is comparatively vacant of expression, though less so than with many of the master's works. Next, the helmet is surcharged with ornament, and the torso displays many meaningless muscular details. But after these criticisms have been made, the group—that is, the conquering hero and the prostrate Gorgon—remains one of the most attractive produces of modern statuary. We discern in it the last spark of genuine Italian Renaissance inspiration.[1] It is still instinct with the fire and bizarre force of Florentine genius. The pedestal has been, not altogether unjustly, blamed for being too small for the statue it supports. In proportion to the mass of bronze above it, this elaborately decorated base is slight and overloaded with superfluous details. Yet I do not feel sure that Cellini might not have pleaded something in self-defence against our criticism. No one thinks of the pedestal when he has once caught sight of Perseus. It raises the demigod in air; and that suffices for the sculptor's purpose. Afterwards, when our minds are satiated with the singular conception so intensely realised by the enduring art of bronze, we turn in leisure moments to the base on which the statue rests. Our fancy plays among those masks and cornucopias, those goats and female Satyrs, those little snuff-box deities, and the wayward bas-relief beneath them. There is much to amuse, if not to instruct or inspire us there.
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- ↑ The works of Jean Boullogne of Douai, commonly called Gian Bologna, which are somewhat later in date than Cellini's, ought perhaps to have been mentioned as exceptions in the sentence above.
