"At the Soldan's chair,
Defied the best of Paynim chivalry."

And now, the time is come for you to look at Giotto's St. Louis, who is
the type of a Christian king.

You would, I suppose, never have seen it at all, unless I had dragged
you here on purpose. It was enough in the dark originally--is trebly
darkened by the modern painted glass--and dismissed to its oblivion
contentedly by Mr. Murray's "Four saints, all much restored and
repainted," and Messrs. Crowe and Cavalcasella's serene "The St. Louis
is quite new."

Now, I am the last person to call any restoration whatever, judicious.
Of all destructive manias, that of restoration is the frightfullest and
foolishest. Nevertheless, what good, in its miserable way, it can
bring, the poor art scholar must now apply his common sense to take;
there is no use, because a great work has been restored, in now passing
it by altogether, not even looking for what instruction we still may
find in its design, which will be more intelligible, if the restorer
has had any conscience at all, to the ordinary spectator, than it would
have been in the faded work. When, indeed, Mr. Murray's Guide tells you
that a _building_ has been 'magnificently restored,' you may pass
the building by in resigned despair; for _that_ means that every
bit of the old sculpture has been destroyed, and modern vulgar copies
put up in its place. But a restored picture or fresco will often be, to
_you_, more useful than a pure one; and in all probability--if an
important piece of art--it will have been spared in many places,
cautiously completed in others, and still assert itself in a mysterious