purely out of curiosity, as they were said to be the finest pieces in Italy; but I cannot say they please me: the coloring is dark and heavy; the figures do not swell nor come out enough; and the drapery is bad. In short, notwithstanding the encomiums lavished upon them, they are not, in my opinion, a true representation of nature. I approve of no paintings save those wherein I think I behold nature itself; and there are few, if any, of that kind to be met with. I have what is called a fine collection, but I take no manner of delight in it.”

While dinner was being prepared Pococurante ordered a concert. Candide praised the music to the skies.

“This noise,” said the noble Venetian, “may amuse one for a little time, but if it were to last above half an hour, it would