My father's face
would always brighten when old Pontifex's name was mentioned. "I tell
you, Edward," he would say to me, "old Pontifex was not only an able man,
but he was one of the very ablest men that ever I knew."
This was more than I as a young man was prepared to stand. "My dear
father," I answered, "what did he do? He could draw a little, but could
he to save his life have got a picture into the Royal Academy exhibition?
He built two organs and could play the Minuet in _Samson_ on one and the
March in _Scipio_ on the other; he was a good carpenter and a bit of a
wag; he was a good old fellow enough, but why make him out so much abler
than he was?"
"My boy," returned my father, "you must not judge by the work, but by the
work in connection with the surroundings. Could Giotto or Filippo Lippi,
think you, have got a picture into the Exhibition? Would a single one of
those frescoes we went to see when we were at Padua have the remotest
chance of being hung, if it were sent in for exhibition now? Why, the
Academy people would be so outraged that they would not even write to
poor Giotto to tell him to come and take his fresco away.
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