little girl lay on the rugged pallet, or mended
her scanty wardrobe, there would come up
—half unhidden, half ardently desired—
resplendent day-dreams, gorgeous visions of
Apelles, the friend of kings, of Titian in his
palace, of Rubens an ambassador with fifty
gentlemen riding in his train, of Anthony
Vandyke knighted by royalty, and respected
by learning, and courted In beauty, of
Rafaelle the divine, all but invested with the
purple pallium of the sacred college, of
Vellasquez with his golden key—Aposentador,
Mayor to King Philip—master of the revels
at the Isle of Pheasants—as handsome, rich,
and proud, as any of the thousand nobles
there.  Who could help such dreams?  The
prizes in Art's lottery are few, but what can
equal them in splendour and glory that dies
not easily?

At sixteen years of age, Angelica was a
brunette, rather pale than otherwise.  She
had blue eyes, long black hair, which fell in
tresses over her polished shoulders, and which
she could never be prevailed upon to powder,
long beautiful hands, and coral lips.  At
twenty, Angelica was at Milan, where her
voice and beauty were nearly the cause of
her career as an artist being brought to an
end.  She was passionately solicited to appear
on the lyric stage.  Managers made her
tempting offers; nobles sent her flattering
notes; ladies approved; bishops and
archbishops even gave a half assent; nay J. J.
Kauffmann himself could not disguise his
eagerness for the syren voice of his Angelinetta
to be heard at the Scala.  But Angelica
herself was true to her art.  She knew how
jealous a mistress Art is; with a sigh, but
bravely and resolutely, she bade farewell to
music, and resumed her artistic studies with
renewed energy.

After having visited Parma and Florence,
she arrived in Rome, in seventeen hundred
and sixty-three.   Next year she visited Naples,
and in the next year, Venice; painting
everywhere, and received everywhere with
brilliant and flattering homage.  Six years of
travel among the masterpieces of Italian art,
and constant practice and application, had
ripened her talent, had enlarged her experience,
had given a firmer grasp both to her
mind and her hand.  Her reputation spread
much in Germany, most in Italy; though
the Italians were much better able to
appreciate her talent than to reward it.  But, in
the eighteenth century, the two favourite
amusements prevalent among the aristocracy
of the island of Britain were the grand
tour and patronage.  No lord or baronet's
education was complete till (accompanied by
a reverend bear-leader)  he had passed the
Alps and studied each several continental
vice on its own peculiar soil.  But when he
reached Rome, he had done with vice, and
went in for virtù.  He fell into the hands of
the antiquaries, virtuosi, and curiosity dealers
of Rome with about the same result, to his
pocket, as if he had fallen into the hands
of the brigands of Terracina.

           Some demon whispered, Visto, have a taste.

But the demon of virtù, was not satisfied with
the possession of taste by Visto.  He insisted
that he should also have a painter, a sculptor,
a medallist, or an enamellist; and scarcely
a lord or baronet arrived in England from
the grand tour without bringing with him
French cooks, French dancers, poodles,
broken statues, chaplains, led captains, Dresden
china, Buhl cabinets, Viennese clocks,
and Florentine jewellery—some Italian artist,
with a long name ending in elli, who
was to be patronised by my lord; to paint
the portraits of my lord's connections; to
chisel out a colossal group for the vestibule of
my lord's country-house; or to execute colossal
monuments to departed British valour
for Westminster Abbey by my lord's
recommendation.  Sometimes the patronised elli
turned out well; was really clever; made
money, and became eventually an English,
R. A.; but much more frequently he was
Signor Donkeyelli, atrociously incapable,
conceited and worthless.  He quarrelled with his
patron, my lord, was cast off, and subsided
into some wretched court near St.
Martin's Lane, which he pervaded with stubbly
jaws, a ragged duffel coat, and a shabby hat
cocked nine-bauble-square.  He haunted
French cookshops, and painted clock-faces,
tavern-signs, anything.  He ended miserably,
sometimes in the workhouse, sometimes at
Tyburn for stabbing a fellow-countryman in
a night-cellar.

My poor Angelica did not escape the
widespread snare of the age—patronage; but she
fell, in the first instance, into good hands.
Some rich English families residing at Venice
made her very handsome offers to come to
England.  She hesitated; but, while making
up her mind, thought there could be no harm
in undertaking the study of the English
language.  In this she was very successful.
Meanwhile, Father Kauffmann was recalled to
Germany by some urgent family affairs.  In
this conjuncture, an English lady, but the
widow of a Dutch admiral, Lady Mary
Veertvoort, offered to become her chaperon
to England.  The invitation was gratefully
accepted, and was promptly put in execution.

Angelica Kauffmann arrived in London on
the twenty-second of June, seventeen
hundred and sixty-six.  She took up her residence
with Lady Mary Veertvoort in Charles
Street, Berkeley Square.  The good old lady
treated her like her own daughter, petted
her, made much of her, and initiated her into
all the little secrets of English comfort.
Before she had been long in this country, she
was introduced by the Marquis of Exeter to
the man who then occupied, without rivalry
and without dissent, the throne of English
art.  Fortunate in his profession, easy in
circumstances, liberal in his mode of living