neglect; the Imitation and the Fioretti have become untranslatable.

More than this, in a history like the present one, we must give a large
place to the Italian spirit; it is evident that in a country where they
call a chapel _basilica_ and a tiny house _palazzo_, or in speaking to a
seminarist say "Your Reverence," words have not the same value as on
this side of the Alps.

The Italians have an imagination which enlarges and simplifies. They see
the forms and outlines of men and things more than they grasp their
spirit. What they most admire in Michael Angelo is gigantic forms, noble
and proud attitudes, while we better understand his secret thoughts,
hidden sorrows, groans, and sighs.

Place before their eyes a picture by Rembrandt, and more often than not
it will appear to them ugly; its charm cannot be caught at a glance as
in those of their artists; to see it you must examine it, make an
effort, and with them effort is the beginning of pain.

Do not ask them, then, to understand the pathos of things, to be touched
by the mysterious and almost fanciful emotion which northern hearts
discover and enjoy in the works of the Amsterdam master. No, instead of
a forest they want a few trees, standing out clearly against the
horizon; instead of a multitude swarming in the penumbra of reality, a
few personages, larger than nature, forming harmonious groups in an
ideal temple.

The genius of a people[9] is all of a piece: they apply to history the
same processes that they apply to the arts. While the Germanic spirit
considers events rather in their evolution, in their complex becoming,