Kauffmann, an honest, simple-minded fellow,
knowing nothing but his art, and not much
of that, cherished the unselfish hope that in
teaching his child, he might soon teach her to
surpass him.  The wish—not an unfrequent
event in the annals of art—was soon realised.
As Raffaelle surpassed Perugino, and Michael
Angelo surpassed Ghirlandajo, their masters,
so Angelica speedily surpassed her father,
and left him far behind. But it did not
happen with him as it did with a
certain master of the present day, who one
day turned his pupil neck and heels out
of his studio, crying, "You know more
than I do. Go to the devil!"  The father
was delighted at his daughter's marvellous
progress. Sensible of the obstacles opposed
to a thorough study of drawing and anatomy
in the case of females, he strenuously
directed Angelica's faculties to the study of
colour. Very early she became initiated in
those wondrous secrets of chiar' oscuro which
produce relief, and extenuate, if they do not
redeem, the want of severity and correctness.
At nine years of age, Angelica was a little
prodigy.

In those days Father Kauffrnann, urged
perhaps by the necessity of opening up a new
prospect in Life's diggings, quitted Coire, and
established himself at Morbegno in the
Valteline. Here he stopped till seventeen
hundred and fifty-two, when, the artistic diggings
being again exhausted, he removed to Como,
intending to reside there permanently.  The
Bishop of Como, Monsignore Nevroni, had
heard of the little painter prodigy, then
only eleven years of age, and signified his
gracious intention of sitting to her for his
portrait.  The prodigy succeeded to perfection,
and she was soon overwhelmed with
Mæcenases.  The dignified clergy, who, to their
honour be it said, have ever been the most
generous patrons of art in Italy, were the first
to offer Angelica commissions.  She painted
the Archbishop of Milan, Cardinal
Pozzobonelli, Count Firmiani, Rinaldo d'Este, Duke
of Modena, and the Duchess of Massa-Carrara,
and "many more," as the bard of the coronation
sings.  John Joseph Kauffmann's little
daughter was welcome in palazzo, convent,
and villa.

I am glad, seeing that Angelica was a prodigy,
that J. J. Kauffmann did not in any way
resemble that to me most odious character,
the ordinary prodigy's father.  There was the
little prodigy with flaxen curls, in a black
velvet tunic, with thunder and lightning
buttons, who used to play on the harp so
divinely, and used to be lifted in at carriage
windows for countesses to kiss; and had at
home a horribly snuffy, Italian monster of a
father, who ate up the poor child's earnings;
who drank absinthe till he was mad, and
pulled his miserable son's flaxen hair till he
was tired; who was insufferably lazy,
unimaginably proud, mean, vain, and dirty—a
profligate and a cheat—who was fit for no place
but the galleys, from which I believe he came,
and to which I devoutly hope he returned.
Miserable little dancing, singing, guitar-
playing, painting, pianoforte-thumping, horse-
riding, poem-reciting prodigies have I known;
—unfortunate little objects with heads much
too large, with weary eyes, with dark bistre
circles round them; with rachitic limbs, with
a timid cowering aspect. I never knew but
one prodigy's father who was good for
anything, and he was a prodigy himself—an
acrobat—and threw his son about as though
he loved him.  The rest,—not only fathers, but
mothers, brothers, and uncles,—were all bad.

But J. J. Kauffmann loved his daughter
dearly; and, though she was a prodigy, was
kind to her.  He delighted in sounding her
praises. He petted her: he loved to vary her
gentle name of Angelica into all the charming
diminutives of which it was susceptible. He
called her his Angela, his Angelina, his
Angelinetta.  He was a widower now, and
his strange old turn for vagabondising came
over him with redoubled force.  The father
and daughter—strange pair, so ill-assorted
in age, so well in love—went trouping about
the Grisons, literally picking up bread with
the tips of their pencils.  Once Angelica was
entrusted, alone, to paint, in fresco, an altar-
piece for a village church; and a pleasant
sight it must have been to watch the fragile
little girl perched on the summit of a lofty
scaffolding, gracefully, piously, painting angels
and lambs and doves and winged heads :
while, on the pavement beneath, honest J. J.
Kauffmann was expatiating on his daughter's
excellences to the pleased curate and the
gaping villagers; or, more likely still, was
himself watching the progress of those
skilful, nimble little fingers up above—his
arms folded, his head thrown back, tears in
his eyes, and pride and joy in his heart.

The poor fellow knew he could never hope
to leave his daughter a considerable inheritance.
Money, he had none to give her.  He
gave her instead, and nearly starved himself
to give her, the most brilliant education
that could be procured.  He held out the
apple of science, and his pretty daughter was
only too ready to bite at it with all her white
teeth. Besides her rare aptitude for painting,
she was passionately fond of, and had a
surprising talent for, music.  Her voice was
pure, sweet, of great compass; her execution
full of soul.  Valiantly she essayed and
conquered the most difficult of the grand old
Italian pieces.  These she sang, accompanying
herself on the clavecin; and often would
she sing from memory some dear and simple
Tyrolean ballad to amuse her father,
melancholy in his widowhood.

But painting and music, and the soul of a
poet, and the form of a queen, how did these
agree with poor father Kauffmann's domestic
arrangements?  Alas! the roof was humble, the
bed was hard, the sheets were coarse, the bread
was dark and sour when won. Then, while the