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tory as a religious picture. There is a strange feeling of discontent in looking at it, a sense of coming danger, if not of present evil. This kneeling woman in the foreground, with the beautiful arm and shoulder—why should she fix the attention more and more, until the sacred mount grows dim and unreal to us? Is it right that we should carry away from the picture a stronger impression of the artist's knowledge and skill than of the event which he has painted, and its sacred meaning : The suspicion arises that perhaps, after all, that was what he wished to do, that he cared less for the transfiguration of Christ than for the glorification of Raphael—that the form had become to him more precious than the substance. Whether this was true of Raphael himself or not, it was certainly true of his scholars and successors. That ideal humanity which had been invented by him and his great contemporaries as the only worthy medium of exhibiting the Gospel history and those sacred personages to whom the Church offered adoration speedily usurped the supreme place, and centred in itself all the thought and effort of the painters. “In early times art was employed for the display of religious facts, now religious facts were employed for the display of art.” The artists continued to paint scenes from the Gospel history, but only because they were ordered by their patrons, and afforded an opportunity for the exhibition of ideal forms in actions which were familiar and full of life. The stories of classic mythology were equally acceptable and equally true to the painters. And indeed it naturally followed that they could handle the mythological subjects with far more freedom and sincerity, for the Christianity of the papal court was little more than an outward dress, the garment of a nun, loosely veiling the form of a rich and luxuriant paganism. So that in fact there is far more sincere feeling as well as far better painting in Giulio Romano’s “Legends of Diana” at Mantua than in his “Holy Family” at Dresden. From this point the course of sacred painting in Italy is a swift and sure decadence. The change which has passed upon it may have been imperceptible in its gradations, but it is fatal in its result. There is no more Gospel history for Italian painting. It is simply the exhibition of the painter's skill, inventiveness, or ir

reverence in connection with the legends of Christ and the apostles. This is done most perfectly and freely by the great painters of Venice. The strong naturalness and reverent simplicity of Giovanni, Bellini, and Carpaccio have been succeeded by the superb drawing and coloring of Titian. He paints so-called saints and Virgins and apostles, but they are simply the splendid men and women of Venice acting their rôles with dignified indifference. You can see the blood coursing richly under their skin, and the life shining in their eyes, but you can not detect any religious emotion, any appeal to faith or adoration. Tintoretto covers his enormous canvases with an infinitude of figures; he dazzles, astonishes, subdues you by the fertile vigor of his genius; but rarely, if ever, does he touch your reverence for the divine. His “Crucifixion,” with its eighty figures, grouped, separate, engaged in every conceivable action, seen through a brown luminous atmosphere, full of vigor, life, motion, is a marvellous picture. You may say it is painted as if the artist had seen it; but you feel sure that if he had, it would not have been as one of the poor disciples, but as one of the well-fed, disinterested spectators who stand aloof from the cross. But of all the Venetians Paul Veronese is the worst as a painter of Gospel history. “He makes the Magdalene wash Christ's feet with a face as absolutely unmoved as if she were a servant bringing in a ewer of water.” The Virgin in his “Annunciation” hears the message of the graceful angel as calmly as if it were an ordinary piece of gossip; and the thing that strikes us most forcibly is the skill with which the painter has executed his aerial perspectives, and painted a rose-bush and a glass of water. The famous picture of the “Feast of Levi,” which hangs in the place of honor in the Venetian Academy, is a sumptuous banquet. Under a long gallery, with Corinthian pillars of white marble, are seated the Master and his disciples. There is nothing to distinguish Christ from the others, save his central place and a faint halo about his head. In the foreground, amid a profusion of architectural details, servants hurrying to and fro, and indifferent spectators, you can see the master of the house, an evil-faced man dressed in green silk and velvet, and the fat major-domo in a light striped tunic. Beside the table sits a brown dog,

which, although badly painted, is the most interesting thing in the picture, for it brought the painter before the Inquisition, and gave rise to an examination which reveals to us the spirit and method of his art. For this reason I shall quote the record of it here:

Saturday, 8th of July, 1573. Master Paul Caliari, of Verona, a painter, was brought before the Sacred Tribunal, and being asked name and surname, answered as above, and being asked of his profession, answered : A. I invent and draw figures. Q. Do you know the reason why you have been summoned 2 A. No, my lord. Q. Can you imagine it? A. Ican imagine it. Q. Tell us what you imagine. A. For the reason which the Reverend Prior of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, whose name I know not, told me—that he had been here, and that your illustrious lordships had given him orders that I should substitute the figure of a Magdalen for that of a dog; and I replied that I would have willingly done this or anything else for my own credit or

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the advantage of the picture, but I did not think the figure of the Magdalen would be sitting, or would look well, for many reasons, which I will always assign whenever the opportunity is given me. * + *: :* + + Q. Say how many attendants you have put in the picture, and what is each doing? A. First, the master of the house, Simon; besides, I have placed below him a server whom I have supposed to have come for his own amusement, to see the arrangement of the table. There are, besides, several others, which, as there are many figures in the picture, I do not recollect. Q. What is the meaning of those men dressed in the German fashion, each with his halberd in his hand 7 A. We painters take the same license that is permitted to poets and jesters. I have placed those two halberdiers—the one eating, the other drinking—by the staircase, to be supposed ready to perform any duty that may be required of them, it appearing to me quite fitting that the master of such a house, who was rich and great (as I have been told), should have such attendants. Q. At the table of the Lord whom have you placed 2 A. The twelve apostles. Q. What is St. Peter, who is the first, doing? A. He is cutting up a lamb to send to the other end of the table. Q. What is he doing who is next to him 7 A. He is holding a plate to receive what St. I’eter will give him. Q. What is he doing who is next to this last? A. He is using his fork as a toothpick. Q. Were you commissioned by any person to paint Germans, buffoons, and such like things in this picture ? A. No, my lord; my commission was to ornament the picture as I judged best, which, being large, requires many figures, as it seems to me. + + + * + *: Q. Do you not know that in a painting like the “Last Judgment,” where drapery is not supposed, dresses are not required, and that disembodied spirits only are represented but there are neither buffoons, nor dogs, nor armor, nor any other absurdity. And does it not seem to you that neither by this nor by any other example you have done right in painting the picture in this manner, and that it can be proved right and decent 2 A. Illustrious lord, I do not defend it; but I thought I was doing right. I had not considered all these things, never intending to com. mit any impropriety, the more so as the figures of buffoons are not supposed to be in the same place where our Lord is. Which examination ended, my lords decreed that the above-named Master Paul should be bound to correct and amend the picture within three months, at his own expense, under penalties to be imposed by the Sacred Tribunal.

This is the end of it all. The painter has become a person who invents and draws figures for fame and money. He is willing to do anything for his own credit and the advantage of his pictures. My lords the Inquisitors stand by to see that he does not play any scurrilous German tricks in ridicule of the Holy Church and in propagation of false doctrine. With this restriction, he may ornament the Gospel history at his pleasure. Soon even the skill of the colorist and draughtsman is lost. In the hands of the eclectics the representation of Gospel history becomes a second-rate melodrama. Caravaggio degrades it into a portrait-gallery of muscular and dirty models; and with Carlo Dolci it expires in an ecstasy of sentimental affectation.


IN summer-time how fair it showed –
My garden by the village road,
Where fiery stalks of blossom glowed,
And roses softly blushed;
With azure spires, and garlands white,
Pale heliotrope, the sun's delight,
And odors that perfumed the night
Where'er the south wind rushed.

There solemn purple pansies stood,
Gay tulips red with floral blood,
And wild things fresh from field and wood,
Alive with dainty grace.
Deep heaven-blue bells of columbine,
The darkly mystic passion-vine,
And clematis, that loves to twine,
Bedecked that happy place.

Beneath the strong unclouded blaze
Of long and fervent summer days
Their colors smote the passing gaze,
And dazzled every eye.
Their cups of scented honey-dew
Charmed all the bees that o'er them flew,
And butterflies of radiant hue
Paused as they floated by.

Now falls a cloud of sailing snow,
The bitter winds of winter blow,
No blossom dares its cup to show--
Earth folds them in her breast;
A shroud of white, a virgin pall,
Is slowly, softly, hiding all;
In vain shall any sweet wind call
To break their silent rest.

My garden is a vanished dream,
Dead in the waning moon's cold beam,
Clear icicles above it gleam;
And yet—I know not how—
My flowers will hear the dropping rain
When Spring reneweth hill and plain,
And then it shall be mine again :
It is God's garden now.

wordsworth's skAT, GRASMERE. r



W. had sat on the old seat beside the

W hazel-tree in the garden at Dove Cottage, where Wordsworth used to compose his poems; had heard from the present owner about the lady who has for many years come there annually to gather a Christmas rose and lay on the poet's grave; had recalled by imagination the scenes, sorrowful and beautiful, which have consecrated that village, beside whose ancient Wishing Gate innumerable hearts have looked forth to happy prospects—some to be overcast, some to be realized; and had remembered Wordsworth's lines at that gate, beginning,

“Hope rules a land forever green,”

and felt the charm of its ending—

“Yea, even the Stranger from afar,
Reclining on this moss-grown bar,
Unknowing and unknown,
The infection of the ground partakes,
Longing for his Beloved, who makes
All happiness her own.”

And now all these memories, scenes, homes, and lanes pointed one way, led up to one point—the grave-yard. There they had all ended. From the prehistor

ic Wishing Gate, where the fairies were once invoked, the path is short in space, but a vast journey in time, to the portal of Grasmere church, on which is written, “Whosoever thou art that enterest this church, leave it not without one prayer to God for thyself, for those who minister, and for those who worship here.” It was about noon. The church was empty. I walked around it, and read the texts on the walls, on their scrolls upheld by cherubim; examined the ancient font; read the Wordsworth tablet, just over the Rydal Mount pew, and gazed upon his noble face, which, carved there in marble, is ever close before the eyes of the clergyman. While my fellow-pilgrim was making his sketches, I went up into the quaint oaken pulpit, and sat there surveying the solemn interior, where the arms of old knightly families mingled with the symbols of peace and charity to form a shrine for memorials of intellectual greatness. Wordsworth has left us in “The Excursion” a charming picture of Grasmere church and its pastor. The wanderer, the solitary, and he rested here on their

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