discovered an ancient painting that is beautiful and worthy of all

praise, the pleasure it gives me is an infallible proof that it is not a

beautiful picture and not in any wise worthy of commendation. This very

thing has occurred more times than I can mention, in Venice. In every

single instance the guide has crushed out my swelling enthusiasm with the

remark:

"It is nothing--it is of the Renaissance."

I did not know what in the mischief the Renaissance was, and so always I

had to simply say,

"Ah! so it is--I had not observed it before."

I could not bear to be ignorant before a cultivated negro, the offspring

of a South Carolina slave. But it occurred too often for even my

self-complacency, did that exasperating "It is nothing--it is of the

Renaissance." I said at last:

Who is this Renaissance? Where did he come from? Who gave him

permission to cram the Republic with his execrable daubs?"

We learned, then, that Renaissance was not a man; that renaissance was a

term used to signify what was at best but an imperfect rejuvenation of

art. The guide said that after Titian's time and the time of the other

great names we had grown so familiar with, high art declined; then it

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The Innocents Abroad