There were none of the usual means and materials of illusion at hand; neither space, nor distance, nor cunning lights; it was a confined tavern room with some glaring tapers, and Sidonia himself was almost within arm’s reach of the performers. Yet a representation more complete, more finely conceived, and more perfectly executed, he had never witnessed. It was impossible to credit that these marble forms, impressed with ideal grace, so still, so sad, so sacred, could be the little tumblers, who, but half-an-hour before, were disporting on the coarse boards at his side. The father always described, before the curtain was withdrawn, with a sort of savage terseness, the subject of the impending scene. The groups did not continue long; a pause of half a minute, and the circular stage revolved, and the curtain again closed. This rapidity of representation was necessary, lest delay should compromise the indispensable immovable-ness of the performers. ‘Now,’ said Baroni, turning his head to the audience, and slightly touching his violin, ‘Christ falls under the weight of the cross.’ And immediately the curtain parted, and Sidonia beheld a group in the highest style of art, and which though deprived of all the magic of colour, almost expressed the passion of Correggio. ‘It is Alfred,’ said Baroni, as Sidonia evinced his admiration. ‘He chiefly arranges all this, under my instructions. In drapery his talent is remarkable.’ At length, after a series of representations, which were all worthy of being exhibited in the pavilions of princes, Baroni announced the last scene. ‘What you are going to see now is the Descent from the Cross; it is after Rubens, one of the greatest masters that ever lived, if you ever heard of such a person,’ he added, in a grumbling voice, and then turning to Sidonia, he said, ‘This crucifixion is the only thing which these savages seem at all to understand; but I should like you, sir, as you are an artist, to see the children in some Greek or Roman story: Pygmalion, or the Death of Agrippina. I think you would be pleased.’ ‘I cannot be more pleased than I am now,’ said Sidonia. ‘I am also astonished.’ But here Baroni was obliged to scrape his fiddle, for the curtain moved. ‘It is a triumph of art,’ said Sidonia, as he beheld the immortal group of Rubens reproduced with a precision and an exquisite feeling which no language can sufficiently convey, or too much extol. The performances were over, the little artists were summoned to the front scene to be applauded, the scanty audience were dispersing: Sidonia lingered. ‘You are living in this house, I suppose?’ he said to Baroni. Baroni shook his head. ‘I can afford no roof except my own.’ ‘And where is that?’