'Jiiji^^-yji 21 ti- ^A =a cp * :-,hi iii-w t '^'oxwmm ''oxmrnni^ ^■^mwm-^ u en WSOV'^^^ ''« ^\\F tlN!VFP,V/A Oa - ^4 ^' g en m ^^Aiivaan-^v.^ ^<:>Aaviiaii-# .AWEUNIVERVa < ,X\\tUNIVER% vvlOSANCELfj> -n (—1 I f n fl ^ t- •^S-W' ^ Ji U'JNVIjUI^^ %Ji3AINa-3^v '^ •:jO■^^ .<^^:^' 2 V %0 ^^MEIJNIVFRy^^ ,v,.lOSANCFlfj> Or- .^OFCALIFO^ o a PL-/: ■^^iu:) v: "^^/^^^AiNnjwV" ^' ^V\F IINIVFf?,r/A HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF THE OLD PAINTERS. BY THE AUTHOR OF " THREE EXPERIMENTS OF LIVING." Is not then the Art Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, In visible quest of immortality, Suetched forth with trembling hope ? BOSTON: BILLIARD, GRAY, AND CO, 1838. Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1838, by HiLLtlRD, Qp.iT & Co. in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. Printed bv William A. Hall & Co. HD jso ADVERTISEMENT. The following sketches are oifered Avithout pretension to a knowledge of the fine arts. They are an attempt to make more graphic and real the his- tory of men, whose names are familiar to most of us, and with whose works we are becoming more and more ac- quainted. It were well if the thirst for amuse- ment could be partly satisfied with such entertainment as flows from a history of the development and re- wards of genius, or at least suflfer the reader to draw a lesson from the lives of those who have used or perverted this noble gift of the Creator. The path that the author has chosen cannot be a useless one, if it lead to fountains which refresh and invigorate. 'o' 1125410 DE DICATED TO WASHINGTON ALLSTON, WITH THE FRIENDSHIP AND RESPECT OF THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. Page Apelles and Protogenes, ----- l Cimabue and Giotto, ------ 37 Lionardo da Vinci, ------ 50 Michelangelo Buonaroti, 76 Raifaello Sanzio D'Urbino, - - - - 121 Antonio Allegri di Coreggio, - - - 146 Giorgionc and Tiziano, ----- 177 The Three Caracci, Lodovico, Annibale, and Agostino, with their School, 210 Rubens and Vandyke, ----- 253 Claude Gelee, - - 278 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. " Is Protogenes at home ? " inquired a yoimg man, as he entered the painting-room of the artist. " No, master," rephed an old woman, who was seated near a pannel prepared for paint- ing. — "No master ; he has gone forth to breathe the fresh air — and much does he need it after toihng here all day. It is his custom, at the approach of evening, to go down to the sea-shore, and snuff the breezes that come skimming over the water from the Grecian Isles." " Is he then so laborious ? " said the stran- ger. " Ay, to be sure he is. They say he is determined to excel Apelles of Cos. Be that as it may, he never thinks his pictures are finished ; — but it is no business of mine — 1 'i APELLES AND PROTOGENES. else I might say life is too short, to spend three or four years in lingering, still unsatis- fied, over the same pictm-e." " Thy life does not seem to have been a short one, mother," said the stranger, examin- ing the lines of care and soitow, which had strongly marked a face that might once have been handsonie. She looked earnestly at him without re- plying. "I have urgent business with Protogenes," said the stranger. " Very well ; leave your name, and fix the time when you will come again. You can- not fail of finding him at home, when the sim gets above yonder loop-hole, and that is about the tenth hour in the morning." The stranger drew a small tablet from un- der his robe, and seemed to be about inscrib- ing his name ; — suddenly he approached the pannel, and, taking a pencil, which lay near, drew simply a line. As he looked up, he perceived the old woman looking intently upon it. " Look, mother," said he, smiling, " canst thou read that name ? " She fixed on him a steady look. "My eyes," replied she, " are dim with age, and I APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 6 never was taught your Greek letters ; but I can read thy face." " And what dost thou read there ? " '"' That which my master is seeking — ■ truth." " Dost thou think I am looking for it at the bottom of a well ? ' ' said the stranger, smiling. " Ah," replied she, changing at once her air and manner, into one of wild sublimity — " thou art not born to look dowti for it, but up, up ! " and she raised her hand, and pointed upwards. " Art thou a soothsayer, good mother ? " said the youth, with reverence. " Who," replied she, with solemnity, " that has lived to see the raven hair turn to snow — who, that has watched the sapling as it grew into the sturdy oak, and has be- held generation after generation swept away — who, that has seen all this, and yet stands blasted and alone, is not a soothsayer ? Ay, young master, age and sorrow have the gift of reading the future by the sad past." "Thou canst number many years? "said the youth, inquiringly. She shook her head. — "I have outlived all that," said she — "I count not by years. 4 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. I know not how many times the winter has come round ; hfe has been one long winter to me." " May I ask," said the stranger with in- creasing interest, if you are a Greek? " " I am of no nation — of no country," re- phed she, " I was once a Persian." The stranger at once comprehended that she might have been torn as a captive from her native land, — for the bloody laurels of Asia were yet fresh upon Alexander's young brow — and he hastily changed a subject, which seemed to awaken such bitterly pain- ful feelings. " My errand to Rhodes was to see Proto- genes," said he ; "I cannot depart without an interview." The old woman arose, and, going towai"ds the lattice, looked at the sun as it was fast sinking into the ocean. "■ He will be here directly, if you will have a brief patience," said she. This information rather seemed to hasten the youth away, for he immediately disappeared. When Protogenes returned, the old woman said to him, '' There has been a stranger inquiring for the masterof the house." " What name did. ho*, leave ? " said Proto- genes. APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 5 " That I may not say," replied she ; " but he has written it there." Protogenes drew near, and looked earnest- ly at the line ; — suddenly taking the pencil, he drew another under it. " He is well acquainted with the name of Protogenes," said the woman — "it needs not to be written. He will be here to- morrow at the tenth hour." " I shall not be at home at that hour," replied the master ; " when he comes, show him this," and he pointed to the second line. The next morning, as the old woman saw Protogenes go out, " Ah, well," she exclaim- ed, " how can age calculate upon the caprice of youth ? I could have sworn this was an hour he would be at home." Again the stranger made his appearance. " It is not my fault," said she, " that Proto- genes seeks the morning air ; but he has written his name under thine." The stranger stood before the pannel, and gazed attentively upon it. Then, seizing another pencil, he drew a third line. " Father Zoroaster ! " exclaimed the old woman, with horror, " thou hast written thy name in blood ! " ^' Nay, good mother," said the youth, " it b APELLES AND PROTOGENES. is written with such a pencil as serves Proto- genes ; — look, I found it here, and here I leave it." The emotion of the old woman subsided. " That is true," replied she. " I am old and failing, and sometimes every thing around me seems written in characters of blood. I have seen that of my country and kindred flowing in rivers ! Well may I shudder, even at the sign of it." " It would seem," said the stranger, " that thou hast suffered much." " More than I may care to repeat to thee," returned she. " Would that the fountains of memory were sealed forever. My husband — my children — all — all — slaughtered ! and I left alone — alone ! Stranger, dost thou understand that word — dost thou know what it is to be alone ? To feel that thou hast no kindred in this breathing world — to have the fountains of affection rushing back upon thy own heart, and pressing upwards towards the brain — to have no living soul with whom thou canst hold communion — no worshipper of thy own faith ? — this is to be alone ! " " Mcthinks, good mother," said the stran- ger, soothingly, " thoii hast found friends. APELLES AND PKOTOGENES. 7' Protogenes is said to be gentle and hu- mane." " Yes," replied she with bitterness, " I have found a home, among the enemies of our worship, — among those who have burnt our temples and murdered our priests ! " " If I understand rightly, thy religion, thy God is every where," said the stranger. " Most true," she returned — "I ascend the highest eminence in Rhodes, to catch the first glimpse of his rising beam. O, how gladly do I behold him in the far East ! No, they cannot hide his face from the true wor- shipper. Angels, who surround his throne, and the new-born babe, are alike baptized in his glorious rays. His beneficence extends over the universe — and he writes the great lesson of universal love through every na- tion ; for he irradiates even the enemies of his worship. It is a boast of the people of this island, that never a day passes that he does not shine down in unclouded bright- ness, at least for one entire hour, on their fair hills and valleys." " Tell me, mother, what may I call thy name ? " said the stranger. " I tell thee, I have no nation and no name," replied she, wildly. " When I was 8 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. young, and had smiling babes aroirnd me, they called me Zara." '' Farewell ! " said the youth, as he quitted the dwelling. Protogenes returned immediately after his visiter had departed. He again approached the pannel, and ob- served the. new character inscribed there. " It is he ! " he exclaimed ; " I knew it could be no other ! " " It is not well," said the old woman, " to have thy pannel thus defaced ; " and she took a piece of pumice-stone, with the inten- tion of erasing the lines. " Not for a thousand worlds," exclaimed the artist, motioning her away, while he stood gazing, as if enraptured, — " It will go down to posterity ! " * " Woman, if all the treasures of thine own Persepolis, with every monument of Grecian art were heaped upon thee, thou couldst not purchase such a line as that ; and were the whole circle of immor- * Pliny, who relates this story, says he saw the fragment on which were drawn these lines; that it was consumed in the fire that (Jestroyed the Emperor's palace. Probably they were slight sketches rather than simple straight lines. In the latter case, it would be entirely incomprehensible to us; ■while how distinctly the glorious imprint of genius may be stamped upon the mere combination of a few simple aad rapid lines and touches, the celebrated etchings cf Moritz Relsch, in our own times, abundantly attest. APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 9 tal sciences at thy command, thou couldst not draw it ! " " Ay ! " said she, in return, " a broader and a deeper one is drawn upon my heart by a murderer's hand ! " " Dwell not on thy melancholy history, good Zara," said the artist kindly, " it will make both thee and me too sad. • But come, if thou hast any of the gifts of thy magic, come and divine the name of this stran- ger." Zara slowly approached the pannel. — " Thou wilt not let me rub it out ? " said she, inquiringly. " Not for the throne of Alexander," said he ; " an empire could not replace it." " In truth, then, I will read it to thee — Apelles of Cos.''^ " Thou art indeed a very soothsayer," said Protogenes, laughing ; " but perhaps he revealed to thee his name ? " " Thinkest thou," exclaimed she, " that the mind has no knowledge but through the outer senses ? My fathers worshipped the sky, the earth, the water, as well as the great source of existence, the all-glorious Sun. All these have their signs ; and think- est thou there are no signs of the spirit, that 10 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. animates the man ? — Whom hast thou call- ed upon, even in thy sleep, but Apelles of Cos ? What has stimulated thee to labors of the pencil beyond thy strength, but the fame of Apelles ? — I behold thee thus en- raptured at the tracery of these simple lines, and thou sayest this name will go down to posterity ; — who can have inscribed them, but Apelles of Cos ? " " In sooth thou hast interpreted thy signs well," said Protogenes ; " and now, good Zara, cast aside thy divining mantle, and prepare a repast for this same glorious Apel- les, while I go and seek him." Still he lingered and gazed at the lines, — " How delicate — yet how masterly ! " he exclaimed. "No, I can never attain such perfection ; — but, wherever the name of Apelles is known, this record will go with it — and by it, at least, shall the name of Protogenes be united, by future ages, with that of Apelles ! " Sauntering along the shore of the beautiful harbor of Rhodes, and casting his eye over the waters that laved the Grecian Isles, Pro- togenes found Apelles. '"fhe two artists required no introduction ; — they stood silent for a few moments ; — at length Protogenes exclaimed — APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 11 " Noble Apelles, I have before read im- mortality in thy pencil ; I see it now con- firmed in thy face ! " " We are brothers," replied Apelles, with simplicity ; '•' I have come to seek thee at thy birth-place of Roses — thy own fair Rhodes."* " I perceive," said Protogenes, with that minuteness which marked his character, and was apparent in his paintings, " that thou hast adopted the modern nomenclature of our island. For my own part, I incline to the ancient, and were I a poet, of all the doz- en from which we have to choose, I would term it Asteria." * The name Rhodes is commonly derived from the Greek word, rhodon, signifying a rose, which flower is said to have bloomed in remarkable profusion and beauty there ; and it is alleged that the figure of a rose is given on the reverse of many Rhodian coins still extant. I may at least be pardoned for placing on the lips of the Grecian painter this more poetic version of the origin of the name, notwith- standing the labors of modern learning to destroy its long- received aitthority, and to substitute the far less agreeable etymology from a Phenician word, signifying a serpent. Alas for the vanity and vexation of that coldly unimagina- tive spirit of sceptical research and analysis of our day ; which, not satisfied with the domain of the present and the future, is ever seeking also to strip every romantic legend and poetic tradition from the past, of the beautiful, even though deceptive, hues which it is so pleasant for the fancy's unlearned eye to dwell upon ! 12 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. " And why ? " said Apelles, smiling. " Be- cause," returned Protogenes, " it is formed like the Asteria." * " I know not Avhat its ancient name may have been," replied Apelles ; " but, while I behold these beautiful roses entwining around every portico and column, I can' only think of the sweet name familiar to me. I agree with thee, however, that it is a bright gem on the bosom of our fair isle-studded sea." " How does it compare with thy native Cos ? " said Protogenes, as they walked, arm in arm, back to his dwelling. " Thou knowest," replied Apelles, " that island is small, compared to this — though it has the honor of being mentioned by Ho- mer ; — its soil is excellent, and it is shelter- ed from the winds by high mountains. It is subject to earthquakes, and we tremble lest it should one day be destroyed. But the glory of Cos is the temple of ^sculapius, which is daily filled with offerings from those who have been restored by the heal- ing art, or by those who are still seeking aid." " I have heard niuch of the fame of your A beautiful polished gem, resembling the opal. APELLES AND PROTOGENES, 13 Hippocrates," said Protogenes. " Hast thou ever thyself beheld him, or was his departure from this upper-light before thy childhood's years were sufficiently advanced to know and note the venerable sage ? " " Indeed do I remember him well," replied Apelles ; '' though the recollection of his sil- very locks, whitened by more than a hun- dred winters — his noble brow — the beau- tiful benignity of his countenance, and the undimmed cheerfulness of his disposition — attesting well the excellence of his system for the preservation of health — form one of the earliest, as well as strongest, images im- pressed on my memory. He has formed a new school, adopting what was excellent in his great predecessors, and adding to it from the inexhaustible stores of his own mind, which was continually engaged in useful dis- coveries. He received from his father He- raclides the elements of the sciences, and soon became convinced that, to comprehend particular diseases, it was necessary to under- stand the general principles that govern all nature. His great principle is to assist past experience by extensive observation, and to rectify theory by practice. I use his own words. Our most enlightened men, and 14 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. those who understand his superiority by their own merit, pronounce him the first of human beings, and are convinced that his system will be life and health to poster- ity." " If this conviction prove true," replied Protogenes, " the little island of Cos Mero- pis, — the name by which, if I remember rightly, it is spoken of by Homer — is more favored by the production of a man who has thus served the cause of humanity, than Macedonia, as the birth-place of Alexan- der." In such conversation, the friends continu- ed until they reached the dwelling of Pro- togenes. It was a humble but sweet abode, where every thing seemed to indicate ex- treme poverty, though ennobled by refine- ment and taste, and by that indescribable spirit of intellectual superiority over the poor trifles of this world's wealth. On entering, they found Zara had prepared an entertain- ment of figs, grapes and dates, with such other fruits as the climate produced, all or- namented with flagrant and blooming roses. No other ornament was attempted in the humble apartment, but a single picture sus- pended on the wall. It represented a hound, APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 15 panting with the fatigues of the chase. It was immediately observed, and its rare merit generously appreciated by Apelles. " That hound is indeed an inimitable pro- duction of thy pencil, — for I cannot mistake it for that of any other. The gleam of his eye seems almost to flash a ray forth from the picture, and the deep panting of his broad chest might seem almost to swell and sink from the surface of the canvass, as I gaze upon it. But especially that foam about the mouth, and fleckering his chest, appears to me the last perfection of art, in the imitation of natiu"e." '• That picture hangs there, devoted to the goddess Fortune," replied the host ; " since to her is chiefly due the merit which thou honorest with praise, so flattering from thy lips, I had exhausted upon it all my poor art, and longer labor than I care to tell, and the body of the dog may perhaps, indeed, be entitled to the credit of minute accuracy ; — it is the portrait of an old favorite, once the sole companion of my rambles by the shore, as he was the sole friend of my poverty. But upon the mouth I had expended all in vain — and at last gave it up in despair, and, in the rage of the moment, dashed my 16 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. sponge upon it, with perhaps an impious ex- clamation against my hard fortune, — when, behold, that random and desperate stroke scattered my colors as thou seest there, and produced the crowning result to which I confess my own skill was inadequate. Thou wilt not, therefore, wonder that I prize the picture as something more than a curiosity, nor impute to an idle vanity the conspicuous position in which it is placed. And who shall question the omnipotence, in all human affairs, of the divinity to whom, as almost a miracle of her own, I hold it sacred ? " " Who shall, indeed ? " rejoined Apelles. " Least of all, shall I dispute her claims to our adoration, time-hallowed as they are ; especially when I behold, in the career of my magnificent patron, the glorious Alexander — who might well be termed her spoiled child — so signal an evidence of her power over empires and millions, as well as over the humble details of our every-day life. I per- ceive that our good mother," he continued pleasantly, " though not by nativity, is, at least by nature, a daughter of your Isle of Roses," glancing, as he spoke, at the rich profusion with which the table was covered, and alluding to their former conversation. APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 17 Zara was just quitting the apartment, but she turned round and said, emphatically, ''No, I was once a Pei'sian.'^ " Touch not that string," exclaimed Pro- togenes, in a low voice. "There are sub- jects upon which her mind is unsettled, and she imagines herself, like the Oracle of Del- phi, inspired.'^ She evidently overheard the observation ; for she exclaimed with solemnity, " Affliction brings us near to the gods ! " " Leave us, good mother," said Proto- genes ; and Zara departed. " She is a Persian, as she says," continued the artist, " and a devout worshipper of na- ture — the principle of which she believes to be fire, elicited from the sun ; but, like the rest of the Persians, her religion is strangely mixed up with wild oriental fancies. If thou wilt take the trouble to climb yonder hill before the day break to-morrow, thou mayst witness her morning soobh, (morning prayer ;) for there is her worship performed." After they had concluded their simple re- past, they repaired to the study of the artist. " I part with thee no more," said Protogenes, " while thy foot rests on our Asteria." Tlicre the artists enjoyed that communion 2 18 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. which belongs to the truly great and good. No base envy mingled with the admiration they felt for each other. Apelles was eager to point out wherein Protogenes excelled him ; but frankly told him that in one re- spect he was his inferior — that of not knowing when to take his hand from his jmintings. " The touches of true genius," said Apel- les " are never elaborate. Many a noble painting is spoiled by being overworked." The next morning, Apelles remembered Zara's place of worship, where rose the tem- ple of Minerva, and long before the light dawned, he was seated on the steps of the temple. In a few moments he perceived her coming. She was dressed in the costume of her country — a large shawl like a turban, on her head, and a short loose garment like a shirt, a vest girt with a sash, and sandals on her feet. She ascended the hill with a slow, languid step ; yet her air was still noble and commanding. Apelles went forward to assist her. " The animating principle is faint within me," said she ; "it will be kindled when the God of Day arises." Slowly they walked forward to the summit of the mountain. When they APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 19 reached the top, Zara turned towards the east, and bowed three times to the ground. The beautiful Grecian temple stood below, with its simple colums of white marble ; and lower down were interspersed doric build- ings, palaces with their superb colonnades, and splendid facades. Beyond these, the quay spread into the broad ocean, whose waves rolled heavily towards the shore. The celebrated Colossus, now always asso- ciated with the name of the island, was not yet in existence, though it was erected but a few years afterwards. Nothing was in mo- tion but the slight morning breeze, whose cool freshness scarce displaced a single lock of the long flowing cmls of the young man, and the never-resting billows, whose hollow voices were borne only faintly and at inter- vals up to the height at which they stood together. How deep and solemn seemed the repose of nature ! Suddenly the worshipper, in a clear, musical voice, began her morning hymn. At first the chant was low and in- distinct ; at length she broke forth in a wild and triumphant strain, her voice gathering fulness as she proceeded. 20 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. THE HYMN OF THE FIRE WORSHIPPER. Valley and hill, Forest and mount, Ocean and rill, River and fount. Awake ! Awake ! He comes, the God Of the streaming ray ! With his glance to chase The clouds away — They break ! They break I Lo, how they flame In the eastern sky, As they feel and shrink From that burning eye. That Eye ! That Eye ! As a routed host. All wildly rolled. Scattered and tossed, In their robes of gold. They fly ! They fly ! Ocean and land The prean sing. With the angel-band,* Round the Fire-King — His throne ! His throne ! Lo, from the deep Abyss of night, * Goethe, in describing the worship of the ancient Persians, says, " dort glaiibten sie den Thron Goltcs, von Engeln umfunkelt, zu erblicken." APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 21 The first warm beam Of his radiant might ! The Sun ! The Sun ! That ray divine We low adore ; Thrice thus to earth, Its path before, I kneel ! I kneel ! Our life burned low. Through the night's dark hour; But the glorious glow, And the quick'ning power, I feel! I feel! As her voice attained its highest pitch, the sun rose in majestic splendor from the ocean. Thrice Zara prostrated herself before the globe of fire, uttering low and unintelligible sounds. Then tmiiing to Apelles, she said, " My morning worship is over ; let us re- turn." With a celerity wholly incompatible with her apparent age, she descended the hill. Apelles did not immediately follow ; he watched her rapid progress, the free use of her limbs, the seeming elastic vigor of her motion, and he said, " The divinity stirs within her ! I too should be almost tempted to become a Fire-worshipper, had not the philosophy of the sages taught me that he 22 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. who created the glorious sun must be greater than the sun itself." While he stood gazing, the rays of the splendid luminary had marked its golden path across the ocean, and were burnishing the towers, hill-tops and woods. The nu- merous vessels, which lay apparently sleep- ing in the harbor, were, one after another, in motion. The Greeks came forth from their dwellings, and all was like the renewal of life. Slowly Apelles descended the hill. When he reached the house of his friend, he found he had just arisen. Zara had thrown aside her Persian robes, and, with them, her enthusiastic manner, which was only occa- sionally roused, and assumed the usual dress of the Greek women of her age and situa- tion. It was soon rumored in Rhodes that Apel- les was there ; and the inhabitants of rank and high birth, as well as the lower classes of citizens, all assembled to pay honor to the favorite of Alexander, and the most famous painter of the age, — for by both titles was he already distinguished. Protogenes, while he allowed the trans- cendent merit of Apelles, felt hurt that his own paintings had excited so little applause. APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 23 A.pelles perceived liis emotion, and said, " It is not Apelles the painter, they honor, but Apelles the friend of Alexander." He mixed famiharly with the Rhodians, and strove to make them understand the real excellence of his friend's pictures, at the same time admitting that he injured them by overworking. •• I perfectly agree with you," said a con- ceited young artist. '•' I have always avoid- ed this elaborate style. I like a quick and rapid touch. Pray do me the favor to come with mc to my study." Apelles, with his usual courtesy, accompanied him. He had just completed a large gaudy picture. " This," said the painter, " I consider an original ; the style and manner are wholly my own." Apelles was silent, and the young man began to imagine he was struck dumb with admiration. '' I completed this," said he, '■ in one month, I do assure you, and I can bring vouchers for it." " There needs none," replied Apelles ; " I should think you might have painted many more such in that time." The false taste which prevailed among the Rhodians was one reason why they under- rated the severe and accurate paintings of 24 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. Protogenes. He used only four different colors, and they preferred the works of Anaxis, an ordinary painter, who made much more showy pictures. Inflated with undeserved admiration, he affected to look with contempt on the pic- tures of Protogenes ; the decided manner and pedantic terms of art which he used, were calculated to impose on the ignorant. He had exerted all his skill to complete a Helen that he was painting, before Apelles took his de- parture. He had probably outdone himself; for he had loaded her not only with jewels, but with gilding. " What do you think of my Helen ? " said the artist, with a self-satis- fied air. " I think," replied Apelles, " If you have not made her beautiful, you have at least made her rich." A few days before Apelles was to take his departiu'e from Rhodes, it was understood that he would offer a picture for sale at one of the public halls. It was called lalysus, and the name is all that remains of it to posterity. Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm that prevailed ; every wealthy citizen was eager to possess it, and they were all ready to out- bid each other, to the most extravagant APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 25 amounts. Apelles was beloved for the ur- banity of his manner, his graceful and easy- conversation ; and the Rhodians were daz- zled by the high honors conferred on him by Alexander. The picture was exhibited, and they were enchanted with it : so great was the contest, that at length it was decided, that it should be pm-chased by the communi- ty, and retained as public property. When a sum was offered, adequate to what Apelles conceived was its value, he said, "It is but justice to Protogenes to inform you that this picture is painted by him." A general mur- mur was heard. "It is the painting of Apel- les that we want — we will not have it." " Be it so," said Apelles ; " I take you at your word, and purchase this picture for Alexander, who commissioned me to secure for him one of the artist's, whose greatness is known abroad, though it be not appreciated at home. But I have the honor of Rhodes so much at heart, that I would willingly have allowed this to remain here, to prove that it possesses one who, in many respects, is the greatest painter in the world." When they found that Alexander was to be the purchaser, the picture rose tenfold in value, and they claimed it as a right. 26 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. Apelles took much pains to point out to them the beauty of the paintings of Pro- togenes, and to give them just notions of the noble art. All this produced its effect. Protog«nes was now solicited to furnish them with an- other picture at the same price as the former one, and applications poured in upon him. He saw wealth and honor before him. " How much gratitude I owe you ! " — said he to his friend. '' You must not attribute what I have done," said Apelles, " to my friendship for Protogenes, but to my reverence for the art. At Cos I beheld one of your pictures, and it filled me with admiration : when I inquired for the artist, I was told that he lived at Rhodes, poor and unknown, and I resolved to visit you. I was astonished to find, that, in this state of the arts, the tinsel of common painters could be preferred to such just and noble execution as yours. The favor of Al- exander has given me importance in the eyes of the world. This favor I would make a means of usefulness, and for this purpose I came to Rhodes with the hope of ennobling my profession. The true essence of great- ness and success consists in disinterested de- APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 27 votion to that to which one apphes himself. Let us aim at truth and excellence, and com- mit the care of our fame to posterity. To- morrow I quit you, but I leave you with the gods, who are the friends of the virtuous." " Both the origin and progress of our art,'"' said Protogenes, " is worthy the exercise of human thought. I have sometimes believed it must have come by divine inspiration." " You are undoubtedly right," replied Apelles ; " all that partakes of the divine, comes by inspiration : but probably the first mechanical attempts little resembled the art as it is now. The earliest accounts of it are during the reign of Ninus and Semiramis, king and queen of Assyria : about two thou- sand years ago, we are told that Semiramis threw a bridge over the Euphrates, and erected a castle at each end, the walls of which were painted not only with single figures and animals, but, on one side, with a hunting-piece, where the queen was repre- sented throwing her dart at a panther, and near her Ninus striking a lion to the earth with his spear. There is mention made of painting in Egypt too, about the same time ; but sculpture in both countries was more assiduously cultivated, as serving religious 28 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. purposes better. But they certainly arrived at no great perfection, as they made no pro- gress for one thousand years. It is not for us, however, to depreciate their attempts, since it is to Egypt that we owe the intro- duction of both the arts into Greece." " It does not appear," said Protogenes, " that painting had been introduced in the time of Homer — he makes no mention of it." " I grant you," rephed Apelles, " that the mechanical art had not been introduced ; but the inspiration was there. Who was ever a greater painter than Homer ? Take the meeting between Hector and Andromache, — the description of the terror of the child at the nodding plumes and glittering crest." " But this is poetry." " True ; and painting is poetry. A painter di'aws first in his own mind the image he would represent on his tablet." " What do you suppose," said Protogenes, " were the subjects of the embroideries of Andromache,, Helen and Penelope ? Think you, Helen, with her beautiful figures and many-colored threads, did not preserve a stolen portrait of Paris ?" " I perceive," replied Apelles, " you are APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 29 drawing pictures from Homer. But Zeuxis was the first who designed them mechanic- ally. From the poet he drew his heroes." "It was Zeuxis, I think," said Protogenes, " who painted the grapes so natm-ally that the birds came and pecked at them." " Yes, replied Apelles, and when Phar- rasius, the rival artist, produced his picture, you know they asked him to withdraw the curtain — which proved to be the painting itself. The magnanimity of Zeuxis always pleased me more than his skill. He ac- knowledged himself surpassed, since he had only deceived birds, but Pharrasius men." " It has always appeared to me, however," said Protogenes, " that he rather despised the judgment of the public ; for, after they had applauded his picture of the boy carrying the basket of fruit at which the birds came and pecked, he said, ' Had the boy been as well painted as the fruit, they would not have dared to touch it.' " " The merry old fellow laughed himself to death at a portrait he had drawn of an old woman," said Apelles. " But this is the mere gossip of painting ; we may draw use- ful lessons from the excessive vanity of artists. Zeuxis was weak enough to have 30 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. his name embroidered in letters of gold upon the border of his robe, when he appeared at the Olympic games ; and Pharrasius wore a tunic of royal purple, and a golden gar- land, and declared himself descended from Apollo." As they spoke, they had, arm in arm, wandered towards the high parts of the city, which overlooked the sea. Here they first observed that dark heavy clouds were rolling towards them, and the winds seemed rushing on like a tornado : while they gazed, they beheld Zara at a distance. Her appearance was striking ; she Avas clad in her Persian costume, but her head was bare, and her long white locks streamed in the wind ; her vest was thrown open and her whole air was that of a maniac. On seeng her, Protogenes exclaimed, " See yonder our good mother ! she has on her divining mantle ; she is ever unsettled Avhen the clouds look black and threatening." " No wonder," replied Apelles ; " they ob- scure her divinity." At that moment the thunder burst in loud peals. " She docs not, like us," continued the artist, " see him in the clouds, and hear his voice in the thun- der." They hastened towards her. When APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 31 she saw them approach, she exclaimed, " Get ye to the high mountains ; wo and desolation is over the city. The waters of heaven are let loose ! wo ! wo ! " — " Good Zara," said Protogenes, " hie thee home, the storm is coming." " Yes, it is coming," she exclaim- ed, "I hear its voice ; it mingles with the dashing of the seas of blood ! " In vain they tried to arrest her ; she rushed through the streets, crying " Wo ! wo ! my hour is come ! " Suddenly the clouds seemed to be rent asunder ; toiTents of rain and hail descended ; the wind swept along with frightful fury ; they distinguished the crashing of timber and the shrielcs of human voices ; the friends flung themselves prostrate upon the earth, and clung to each other. In a short time all the lower part of the city, which was built in the form of an amphitheatre, was inundated ; the pipes, which would have conducted the water to the ocean, had been neglected, and were closed up ; thousands were drowned before they could reach the higher ground. All at once, the walls burst, and the waters rushed towards the ocean, bearing with them hundreds of dead and living bodies. The clouds seemed to have exhausted their fury. 32 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. and the whirlwind subsided. The friends looked down on the desolation below. The lower part of the city was in ruins, — houses destroyed, and the noblest specimens of the arts laid prostrate. The dwelling of Proto- genes had escaped destruction : they repaired to it ; Zara was not there ; they sought her in vain ; and, as her 'remains could not be found, they concluded she had been swept into the waters of the ocean. Apelles remained with his friend till the first consternation was over, and then sailed for Cos. Here he did not long continue ; but was summoned to Macedonia, to take the portrait of his royal master. Apelles selected the moment when the Emperor was reining in his noble and fiery steed Bucephalus, whom the monarch boasted no one had ever mounted but himself. Alexander was not perfectly satisfied with the horse. Apelles requested that Bucephalus might be brought, that he might be compared with his repre- sentative. So soon as Bucephalus beheld the painting, he neighed loudly to it. " O King," said the painter, "your horse is a better judge of painting than yoiu-self." The observation of Apelles, which after- wards became a proverb, has often been re- APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 33 lated, in connexion with the criticism of the shoe-maker upon a sandal, in one of the art- ist's paintings. The cobbler said it was in- correct in form, and gave his reasons. Apel- les admitted their justice, and thanked him for his remarks. Elated with his success, the shoe-maker proceeded to criticise the leg — " Keep to your trade," said Apelles, "■ yom- judgment goes no higher than the sandal." One of the most celebrated pictures of Apelles, was of Venus rising from the ocean. It was placed in the temple of Diana, at Ephesus. Of the inscription on this painting the following translation will convey an im- perfect idea : — The waves divide, and from the foaming ocean Fair Venus starts at once to life and motion ! With roseate hand her humid locks she rings, And from her tresses many a dew-drop springs. While gazing at the beauteous vision there, Her rival sisters own themselves less fair ; Yet cry, tenacious still of beauty's field, " 'T is to Apelles we the apple yield." Another celebrated picture was the por- trait of Alexander, with a thunder-bolt in his hand. It was so perfectly done, that the hand seemed to be thrust forth from the 3 34 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. picture, yet firmly grasping the thunder-bolt ; which gave rise to the following lines : — We own, great Jupiter, thy power divine ; To hurl the avenging thunder-bolt, is thine ! But Alexander, whom Apelles moulds, In his right hand the avenging thunder holds. This portrait so entirely satisfied the monarch, that he issued a decree forbidding any other artist to attempt his portrait. Perhaps it was his success in this picture that led Alexander to request Apelles to take a likeness of one of the distinguished beau- ties of his court, Campaspe, a young slave, of whose charms the ardent young monarch was passionately enamored. Apelles was unwilling to refuse, and the young girl con- sented to sit for her picture. Day after day she came, and the artist apparently made but little progress in his work. He was aware that she was destined to grace the court of the monarch. At length, as she one day sat before him, he threw down his pallet, and found himself at her feet. Campaspe quick- ly dropped her veil, and retired without a word ; from this time she appeared at the painter's room no more. Alexander remark- ed that Apelles was silent and abstracted. APELLES AND PROTOGENES. 35 He one day inquired why there was such delay with the picture of Campaspe. " Great king," rephed Apelles, " wonder not that the beauty which has moved the con- queror of the world, should subdue one of his subjects. You have assigned me a task beyond my powers. I love Campaspe ! " '■ And what says she to thee ? " said Al-- exander. " Not a word ! " replied Apelles. The monarch too remained silent. The next day he ordered that the portrait should be completed ; and again the young beauty appeared in the study of the artist. When the picture was finished, Apelles presented it to Alexander. '' I accept it," said the monarch ; " the picture is tnine ; Campaspe thine.'' The generous friendship he exhibited to- wards Protogenes was afterwards of essential benefit to the Rhodians ; for when Deme- trius, the famous Besieger of Cities, was en- camped before their capital, he refused to set fire to a part of the city where was situated the study of the artist, though it would have secm-ed him possession of the city. And afterwards, when the city was taken, his ad- miration of the painting of lalysus, mention-. 36 APELLES AND PROTOGENES. ed before, obtained for it much more favora- ble terms than the Rhodians had dared to expect. It is related, that Protogenes was fomid engaged in painting in his garden, when the troops of Demetrius entered, so ab- sorbed in his occupation as to appear regard- less of the tumult around. On being brought before the conqueror, and asked why he ex- hibited so little concern, amid the general calamity, he replied, " that he understood Demetrius warred with men, not with the arts." The King in return, requested the artist to furnish him with a painting of his own production, and sent him a hundred talents. It is recorded of Apelles that he never painted on walls, nor on any tiling tliat could not be saved in a fire. He would have had the works of the best masters carried from one country to another, and could not endure that a picture should have but one master ; because painting, he said, " was a common good to all the world. " CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. On a certain day in the year 1260, the whole city of Florence appeared to be in motion. The roofs of the houses were filled with spectators, the balconies crowded, and the streets thronged. Few seemed to under- stand exactly what was the occasion. Some said a miracle was to be performed. All were in eager expectation of something strange and wonderful. At length, the deep solemn chant of the monks was heard, and a long procession of holy fathers appeared in sight. The loud impatience of the populace was now awed into silence, while the monks proceeded along the streets, their heads covered with cowls, and their long black robes giving an unearthly appearance to their figures ; yet from the eyes that glanced beneath their dark hoods might be discerned expressions of 38 CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. triumph and exultation; there was none of the misericordia of their usual department. It was not like a procession formed for the house of death. They walked with rapid strides, ever and anon looking impatiently behind, and even their hands, instead of being meekly folded on the bosom, had a free motion. They were on their way to the church St. Maria Novella. Two Italians stood on a small eminence that bordered the Arno ; one was of mature age, the other a mere boy, and wore evidently the dress of a shepherd ; but what put his occupation beyond doubt, was the crook which he bore, and a large dog by his side, of the race which the Italian peasants use, to watch their flocks. " Come, come, Giotto," said the oldest, " the day is getting far advanced, the sun strikes the old tower yonder, and we must be about our work ; we cannot be idling here." " Nay, father," said the youngest, " the holy fathers have already arrived at the church, and the triumphal procession will soon follow." " In truth," said Giacopo, " thou art possessed, — by thy young master Cimabue ; — St. Peter grant it may not be by an evil spirit." CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. 39 " How canst thou say that, father ? " said the boy, " Did he not save my life among the hills, when I lay sleeping, and my faith- ful Fido was away ? Yes, Fido," said the boy, patting the head of the dog, who, hear- ing his own name, wagged his tail, and lick- ed his master's hand, " when thou wert away ; for hadst thou been by, I should not have wanted any body else. Oh, never shall I forget when I first heard the growl of the panther. I awoke from my sleep quick enough. There he was, crouched on the crag above, his eyes looking like balls of fire, and only waiting for me to move, to spring upon me : before me was the deep ravine through which the mountain torrent was pouring. I shut my eyes, and prayed to the blessed mother — and then suddenly I heard a loud howl, and in a moment the panther, struggling in the agony of death came rolling down, crushing the very trees by his weight, and fell headlong into the torrent. Then I breathed, and looked up, and there stood Cimabue, my young master, with his bow still in his hand. — Ah, father, can I ever forget that moment ? " " Thou shouldst not, my son," replied the old Giotto, " but thou must not set thy 40 CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. young master above the virgin Mary, and the holy saints ; didst thou not say, even now, that thou prayed to the blessed mother ? it was she that saved thy life, and put vigor into the arm of Cimabue, and directed the arrow as it sped from the bow." " And well, father, has he repaid the deed. Ah ! thou wilt see the beautiful picture he has drawn of her ; — all Florence will see it. — Hark, dost thou not hear the sound of cymbals and trumpets ? It comes ! it comes ! On, father, on ! Let us to the street through which it must pass." They hastened to the Borgo Allegri, which took its name from the joyous occa- sion. The procession advanced. The pic- ture of the Virgin Mary, larger than life, was borne on a triumphal car, by milk-white steeds, with nodding plumes, and harnessed with blooming wreaths. The Tuscan girls preceded it, dressed in white robes, and strewing flowers. Every little while, a bell was rung, and the host elevated. To the joyous acclamations of the multitude that shook the air, profound silence succeeded, every knee was bent : again the bell rung, and all was life and animation. Then came a new procession of priests, with the CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. 41 young choristers bearing their wax candles and consecrated palms, and finally Cimabue himself, the yomig artist, crowned with the lam-el wreath, and followed by the nobles of Florence. The procession slowly moved toward the church of Maria Novella, and there the Vir- gin was received by the holy brotherhood with fresh honors, and placed in her new residence. High mass was performed, and the day concluded with feasting and mirth ; while, in the evening, the Arno reflected from its glassy bosom, the fire-works which arose with new acclamations from the enthu- siastic multitude. Cimabue was a descendant of the Gondi family, one of the most noble in Florence. They had given a long line of Saints to the calendar, and now the last count determined to adorn the family chapel with rich paint- ings. But where were the artists to be found ? Not in Italy. The destructive wars had crushed the arts, and nothing re- mained worthy of the name. It was neces- sary to send to Greece for painters. Tliey came, and, however imperfect were their works, fired the genius of the young Cima- bue. After studying and becoming familiar 42 CIMABUE AND GIOTTO, ill practice and in theory with their manner, he abandoned it for a better, and, inspired, as he said, " by the blessed Mother herself, who sat to him in her own person," he pro- duced a painting of her to adorn the church dedicated to her worship. It was no sooner beheld, than it was pronounced a miracle. A day was appointed in which it was to be carried to the place of its destination, with divine honors, a portion of which were show- ered upon the head of the artist. Encouraged by this success, Cimabue ven- tured to paint without the immediate patron- age or inspiration of the Yirgin Mary. He now produced a picture of Christ cruciJ&ed, with the mother and St. John near ; but it is evident his conceptions went far beyond his execution, as he was reduced to the necessity of putting written labels into their mouths, to express the sentiments of the individuals. Of all his admirers none was more ardent than Giotto, a simple hind, in the duke his father's service, who had been appointed to the honorable office of guarding the flocks among the hills of Tuscany. Cimabue had saved his life ; but this was not the only source of his enthusiasm ; — he had been sometimes admitted to a sight of his paint- CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. 43 ings, was a worshipper of his Maria at the church Novella, and now might be daily seen in the fields with a piece of chalk in his hand, sketching figures on the rocks, while his sheep were grazing near him. In one of Ciambue's rambles over his pa- ternal domains, he was struck with a draw- mg of a lamb on one of the smooth rocks. It seemed to him very remarkable ; and, in- quiring who had made it, he learned that it was Giotto. He immediately sought out the father, and offered to take the boy as a pupil. Giotto well repaid his instructions. He at once threw off the fetters of the Greeks, with whom the art had been degenerating from the time of Apelles, and who now had little to bestow on the Italians, after having stimulated •them to the cultivation of their native powers. The extreme rapidity with which Giotto advanced in design, undoubtedly arose from the study of the ancient sculpture, many spe- cimens of which had already been discovered among the ruins of the ancient cities and villas. His pure taste soon discarded the use of labels. " I must express by my pencil," said he, " what Dante would by words." 44 CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. This was indeed a difficult task, and im- perfectly accomplished ; yet he arrived at so much excellence as to be called the pupil of nature, and marked out the path in which the art ought to be pursued. He did not confine himself to painting in fresco, (the use of oil was then unknown,) but executed figures in mosaic also. One of these is pre- served, representing Christ walking on the water, and the disciples in the boat, exhib- iting each characteristic sisns of fear and amazement. This was afterwards placed over the srreat entrance to St. Peter's Church, at Rome, and is known by the name of " Gi- otto's Boat." The devotion and constant deference of Giotto to Cimabue, was a grateful tribute to that noble artist ; for the pupil had now far surpassed the master, though al"^ays yield- ing him the attention of a son. Cimabue bequeathed to his young friend the favor of his admiring fellow-citizens, and the friendship of his family. At that time Dante had just become known as a poet. Between him and Giotto a strict friendship was formed. They might well consider themselves engaged in a common cause ; for it is difficult to mark a line of dis- CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. 45 tinction between the two arts of poetry and painting, when their respective operations upon the character are superficially consider- ed. Painting, however, has a tendency to abstract the mind from the causes of popu- lar excitement ; while poetry sometimes con- nects an author with the heart-stirring inter- ests of social life. This was the case with Dante ; he was engaged in violent factions, and finally exiled from his native city, Flo- rence. Previously, however, he was one day contemplating Giotto's picture of St. Francisco, where he represents the various scenes of that Saint's life in thirty-two pieces. "I perceive," said he, "you will win immortality." " Not unless you will secure it to me, by permitting me to paint your portrait," re- plied the artist. Dante consented ; and it is to Giotto that the world owes the portrait of the illustrious poet. The fame of the artist could not be confin- ed to Florence. Pope Benedict sent for him to Rome, and employed him in the Vatican, and in St. Peter's Church.* * It was he who sent to Florence for an artist, and select- ed Giotto, on account of the perfection of an O that he drew 44 CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. This was indeed a difficult task, and im- perfectly accomplished ; yet he arrived at so much excellence as to be called the pupil of nature, and marked out the path in which the art ought to be piusued. He did not confine himself to painting in fresco, (the use of oil was then unknown,) but executed figures in mosaic also. One of these is pre- served, representing Christ walking on the water, and the disciples in the boat, exhib- iting each characteristic signs of fear and amazement. This was afterwards placed over the great entrance to St. Peter's Church, at Rome, and is known by the name of " Gi- otto's Boat." The devotion and constant deference of Giotto to Cimabue, was a grateful tribute to that noble artist ; for the pupil had now far surpassed the master, though always yield- ing him the attention of a son. Cimabue bequeathed to his young friend the favor of his admiring fellow-citizens, and the friendship of his family. At that time Dante had just become known as a poet. Between him and Giotto a strict friendship was formed. They might well consider themselves engaged in a common cause ; for it is difficult to mark a line of dis^ CIM.VBUE AND GIOTTO. 45 tinction between the two arts of poetry and painting, when their respective operations upon the character are superficially consider- ed. Painting, however, has a tendency to abstract the mind from the causes of popu- lar excitement ; while poetry sometimes con- nects an author with the heart-stirring inter- ests of social life. This was the case with Dante ; he was engaged in violent factions, and jEinally exiled from his native city, Flo- rence. Previously, however, he was one day contemplating Giotto's picture of St. Francisco, where he represents the various scenes of that Saint's life in thirty-two pieces. "I perceive," said he, "you will win immortality." " Not unless you will secure it to me, by permitting me to paint your portrait," re- plied the artist. Dante consented ; and it is to Giotto that the world owes the portrait of the illustrious poet. The fame of the artist could not be confin- ed to Florence. Pope Benedict sent for him to Rome, and employed him in the Vatican, and in St. Peter's Church.* • It was he who sent to Florence for an artist, and select- ed Giotto, on account of the perfection uf an O that he drew 46 CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. Clement took him with him to Avignon, where he became acquainted with Petrarch, who resided at Yaucluse, a few miles distant. Poetry and eloquence had then seduced the poet from the diy study of jiuisprudence, and prepared his imagination for the absorbing passion of love. That he viewed the fair Laura's indifference with a prophetic eye, the following lines are a proof : — " My flame, of which thou tak'st so little heed, And thy high praises poui'ed through all my song, O'er many a breast may future influence spread: These, my sweet fair, so warns poetic thought, Closed thy bright eye and mute thy poet's tongue. E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught." It is to be regretted that Giotto did not take the portrait of Laura, giving her to pos- terity as Petrarch describes her when he first saw her before those " gay green robes," and the -" wreaths she was wont to wear, were thrown by." The honor of painting her portrait was allotted, by the poet, to Si- mon Memmi, whom he mentions in one or two sonnets, on which Vasari remarks, with so much accuracy that it has passed into an Italian proverb — round as Giotto's O. " Tu sei piu rundo che I'O di Giotto." It was certainly a great proof of the accuracy of his hand. CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. 47 that " Simon would be more obliged to them for future fame than to all the pictures he ever painted." While poetry was in the highest state of intellectual vigor, as is proved by the death- less poem of Dante's Inferno, in which he celebrates Giotto, and by the exquisite son- nets and odes of Petrarch, painting was yet in its childhood. The written labels in the mouth of Cimabue's figures, give an idea of the state of the art in his hands. So, the fact that Masaccio, a century after the death of Giotto, was the first to lay the feet of upright figures flat on the ground, and to introduce foreshortening, is a proof of what degree of progress had been made previ- ously to his time. While Dante was in exile at Ravenna, he sent to Giotto to join him ; when there, he painted several pieces in fresco, for the churches ; and on his return to Florence, was sent for by the king of Naples. Soon after his arrival he heard of the death of Dante. He was employed to paint in the chapel of the monastery St. Chiara, which had just been completed. The subjects he selected were scenes from the Old and New Testament. And many snid that his manner of treating his 48 CIMABUE AND GIOTTO, subject was through the inspiration of Dante. He seemed to entertain something of the same idea himself, and it was fully believed that the poet appeared to him in a dream, and suggested the composition. His death took place in 1336, at the age of sixty. He was buried in the Church St. Maria del Fi- ore, at Florence, and the city erected a mar- ble statue over his tomb. He is said, by historians of the day, to have been the painter of nature ; and it is re- lated, among other anecdotes, that, while yet a boy, he was standing by Cimabue, who was finishing the nose of a portrait, and when the master was suddenly called away, painted a fly on it so naturally, that Cima- bue, when he returned, attempted to brush it away with his hand. Many of the painters who succeeded Giot- to practised the art creditably, and helped its progress. But Lionardo da Vinci was the first to unite to skill and industry a thorough knowledge of the theory, and the intellectual preparation which is necessary for high suc- cess. He could not be satisfied with imita- tion only, or mere outward effect. To satis- fy him, it was necessary that the latent feel- ings of the heart should be depicted in the CIMABUE AND GIOTTO. 49 countenance and bearing. How much his own sensibility assisted him in carrying his idea into execution, may easily be under- stood. To Cimabue then, the restoration of the • art in Italy is first to be attributed. Mas- .accio succeeded him after the interval of a ■ century. Many undistinguished names fol- lowed, and Lionardo himself at length ap- peared. LIONARDO DA VINCI. Reclined on his couch lay the excellent old Andrea Verocchio.* The dews of death moistened his furrowed and pale forehead ; yet his eyes sparkled still with a deep enthu- siasm, as he contemplated a picture he had completed for the reUgiosi di Valomhrosa. It was the baptism of our Savior; — but it was not the work of his own pencil that he was contemplating ; it was the figure of an angel, which his youthful pupil, Lionardo da Vinci, had introduced. He had given it a * Verocchio was a goldsmith or graver, a musician, a geometrician, and a sculptor, before he became a painter. It would seem from many instances that the arts were more intimately connected in former times than at present ; and yet how many must unite to form the perfect artist. His success in casting was very great. Ilis death (in 1488) is said to have been occasioned by a pleurisy, brought on by the fatigue and anxiety he experienced in casting a brass statue of Bartolomeo de Bergamo. LIONARDO DA VINCI. 51 celestial expression, an ethereal smile, that the master felt was far beyond his own con- ception. At that moment his pupil entered. " My son," said he, " I have closed my easel and laid aside my pencil forever ! But not with me expires my art, — to thee I bequeath these implements, — thou shalt go forward, and thy fame extend over Italy, — in thy hands they may accomplish an excellence unknown before ; — but remember, that in mine they have never been degraded to an unworthy use ! Guard them, my son ; but, above all, guard thyself! " Lionardo kissed the emaciated hand which pressed his own. "My more than father," he exclaimed, " thou knowest my imperfec- tions, that I am proud and headstrong, pas- sionate and easily offended, revengeful, and prone to satirize and caricatiue. Thou know- est my many faults ; thy voice, thy very glance, can subdue my overbearing temper ; but, without thee, what am I ? " " My son," said the old man, smiling faint- ly, " thou must do that for thyself which I cannot do for thee. Thou hast within thee the seeds of great good and great evil. To mature the one, and repress the other, 54 LIONARDO DA VINCI. is forgotten, may that of Lionardo da Vinci be preserved by its own brightness. Virtue creates immortality ; genius may emblazon the name of an artist in this lower world ; but his virtues find a reward in heaven. Be it yoius to live in the praise and blessing of posterity ; but look only to another existence for the recompense. My strength is fast fail- ing : I must depart to that land where the good and the true meet again. Thou couldst not desire to detain me here. Farewell ! I leave behind me, in thee, a glorious continua- tion of myself. My mission is finished." In a few minutes after these his last words, Lionardo's tears fell fast and bitter on the lifeless form of his good old master, as he gently closed his eyes, and signed the holy cross on his venerable forehead. " Yes," he exclaimed, kneeling reverently by his side, " thy prayers shall be fulfilled. I will sub- due the evil elements of my nature ; and not for myself, but for mankind, will I labor in the divine art which I learned from thee, and of which thy last lesson has now taught me the true spirit ; — and my reward shall be with thee in heaven." The Castello di Vinci, situated in the beautiful Val d'Arno, was the birth-place of LIONARDO DA VINCI. 65 Lionardo. He was one of the most accom- plished men of his time. His face was fine and intellectual, his figure commanding, his bearing graceful, his air noble and courteous. He was also distinguished for his youthful strength and skill in all manly exercises, and for his acquaintance with the military science. His voice was clear and musical, his conversation amusing and instructive, while he united a gentle simplicity of manners with politeness and natural dignity. When to this was added his glorious and almost universal genius, it is not strange that he was generally regarded as one of the most remarkable men of his day. He excelled in music, poetry, and belles-lettres. Nor was he less successful in architecture and in sculpture, (of which he began the study with his old master Andrea,) than in paint- ing ; while he cultivated all the sciences of the age, chemistry, anatomy, and mathemat- ics, as subservient to his art. One peculiarity deserves to be noted, that all his manuscripts, which have been preserv- ed, are written in the oriental manner, from right to left, the reverse of the common usage. It has been conjectured from obser- vation of his drawings and designs, that he 56 LIONARDO DA VINCI. used his left hand instead of his right, as they are all reversed from what is generally found in the works of other artists, whether ancient or modern. From the time of the death of his master, he made rapid advances in excellence. He cherished his memory with the most reverent affection ; he reflected on his lessons, and studied to model himself by his precepts. He examined his own performances with the most jealous and fastidious eye, finding al- ways more to condemn than approve, by the unapproachable standard of his own ideal. He even carried this self-dissatisfaction too far. The higher the perfection he attained in his art, the less was he satisfied with his execution. He thus destroyed a great num- ber of his own performances, especially of his earlier days. The Duke of Milan, Ludovico Sforza, was anxious to secure so brilliant an ornament to his court, and was eager in offering induce- ments to attract Lionardo to a residence in his dominions ; who, accordingly, was prevail- ed upon to leave his native abode near Flor- ence, for that purpose. It is said that the jealousy and suspicion of Michelangelo, who was just then beginning to rise into distinc- LIONARDO DA VINCI. 57 tion, made him the more wilhng to quit a place where he was hated as a rival. Though both of the artists were of surpass- ing excellence, their perfections lay in differ- ent lines. Lionardo was full of sensibility and imagination ; his region was mind ; he delighted to express all the pure and exalted emotions of the soul. He Avas select in his choice of subjects, and unless they were such as to interest his heart, his hand became utterly paralyzed, and he abandoned his attempt. He was sensitive and delicate ; but his passions, when excited, were hasty and violent. If Raphael afterwards surpass- ed him, he had the glory of being first in the new path which he struck out. Michelangelo, on the other hand, studied strength and sublimity, and affected to look doAvn on the less bold conceptions of Lio- nardo ; meeting his generous advances with coldness, and appearing to avoid any asso- ciation. It may readily be imagined that the Duke of Milan welcomed Da Vinci, and loaded him with honors. He prevailed on him to be director of the Academy of Architecture which he had just established. Here, Lion- ardo soon restored the beautiful simplicity of 58 LIONAKDO DA VINCI. the Greek and Roman styles. He construct- ed the famous aqueduct that suppUes the city of Milan with water, \Vhich goes by the name of Mortesana, and by which the waters of Adda are conducted two hundred miles to the city. The following anecdote has an interest, as illustrating the wonderful versatility of Lionardo's talent. The painter, the sculptor, the architect, the poet, the man of science and polite literature, the accomplished gentle- man and soldier, and distinguished alike in all, it exhibits him also as remarkably inge- nious in the principles and art of mechanics. In 1479, when Louis XII, of France, was to make his entrance into Milan, he con- structed an automaton lion, which marched out to meet the King, reared upon its hind legs, and, opening its breast, displayed an escutcheon with the arms of France quarter- ed upon it. In the military sports and feats which were performed, Lionardo was um-i- valled ; and, as a horseman, he excited universal admiration, by the boldness and skill with which he could manage the wild- est and most imgovernable steed. Louis greatly coveted the honor of possessing so distinguished an acquisition to his court, and LIONARDO DA VINCI. 59 is said to have made him splendid offers ; but Lionardo dechned them all. Certainly^ however, he felt no great friendship for, or sympathy with, the Duke, who possessed a countenance expressing low passions, and which could excite in the high-minded artist only aversion and disgust. There was one, also, who was constantly with the Duke, that regarded the Florentine with an evil eye : this was the Prior of the Dominican convent. Though his words dropped honey, the honey was mingled with gall. His dark malicious eyes looked slily out from over-hanging eye-brows ; his fore- head was knit into a thousand wrinkles, and his scornful mouth covered with a bristly red beard ; his nose hooked over this frightful mouth, like the beak of some obscene bird ; in short, his whole appearance inspired dis- trust and detestation. Nothing could exceed the displeasure with which this monk regarded Lionardo ; whose abhorrence for so fiend-like a countenance, and contempt for the character of which it was the mirror, were probably hardly concealed. Every honor which the Duke conferred upon the artist, he considered an insult to himself, and he determined to hcs- 60 LIONARDO DA VINCI. itate at no means Avhich might accomplish his niin. Lionardo soon found himself at the com't of the Duke of Milan, in a situation wholly uncongenial to his tastes, and a gloom took possession of his mind, which he in vain en- deavored to banish. He sometimes succeed- ed in the open air, when he was engaged in his mechanical or architectural works ; for then the bright and glowing colors of nature spread their own hues over his feelings. The fresh air invigorated his mind ; the showers of the morning, the dews of the evening, the exhalations of the night, the starry vault of the heavens, all gave impulse to his spirit, and carried him over hills and through valleys. But, when he sat silent before his easel, then did his brow become clouded, and his hand unsteady. Many of Lionardo's pictm-es of this period are lost. He often destroyed them himself, in a fit of disgust, when they only wanted a few mas- terly strokes to complete them. The Duke possessed an ardent love of the fine arts: his great misfortune was that of having fallen so entirely under the influence of the artful Dominican, who swayed him to his own purposes, which were all low and LIONARDO DA VINCI, 61 selfish. Often did he stand enraptured over the works of the artist. " This," he would exclaim, " will be the gem of my collection. Gifted Florentine ! proceed with thy work, and ask what thou wilt. All price is be- low it." The Dominican was enraged by all the new honors heaped upon Lionardo, and he determined to destroy him. He had minute- ly observed him ; studied his character, and the peculiar, delicate constitution of his mind. Hatred is patient and indefatigable. He knew that Lionardo's pencil became powerless, unless his taste, mind, and heart went along with it ; and on this knowledge he formed his plan. " My Lord," said he to the Duke, " I feel most bitterly for your many disappointments. No sooner have you set your heart upon a picture, than the capricious and daring Flor- entine draws his brush over it. Let me ad- vise you to sit for your own portrait — this at least he will not presume to dishonor — and you may have one perfect gem from his hand for your collection." The Duke seized instantly upon the idea. " You shall paint my portrait," said he to Lionardo ; " then one of your pictures, at 62 LIONARDO DA VINCI. least, will be saved from destruction. Yoiir respect for me, as well as yom- affection, will not permit you to draw the brush over the lineaments of your friend and patron." The artist trembled at the order. How, indeed, could Lionai'do, who delighted to paint nature in its fairest forms, endure such a subject, such a combination of physical ugliness, utterly unredeemed by moral beau- ty ? The red shock hair, the grey twink- ling eyes, the pale, ashy cheek, and ill- shapen head — it \\ras impossible, and yet the Duke commanded it ! Refuse he could not. Yet, if he obeyed, could he prostitute his glorious art to flatter the tyrant, and disguise his hideousness by a deceitful falsehood ? While, if he painted him true to natiue, what a specimen of his art would go down to posterity, to be pointed at through after ages, as a proof that Lionardo da Vinci sold his pencil for gold ! It was in vain that he called upon the spirit of his master, Andrea. " Well then," exclaimed Lionardo, " I must drink the bitter cup, and paint him as he is. It is true he will read in his portrait his own hateful character ; but I will not degrade nry pencil by flattery — I will not deserve the scorn of after ages." LIONARDO DA VINCI. 63 With a trembling hand he took the pencil, while the Duke sat before him with proud importance, and arrayed in princely ermine. Behind him the Dominican had placed him- self, and looked at the artist with exulting malice, reading in his troubled eye and trembling hand, the full influence of the malignant spell which his wiles had cast upon him. In vain Lionardo essayed to draw an outline ; he saw nothing but the horrible face of the monk. At length he exclaimed, throwing down his pencil, " I can do nothing unless your highness remain with me alone." The Duke ordered the Domini- can to depart, and a new motive to revenge arose in the monk's heart. Lionardo proceeded with his work, day after day, but the nearer the painting ap- proached its completion, the more dissatisfied became the artist. At length, however, the last stroke was given, and it stood against the wall completed in all its revolting ugliness. " How," cried Lionardo, losing all self- command, " shall a picture like this go down to posterity ? Shall I tarnish my fame and soil the art by such a specimen? rather perish my art — rather perish myself! " ex- claimed he, striking his foot with violence against the pannel. It flew into fragments. 64 LIONARDO DA VINCI. " So, so, master," said the Dominican, entering the room, by the command of the Duke, to see the picture conveyed to him. He had come with the intention of working him up to this catastrophe, but it was un- necessary — the ungovernable passions of the artist had anticipated him. " So, master Lionardo, I perceive thou art possessed of an evil spirit. I will not interrupt thee ; " — and he hastily retired. Lionardo awoke from the delirium of passion to a consciousness of the deed. A feeling of self-reproach came over hirri, which was even more poignant than his fears of the vengeance of the Prince. It was his protector, his benefactor, that he had thus insulted. " What have I done ! " he ex- claimed, as he gazed upon the fragments, and gathered them from the floor. " Those eyes have looked upon me with kindness — those colorless lips have spoken words of friendship. O, my Prince, whatever thou wert to others, to me thou wert a friend and benefactor ! " and his teai-s fell fast upon the fragments of the picture. The door opened, and a messenger came to say that the Duke required his presence. Lionardo trembled. — "I may not call LIONARDO DA VINCI. 65 on thee, Andrea," said he, " I have sinned against thy precepts." With faltering steps he approached the Duke, whose countenance was dark and lowering. Beside him stood the hated monk, with folded hands and affected hu- mility. " What have you done with my portrait ? " exclaimed the Duke, with suppressed passion. " Destroyed it ! " replied Lionardo, with a trembling voice. " And why ? " said the Duke, still com- manding himself. " It was the feeling of his own worthless- ness, sire," exclaimed the monk, " the con- sciousness that he could not do you justice." "It is false ! " said Lionardo. " False ! " exclaimed the Duke, approach- ing him, his face pale with rage, " speak, what was thy motive ? " " Madness," answered Lionardo, firmly, " madness, and want of self-command." The Duke stood silent for a moment. — " Whatever was the cause," said he, " per- haps you have done well, and I forgive you if you accept my conditions." " Name them, my Prince," said Lionardo, " command me through fire and water, and 5 66 LIONARDO DA VINCI. you shall be obeyed. Make me undergo any torments, I will not complain. I will devote my best art, day and night, to redeem my crime, and to render myself worthy of your goodness." " Be it so, then," said the Duke. " You shall no longer have yoiu" attention distracted by the things of this world ; — your art shall be consecrated to holy purposes. The re- fectory of the Dominican cloister needs deco- ration, and your talent shall be devoted to this work. I will give you one year to ac- complish it." The Prior was astonished at the calmness of the Duke ; he had expected to see the storm burst and overwhelm the artist : he had not sufficiently estimated the conse- quence, or even sanctity, which genius be- stows on its possessor. The Florentine was already the ornament of the age, and com- manded the respect of nations. The monk cast a malicious glance at him. Lionardo felt its force ; it was hard for him to be shut up with such a man a whole year, and to be subject to the petty vexations he might in- flict, and to which he knew his malice was fully equal. But he determined to bear with fortitude the evils he had drawn upon him- LIONARDO DA VINCI. 67 self, and to labor to redeem the confidence of his patron. Bat what subject should he select ? — this was a new perplexity ; and months passed in a disordered and unhinged state of mind, which rendered it impossible for him either to conceive or execute any work of art. One day, when the Passion Week had just begun, Lionardo was walking in the beauti- ful gardens near Milan. His mind was pon- dering on the subject of his painting. The spring had already awaked the young blos- soms from their winter's sleep, and the trees and hedges were crowned with the fresh foliage of the season. " I will paint the scene sacred to our Lord ! " he exclaimed, — " his last supper with his disciples — would that my pencil were equal to the subject ! " The sun was just setting as he returned home, his mind filled with the vastness of the project. Unconsciously he arrived at the cloister of the Dominicans ; the pealing tone^ of the organ struck upon his ear, while the lofty roof of the church resounded with the chant of the monks. The solemn sound had stilled the tumult of his breast, and his heart was filled with gentle and deeply religious emotions. 68 LIONARDO DA VINCI. '' O thou," he cried, " who died for the sius of the human nature, which is so sinful and passionate in me, — how shall my feeble hand portray thy glory ! How shall I paint that last sorrowful night when the Apostles gathered around thee ! " As he dwelt on the subject, it gradually expanded to his mind ; he beheld the long table and the Saviour in the midst of his dis- ciples — the last rays of evening shining on his head — a mild radiance beaming from his eyes, when he exclaimed, " Verily, I say unto you, one of you shall betray me. " And with what beauty did the group spring to light under the pencil inspired by such emotion ! How fresh and yet how soft the coloring ! BiU it was indeed an arduous task. Spring had come round, and two of the heads yet remained unfinished — the Saviour's and that of Judas, — the one be- cause his soul trembled to approach it, — the other because the beautiful purity of his own spirit shrank in horror from the task of por- traying fitly such a visage. In vain Lionardo sat before his easel, with liis pencil in his hand, and prayed for divine inspiration to paint the Saviour of the world. His touch was cold and formal ; where was LIONARDO DA VINCI. 69 the heavenly benevolence that irradiated his face — the pitying forgiveness towards the Apostle who he knew would deny him — the glance of divine sorrow unmixed with anger, which he cast upon his betrayer ? And the contrast of the traitor, hoAV was he ever to portray it worthily ? The last week arrived, and the heads were yet unfinished. •' Dost thou know the conditions ? " ex- claimed the exulting monk — " success or death ; so said the Duke, and his word is never recalled." " I know them well," replied Lionardo, in a despairing tone. '• Then hasten on thy work," said the Dominican. " Is life so worthless that thou canst not afford a daub of thy brush to save it ? As well might the mighty discovery of painting have slumbered, if it will not do thee this slight service. Come, lend me thy brush — to-morrow is the day — 1 will fur- nish thee with a head, and perhaps it may save thine own," fastening upon liim a searching glance, with a flashing expression of conscious power and triumph. " Ha," exclaimed Lionardo, " I thank thee, good sir Prior, for this last offer — thou hast indeed inspired me." 70 LIONARDO DA VINCI. He hastened to the refectory, closed and secured the door, and through the rest of that day, and the whole solitude of that last night, sat almost without intermission at the glorious work which has immortalized him. The head of Judas was completed before the shades of night came on ; but that of the Saviour still remained. There was the beau- tiful oval — the locks parted on the forehead — but all else of the face was a blank. He felt the task beyond his power ; yet his generous spirit would not profane his own ideal, nor degrade his art, by an unworthy performance. The last rays of the sun were setting ; he turned towards the west. " Andrea," he cried, " now in this hour of my last extremi- ty of despair — let my voice reach thee among the shades of the palm-trees of para- dise ! " As by a sudden inspiration, confidence took possession of his mind — celestial images floated before his imagination — the pealing roof seemed to ring with hosannas — and in the vacant space the imagination of the painter beheld the countenance, the divine countenance, which he had been in vain attempting to portray. LIONARDO DA VINCI. 71 Once more he seizes his brush — he has only to follow the traits impressed forever by that single vision-gleam on his memory. Now, indeed, the work was soon completed. The next morning Lionardo did not make his appearance, nor was any reply returned to the applications of the Prior at the door : it was the day on which the picture was to be exhibited, and his remorseless enemy ex- ulted in the belief, that, in his despair, he had sought the fate of the Judas he had found himself incompetent to depict. At length the hour arrived, and the Duke Sforza, accompanied by the principal nobility of Milan, proceeded in state to the Dominican monastery, and gave orders that the refectory should be thrown open. The picture, which was upon the wall at one end, was concealed by a curtain ; and the artist stood with his eyes cast down, and an expression of deep dejection. There was a confused murmur of voices. Curiosity and eager expectation were expressed in every countenance but that of the Prior's ; on his sat triumphant revenge ; the picture, he was confident, was unfinished in the most impoftant figiues, as he had himself seen it so on the preceding day. 72 LIONARDO DA VINCI. " Let the curtain be withdrawn," said the Duke. Lionardo moved not — the deep emotion of the artist rendered him powerless. The Dominican, unable to comprehend such feelings, was confirmed in the belief that the withdrawing of the cmtain would be the death-warrant of Lionardo ; — he hastily seized the string, and by a sudden pull the curtain opened, and the Last Supper of Lionardo da Vinci stood revealed to the world. Not a sound for a few moments broke the stillness that prevailed : at length murmurs of applause were heard, increasing, as the influence of the glorious work fell fuller upon the eirthusiastic minds of the Italians, to raptures. The Duke arose and stood before Lionardo. " Well, noble Florentine, hast thou atoned for thy fault ; I am proud to forgive thee all. On — on, to glory, to im- mortality — high rewards shall be thine. But why, holy father," said he to the Prior, who still stood motionless and pale, before the pictiue — "why stand you speechless there — see you not how nobly he has re- deemed his pledge ? " All eyes were turned upon the Dominican LIONARDO DA VINCI. 73 — then to the figure of Judas. Suddenly they exclaimed, with one voice, "It is he! it is he ! " The brothers and monks of the cloister, who detested the Prior, repeated — " Yes, it is he — the Judas Iscariot who betrayed his master ! " After the first surprise was over, suppress- ed laughter was heard. Pale with rage, the Dominican retreated behind the crowd, and made his escape to his cell, with the emo- tions of a demon quelled before the radiant power of an angel's divinity, and the reflec- tion that henceforth he must go down to posterity as a second Judas ! The resem- blance was perfect. And where now was Lionardo da Vinci — he who stood conspicuous among the nobles of the land — he whose might of genius had cast high birth and worldly honors into ob- scurity ? Now, surely, was the hour of his triumph ! Alas, no ! he stood humbled and depress- ed; bitter tears bedewed his cheeks ; and when the cry was repeated again and again, "It is the Prior!" he hastily quitted the presence of the Duke, and in the solitude of his own apartment, on his knees, in an agony 74 LIONARDO DA VINCI. of repentance, "O Andrea, my master!" he exclaimed, " how have I sinned against thy memory, our art, and my own soul ! I have sinned, I have sinned ! It was a sacrilege — in the same hour in which thou didst answer my prayer with the blessed inspiration of the vision of the Redeemer ! I am unwor- thy of thy love, of thy divine art, and of my own respect. ' Revenge can have no part in a great mind,' was thy last precept — how much better didst thou know me than I knew myself! Strengthen and guide, hence- forth, my weak and sinful nature." Such were the emotions of the artist, while all Milan and Italy rang with the fame of the work which he himself so bitterly repented. All flocked to see it, and his re- nown Avas at its zenith. He shunned the applause, and in a humble spirit devoted himself to the pursuit of a nobler triumph than he had already achieved — the triumph over himself. This is the history of that celebrated paint- ing, the Last Supper of Lionardo da Vinci, which is familiar to all, from the innumera- ble copies distributed through every civilized country, by the pencil and the burin. It is commonly understood to be a fresco ; but it LIONARDO DA VINCI. 75 is not. It was painted on the dry plastering, with the use of distilled oils, in a manner invented by Lionardo. This circumstance has caused its decay. It is still in the re- fectory of the Dominican convent, at Milan ; though, having sustained much injury from ill usage, especially when the convent was occupied by French troops at the close of the last century, it gives the traveller now but an indistinct idea of its original glory. Lionardo da Vinci, in 1520, visited France, in consequence of the pressing solicitation of the noble and chivalric Francis I. His health was feeble, and the king often came to see him at Fontainbleau. One, day when he entered, Lionardo rose up in his bed to receive him, but in the effort, fainted from excess of weakness. Francis hastened to support him, but the eyes of the artist had closed forever; and Lionardo lay encircled in the arms of the monarch. This sketch was published in 1826. For some parts re- lating to " The Last Supper," the author was indebted to a German legend ; also to a German Tragedy for some ideas in the life of Corregio. MICHELANGELO. The shades of evening were mantling the Castle of Caprese ; already its base was buried in darkness, while the last rays of light still rested on its towers, giving an air of mysterious grandem* to the venerable pile. On a projecting crag, that hung over the deep river below, distinguished from the dark foliage only by the few gleams of light reflected from its surface, sat a pale melan- choly boy. Sometimes he leaned fearlessly forward, as if to catch the sound of the dis- tant water-fall, or of the soft rippling of the wave ; then his eye turned to the ivy-clad tower?. As he looked, turret after turret gradually disappeared, till only one lingering ray remained on the loftiest tower, and the building stood dark and frowning, an undis- tinguishable mass, with only its bold outline visible. MICHELANGELO. 77 '' Home of my Fathers ! " he exclaimedj "abode of my ancestors! These halls have once been thronged by fair ladies, and noble knis-hts ; now how deserted and forlorn ! Well does the gloom that surrounds it shadow forth its history ; and yet," he con- tinued with animation, "one ray, one glori- ous ray lingers long on its summit. Desola- tion and ruin may hover round its base, but hght and glory shall yet rest on its towers." Slowly he arose and bent his steps towards the ancient pile. There was nothing of the springing elasticity of youth and boyhood ; his movements were measured and dignified and well corresponded with the thoughtful- ness that sat upon his brow. As he entered the hall of the castle, he met his father who had been anxiously ex- pecting him. '• Welcome, my son," said he in a tone of mingled grief and reproach. "It is not well for thee to tempt the night air ; Avherc hast thou been thus long ? " " Part of my time has been passed at the village of Settiniano, and in wandering among its quarries of marble." " And the other part ? " The youth hesitated. The father arose. 78 MICHELANGELO. " All that remains to me now," he exclaim- ed, " is my son. To him I look for the solace as well as brightness of my closing life. Ah ! shall it be that I am to see him degraded by base associations, and the pre- dictions of astrologers proved false ? " " What is it you fear, father ? " said the youth, calmly interrupting him. " I have been told, that your foster sister, Caterina, is called fair. Can it be, my son, that you have suffered yourself to be capti- vated by this village beauty ? " "Is it of Michelangelo," exclaimed the youth, his dark eyes flashing, " that you ask this question ? of him who is captivated by the arts ? " " How, then, and where," said Ludovico, " do you pass day after day ? " '' In the house of my foster-father. He is a sculptor, and his work-shop is filled with the implements of his art, and a few noble speci- mens of ancient sculpture : it is there I have exercised the chisel, and truly the days are too short." " I cannot suffer my son," said the proud Ludovico, " to disgrace himself by a mechan- ical employment taken from the low horn. Know you not tlie high destiny to which you are ordained ? " MICHELANGELO. , 79 " I feel it," replied the youth, with solemnity. " Thou mayst read it," returned the fa- ther. " This parchment contains the horo- scope of thy nativity. Retire to thine own apartment, and study it well. Thou wilt then perceive that thy days are not to be passed in employments that befit the peas- ants of Settiniano." The youth took the parchment and sought his solitary apartment, situated in the highest turret of the castle. Here, perched like an eagle on its nest, he was accustomed to watch the clouds as they rolled majestically along, or were heaped in masses against the azure sky. Frequently, to his imagination, they assumed the shape of gigantic rocks, and of giant banditti starting from behind them. The window overlooked the hills and vallies of Tuscany, which were now veiled in darkness, except where a ray of light streamed through the parting clouds, and yet rested on the bosom of the wander- ing Arno. With intense interest he unrolled the parchment, and, trimming his antique lamp, read the following document : — " Near the convent of St. Francis, in the Castle of Caprese, on the sixth day of March, 80 MICHELANGELO. and at the eighth hour of the Sabbath even- ing, was born a boy, to whom his father, as if by the inspiration of heaven, gave the name of Michelangelo, implying that the child was destined to divine works. The horoscope of his nativity confirmed the idea; for it was found that the conjunction of Mercury and Venus took place at that time, and that they were received into the house of Jupiter with a benign aspect ; which fully demonstrates that the boy, by his genius and skill, will produce wonderful and stupendous works of art." * The young Michelangelo threw the docu- ment aside. " What," he exclaimed, " are the predic- tions of astrologers ? what the ambitious ten- derness of a parent, if the inspiration be not here ? " and he laid his hand on his heart. It throbbed with almost supernatural force ; he arose, and threw open the casement for air ; he panted as if the narrow confines of the body could hardly contain the soul. Just above the highest mountain, the beautiful planet Mars shone with unusual lustre ; but Venus, the other star of his nativity, was no * For the original of this document, see Vasari, Vita di Michelaguolo. MICHELANGELO. 81 where to be found. Was this too an omen of his future life ? By degrees his mind returned to a calm and natural state ; and he once more sought the presence of his father. They sat together over their evening re- past of bread and Tuscan grapes, and the heart of Ludovico grew lighter as he looked in the face of his boy. There were none of the gentle lineaments of his now angel mother, but there was the noble bearing of undaunted truth, and of unextinguishable genius. A smile played over the counte- nance of Ludovico as he exclaimed, " Thou art an idle boy to spend thy days in wander- ing among the quarries of Settiniano." "Is he idle," replied the boy, "whose mind is filled with conceptions for the fu- ture ? " " It ill becomes one of the Canossa line to pass day after day, in hewing stone." A slight curve of the lip expressed the feelings of the young Buonaroti. " Father," said he, " it is only in our dark age of Italy, that sculpture has been considered a mechan- ical employment, fit only for hirelings and slaves. Among the Greeks, an artist might be a legislator, a statesman, or the com- 6 82 MICHELANGELO. mander of armies ; and the time is not far distant when a second Phidias shall transfer the age of Pericles to our own Etruria. What Donatello has begun, another will be found to complete." "No doubt," said Lndovico, "there are many with muscles and limbs that fit them for such an employment. It is highly cred- itable to thy foster-father. But thou, my son, hast thou studied the horoscope of thy nativity ? " " If there is truth in this parchment," said Michelangelo, " I am destined to perform wonderful works. Place me with Domenico Ghirlandajo, and let Sculpture and Painting contend for the victory." Ludovico perceiving that it would be use- less to oppose his son's inclinations, at length consigned him to the care of Ghirlandajo, with an indefinite feeling that he was born to an extraordinary destiny. Here Michelangelo had the courage and skill to correct some of his master's works j and was regarded as a youth, whose opinion had no little authority. Yet, even at this early age, he was perhaps more feared than loved. His mind seemed concentrated upon tlie pursuits of art, and he never mingled in MICHELANGELO. 83 the boyish sports of his companions. He was one day busily employed, when a stran- ger entered the school, and, after carefully scrutinizing the works of the scholars, at length approached Michelangelo. There was but little in the stranger's appearance to excite ciu-iosity ; yet genius has an intuitive sympathy with genius. He spoke to the youth, examined his work, and then, turning to Domenico, said, " By yoiu: leave, I select this youth for the garden of St. Mark. Will it accord with his views ? " " Ay," replied Ghirlandajo, significantly, " do you think the eagle does not ken his eyry ? " Personal beauty is naturally connected with the epithet " Magnificent " attached to Lorenzo's name, but historians do not ascribe it to him. He is said to have been tall and robust in his figure, but not symmetrical : his sight was weak, his voice harsh and un- pleasing. Over his whole bearing, however, was thrown an air of dignity, and, when en- gaged in conversation, his countenance was lighted up from within. Michelangelo fixed his eyes upon him, and the stranger seemed perfectly to understand their language of silent homage, to which ht was so much accustomed in others. 84 MICHELANGELO. When he had left the place, Buonaroti asked of those near, " who the noble stranger might be ? " " Do you not know the Duke," they re- plied '• Lorenzo de' Medici ? " " I did not," replied the youth, " but henceforth we shall know each other.' ^ The gardens of Lorenzo, so celebrated in history, were near the monastery of St. Mark. The school was then under the care of the venerable Bartoldo ; and here Buonaroti not only became conspicuous for his wonderful talents, but was taught a pain- ful lesson, often repeated to him in after life, of the ungovernable bitterness of envy, when, after long rankling in a fellow artist's breast, it at length breaks forth into open hostility. . Torrigiano was likewise a pupil of the school. Both were zealous in their occupa- tions, and eager to distinguish themselves in the eyes of their great patron. The task had been assigned them of modeling some figures in clay. Torrigiano having first finished and exhibited his, was invited by Michelangelo to see how he had succeeded. Torrigiano looked upon the work of his young fellow-student with astonishment, and at once perceived in it, indications of power MICHELANGELO. 8S which was to throw him into obscurity. With an impulse that appears like insanity, he seized one of the tools, and struck him a violent blow on the face, of which the scar remained through his life. Such an outrage could not remain unpunished, and he was expelled from Florence.* Lorenzo conceived for the young Buona- roti the warmest friendship, and delighted to furnish him with subjects. " How beau- tiful is this Faun," said Lorenzo, looking at a head which the artist had rapidly sketched on a pannel — " how perfect would it be, so well done in marble." Michelangelo took the hint, and executed the. figure in stone, to the astonishment of Lorenzo, who ex- claimed, " How is it possible, that at this early age you have thus learned to handle the chisel ! " "My Lord," replied the artist, "I imbibed sculpture with my nurse's milk ! " * The melancholy history of Torrigiano perhaps may suggest the idea that there was a vein of insanity in his whole life. His violent and impatient spirit drew upon him the observation of the Inquisition in Spain, where he finally repaired. He was sent from one prison to another, and at last was condemned to death as a heretic ; but happi- ly his life closed before the sentence was executed. Vasari, vol. 5. Vila di Torrigiano. 86 MICHELANGELO. *' There is a defect, however," said Lo- renzo, smiling ; " your Faim has ranged the woods for centuries, yet has the teeth of youth." Michelangelo, struck with the justness of the remark, immediately broke out some of the teeth, and mutilated others, so as to give the appearance of age. While Michelangelo was increasing in the grandeur of his conceptions, cherished, and, what was yet more important, appreciated by Lorenzo, a terrible blow was impending over him. Lorenzo de' Medici, whose name, even to this remote period, is encircled by the halo of taste and science, who reigned in the re- public of Florence with supremacy, which hereditary monarchs have vainly sought — because his empire was that of the mind — Lorenzo the Magnificent, whose patronage of the arts is one of the most important eras in Italian history, was suddenly called from earth, and removed to a brighter sphere. While the Italian world was in tears, Michelangelo shed none. Dark and silent was his sorrow. It was long before he gave utterance to his grief Then he exclaimed, " What is this great world to me ? no one MICHELANGELO. 87 now knows me or feels for me. I am as well understood by the block I chisel, as by the beings around me. I will quit this place of forms and rules. I will go back to the Castle of Caf rese. There at least I may find sympathy in the grand and sublime ob- jects of nature. The sky, the mountains, the rivers and the ocean ; whirlwinds and tempests, speak of him who created them ; but man, man ! who has so perverted the image of the Deity — my soul has no com- munion with him. With one only it claimed affinity, and the loss of that one, the friend of virtue, of worth, I will mourn in solitude." The violence done him by Torrigiano, of which he was constantly reminded by the unfortunate scar, made a lasting impression on his feelings, and for a time created in him a degree of misanthropy towards his fellow- men. In the beautiful woods of Arezzo, Michel- angelo found the consolation and divine sup- port his spiritual nature sought. Contempla- tion* was his daily food. There he phuiged into the invisible depths of thought, and thence took a bolder flight. The divinity stirred within him ; new creations rose to his mind. As Adam walked with God in the gar- 88 MICHELANGELO. den of Eden, so here, — he wrote of himself to his friend Vasari, — " Here I am fed with angels' food. The thunder speaks to my esir with the voice of ages ; the winds come rushing with almighty power. They talk of nature ; and what is nature but the spirit of God, filling man with inspiration? what beauty, but the weed in which he dresses the soul he has created ? Mine possesses a spiritual life, which seeks not its aliment from the earth. It would live in the infinite, the invisible. I am surrounded by what the world calls natural beauty, spread out before me in the Val d'Arno and on the vine cover- ed hills of Tuscany. I look not upon them. My soul seeks its enjoyment in the being from whom it emanates. It quits the low scenes of earth, and rises to the great First Cause. At times, I lose my own identity, and feel as if I were absorbed in the supreme invisible." When time had softened his sorrow for Lorenzo's death, he resumed his former occupations. Ludovico began to discover that his" son would find the path to that greatness predict- ed by his horoscope : he no longer chid his late wanderings, but suffered him to pursue his eccentric coiurse unmolested. MICHELANGELO, 89 Pietro de' Medici succeeded Lorenzo, in- heriting from his predecessor a love for the fine arts, but without his knowledge or judg- ment. It became his earnest wish to engage Michelangelo in his service. He knew that he had collected many valuable antiquities ; that it had been the recreation of his leisure hours to study the gems of art, the intaglios and medals, which Lorenzo had collected. Pietro wished him to take care of his cabi- nets, and, above all, he was desirous of possessing a work of Michelangelo, that should be made exclusively for himself. Fortune favored his puerile fancy. There fell an uncommon quantity of snow at Florence, and he entreated of Buonaroti to raise a statue from it in his court-yard. It may be interesting to inquire, why the artist consented. Perhaps from the generous pleas- ure of gratifying the son of his regretted friend; perhaps he wished to convince the Florentines that grandeur of effect is inde- pendent of the materials. Whatever were his reasons, he did consent to figure as an Improvisatore in sculpture. A gigantic statue was raised, and, for the three days during which it lasted, attracted crowds of admirers. 90 MICHELANGELO. It is likewise evident that Bnonaroti had a higher motive in view, than the desire of .giving specimens of sculpture, architecture or painting to Florence. He wished to excite a general emulation and enthusiasm for the arts ; and probably this was the great secret of the statue of snow, upon which so many conjectures have been hazarded. He consented to remain with Pietro, de- voting himself to the culture of his own taste, as well as to the service of his patron. He was often the Duke's counselor also, and endeavored to restrain his excessive prodi- gality. But Pietro's folly and imprudence at length despised restraint, and so incensed the people that he was expelled from Flor- ence in the year 1494. Michelangelo, foreseeing the calamities which were impending over the city, deter- mined to repair to Bologna ; but he was still young, new to the world, unacquainted with its forms, and, strange as it may seem, un- provided with money. When he arrived at Bologna, his passport was demanded. He had neglected to provide himself with one, and, not complying with the forms of law, was conducted to prison as a suspected person. MICHELANGELO. 91 The horror of that night, he has feelingly- described in a letter to one of his cotempora- ries. Probably his emotions were partly ex- cited by the troubles at Florence, from which he fled, and by a degree of fever and indispo- sition under which he was laboring. He thus describes it : — " Never shall I forget that night : I was put into a solitary cell where criminals are con- fined, the ladder drawn up, the trap-door closed, and I was left in total darkness. My brain seemed on fire : sometimes there was a supernatural glare of light before my eyes ; then it was succeeded by impenetrable dark- ness, which seemed to have a material sub- stance, pressing upon my respiration. Once I felt as if the walls of my prison were closing in, and I was gradually to be crushed be- tween them. To this night I owe, in some degree, my conceptions of the last judgment." When morning came, he was permitted to behold the light of day, but found he could not regain his liberty, except by paying a fine which was far beyond his means. Fortu- nately, Messer Giovan Aldrovandi visited the prison, and hearing the circumstances, immediately effected his release, and took him to his own house. It appears that he 92 MICHELANGELO. did not know his guest. Soon after, being conducted by Aldrovandi to see the arch of St. Domenico, and observing a figure want- ing, he offered to supply it. When com- pleted, it was the most perfect of the whole, and Lionardo da Vinci happening to be at Bologna at the time, so soon as he saw it, pronounced it to be the work of the young Michelangelo, and thus Aldrovandi learned that the kind office he had performed to a stranger was to find its reward in the friend- ship of Buonaroti. He remained at Bologna a year, always residing in the house of Aldrovandi, who took great delight in his society, and in hear- ing him read the works of Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio. When the troubles in Florence were in some measm-e calmed, and the Med- ici family returned to Florence, Michelangelo took leave of Aldrovandi, and returned to the land of his affections. He had never been happy at Bologna. It was at this time that he amused himself with practising a deception upon the anti- quarians ; who, not content with bestowing due praise upon the works of ancient art, were eternally grubbing in old holes, and extolling whatever they found there, as supe- MICHELANGELO. 93 rior to all which modern times had produced. He made a statue of a sleeping Cupid ; and, having cut off one of its arms, and slightly disfigured it, buried it where it was likely to be come at by the virtuosi. It was accord- ingly discovered, and lauded as a master- piece of ancient genius, which modern skill could not equal — until Michelangelo, pro- ducing the arm, claimed the statue as his own, and compelled the critics to allow, that merit was not confined to antiquity. It has been said of hand-writing that it is expressive of the character. How much more justly may this observation be applied to the arts of Sculpture and Painting. The works of Michelangelo are perfectly charac- teristic of himself. He was unequalled in the fearless grandeur of his conceptions, con- sidering actual beauty as a weed, (to use his own expression,) in comparison with the sub- lime ideal he had formed ; and so wholly absorbed in the loftiness of that idea as to lose sight of those graces which are essen- tial to perfection. In later life, as a subse- ([ucnt sonnet proves, he seems to have felt more tenderness for such beauty as he found, and considered it as a medium through which the soul might rise to its Creator. It was an 94 MICHELANGELO. essential error in him to suppose' that nature can be divested of any of its perfections and retain its harmony. Of none could it be said more justly than of him, that, " possessed himself by a heroic passion, he used matter as symbols of it." The seal-ring, which he always wore, seemed to be a part of himself ; neither the beauty of the intaglio nor the costliness of it, accounts for the value he set upon it. It was a gift of friendship from Lorenzo de' Medici. The artist had to contend with Lionardo da Vinci for the Sculptor's palm. A large block of marble had been placed in the hands of Simon da Fiesole, from which he had begun to chisel a giant ■ but wholly failing in his attempt, he gave the matter up, and it was determined that this valuable block, which had been laid aside for a number of yesirs, should be brought into use. It was first offered to Lionardo ; but, after examining it, he declined the task, and said that the work could not be executed Avithout additional ])ieces, it had already been so much injiu-ed. Michelangelo was the man whose skill was adequate to adapting conception and execu- tion to the material which was offered, and MICHELANGELO. 95 he did not hesitate to undertake the work. From this block he executed the colossal statue of David, and so accommodated his idea to the shape of the mass, as to leave some of his predecessor's work untouched ; which gave rise to the observation, that '^ Michelangelo had raised the dead." * After the statue was completed, a difficulty arose how it should be conducted to the des- tined place without injury. By the contri- vance of two brother architects, a tower- shaped frame was made, to the roof of which the figure was suspended in a manner to vibrate at every inclination, and it was thus successfully transported. " The nose is too large," observed Soder- ini, who aff'ected to be a critic. Michelangelo ascended the steps with an instrument, and after pretending to work upon the face, and blowing about some dust which he had secretly taken with him, exclaimed, "■ How is it now? " '' Excellent," said Soderini, and the artist suffered him to enjoy his opinion, but said afterwards that " Sodcrini's was about "as good as most criticism." Michelangelo deeply deplored the unhappy ♦ " Far risuscilare uno che era mono." — VASAni. 96 MICHELANGELO. State of Florence. The lines written by him under the figure of Night, are expressive of the state of his feelings. Though the softer elements of his character had not been fos- tered by maternal kindness, there was not wanting a deep spring of sensibility, which circumstances sometimes caused to overflow. Under the celebrated statue of Night, which had been intended for the tomb of the Medici, Baptista Strozzi wrote the following lines : — Night, v'hora thou seest so calmly sleeping Was by an Angel formed. Though by this marble held iu keeping, By life the figure's warmed. Yet, should thy mind of doubt partake, Thou need's! but speak, and she '11 awake. ORIGINAL. La Notte, che tu vedi in si dolci atti, Dormire, fu da un Angelo scolpita In questo sasso ; e perche dorme, ha vita; Destela, se no'l credi, e parleratti. Michelangelo shortly after observed the writing, and, with an emotion which fully evinced his sensibility, wrote this reply, in the person of night : Grateful to me is this repose ; More grateful still to be of stone. MICHELANGELO. 97 While o'er my country evil flows, To see nor feel is peace alone. Then let me sleep o'er ills forgot : Speak low ! I pray thee wa,ke me not ! ORIGINAL. Grato mi e il sonno, e piCi I'esser di sasso Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura, Non veder non sentir m' e gran ventura. Pero non mi destar ; deh parla basso ! It was the fate of the artist to hve in the most turbulent times of Florence. Yet her agonizing struggles for liberty are less melan- choly than her death-like slumber. When Alexander the Moor, as he was called, was placed by Clement VII at the head of the republic, its spirit seems to have been sub- dued, and he entered the deserted palace of the Medici amidst the shouts and adulation of the multitude. The noble families that could not brook this degradation, quitted the city. Among those who remained was Clar- ice the daughter of Pietro de' Medici, who had married Philip Strozzi, renowned for his immense wealth and the power that wealth gave him over the various factions which divided the country. The proud spirit of Clarice could ill bear the assumption of Alex- 7 98 MICHELANGELO. ander, and in silence and solitude she mourn- ed over the unhappy destiny of her native land. Even this solace, however, became dangerous. Her husband was too conspic- uous and perhaps too ambitious, to retire from the contest. It was thought necessary for his security that he should join with others in paying honor to the new Duke, and invitations were issued for a festival at the Strozzi palace. To this Michelangelo was invited ; but he declined, saying, ironically, " Messer Fihppo, sarebbe troppo," it would be too much. When the invitation, however, was again repeated, to meet the noble family with a small circle of friends and artists, he did not, as before, refuse. There he became acquaint- ed with the beautiful daughter of his host. She was then in the first bloom of youth, and Michelangelo experienced that sympathy which comes from the depths of the heart. She was neither poetess, musician, nor paint- er, but endowed with the genius of all, and spurned the mediocrity which generally be- longs to the works of a mere amateur of the arts. Amidst the corruption that prevailed around her, she trod the path of life with dignity and firmness. Till this period Buon- MICHELANGELO. 99 arotti had discovered the utmost impatience when obhged to mingle in general society — but her voice possessed a pecuhar charm. He regarded her as a model of beauty, and her gentle, beaming smile sent gladness to his heart. As their acquaintance progressed, he discovered the justness of her taste, and skill in the arts ; and when, added to this, he viewed, her as a lineal descendant of the Medici family, his admiration seems to have been without bounds. It has been suggested that a more tender sentiment at that time arose in the heart of Michelangelo. The great disproportion in their years might alone have been sufficient to prevent it ; but a stronger reason existed ; she had already given her heart to another. That the young beauty delighted to honor the artist, there are many records, but none more characteristic than her visit to his studio, recorded by Rosini. She was accom- panied by her mother and the celebrated Cellini. When they arrived at Michelan- gelo's house, they found Urbino at the door, who conducted the visitors to his master. He received them in a dress whicii he never wore out of his studio. It was singu- larly plain, and made for work. On liis head 100 MICHELANGELO. was placed a coarse paper cap, such as stone cutters often wear at the present day, at the apex of which was fixed a contrivance of his own, a small socket, where at night he was accustomed to ptit a candle, the light of which, coming from a high point, threw its rays on the marble he was sculpturing in such a manner that he could discover the slightest imperfections, swells and cavities, more distinctly than by the light of day. The artist received his unexpected guests with perfect simplicity and without apology for his working-dress. Michelangelo took great pleasure in intel- lectual conversation, and frequently had oppor- tunities of enjoying it in his unceremonious visits, at the mansion of Philip Strozzi. On one occasion, a discussion arose on the con- stancy of love. Some present denied the existence of constancy, and appealed to the artist for his opinion : he evaded the demand for the time, and the next day presented the following lines : — If high eslcem and pure exalted k)ve, With equal fervor, two fond mortals t;hare, Receiving joy and sorrow from above, As if in both one spirit govern'd there, — As if one soul were in two beings joined, — MICHELANGELO. 101 To heaven soaring with an equal flight, Warm'd by the same pure faith each kindred mind, And seeking from within their true delight, Forgetting self, and eager to impart Joy to each other, careless of their own, For the rich plunder of a taken heart Demanding love as love's reward alone, — No earthly power can loose these holy ties; They are but pilgrims here, — their home the skies. While thjs §"ocial intercoiu'se was producing a benign effect upon his character, he received an iuA^itation from Pope Juhus II (which in truth amounted to an order) to paint the vault of the Sistine chapel at Rome. Hith- erto he had devoted himself almost wholly to Sculpture and Architectiue, was unacquaint- ed with fresco painting, and most unwilling to undertake the work proposed to him. To Rome, however, he went, and resolutely shut himself up in the chapel. After many trials and failures, beholding his works mildew almost under his hands, he at length succeed- ed in giving to the world this wonderful monument of human art.* * For painting in fresco, cartoons are first prepared by pasting several thicknesses of paper together, on which the designs are sketched and shaded either in colors, or in black and white. A small portion of the wall is then fresh- ly plastered, and while it is damp, a sfrip is cut from the cartoons and placed upon it. The outline is then pricked 102 MICHELANGELO. While the work was in operation, Jnhiis became extremely impatient, and demanded when it would be finished ? '' When I have satisfied myself," replied Michelangelo. His holiness, thus repulsed, waited some time longer ; but at length became furious at the delay, and on the morning of All-saints day the chapel was thrown open, and high mass performed. The first sight of the work which has found so many admirers since, awakened in that susceptible people an enthusiasm which cannot be adequately described. Vasari, the intimate friend and correspondent of Michel- angelo, speaks of it as of a work divine. After giving an account of its plan, and enumerating the various designs by which the great artist has represented the genealogy of Christ from the beginning, he breaks out, — " Happy age, and happy artists, who have had the opportunity of purifying your eyes at so clear a fountain ; who have found your difficulties all removed and your path pointed or ft-aced through the cartoons, on to the wall ; and the figures, having been thus outlined, and indicated with suffi- cient completeness, the painter begins his work. As the plaster must not dry, he undertakes no more than he can accomplish in one day. MICHELANGELO. 103 out by so wonderful an artist, who has ena- bled you to distinguish truth from falsehood, and who has cleared the mind from its dark clouds. Thank Heaven for its goodness, and strive to imitate Michelangelo in all things." " People collected from all parts, to view this wonderful exhibition of human art, and when they beheld it, were struck dumb with admiration and astonishment." Such is the language of the time. Before the chapel was opened, Michelangelo wished to ornament it, in the style of the old painters, with gold and drapery, that it might be more imposing. The impatience of the Pope defeated this intention, and it was opened in its simple state. The holy father's ideas did not appear, however, to be graduated on a scale of simplicity, and he expressed dissatisfaction at what he chose to consider the baldness of the work. " Reverend father," said Michelangelo, fa- miliarly, " in former times the saints were satisfied with holiness, and did not covet wealth J ^ Few artists have done so much as Michel- angelo, and few have received so much hom- age while living. But neither fame, nor genius, can secure happiness. The summits 104 MICHELANGELO. of the loftiest mountains are buried in mists, while the sun-beam dresses in luxuriant verdure the humblest valley. Like Mont Blanc, he stood pre-eminent and was often enveloped in storms and whirlwinds. With the essential properties of greatness, he wanted the gentler propensities of humanity. The mind, to be serene and tranquil, must be free from turbulent passions. That he often suffered from his own infirmities of temper, is undoubtedly true. That his rivals also suffered from it, cannot be doubted. His jealousy of Lionardo da Vinci drove that noble and high-spirited artist from Florence. Among the many influences which oper- ated upon the character of Michelangelo was the power which the great Lorenzo had ob- tained over his youthful mind, early initiat- ing him into the doctrines of Platonism, which became incorporated with his charac- ter. Then the death of his benefactor had its influence upon him, and still more the unhappy political state of Florence. It is evident that he was greatly in advance of the age in which he lived, and was born to lead, not to follow. This is the distinctive trait of real genius ; it cannot be confined to the narrow limits of others' action ; whether MICHELANGELO. 105 in high or low hfe it finds a path yet untrod- den. Even his patron Lorenzo was drawn into the popular literature, upon which cus- tom and fashion had set its seal, and, with a mind essentially devotional, wrote verses, which he, like Boccaccio, would in later life have gladly consigned to the flames. Mi- chelangelo, on the contrary, when he entered the field of letters, walked almost alone in unsullied purity, never forgetting the inter- ests of his country and the influence which its literature must have upon youth. His love sonnets breathe indeed the mysticism of the philosophy he had espoused ; but they at the same time express the grandeur and purity of his soul. We may easily believe that they were not so taking with the fair ladies of Florence as Petrarch's. A writer has observed, " If ever there was a man truly original, whose greatness was his own, whose fame was maintained by the self-moving springs of his own nature, it was Michelangelo. He imitated none. He form- ed himself upon no models. His sculpture is as diflerent from that of the Greeks, as the mountain-ringing cantations of Polyphemus from an Italian opera." It is customary to speak of him merely as a wonderful cU'tist ; 106 MICHELANGELO. but there was a deep spirituality in the man, which reveals itself, the more he is studied. Something of this may be attributed to the platonic meetings of Lorenzo, which he at- tended, and of which he eagerly imbibed the doctrines. The Duke annually celebrated the seventh of November, (supposed to be the day of Plato's birth and death,) with extra- ordinary pomp, at his villa of Careggi. On this day were assembled the greatest men of the age. Politiano was his friend and house- hold guest. In this abode, where nature and art had lavished its treasures, the modern school of Plato assembled. The large and magnificent hall devoted to the discussions was in the house erected by Lorenzo's grandfather and enlarged by his father. The adjacent grounds were beautifully variegated with wood and water. Here were admitted Landino, Pico, Scala and Ficino, and among this litera- ry group, the young Michelangelo, silent, thoughtful, and observing, and never even in speculation losing sight of the practically useful. The favor of the noble host had already distinguished him as an artist ; but it was the future that developed his character, and proved, that, separated from the arts, he was still the great Michelangelo. ij MICHELANGELO. 107 To the divine poem of Dante he himself attributed much of the formation of his character. He always had this poem with him. It is to be regretted that his copy of it has not been preserved ; for he had illus- trated it with designs upon the margin, which were said to have been exquisite productions. The book was lost at sea, being part of a valuable collection on board of a vessel, which was wrecked on its way to Rome. At the time Michelangelo was at work on the Moses, the marble arrived which was intended for the sepulchre of Giulio. As it was necessary that the people who brought it should be paid, he went to the palace for the sum required ; but being told that he could not be admitted to the Pope, returned and paid the demand himself Again and again he went. He was told that his holi- ness was occupied, and could see no one. " Do you know who I am ? " said Michel- angelo. " Yes, very well," replied the usher ; " but I must obey my orders." The artist returned home, cast one linger- ing look upon his beloved work, his favorite Moses, and then, shaking the dust of the ancient city from his feet, left it indignantly for Florence. 108 MICHELANGELO. On arriving there, he shut himself up. Very soon letters came from the Pope, urging him to return, of which he took no notice, and even refused to read them. Finally, a command arrived for him to return to Rome on penalty of excommunication. Enraged at what he considered a tyranni- cal exercise of power, he determined to quit his native country, and betake himself to Constantinople. At length, however, he was appeased by the Pope's proposing to meet him half way, and escort him into his own dominions. Some of the courtiers advised his holiness to punish such insolence with death. " I will," he replied, " if you will first find me another Michelangelo." Nothing could have been more unreason- able than the excessive anger of the artist ; but the circumstance serves to show that genius invests its possessor with a power ^- superior to pontifical robes. On his return, he completed the statue of Moses, on which he exercised his highest imagination. To enter fully into the merits of this statue, undoubtedly requires study and a mind prepared. Many have been repelled by its grandeur, and tempted to say with the MICHELANGELO. 109 brother sculptor, — •' The works of Michel- angelo are terrific ; they frighten me." His own enthusiasm was so much excited when it was completed, that he threw his instru- ment at it, and exclaimed " Now speak ! " The dent thus made upon the knee can be discovered. The projections from the head are often supposed to mean rays or flames of intelligence ; but Michelangelo's disciple, Condivi, who published his life of the mas- ter, at Rome, while he was living, speaks, in his description of the statue, of le due coma in capo. A traveler says, " After seeing them, I could not doubt they were meant for veritable horns, and that they emblematize power. Moses says of Joseph, ' His glory is like the firstling of his bullock, and his horns are like the horns of unicorns ; with them he shall push the people together, to the ends of the earth.' In the Psalms it is said, ' All the horns of the wicked also will I cut oflf ; but the horns of the righteous shall be exalt- ed.' Other allusions are made to horns in scripture." It is very certain that Michel- angelo really intended horns. And yet Gio. Battista Zappi, as quoted in Gori's notes to Condivi, speaks of " «7 doppio raggio in fronte^''^ in a sonnet which has been justly 110 MICHELANGELO. praised, and which those who read the Ital- ian, may find in a note below.* The friendship that Michelangelo formed with Vasari, his historian, was one of the great pleasm-es of his life. In 1554, Vasari quitted Rome and returned to Florence. They continued their intercourse by writ- ing ; and in this year Vasari informed him that his nephew, Lionardo, had a son whom he had called after his uncle. To this let- ter Michelangelo thus replies : — " I have received the utmost pleasure from your letter. It proves that you still remem- ber the poor old man. You mention with triumph that another Buonaroti has appeai*- ed. For this feeling I thank you ; but, in truth, these honors do not please me. I re- * Chi e co.stiii, che in si gran pietra scolto, Siedc Gigante, e le pii) illustri e come Opre deir Arte avanza, e ha vive, e pronte Le labbrasi, che le parole ascolto? Cluesti c Mose; ben mel dimoslra il folto Onor del mentu, e il doppio raggio in fronte : Q,uesti e Mos6, quando scendea dal Monte, E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. Tal era allor, che le sonanti e vaste Acque sospese a s6 d' intorno, e tale duando il Mar chiuse, e ne f6 tomba altrui. E voi sue Turbe un rio Vitello alzaste? Alzato avesle inunago a questa eguale, Ch' era men fallo 1' adorar cestui ! MICHELANGELO. HI gret that there should be festivals and rejoic- ings when a child is born ; let them rather be reserved for that period when he shall have arrived at a happy death." Hitherto, in the noble and brilliant career of Michelangelo, we read of neither decay nor infirmity. To grandem* and originality he united the patient industry of a daily la- borer. His habits were frugal, and his diet abstemious ; his meals often consisting of bread and the light wines of Tuscany ; and, though the companion of princes, and con- stantly invited to the tables of the luxu- rious, he preserved his own undeviating sim- plicity. To his faithful Urbino, his friend and ser- vant, he looked forward for the solace of his advancing years. " You are younger than I, my dear Urbino," he would often say, " by many years ; in your arms I trust I may yield my last breath." It was the habit of Michelangelo to work through a great part of the night, with '' can- dela in capo." At a certain hour, Urbino was accustomed to come to his studio, and, reminding him of the lateness of the hour, persuade him to retire. The strong attachment that subsisted be- 112 MICHELANGELO. tween him and his faithful domestic, is honor- able to both. One day, the master said to him, " What will become of thee, my poor Urbino, when I die ? " " I will try to serve another," replied he, " as faithfully as I have served thee." " Still servitude ! " exclaimed the artist, — "but that shall not be; I will provide for thee at my death." And, to take from him the painful feeling of dependence, he immediately gave him two thousand crowns ; but he felt fully persuaded that Urbino, who was much younger than himself, would smooth the path of his old age, and receive his last breath. He was so accustomed to his attendance, that one night, when he did not arrive, Mi- chelangelo continued working till the rays of morning entered his room. He arose from his labor with surprise, and sought the apart- ment of Urbino with a sad presentiment of evil. It was too well realized ; poor Urbino was in a high fever, and unable to rise. Alas ! how was his expectation reversed ! In a few hours the faithful servant expired in his master's arms, who was left to moiu:n his loss. Vasari heard of this event, and immediately MICHELANGELO. 113 wrote a consolatory letter to Buonaroti, to which he received the following reply : — " My dear Friend, — It is with difficulty I answer your letter. Yes, Urbino is dead ! His life was to me a blessed gift through the grace of God, and his loss is the greatest calamity. While he lived he devoted himself to my comfort. For twenty-six years he has been my watchful friend, and dying he has taught me to die without reluctance. I had expect- ed that he would have received my parting breath. It is a pleasure to me to recollect that I had seciued to him independence while living, and had he survived me, by my will he would have been affluent. He is taken from me, and there remains to me only the hope of seeing him in Paradise. That he is there I cannot doubt. God has given indications of it in his resigned and happy death. I have no desire left to remain here ; for the best part of me has gone with him." The loss of Urbino perhaps first opened the fountains of tenderness in the heart of Michelangelo. From this time he seems to 8 114 MICHELANGELO. have resembled less the marble he so beauti- fully chiseled. He was earnestly solicited to return to Florence ; but he considered the air of that place unfavorable to his health. He passed much of his time in the exercises of his religion, and in retirement at Spoleto ; he said solitude was necessary to the health of his soul. It would seem wonderful that a being so endowed by nature as Buonaroti, should never have formed any domestic ties of a more tender natm'e than Avhat he felt for Urbino ; but to all hints of this kind, he replied that " painting was his spouse, and his works his children." There may have been a deep and secret source of aflection unknown to any one but himself. The sonnets and letters that passed between him and the illustrious Marchesana di Pescari prove that his heart was not whol- ly closed to female influence. She was the celebrated poetess Vittoria Colonna, born in 1490, and daughter of Fabrizio Colonna. At the age of fourteen she married the Marquis di Pescari, to whom she was betrothed when four years old. The marriage proved one of tender affection, and when he was captured at the battle of Ravenna, in 1512, MICHELANGELO. 115 she suffered deeply on his account. Soon after his release, he was again in the ranks of war, at the great battle of Pavia, and died of the wounds he there received. Vittoria secluded herself in a convent at Orvieta, from which place her sonnets and poems found their way to the world. They are in Petrarch's style, and filled with pathetic lamentations for the death of her husband. The Canzone beginning '' Spirto gentil, che sei nel terzo giro del ciel " is full of the con- ceits of the age. In this she says, — " That when her soul is released from its earthly ties, and follows the sacred footsteps of her husband, Peter, hearing his praises of her love and constancy, will not deny her entrance at the same gate." At this time she was still young, and her hand sought by the Princes of Italy ; but she would not listen to any proposal of new ties. Her correspondence with Michelangelo was constant, and he often addressed to her sonnets, which, though expressive of his high admiration and deep feeling, are too humble, to cause offence even in the heart of a determined recluse. The following is a comparison of the art of Sculpture with the art of Love, which is so difficult to turn 116 MICHELANGELO. into satisfactory English, that it may here be inserted in the original for the benefit of those who may be able to understand it. Non ha 1' ottimo artis^ta alcun concetto Ch' ua marrao solo in se non circoscriva Col suo soverchio, e solo a quelle arriva La man che obedisce all' intelletto. II mal ch' io fuggo, e '1 ben ch' io mi prometto, In te, donna leggiadra altera e diva, Tal si nasconde ; e perch' io piu non viva, Contraria ho I'arte al desiato effetto. Amor dunqne non ha, ne tua beltate, O fortuna o durezza o gran disdegno, Del mio mal colpa, o mio destino o sorte ; Se dentro del tuo cormorte e pietate Porti in un tempo, e che '1 mio basso ingegno Non sappia ardendo trarne altro che morte. A ray of sunshine was yet to brighten his existence. On his return one day to his house, he found the Marchioness di Pescari had called. From this time she resided in Rome. Historians say, Tiraboschi among them, that " her motives are unknown." The sonnets on the part of Michelangelo did not cease after her amval. In the follow- ing one he expresses his conviction that hu- man beauty raises the soul to the Creator. The speaking face, the kindling eyes, To heaven lift the soul ; MICHELANGELO. 117 No human power thus bids it rise Beyond the earth's control. The mighty artist thus designed, His works should with himself compare, And beauty raise the human mind Above pursuits of worldly care. No longer will I seek to shun That speaking glance of thine; It is to me the glorious Sun That warms with love divine ; And as I feel the kindling ray, Its fervor shall my soul deliglit ; The noble flame shall guide my way To him who dwells in endless light. For the Marchioness he made some of his most beautiful designs, particularly the In- fant in the lap of the Virgin, and a Christ upon the cross. In this friendship there was much to soften and elevate the mind of the great artist ; but it was his lot to outlive those he most fondly loved. The death of Vittoria took place a number of years before his, and the ancient solitary man was doomed to travel on alone. At the age of seventy, he was lurged to undertake the architecture of St. Peter's Church. He accepted the office with great reluctance, and on the express condition that he should receive no salary. His love of writing poetry continued to 118 MICHELANGELO. the end of his Hfe. He felt, however, that his taste might be ridiculed, as appears by the following passage in a letter to Vasari. " It is the will of God, my dear Vasari, that I still should linger here. I know they ac- cuse me of second childhood in -writing sonnets, and since they say so, I will justify their remarks — I therefore enclose one more to you. My feeble bark has reached the shore, And life's tempestuous sea is passed ; Trembling I trace my perils o'er, And yield my dread account at last. The rival arts that charmed my youth, Those fancies of my wayward mind. Those winning dreams of love and truth. Are vain delusions, all, I find — A double death appals me now ; The one draws near with rapid strides, The other with his awful brow Time from eternity divides. Sculpture and painting, rival arts ! Ye can no longer soothe ray breast ; Tis love divine alone, imparts The promise of a future rest. On that my trembling soul relies — My trust the cross, my hope the skies." * As his last days approached, he took great delight in reading the scriptures, and in the works of Father Girolamo Savonarola. His * For the original Italian sonnet, see Vasari. MICHELANGELO. 119 love of solitude sometimes drew upon him severe remarks ; but he well understood the great secret of searching within himself for the true elements of greatness. His replies were often caustic and severe. A friend of his, intended for the church, arrived at Rome. Michelangelo was un- pleasantly struck with the foppishness of his manner, and splendid costume, and affected not to know him. The man was obliged to tell his name. — Michelangelo discover- ed great astonishment. " Oh ! " exclaimed he, " you are very fine ! if the inside is as well endowed as the outside, it will be hap- py for your soul." One day, a friend observed "that he was much to be pitied for having spent his life in the pursuit of arts, which he could not carry with him." He replied, " Why so ? a taste and capa- city for them was sent by the same hand that sends death." "Contemplation," he said, was "the only food which properly nurtured the mind — it was the nurse of high and grand concep- tions." Michelangelo died at Rome of a slow fever, the 17th of February 1564, at the age 120 MICHELANGELO. of ninety.* He made his will in a few words, commiting his soul to God, his body to the earth, and his possessions to his nearest rela- tives ; and added, that he died in the faith of Jesus Christ, and the firm hope of a better life. His mind was never broken down to the habits and conversation of every day life. — His religion was the religion of his soul, not of his church ; his alms-giving, compassion for his fellow-men ; and his wealth the just reward of labor. The triple wreaths of sculpture, painting, and architecture adorn his tomb ; his memory and works are left to posterity. * He was coeianeous with the poet Ariosto. RAFFAELLO SANZIO D'URBINO. The solemn and silent season of Lent had passed away ; and, on the second evening of the joyful Easter, a house was seen brightly illuminated in one of the streets of Urbino. It was evident that a festival was held there on some happy occasion. The sound of music was heard, and guest after guest enter- ed the mansion. No one, however, was more cordially welcomed than Pictro Perugino, the fellow-student of Lionardo da Vinci, at the school of the good old Andrea Verocchio. For a moment, general gaiety was sus- pended, in honor of the guest. He was con- sidered at that time one of the greatest painters of the age ; and the host, Giovanni di Sanzio, though himself only ranking in the second or third order of limners, knew well how to prize the rare talents of his visitor. 122 RAPHAEL. The wife of Giovanni came forward, lead- her son Raphael. Perugino had the eye of an artist : he gazed upon the mother and son with enthusiastic feeUng ; the striking re- semblance they bore to each other, so exqui- sitely modulated by years and sex, was indeed a study for this minute copyist of nature. " Benvenuto, Messer Perugino," said the hostess, with her soft musical voice and graceful Italian accent, and she placed the hand of her boy in that of the artist. Gent- ly he laid the other on the head of the youthful Raphael, and in a solemn ajid ten- der manner pronounced a benediction. " Your blessing is well timed my honored friend," said Giovanni ; " our festival is given to celebrate the birth-day of our son." " Is this his birth-day ? " inquired Peru- gino. "Not so," replied the father, "he was born on the 7th of April, the evening of Good Friday, and it well befits us to be gay on the joyful Easter that succeeds it." * The hostess and her son tiuned to receive other guests, who were coming fast, and the two artists continued their conversation. * Raphael and Luther were bom in the same year. RAPHAEL. 123 " I have never," said Perugino, "beheld so striking a resemblance as between your wife and son." " I rejoice that it is so," said Giovanni ; "it was my earnest desire that he should be first nourished by his mother's milk."* " There is the same expression of softness and sensibility," exclaimed Perugino, "beam- ing from their eyes, — the fair hair parted on the forehead, and falling in wavy curls. Ah ! my friend, guard yoiu: son from a sensibility that may degenerate into weakness, — from a tenderness of heart that may undermine the foundation of good principle. If I read his destiny aright, he is born to excel in high and noble arts. To those it were well to direct his attention." " I have anticipated your counsel," said Giovanni. " If you can have patience with the first attempts of a mere boy, I will show you a Madonna which he has just com- pleted." Perugino followed the father through the colonnade to a small enclosure. On the wall was painted a mother and child. It was truly the infancy of Raphael's art : there was but little beauty of coloring ; but the expres-: • Che la propria madre lo allatasse.— Vasari. 124 RAPHAEL. sion that in succeeding years distinguished his works, was there. " My friend," said Perugino, '' if thou wilt entrust thy boy to my care, I will take him as my pupil." The father acceded with delight to this proposal. When the mother became ac- quainted with the arrangement, and found that her son was to quit his paternal dwelling at the early age of twelve, and reside wholly with Perugino, she could not restrain her tears. With hers the young Raphael's min- gled, though ever and anon a bright smile darted like a sunbeam across his face. The parting was one of sadness. Hither- to they had scarcely been separated for an hour ; but she now felt that her son was en- tering the world ; all her tender and delight- ful solicitudes were to partake of anxiety for the future. Perhaps she understood, as mothers frequently do, the valuable parts of his character. She trembled for the influ- ence ^he world might have on a heart so flexiipe and feeling, and grieved for the dis- appointments he must endure, and the in- juries he must receive, from minds all unlike his own. " But this," thought she, " is the school in which he must learn. To acquire RAPHAEL. 125 firmness to resist temptation is the great secmity of virtue." He remained with Perugino several years. Raphael was made for affection, and fondly did his heart cling to his instructor. For a time he was content to follow his manner ', but at length he began to dwell upon his own beau ideal ; he grew impatient of im- itation, and felt that his style was deficient in freshness and originality. He longed to pass the narrow bounds to which his inven- tion had been confined. With the approbation of Perugino, and the consent of his parents, he repaired to Siena ; here he was solicited to adorn the public library with fresco, and painted there with great success. But while he was busily en- gaged, his friend Pinturrichio one day enter- ed. After looking at his friend's work very attentively, " Bravo ! " he exclaimed, " thou hast done well, my Raphael — but I have just returned from Florence — oh would that thou couldst behold the works of Lionardo da Vinci ! Such horses! they paw the ground, and shake the foam from their, manes. Oh, my poor Raphael ! thou hast never seen na- ture ; thou art wasting time on these cartoons. — Perugino is a good man, and a good 126 RAPHAEL. painter, I will not deny that, — but Lion- ardo's horses ! " Raphael threw aside his pencil, and hasti- ly arose. " Where now ? " asked his friend, '-whither art thou going so hastily ? " " To Florence," exclaimed Raphael. " And what carries you so suddenly ? " " The horses of Lionardo," replied the yound artist, sportively — "seriously, how- ever, the desire of excellence implanted in my soul." When he arrived at Florence, he was charmed with the appearance of the city ; — but his whole mind was absorbed in the works of Lionardo da Vinci and of Michel- angelo, the rival artists of the age. As his stay was to be short, he did not enter upon laborious occupation. His mornings were passed in the reveries of his art ; his even- ings in the gay and fascinating society of Florence, where the fame of Perugino's beloved pupil had already reached. The frescos at Siena were spoken of; and the beautiful countenance and graceful deport- ment of Raphael won him the friendship of distinguished men. Taddeo Taddei, the learned friend of Cardinal Bembo, solicited RAPHAEL. 127 him to reside in his house : he consented, and in return for the courtesy, painted for him two pictm-es in what is called his first style, that of Perugino. Lorenzo Nasci was just married to a beauti- ful young wife, and resided at his villa at the foot of Monte St. Giorgio. To this abode of elegance and luxury, Raphael was invited, and he was requested to paint a picture for the youthful bride. He chose his favorite subject, the Madonna and child, with St. John by her side, his countenance full of innocent gaiety, holding a bird up to the in- fant Jesus. Either from design or accident, the countenance of the Madonna bore a striking resemblance to his beautiful hostess ; an indescribable air of human fascination mingled with the spiritual sublimity he knew so well how to portray. Lorenzo received this tribute of his art with rapture ; it was more precious to him than all the gems of antiquity collected around him. His fine taste appreciated in this piece, the exquisite grouping, in which Raphael so greatly excelled all his predecessors, that signal moderation of his, so distant from the theatrical effects of inferior artists, the tran- quillity and mild unconscious beauty with 128 RAPHAEL. which he invested his females, the tender- ness which animated their countenances, and above all that sovereign grace, which has never yet been equalled, and which perhaps can never be siupassed. '^This piece," said Lorenzo, pressing the hand ,of Raphael with enthusiasm, " this piece s^all not only be an heir-loom of my family, but of Italy. Ages unborn shall look upon it with delight, and say, ' This is the work of Raifaello Sanzio d' Urbino ! ' " * At the residence of Lorenzo the young artist remained during the warm season. It was a spot in which his imagination found the fullest exercise. He wandered among the groves ; he climbed to the loftiest sum- mits, and gazed on the expanse below ; he threw himself beside the water-fall, and listened to its murmurs, till sleep insensibly stole over him. Then, what visions opened to his mind ! It was on waking from such a dream, that he seized his pencil, and gave to the world one of the most perfect of his Madonnas — the Madonna del Cardellino. • Alas ! what are the predictions of human foresight 1 In the year 1548, on the 17th day of November, the villa, with its precious gems of art, including this picture of Raphael's, was destroyed by a slide of the mountain 1" — Vasari's Life OF Raphael. RAPHAEL. 129 The Villa was thronged with fashion and gaiety. The song and the dance, fair forms and gentle voices — his spirits were in unison with all around him. The lyre of Sappho thrilled his senses ; the warbling lute kindled his imagination — no mentor was near to counsel or to warn, and Raphael yielded to the enchantment that everywhere beset him. One evening he retired to his couch at a late hour. He had been the hero of a fete, and love and beauty had heedlessly scattered their flowers in the path of the living Adonis. In vain he sought a few hours of slumber. He had quaffed the juice of the grape, emptying goblet after goblet till his beating pulse and throbbing temples refused to be quieted. He started from his couch and approached the lattice ; the heavens had changed their aspect, the still serenity of the evening had passed away, and the clouds were hurrying over the pale and watery moon. Nothing was heard but the low sigh- ing of the wind ; and now and then a sudden gust swept through the lattice, and threatened to extinguish the taper which was burning dimly on the table. A slight noise made him turn his eyes, and he perceived a note that the wind had displaced. He hastily took it up. 9 130 RAPHAEL. It was Periigino's hand-writing. He cut the silken cord that fastened it, and read — '■'■ On me, my beloved Raffaello, devolves the task of informing you of the events whicli have taken place at Urbino. May this letter find you prepared for all the changes of life ; a wise man will never suf- fer himself to be taken by sm'prise : this is true philosophy, and the only pliilosoplty that can serve us ! * An epidemic has prevailed at Urbino, and has entered your paternal dwelling. Need I say more ? Come to me, my son, at Perugia, for I am the only parent that remains to you. Pietro Perugino." Where now was the delirium excited by gay and thoughtless excess ? The goblet would have sparkled to his eye no longer, had it been presented to his lips. In the midst of pleasure, ere the rose-buds with which he had crowned himself were withered, the voice of death deep and hollow sounded in his ear ! The head tliat liad throbbed so violently was for a moment stilled. The * Fu Pielro persona di assai poca religione, e non se gli fiotc mai credere 1' itnmyrlalitii dcira'nima. — Vita di Pietro Pkrugino, da Vasari. RAPHAEL. 131 blood that had rushed with such feverish excitement was stayed in its course. It seemed as if death had laid an icy hand upon his heart. By degrees animation returned, and he awoke to a sense of the wretchedness of his situation. '•' My mother ! my mother ! " he exclaim- ed ; " never more am I to behold thee. Never more to rest my head on thy bosom ! Never more to hear thy voice, to feel thy face pressed to mine, thy arms encircling my neck, thy hand upon my aching brow ! " As he hastily arose, a crucifix which his mother had suspended to his neck at parting, fell from his bosom. Even the symbols of religion are sacred where the living principle has been early implanted in the heart. He pressed it to his lips ; '' Ah ! " thought he, '' what is the philosophy of Perugino, com- ])ared to the faith of which this is the em- blem ! " His thoughts went back to infancy and childhood, and his grief and remorse grew less intense. He dwelt on the deep and enduring love of his parents till he felt assured death could not extinguish it, and that he should see them again in a brighter sphere. When morning came, it found Raphael 132 RAPHAEL. calm and composed ; the lines of grief and thought were deeply marked on his youthful face ; but the whirlwind and the storm had passed. He took leave of his friends, and hastened to Perugino, who received him with the fondness of a parent. Here he remained some time, and at length collected suiRcient resolution to return to Urbino, and once more enter the mansion of his desolated home. It was necessary for him to reside at his native place for a number of months. Dur- ing that time, he painted several fine pictures. His heart, however, yearned for Florence, and he returned to it once more witli the determination of making it his home. With far different sensations did he a second time enter the city of beauty. The freshness of his gaiety was blighted ; lessons of earthly disappointment were ever present to his mind, and he returned to it with the resolute purpose of devoting himself to serious occu- pation. How well he fulfilled tiiis resolution all Italy can bear witness. From this time he adopted what has been called his second Tnannci'. He painted for the Duke of Urbino the beautiful picture of the Saviour at sun- •RAPHAEL. 133 rise, with the morning hght cast over a face resplendent with divinity ; the flowers ght- tering with dew, the two disciples beyond, still buried in slumber, at the time when the Saviour turns his eyes upon them with that tender and sorrowful exclamation, — " Could ye not watch one hour ? " Raphael enriched the city of Florence with his works. When asked what had suggested some of the beautiful combinations of his paintings, he said, " they came to me in my sleep." At other times, he called them ^^ visions;" and then again said they were the result of " una certa idea che mi viene alia mente." It was this power of drawing from the deep wells of his own mind that gave such character, originality and freshness to his works. He found that power within, which so many seek, and seek in vain, loithout. At the age of twenty-five, Raphael was summoned by the Pope to paint the cham- bers of the Vatican. The famous frescos of the Vatician need neither enumeration rtor description ; the world is their judge and their eulogist. No artist ever consecrated his works more by his affections than Raphael. The same 134 RAPHAEL. ■ hallowed influence of the heart gave inex- pressible charm to Coreggio's, afterwards. One of Raphael's friends said to him, in looking upon particular figures in his groups. " You have transmitted to posterity your own likeness." " See you nothing beyond that?" replied the artist. " I see," said the critic, " the deep blue eye, and the long fair hair parted on the forehead." " Observe," said Raphael, " the feminine softness of expression, the beautiful harmony of thought and feeling. When I take my pencil for high and noble purposes, the spirit of my mother hovers over me. It is her countenance, not my own, of which you trace the resemblance." This expression is always observable in his Madonnas. His portraits of the Forna- rina are widely diflerent. Raphael in his last and most excellent style, united what was graceful and exquisite in Lionardo, with the sublime and noble manner of Michelan- gelo. It is the privilege and glory of genius to appropriate to itself whatever is noble and true. The region of thought is thus made a common ground for all, and one master RAPHAEL. 135 mind becomes a reservoir for the present and future times. When Raphael was invited to Rome by Pope Juhus II, Michelangelo was at the height of his glory ; his character tended to inspire awe rather than affection ; he de- lighted in the majestic and the temble. In boldness of conception and grandeur of de- sign, he surpassed Lionardo, but never could reach the sweetness and gentleness of his figures. Even his children lose something of their infantine beauty, and look mature ; his women are commanding and lofty ; his men of gigantic proportions. His painting, like his sculpture, is remarkable for anatom- ical exactness, and perfect expression of the muscles. For this union of magnificence and sublimity, it was necessary to prepare the mind ; the first view was almost terrific, and it was by degrees that his mighty works jn'oduced their designed effect. Raphael while he felt all the greatness of the Floren- tine, conceived that there might be some- thing more like nature — something tliat should be harmonious, sweet, and flowing — that should convey the idea of intellectual rather than of external majesty. Without yielding any of the correctness of science, 136 RAPHAEL. he avoided harshness, and imitated antiquity in uniting grace and elegance with a strict observation of science and of the rules of art. It was with surprise that Michelangelo beheld in the youthful Raphael a rival artist ; nor did he receive this truth meekly : he treated him with coldness and distance. In the mean time Raphael went on with his works ; he completed the frescos of the Vatican,* and designed the cartoons.f He also produced those exquisite paintings in oil which seem the perfection of human art. Human affection is necessary to awaken the sympathy of human beings ; and Raphael, in learning how to portray it, had found the * These are the celebrated works which have been so much visited, admired, and imitated for more than three centuries. They are tolerably preserved ; but are said to have been much injured by the fires of the German soldiers, who used these rooms as their barracks, in the sack of Rome by Charles V.'s Generals, soon after Raphael's death. t Where Raphael's cartoons are spoken of, certain paint- ings on paper are meant, which he executed as patterns for tapestry, to be used in the Procession of corpus Domini at Rome. It is believed that they were carried into England from the Low Countries, v/here they were sent to be exe- cuted in tapestry. The tapestries are annually exhibited at Rome. For the manner in which cartoons are used in fresco, see note to Michelangelo. RAPHAEL. 137 way to the heart. In mere grandeur of in- vention he was surpassed by Michelangelo. Titian excelled him in coloring, and Coreggio in the beautiful gradation of tone ; but Ra- phael knew how to paint the soul ; in this he stood alone. This was the great secret of a power which seemed to operate like magic. In his paintings there is something which makes music on the chords of every heart ; for they are the expression of a mind attuned to nature, and find answering sympathies in the universal soul. While Michelangelo was exalted with the Epic grandeur of his own Dante, Raphael presented the most finished scenes of dra- matic life, and might be compared to the immortal Shakspeare — scenes of spiritual beauty, of devotion, and of pastoral sim- plicity, yet uniting a classic elegance which the poet does not possess. Buonaroti was the wonder of Italy, and Raphael became its idol. Julius was so much enchanted with his paintings in the halls of the Vatican, that he ordered the frescos of former artists to be destroyed. Among them were some of Perugino's ; but Raphael would not suff'er these to be removed for his own ; he viewed 138 RAPHAEL. them as the rehcs of a beloved and honored friend, and they were consecrated by tender and grateful feelings. On a bright clear morning in June, two young Romans stood waiting before the Church of St. Peter. " It will be a sight worth seeing," ex- claimed one of them, " a meeting between Alcibiades and Diogenes." In a few moments they perceived Raphael approaching. He was surrounded by his pupils, thirteen in number, yet distinguished from them all by his picturesque and grace- ful costume, his beretta and black plumes. By his side walked his most cherished and devoted pupil, Julio Romano ; then came promiscuously, Francesco Penni, Pellegrino, Pierino del Vaga, Pollidoro da Caravaggio, Matturino Bartolomeo, and others. It was not a silent group ; there was much gaiety, conversing and gesticulation. Knots of peo- ple stood waiting to see them pass ; and as the bright Italian sun darted its beams among them, it seemed to form a halo around the beloved and youthful master. " Look," exclaimed one of the Roman cavaliers, " Diogenes is coming ! now for the meeting ! " RAPHAEL. 139 Michelangelo appeared at a little distance, in his usual dress, his beretta drawn low over his forehead, yet not so low as to conceal a pair of dark piercing eyes, while the lines of his strongly marked face inspired common beholders with a reverence which amounted almost to awe. When he perceived Raphael approaching he did not change his demeanor, excepting perhaps a little compression of the lips ; and he walked forward with folded arms, in the shadow of the building. Not so Raphael : his quick eye caught the outline of the mighty master ; " Zitto ! " * and his pupils were hushed. As Michel- angelo approached, they opened to either side, and the rival artists, the one in the dignity of mature age, the other in the bloom of manhood, stood face to face. Nothing could be more remarkable than their figures ; the firm majestic bearing of the one, and the slight graceful proportions of the other. Ra- phael respectfully doffed his beretta, and Michelangelo held out his hand which the young artist slightly touched. It were well if they had thus parted. * Silence. 140 RAPHAEL. But Julio Romano who was the ardent admirer of both, and wished for a better un- derstanding between them, exclaimed " I am glad you did not pass without recognizing each other." ." How could I ? " replied Michelangelo, '• when the Sanzio marches the street like a provost, all his Serjeants about him." " And how could I fail to distinguish Michelangelo," exclaimed Raphael, his dark blue eye kindling, " when he marches the street alone, like an executioner." Raphael collected from every part of the world medallions of intaglios and antiques to assist him in his designs. He loved splendor and conviviality, and gave offence thereby to the rigid and austere. It was said that he had a prospect of changing the graceful beretta for a cardinal's hat ; but this idea might have arisen from the delay which ex- isted in his marriage Avith cardinal Bibiano's niece, whose hand her uncle had offered to him. Peremptorily to reject this proposal of the Cardinal without giving offence would have been impossible, and Raphael was too gentle in his own feelings voluntarily to in- jure another's ; but he was not one to sacri- fice his affections to ambition. RAPHAEL. 141 Whatever were the struggles of his heart they were early terminated. Amidst the caresses of the great, the fond and devoted friendship of his equals, the enthusiastic love of his pupils, the adulation of his inferiors, while crowned with wealth, fame and honor, and regarded as the equal of the hitherto greatest artist in the world, he was suddenly called away. He died on Good Friday, the day of his birth, at the age of thirty-seven, 1520. We are sometimes impressed with venera- tion when those who have even drunk the cup of life almost to its dregs, resign it with resignation, and Christian faith. But Ra- phael calmly and firmly resigned it when it was full to the brim. Leo X and Cardinal Bibiano were by his bed-side. The sublime picture of the Trans- figuration, the last and greatest which he painted, was placed opposite to him, by his own desire. How impressive must have been the scene ! His dying eye turned from the crucifix he held in his hand to the glory of the beatified Saviour. His cotemporaries speak of him as affec- tionate, disinterested, modest and sincere ; en- couraging humble merit, and freely giving 142 RAPHAEL. his advice and assistance where it was need- ed and deserved. The earnestness with which Bibiano pro- moted and desired the union between Rapha- el and his niece, the respect and tenderness which the lady herself manifested for him in requesting that her ashes might rest in the same tomb with his, are one among ma- ny testimonies of the esteem and affection with which all, who knew him intimately, regarded him. He was buried with great pomp, and with true sorrow from a thousand hearts, in the Pantheon at Rome, and his remains have been recently re-interred in a sarcophagus taken from the ruins of the ancient city. It is pleasant to gather evidences of the high estimation in which Raphael was held. Lanzi says, — '• He so much excited the ad- miration of Leo and of all Rome, that they regarded him as a man sent from heaven to revive the ancient splendor of the eternal city." He also alludes to his cultivation of history and poetry. He wrote sonnets ; but it does not appear that any have been preserved. The following letter is without doubt au- RAPHAEL. 143 thentic. It is written in the old Italian, and will be found in the preface to the life of Raphael, in the fifth volume of Vasari. The mention of his early friend Taddeo Taddei, is a testimony to his grateful and affectionate feelings. It seems probable that the letter was written to his old master Perugino ; though no superscription is preserved : — ^■Most dear Sir, dear to me as a father, " I have received your letter in which 1 learn the death of our illustrious Duke. May God have mercy on his soul ! I could not read your account without tears ; but, for these things which are inevitable we must have patience and submit to the will of God. The other day I wrote to my Uncle to send me the painting of the prophetess, which is under that of oiu- lady, but he has not sent it ; and I beg you to inform him, whenever there is an opportunity to send, in order that I may please her ladyship, since you know we are now quite in need of her patronage. I re- quest you also to tell my Uncle and the San- ta, that if Taddeo Taddei, of whom Ave have spoken several times, should come to Urbino, they must treat him well, without regarding expense, and you too will have the goodness 144 RAPHAEL. to pay him honor for my sake ; for I am under greater obUgations to him than to any man Uving. For the painting I have not fixed any price yet, and shall not do it, because it will be better that its value should be deter- mined by a third person. I have not written to you on this subject, because I am still un- certain about it. The owner of the painting has promised to furnish me with work to the amount of three hundred gold ducats, both here and in France. After the festivals I shall have it in my power to let you know what the picture will amount to, for I have already finished the cartoon, and will fix ev- ery thing about it after Easter Sunday. 1 should like, if it is possible, to have a letter to the Gonfaloniere of Florence from the Signor Prefetto. A few days since, I wrote to my Uncle and to Gionomo at Rome to procure me one, which would be very useful, on account of a certain room to be painted, and for which his Holiness will give the orders. " I wish you, if possible, to send me such a letter, which I am almost sm"e you will ob- tain from Signor Prefetto, if you ask it in my name, mentioning me to him as his old friend and servant. RAPHAEL. 145 " Remember me to the master .... and to Rodolpho, and to all our friends. April, M. D. VIII. Your Raphaello, Painter at Florence. An inscription in Latin was placed in the paternal mansion in which Raphael was born.* The following is a literal translation : — " Never to die, within these humble walls, the excellent painter Raphael was born on the 8th before the Ides of April, 1483. Revere, therefore. Stranger, the name, and the genius of the place ; nor wonder ; (for) A divine potency presides in human affairs And is wont often to shut great things within small."' Troughout the world, a sacred polence plays, And often crowns the beggar's head with bays * NUNQUAM MORITURUS, EXIGUIS HISCE IN AEDIBUS, EXIMIU-S ILLE PICTOR RAPHAEL NATUS EST. OCT. ID. APR. AN. MCDXXCIII. VENERARE IGITUR HOSPES NOMEN ET GENIUM LOCI. NK MIRKRE LUDIT IN HUMtNlS DIVIN\ ForKNTI* BEBOi ET SAEPE I.S I-ARV13 CLAUDERK MAG.NA SOLKT. 10 ANTONIO ALLEGRI DA COREGGIO. " Here comes Antonio, with his new pic- ture," said Maddelena to her father Nicolo ; "do, dear father, speak kindly to him." " Nay, daughter," replied Nicolo, " thou canst not expect me to be as dove-like as thyself. I will speak to him as one man may speak to another. It would have been well for thee, had I not yielded to thy fool- ish fancy in the first place. Hadst thou married Pietro, thou wouldst have taken thy proper station in the world, and been mis- tress of one of the finest Inns in Coreggio. I should not see thee, as I do now, wanting the necessaries of life." " Father," said Maddelena, " thou art mis- taken ; I want nothing. I am the happiest being in the world." "Then why dost thou weep?" said COREGGIO. 147 Nicolo, for the tears of the young wife were falling like a morning shower. " Look ! " said she, " Antonio is just coming up the hill — see how feeble he walks — he can scarcely carry his picture — ah, he stops to rest - — do you see how pale he is ? " " Yes, yes, I see ; he had better have taken my advice, and worked at my trade ; I offer- ed to give him a year's instruction for no re- muneration but his services ; but nothing Avould do but he must paint pictures, that are good for nothing in the world. Now jars, and pipkins, and milk-pans, and flower-pots, are good for something, and will always bring money." "■ Yes, father, but Antonio's works will bring him fame — glory. " '' Fame, glory ! nonsense! canst thou live upon these' commodities ? " " We want but very little to live upon : indeed, father, if Antonio were well, I should not have a wish ungratified. He is so kind, so gentle, so fond of our little Giovanni, and of the infant. Oh, there are few so blest as I am! To have such a husband, father, — one whose genius will lead him to immortality ! " " It is in a fair way of leading ///ce to im- 148 COREGGld. mortality, my poor child," said Nicolo will feeling. " Thou art almost as pale as he. 1 little thought, when I let thee out of my fold, that thou wouldst find no other shepherd." " Say what you please to 7?ie," said Mad- delena, " you are my father, my deavfathe?', and I can bear it all ; but I beseech you do not say such things to my poor Antonio : they make him miserable, they break his heart." " I wish you had manied Pietro," reiterat- ed Nicolo, " he has a stout heart." " Rather say, you wish I was in my grave ; for I would sooner be there, than married to Jmn. No, no, you do not wish such misery for your poor child. Look, father ! Antonio is up again, and coming — ah, when you see his picture, I am sure you will say to him, ' You did right, Antonio, to pursue painting, it will lead you to immortality.' " Antonio slowly ascended the hill, and Maddelena met him. " Let me look at it," said she, and he turned the picture towards her. " How beautiful ! " she exclaimed, " they are just such faces as we shall see in heaven." When they entered the house, the painter modestly set down the picture with its face to the wall. COREGGIO. 149 "A warm day, Antonio," said Nicolo, '■ thou shalt have a cup of my good old wine to refresh thee." " Rather a cup of milk," replied Antonio, " I do not love your heating draughts: they only add to the heat here," and he laid his liand upon his breast. " My dear husband, " said Maddelena, soothingly, '-'thou hast painted too closely for these few days past ; but it is for you, father, Antonio has been engaged. He said he would paint a picture for your room, and he has brought it." " It is but a little thing," said Antonio rising, " but I will show it to you." *' Wait a moment." exclaimed Maddelena, •' I hear our little Giovanni, and baby too is awake," and going out she returned in a few moments with the child in her arms, seated herself near the window, with Giovanni lean- ing upon her lap, and said, " Come, Antonio, I am ready." Slowly and with some trepidation the painter displayed the picture. It was a Madonna with the infant in her arms, and John near her — Maria and her children — bearing a very striking resemblance to the living group before them. 150 COREGGIO. Nicolo gazed upon it ; his stern features relaxed ; he attempted to speak, and burst into tears. " My daughter ! " he at length exclaimed, ''my little Giovanni ! just as they look now," and suddenly turning to Antonio, he seized his hand. " Yes," continued he, " thou wert right to pursue painting ; it will lead thee to immortality.^^ " Did I not say so ? " said the delighted wife, and her arms were in a moment around her father's neck. " Good kind Antonio," said Nicolo, " I will not find fault with Maddelena that she did not choose Pietro — no, no, he cannot paint such a picture as this — he is a very good tapster, and keeps good wines, and a good Inn ; but thou hast chosen well, my daugh- ter." It was a happy day for Antonio and his wife. Nicolo, who estimated the value of the picture, by the perfect resemblance the mother and children bore to the beings he loved best, and by his devotional impres- sions, repeatedly exclaimed, " Pietro never could have painted such a picture as that." " Don't let us talk of Pietro, father," said Maddelena, " I never hear his name without shuddering." COREGGIO. 151 " What is the matter with him, pray ? " asked Nicolo, "is a man to be despised because he takes a fancy to a young girl, and is wilhng to give her, both hand and heart ? " " You do not know him, indeed, father. He persecutes Antonio, and will never forgive him for the preference I have shown him." " No wonder," said Antonio, " that he envies me the treasure I have gained — ah, dear Maddelena, we will not be hard upon poor Pietro ; his disappointment was heavy. He is solitary in his plenty ; thou mightest have shared it with him : now thou hast poverty," his eye glistened, but a smile play- ed round his mouth as he added, — " and thy Antonio." " And believe me, friend," said the young wife with enthusiasm, " I should not love thee more if thou hadst the wealth of the great Filippo Strozzi." It might be truly said this was the hap- piest day of Maddelena's life. For the first time her father, who had always despised Antonio's art, had given full and complete testimony to its power. Little Giovanni who had boon furnished with an agnus dei, to represent the St. John, 152 COREGGIO. was full of the restless glee of infancy : and Antonio, animated by the scene, seemed to partake not only of the glow of pleasure, but of the health that prevailed. His pale cheek borrowed a fresher hue, his eyes sparkled with unwonted brightness, and his soft mel- ancholy smile was changed occasionally into one of genial gaiety. There are few days set down in the calen- dar of a man's life, in which happiness comes in her own pure and original beauty. When she does, she is attended by holy affections ; she comes as when she first wandered in the garden of Eden, and fills the heart with her presence. Fame, wealth, and ambition, the idols of the earth, are not there — but love with her tender i-elations, and holy ties, at once the image and the boon of its divine Creator. Even Nicolo, so absorbed in the every day affairs of life, so taken up with his pottery, his pipkins and pans, became in a degree in- tellectual ; and when evening arrived, and it was necessary to part, the most perfect con- fidence existed between the group. Madde- lena with her infant in her arms, and her little Giovanni holding his father's hand, and running by her side, with the other children following, felt as she returned to their hum- COREGGIO. 153 ble dwelling, that life had nothing more to bestow. Their road lay by the four-storied and ornamented house of Pietro. The piaz- zas were full of peasantry collected in groups. Mnle-drivers and carriers seemed to be the heroes of the revelry. One, however, was there who had fixed upon them a malignant eye, and that was the host. He stood brandishing a flask of wine and declaiming with a loud voice. The serenity and con- tentment pictured upon their faces, roused the evil passions of his nature, and as soon as the piazza was cleared, he bent his steps towards the house of Nicolo. When he entered, he found him stand- ing before the picture Antonio had brought him. '^ What daub have you there ? " said Pietro. " Daub ! " repeated Nicolo ; " wait till you see it by day-light, before you judge of it. There is Maddelena and little Giovanni as perfect as life, and though it is the image of my own daughter that I have dandled on my knee, strange as it may seem, I feel as if I must prostrate myself before her in the picture and worship her." Then, with a clear deep bass he began : — 154 COREGGIO. O Saiictissima, O purissima Dulcis Virgo Maria, Mater amaia, inlenerata, Ora, ora, pro nobis." " Why, what has come over thee, Nicolo ? " exclaimed Pietro ; " has Antonio bewitched thee, as he did thy daughter ? " "I know not," repUed he, "but never did I feel myself a true Catholic till I saw this picture." " Nonsense ! because Antonio can paint the eyes, nose and mouth of his wife, which any body conld do if they were directly before him, thou must forsooth think he has done a great work ; but I will tell thee a secret, Nicolo. Thy poor daughter has a hard lot. Antonio cares for nothing but his pictures ; there he sits before his easel from morning to night. When it is time for dinner, what have they to eat ? Nothing ! Antonio takes his cup of milk ; and poor Maddelena and her little Giovanni and the other children may take a cup of cold water." "■ Indeed, I know they are very poor ; but they love each other so much that they are happy. Antonio is promised a round sum for his picture that he is now painting ; besides thou knowest me too well to suppose I COREGGIO. 155 would let them suffer. Ah ! hadst thou seen them to-day, thou wouldst have felt as I did, that they wanted nothing. ^^ " Poor Nicolo ! " exclahned Pietro, shrug- ging his shoulders, " well, well, I am glad thou art deceived ; it is better for thee ! " " Nay, Pietro ; if you have anything to tell me, speak out." '■'■ Take home thy daughter ! " " What do you mean ? " " Take home thy daughter ! " '' Speak out ! " said Nicolo impatiently, " No, no," replied Pietro, '' I have said enough ; it is not my business to lose the patronage of a great man, to serve a woman who has scorned me. Find out the rest thyself; I have given thee a clue. Good night." He took his cap and turned to go, but Nicolo seized him with an iron grasp. " You stir not from here," said he, " till you tell me what you mean." Pietro turned pale. " Promise me secrecy, then," said he. " I promise thee nothing," said Nicolo ; " it is for my child, my own heart's blood, that I am contending ; and I will have a death-struggle, ere we part without clearing up this mystery." 156 COREGGIOv " Very well. If thou insistest," said Pietro, drawing a short knife from his belt. Suddenly, his manner changed. " Thou seest, good Nicolo, I am armed ; I could take thy life, if I pleased, — but I am thy friend, and will tell thee all. But thou wilt not ruin me for this good turn ? " " No, no," said Nicolo, softening, " fear me not." " Thou knowest Vecchina ? It is he for whom Antonio is painting the picture." " So 1 have understood," replied Nicolo. " Dost thou know the price he is to receive for it ? " " Sixty crowns," said Nicolo, '' and the picture is nearly completed." " And art thou so simple, my poor Nicolo, as to think any one would give that sum for a daub of Antonio's "brush ? To be sure they gave him a good price for his cupolas, in Parma, and so they did the other head me- chanics. But I will tell thee the truth, it is Maddelena, thy daughter, that is to be bartered." " Impossible ! " exclaimed Nicolo. " Too true. I heard it all myself, with my own ears, as I stood near the trellice that concealed me. But I pray thee be calm — COREGGIO. 157 keep the secret ; take home thy daughter and her child, and you will see whether he gets sixty crowns for his picture. Good night, friend Nicolo." Poor Nicolo did not close his eyes that night : he was perplexed how to manage the matter and not implicate Pietro, whose secret he felt that he had wrested from him. In the morning, he went immediately to the cottage of Antonio. As he passed Pietro's house the landlord stood at the door ; he nodded to Nicolo, and placed his finger on his mouth, in token of silence. When the father arrived, he found Antonio painting, and Maddelena sitting by the side of his easel, with her infant in her arms and Giovanni leaning on her lap ; the other chil- dren were playing. Both welcomed him warmly. On their side, never had there been such perfect confidence. " I have come," said he, abruptly, '' to propose to thee, Maddelena, to return to thy father's house. Antonio is always engaged at his pictures, and I am very lonely. Come home to me, my child, and bring thy children." " Surely, father, you are not serious," ex-l claimed Maddelena ; " you cannot ask me td leave Antonio." 158 COKEGGIO. "He has his pictures; he cares not for thee," said Nicolo lowering his voice, the roughness of his manner checked by her gentle reply. Antonio laid down his brush, and hastily arose. " Yes," continued Nicolo, " I know all. Sixty crowns thou art to receive from Vec- china." " It was a generous offer," replied An- tonio, " but his own ; I fixed no price." " How came the fiend to fix his eye on my daughter ? " asked Nicolo, with returning ferocity. " He saw the picture I painted for you," replied Antonio mildly, " and I think he fell in love with Maddelena, for he offered me sixty crowns for — " And thou wert base enough to accept the offer ? " interrupted Nicolo. " I know not," said Antonio, " why you call it base. Gladly, most gladly would I keep all my pictures myself ; but we are poor, and I must earn money." " And you confess it ? " " Why should I not ? " " Hark ye ! Antonio Allegri," exclaimed Nicolo, his face scarlet with anger; "your COREGGIO. 159 pictures are your own. If you can make any thing by painting canvass and wood, you are welcome to do it ; but Lena is still my own daughter, and any base projects you may form with regard to her, will be your ruin." " My dear father," said Maddelena, " what has happened to you ? who has been poison- ing your mind ? who has spoken ill of Anto- nio? and what have they said ? "y " Alas ! my child, you little Hnow what a horrible scheme has been projected between this monster and Signer Vecchina." " There has been no horrible scheme. Antonio engaged to paint him a picture just like the one he gave you. Indeed, father, I must tell you, though Antonio charged me not to say one word about it, Vecchina offered him sixty crowns for that very pic- ture, but he said ' No ; my good father-in-law has given me his most precious treasure, and this is the only return I can make him.' " " What, then, could Pietro mean, when he told me that Antonio was to give you up to Vecchina for sixty crowns." "Pather," said Maddelena, sorrowfully, *' I am not surprised at any low calimmy that Pietro might contrive against my Antonio ; 160 COREGGIO. but that you could for a moment listen to it fills me with grief and astonishment. How- little you know us ! " " I perceive," said Antonio, with mildness, " that Pietro might have been mistaken. The morning Vecchina came to me and saw the picture I painted for you, he said it must be just such a one, and when he parted, he turned back and added, ' Remember / am to have your Maddelena.^ Pietro was saunter- ing round, a#d no doubt heard imperfectly ; but he is a bad man to conceive so base a thought." "My children," exclaimed Nicolo, "lam old and childish, and no match for Pietro, and I will see him no more." " Thank Heaven," said Maddelena. " Forgive me, Antonio," said Nicolo, hold- ing out his hand. Antonio took it, and gently pressed it, " Forgive we," said he, meekly, " that 1 have brought poverty on thy daughter." When Nicolo had gone, Antonio, instead of resuming his painting, sat with his head lean- ing on his hand, apparently in deep and mel- ancholy thought. Maddelena looked earnest- ly and often at him ; at length she gently approached, and, bending down, imprinted a fervent kiss upon his forehead. COREGGIO. 161 '' My father says right," said she, " he is old, and no match for Pietro. Do not be cast down, my dear Antonio ; let not such foolish talk distress you." " It is not that which makes me unhappy," replied Antonio, " no man in his senses could imagine such wickedness. But I have been a cruel friend to thee, Maddelena, and yet I love thee better than my life. I have con- demned thee to poverty. Thy father was right when he opposed our union. But it is not too late yet — I will no longer deceive myself or wrong you and the little ones — I will paint no more. And yet it is hard to re- nounce that, which next to thyself has been my joy ; but no matter — it is all deception ; fool that I was to believe myself inspired ! I, who have never seen the works of the great Michelangelo ! Thank heaven it is not too late — I will cut wood, or drudge in the potteries. My poor Maddelena ! methinks thou lookest pale — ah thine has been a hard lot — I have sat at my easel from morning till night ; and what have I done, but paint canvass and wood ? and because I had never seen any of the great masters, truly I thought myself inspired. But it is over, dearest ; I will toil for thee with these hands at the 11 162 COREGGIO. most menial offices. I will paint no more. Yet, after the long wearisome day is over, surely I may sit by thy side, and imagine such scenes and such beings as I once loved to paint ; this cannot be wrong, and it will be my recreation. Ah, dear wife, sometimes I have such blessed visions! they are not of this earth ! the time will come when we may feed our souls on beauty, and not go hungry for it. Who calls ? Did not some one speak ? " * " No one, dear," said Maddelena : " there is nobody here but myself." " Then I was dreaming ; I thought some- body said, ' Antonio,' in a faint low whisper. There is no air here, I think : what has come over me ? Maddelena, put your hand upon my forehead ; there now I am better, — I see the trees through the window, and the blessed light — just now it was dark, all dark ! I am very weak, but I will toil for thee and my children. Thy father shall not * Lanzi thus quotes Annibal Carracci as writing of Coreggio nearly a century after. " It grieves me to the heart, only to think of the unhappiness of the poor Antonio; that so great a man, if indeed he were a man, and not an incarnate angel, should be lost here in a country, where he was not known, and exalted to the stars, should neverthe- less die in misery." COREGGIO. 163 say again, ' Come home to me, my child ; Antonio does not care for thee.' " The tears of the young wife fell on the fair curling locks of her husband, as she pressed his head to her bosom. '' O my father," she ejaculated, " what a heart hast thou pierced ! " Then, suddenly rallying her spirits, she said in a gay tone, '' How long is it, husband, since thou has con- sidered my father such a judge of painting ? Were he Raphael or the great Michelangelo himself, methinks thou couldst not pay greater deference to his judgment : he is a good man, and a true man ; but what knows h.! of painting ? and yet there was a voice that spoke to his heart, when he beheld thy Madonna : did l\p not shed tears and say, ' Thy art will lead thee to immortality ? ' " )'• Ah Maddelena ! " exclaimed Antonio, '' were it not for thine, and our childrens' sake, I would gladly go to the land of im- mortality. My life has been full of illusions. I believed myself inspired — but it is over — I will finish this piece and take it to Par- ma, and then farewell, farewell beloved art ! " " Nay, dearest husband, thou knowest it was for thy noble art [ loved thee ; thou hast no right to renounce it ; it was that which lU COREGGIO. won my heart : you are sick, you are weary, you will feel differently when you have rested. If you are not a painter, God has not sent one upon the earth. And why do you talk of poverty : are those poor who have all they want ? when I see you well, and can look upon your beautiful paintings, I am the happiest being in the world. How exquisite is that Madonna ! there is more of heaven than earth in that face; that smile too — it is like the song of the angels ; it proclaims peace and good will to men. Would we could keep this picture ourselves ; I know not how to part with it. Antonio, you have never made me a bridal present ; such a one as this were worthy of our affection." " You know, Maddelei:i{|,, I have engaged it to Signer Vecchina." " Then it must go, and I will live upon the remembrance of it." " Dost thou indeed prize it so highly ? " said Antonio, in a voice of emotion, " then I will paint one more, and it shall be thine.^^ " Blessings on thee," said Maddelena, en- circling him with her arms, " now I have got back again my own Antonio." At that moment Giovanni rushed in. " Father," he exclaimed, " here is a brave COREGGIO. 165 gentleman coming, just such a one as you make in some of your pictures." A stranger entered, and both rose to re- ceive him. " Is it to Antonio Allegri," said he, courteously advancing, " that I am speaking." " That, Sir," exclaimed Antonio, " is my name." " I came," said the stranger, "to see the artist who painted the picture of la Notte in the Church of Coreggio, and you are he ! " '•' Yes, Sir, but you find it little worth see- ing." "Not worth seeing ! It is the perfection of painting — and yet more, of poetry ; the supernatural light wliich streams from the child, and irradiates the picture, is truly di- vine. The face of the virgin mother, Rapha- el would have admired. I was dazzled with the beauty, and, like the female who shades her eyes with her hand, unable to bear the splendor, I, too, for a moment, closed my eyes, and opened them to turn to the east- ern horizon, where a new morning was just rising on the world." " Ah ! it were well for me if I had never painted. I have all my life been walking in clouds; but the mist is clearing — I have wasted a great deal of time — tliis would not 166 V COREGGIO. be much matter, if I had not injured my family by it ; but this picture that I am now completing, and one other which I have just promised, will be my last. I have but little heart to paint them." " You say you have injured your family : have you not been recompensed for your services ? you have painted many pieces : there are the cupolas at Parma, in fresco ; the St. Jerome,which is termed the ' prince of pic- tures.' There, too, is the flight into Egypt ; ah, how beautiful is that picture ! the Virgin seated on the ground, holding the cup to the angel, who pours water into it from a vase ! Against her knee leans the youthful Saviour, receiving in one hand the dates which Joseph has just pulled from the tree, and seizing with the other, in playful earnest- ness, the unoccupied arm of his mother, in his desire to drink. Above these, that exquis- ite group of angels, rejoicing in the safety of the holy family ! This is only one of the ad- mirable pictures I have seen from you : is it possible. Sir, that you have not been recom- pensed for them ? " " Yes, Sir, I have received perhaps more than they deserve, but it is all little enough for us to live upon. I thought myself an COREGGIO. 167 artist, but I have discovered that I am igno- rant of the principles of the art. I have never been to Rome or Florence ; I have never seen the works of Lionardo da Vinci, of Michelangelo, and Raphael, nor of his dis- tinguished pupil Julio Romano ; I drank only at the fountain of nature, and the stream is dried up. Ah, Sir, self-taught artists like myself, make but poor pictures ; but it is over — I have done — Maddelena loves me, and for her sake I shall paint one more." '^ Did not the gentleness and sincerity of your manner convince me otherwise, T should think you were jesting," said the stranger. " You certainly are born for the art ; and for ages to come, the glory which your pictures shed, will cast a halo round your name. You must pardon my freedom ; but, believe me, your intention wrongs the world. Hear my prediction ; the artist who painted La Notte, St. Jerome, and this very Madon- na, will one day rank with Lionardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael." " Sir, I thank you for your kindness — it is the food upon which I live ; the tenderness of my wife has long supported my drooping spirit — I think I was not made to live here — this is a hard world ; but I do not mean to 168 COREGGIO. complain ; I have met with many noble hearts, and I will remember yom's amongst them. But indeed, Sir, it pains me that you should mention these great names in con- nexion with my humble attempts. I might have done better with instruction and the study of the best artists ; but, with the excep- tion of one noble picture of Julio Romano's, I have had no model for emulation. That picture was my day-dream : you will smile, Sir, but I named my second son Julio, for the great artist." " Is it possible ?" said the stranger, with emotion, " he is inferior to you in the beau- ties of the art." " Ah, Sir, you do not know what you say ; he is the beloved pupil of the great Raphael, and the friend of Michelangelo." " It were strange if I did not know," said the artist. " Look, Antonio, this medallion was given me by my beloved master ; it is the head of Raphael, and you behold be- fore you the most devoted of his scholars, Julio himself." " Holy angels," exclaimed Antonio, " then it is to Julio himself I have been speaking ;" and, overcome by the events of the day, by his own emotions, and the extreme delicacy COREGGIO. 169 of his health, he sank, fainting, upon a seat. Maddelena supported him in her arms. " Ah, Sir," said she, " my poor hushand is very ill. He cannot bear surprise ; he has been cruelly agitated this morning." In a few moments he recovered. The deathly paleness remained, but the gentle- ness of his expression returned. " You see. Sir," said he, " how weak I am ; I have been subject to these turns of late. It seems to me sometimes that brighter glories are open- ing, and I hear soft angel voices speaking to me ; but I am very weak. You greatly en- courage me, Sir, by thinking I ought still to continue my beloved occupation. I should languish without it ; and yet I could become a hewer of wood for the sake of my wife and children." " Ah, Sir," said Julio, sorrowfully, "the in- adequate recompense you have received for your noble art, will be a subject of regret for after ages ; but you will no longer be unre- warded. Part of my errand was to engage as many pictures for Signor Luciano Palla- vicino as you arc willing to promise : his wealth and liberality go hand in liaiid, and he offers such prices as Michelangelo and Raphael command. I will conduct you to 170 COREGGIO. Rome myself; change of scene and climate will restore your health." " I know not how to thank you as I ought," replied Antonio, "for all this kind- ness. I will leav^e it for another day. I believe I must retire — happiness is as over- powering as grief, and I have experienced yj the extremes of both this morning." He re- tired, and Maddelena remained. The soul of Julio Romano was melted with tenderness towards Antonio. " How long has he been indisposed? " inquired he. "It is many months," said Maddelena ; " I fear he is not long for this world ;" added she weeping, "often his spirit seems to take its flight upward ; and I tremble lest it should not return again. He is unable to sustain the injuries which noble minds are often doomed to meet. He says most truly he is not made for this world : he had been through a trying scene, before you came, and I know not which overcame him most, un- merited censure, or your generous praise." On leaving the humble dwelling, the Ro- man artist immediately wrote to Michel- angelo, who had desired him to visit Antonio at Coreggio ; a part of his letter is preserved. " I have seen the Allegri as you desired ; COREGGIO. 171 he is himself as charming as his pictures. Shame on the world ! he is in poverty, ab- ject poverty! and, though ignorant of his wonderful powers, he yet feels the divinity stir within him. He has a young wife, beautiful like the Virgin in his great fresco of the Ascension. But I forget that you have not seen it. He certainly does not possess the science of the mighty Florentine to whom we all bow ; but he is a man to rank by the side of Raphael my beloved and immor- tal master : perhaps he may not possess his exquisite classic grace, which I strive in vain to imitate ; but there is in his pictures such breathing life, such an angelic spirituality, and such a masterly use of chiaro-scuro, as you cannot find in any but the first masters. In his pictures, as in his mind, there seems to be no boundary between heaven and earth — they are both one — his angels hover like familiar spirits around his celestial Madonnas, and for these Madonnas he has his model upon earth, his young wife. Heaven looks out from her downcast eyes, that are some- times raised to his with earnest and thought- ful tenderness. He undoubtedly derives much of the perfect naturalness of his Ma- donnas from this earthly model, and yet 172 COREGGIO. it is evident that, though of earth, she is not earthly." It was several days before Antonio recov- ered from the agitation his feeble frame had endured. But the sweetest serenity took possession of his soul ; his eyes sparkled with im wonted lustre ; his wife, his children were constantly around him. " Did I not say," said Maddelena, " that God had not made a painter, if thou wert not one ? " " I rejoice for thy sake, dearest," replied Antonio, " that I listened to the voice of my own soul, when many warned me against self-delusion. Do you remember the paint- ing of Raphael's that I saw for a moment ? You smiled, yes, as you do now, when I exclaimed, I too am a painter ! " * " I remember it well," said Maddelena ; " it was before my father had given his con- sent to our union. Thou didst not then know how much I loved thee ! " " Perhaps it had been well for thee had I never known it." " And who told thee at last? Not I, To- nio," said Maddelena playfully ; '• but it was easy for thee to discover what I could not * Anch' io sono pittore. COREGGIO. 173 conceal even from Pietro. I never said to thee, Hove: that is the language of beginners. I left thee to spell it out ; and well didst thou con thy lesson." " Too well ! how can I atone for the pri- vations I have caused thee ? Thy father is right." " If thou wert not sick and weak to-day, Antonio," said Maddelena, " I would scold thee well ; but," added she more seriously, " even if it were true that I had wanted any of the necessaries of life, has not thy affec- tion repaid me tenfold ? But it is only the luxuries we have wanted. Dost thou read famine or sorrow in the faces of thy children ? Come hither, Nicolo and Julio." The boys left their play, and sprung for- ward at their mother's call, their innocent faces beaming with health and gaiety. " Ah ! husband, pray Heaven that we may be as happy in our affluence as we have been in our poverty. Were it not for thy toil, 1 would wish no change. When thou art the companion of Michelangelo, Raphael, and the great ones of the earth, thou must not be ashamed of thy Maddelena, nor of her poor father, who has made his wealth by moulding jars and pipkins : but I will go to him and 174 COREGGIO. tell him of this visit, what the great Julio Romano says of thee : he loves thee, Tonio, though he has no conception of thy divine art." On the wings of affection the young wife again sought her father's dwelling. Nicole truly rejoiced at Antonio's fair prospects, and promised over and over again not to have any intercourse with the malicious Pietro ; yet at night, when he went to see his daugh- ter, he could not resist stopping to tell him of Antonio's good fortune ! The next morning the artist determined to take his picture to Vecchina. It was eight miles to Parma, and he had not money to hire a carriage. A mule driver offered him, for a few paoli, a mule which he accepted, but found riding more fatiguing than walking. When he arrived, Vecchina was absent. He received, however, his sixty crowns in copper coin, a common mode of payment at that period. After resting a short time he deter- mined to return on foot. It was several hours before night would arrive, and he could walk slow, and rest often by the way. He had not proceeded many miles before he fovmd himself exhausted by the weight of his coin, and he lay down in the beautiful COREGGIO. 175 woods between Parma and Coreggio, and slept. When he awoke it was evening and the moon had just risen. Again he arose, and slowly proceeded, but his lungs were oppressed, and he struggled heavily for breath. " O for a draught of water," he exclaimed, "one draught!" What music broke upon his ear ? it was the sound of a waterfall. " I am near it," said he, " and near Coreggio ! " With new courage he reached the stream and placed his mouth to it. How refreshing to the weary artist ! his tender and watchful friend was not there to whisper caution ; eagerly he swallowed the draught, alas ! the bubbling life-blood rose to meet it, and poured from his mouth ; a vessel had broken ! With this, however, came relief; he breathed more freely. " I shall yet reach home," he exclaimed. " I shall yet see Maddelena and her children, and deposit this coin with them, which has no value but lor their sakes." When he attempted to rise ho found himself yet too weak ; a sleepiness came over him, and he again reclined by the side of the fountain. How beautiful was the scene ! the moon pouring its silver light through the foliage — the gentle murmuring of the water-full — the soft whispering of 176 COREGGIO. the trees — the cool damp breeze that played on the hectic cheek of the artist — "fare- well ! " he exclaimed, " farewell Maddelena, I shall meet thee again in the land of spirits! " Was it a dream that his head once more rest- ed on her lap — that her soft cheek was pressed to his, that he again heard the ac- cents of her voice ? and that sound of " Father, dear father, we have fomid you ! " Could it indeed be Giovanni that spoke ? Unable to bear the tedious suspense of his delay, she had wandered forth to meet him with her children. She had found him ! One last, one long embrace, and the meeting was over ; the spirit had fled to its kindred land. Coreggio died at the age of thirty- nine, in the year 1513. GIORGIONE AND TIZIANO. In that city which sits enthroned upon the Adriatic, and which is so justly called its queen, with her spires and domes, her mar- ble palaces and gorgeous buildings rising from the water, there might be daily seen among innumerable long dark gondolas, glid- ing with spirit-like motion through her hun- dred canals, one small boat, containing two cavaliers. It was in the year 1497. Venice was in her glory. No foreign power had desolated her churches, her commerce was as free as the winds and waves — the spoils of Constantinople and of many victories, adorn- ed her halls and public buildings — her no- bles with stately step traversed her squares, or in their dark gondolas glided with haughty luxury among the innumerable isles. In the far distance, the hoary Alps raised their snow- 12 178 GIOKGIONE AND TITIAN. crowned heads, and looked proudly down on the peerless sovereign of the Adriatic, while the green and fertile plains of Lombardo- Venetia lay stretched between. Every morning, a boat, containing the two cavaliers before alluded to, shot from under the noble arch of the Rialto, and glided upon the water with a quiet motion soothing to the beholder. The gondoliers rested on their oars, to listen to the music that proceeded from the boat. One of the young men drew from a flute rich full tones of harmony, while the voice of the other prolonged the cadence till sound melted into air. Suddenly he seized a lute, and sung the following lay impromptu, and now and then accompanying his voice with the instru- ment : — * The waves in murmurs softly flow, The winds from heaven genlly blow : How still upon the ocean's breast Yon beauteous island seems to rest ! By many a sparkling gem t' is bound, An emerald set with brilliants romid ; Tranquil and calm thou seest it lie, " A cloud upon a summer's sky ; " And yet 1 ween the swelling tide " Will rudely dash against its side : " * These lines have been before published. GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 179 I warn thee loiterer beware ! Danger and death are lurking there! Thou will not heed 1 then hear my lay, And spread thy sail, and haste away. The morning was bright, And flowers were blooming; The grass waved high, The air perfuming. " Awake, my love," the bridegroom cried, " My barque is dancing on the tide ; A sailor's wife must love the sea : Awake, my love, and come with me, And thou my polar star stall be." And what was Genevieve's emotion When borne upon the faithless ocean'? I cannot tell. Perhaps 't was fear That wet her cheek with many a tear ; And yet meihinks her heart was gay, For smiles oft chased those tears away. " And sad," she said, " I will not be ; My path is marked upon the sea ; And there is One, whose eye will keep The vigils when thine own shall sleep; He locks the caverns of the deep, And holds alike the sea and land Within the hollow of his hand." How sweet to land upon this isle. And rest from noon-day beams awhile ! And now the mariner once more Must spread his sail for yonder shore ; But Genevieve in sportive play Declared her purpose was to stay. " I cannot go," she said, " with thee ; Clueen of this island I will be. Go, if thou wilt, to yonder shore, 180 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. And when thy duty there is o'er, Perhaps when thou com' st back again, I '11 make thee my high chamberlain." Again he spread the snowy sail ; It fluttered in the rising gale ; The mountain waters rudely cast The foaming spray upon the blast ; His little bark was widely driven Before the scattering winds of heaven. One blessed thought could still relieve — " My wife is safe, my Genevieve ! " That mighty voice which can at will Command the tempest to be still. Hushed the rude sea, the rainbow spread, Like a bright halo, o'er his head ; Again he plied the lab'ring oar To reach the emerald isle once more. The minstrel ceased, and dropped his head. " Though fifty years have passed," he said, " These scalding tears will still be shed ; The waters o'er the isle had swept 1 And in its hollows yet they slept. My time is short, I will not grieve — I soon shall join my Genevieve ! " " Who are those cavahcrs ? " said the Count Grimani, when the song had ceased, and his gondola had passed them. " I have seen them every day, for many weeks ; some- times their boat is moored, and twice I have met them, arm in arm, on the Rial to." " I know them, my lord," said one of the GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 181 Pregadi, who happened to be of the par- ty.* They are pupils of Giovanni Belhni. The taller of the two, he with the dark eye and noble bearing, is Giorgione, of Cas- tel-Franco ; the other is Tiziano Vecelli. Though widely separated by birth — for one is of noble and the other of plebeian extrac- tion — they are sworn friends." " It is easy," said the Count, " to distin- guish between the two." The Senator smiled ; he had himself been selected from among the citizens for his republican virtue, not for his birth. " Which of the two, my lord," said he, " bears the stamp of nobility ? " " The Improvisatore whom you call Gior- gione," replied the Count. " There is no base blood in that lofty mein ; observe the contour of his head, the glance of his eye ; there is nobility in one, and bravery in the other." " Have you never found, my lord," said the Senator, "that nature has her caprices, and sometimes chooses to bestow her gifts where birth and rank have no claims ? " * In the early times of Venice, the Doge sent raessagei! to such citizens as he chose, praying them to come and give their advice. These were called Pregadi. 182 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. " Never," said the Count. " I am not a young man or a transient observer, and through my whole hfe I have never seen one of ignoble extraction endowed with the external signs of high birth," " II Signor Giorgione, however, is an ex- ception to this rule," replied the Senator, with evident satisfaction ; " it is he who is of Ignoble birth, and Signor Tiziano Vecelli belongs to a noble family ! " The Count Grimani bit his lip, and turned hastily away. The Senator continued ; " Tiziano was born at Cadore in Friuli, about five miles from the chain of Alps ; I think in the year 1477, which makes him just upon his fourth lustre. He belongs to the ancient family of Vecelli, and I assure you, my lord, gives evidence that he is not unworthy of his origin. The taste for music that he early discovered, and the fine voice, of which you have just heard specimens, induced his father to send him to Venice, to the care of an uncle, that he might be instructed scientifically in music. Richly, however, as natiue had endowed him in this respect, he soon discovered a taste and fondness for painting, that made him resolve to devote himself to it. His micle, by the GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 183 consent of his father, placed him with Bel- hni, and there he formed his friendship with Giorgione, which grew into intimacy, and they are now never to be seen apart." " It would seem," said the Count, " that you are well acquainted with these young men." "Yes, my lord," rephed the Senator, " Tiziano is the son of my sister, and I am the uncle to whom he was entrusted." " Had I borne that relation to him," said the Count, proudly, " I would have nipped this youthful friendship in the bud. There is nothing more imprudent than forming connexions early in life which it becomes necessary to dissolve as we advance. Fortu- nately for myself, I have suffered but little on this account. While an infant I was betrothed to a noble scion of our own stock. Educated by a learned monk in the Castello of my father, I have never associated except with our own race. By this means I have escaped the contagion that lingers still in our Venice, so falsely called a Republic.''^ " Your sentiments, my lord, illustrate your education," said the Senator suppressing a smile. The Comit condescended to make a gra- 184 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. cious bow in answer to this observation, and then added, " If you wish to introduce this young man to me, as a patron and encour- ager of the fine arts, I shall • be happy to see him at my levee, and will receive him with the courtesy due to a nephew of one of the Pregadi." Signor Altoni hesitated for a moment whether to accept this haughty permission ; but, reflecting that the favor of rank and wealth might hereafter be of essential service to his nephew, he determined to do so. "You say," said the Count, "that your nephew is a pupil of Bellini's ; which of the Bellinis ? may I ask. I understand there are two." " There are," replied Altoni ; " Gentil and Giovanni, both sons of Giacomo ; and, if I have any skill in painting, they will be the founders of a Venetian school.* My nephew is the pupil of Giovanni. Gentil, who jiainted the hall of the Great Council, has just returned from Constantinople, where he was invited by Mahomet, second Emperor of the Turks. He painted several things much to the satisfaction of the Turk ; but at length the old fellow undertook to turn " This, it is well known, they were. GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 185 critic, and found fault with the decollation of St, John the Baptist, insisting that the skin of the neck, where it had been separated from the head, was too high, Bellini main- tained the correctness of his picture stoutly, and the Emperor, to convince him that the criticism was just, ordered a slave to be brought, and his head to be struck off in Gen- til's presence, that he might see what was the natural effect after the separation. The poor painter was convinced at once, and gave up his argument ; but, unable to bear the sight of the critic after this circumstance took place, he asked leave to quit Constantinople." " He was fortunate in being permitted to return," exclaimed the Duke. " He was not only permitted, but the Grand Signior put a gold chain upon his neck, and loaded him with costly presents. He also wrote a letter by him to the Senate, recommending him to their favor, and they have conferred upon him, in compliment to the kind-hearted Emperor, the order of St. Mark, with a pension for life. He is now painting several views of the city, particu- larly of the square of St. Mark ; and the beau- tiful Madonna, with two cherubs hovering over her,* is his work." * To be seen in the Academy at Venice. 186 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. " I have not been fond of mingling with the lower order," said the noble Venetian ; "but as I wish to procure gems of art, I shall be obliged to you, to introduce to me some of the best workmen in this kind of business." " With pleasure, my lord," replied Signor Altoni, as the gondola approached the mar- ble steps that led to the palace Grimani. There they quitted the boat, and the Count with stately motion ascended to the colon- nade and entered the lofty halls of his ances- tors, while the Senator returned home. " My dear Tiziano," said he to his nephew, " I have an invitation for you to the Grimani palace tomorrow eve." " I have an engagement with Girgione," replied Titian. " Nay, but you must give the precedence to mine. Grimani is one of the richest nobles of Venice, and Venice is no longer what she was in the uncorrupted days of the republic. The aristocracy now has come to rule, and talents must curry favor. Alas, for our beloved city ! she is still glorious, and her possessions extensive ; she has wise and en- lightened magistrates ; but they who know how to read the history of nations, look for- GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 187 ward to the period when the Clneen of the Adriatic will be shorn of her honors, her crown sink into the sea, her palaces crumble to ruins, and these balconies, now crowded by forms of youth and beauty, become silent and desolate, the long moss and waving grass hanging from the disjointed stones and Ionic columns." * "My dear uncle," replied Titian, "me- thinks your imagination has snatched the reins from your judgment. So far as my knowledge of history extends, there never was a period when Venice more proudly wielded her sceptre. Petrarch, one of the greatest poets of Italy, has here deposited his works. Cardinal Bessarione has given to the library of St. Mark his inestimable treasures of Ancient Learning. By such gifts, distin- guished and wise men prove how much they rely upon the stability of oiu: government, as well as upon the taste for literature among the nobility. No where is such encourage- ment given to the fine arts. ' Some of the most important territories of Italy have yielded their supremacy to Venice ; even the wife of the last King of Cyprus, (^\itherine Cornaro, has ceded that beautiful country to * Such is Venice now. 188 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. her native republic. Venice is rich, power- ful, and honored, with a people devoted to art and science, sending forth counsellors of law to other nations, and solicited to furnish professors and teachers for their universities. Have you heard of the offer they have made to Giason Maino at Padua ? an annuity of a thousand ducats of gold, if he will become a teacher there of the Roman law." " All this is true," replied Altoni, " and more you might say. You might speak of the inflexibility with which justice has been administered, of the dark vacancy among the portraits of the Doges, with its inscription, * of the fortitude of the unfortunate Foscari, and his still more unfortunate father.f But none the less does it remain true, that Venice is no longer a republic, except in the name." He arose, and carefully closed the doors and windows ; then, lowering his voice, added, " There is one thing that paralyzes and en- slaves the people, that is fast undermining the foundation of liberty and justice ; " his voice sunk to the lowest whisper ; " the Inquisi- tion, Tiziano ! May God defend us from it." * " Locus Marini Falieri decapitati." t The Doge of Venice, who exhorted his innocent son to submit yiaticntly to the dungeon and the rack, because such were the laws of the country. GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 189 Titian started at the fearful word. " We are growing too serious," replied he, ''but I will hold myself to your engagement ; " and they parted. Titian repaired to the apartment of Gior- gione ; he found him engaged in painting a picture of David, with a boy standing by, holding up the severed head of Goliah. Around the room were scattered musical in- struments, songs, and flowers ; his time was divided between his profession and the taste- ful and elegant pursuits of the day. His personal beauty, his performance on the lute, with his fame as a painter, had already drawn upon him the eyes of many a Venetian dame, sparkling from under the graceful zendaletto which partially covered her face. " I have come," said Titian, " to release myself from the engagement I made this morning : my uncle claims my attendance at the Grimani palace." A shade of vexation passed over the coun- tenance of Giorgione. " You forget," said he, " that you have pledged yourself to the fete of Signora Mozza. Her beautiful daughter depends on you for a second, and the duetto must remain unperformed if you arc not there." 190 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. " It is vexatious enough," replied Titian, " but I am under too many obligations to my uncle not to consider his wish a law. But what are you doing there, Giorgione ? " con- tinued he, approaching a painting that stood on an easel in the corner of the room. '' I scarcely need say to you," replied Giorgione, " that I have been dissatisfied with the dry, harsh manner of master Bellini ; and since we saw that picture of Lionardo da Vinci's, I have been attempting to imitate his manner." * '' It is beautiful," exclaimed Titian ; " there is all the softness of the mighty artist. I have long felt how much was wanting in my own style. I hear Lionardo is the idol of Florence." The friends parted — in Giorgione 's man- ner, there was less of cordiality than usual — the fair Guilietta di Mozza had long been the mistress of his heart. It was by his persua- sion, she had been induced to overcome so far her native timidity, as to take pajrt in a * Aveva veduto Giorgione alcune cose di mani di Lio- nardo, molto fumeggiate e cacciale, come si e detto, ter- ribilmente di scuro. E questa maniera gli plaque tanto, che mentre visse sempre ando dietro a quella, e nel colo- rito a olio la imilo grandemente. GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 191 piece with Titian, and he had fondly antici- pated the melting strains which his own lute was to prelude. Titian, his most intimate friend, his confidant, knew all this, yet with perfect coolness he had broken his engage- ment, and, as far as the duetto was concerned, had condemned that voice of harmony to silence for the evening. Yet, how could Titian, who had never been initiated in the mysteries of a first love, understand the feelings of his friend ? he was even tempted to smile at what he considered the excessive disappointment of Giorgione. From this slight cause began the diminution of the friendship that had hitherto made so much of their happiness ; other circumstances however were combined. Titian improved upon the hints of Giorgione, and, aided by his fine natural perception of coloring, produced works of such brilliancy and softness that his fame eclipsed that of Giorgione. His uncle's worldly foresight, too, had proved true. His introduction to the Grimani palace had drawn upon him the observation of the no- bles ; even the haughty Count condescended to sit for his picture ; and it was wliispered that one being, less haughty and more lovely in the aristocratic group, had looked with complacency upon the young artist. 192 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. From this period, the society in which he continued to visit, was separate from that of Giorgione ; they now seldom met, except in the way of business. Both were engrossed in their pursuits. Giorgione, notwithstanding his passionate love of music, contrived to im- prove in the new manner he had adopted. There was a grandeur in his conceptions that Titian never reached ; it was neither in the eye nor the hand, but the soul. It was he who first soared from the low manner of Bellini's coloring, to a full understanding and command of the beauties of the chieiroscuro. Titian followed. At this period, the two artists might be said to divide the opinions of the Venetians. At length they were applied to, to paint the building where the merchants met, on the grand canal. Giorgione took one side, and Titian another. The pieces were done in competition. Both are now ruined by time, and at that period did not settle the question. Titian at length visited Rome, where he first beheld the works of Michelangelo and Raphael. Here he took lessons in design, and afterwards went to Vicenza, and execut- ed a fresco upon a portico, representing the judgment of Solomon, and was highly GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 193 praised. He also visited Padua, and painted a St. Mark in oil. Giorgione in the mean time continued to labor, unassisted by models or instruction, and resting on his own grandeur of conception. He painted several fine Madonnas, and some portraits. His fame spread over Italy, and his works were in great demand in various cities. In 1504 an alarming fire broke out in Venice near the Rial to ; it could not be ex- tinguished till a great part of the German warehouse with its merchandize was con- sumed. The government ordered it to be rebuilt with superior magnificence. Gior- gione was appointed to superintend the em- bellishments, and discovered his fine taste in the ornaments and fresco paintings. Genius and industry secured to him the distinction which birth had denied him. His portraits were his most admired works, and those which remain to us are character- ized by a mellow richness of coloring, a breadth of effect and projection of figures which perhaps have never been equalled un- less by his great rival and fellow-student, Titian. In his portraits of military men, there is a grandeiu: and heroism of mien, 13 194 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. which has been much admired and imitated, and has given rise to what is called the Giorgione style. Catharine Carnaro the ex-Q,ueen of Cy- prus * had, since her abdication, resided al- most wholly in solitude, though treated with every mark of respect by the Venetians. Her taste for painting had made her acquaint- ed with the works of Giorgione. She con- sented to sit for her picture, and selected him for the artist. * The island of Cyprus had been given to Lusignan by the crusaders, who won il from the Barbarians; but he, fore- seeing, as his death approached, that it would be subject to the constant annoyance of the Turks, with admirable good sense requested Catharine to yield the crown, and renounce the honors of royalty, and place herself under the protec- tion of her native republic, Venice ; assuring her that a sceptre was well exchanged for peace and friendship. One of the most beautiful of Titian's pictures is that of Catharine Cornaro; it is still preserved in its original freshness. Addison, in an admirable paper on temperance, mentions LewisCornaro, the Venetian, as a most remarkable instance of its benefits; he was of the same family as Lusignan, and of an infirm constitution, but, persisting in an exact course of temperance, recovered a perfect state of health, insomuch that at fourscore he published a book under the title of "Sure and certain methods of attaining a long and healthy life." After having passed his liundredth year, he died without pain or agony, and like one who falls asleep. Spectator, No. 195. GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 195 He became the favorite portrait painter of the nobihty. Even the Count Grimani waived his low birth, and admitted him, as he had before done Titian, to the Grimani palace. Giorgione was no longer poor and un- known ; he had his coversaziones and musical parties, and he was the delight of his friends ; his house became the resort of gay cavaliers, and distinguished foreigners ; among them were often Ariosto and Aretina, the well- known poets of Italy. In the year 1511 Titian returned to Venice. He had, while absent, thought much of the advantage he had derived from Gior- gione's skill in painting — of their early friendship, and the love that had once existed between them ; his heart yearned for a reconciliation ; he felt that there had been mutual faults, that jealousy and rivalship had too long separated them, and he determined to seek his friend, and acknowledge wherein he had been to blame. He knew too well the noble nature of Giorgione to fear a re- pulse. He an-ived at Venice the day before As- cension, a day celebrated by the Republic since the year 997, when the victory was 196 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. gained over Narenta, a piratical city on the other side of the Adriatic. The early com- memoration was in a rude, simple manner ; but, nearly two hundred years after, the em- peror Barbarossa conferred on the Venetians the supremacy of the Adriatic. The investi- ture was made with much formality, on As- cension Day, and added to the pomp of the occasion. Barbarossa, repudiating his be- loved Adriatic, made her over to the Doge, who espoused his "green-haired bride " with much solemnity. A boat was constructed to take the Doge to the bridal ceremony, in the beginning of the fourteenth century : every anniversary had been adding to the splendor of the festival ; and, at the present time, 1511, nothing could exceed the show and decora- tion which was in preparation. Titian felt impatient for the reconcilia- tion he had projected between himself and Giorgionc ; but, sure of meeting him on the great day, he did not repair to his house im- mediately on his arrival. The morning of Ascension Day arose mild and clear, — all Venice was in motion. The day was ushered in by music and ringing of bells, and the Buccntoro taken from under cover. The sun shone on her GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 197 gorgeous ornaments, her three decks, each one hundred feet long, all appropriately orna- mented ; the lower deck was occupied by nearly one hundred rowers, and surrounded by towing-barges ; the second splendidly fitted up with crimson velvet, cloth of gold, allegorical statues, gilt bassi-relievi and tro- phies, heathen gods and goddesses, with canonized saints and madonnas. On one side might be seen Venus rising from the ocean ; on the other, the Virgin Mother ; then representations of the victories of the repub- lic, and Jupiter yielding his sceptre, and Mars his trident, to the lovely queen of the Adriatic. All that was noble in Venice, all that was high in rank, beauty, wealth, and talent, were convened on this occasion. At the upper end of the Bucentoro* was placed a throne, under a canopy of crimson and gold. The bridegroom of the Adriatic, clad in his ermine robes sweeping the ground, with his white and gold cap on his head, accompanied by the senators and clergy, was conducted to the throne. The Bucentoro was then rowed a little way into the sea, attended by the * Said to be a corruption of the original name, Diicento- rum. 198 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. splendid yachts of the foreign ambassadors, the gondolas of the Venetian nobility, and the water covered with innumerable gallies of every kind. When all was ready, the venerable patriarch, the Pope's legate, or rep- resentative, poured a libation of holy water into the ocean, for the preservation of the fine weather, and to dispel any storm that might be gathering. Hymns were sung, and a band of music played, while the pageant slowly moved towards the island of St. Lido, about two miles from Venice. Prayers were then said, and the Doge, with solemn dignity, ap- proached nearer to his bride, and dropped a wedding-ring on the consecrated wave, ut- tering these words in an emphatic tone : — " Desponsamus te, Mare, in signum veri perpetuique dominii." * The sea uttered a low murmur, much more captivating to the bridegroom and his attendants, than Avould have been a more boisterous assent. Titian had been wholly engrossed by the ceremony ; for, though one annually witness- ed, it always preserved its interest and solem- nity among the Venetians. Now, however, * We espouse thee, Sea, in sign of true and perpetual dominion over thee. GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 199 he began to seek for Giorgione among the numerous pageants of the show. '' Surely, he must be there ; for, when was he absent from the national festival, the dance, and the song ? " said Titian to him- self. When lo! he beheld a yacht, gaily dressed, and wreathed with flowers, while the burnished gold at the head and prow gave it the appearance of a ball of fire. A strain of slow and solemn music was heard from the boat, strangely contrasting with its gala dress. As he approached nearer, he perceived a banner waving in the air, and distinguished the initials of Giorgione 's name. "Ha!" thought he, "this is some new whim — he will never be contented till he has divine honors paid him." Titian ordered the gondoliers to row along side of the yacht, and plainly dis- tinguished the following irregular dirge, ac- companied by musical instruments : — The song of the bridal is swelling, But the fete of the bridegroom is o'er. Hark ! the death-bell its note is knelling, Sadly it comes from the distant shore. We go from the bridal with flower and tear, To weep by the side of the pale one's bier. 200 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. Strike, strike the lute, all faint and low, For it knows its master's will ; The flute in whispering accents blow, For the master's breath is still. The sad notes of sorrow are blending With the gay festive song of the sea; And slow o'er the wave we are wending ; 'Tis to pay our last tribute to thee. Titian waited till the music ceased and silence succeeded. He then asked if Gior- gione was on board the yacht. The gondo- liers shook their heads. At that moment a tall pale youth came forward ; at one glance Titian knew him, it was Ludovico Ariosto. He who had sung " Le donne, i cavalier, I'arme, gli amori." In an instant he sprang from the gondola, and the friends were in each other's arms. " When did you arrive in Venice ? " was the first question of Titian. " I came from Ferrara a few days since," replied Ariosto, " and inquired for you, but heard you were absent." " Still I find you in the land of song," said Titian gaily ; " but whose obsequies are you celebrating thus festively ? " Ariosto looked earnestly at him, and then exclaimed, " Shall wealth and pride have its GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 201 honors, and genius receive none ? Every noble, and every patrician in Venice has at least given one thought to day to Giorgione. To night we perform his funeral obsequies, and cast aside this glare and pomp, contrived to arrest the vulgar. Go with us, Titian ; I know you and Giorgione were friends at heart, and there is no rivalship in the grave." Rivalship! what would not Titian have given to have had one interview with his early friend, to have exchanged forgive- ness ! But it was too late, and he could only render unavailing sighs and tears to his memory. It was weeks after this event took place before Titian recovered his usual tone of spirits, and Ariosto persuaded him to pass some time with him at his house in Ferrara. Here he was much noticed by the Duke of Ferrara, and invited to stay at his palace ; but he preferred remaining with Ariosto, who lived in a simple manner in a small house of his own building. The Duke had made him splendid offers, as also had Leo X ; but the poet loved ease better than rank, and said he would "not sell his liberty for a cardinal's hat." Titian expressed to him some surprise 202 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. that he had not built a more splendid dwell- ing, " You," said he, " who have given such descriptions in your Orlando, of palaces and castles, of noble colonnades and marble fountains, must surely have some taste for them." " Yes," replied he, " I love to describe them ; but words are more easily put together than blocks of marble." " What think you of the inscription over my door ? " continued he. Titian had not observed it — it was in Latin and may be thus translated : — " My house is small, but suits myself; Is neat, and paid for with my pelf." While staying with Ariosto, Titian paint- ed a fine picture of him.* In the Orlando Furioso, Titian is cele- brated as conferring not less honor on Cadore, his native place, than Raphael and Giorgione on Venice and Urbino.f When Titian returned to Venice, he was requested to complete a picture that Giorgi- one had left unfinished. This was a renewal * This is in the Hall of St. Mark. t E Tiziano, che onora Non men Cador, che quel Venezia e Urbino. GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 203 of those tender and remorseful feelings, which had before agitated him. The fame of Titian had now spread wide ; he was requested by Bembo the secre- tary of Pope Leo X, to repair to Rome ; but, as he was greatly occupied, he delayed going from day to day, till the intelligence arrived of Leo's and of Raphael's death, and he then concluded to relinquish his purpose. He was requested to paint the portrait of the new Doge Andrea Gritti, and also to copy the portraits of the preceding Doges. In 1536 he received the news of the death of Ariosto. It is the destiny of man to mourn ; and so felt Titian, as, year after year, he was called to part with his early friends. Of his domestic connexions little is said ; but in his two sons he took great pleasure, and visited Rome for the purpose of intro- ducing them to Michelangelo. The eldest, Horatio Vccelli, discovered early a taste for painting, and finished several portraits in the style of his father ; but his great delight was in chemistry, and he finally abandoned the pencil for his crucibles. In 1566, Vasari, the friend of Titian, and afterwards his biographer, came to Venice expressly to visit him, and found him in the 204 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. Barberigo palace, on the grand canal, where he resided till his death. Though then in the decline of life, there were no symptoms of infirmity or decay ; his mind was bright, his movements vigorous and active. " Wel- come, my friend," said he ; " you have found me preparing for one of my youthful sports, we are to have a Regatta, and I know not which are most engaged in it, my boys or myself." Titian then ordered the gondola which he particularly patronized, to be brought be- fore the palace ; proudly it moved upon the waters — its dress was fantastic, and loaded with ornaments — plumes of burnished gold glittered in the sun, and the winged lions of the republic seemed about to take their flight to the proposed goal. " Is this merely an amusement ? " said Vasari, " or, is there any particular object connected with it ? " " Frequently," replied Titian, " the gon- doliers challenge to a Regatta. They then put up a little flag at a distance, and exert all their skill and strength to outstrip each other and obtain the prize. But every now and then a Regatta is ordered by the government, who feel the importance of promoting emula- GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 205 tion among a class of men on whom we so much depend. The competitors are chosen from among the most respectable of the gon- doliers, and I assure you it is no ordinary competition." " I am fortunate," said Vasari, ''in arriving in time to witness an amusement which is peculiar to Venice, and I perceive the policy of yoiu* government in encouraging it. It is upon the principle of the ancient Peloponnes- ian courses." " And scarcely less noble," said Titian ; " for, as a crown of oak was then the victors reward, so a green bough is the signal and prize of the victorious gondolier." Titian was engaged in preparing for this amusement till the day came. His easel was set aside, and his noble pictures, which were to earn him the guerdon of undying fame, seemed to him of little comparative worth. When the morning of the Regatta arrived, the grand canal was alive with boats of every description. Nothing could be more animating than the scene ; the gondoliers in the gay and beautiful costume, Avliich Ti- tian has handed down to posterity in some of his finest pictures, each standing on his boat with its bright prow of polished iron gleam- 206 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. ing in the sun, and decorated with fantastic ornaments, came forward to arrange their gondolas for starting. Among them all, Titian's favorite was conspicuous. " Now for the prize, Valerio," exclaimed he to a yoimg gondolier, who stood lightly balancing himself on the narrow and elevated part of the boat. " Come for- ward, Genevra." A dark-eyed Italian girl made her appearance, and with timid grace presented the youth the oar. Others follow- ed her example, and every gondola seemed to contain some mother, wife, or amata, to ani- mate the purpose of the gondoliers. " Re- member," some of them exclaimed, " the victories your fathers have gained." Genevra presented the oar in silence, and with down- cast eyes. Then followed the religious ceremonies ; the consecrated water was lavish- ly dispersed, the signal given, and the boats in motion. The course was about four miles along the grand canal, which takes the form of the letter S. On each side were placed bands of music. The gondoliers stood on a slight elevation. Valerio's figure seemed to have attained new grace and beauty ; his thin shoes enabled him to cling to the almost imperceptible footing, while the accuracy GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 207 with which he poised his body, keeping only the upper part of it, with his arms in motion, gave him complete power over the boat. Nothing could exceed the elegance of his attitude, as he urged his light bark over the waves, skimming the surface of the water with the rapidity of the swallow. " Valeric will win the victory," said Vasari. " Certainly he will," exclaimed Titian, " he has all that man can have to animate him, love and beauty." Titian was right ; Valerio was declared the victor, and returned bearing the green bough. During this visit, the artist introduced to Vasari one of his pupils, Tintoretto, who had fine talents in music as well as in painting. Vasari could not but admit the brilliancy of his coloring ; but he considered it extrava- gant, and his designs out of nature : he did not at that time foresee that he and Paolo Veroneseo, who were cotemporary, would rank with the first painters in the world, and be- come the glory of Venice. Tintoretto followed the drawings of Mi- chelangelo, by whom he was greatly encour- aged and assisted, while he adopted the beautiful coloring of his master. 208 GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. The Emperor Charles V, sat three times for his picture to Titian, and said, the last time, he had " thrice been made immortal." To reward the genius who had made him so, he created the artist a Count Palatine, and gave him a pension. Henry III, in going from Poland to France, visited Venice, expressly to see Titian. The painter had now wealth, fame, and glory ; he had lived nearly a century, been acquainted with the most celebrated men of the age, was the darling of Venice, with whose habits, customs, and people he was intimately associated. His days, in the usual course of nature, were drawing near to a close. One of his friends said to him, " You afford the singular instance of a life of un- clouded happiness." Titian replied with a melancholy smile, '' There is no such life here ; but the bitter- est pangs I have known, have arisen from alienation of friendship, and from that rival- ship and jealousy which are too common in the arts." In 1576, the ])lague broke out at Venice. Titian, with his son Horace, were among the first victims. He left a painting of David unfinished ; and, though he was at the age GIORGIONE AND TITIAN. 209 of ninety-nine, it was as vigorous and spirited in its outline as any of its predecessors. The painter who was celebrated by Ariosto the first poet of the age, now lies low in the Church of St. Maria dei Frati at Venice. A marble slab covers his ashes, on which is inscribed, — " Clui giace, il gran Tiziano di Vecelli, Emulator de Zeusis e degli Apelli." * * Here lies the great Titian di Vecelli, The rival of Zeuxis and Apelles. 14 THE THREE CARACCI, LODOVICO, ANNIBALE, AND AGOSTINO, WITH THEIR SCHOOL. In the low confined shop of a tailor, where lay heaped up the different stuffs that com- posed the garments of the fi tecnth century, sat a young lad, busily engaged in what appeared to be his vocation ; yet it was evi- dent, from his flushed check, the impatient and somewhat vexed air with which he occasionally threw back his head, that all did not go well : sometimes the memorable insig- nia of his employment, the shears, were called to his aid, and he cut and ripped without mercy ; then the thimble again performed its duty, and a few stitches were taken, which were as hastily jnillcd out. He did not speak, though there was another present who seemed to be regarding him with curiosity. THE CARACCI SCHOOL, 211 At length, the lad, in attempting to separate a seam, gave the garment a sudden and as it appeared a hopeless rent, for he threw it aside with an expression of despair, and an excla- mation of, " What will my father say ? " "Say?" saic^ the spectator, who was an older brother, '^ that you are no more born to be a tailor than I am, or than our cousin Lodovico was to be a butcher. His father tried a year or two to bring him to the cleav- er, and at last perceived that, for all he would do, all the kine, swine, and sheep of Bologna would arrive at an honorable old age and die a natural death under Lodovico's patronage. Veal grew into beef, lamb into mutton, and those delicate little animals, roasting pigs, into stout old boars, and then the matter was given up, as his father found he could not make him a butcher, and he was suffered to follow his own inclination. And what is the consequence ? He bids fair to become a great painter, and has already earned money enough by his art to enable him to travel and see other places." " Other artists, you mean, brother," said the young Annibalc Caracci. " I have now letter in my pocket, which I received from him yesterday. He is at Florence, studying 212 THE CARACCi SCHOOL. the works of the great masters, Lionardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Andi'ea del Sarto. From there he will go to Venice, and study those of Titian, Tintoretto, and Paul Vero- nese. Then he means to remain some time at Parma, and become well acquainted with Parmeggiano's and Coreggio's, and finish off at Mantua with the bold Julio Romano." " By my troth," exclaimed Agostino, the elder brother, " the boy rattles off the names as if he were born to found a school of painting." " And why not ? " said Annibale, " why may not nature have given me the power that it has granted to others ? " " But, as our father could not make me a tailor, you know he means to make you one." " It is very natural," said Annibale, " that he should wish one of us to adopt a business that has not only made him respectable in his line, but given him a comfortable subsist- ence. 1 am convinced, however, from my own attempts, that I should disgrace his pro- fession. 'See, Agostino, I have been the whole morning trying to make this sleeve look like the one he has given me for a pattern." THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 213 A loud laugh from Agostino somewhat disconcerted the young tailor. " Dost thou not see, boy," said he, " that thou hast con- verted the doublet into a sleeve ? a fine piece of work thou hast made of it, truly. How many pieces of coin dost thou expect to get for this precious garment ? For my own part, I wish thee no greater punishment than to be obliged to wear it thyself ; thou wilt not want any other strait jacket to keep thee from mischief. But here comes our good father Antonio. I am off;" and he sprung through the window upon the brick walk before the shop, and disappeared through one of the arcades that border the streets of Bologna. " Well Annibale," said the father, as he entered, " how goes the garment ? it will be called for to-night." " Father," said Annibale, meekly, '' I greatly fear I shall disgrace your calling. I have been trying hard over it the whole morning." Antonio took it and held it up. " In truth boy," said he, " thou art clumsy to take so many hours to spoil a garment ; almost any blockhead could have accomplished it in ten minutes. I will start fair with thee, Anni- 214 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. bale, as I did with Agostino. I perceive I must not look for assistance from either in my own employment. He has chosen to be an engraver, and I have suffered him to exchange the needle for the burin. My business has been a profitable one, and has enabled me to give you both a good educa- tion. It also enables me to furnish you both with moderate means for acquiring any other trade. I give you leave to choose as I have your brother, only premising that it is on your own industry you must depend for support." Annibale remained silent, and the father continued, — " I have little doubt but I could get you received into some of the establish- ments as a silk weaver. This is so large a part of our commerce that it will be a profit- able employment, and should you in time become a principal, will play well into my hands, as I make use of a large quantity of silk." " Indeed, father," said Annibale, " I fear I shall be as poor a weaver as tailor ; but there is my cousin Lodovico's business." " O true," exclaimed Antonio, interrupting him, '' I doubt not but his father will be very glad to have you supply his son's place. THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 215 It was a sad disappointment to my poor brother-in-law, when Lodovico gave up the business of the slaughter-house ; but, in truth, when I sent you to the best schools, I did not think I was educating you to be a butcher ! However, every man may make his own business ; and though I am somewhat sur- prised at your choice, I shall not oppose it." Annibale for a moment seemed to be struck dumb with astonishment. " A butch- er ! O no, father," said he, " that was not what I meant ; it is Lodovico's present em- ployment I was thinking of — I want to be a painter." " That is the way," said Antonio, " one thoughtless member of a family is enough to corrupt the whole ; however, I have pledged my word, and I will not recall it." Annibale sprang from his ignoble bench, and, throwing aside forever, shears, thimble, bodkin and goose, drew a letter from his pocket, and handed it to his father. It was the one he had before mentioned to his brother. Lodovico wrote with the enthusi- asm of an artist, mentioned that he had al- ready received a large sum for painting the ceiling of a church — encoiuraged his young cousin to follow the bent of his inclination, 216 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. and promised to take him as a pupil, on his return, if he could secure the consent of his father. " This is very well, so far," said Antonio, thoughtfully, "but I have always understood that it required bright parts to become a painter. Michelangelo and Raffaello, whose names thou passest so trippingly on the tongue, were both born great men ; but thou, my poor Annibale — thou, who canst not make vest or tunic, and art a whole morning slash- ing and spoiling a simple toga, what will be- come of thee, by the side of thy cousin Lodo- vico, who it seems has painted the inside of a church. I fear thou wilt never get beyond grinding the paints. Well ! as I said before, every occupation well performed, is credita- ble ; and so if thou wilt choose to grind paints thy life long, with the fear of God be- fore thy eyes, I give my consent ; but one thing remember, my son, that if thou couldst win a cardinal's hat without good morals and good conduct, it would only disgrace thee." " Father ! " said Annibale, " you have for- gotten that my cousin Lodovico could never learn his father's business, and yet they say he will make an excellent painter ; it is very fortunate that all are not born with the same tastes and capacities." THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 217 " There is truth in that boy," replied An- tonio ; " well, well, worse come to worst thou canst take up the needle again ; it is a good thing, Tenere '1 piede in piu stafFe.* But Lodovico's not choosing to be a butcher is no proof that he might not like to be a tailor, if he had been trained to it ; one is a gentle- manly art, and the other . . . but let every man mind his own business." f From this time Annibale no longer occu- pied his bench in the shop. With persever- ing industry he began to apply himself to the rules of drawing, and prepare for Lodovico's return. Agostino had early forsworn the vocation of a tailor, and his father had put him to a goldsmith. There is a perceptible link between this and many other mechanical and scientific arts : he soon began to engrave, and astonished his father and young companions, by an early and quite pathetic representation of Cain in the act of killing Abel. But Agostino had not the power of devoting him- self to one object ; he was full of imagina- tion, and every new pursuit engaged his fancy : sometimes it was music ; sometimes ' To have two strings to one's bow. tCiascun' attenda a' fatii suoi. 218 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. dancing ; then poetry and mathematics had their turn. Annibale on the contrary, devoted himself to the one pursuit of painting ; he corres- ponded with Lodovico, who encouraged and animated him, and they were already form- ing a project which was matured and put into execution in after years. It was in vain that Annibale strove to unite his brother's pursuits with his own ; though closely allied and fellow-students, their habits and tastes were diiferent. Agos- tino thought to derive consequence from those with whom he associated ; and he was continually seeking the company of men of wealth, of rank, and brilliant powers. Anni- bale was very different ; modest, and not fitted to shine in gay society, he avoided fashion, and found companions in the hum- blest men. " You will never make an artist," said Agostino to him one day ; " there is nothing high born, or high bred in your conceptions. Do what you will, there always appears through them, Antonio, the tailor's son." '' May we both of us be as good men as our father," replied Annibale, quietly. " But truly, brother, neither high birth nor high THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 219 breeding are my aims ; give me nature, pure nature, and I ask no more ; the nearer I ap- proach to it the better satisfied I shall be with my performance," "Perhaps," said Agostino, contemptuously, " it is the study of nature that leads you into such low society." " Take back that harsh word," replied An- nibale ; "I associate with my equals, those who are born in the same station as myself. I neither look up to them, nor down upon them — we have mutual confidence in each other ; wherever I see genius and merit, I honor it, though in the humblest grade of life ; and believe me, brother, there is more dignity in keeping within our own station, than in aspiring beyond it. Our father has often told us that true honor consists not in the profession we pursue, but in the manner in which we fill it." "It is a pity you bad not kept to the thimble," said Agostino. " No," replied Annibale, " I never could have done justice to my father's business ; what was respectable in his hands would have been mean in mine ; for I had no capa- city for it. I could sketch a man well clothed, but I could not clothe him. It was 220 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. the conviction that I could not do this, that gave me resohition enough to break my mind to my father, though I had great compunc- tion at leaving him, in his old age, to the labor of a business, from the gains of which we have had our education, and in which it was very natural for him to expect aid from at least one of his sons." Agostino was silent for a moment ; then suddenly throwing his arm over his brother's shovilder, he exclaimed, '•' You are a noble fellow, Annibale, and always in the right ; and I suppose I am always in the wrong. It does, however, vex me, when I am walking with belted knights and high-born cavaliers, to meet you arm in arm with journeymen, and may-hap cobblers." " They are my fellow men," said Annibale, " and one day or other your knights and cavaliers will lie as low as they ; for death makes no distinction." "■ Learning, however, docs," said Agostino, proudly ; " men of letters and of liberal edu- cation should rank above boors." " To such," said Annibale, " let honor be rendered — I render it. But mere sordid wealth, or what you call high birth, excites in my mind no emulation. For education I THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 221 have a high respect ; perhaps I give an imag- inary value to it, from not possessing it in a greater degree. You, Agostino, are more for- tunate ; my father gave you, as his oldest son, advantages which he could not afford to both ; but, if you bore yourself more meekly under them, they would become you better, and perhaps I might feel the difference less." There was something in this calm appeal that touched the gentler feelings of Agostino. " I have many faults," said he, " but indeed, Annibale, you and I are formed of different clay." " No, brother," replied Annibale, " we are all formed of the same clay, and by the same hand ; but I admit some are more nicely moulded than others. There are various niches to be filled, and no model ought to be thrown aside as worthless. This holds good with mere clay models ; but when we come to the mind or soul, how much more ought we to realize that each has its place, and cannot be spared in the great temple of the universe." " I perceive our cousin Lodovico has given you a taste of his philosophy," said Agostino ; " he has conceived romantic plans of regenerating the age, in some way which 222 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. I cannot understand, and am all unworthy to co-operate in." " He thinks quite otherwise," replied An- nibale ; '' and whatever plans he may put in execution, he will, I am sure, require your aid ; your knowledge of engraving and of mathematics will be valuable to the arts. But I think the versatility of your pursuits are opposed to any great degree of excellence in any one." " What do you mean ? " asked Agostino, with his usual impatience of reproof. " I confess," said Annibale, " it surprised me yesterday to see you playing the dancing- master." " That it surprised you, shows your igno- rance of the accomplishments of a cavalier," answered Agostino, rudely. " You, who are born to labor like the ox, can hardly com- prehend the spirit of a high-mettled courser, nor how much ground he may clear ; music and dancing are noble recreations." " I am little skilled in either," said Anni- bale ; " but music I have understood to be the language of the soul, and dancing that of the feet. I cannot think the art liigh or noble, in M^iich dogs and bears may be taught to excel." THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 223 Antonio entered just as Agostino was re- plying to his brother in a peremptory tone. "Always at variance!" said Antonio. " One would think there were real troubles enough in life, without creating new ones, by bickerings and domestic broils. However, as I find you cannot live together in brotherly love, I have determined to make you, Agos- tino, as being the oldest, the offer of going to live with Lodovico Caracci." Agostino gladly accepted the proposal. It opened a new path to his ambition, nor was he sorry to leave the spot where his humble birth made him secondary in the society he most loved to frequent. Annibale contemplated his brother's depar- ture from Bologna with a feeling that border- ed on envy. This baleful emotion he had hitherto shut out from his heart. He had seen his brother elevated to circles from which he was excluded, without a sigh ; he had even kept aloof 4ip all that could divert iiis attention from tlu^ ;iit to which he re- solved to devote his whole time and faculties ; he had unrepiningly yielded to seniority and the advantages of a superior education ; but when Agostino was selected by his father to reside with Lodovico, his heart swelled with 224 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. a sense of injury. His cousin, who was his beau ideal of goodness and truth had long expressed an earnest wish that he might come to him, and enjoy the advantages of seeing the works of Michelangelo. " But I have said not a word," thought Annibale, "because I would not put my father to any new expense ; and now Agostino, who has gathered flowers from all the fine arts, from music, poetry and painting, reaps again the fruits of his accidental seniority." The young artist drooped under what he thought injustice. For a few days his pencil was thrown aside, and he sat brooding over his disappointment ; but he loved his brother with true afl'ection, and, on bidding him adieu, gave him a design upon which he had spent much time. Though Agostino often yielded to the violence and impatience of his disposition, he felt the force of Annibale 's forbearance ; and now, when they were parting, the brothers embraced with heartfelt affection. There are few ties so strong as those of kindred : the wise Creator has bound fami- lies together by mutual interests ; and, how- ever diversified and uncongenial may be their pursuits, it is rare that there is not one THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 225 fountain of inexhaustible love, from which ajl may draw. This fountain is so liberally- supplied, that it is apt to be held too cheap, and it is only when the waters are choked or dried up that its real value is understood ; then the soul pants like the " hart after the water-brook." Thus felt Annibale when his brother was actually gone, and he had no one with whom to communicate, no one who understood his wishes or his projects. With unremitting industry, however, he pur- sued his labors. Labors they truly were, for all his acquisitions were toilsome. He had nothing of the quick conception of Agostino. His progress was slow and gradual ; and he had acquired from this the appellation of "the ox." "My cousin Lodovico," thought he, " won that title before me, and was so slow in his perceptions that when he first studied at Bologna, his master Fontana ad- vised him to relinquish the arts ; and even when he went to Venice, Titian gave him the same counsel. Courage, Annibale ! the ox at the plough will in time make the ground yield its richest fruits." When Agostino arrived at Florence, he was cordially welcomed by Lodovico, who regretted that Annibale had not accompanied 15 226 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. him : he made minute inquiries into their different modes of study. " I have brought a design of Annibale's," said Agostino, " that he gave me at parting," and he unrolled a sketch of the conversion of St. Paul, which he afterwards painted. Lodovico regarded it with much pleasure, as giving indication of great excellence in draw- ing. He communicated his plan of forming a school for the fine arts, and determined to write to Antonio and request him to permit Annibale to join them at Florence. In roll- ing up the design, they discovered the first attempt of Annibale at poetry : it was a copy of verses written on the back, and only worth recording as expressive of his state of feeling towards his brother, whom the father had sent away because they could not agree : — Thy path is o'er the mighiy dead, Among the works of art, Where thou with careless steps wilt tread, All free and light of heart. O what to thee is Raphael's line, Where, with immortal light, He paints the Saviour's form divine In dazzling glory briglit 1 Or, what to thee that angel choir Revealed by opening skies. While Saint Cecelia strikes her lyre, And notes seraphic rise? THE CAKACCl SCHOOL. 227 Or, what to thee that noble form, By Buonaroti wrought, With Sinai's sacred mission warm, Inspired with more than thought? Or he, whose gentle soul has shed Its calm and sweet repose O'er the blest Virgin's sainted head. As holy visions rose — Coreggio ! 't was for thee to find The models of thine art In thy own pure, exalted mind, And deeply feeling heart. Brother, farewell ! and if e'en now The laurel blooms for thee, Bind with immortal wreaths thy brow, — But save one flower for me. Agostino read his brother's lines with a smile, and a tear which he hastily dashed away. *' I verily believe it is the first time," said he, " that poor Annibale has ever played truant to his first love, and coquetted with either of my rival muses. Calliope or Erato, who, to say the truth, do not seem much in- clined to smile on either of us." " So much the better ; " said Lodovico, " Ufe is too short to admit of time's being frittered away, among a variety of pursuits. It is the vigorous concentration of the mind 228 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. on one object which developes its powers. I have feared the ideal, as a rock upon which many of my cotemporaries have spht." * " There spoke the ox ; " thought Agostino, " let him keep to the plough, for all me ! I cry you mercy, good cousin Lodovico ; who had more of the ideal than Raphael ? Me- thinks he often hovers midway between heaven and earth ; and even your great Michelangelo walks with his head in the clouds, and his feet in the lower regions. For my part 1 am determined to pay court to the nine sisters. The only reason that the cunning old Grecians did not find a tenth to preside over painting, was because it would take the whole nine to make her. Now, by uniting the rare excellences of all, I make for myself a muse that deserves to be called the Genius of Painting." " I am sick of the extravaganzas," said Lodovico, " that modern artists dignify with the name of genius. Every new painter sets himself up for originality ; yet it is only in the study of the great masters that any degree of perfection can be acquired. Who can hope to exceed the majesty of da Vinci * Lanzi says of Lodovico, tcmea 1' ideale come uno scoglia ove tanti de' suoi coulcmporanei aveau rotto. THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 229 or Buonaroti, the grace of Raphael, or the colors of Titian, the spirit of Tintoretto or the splendid decoration of Paolo Veronese ? Or, who can present perspective to the eye with more truth, more roundness, and more enchanting power than Coreggio ? It is a true and exact imitation of the old that we want." " Depend upon it," said Agostino, " Anni- bale is your man." Lodovico very soon wrote for him to come to Florence, and, on his arrival, laid before the two brothers the plan which he had long been meditating for the improvement of the art of painting, which, at the close of the sixteenth century, was evidently on the de- cline. He proposed to them, to visit Parma and Venice, and offered to assist them with every facility in his power. They were to make themselves acquainted with what was most excellent in each school, and, on their return, to unite with him in forming an Acad- emy for artists. They at once embraced the proposal, and, after having pursued their vari- ous researches, and acquired a useful store of knowledge, the three cousins again met at Bologna. On their return, they were one day in company, and Agostino entered 230 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. into a description of the celebrated statue of the Laocoon. At length, he observed that his brother Annibale was wholly silent. " How is it possible," said he, " you can take no interest in this noble work ? " Annibale took a crayon, and sketched on the wall a spirited outline of the statue. " The poet," said he, '' pahits with words ; the painter speaks with works." The sound and excellent judgment of Lodovico, was the moving spring of the insti- tution that was now to be formed. He had carefully studied the characters of the two brothers, had marked the diversity of their tastes, and regretted the dissensions that often occurred between them. The influ- ence which he exercised over them had a high moral, as well as scientific object. He impressed upon them the duty of mutual patience and forbearance, and pointed out to them the advantage they might derive from each others opposite tastes and pursuits. By degrees he moderated the excessive ardor of Agostino, and inspired Annibale with a proper confidence in his own personal and intellectual endowments. By this friendly and judicious conduct, all signs of enmity disappeared, and the most perfect harmony THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 231 existed between the two brothers. They united with Lodovico in the great design of the Academy, and, though each pursued his own pecuhar diiFerent branch, but one heart seemed to animate them. They were free from all sordid desire of gain, without rival- ship and without envy. They collected all the models of ancient art, that could be pro- cured, introduced the study of anatomy, of perspective, and of every science that was necessary to form an artist. The amiable and conciliating manners of the founders of the new school, which went by the name of the Incamminati,* at length subdued the violent opposition that had at first been made to it, by the teachers of the time. Dionisio Calvert had been a popular instructor, but he was violent and coarse in his manner, and did not hesitate to buffet his pupils, for any trifling misdemeanor, and finally drove them away. Even Fontana regretted that he was too old to adopt the new style. Other schools became deserted, and the Caracci prevailed. The part of each was important, but per- haps that of Agostino the most laborious. * From incamminare — to show the way. 232 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. He prepared treatises on perspective and architecture, for the use of the students, explained the theory of muscles and bones, and had anatomy taught, with its various branches, by Anthony la Tour. He proposed difficult questions in history and antiquity, and men of learning were in- vited to discuss them at the Academy. Nor did he neglect the song and the lyre, but often stimulated and rewarded his pupils by the united influence of poetry and music. The great principle of the school was, to combine the strictest observation of nature with the imitation of the old masters. Every scholar was at liberty to choose the path which best suited him, and to adopt a style of his own ; but every style was to have for its root and basis, nature and imitation of the great masters. When any doubts occurred, the brothers always had recourse to Lodovico. They daily inspected the designs of the pupils, and both masters and scholars were continually devoted to the art. Even their recreations and amusements were turned to use : they rambled in the fields, and sketch- ed landscapes from nature, or amused them- selves by drawing caricatures. Many of their exercises were in the open air ; and, to THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 233 secure health at once of mind and body, was the constant aim of the benevolent Lodovico. The opposition of the painters of Bologna to the Caracci had now nearly ceased. Some had embraced their principles ; others finding opposition useless, relinquished it. Guido, Caravaggio and Domenichino became pupils of the Academy. The department of engra- ving belonged particularly to Agostino, which he taught in great perfection. As has been observed, Lodovico's moral influence exerted powerful control over the brothers, and seemed necessary to restrain their impatience. But there were various causes which had a tendency to produce dis- sension. The taste of Agostino was refined by poetry, music and belles-lettres, almost to fastidiousness. He was often critical on the works of Annibale to a vexatious degree, while, on the other hand, the greater energy and perseverance of the younger brother led him to underrate the elegant accomplishments of the elder. Biographers give inconsistent accounts of the petty disagreements between them, attributing to them low and unAVorthy jealousies, because they do not bear in mind the difference of character which produced mutual opposition. It is evident, however, 234 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. that the sacred bonds of affection remained unbroken. One biographer says, " They could not be contented together or apart."^ In the new pupil of the Academy, Guido Reni, Annibale took great delight : his fine taste, and frank amiable disposition, won his affection. He and Domenichino were re- ceived at the same time from the school of Calvert. They had become imbued with the extrav- agant modes of coloring which distinguished Caravaggio. His was a method of painting that took with the people ; it was a striking contrast of light and shade, that required no delicate perceptions of taste to understand : he drew his saints and heroes from his companions, who were often porters, or, at Venice, gondoliers. Nature, it is true, was his model ; but it was nature just as he found it with all its imperfections : this made his style only suitable for particular subjects. One of his celebrated pictures, which repre- sents two gondoliers, apparently father and son, drawing a young nobleman into deep play, and communicating with each other by secret signs, presents a subject suited to his style. The Caracci greatly feared the cor- ruption of public taste from this novel and THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 235 striking manner, and exerted all their in- fluence against it. Annibale who had made the graces of Coreggio his peculiar study at Parma, turned from it with disgust. '• Tell me," said Guide, ^' how shall I best conquer the propensity I have already acquired, to the bold and striking contrasts of Caravaggio ? " '' To the crudeness and violence of his tones," said Annibale, " I would oppose ten- derness and suavity; I would represent my. figures in the open day. Far from avoiding the difficulties of the art under the disguise of powerful shadows, I would court them by displaying every part in the clearest light. For the vulgar nature which Caravaggio is content to imitate, I would substitute the most select forms, and the most beautiful ideal." How well Guide profited from these in- structions, his pictures show. His Madonnas are displayed in the clearest light, and yet not a fault can be detected. The noble simplicity of their figures, the correct folding of the drapery, the eyes looking upward with an expression that can only be felt, not de- scribed, all penetrate the heart, and possess a beauty which the uneducated, and even child- hood itself, can comprehend. His pictures 236 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. turned the tide of admiration from Caravag- gio, and the Italians decided that " grace and beauty dwelt with the pencil of Guido, to animate his figures." Domenichino, or Zampieri, (which was his family name,) was one of the scholars of the rough Dionisio Calvert: his master one day discovered him copying one of Anni bale's drawings, and punished him for what he considered a transgression, with the utmost severity. His father, indignant at such an outrage, determined to take him from the school, and place him with the Caracci. He was received by them with their usual kindness, and put into the regular course of instruction. It was the practice of the seminary, on cer- tain days to excite the emulation of the scholars by proposing prizes. Soon after Domenichino entered the Academy, such a day occurred. Hitherto the young scholar had been little regarded ; the severity with which he had been uniformly treated by his old master, had depressed his youthful mind ; he felt that it was presumption to contend for the prize, and, after having made his drawing, threw it aside, determined not to endure the ridicule which his arrogance might draw THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 237 upon him. When the morning came, he withdrew from the ambitious group, but not unobserved by Guide and Albani, his fellow- students. " See poor Zampieri ; " said the latter, " let us follow him and encourage him to offer his drawing ; he has been a long while preparing it, and now his heart fails him." It was some time before they in- spired him with sufficient confidence to enter the hsts. One after another brought forward their productions, and when his turn came, he would gladly have retreated, intimidated by the air of conscious superiority with which many of the pupils regarded him. Lodovico scanned every drawing presented, with impartial judgment, and to the astonish- ment of all, but most so of the modest Dome- nichino himself, declared him the successful candidate ! At this time, not only Guide and Albani were competitors, but Lanfranco and Guercino also, all pupils of the Caracci. Agostino's eccentricity led him to peculiar methods of instruction ,• and he was fond of imitating the ancient legislators, by giving out hints in doggerel rhyme. The following is a specimen : — Who an ariist fain would make, Must from Rome his models take ; 238 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. His spirit from fair Venice draw, Lombardo's coloring make his law ; Must Buonaroti's path pursue, With Tiziano's just and true ; Coreggio's style supremely fair. And Raffaello's noble air. It was said that the Academy owed its success to the principles of Lodovico, the labors of Agostino, and the zeal and persever- ance of Annibale. A new career was now opening for the younger brother. He was invited to Rome by Cardinal Farnese, to paint the halls of his palace. Annibale was willing to go, as it gave him an opportunity of seeing Raphael's works, and some of the finest statues of an- tiquity. Hitherto, Coreggio, the humble, the neglected Coreggio, he who died in poverty, had been his great model ; but the study of the antique at Rome gave a more learned and less pleasing character to his style. After having painted there some time, his heart yearned for the companionship of his brother, and he persuaded the Cardinal to send for him also. They met as brothers meet after a long separation ; but new diffi- culties arose. Lodovico was not there to speak peace to their tumultuous passions. Annibale conceived that he had a right to THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 239 direct ; Agostino refused to follow, and Car- dinal Farnese, perceiving their variance, sent Agostino to Parma, recommending him to the Duke Ranuccio. Annibale pursued his labors at the pal- ace with unwearied industry, being often cheered by visits from his former pupils, who at various times assisted him, leaving in the small pannels of the walls, specimens of their skill, as tributes to their ancient instructors ; so that the gallery of the Farnese palace affords probably a more full and impressive exhibition of the power and success of the Bolognesc school, than any other place in Italy. Before Annibale quitted Bologna, there had existed an apparent alienation be- tween him and Guido ; and, as it was obvious, it was immediately attributed to envy. Bi- ographers dismissed the subject, by saying that the Caracci could not forgive Guido for his success in the method they had pointed out. The true cause was a different one. Guido had unfortunately contracted a love of play, which threatened to undermine his character. With all his fine social qualities, this propensity seemed to bo irresistible to him. Annibale, after in vain remonstrating, dismissed him from the Academy, and silent- 240 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. ly bore the stigma, which cahimny cast upon him, of being prompted by migenerous mo- tives. Afterwards, Guido, being invited to Rome by Gioseppino Cesari, went thither in company with Albani, and on his arrival hastened to see Annibale in the palace where he was still employed. The pupil met his master with renewed affection. He loved and respected Annibale, and was received by him as a returning prodigal. At that time Caravaggio was in high repute at Rome, and when Guido arrived, it appeared impossible that two styles of painting so entirely differ- ent should be at the same time well received. Annibale exhorted him to preserve his own superior manner ; but when he obtained a commission from Cardinal Borghese to paint a picture for his gallery, it was stipulated that it should be of the Caravaggio school. Guido, to the extreme displeasure of Annibale, accepted the conditions ; and the former cold- ness between the master and the pupil was renewed. Guido accomplished his work, and, without violating his engagement, evinced an excellence in the style he had been com- pelled to adopt, which Caravaggio could never have attained. At length, Guido be- came disgusted with his employers, a cold- THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 241 ness still existed between himself and Anni- bale. Albani, his friend, who accompanied him, stood aloof, and Caravaggio, the furious Caravaggio, loaded him with calumnies. He quitted Rome in disgust, leaving works be- hind which have blazoned his name to suc- ceeding ages ; among them his painting of the Aurora, which has been so beautifully engraved by Morghen. For eight years, Annibale continued his labors in the Farnese palace ; during the time, his cousin Lodovico visited him, meaning to assist him with his advice, and even executing part of the work himself. Both the Caraccis were invited from all parts of Lombardy, to adorn the churches and palaces by their pictures ; but their home was Bologna, and to that they constantly returned. Annibale's work was at length accomplish- ed, and he now only waited for his reward from the Cardinal, to whose munificence he had trusted without stipulating for a price. The magnanimous prelate sent him, in return for eight years of labor taken from the best part of his life, and as reward for his genius and for the sacrifice he had made in separating himself from his home and acad- emy, five hundred crowns ! 16 242 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. When Annibale received the sum, he said not a word ; first surprise, and then probably contempt and indignation deprived him of utterance. He immediately quitted Rome, and returned to Bologna. Again the brothers met ; but alas ! not as formerly, full of spirit, health and animation. Disappointment and a sense of injustice had damped the ardor of Annibale, and Agostino was sinking gradually under the wasting attack of pulmonary com- plaints. His pencil was wholly thrown aside, and music and poetry were his principal oc- cupations. There was no necessity now for Lodovico to preach patience and forbearance ; Heaven itself had given the lesson. It was no longer optional with them whether to re- main together, or live apart ; the summons had arrived and the ties of brotherhood were to be rent asunder. How inconceivable now appeared the alienation, that had at times existed between them ! How wholly cause- less ! " Would to God," exclaimed Anni- bale, " we had lived together as if the next hour were to be our last ; but the lesson comes too late ! " " O not too late," replied Agostino, " we have met, we have exchanged forgiveness, and heaven is merciful ! Lay its lesson well I THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 243 to heart, Annibale ; for I trust thou hast many years to live. To thy care I bequeath my son. And now, no more of the past. Give me my hite, brother. Do you remember the song of the Swiss wanderer, which we heard when we were boys ? " Then with a faint prehide, he sung the following lines : — The faint voice of the minstrel is heard no more, And sorrow has dimmed his eye ; His last song of love and of woman is o'er, And his harp is hung on high. Near the moss-clad tower he loves to recline, While visions are thronging fast; Of the far distant ages a glorious line. Where his name and fame shall last. As he leaned to the breeze his feverish brow, The sound of sweet music came, — First like whispers of love all tender and low, Then loud like the trump of fame. What angel choir salutes his ear, And soothes the weary man to rest 1 For sure no mortal sound is near, With accents so divinely blest. Hark ! 't is his muse, his early choice : Soft as the breezes from the west. On the hung harp she breathes her voice, And lulls her ancient bard to rest. The curtain of the night was drawTi, And ere the morn Her ancient bard was lulled to rest. 244 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. The notes of Agostino grew fainter as the last words trembled on his tongue. " I believe I often dream," said he, laying aside the lute, " when I appear to wake. Think you there are things more strange in the world to come than in the present ? It is just six years since our father died, you know, Annibale. Can it be that he is some- times near me ? " Annibale shook his head. " And why not ? " said Agostino, tena- ciously. " We know not the mysteries of earth or air, We know not the spells that are round us." That night Lodovico and Annibale watch- ed by his bed-side, and in the morning, when the sun arose, he was no more. Deeply as Annibale felt the death of his brother, he understood the duty of self-con- trol, and immediately adopted the son of Agostino as his own. He had a younger brother remaining, who had separated himself from the family, and set up a school in oppo- sition to Lodovico's, inscribing upon the door, " This is the true school of the Caracci." * • Lanzi. THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 245 The inhabitants of Bologna were so indig- nant at this assumption, from one to whom Lodovico had been a benefactor, that he was compelled to leave, and went to Rome. He was at first well received as being the broth- er of Agostino and Annibale, but soon for- feited the favor which was extended to him, and died at the early age of twenty-seven. In the promising talents and devoted affec- tion of the young Antonio, son of Agostino, Amiibale found a new source of happiness. He was indefatigable in his instructions, and, as he considered the study of the antique at Rome indispensable to forming an artist, he determined to revisit that city, with his nephew. As the young Antonio entered the walls of the Farnese palace, his heart swelled with a sense of the injustice which had been done his uncle. Not so Annibale, the world with its praise and reproach was fast receding from his view. He felt that his days were drawing near to their close. The same dis- order which shortened his brother's life was fast undermining his own : there was the rapid pulse, the hectic cheek, and laboring breath. The physicians recommended him to try the air of Naples, and Antonio earnest- ly joined his own entreaties. The invalid 246 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. consented with a melancholy smile. A situ- ation was selected for him by his nephew, which overlooked the bay, and the beautiful surrounding country. On the north, gradu- ally arose the fertile hills extending from the shore to the Campagna Felice. On the east, the rich plains reaching to Mount Vesuvius and Portici. On the west, the grotto of Posilippo, Virgil's tomb, and the fields leading to the coast of Baia. To the south, was extended before him the noble bay, confined by its two promontories of Misenum and Minerva. The first morning after Annibale's arrival, he walked on the terrace, and felt refreshed and invigorated in this land of zephyrs ; the sea breezes cooled his feverish and hectic cheek, and the gales wafted to his senses the perfume of the Campagna Felice. But it was only a temporary revived, and he grew earnest to return again to Rome. He reached it by short stages, and there breathed his last. He was buried with great honors, and Antonio deposited his remains near the tomb of Raphael, in the Church of the Ro- tunda, the ancient Pantheon. There are melancholy reflections attached to the history of the young Antonio, gifted as he was with genius and invention. After THE CARACCl SCHOOL. 247 the death of his uncle, he pursued his profes- sion and painted several celebrated pieces ; but he stood alone in the world, scarcely- daring to bear the honored name of his family.* His early death was perhaps a blessing for himself. But, had he lived, he would have been distinguished among artists. Lodovico alone now remained of the family. He was still cheerful, active and beloved ; with less of genius and what is called talent, than either of the others, he had been the founder of their usefulness and success. His first care, in early life, was to discipline himself, and cultivate benevolent and kind affections towards others. In establishing the Academy, his motive had been the public good, and his eminent suc- cess was the reward of generous and exalted principle. He died in the year 1618, at the age of sixty-three, in the enjoyment of the highest powers of his mind. The pursuits of the three Caracci, Lodovi- co, Agostino, and Annibale, were so entirely united, and all so happily directed to com- mon objects, that it has been difficult to assign to each a separate influence in the arts. They were inadequately compensated by * He is known by the name of Gobbo. 248 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. money for their labors ; but wealth was not their aim : all of them died in narrow cir- cumstances. It is no slight praise, that their school stayed the progress of the arts decline, and restored their true principles. The pupils they formed, threw a lustre on their mode of teaching. Domenichino was one of the most distinguished. Poussin pro- nounced him the next painter to Raphael ; he had the art of depicting human passions with something of the same power — joy, grief, rage, sorrow and fear. He painted the soul, delineated the life, and excited in the bosom of the spectator all those emotions which be- longed to the scene represented. It is this power which gives to painting its highest moral effect, makes the pure and holy affec- tions, which are represented, throw a sancti- fying influence over the character of the be- holder, — vice tell its own hateful story, and impress its own moral. There appears to have been a timidity, a want of confidence in himself, that possibly arose in part from the early unkindness of his master. The influence of judicious primary instruction was not then appreciated ; it re- mained for the Caracci to prove that the law of kindness is the most effectual in forming THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 249 the mind to excellence. Lodovico said of Domenichino, " that his worth would not be appreciated till after his death." The saying proved true. He afforded one of the many- examples of suffering genius, and late re- wards. During his life, which terminated at Naples, in 1648, he was poor and abused. He could get no scholars, and was often without business. Many years after his death, if we may trust the relation of one of the books with which the Italian traveller meets, Poussin was employed by a society to paint an altar-piece for a church, and, to save the expense of a new canvass, an old picture was hauled out from the garret, and given him to paint on. The artist began to rub the dirt off, and was interested in the com- position. It was the celebrated Communion of St. Jerome, by Domenichino, which is now esteemed by some the best, and by most the second, painting in the world. He hastened to his employers, and told them that here was a better pictme than he could make, for the life of him, and begged them to have it taken care of. And so, by and by, it came into the honorable place it now holds in the Vatican Gallery and the public estima- tion. This story argues an ignorance of the 250 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. art, which is hardly credible to us ; and the author is not able to quote any decisive authority in its favor. Guido Reni was an illustration of the false and foolish maxim that is sometimes applied to infirmity of principle : his cotemporaries said, " he is a noble fellow, and nobody's enemy but his own." But the man who de- grades himself, injures one member of society at least, in every relation he bears to it. His exquisite taste, his affectionate disposition, his exalted genius, and high conception of the beautiful and sublime, could not save him from the baleful effects of his passion for gaming. Though, in his best productions, every individual figure, however minute, brought him one hundred Roman crowns, the lofty power of his pencil was sacrificed to painting hasty and cheap pieces, for sup- plying immediate pressure, created by his losses. He died at Bologna, after having re- duced himself from affluence to poverty, by this growing infatuation, at the age of sixty- six, in the year 1640. Albani was the early friend and fellow- student of Guido : like Coreggio he drew his beautiful images from the pure fount of affection. There is one striking difference, THE CARACCI SCHOOL. 251 however; Coreggio saw in his wife and childi-en, Madonnas, saints and angels ; the flame of earthly love was ennobled by the divine. Albani saw in his beautiful partner, a model for nymphs and Venuses, and in his children the representatives of Loves and Graces. His death took place in 1660, at the age of eighty-two. Guercino was another pupil of distinction : his designs are grand and natural, but want the grace of Guido and Albani. Michelangelo Caravaggio, unlike Guido, was every man's enemy, as well as his own ; impetuous and overbearing, he was constantly engaged in quarrels. Giuseppino was at first his warm friend ; but when, one day, he had unfortunately offended him, Caravaggio sprang furiously upon him, and a young man present attempting to interfere, Caravaggio drew his sword and murdered him on the spot. He was obliged to make his escape from justice, and finally, by the interference of influential men, he obtained a pardon. He immediately returned to Rome, and chal- lenged Giuseppino, who replied, " that a knight could not draw his sword on an inferior." Caravaggio, boiling with rage, hastened to 252 THE CARACCI SCHOOL. Malta, took the necessary vows, received the order of knighthood, and came back to force his antagonist to fight. The evening he arrived at Rome he sent his challenge ; but his furious and ungovernable temper had turned on himself its fatal power. He was seized with a brain fever, and when an ac- ceptance of his challenge was retiuned, he lay cold, and motionless, in the arms of death. RUBENS AND VANDYKE. "It is just one hundred and twenty years to-day," said a young artist to his friend, as he stood in the hall of St. Mark, at Venice, contemplating the noble works of Titian. " Time, the destroyer, has here stayed his hand ; the colors are as vivid and as fresh as if they were laid on but yesterday. Would that my old friend and master, Otho Venius, were here! at least I will carry back to Antwerp that in my coloring, which shall prove to him that I have not played truant to the art." " Just one hundred and twenty years," repeated he, " since Titian was born. Venice was then in its glory, but now it is all fall- ing ; its churches and palaces are crumbling to dust, its commerce interrupted. The re- public continually harassed by the Porte, and obliged to call on foreign aid ; depressed by 254 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. her internal despotism, her council of ten, and state Inquisitors, her decline, though gradual, is sure ; yet the splendor of her arts remain, and the genius of Titian, her favorite son, is yet in the bloom and brilliancy of youth ! " Such was the enthusiastic exclamation of Rubens, as he contemplated those paintings which had brought him from Antwerp. How many gifted minds spoke to him from the noble works which were before him ! The three Bellinis, the founders of the Venetian school, Giorgione, Titian, and Tintoretto. Then Paolo Veronese, who, though born at Verona, in 1537, adopted Venice as his home, aiid became the fellow-artist of Tintoretto, and the disciple of Titian. Pordenone, too, who viewed Titian as a rival and an enemy. Palma the young, and Palma the old, born in 1548, and the Bassanos, who died near 1627. All these were present to the eye of Ru- bens, their genius embodied on the canvass in the hahs of St. Mark. " These," he ex- claimed, " have formed the Venetian school, and these shall be my study ! " From this time, the young artist might daily be seen with his sheets of white paper, RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 255 and his pencil in his hand. A few strokes preserved the outline which his memory filled up; and by an intuitive glance, his genius understood and appropriated every signal beauty. In Venice he became acquainted with the Archduke Albert, who introduced him to the Duke of Mantua, whither he went for the pm'pose of studying the works of Julio Romano. From thence he proceeded to Rome ; here Raphael was his model, and Michelangelo his wonder. He devoted him- self to painting with a fervor that belongs only to genius ; and he soon proved that whatever he gained by ancient study, the originality of his own conceptions would still remain and appear. To the vivid and splen- did coloring of the Venetian school, he was perhaps more indebted than to any other model. The affectionate and constant intercourse, by letters, that subsisted between Rubens and his mother, made his long residence in Italy one of pleasure. At Rome he was em- ployed to adorn, by his paintings, the Church of Santa Croce, and also the " Chicsa Nova." Rubens had been originally destined by his mother for one of the learned professions. 256 RUBENS AND VANDYKE, His father was born at Antwerp, and held the honorable office of Counsellor of State. When the civil wars broke out, he repaired to Cologne, where his son, Peter Paul Rubens, was born. He died soon after his return to Antwerp, and left his property much dimin- ished from losses occasioned by the civil war. The mother of Rubens put him early to the best schools, where he was initiated in learning, and discovered a taste for belles- lettres ; but all the intervals of necessary study were devoted to drawing. His mother perceiving it, determined to indulge his incli- nation, and placed him in the study of Van Noort. The correct taste of the scholar soon led him to perceive that he could not adopt this artist's style, and he became the pupil of Otho Venius. Similarity of thought and feel- ing united them closely, and it Avas with true disinterestedness that the master urged his pupil to quit his confined circle, and repair to Italy, the great school of art. Time flew rapidly with Rubens, while engaged in his beloved and honorable pur- suit ; he looked forward to the period when he might return to Antwerp, and place his RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 257 mother in her former affluence. Nearly seven years had passed since he took leave of her. Of late, he thought her letters had been less cheerful : she spoke of her declin- ing health, of her earnest hope that she might live to embrace him once more. This hint was enough for his affectionate heart. He immediately broke off all his engage- ments, and prepared to retiun. Every one knows, what impatience is created when one first begins to contemplate home, after a long absence, and the heart is turned towards it. " Seven years absent ! " wrote Rubens to his mother, " how is it possible I have lived so long away from you ! It is too long ; hence- forth I will devote myself to your happiness. Antwerp shall be my future residence. I have acquired a taste for horticulture ; our little garden shall be enlarged and cultivated, and our home will be a paradise." What are human anticipations and proj- ects ! the day before he was to quit Rome, he received a letter informing him that his mother was very ill, and begging him to return with all speed. With breathless haste, he huiTied back, without sleep or rest. When he reached the city, he dared not make any inquiries. At 17 258 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. length he stood before the paternal mansion ; he saw the gloomy tiles and half closed window-shutters. It Avas the Fall of the year, the leaves were dropping from the trees. He observed people going in and out at the door : to speak was impossible. At length he rushed in, and heard the appalling sentence, " Too late," a sentence that often strikes desolation to the human heart. His mother had expired that morning. Is there consolation in pressing the clay- ' cold lips ? the marble forehead ? In contem- plating the lifeless form that once contained the noble and generous spirit ? If there be, such Rubens had. But, in truth, for the death of the beloved, earth has no sufficient comfort. The soul must soar to a better sphere, and realize the life beyond. While he was struggling with the bit- terness of sorrow, he met with Elizabeth Brants. There was something in the tone of her voice which infused tranquillity into his mind ; and affection came in a new form to assuage his loss. She was the "ladye of his love," and afterwards his wife. He built a magnificent house at Antwerp, with a saloon in form of a Rotunda, which he ornamented and enriched with antique statues, busts, RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 259 vases and pictures, by the most celebrated painters. Thus surrounded by the gems of art, he devoted himself to the execution of works which were the pride of his native country, and caused honors and wealth to be heaped upon him. There were those found who could not endure the splendor of his success; these calumniated. There were others who tried to draw him into visionary speculations. A chemist offered him a share of his laboratory, to join in his search for the philosopher's stone. He carried the visionary to his paint- ing-room, and said, " The offer comes too late. You see I have found out the art of making gold by my palette and pencils." Rubens was now at the height of j^rosper- ity and happiness, a dangerous eminence, and one on which few arc permitted to rest. A second timis his heart was pierced with sor- row : he lost his young wife Elizabeth, a few years after their union. Deep as was his sorrow, he had yet resolution enough to feel the necessity of exertion : he left the place which constantly reminded liim of domestic enjoyment, the memory of which ^contrasted so sadly with the present silence and solitude, and traveled for some tiiiio in Holland. After his return, he received a 260 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. commission from Mary de Medici of France, to adorn the palace of the Luxembourg. He executed for this purpose a number of paint- ings at Antwerp, and instructed several pupils in his art. At this time, Rubens devoted himself wholly to painting, and scarcely allowed himself time for recreation. He considered it one of the most effectual means of in- struction, to allow his pupils to observe his method of using his paints. He therefore had them with him while he worked on his large pictures. Teniers, Snyders, Jordaens and Vandyke, were among his pupils — all names well known. On a certain day, Rubens wearily threw aside his brush, and, charging his young pupils to preserve order and industry, left them, saying he should not return till night. For a short time they obeyed the injunction ; but when was youth divested of its love of gaiety and amusement ? Vandyke, the light-hearted, the thoughtless Vandyke, was the first to break through the rules the master prescribed. He had filled his pocket with nuts, and while the young students were engrossed in their la- bors, they were pelted with showers of them. It was not in human nature silently and unresistingly to bear this outrage ; the nuts RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 261 were sent back with interest. Vandyke sprang over his bench, and in a moment the sport became general. Some wrestled, some pelted, and all shouted. At length, one whom the ring-leader had fairly prostrated, by a sudden movement, escaped and took shelter behind the easel piece upon which Rubens had just been painting, and which was nearly completed. Vandyke with a loud shout aimed his hat at the boy ; the hat rested a moment on the top of the easel, and then to punish the boy's roguery, fell upon the picture sweeping after it the breast of one of the Saints.* Had the Saint himself appeared there propria persona, and thun- dered forth anathemas, the effect could not have been greater. Immediate silence fol- lowed ; what could be done ? The master would discard them all ; and Vandyke who was as feeling as he was thoughtless, burst into tears. " My poor mother," said he, " how heavy will be her disappointment. She will not reproach me, but I know how she will look ; so sad, so sorrowful, she, who is such a lover of the fine arts ; f and now I * This picture was the famous descent from the cross. + It is said that Vandyke's mother was a woman of un- common taste in the arts, and had wrought some beautiful historical tapestries. 262 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. shall be obliged to go back to school, and study Latin and Greek the live-long day." A fresh shower of tears bedewed the boy's cheeks. At length, with the versatility of his character, he started up. " Boys," said he, " clear away, gather up the chesnuts, put the benches in order, and place every thing as Master Rubens left it ; leave all to me." Every thing was adjusted while Van was examining his master's brushes and pallet. A few moments beheld him seated before the easel in the attitude of Rubens, thoughtful, serious and self-possessed. " Si- lence ! " said he, "keep to your work, and do not speak to me." His fellow-students looked aghast. After busily employing himself for a con- siderable period, he exclaimed, " now come and look." The saint was indeed wonder- fully restored ; the boys were fully decided that Rubens would never discover that any thing had been done to it. " Let us keep our own counsel," said they, " and he Avill not find it out." The master did not return till late. It was his custom to be at his painting-room in the morning, before the scholars arrived. When they came, they found him there, engaged as usual. They RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 263 took their places, exchanging looks of con- gratulation to each other, for now they felt secure. Suddenly he exclaimed, '' Who has dared to meddle with my painting." No one spoke. Again he asked in a stern voice : still there was a profound silence. The German Burshs or youth are early initiated in their own codes of honor, and scrupulous not to betray a brother offender. " Very well," said Rubens, after waiting a reason- able time for a reply. " 1 have but one course to pursue. Since you do not choose to designate the one among you, I must dis- card you all. Q,uit my room." Slowly they arose ; in a moment Vandyke rushed forward. " Do not punish them," said he, " I am the offender — punish me." In a voice inter- rupted by sobs, he told his story. " Ah, Sir," said he, " I am a most unlucky boy ; I al- ways loas ; my mother has said so a thou- sand times. After you left us, I. grew tired. I had my pocket full of nuts, and I pelted the other boys ; and at last, sir, I threw my hat at one of them ; this miserable good-for- nothing hat," displaying it daubed with paint and crumpling it up, " it hit the saint full in the breast ; this sir, is the offender." " Who painted the picture ? " said Rubens, trying to 264 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. preserve his gravity ; " the hat did not paint it." " Alas ! Sir, no ; it was I ! indeed. Sir, I hoped, as the Saints are merciful, they would take pity on me. I beseech you, Sir, to follow their example." " Very well," said Rubens, " you then are the ofifender : come with me." He preceded him to his mother's house, and ordered Van- dyke to relate in her presence the circum- stance that had taken place. When he had concluded, she said, " Indeed, Sir, I feel that my son's offence is great, but J. beseech you to attribute it to its right cause, boyish levity." "Madam," replied Rubens, "my present object is not to enter complaints, but to in- form you that, with proper culture, your son will become one of the first painters of the age ; the manner in which he has repaired the accident is a sufficient proof." The delight of the mother may be imag- ined, but Ruben's generosity did not stop here ; he employed Vandyke in finishing several of his pieces ; and when he considered him suf- ficiently educated to improve by travel, sent him to his own school of instruction, Venice, presenting him with a fine dapple-grey horse and a purse of pistoles. V^hen Rubens had executed the commis- RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 265 sion given him by Mary de Medici, wife of Henry IV, he repaired to Paris to arrange his pictures at the Luxembourg palace, and there painted two more, and Hkewise the galleries, representing passages of her life. Here he became acquainted with the Duke of Buckingham, as that nobleman was on his way to Madrid with Prince Charles. On his return to Antwerp, he was summoned to the presence of the Infanta Isabella, who had, through Buckingham, become interested in his character. She thought him worthy of a political mission to the court of Madrid, where he was most graciously received by Philip. While at Madrid he painted four pictures for the convent of the Carmelites, and a fine portrait of the king on horseback with many other pictures ; for these extraordinary pro- ductions he was richly rewarded, received the honor of Knighthood, and was presented with the golden key. While at Spain, Don John, Duke of Briganza, who was afterwards king of Portu- gal, sent and invited him to visit him at Villa Vitiosa, the place of his residence. Rubens, perhaps, might at this time have been a little dazzled with his uncommon 266 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. elevation. He was now Sir Paul, and celebrated all over Europe. It was proper he should make the visit as one person of high rank visits another. His preparations were great to appear in a becoming style, and not to shame his noble host. At length the morning arrived, and, attended by a numerous train of courteous friends and hired attendants, the long cavalcade began the journey. When not far distant from Villa Vitiosa, Rubens learnt that Don John had sent an embassy to meet him. Such an honor had seldom been accorded to a private gentleman, and Rubens schooled himself to receive it with suitable humility and becom- ing dignity. He put up at a little distance from Villa Vitiosa, waiting the arrival of the embassy ; finally, it came, in the form of a single gentle- man, who civilly told him that the Duke, his master, had been obliged to leave home on business that could not be dispensed with, and therefore must deny himself the pleasure of the visit ; but as he had probably been at some extra expense in coming so far, he begged him to accept of fifty pistoles as a remuneration. Rubens refused the pistoles, and could not RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 267 forebear adding that he had "brought two thousand along with him, which he had meant to spend at his court, dm-ing the fif- teen days he was to spend there." The truth was, that when Don John was informed that Rubens was coming in the style of a Prince to see him, it was wholly foreign to his plan : he was a great lover of painting, and had wished to sec him as an artist. He therefore determined to prevent the visit. The second marriage of Rubens, with Helena Forman, was, no less than the first, one of afl"ection ; she had great beauty and became a model for his pencil. The Infanta Isabella was so much satisfied with his mission in Spain, that she sent him to England, to sound the disposition of the government on the subject of a peace. Rubens disclosed in this embassy his diplomatic talents : he first appeared there in his character of artist, and insensibly won upon the confidence of Charles. The King requested him to paint the ceiling of the banqueting-house at Whitehall. While lie was employed upon it, Charles frequently visited him, and criticized the work. Ru- bens very naturally introducing the subject, 268 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. and finding, from the tenor of his conversa- tion, that he was by no means averse to a peace with Spain, at length produced his credentials. The King received his mission most graciously, and Rubens returned to the Netherlands crowned with honors and suc- cess. He had passed his fiftieth year, when his health began to fail, and he was attacked with a severe fit of the gout. Those who have witnessed the irritation attendant upon that disorder, will appreciate the perfect har- mony and gentleness that existed between Rubens and his wife. With untiring tender- ness she devoted herself to him, and was ingenious in devising alleviations and com- forts. " I have a picture to show you," said she, one day, " when you can bear the light, and feel disposed to see it. I will also intro- duce the artist to you." It was several days before Rubens asked to see the painting ; at length he reminded his wife of her promise. She produced it. It was an exquisite portrait of herself. " Excellent ! most excellent ! " exclaimed the husband. Helen opened the door, and in a moment Vandyke, his early pupil, was by his side. RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 269 "Ah!" exclaimed Rubens, ''I need not ask who was the artist ; Vandyke alone could produce such a portrait. Dost thou not re- member, when I first advised thee to adhere to portrait-painting, some of thy friends ac- cused me of envy, and a desire to narrow thy walk? but I foresaw that in that thou wouldst excel all others." Vandyke remained but a short time at Ant- werp ; he went to France by the invitation of Richelieu, and thence to England. His suc- cess in portrait-painting secured him wealth and fame. King Charles sat to him repeat- edly, had him lodged at Black-friars at the royal charge, and conferred on him the honor of Knighthood, and an annuity for life. He wrought only for the higher classes, as his prices at that time were beyond those of other artists. There are some singular points of resem- blance in the lives of Rubens and of Van- dyke. Both pursued much the same course of instruction — both were knighted as the reward of genius — and both were doomed to suffer under that scourge of luxury, tJie gout. Vandyke, like Rubens, was solicited by visionaries to join in the search for the philosopher's stone ; but, nrzlike his master, he 270 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. could not resist the temptation, and much of his well-earned wealth was sacrificed in the fruitless pursuit. Vandyke did not marry till late in life : his wife was Maria Ruthven. Soon after his marriage, he went again to France, hoping to be employed in the gallery of the Louvre ; but here he found the commission had been given to Poussin. The two artists met amicably. " I have come too late," said Vandyke. " Would you had come sooner ! " replied Poussin, " I am not made to contend with the mediocrity of Voiret's genius, nor with the bustle and hurry of Paris : I pine for the solitude of the country, for the vine- covered hills of the Campagna of Rome ; and would rather return to my humble home in Normandy where I was born, than live in the noise and tumult of this city." Poussin proved the sincerity of his asser- tion by finally quitting France and returning to italy. Once more Vandyke repaired to England, and engaged in painting portraits Avith re- newed zeal ; but he no longer sought fame, but money ; and the rapidity with which he dismissed them from his easel, was unfavora- ble to their excellence. His wife brought him RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 271 beauty and rank, but no wealth; and he often said, " Formerly I painted for a future life, now I paint for the present." A friend found fault with a certain head he had been executing, and said it was un- worthy of his high reputation. " True," replied Vandyke, " but I paint now for my kitchen." Letters occasionally passed between Ru- bens and Vandyke ; the former never lost the affectionate interest he had early taken in his pupil ; and hearing that he had engaged in the idle pursuit of tlie philosopher's stone, he wrote to him on the subject, and at last convinced him of his folly. The severe attacks of Ruben's disorder debilitated his frame, yet he continued paint- ing at his easel almost to the last ; and, amidst suffering and sickness, never failed in giving the energy of intellect to his pic- tures. He died at -the age of sixty-three, in the year 1640, leaving great wealth. The pomp and circumstance of funeral rites can only be of consequence, as showing the esti- mation in which a departed citizen is licld. Public funeral honors were awarded, and men of every rank were eager to manifest their respect to his memory. He was buried 272 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. in the Church of St. James, at Antwerp, under the ahar of his private chapel, which was decorated with one of his own noble pictures.* Yandyke was in England at the time of Rubens' death, and heard of it with the deepest emotion of sorrow. Though fre- quently solicited to visit France, he uniform- ly refused. His marriage with the daughter of the Earl of Gowry, by making him the associate of nobles, led him to emulate their style of living, and assume a stateliness of manner far less becoming than his naturally courteous and Avell-bred deportment. He kept a splendid table, numerous servants, and an elegant equipage. As he was not success- ful in his search for the philosopher's stone, this extravagant and ostentatious manner of living frequently occasioned embarrassment in his affairs ; whenever this occurred, he ap- plied himself closely to his easel, which, like RubenS) he found was the most effectual method of making gold. It may seem strange that a man so accomplished and so * In Cologne, near St. Peter's Church, the house is stand- ing, in which the parents of Rubens dwelt when they fled from Antwerp during the war. In this house the artist was born. RUBENS AND VANDYKE. - 273 well acquainted with the world as Vandyke, could be drawn into the visionary schemes of needy adventurers ; but it was one of the follies of the day. Cowley, then a modern poet, thus alludes to it, in his ode " On the reign of our gracious King Charles." " Where, dreaming chemics ! is your pain and cost 1 How is your oil, how is your labor lost ! Our Charles, blest alchemist ! though strange, Believe it, ye in future limes, did change The iron age of old Into an age of gold." Vandyke's portraits were so highly prized as to command almost any sum. But the one most valued by himself, was a full length portrait of Rubens, dressed in black. The scholar has happily given the character of the master in this splendid picture. A character which, unlike Vandyke's, had no dark spot. Though transplanted from the shades of private life to the courts of Kings, and the palaces of Princes, he still retained his independence, sincerity, and benevolence. " More than once," said Vandyke, " he has been my guai-dian angel." The high con- ceptions of his excellence inspired the pupil's pencil. One of Vandyke's most celebrated pictures 18 ^74 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. was painted at the request of a fair one, whose charms enthralled him on his first leaving his native conntry. He saw her dressed in the costume of a village maiden, at Savelthem, and, instead of proceeding, as Ru- bens had advised him, immediately to Italy, remained there several months. The subject suggested was St. Martin dividing his cloak with the beggar. " The youth," she said, '' was the son of a military tribune, and compelled by his father to bear arms, notwithstanding his great repugnance to a martial life — his early habits being those of seclusion, meditation, and alms-giving, his food and garments being frequently shared with the hungry and the naked. To set himself in opposition to his father's com- mands, was violating a duty ; to go forth as a warrior, violating his own principles : what could he do ? Just what he did : he perse- cuted his patron saint, day and night, for counsel and direction ; but no aid could he obtain. The saint did not seem inclined to raise a finger in his behalf, and as the father insisted, Martin yielded, and, at the age of seventeen, clad in glittering armor, his hel- met loaded with waving plumes, his cloak thrown over his shoulders, mounted the RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 275 noble charger provided for him, and proceed- ed to the gate of Amiens. There he met several half-naked, miserable beggars. Poor Martin was wholly overcome by compassion, and immediately threw half of his cloak over the most destitute of them. Good deeds are seldom so promptly rewarded as in the present instance. The beggar turned out to be the patron saint himself, who so moved the heart of the father, as to induce him to relinquish the warlike education of his son, and in a few days he permitted him to be baptized as St. Martin, giving him the liberty of devoting his whole life to fasting and penance." Vandyke's imagination kindled as he heard the story from ruby lips, and he immediately set about the picture. To add to the value of the donation, he drew the saint from his own likeness, and his horse from the one presented to him by Rubens. But while he was residing at the village of Savelthem, where was the education his noble friend had planned for him ? He was at length roused from his lethargy by a letter from Rubens, imploring him to break from the fascinations which held him, and proceed to Venice. Well might he call him his guardian angel ! 276 RUBENS AND VANDYKE. The love which Charles possessed for the fine arts was a redeeming part of his char- acter. He had a great desire that Vandyke should enrich the country with his paintings ; and set an example to his subjects by liberal- ly rewarding him ; the order of knighthood had been conferred upon him, and king and nobles united in paying him honor. Henrietta, the wife of Charles, sat to him for her portrait. She possessed but little beauty of face, but her hands were remarka- bly handsome ; and she observed to him that he paid uncommon attention to them, and neglected her face. It was an embarrassing accusation. But he readily replied, " Ah, madam, it is from those beautiful hands I am to receive my recompense." He went to Antwerp to introduce his wife to his friends, and, shortly after their return, they were blest with the birth of a daughter ; but his joy was of short continuance ; he was attacked by a complication of disorders, and his death seemed inevitable. The king ex- pressed the utmost sympathy for his melan- choly situation, and offered a reward of three hundred guineas to his physician, if he should preserve the life of the artist ; but he was beyond the reach of medicine, and died in RUBENS AND VANDYKE. 277 1641, at the age of forty-two — just one year after the death of Rubens. Though born in Antwerp, he is usually ranked among the English artists, England encouraged, rewarded, and honored him. He was buried in St. Paul's cathedral, and £in epitaph inscribed on his monument, written by Cowley ; this was destroyed with the church, in the conflagration of 1666. CLAUDE GELEE. Among all the celebrated artists in Lor- raine, no one could compare with Pierre Veroni. Tradition has not brought down to us actual sketches of his Grecian Temples, his Chinese Pagodas, his peerless Madonnas, his Angels with new fledged wings. But, what need we of tradition, when the spirit, the promethean fire has been transmitted from age to age ? How many useful inven- tions have been lost, while his still flourish ! It is much to be regretted that no specimens of his sculpture have been preserved. The imitations of the present day are no doubt far inferior to the original ; but, alas, like all human inventions they have crumbled into dust. Certain it is, that in the sixteenth century, not an entertainment could be given in Lorraine without the aid of Pierre; his pyramids were the ornaments of rich and CLAUDE GELEE. 279 costly tables, and rose high in the centre, amidst Etruscan, golden vases, and urns studded with precious stones, and sparkling with wine, that might have rivalled that which was enriched with the pearl of Cleo- patra. The simple and beautiful ornaments of Pierre were always the principal objects of attention. We speak not of their intrinsic value, because history on this subject is silent, and we wish scrupulously to observe the historical rules. It is evident, however, that they possessed a value beyond mere appear- ance. Homer in his Iliad has given earthly im- mortality to Daedalus by the mere record of his name ; though Pausanias asserts that his sculpture was rude and uncomely. Pierre was not fortunate enough to find a Homer, and therefore his name lives only in these humble records. This may not be thought so wonderful, when it is considered that, after all, our celebrated artist, to whom luxiury paid daily homage — to whose piazza with its colonnades and fountains, age and youth resorted, to gaze on the beautiful landscape around, with its golden clouds, its shadowy tints and far-famed aerial softness — that after all, Pierre Veroni, who, as his name in- 280 CLAUDE GELEE. dicates, united Gallic luxury with Italian re- finement, must be handed down to posterity, not as Pierre le Grand, but Pierre the Pastry- cook. Assuredly he was the most distin- guished in his profession, and we think it would not be diiRcult to prove that he was the original inventor of those luxuries which have blessed even our new world. For instance, the pate de foie gras, which so in- geniously brings the barbarity of early ages to aid the cultivated taste of the modern — the original pate d'Ortolans, of which some hero of romance exclaims, " let me die eating Ortolans ! " — the pate a la Perigord and even the celebrated Charlotte Russe, — we believe might be traced to our master of the art. Upon the excellence and variety of his Brignets we have not time to enlarge ; nor is it necessary. We will only add, enough has come down to us to prove that Pierre's philosophy taught him, " his dishes were nothing, unless tasted in the moment of pro- jection," and that "a soup was spoiled if done a bubble too much." Pierre was one evening seated in his piazza, enjoying the coolness of the western breeze, when a pale, emaciated man entered, leading a boy by the hand. He approached CLAUDE GELEE. 281 the mighty master with a low bow, expres- sive of his high respect. Nothing could afford a greater contrast than the two, Pierre was magnificent in his size, and gave evi- dence that his inventions had benefited him- self more than others. He sat in his well- cushioned bergere, his brocaded robe de chambre carelessly thrown back, his snowy vest confined by one pearl button, and his good-humored florid face gently tiu:ned up- ward to enjoy the cool. "Most noble master Pierre," said the thin man, with a trembling voice, " I have come to solicit your favor. I have three sons, who are apprenticed to different trades ; but I have no way of providing for the youngest, that I lead by the hand. We are suffering from famine ! mighty Pierre, take my poor boy into your service — listen to my petition, and the gratitude of a family will be your re- ward." The gastronomic hero was propitiated by this humble address ; he received it gracious- ly, and consented to initiate the boy into the mysteries of his art. From this time young Gelee became his pupil ; but Pierre found that he had made a promise he could not perform ; there was 282 CLAUDE GELEE. no initiating the boy. It soon became evident that the whole science of pastry united with confectionary revolved before him without awakening the slightest emo- tion ; tarts, and cream-cakes, so attractive to youth, even in our intellectual times, he re- garded with indifference. Poor Gelee ! his master was fully convinced that he was moon-struck, and he dated the time from an eventful evening, on which he was ordered to carry a perigord pie to a grand entertain- ment ; on Avhich occasion both Gelee and the pie were missing ; and after a long search he was found, seated on the pastry, gazing at the clouds as they passed over the moon, and watching its light reflected in the water. All this the good-natured Pierre forgave, and worried along with him for two whole years ; at the end of which time he sum- moned the old Gelee, and mildly told him that it was not possible for his son to learn his art — at the same time advising the father not to be discouraged, since he might answer very well for one of the learned professions, though he had not the talents requisite for becoming a pastry-cook. The father had no means of promoting his son to any profession, and poor little Gelee CLAUDE GELEE, 283 was bound out as a " hewer of wood and drawer of water," for another year. But his dehcate health rendered him unfit for such hard service ; and as some of his young com- panions were going to Rome, he obtained his^ father's permission to accompany them, and once more seek employment in the gas- tronomic art. The father returned him a few of the pence he had so hardly earned, gave him much advice, a fervent blessing, and he took his leave. We pass over the weary foot-travel, weary to most people though not to him, in which his very soul seemed to have burst from bondage, and he could now gaze to his heart's content, without defrauding any task-master. He watched the vine-covered hills till they faded in the distance ; for the first time he felt the value of existence, and an indistinct perception that it was happiness to he. When he arrived at Rome, he seemed like one paralyzed ; instead of applying to some distinguished pastry-cook, as he was well entitled to do, having been taught by the celebrated Master Pierre Veroni, he took his seat regularly every morning on one of the fallen monuments of antiquity, and apparent- 284 CLAUDE GELEE. ly forgot himself to stone. When actually oppressed by hunger, he swallowed a hand- ful of macaroni from the nearest vender. At length his pence were all gone, and he began to awake from this dreamy state of existence. He then applied to several pastry-cooks for employment ; but Gelee had never cultivated the graces — he was awkward in his man- ners, and could speak only his own provincial language, all unlike the sweet idiom of the Italians. History tells us that " he wander- ed from door to door, and no one would em- ploy him ; and, notwithstanding his practical knowledge of baking pies, he was in danger of starvation." At length he was reduced to actual famine, and the very sources of life seemed to be drying up, for want of nourish- ment. He seated himself on the door-steps of an obscure house, and, overcome by the sense of misery, burst into tears. " To what purpose," exclaimed he, " was I born ? the world is fair and beautiful ; it is made of noble materials ; what could be more lovely than my own Lorraine, when the setting sun shone on my native hills ? Then came the beautiful repose of nature — then the landscape slept, and the spirit of the Creator overshadowed all — sky, water, and CLAUDE GELEE. ^5 green fields melted into each other, and became blended together by imperceptible gradations — all seemed enveloped in the shadowy mantle of universal love. Yet I, who could gaze on these scenes with the consciousness of my own existence, I alone am an outcast ! I, who feel that I have some- thing within me beyond all this, that I am connected, by mysterious ties, with universal being ! Is it, that when I die, I am to be dissolved into these beautiful elements, and become a part of them ? No, this cannot be ; for then I should lose my very consciousness, and I mia;ht as well have been created in the first place a tree or a stone. There is some- thing in my nature yet unrevealed to me, something I have not yet attained. Perhaps it is only after death that my faculties are to unfold. Yes, it must be so ; this world is not my home, I was not made for it. Father in heaven, take me to thyself! " " Who is it that speaks so mournfully ? " said a soft silver voice, from behind a lattice near him. He started — the lan2;uage was that of his own native province. '' Wait yet a little," continued the voice, " and my good uncle Agostino will come to thee." 286 CLAUDE GELEE. In a few moments a venerable man stood before him. " Tell me thy distress, poor youth," said he, speaking in Gelee's native tongue. For the first time since he had entered the immortal city, he could pour forth his sor- rows and be understood. What a tide of strong emotion came rushing upon his heart, as he told his simple tale. Agostino listened with benevolent sym- pathy. '' Our blessed lady, the gracious mother of the afflicted," said he, " has directed thee to my door. I am in want of a domestic ; thou shalt assist my niece in her household occu- pations, in preparing our daily meals, and at other times I will employ thee to grind my paints and clean my pallet and pencils." Most thankfully did Gelee enter upon his new office. From this time he was one of the household. Was it the voice, the speaking glance of Agostino's niece, the gentle Calista, that first awoke the germ of genius in the mind of the youth ? Was it not there from infancy, fostered by that divine love Avhich shed such resplendent beauty among his native hills ? Does not the Creator watch over the noblest CLAUDE GELEE. 287 part of his works, the thinking, reasoning mind ? The young Gelee had been gradual- ly conducted to this period ; suffering and solitude had been agents in the mighty pro- cess ; even abstinence had sharpened his spiritual perceptions, and now the spark of intellect burst into a flame. He performed cheerfully the menial labors assigned him ; but sometimes, when it became his duty to clean his master's pallet and brushes, he en- treated that he might use them. The good Agostino smilingly assented, and furnished him with implements ; he was pleased to see that his beloved art could awaken sympathy even in Claude Gelee. Affostino Trasso had received orders from the Duke of Lorraine to furnish him with two paintings for his gallery. The artist rather afl'ected the style of Michelangelo ; but what was grand and sublime in that mighty master, became stiff and cold in the hands of Agostino. One picture, however, was com- pleted and sent to his patron, who returned a liberal recompense. In the mean time the young Gelee con- tinued secretly at work. Calista was his only confidant, and she assumed most wil- lingly a double portion of household labors, 288 CLAUDE GELEE. that her companion might drink at the foun- tain of dehght which had so lately opened to him. At length his picture was com- pleted, and, after placing it in a favorable light, and shading it with the mantilla of Calista, who assisted in the arrangement, Agostino was invited to view it. What was the astonishment of the artist ! he almost doubted whether it was a represen- tation on canvass, or whether nature had started forth, living and breathing. Could this be the work of his household servant, or had some mighty magician touched the can- vass with his wand ? Great as was Gelee's triumph, Calista's was still more exquisite ; her heart swelled almost to bursting, when she perceived the effect the picture produced upon her uncle ; her eyes were suffused with tears, her cheeks tinged with the roseate hue of morning, a radiant smile played round her mouth, while her lips, gently parted, seemed about to pour forth the language of inspiration. Once more Claude seized the pencil. A sketch was completed ; but it never was ex- hibited — it became the companion of his solitary hours. It hung opposite his couch, in the little attic ; the beautiful eyes looking CLAUDE GELEE. 289 down upon him, the head inchned forward, supported by its swan-Uke neck. Morning, noon and evening it looked upon him, the image mingled with his matin hymn and vesper song. Is it wonderful that it became the object of his worship, the Madonna of his religion ? Agostino felt the beauty of Gelee's land- scape. With the permission of the youth, he sent it to the Duke of Lorraine, as the production of a self-taught artist. The as- tonishment of the trio was great when a recompense was returned far exceeding the amount which Agostino had received, and also orders for a second painting. Claude was no longer to continue the household servant of Agostino. Another was procured to supply his place, and his whole time devoted to the pencil. His master, with an honorable generosity, endeavored to teach him the rules of per- spective ; but he was an impatient pupil. His was a beauty which he perceived and painted intuitively. So wholly was Claude occupied that he seemed to live in a region of his own. His labor in completing the second landscape, entirely engrossed him. Content with the 19 290 CLAUDE GELEE. secret worship of his Madonna, he scarcely appeared to note its hving representative, otherwise he would have perceived that the cheek of Calista had lost its bloom, — that the sparkling animation of her eye had melted into the lustrous softness of his own native sky, — that the form so round and graceful, was losing its waving outline, — that the voice which fell on his ear in strains of melody when he first threw himself at the threshold, was now faint and broken, and scarcely exceeded a whisper. All this was unheeded by the artist ; he was now studying to blend the bright sunny skies of Italy, his adopted home, with the softness that first impressed his youthful imagination, and to throw that aerial veil over the whole which gives mys- terious meaning to inanimate objects. Sometimes Agostino urged him to intro- duce groups of peasants into the front ground ; but he submitted unwillingly, and they did not partake of the inspiration of his pencil. '' Man," he exclaimed, " has made himself inferior to the glorious world he in- habits ; his presence destroys the harmony of the scene." One figure, however, was intro- duced, — a fair girl, with her white veil thrown back from her head, and her golden CLAUDE GELEE. 291 locks sporting upon her neck, as they were moved by the passing breeze. She stood on a gentle eminence, the soft effulgence of the setting sun casting a halo round her head. Agostino recognized it at once, as the figure of his own niece, his ^'little Calista," as he always called her. " It was an excellent likeness once,'''' said he, with a deep sigh. "Yes," said the youth, blushing; "but it wants her mind to animate the form. Still, however, it is in keeping with the pic- ture ; it has the same perfection that belongs to the inanimate creation. I have looked at it, till it seemed to me to move. See," continued he, " the foot is a little advanced ; does it not give an idea of her light step, which scarcely seems to bend the flowers upon which she treads ? Then observe the quick and animated turn of her head : we need not look in the face, to read the beauty of the soul." " Alas ! " said Agostino, " such things were; but the remembrance of them comes over me like the strains of the ^olian harp, mournful and low." " What do you mean? " exclaimed Claude, throwing down his brush. The deepest anguish was expressed in Agostino 's counte- 292 CLAUDE GELEE. nance, as he replied, " I must part from her ; she is fast fleeting to the world of spirits ; in a few months, I shall be alone ! " " Holy Virgin ! " exclaimed the youth, " can this be true ? " " Too true," replied Agostino; " her doom is pronounced by the most experienced in the healing art. The physicians say she can continue but a few weeks longer." " And you have kept it secret from me ? " '' You were too much engrossed by your pencil," rephed Agostino, " to think of my poor girl. Ah ! " continued he, with a mel- ancholy smile, " it was once so with me. Painting is a more tyrannical mistress than Music ; for she will have the whole ^ heart, but her tuneful sister, derives part of her charm from answering cadences." "Can it be," said Claude, "that I have been thus insensible, thus selfishly engrossed ? Let me fly to her. Where may I find her ? " " She wanders among the fir-trees, in the little grove behind the house." Claude hastened to the spot : he saw her at a distance. Her veil was thrown back, her step feeble and slow : even then, he thought of his art ; there was something in her shadowy form so like his own ideal, that he hesitated to destroy the illusion by ap- CLAUDE GELEE. 293 preaching too near. It was only for a mo- ment, and then he was by her side. She smiled and extended her hand. " Have you come to me at last ? " she exclaimed. " Calista ! " said the painter, casting him- self at her feet, " yes thou art she whom I have so long secretly worshiped." Faint and exhausted, she sank upon the bank; the youth knelt by her side; for the first time their hearts communed. Calista learned how deeply she had been beloved, that while she looked upon the menial of her uncle as too bright a star for her own orbit, he had not dared to lift his eyes to a being so radiant with beauty and goodness. " These are precious moments," exclaimed the maiden, " but they are fleeting. I am called hence ; I must away." " Live for me, my own Calista," ex- claimed Claude, " thou hast been my anima- ting genius ; live to lead me to immortality, to an undying name." '' That may not be," replied the maiden ; " thy own genius will obtain for thee an undying name ; but a far more glorious im- mortality awaits thee." Other landscapes were completed, and re- compense returned for beyond expectation. Claude was now no longer unknown : he was 294 CLAUDE GELEE. distinguished by Kings and Princes ; and when he was called the Italian artist, his na- tive province asserted its prior, claims. Who has ever seen an original of this painter, without feeling that he possessed a power which belongs to no other ? There is a depth in his skies, which leads the mind far beyond the surface ; you look through the mysterious veil, behind the golden clouds, into the very heaven of heavens. Where was the stupid apprentice of the pastry cook ? Is it indeed true, as has been suggested, that his faculties were obtuse on every subject but those of his art ? Who that has any comprehension of what the divine art is, will believe this ? The obser- vation might apply to a mere copyist ; but he to whose pencil taste and imagination bring their tributary stores, — he who can give life and sentiment to canvass, — can he be void of every other talent ? The image of Calista had been not only his beau ideal, but incorporated witii his religious worship of the blessed Virgin. It had filled and satisfied his heart : he had never thought it possible he could awaken in her emotions corresponding to his own ; she was the beloved niece of his master, and he but a menial. Now, however, the veil was CLAUDE GELEE, 295 removed, and he found himself the first ob- ject of her affection. Happy Claude ! what hast thou more to desire ? Love, fortune and genius smile upon thee ; yet who so sad, so heart-broken ? Happiness is not made for this world. Every day Calista grew weaker, her voice fainter and fainter ; she resembled the light of his own pictures, fading insensi- bly away into heaven. Italy has always been celebrated for its beautiful twilights : it was on one of those lovely evenings, tinged with glory, when the valley was already sleeping in darkness, while every hill, tower, and tree was illumined with golden light, that Calista expressed xi wish to see a landscape Claude had nearly completed. He conducted her to the room he had hired for his occupation, which was but a short distance from the dwelling. It was part of a ruin on Monte Pincio, mantled with evergreen. Through its dilapidated wall the last rays of the setting sun entered aslant, and gave to the picture an extraordinary bril- liancy ; it was precisely the light which was meant to be represented. Calista gazed with entluisiasm — her whole figure became animated, and she looked like a being of heaven rather than earth. " My friend," said she, holding up her hand which the 296 CLAUDE GELEE. bright light rendered almost transparent, " I read in thy picture thy immortality, but not the immortality for which thou art sigh- ing ; the time will come, when the works of genius shall crumble, and the artist be for- gotten ; but the spirit which executed them will live forever." As she spoke, her head sunk upon his bosom ; several moments passed before he perceived that her breath had fled, and that he was supporting a lifeless form. "Yes," he exclaimed, "the spirit will live forever ! " Claude Gelee was born in 1600, and died in 1668. The remainder of his life was spent much in solitary devotion to his art. In this he was laborious, frequently repeating the same subject. The prediction of Calista is partly accomplished. Many of liis works are decayed ; a few yet remain. Agostino Trasso is only remembered as connected with his illustrious pupil, while the name of the schol- ar is still familiar, not as Claude Gelee, but claimed by his native province as Claude Lorraine. FINIS. J rniii- t. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. •«, ! n R£c;d(j).url MAR 4 W?0 W^l /IPR2218S, <0F f AL! FOff,(// a Of CAll FOMf> ,A\\MINIVER5'//, H^ '//!,, 3 1158 00771 C •GOinVJ-iO- 'IFOff^ -iOF-fJAllH AA 000 290 946 v^' %. \\' .rnrr n2 "Aiiror NiiM-- ijj;;, ..... 'UJiiyj iv ■