During the _boy_ artist’s wanderings in the gardens of the Medici palace, he often met some of the stone cutters who had formerly rocked his cradle: they were ever delighted to see him, and frequently obtained him clandestinely a view of the treasures of the gallery, then in its infancy. Michael Angelo contemplated with veneration the mutilated specimens of art. The workmen one day offered him a bit of marble, requesting he would employ it as he liked, and come thither as often as he chose. His only answer was to grasp a chisel, throw off his jacket, and begin to hammer out the outline of a Faun’s head. Often then was the workshop deserted, to the great displeasure of the master. One day, whilst putting the finishing strokes to his old Faun, a man about forty years of age, plain in person and shabbily attired, stopped, and silently watched him as he worked. Michael Angelo continued to work on, heeding him no more than the dust which fell from his chisel. When he had given the last touch, he drew back, as artists are wont, to look on the effect of the head. For this, probably the silent observer had waited, for he slowly approached, and, putting his hand on the young artist’s shoulder, “My friend,” he said smiling, “with your leave, I would make an observation.” Michael Angelo turned quickly, and with an air somewhat impertinent and caustic, replied, “An observation!--you!” “A criticism, if you prefer it.” “Upon my Faun’s head?” “Upon your Faun’s head.” “And, who are you, Sir, who fancy you have a right to criticise my work?” “It matters not to you who I am, provided my criticism is just.” “And who will decide, Sir, which of us two is in the right?” “I will leave the decision to yourself.” “Well, Sir, speak,” said Michael Angelo, crossing his arms with an air of defiance. “Was it not your object to make an _old_ Faun laughing immoderately?” “Undoubtedly, it is easy to be discovered.” “Well then,” said the critic, “where did you ever see old men with all their teeth perfect?” The boy blushed to his eyes, and bit his lip. The observation was correct. He only waited till the individual had turned his back, when with one stroke of his chisel he knocked out two of the Faun’s teeth, and even decided on hollowing out the gum on returning next day. The gardens accordingly were no sooner opened than Michael Angelo entered; but the Faun had disappeared, and in its place stood the person he had seen the preceding day. “What is become of my head?” asked the young sculptor angrily. “It has been removed by my command,” replied the stranger, with his accustomed apathy. “And who are you, Sir, who dare to give orders in the gardens of the great Medicis?” “Follow me, and you shall learn!” “I will follow, to force you to restore me my Faun.” “Perhaps you will be better satisfied to leave it where it is.” “We shall see.”