culiar to the sixteenth century in Italy, render him unique as a guide through the labyrinth of that brilliant but perplexing epoch.
XX
The literary merits of Cellini's autobiography demand a passing notice. Notwithstanding the plebeian simplicity of his language, he has described some scenes with a dramatic vigour and a richness of colouring rarely to be found upon the pages of romance or history. Among these I would call attention to the Roman banquet, during which Diego, dressed magnificently like a woman, won the homage of assembled artists; to the conjuration in the Coliseum; Cecchino's deathbed; Benvenuto's vision of the sun while lying sick and hopeless in his dungeon; the phantom of Charon which haunted him throughout a lingering fever; the exhibition of his Jupiter in the great gallery of Fontainebleau; the Parisian law-court; and the long episode of his casting the bronze Perseus. His memory was so tenacious that he could present the incidents of bygone years, with all their circumstances, just as though his eye were on the object. Without conscious effort he communicates the atmosphere, the local colour, the specific feeling of each place he visited. Ferrara has a different note from Florence, Rome from Paris, in his narrative. Yet it is clear that he never took thought about word-painting. The literary result is not attained by external touches of description, but by the vigorous reproduction of a multitude of impressions made upon his eagerly observant nature.
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