The letter to the ‘Pall Mall Gazette’ I have not seen. M. Etienne’s Article is in Tome 85, pp. 704-735, of the ‘Revue des Deux Mondes’, 1870, and the letter probably appeared soon after its publication. What edition of Vasari is referred to, in the above note, as the last, is uncertain; but in Vasari’s own editions of 1550 and 1568, and in Mrs. Foster’s translation, 1855, Lippi is made the pupil, and not the master, of Masaccio.
323. Saint Laurence: suffered martyrdom in the reign of the Emperor Valerian, A.D. 258. He was broiled to death on a gridiron.
327. Already not one phiz of your three slaves. . .but’s scratched: the people are so indignant at what they are doing, in the life-like picture.
336. That is--: he fears he has spoken too plainly, and will be reported.
339. Chianti: a wine named from the part of Italy so called.
346. Sant’ Ambrogio’s: a convent in Florence.
354. Saint John: John the Baptist is meant; see v. 375.
355. Saint Ambrose: born about 340; made archbishop of Milan in 374; died 397; instituted the ‘Ambrosian Chant’.
377. Iste perfecit opus!: this is on a scroll, in the picture, held by the “sweet angelic slip of a thing”.
389. The picture referred to is ‘The Coronation of the Virgin’, in the ‘Accademia delle Belle Arti’, in Florence. There is a photograph of it in ‘Illustrations to Browning’s Poems’, Part I., published by the Browning Society, with an interesting description of the picture, by Mr. Ernest Radford. There’s no “babe” in the picture.
392. Zooks!: it’s high time I was back and in bed, that my night-larking be not known.
If one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pale gold, Such as the Tuscan’s early art prefers! No shade encroaching on the matchless mould Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff’s Burthen of honey-colored buds, to kiss And capture ‘twixt the lips apart for this. { 10} Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround, How it should waver, on the pale gold ground, Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: But these are only massed there, I should think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (That’s the pale ground you’d see this sweet face by), { 20} All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.