look into. One of them, however, I could not forbear observing, who
was very busy in retouching the finest pieces, though he produced no
originals of his own. His pencil aggravated every feature that was
before overcharged, loaded every defect, and poisoned every colour
it touched. Though this workman did so much mischief on the side of
the living, he never turned his eye towards that of the dead. His
name was Envy.

Having taken a cursory view of one side of the gallery, I turned
myself to that which was filled by the works of those great masters
that were dead; when immediately I fancied myself standing before a
multitude of spectators, and thousands of eyes looking upon me at
once: for all before me appeared so like men and women, that I
almost forgot they were pictures. Raphael's pictures stood in one
row, Titian's in another, Guido Rheni's in a third. One part of the
wall was peopled by Hannabal Carrache, another by Correggio, and
another by Rubens. To be short, there was not a great master among
the dead who had not contributed to the embellishment of this side
of the gallery. The persons that owed their being to these several
masters appeared all of them to be real and alive, and differed
among one another only in the variety of their shapes, complexions,
and clothes; so that they looked like different nations of the same
species.

Observing an old man, who was the same person I before mentioned, as
the only artist that was at work on this side of the gallery,
creeping up and down from one picture to another, and retouching all
the fine pieces that stood before me, I could not but be very
attentive to all his motions. I found his pencil was so very light
that it worked imperceptibly, and after a thousand touches scarce