in style as well as in bulk detaches them from the spirit of the design considered as a goldsmith's design. He is both goldsmith and sculptor in this renowned piece, but awkwardly, and to the advantage of neither the one nor the other. A master of the early Renaissance would have known how to exploit both professions, on an occasion like this, in perfect harmony. Cellini is without the necessary poise. Let him do pure jeweller's work, let him design a casket or a chalice, and he is tolerably sure of himself. Give him a commission permitting him a wider scope, and, in his impetuous way, he flings himself upon the task, works like a demon, and never realizes, as he gazes upon the finished object, that he has just missed striking twelve. Possibly his ill luck is thrown into sharper relief for us through the very fact that his more ambitious productions form such a small group—there is little chance for flaws to be overlooked. The Perseus is, of course, the salient member of that group, but before alluding to it I must refer to the work which has always seemed to me, more than any other, to reflect upon Cellini the kind of credit which doubtless he most craved, the kind that goes to the sculptor in the strict sense. This is the bust of Bindo Altoviti. It is a work of simple dignity, conceived in a virile mood, and executed without that teasing of the surfaces which is elsewhere so apt to be characteristic of Cellini. Michael Angelo thought well of it, writing to Cellini a note which the latter quotes with
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