, and in the opinion of the best judges the work had been so repainted as to be practically valueless as an example of the supposed artist. There is another reason why the amount obtained in the auction-room requires to be regarded with much suspicion when advanced as a criterion of merit. It is that the price is not seldom the result of an unforeseen competition between private buyers, both of whom have left indefinite commissions with their agents, never dreaming that the work in question could fetch any very high price; or it may be that the competition is between millionaires and folk of that kind, or a wealthy amateur and one of the great foreign galleries. I was once witness of a singular incident of this sort, though upon a very small scale. In a private collection there were two heads by a second-rate artist, both of pretty women, and both furniture pictures of cabinet size; the value of each being, at a liberal estimate, some twenty or thirty pounds. broker who had received an unlimited commission from an old maiden lady, who "thought the girl had such a sweet face." It is fair to say that neither principal was in the auctionroom when the sale took place. The successful bidder was very sad on the subject, and as he was my own father, I had the pleasure of seeing the work in question for many subsequent years. Similar accidents are by no means so uncommon as may be supposed; and it is rather pleasant to notice that the middlemen themselves occasionally lose their heads in the excitement of an auction. I once saw one go on bidding against himself five or six times, though I own this is a unique case. As this is intended to be a practical article, a last word may be said by way of warning to those who attend picture-sales. Private buyers should rarely bid for themselves; still more rarely should they employ a broker without previously determining the limit to which he is to go. A quiet inspection of the picture on the previous day, alone, is most desirable; then can be asked and answered the following questions: What is this picture worth to me, to look at? What is it likely to sell for? Can I afford to pay so much for the pleasure I shall obtain? No picture should be bought by any ordinary person unless he can afford to regard the price paid as money gone. True, the value may remain-may even increase; but the probabilities are the other way; besides which, pictures bought with an idea of selling them again are not really productive of much pleasure at all events of the right kind. On the question of value, remember that a dealer's is, by the very nature of the case, an interested opinion-often a doubly interested opinion, for he has frequently views concerning the special work of art himself, in addition to those relating to his commission. Moreover, a dealer's opinion, even supposing you can get at it really, is very rarely a good one as to the æsthetic value of a picture. It may be sound as to authenticity, and even Chambers's Journal. as to quality; but on the main point of all, which is the question of beauty, the dealer's intuition is habitually at fault. To sum up the whole matter, the purchase of pictures should be conducted on the same principles which govern the ordinary transactions of life. There is nothing really occult in the matter. Purchasers should buy what interests them, and what they can afford to pay for; and having bought them, should utilize the experience of their practice in subsequent transactions. By so doing they will gradually come to the knowledge that the best pictures are those of which the appeal is an enduring one, and that the endurance of such appeal is based upon correspondence with natural fact and sincerity of meaning. Such sincerity may be either intellectual or emotional; it cannot be frivolous or artificial. Harry Quilter. MEMORIES OF MY CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL DAYS.* BY EDMONDO DE AMICIS. IV. THE BERSAGLIERI. My mind was forcibly diverted from Latin grammar by a passion which had a distinct effect on my whole life, finding vent fourteen years later in a book which marked the first stage of a journey that may end, perchance, with these pages. I refer to my passion for soldiers, or to speak more accurately for the bersaglieri, who formed the only garrison of our city. If they had been infantry of the line, I am certain that my enthusiasm would have been less, since though my devotion was due in part to the warlike spirit of the time, Translated for The Living Age. and my own ardent nature, it was also partly due to the beauty of the uniform, the agility of the manœuvres and the personal prestige of these "children of Alessandro La Marmora." Never I am sure did child of my years entertain a more ardent passion; though many have been much more strongly inclined than I towards a military career. was a real monomania, not to be cured by exhortation, reproof, or punishment. On every holiday, and on other days too, both before and after school, I ran away from home at all hours in order to follow the cocks' plumes to the 1 It 1 Worn by the Italian "sharp-shooters" in their low glazed hats. training-field, to the rifle-practise, to their "athletics." I would even escort them for miles into the country when they went on a march, yes, though the rain might be falling, and I used to return to the city in a state fit to soften the heart of a stone. When I heard those witching trumpets sound beneath my window, no force could hold me back (If they had locked the door I should have slid down a rope from the window!) but away I rushed, leaving luncheon or Latin, without hat or necktie, sometimes even in my shirt-sleeves, like a thief pursued by the police. In this way I soon picked up a complete theoretic knowledge of military matters: the trumpet signals, the daily round, all the minutiæ of barrack-life. I knew, too, most of the sergeants and corporals of the garrison; and many of these knew me also, and used to greet me, calling me by name, as they might have done a friendly puppy. Nor was I a mere dilettante, content to stand and stare. In the intervals of repose, during the manoeuvres of the targetpractice, I used to wedge my way in so as to listen to their talk and make myself useful. I used to get them water, buy for this one and that a cent's worth of grapes or chestnuts, hand their hats and knapsacks and help them clean the dust from their cloaks; and it was my great reward to be allowed to stroke their plumes to shining smoothness, or to stick a carabine into the ground by means of the spur which they then had at the joint. When I want to recall those days, I have only to shut my eyes and concentrate my thoughts, and as if it were really rising to my nostrils, I sniff again the odor of those leather belts and gaiters, of the spent cartridges and the smoke of the guns, and even the hot steam of the broth cooking in the barrack kitchen. Seeing me bare-headed, dusty and bedraggled, as I often was, many of the bersaglieri took me for some little gamin, playing truant from factory or shop, and when I told them who my father was, they used to laugh at the joke and say that, for one of my age, I had a pretty gift at drawing the long bow. But such was my military infatuation that I was not offended even by these jeers. As a general thing too, especially from the common soldiers, I received only expressions of the most touching sympathy. How many are there of whom I still remember, the voices, the dialectal peculiarities, the favorite expletives, even the gait! And I remember that while I hurried along to the sound of the trumpet, or feasted my eyes on the maneuvering battalions, my imagination was always feverishly active, filled with visions of camp and battle-field, and warlike adventures of every sort, in which my favorite soldiers always played the rôle of conquering heroes. So strong was my passion within me that to this day, the country-side about that city, the banks of the two streams which enclose and all the roads which lead to it, come before my mind, all dotted with black of the bersaglieri's uniforms and the silver sheen of their bayonets. the I knew a great many of the officers too, by sight and name, and I can still recall the appearance of many of certain young subalterns, destined to attain distinguished rank, or a soldier's death, in the Crimea, on the fields of San Martino or Custoza or fighting against the brigands. I remember a tall adjutant major, at whose haughty face I used to glance in timid curiosity because the story ran-and it was perfectly true!-that he used to punish his wife by handcuffing her. I remember too the famous negro lieutenant Amatore and the son of Sebastiano Tecchio, then a beardless second lieutenant, who seemed a mere boy, but who was a great lady-killer; also Lieutenant Franchini, who in 1861-being by then a Major-arrested the famous Borjes ་ and had him shot; and Captain Pallavicini, who as Colonel arrested Garibaldi at Aspromonte, and whom I saw one morning on my way to school, when they were taking him in a carriage to the military hospital. He had been badly wounded in a duel, and I heard the day after from the soldiers, that he said with a laugh as they sewed up the cut, "By Jove! I never expected to see the color of my bowels!" I recall many another, but I had no private relations with persons of this exalted rank, nor did I ever dream of enjoying such an honor, for an officer of bersaglieri seemed to me a divinity. My affections were engaged by the rank and file-bassa forza was the expression then in vogue-and so ingenuous were my sentiments, so full of poetry and reverence that when, of a fête-day, I saw any of my plumèd friends in bad company I felt a stab of pain at my heart mingled with a sense of shame, which made me mourn for a while, as for a lost illusion. His Among my many likings, I made one friendship, which remains among the dearest recollections of my childhood. There was a Trumpet-Corporal, a native of Mortara if I am not mistaken, a young fellow of medium height, lithe and robust, a typical bersagliere. features were strong and wore a serious expression, but he was full of kindness; his manners were simple and pleasant; his name was Martinotti. He took a fancy to me through having seen me plunging along to the sound of his trumpet with my tongue lolling from my mouth. We scraped acquaintance on the training-field; then we began taking walks together during my leisure hours in the neighborhood of my home. He treated me like a man, which flattered my vanity and enhanced my affectionate gratitude. He spoke to me of his family, his career, his superior officers; told me all the gossip of the garrison, giving me all the particulars with the greatest gravity, while I listened with the most devoted attention. At home my one theme of conversation was Corporal Martinotti, whom my brothers to tease me dubbed "the General." He wanted me to say "tu" when I spoke to him, but I never got up sufficient courage. To be seen on the street at his side was my pride, and when he took me to the café to drink soda-water, I felt a halo settle round my head: I should not have been more set up had Count Cavour himself invited me. He called me by my Christian name, but abbreviated because it seemed to him too long as it was and hard to pronounce. He turned it into Mondo or Mondino. One day he gave me a discarded set of his sleeve-straps, made of yellow woollen stuff. I took my treasure home, sewed them on my jacket sleeves and for many a day I went, thus clad, to my Latin class my Latin as queer as my costume. My adoration for him reached such a pitch, that I imitated his walk and accent, and whistled from morning to night the "Marches" which he most frequently called upon his trumpeters to play. I do not remember how long this happiness of mine endured; I know that I expected it to last forever, -as if Martinotti were likely to live his life out in our city!-because it would hurt my feelings to have him go. But the end came suddenly. One night toward dusk, at the hour of "retreat", meeting me on the ramparts, he said: "Did you know that I am off to-morrow, with the battalion, Mondino?" And seeing that I did not understand, he added, "Off for the Crimea." People had been talking about the Crimean war for some time, but somehow, it had never occurred to me that he might be ordered there. I could not find my voice. He smiled at my emo tion, his eyes full of compassion, then tried to console me by saying, "I've good hopes of escaping the Russians. They won't want to kill us all. And if I get off, it's quite likely that I shall come back here. Brace up, Mondino! We shall meet again some day." I could not keep back my tears. He looked at me for a little earnestly, gravely, then turned and ran away, as though he had heard the sudden call of one of his superior officers. I went home sad at heart, and had hardly crossed the threshold when I told my mother the mournful tidings, broken by a sob, "Corporal Martinotti . . . is going to the war." "Poor fellow!" she exclaimed, then added to console me that I would better go and wave him a farewell at the station. Next evening I rushed to the station, but it was empty. The battalion had left in the morning. And I stood there a while, gazing with tearful eyes at the shining rails along which my friend had been borne away, following him in my fancy to that far distant country full of terror and mystery, from which I did not believe that he would ever return. am The Crimean War is the first public event of which I find any trace in my memory; and these traces are in general so few and scanty that I amazed. For I was then nearly nine and the great matters to the discussion of which I daily listened ought surely to have made upon me a keener and more profound impression. Of all that preceded the expedition I only recall a single phrase, "Let us wait till we see what Austria does." It was the PostOffice Inspector who said this, in our house to my father, whose image rises before me as I then saw him, seated in a corner of the dining-room one leg crossed upon the other and an arm swinging behind the back of his chair. Of the departure of the troops, after my corporal's battalion had started, I remember only one episode;-the picture of a young peasant-woman standing on the top of the rampart sobbing,-her head thrown back, her arms outstretched in anguish and crying, after all the rest had ceased "Ciao! Ciao!" as the train sped across the distant bridge, the plumes of the bersaglieri, still visible, waving from the carriage windows. Then I remember my mother with the Gazetta del Popolo in her hands, and how, overcome by emotion, she broke down in the middle when she tried to read the description of the burning of the Cræsus, a few days after it had cleared from Genoa, having our soldiers on board. Of all the rest of the time that the war lasted nothing remains in my memory but a haze, through which I see a dozen ragged urchins, gathered in a group at the further end of my courtyard and singing a certain war-song. I see the twisted grimacing mouth of one of these boys, whose name was Clemente and who used to say Crinea instead of Crimea, and I still remember a verse of the aforesaid song, from which the reader may judge whether the common people had at that time a very clear idea of our alliances, for the verse said: The English have their barracks In the middle of the sea: Napoleon's good cannon Will destroy them utterly. What I do remember is that I often thought about my corporal so far away, and that, after his departure, I ceased to have anything to do with the few bersaglieri who still remained, as if he had taken with him all the poetry of his corps and all the enthusiasm of my heart. I have the most vivid recollections of my play-mates of those days, to some of which I often recur, and linger over |
