KNIGHTS OF ART

STORIES OF THE ITALIAN PAINTERS

BY AMY STEEDMAN

AUTHOR OF 'IN GOD'S GARDEN'

TO FRANCESCA

ABOUT THIS BOOK

What would we do without our picture-books, I wonder? Before we knewhow to read, before even we could speak, we had learned to love them. We shouted with pleasure when we turned the pages and saw the spottedcow standing in the daisy-sprinkled meadow, the foolish-looking oldsheep with her gambolling lambs, the wise dog with his friendly eyes. They were all real friends to us. 

Then a little later on, when we began to ask for stories about thepictures, how we loved them more and more. There was the little girl inthe red cloak talking to the great grey wolf with the wicked eyes; thecottage with the bright pink roses climbing round the lattice-window, out of which jumped a little maid with golden hair, followed by thegreat big bear, the middle-sized bear, and the tiny bear. Truly thosestories were a great joy to us, but we would never have loved themquite so much if we had not known their pictured faces as well. 

Do you ever wonder how all these pictures came to be made? They had abeginning, just as everything else had, but the beginning goes so farback that we can scarcely trace it. 

Children have not always had picture-books to look at. In the long-agodays such things were not known. Thousands of years ago, far away inAssyria, the Assyrian people learned to make pictures and to carve themout in stone. In Egypt, too, the Egyptians traced pictures upon thewalls of their temples and upon the painted mummy-cases of the dead. Then the Greeks made still more beautiful statues and pictures inmarble, and called them gods and goddesses, for all this was at a timewhen the true God was forgotten. 

Afterwards, when Christ had come and the people had learned that thepictured gods were not real, they began to think it wicked to makebeautiful pictures or carve marble statues. The few pictures that weremade were stiff and ugly, the figures were not like real men and women, the animals and trees were very strange-looking things. And instead ofmaking the sky blue as it really was, they made it a chequered patternof gold. After a time it seemed as if the art of making pictures wasgoing to die out altogether. 

Then came the time which is called 'The Renaissance, ' a word whichmeans being born again, or a new awakening, when men began to draw realpictures of real things and fill the world with images of beauty. 

Now it is the stories of the men of that time, who put new life intoArt, that I am going to tell you--men who learned, step by step, topaint the most beautiful pictures that the world possesses. 

In telling these stories I have been helped by an old book called TheLives of the Painters, by Giorgio Vasari, who was himself a painter. Hetook great delight in gathering together all the stories about theseartists and writing them down with loving care, so that he shows usreal living men, and not merely great names by which the famouspictures are known. 

It did not make much difference to us when we were little childrenwhether our pictures were good or bad, as long as the colours werebright and we knew what they meant. But as we grow older and wiser oureyes grow wiser too, and we learn to know what is good and what ispoor. Only, just as our tongues must be trained to speak, our hands towork, and our ears to love good music, so our eyes must be taught tosee what is beautiful, or we may perhaps pass it carelessly by, andlose a great joy which might be ours. 

So now if you learn something about these great artists and theirwonderful pictures, it will help your eyes to grow wise. And some dayshould you visit sunny Italy, where these men lived and worked, youwill feel that they are quite old friends. Their pictures will not onlybe a delight to your eyes, but will teach your heart something deeperand more wonderful than any words can explain. 

 AMY STEEDMAN

CONTENTS

 GIOTTO, . . . BORN 1276, DIED 1337 FRA ANGELICO, . . " 1387, " 1466 MASACCIO, . . . " 1401, " 1428 FRA FILIPPO LIPPI, . . " 1412, " 1469 SANDRO BOTTICELLI, . . " 1446, " 1610 DOMENICO GHIRLANDAIO, " 1449, " 1494 FILIPPINO LIP . . " 1467, " 1604 PIETRO PERUGINO, . " 1446, " 1624 LEONARDO DA VINCI, . . " 1462, " 1619 RAPHAEL, . . . " 1483, " 1620 MICHELANGELO, . . " 1476, " 1664 ANDREA DEL SARTO, . " 1487, " 1631 GIOVANNI BELLINI, . " 1426, " 1616 VITTORE CARPACCIO, . . " 1470? " 1619 GIORGIONE, . . " 1477? " 1610 TITIAN, . . . " 1477, " 1676 TINTORETTO, . . " 1662, " 1637 PAUL VERONESE, . . " 1628, " 1688

LIST OF PICTURES

IN COLOUR

THE RELEASE OF ST. PETER. BY FILIPPO LIPPI, 'The tall angel in flowing white robes gently leads St. Peter out of prison, ' Church of the Carmine, Florence. 

THE VISIT OF THE MAGI. BY GIOTTO, 'The little Baby Jesus sitting on His Mother's knee, ' Academia, Florence. 

THE MEETING OF ANNA AND JOACHIM. BY GIOTTO, 'Two homely figures outside the narrow gateway, ' Sta. Maria Novella, Florence. 

THE ANNUNCIATION. BY FRA ANGELICO, 'The gentle Virgin bending before the Angel messenger, ' S. Marco, Florence. 

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. BY FRA ANGELICO, 'The Madonna in her robe of purest blue holding the Baby close in her arms, ' Academia, Florence. 

THE ANNUNCIATION. BY FILIPPO LIPPI, 'The Madonna with the dove fluttering near, and the Angel messenger bearing the lily branch, ' Academia Florence. 

THE NATIVITY. BY FILIPPO LIPPI, 'His Madonnas grew ever more beautiful, ' Academia, Florence. 

THE ANGEL. BY BOTTICELLI, TOBIAS AND THE ANGEL. 'His figures seemed to move as if to the rhythm of music, ' Academia, Florence. 

ST. PETER IN PRISON. BY FILIPPO LIPPI, 'The sad face of St. Peter looks out through the prison bars, ' Church of the Carmine, Florence. 

TWO SAINTS. BY PERUGINO, THE FRESCO OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 'Beyond was the blue thread of river and the single trees pointing upwards, ' Sta. Maddalena de Pazzi, Florence. 

TWO SAINTS. BY PERUGINO, THE FRESCO OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 'Quiet dignified saints and spacious landscapes, ' Sta. Maddalena de Pazzi, Florence. 

ST. JAMES. BY ANDREA DEL SARTO. 'The kind strong hand of the saint is placed lovingly beneath the little chin, ' Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

CHERUB. BY GIOV. BELLINI, 'Giovanni's angels are little human boys with grave sweet faces, ' Church of the Frari, Venice. 

ST. TRYPHONIUS AND THE BASILISK. BY CARPACCIO, 'The little boy saint has folded his hands together and looks upward in prayer, ' S. Giorgio Schiavari, Venice. 

THE LITTLE VIRGIN. BY TITIAN, 'The little maid is all alone, ' Academia, Venice. 

THE LITTLE ST. JOHN. BY VERONESE, THE MADONNA ENTHRONED. 'The little St. John with the skin thrown over his bare shoulder and the cross in his hand, ' Academia, Florence. 

IN MONOCHROME

RELIEF IN MARBLE BY GIOTTO, 'The shepherd sitting under his tent, with the sheep in front, ' Campanile, Florence. 

DRAWING BY MASACCIO, 'His models were ordinary Florentine youths, ' Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

DRAWING BY GHIRLANDAIO, 'The men of the market-place, ' Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

DRAWING BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, 'He loved to draw strange monsters, ' Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

DRAWING BY RAPHAEL, 'Round-limbed rosy children, half human, half divine, ' Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

DRAWING BY MICHELANGELO, 'A terrible head of a furious old man, ' Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

DRAWING BY GIORGIONE, 'A man in Venetian dress helping two women to mount one of the niches of a marble palace, ' Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

DRAWING BY TINTORETTO, 'The head of a Venetian boy, such as Tintoretto met daily among the fisher-folk of Venice, ' Uffizi Gallery, Florence. 

GIOTTO

It was more than six hundred years ago that a little peasant baby wasborn in the small village of Vespignano, not far from the beautifulcity of Florence, in Italy. The baby's father, an honest, hard-workingcountryman, was called Bondone, and the name he gave to his little sonwas Giotto. 

Life was rough and hard in that country home, but the peasant baby grewinto a strong, hardy boy, learning early what cold and hunger meant. The hills which surrounded the village were grey and bare, save wherethe silver of the olive-trees shone in the sunlight, or the tendergreen of the shooting corn made the valley beautiful in early spring. In summer there was little shade from the blazing sun as it rode highin the blue sky, and the grass which grew among the grey rocks wasoften burnt and brown. But, nevertheless, it was here that the sheep ofthe village would be turned out to find what food they could, tendedand watched by one of the village boys. 

So it happened that when Giotto was ten years old his father sent himto take care of the sheep upon the hillside. Country boys had then noschools to go to or lessons to learn, and Giotto spent long happy days, in sunshine and rain, as he followed the sheep from place to place, wherever they could find grass enough to feed on. But Giotto didsomething else besides watching his sheep. Indeed, he sometimes forgotall about them, and many a search he had to gather them all togetheragain. For there was one thing he loved doing better than all beside, and that was to try to draw pictures of all the things he saw aroundhim. 

It was no easy matter for the little shepherd lad. He had no pencils orpaper, and he had never, perhaps, seen a picture in all his life. Butall this mattered little to him. Out there, under the blue sky, hiseyes made pictures for him out of the fleecy white clouds as theyslowly changed from one form to another. He learned to know exactly theshape of every flower and how it grew; he noticed how the olive-treeslaid their silver leaves against the blue background of the sky thatpeeped in between, and how his sheep looked as they stooped to eat, orlay down in the shadow of a rock. 

Nothing escaped his keen, watchful eyes, and then with eager hands hewould sharpen a piece of stone, choose out the smoothest rock, and tryto draw on its flat surface all those wonderful shapes which had filledhis eyes with their beauty. Olive-trees, flowers, birds and beasts werethere, but especially his sheep, for they were his friends andcompanions who were always near him, and he could draw them in adifferent way each time they moved. 

Now it fell out that one day a great master painter from Florence cameriding through the valley and over the hills where Giotto was feedinghis sheep. The name of the great master was Cimabue, and he was themost wonderful artist in the world, so men said. He had painted apicture which had made all Florence rejoice. The Florentines had neverseen anything like it before, and yet it was but a strange-lookingportrait of the Madonna and Child, scarcely like a real woman or a realbaby at all. Still, it seemed to them a perfect wonder, and Cimabue washonoured as one of the city's greatest men. 

The road was lonely as it wound along. There was nothing to be seen butwaves of grey hills on every side, so the stranger rode on, scarcelylifting his eyes as he went. Then suddenly he came upon a flock ofsheep nibbling the scanty sunburnt grass, and a little brown-facedshepherd-boy gave him a cheerful 'Good-day, master. '

There was something so bright and merry in the boy's smile that thegreat man stopped and began to talk to him. Then his eye fell upon thesmooth flat rock over which the boy had been bending, and he startedwith surprise. 

'Who did that?' he asked quickly, and he pointed to the outline of asheep scratched upon the stone. 

'It is the picture of one of my sheep there, ' answered the boy, hanginghis head with a shame-faced look. 'I drew it with this, ' and he heldout towards the stranger the sharp stone he had been using. 

'Who taught you to do this?' asked the master as he looked morecarefully at the lines drawn on the rock. 

The boy opened his eyes wide with astonishment 'Nobody taught me, master, ' he said. 'I only try to draw the things that my eyes see. '

'How would you like to come with me to Florence and learn to be apainter?' asked Cimabue, for he saw that the boy had a wonderful powerin his little rough hands. 

Giotto's cheeks flushed, and his eyes shone with joy. 

'Indeed, master, I would come most willingly, ' he cried, 'if only myfather will allow it. '

So back they went together to the village, but not before Giotto hadcarefully put his sheep into the fold, for he was never one to leavehis work half done. 

Bondone was amazed to see his boy in company with such a grandstranger, but he was still more surprised when he heard of thestranger's offer. It seemed a golden chance, and he gladly gave hisconsent. 

Why, of course, the boy should go to Florence if the gracious masterwould take him and teach him to become a painter. The home would belonely without the boy who was so full of fun and as bright as asunbeam. But such chances were not to be met with every day, and he wasmore than willing to let him go. 

So the master set out, and the boy Giotto went with him to Florence tobegin his training. 

The studio where Cimabue worked was not at all like those artists'rooms which we now call studios. It was much more like a workshop, andthe boys who went there to learn how to draw and paint were taughtfirst how to grind and prepare the colours and then to mix them. Theywere not allowed to touch a brush or pencil for a long time, but onlyto watch their master at work, and learn all that they could from whatthey saw him do. 

So there the boy Giotto worked and watched, but when his turn came touse the brush, to the amazement of all, his pictures were quite unlikeanything which had ever been painted before in the workshop. Instead ofcopying the stiff, unreal figures, he drew real people, real animals, and all the things which he had learned to know so well on the greyhillside, when he watched his father's sheep. Other artists had paintedthe Madonna and Infant Christ, but Giotto painted a mother and a baby. 

And before long this worked such a wonderful change that it seemedindeed as if the art of making pictures had been born again. To us hiswork still looks stiff and strange, but in it was the beginning of allthe beautiful pictures that belong to us now. 

Giotto did not only paint pictures, he worked in marble as well. To-day, if you walk through Florence, the City of Flowers, you willstill see its fairest flower of all, the tall white campanile orbell-tower, 'Giotto's tower' as it is called. There it stands in allits grace and loveliness like a tall white lily against the blue sky, pointing ever upward, in the grand old faith of the shepherd-boy. Dayafter day it calls to prayer and to good works, as it has done allthese hundreds of years since Giotto designed and helped to build it. 

Some people call his pictures stiff and ugly, for not every one haswise eyes to see their beauty, but the loveliness of this tower caneasily be seen by all. 'There the white doves circle round and round, and rest in the sheltering niches of the delicately carved arches;there at the call of its bell the black-robed Brothers of Pity hurrypast to their works of mercy. There too the little children play, andsometimes stop to stare at the marble pictures, set in the first storyof the tower, low enough to be seen from the street. Their specialfavourite is perhaps the picture of the shepherd sitting under histent, with the sheep in front, and with the funniest little dog keepingwatch at the side. 

Giotto always had a great love for animals, and whenever it waspossible he would squeeze one into a corner of his pictures. He wassixty years old when he designed this wonderful tower and cut some ofthe marble pictures with his own hand, but you can see that the memoryof those old days when he ran barefoot about the hills and tended hissheep was with him still. Just such another little puppy must haveoften played with him in those long-ago days before he became a greatpainter and was still only a merry, brown-faced boy, making pictureswith a sharp stone upon the smooth rocks. 

Up and down the narrow streets of Florence now, the great painter wouldwalk and watch the faces of the people as they passed. And his eyeswould still make pictures of them and their busy life, just as theyused to do with the olive-trees, the sheep, and the clouds. 

In those days nobody cared to have pictures in their houses, and onlythe walls of the churches were painted. So the pictures, or frescoes, as they were called, were of course all about sacred subjects, eitherstories out of the Bible or of the lives of the saints. And as therewere few books, and the poor people did not know how to read, thesefrescoed walls were the only story-books they had. 

What a joy those pictures of Giotto's must have been, then, to thosepoor folk! They looked at the little Baby Jesus sitting on His mother'sknee, wrapped in swaddling bands, just like one of their own littleones, and it made Him seem a very real baby. The wise men who talkedtogether and pointed to the shining star overhead looked just like anyof the great nobles of Florence. And there at the back were the twohorses looking on with wise interested eyes, just as any of their ownhorses might have done. 

It seemed to make the story of Christmas a thing which had reallyhappened, instead of a far-away tale which had little meaning for them. Heaven and the Madonna were not so far off after all. And it comfortedthem to think that the Madonna had been a real woman like themselves, and that the Jesu Bambino would stoop to bless them still, just as Heleaned forward to bless the wise men in the picture. 

How real too would seem the old story of the meeting of Anna andJoachim at the Golden Gate, when they could gaze upon the two homelyfigures under the narrow gateway. No visionary saints these, but just asimple husband and wife, meeting each other with joy after a sadseparation, and yet with the touch of heavenly meaning shown by theangel who hovers above and places a hand upon each head. 

It was not only in Florence that Giotto did his work. His fame spreadfar and wide, and he went from town to town eagerly welcomed by all. Wecan trace his footsteps as he went, by those wonderful old pictureswhich he spread with loving care over the bare walls of the churches, lifting, as it were, the curtain that hides Heaven from our view andbringing some of its joys to earth. 

Then, at Assisi, he covered the walls and ceiling of the church withthe wonderful frescoes of the life of St. Francis; and the little roundcommonplace Arena Chapel of Padua is made exquisite inside by hispictures of the life of our Lord. 

In the days when Giotto lived the towns of Italy were continuallyquarrelling with one another, and there was always fighting going onsomewhere. The cities were built with a wall all round them, and thegates were shut each night to keep out their enemies. But often thefighting was between different families inside the city, and the grimold palaces in the narrow streets were built tall and strong that theymight be the more easily defended. 

In the midst of all this war and quarrelling Giotto lived his quiet, peaceful life, the friend of every one and the enemy of none. Rivaltowns sent for him to paint their churches with his heavenly pictures, and the people who hated Florence forgot that he was a Florentine. Hewas just Giotto, and he belonged to them all. His brush was the whiteflag of truce which made men forget their strife and angry passions, and turned their thoughts to holier things. 

Even the great poet Dante did not scorn to be a friend of the peasantpainter, and we still have the portrait which Giotto painted of him inan old fresco at Florence. Later on, when the great poet was a poorunhappy exile, Giotto met him again at Padua and helped to cheer someof those sad grey days, made so bitter by strife and injustice. 

Now when Giotto was beginning to grow famous, it happened that the Popewas anxious to have the walls of the great Cathedral of St. Peter atRome decorated. So he sent messengers all over Italy to find out whowere the best painters, that he might invite them to come and do thework. 

The messengers went from town to town and asked every artist for aspecimen of his painting. This was gladly given, for it was counted agreat honour to help to make St. Peter's beautiful. 

By and by the messengers came to Giotto and told him their errand. ThePope, they said, wished to see one of his drawings to judge if he wasfit for the great work. Giotto, who was always most courteous, 'took asheet of paper and a pencil dipped in a red colour, then, resting hiselbow on his side, with one turn of the hand, he drew a circle soperfect and exact that it was a marvel to behold. ' 'Here is yourdrawing, ' he said to the messenger, with a smile, handing him thedrawing. 

'Am I to have nothing more than this?' asked the man, staring at thered circle in astonishment and disgust. 

'That is enough and to spare, ' answered Giotto. 'Send it with the rest. '

The messengers thought this must all be a joke. 

'How foolish we shall look if we take only a round O to show hisHoliness, ' they said. 

But they could get nothing else from Giotto, so they were obliged to becontent and to send it with the other drawings, taking care to explainjust how it was done. 

The Pope and his advisers looked carefully over all the drawings, and, when they came to that round O, they knew that only a master-hand couldhave made such a perfect circle without the help of a compass. Withouta moment's hesitation they decided that Giotto was the man they wanted, and they at once invited him to come to Rome to decorate the cathedralwalls. So when the story was known the people became prouder than everof their great painter, and the round O of Giotto has become a proverbto this day in Tuscany. 

 'Round as the O of Giotto, d' ye see; Which means as well done as a thing can be. '

Later on, when Giotto was at Naples, he was painting in the palacechapel one very hot day, when the king came in to watch him at hiswork. It really was almost too hot to move, and yet Giotto painted awaybusily. 

'Giotto, ' said the king, 'if I were in thy place I would give uppainting for a while and take my rest, now that it is so hot. '

'And, indeed, so I would most certainly do, ' answered Giotto, 'if Iwere in your place, your Majesty. '

It was these quick answers and his merry smile that charmed every one, and made the painter a favourite with rich and poor alike. 

There are a great many stories told of him, and they all show what asunny-tempered, kindly man he was. 

It is said that one day he was standing in one of the narrow streets ofFlorence talking very earnestly to a friend, when a pig came runningdown the road in a great hurry. It did not stop to look where it wasgoing, but ran right between the painter's legs and knocked him flat onhis back, putting an end to his learned talk. 

Giotto scrambled to his feet with a rueful smile, and shook his fingerat the pig which was fast disappearing in the distance. 

'Ah, well!' he said, 'I suppose thou hadst as much right to the road asI had. Besides, how many gold pieces I have earned by the help of thybristles, and never have I given any of thy family even a drop of soupin payment. '

Another time he went riding with a very learned lawyer into the countryto look after his property. For when Bondone died, he left all hisfields and his farm to his painter son. Very soon a storm came on, andthe rain poured down as if it never meant to stop. 

'Let us seek shelter in this farmhouse and borrow a cloak, ' suggestedGiotto. 

So they went in and borrowed two old cloaks from the farmer, andwrapped themselves up from head to foot. Then they mounted their horsesand rode back together to Florence. 

Presently the lawyer turned to look at Giotto, and immediately burstinto a loud laugh. The rain was running from the painter's cap, he wassplashed with mud, and the old cloak made him look like a very forlornbeggar. 

'Dost think if any one met thee now, they would believe that thou artthe best painter in the world?' laughed the lawyer. 

Giotto's eyes twinkled as he looked at the funny figure riding besidehim, for the lawyer was very small, and had a crooked back, and rolledup in the old cloak he looked like a bundle of rags. 

'Yes!' he answered quickly, 'any one would certainly believe I was agreat painter, if he could but first persuade himself that thou dostknow thy A B C. '

In all these stories we catch glimpses of the good-natured kindlypainter, with his love of jokes, and his own ready answers, and all thetime we must remember that he was filling the world with beauty, whichit still treasures to-day, helping to sow the seeds of that great treeof Art which was to blossom so gloriously in later years. 

And when he had finished his earthly work it was in his own cathedral, 'St. Mary of the Flowers, ' that they laid him to rest, while the peoplemourned him as a good friend as well as a great painter. There he liesin the shadow of his lily tower, whose slender grace anddelicate-tinted marbles keep his memory ever fresh in his beautifulcity of Florence. 

FRA ANGELICO

Nearly a hundred years had passed by since Giotto lived and worked inFlorence, and in the same hilly country where he used to tend his sheepanother great painter was born. 

Many other artists had come and gone, and had added their golden linksof beauty to the chain of Art which bound these years together. Someday you will learn to know all their names and what they did. But nowwe will only single out, here and there, a few of those names which areperhaps greater than the rest. Just as on a clear night, when we lookup into the starlit sky, it would bewilder us to try and remember allthe stars, so we learn first to know those that are most easilyrecognised--the Plough, or the Great Bear, as they shine with a clearsteady light against the background of a thousand lesser stars. 

The name by which this second great painter is known is Fra Angelico, but that was only the name he earned in later years. His baby name wasGuido, and his home was in a village close to where Giotto was born. 

He was not a poor boy, and did not need to work in the fields or tendthe sheep on the hillside. Indeed, he might have soon become rich andfamous, for his wonderful talent for painting would have quicklybrought him honours and wealth if he had gone out into the world. Butinstead of this, when he was a young man of twenty he made up his mindto enter the convent at Fiesole, and to become a monk of the Order ofSaint Dominic. 

Every brother, or frate, as he is called, who leaves the world andenters the life of the convent is given a new name, and his old name isnever used again. So young Guido was called Fra Giovanni, or BrotherJohn. But it is not by that name that he is known best, but that of FraAngelico, or the angelic brother--a name which was given him afterwardsbecause of his pure and beautiful life, and the heavenly pictures whichhe painted. 

With all his great gifts in his hands, with all the years of youth andpleasure stretching out green and fair before him, he said good-bye toearthly joys, and chose rather to serve his Master Christ in the way hethought was right. 

The monks of St. Dominic were the great preachers of those days--menwho tried to make the world better by telling people what they ought todo, and teaching them how to live honest and good lives. But there areother ways of teaching people besides preaching, and the young monk whospent his time bending over the illuminated prayer-book, seeing withhis dreamy eyes visions of saints and white-robed angels, was preparingto be a greater teacher than them all. The words of the preacher monkshave passed away, and the world pays little heed to them now, but theteaching of Fra Angelico, the silent lessons of his wonderful pictures, are as fresh and clear to-day as they were in those far-off years. 

Great trouble was in store for the monks of the little convent atFiesole, which Fra Angelico and his brother Benedetto had entered. Fierce struggles were going on in Italy between different religiousparties, and at one time the little band of preaching monks wereobliged to leave their peaceful home at Fiesole to seek shelter inother towns. But, as it turned out, this was good fortune for the youngpainter-monk, for in those hill towns of Umbria where the brotherssought refuge there were pictures to be studied which delighted hiseyes with their beauty, and taught him many a lesson which he couldnever have learned on the quiet slopes of Fiesole. 

The hill towns of Italy are very much the same to-day as they were inthose days. Long winding roads lead upwards from the plain below to thecity gates, and there on the summit of the hill the little town isbuilt. The tall white houses cluster close together, and theoverhanging eaves seem almost to meet across the narrow paved streets, and always there is the great square, with the church the centre of all. 

It would be almost a day's journey to follow the white road that leadsdown from Perugia across the plain to the little hill town of Assisi, and many a spring morning saw the painter-monk setting out on theconvent donkey before sunrise and returning when the sun had set. Hewould thread his way up between the olive-trees until he reached thecity gates, and pass into the little town without hindrance. For thefollowers of St. Francis in their brown robes would be glad to welcomea stranger monk, though his black robe showed that he belonged to adifferent order. Any one who came to see the glory of their city, thechurch where their saint lay, which Giotto had covered with hiswonderful pictures, was never refused admittance. 

How often then must Fra Angelico have knelt in the dim light of thatlower church of Assisi, learning his lesson on his knees, as was everhis habit. Then home again he would wend his way, his eyes filled withvisions of those beautiful pictures, and his hand longing for thepencil and brush, that he might add new beauty to his own work fromwhat he had learned. 

Several years passed by, and at last the brothers were allowed toreturn to their convent home of San Dominico at Fiesole, and there theylived peaceably for a long time. We cannot tell exactly what picturesour painter-monk painted during those peaceful years, but we know hemust have been looking out with wise, seeing eyes, drinking in all thebeauty that was spread around him. 

At his feet lay Florence, with its towers and palaces, the Arno runningthrough it like a silver thread, and beyond, the purple of the Tuscanhills. All around on the sheltered hillside were green vines andfruit-trees, olives and cypresses, fields flaming in spring withscarlet anemones or golden with great yellow tulips, and hedges ofrose-bushes covered with clusters of pink blossoms. No wonder, then, such beauty sunk into his heart, and we see in his pictures the purefresh colour of the spring flowers, with no shadow of dark or evilthings. 

Soon the fame of the painter began to be whispered outside the conventwalls, and reached the ears of Cosimo da Medici, one of the powerfulrulers of Florence. He offered the monks a new home, and, when theywere settled in the convent of San Marco in Florence, he invited FraAngelico to fresco the walls. 

One by one the heavenly pictures were painted upon the walls of thecells and cloister of the new home. How the brothers must have crowdedround to see each new fresco as it was finished, and how anxious theywould be to see which picture was to be near their own particular bed. In all the frescoes, whether he painted the gentle Virgin bendingbefore the angel messenger, or tried to show the glory of the ascendedLord, the artist-monk would always introduce one or more of theconvent's special saints, which made the brothers feel that thepictures were their very own. Fra Angelico had a kind word and smilefor all the brothers. He was never impatient, and no one ever saw himangry, for he was as humble and gentle as the saints whose pictures heloved to paint. 

It is told of him, too, that he never took a brush or pencil in hishand without a prayer that his work might be to the glory of God. Oftenwhen he painted the sufferings of our Lord, the tears would be seenrunning down his cheeks and almost blinding his eyes. 

There is an old legend which tells of a certain monk who, when he wasbusily illuminating a page of his missal, was called away to do someservice for the poor. He went unwillingly, the legend says, for helonged to put the last touches to the holy picture he was painting; butwhen he returned, lo! he found his work finished by angel hands. 

Often when we look at some of Fra Angelico's pictures we are remindedof this legend, and feel that he too might have been helped by thosesame angel hands. Did they indeed touch his eyes that he might catchglimpses of a Heaven where saints were swinging their golden censers, and white-robed angels danced in the flowery meadows of Paradise? Wecannot tell; but this we know, that no other painter has ever shown ussuch a glory of heavenly things. 

Best of all, the angel-painter loved to paint pictures of the life ofour Lord; and in the picture I have shown you, you will see the tendercare with which he has drawn the head of the Infant Jesus with Hislittle golden halo, the Madonna in her robe of purest blue, holding theBaby close in her arms, St. Joseph the guardian walking at the side, and all around the flowers and trees which he loved so well in thequiet home of Fiesole. 

He did not care for fame or power, this dreamy painter of angels, andwhen the Pope invited him to Rome to paint the walls of a chapel there, he thought no more of the glory and honour than if he was but calledupon to paint another cell at San Marco. 

But when the Pope had seen what this quiet monk could do, he called theartist to him. 

'A man who can paint such pictures, ' he said, 'must be a good man, andone who will do well whatever he undertakes. Will you, then, do otherwork for me, and become my Archbishop at Florence?' But the painter wasstartled and dismayed. 

'I cannot teach or preach or govern men, ' he said, 'I can but use mygift of painting for the glory of God. Let me rather be as I am, for itis safer to obey than to rule. '

But though he would not take this honour himself, he told the Pope of afriend of his, a humble brother, Fra Antonino, at the convent of SanMarco, who was well fitted to do the work. So the Pope took thepainter's advice, and the choice was so wise and good, that to this daythe Florentine people talk lovingly of their good bishop Antonino. 

It was while he was at work in Rome that Fra Angelico died, so his bodydoes not rest in his own beloved Florence. But if his body lies inRome, his gentle spirit still seems to hover around the old convent ofSan Marco, and there we learn to know and love him best. Little wonderthat in after ages they looked upon him almost as a saint, and gave himthe title of 'Beato, ' or the blessed angel-painter. 

MASACCIO

It must have been about the same time when Fra Angelico was coveringthe walls of San Marco with his angel pictures, that a very differentkind of painter was working in the Carmine church in Florence. 

This was no gentle, refined monk, but just an ordinary man of theworld--an awkward, good-natured person, who, as long as he had picturesto paint, cared for little else. Why, he would even forget to ask forpayment when his work was done; and as to taking care of his clothes, or trying to keep himself tidy, that was a thing he never thought of!

What trouble his mother must have had with him when he was a boy! Itwas no use sending him on an errand, he would forget it before he hadgone a hundred yards, and he was so careless and untidy that it wasenough to make any one lose patience with him. But only let him have apencil and a smooth surface on which to draw, and he was a differentboy. 

It is said that even now, in the little town of Castello San Giovanni, some eighteen miles from Florence, where Tommaso was born, there arestill some wonderfully good figures to be seen, drawn by him when hewas quite a little boy. Certainly there was no carelessness and nothinguntidy about his work. 

As the boy grew older all his longings would turn towards Florence, thebeautiful city where there was everything to learn and to see, and sohe was sent to become a pupil in the studio of Masolino, a greatFlorentine painter. But though his drawings improved, his carelesshabits continued the same. 

'There goes Tommaso the painter, ' the people would say, watching thebig awkward figure passing through the streets on his way to work. 'Truly he pays but little heed to his appearance. Look but at hisuntidy hair and the holes in his boots. '

'Ay, indeed!' another would answer; 'and yet it is said if only peoplepaid him all they owed he would have gold enough and to spare. But whatcares he so long as he has his paints and brushes? "Masaccio" would bea fitter name for him than Tommaso. '

So the name Masaccio, or Ugly Tom, came to be that by which the bigawkward painter was known. But no one thinks of the unkind meaning ofthe nickname now, for Masaccio is honoured as one of the great names inthe history of Art. 

This painter, careless of many things, cared with all his heart andsoul for the work he had chosen to do. It seemed to him that paintershad always failed to make their pictures like living things. Thepictures they painted were flat, not round as a figure should be, andvery often the feet did not look as if they were standing on the groundat all, but pointed downwards as if they were hanging in the air. 

So he worked with light and shadow and careful drawing until thefigures he drew looked rounded instead of flat, and their feet wereplanted firmly on the ground. His models were taken from the ordinaryFlorentine youths whom he saw daily in the studio, but he drew them asno one had drawn figures before. The buildings, too, he made to looklike real houses leading away into the distance, and not just like aflat picture. 

He painted many frescoes both in Florence and Rome, this Ugly Tom, butat the time the people did not pay him much honour, for they thoughthim just a great awkward fellow with his head always in the clouds. Perhaps if he had lived longer fame and wealth would have come to him, but he died when he was still a young man, and only a few realised howgreat he was. 

But in after years, one by one, all the great artists would come tothat little chapel of the Carmine there to learn their first lessonsfrom those life-like figures. Especially they would stand before thefresco which shows St. Peter baptizing a crowd of people. And in thatfresco they would study more than all the figure of a boy who has justcome out of the water, shivering with cold, the most natural figurethat had ever been painted up to that time. 

All things must be learnt little by little, and each new thing we knowis a step onwards. So this figure of the shivering boy marks a higherstep of the golden ladder of Art than any that had been touched before. And this alone would have made the name of Masaccio worthy to be placedupon the list of world's great painters. 

FRA FILIPPO LIPPI

It was winter time in Florence. The tramontana, that keen wind whichblows from over the snow mountains, was sweeping down the narrowstreets, searching out every nook and corner with its icy breath. Menflung their cloaks closer round them, and pulled their hats down overtheir eyes, so that only the tips of their noses were left uncoveredfor the wind to freeze. Women held their scaldinoes, little pots of hotcharcoal, closer under their shawls, and even the dogs had a sad, half-frozen look. One and all longed for the warm winds of spring andthe summer heat they loved. It was bad enough for those who had warmclothes and plenty of polenta, but for the poor life was very hardthose cold wintry days. 

In a doorway of a great house, in one of the narrow streets, a littleboy of eight was crouching behind one of the stone pillars as he triedto keep out of the grip of the tramontana. His little coat was foldedclosely round him, but it was full of rents and holes so that the thinbody inside was scarcely covered, and the child's blue lips trembledwith the cold, and his black eyes filled with tears. 

It was not often that Filippo turned such a sad little face to meet theworld. Usually those black eyes sparkled with fun and mischief, and themouth spread itself into a merry grin. But to-day, truly things wereworse than he ever remembered them before, and he could remember fairlybad times, too, if he tried. 

Other children had their fathers and mothers who gave them food andclothes, but he seemed to be quite different, and never had had any oneto care for him. True, there was his aunt, old Mona Lapaccia, who saidhe had once had a father and mother like other boys, but she alwaysadded with a mournful shake of her head that she alone had endured allthe trouble and worry of bringing him up since he was two years old. 'Ah, ' she would say, turning her eyes upwards, 'the saints alone knowwhat I have endured with a great hungry boy to feed and clothe. '

It seemed to Filippo that in that case the saints must also know howvery little he had to eat, and how cold he was on these wintry days. But of course they would be too grand to care about a little boy. 

In summer things were different. One could roll merrily about in thesunshine all day long, and at night sleep in some cool shelteringcorner of the street. And then, too, there was always a better chanceof picking up something to eat. Plenty of fig skins and melon paringswere flung carelessly out into the street when fruit was plentiful, andpeople would often throw away the remains of a bunch of grapes. It waswonderful how quickly Filippo learned to know people's faces, and toguess who would finish to the last grape and who would throw thesmaller ones away. Some would even smile as they caught his anxious, waiting eye fixed on the fruit, and would cry 'Catch' as they threw agoodly bunch into those small brown hands that never let anything slipthrough their fingers. 

Oh, yes, summer was all right, but there was always winter to face. To-day he was so very hungry, and the lupin skins which he hadcollected for his breakfast were all eaten long ago. He had hung aboutthe little open shops, sniffing up the delicious smell of friedpolenta, but no one had given him a morsel. All he had got was a stern'be off' when he ventured too close to the tempting food. If only thisday had been a festa, he might have done well enough. For in the greatprocessions when the priests and people carried their lighted candlesround the church, he could always dart in and out with his little ironscraper, lift the melted wax of the marble floor and sell it over againto the candlemakers. 

But there were no processions to-day, and there remained only one thingto be done. He must go home and see if Mona Lapaccia had anything tospare. Perhaps the saints took notice when he was hungry. 

Down the street he ran, keeping close to the wall, just as the dogs dowhen it rains. For the great overhanging eaves of the houses act as asheltering umbrella. Then out into the broad street that runs besidethe river, where, even in winter, the sun shines warmly if it shinesanywhere. 

Filippo paused at the corner of the Ponte alla Carraja to watch thestruggles of a poor mule which was trying to pull a huge cartload ofwood up the steep incline of the bridge. It was so exciting that for amoment he forgot how cold and hungry he was, as he shouted and screameddirections with the rest of the crowd, darted in and out in hiseagerness to help, and only got into every one's way. 

That excitement over, Filippo felt in better spirits and ran quicklyacross the bridge. He soon threaded his way to a poor street that ledtowards one of the city gates, where everything looked dirtier and morecheerless than ever. He had not expected a welcome, and he certainlydid not get one, as, after climbing the steep stairs, he cautiouslypushed open the door and peeped in. 

His aunt's thin face looked dark and angry. Poor soul, she had had nobreakfast either, and there would be no food that day unless her workwas finished. And here was this troublesome boy back again, when shethought she had got rid of him for the day. 

'Away!' she shouted crossly. 'What dost thou mean by coming back sosoon? Away, and seek thy living in the streets. '

'It is too cold, ' said the boy, creeping into the bare room, 'and I amhungry. '

'Hungry!' and poor Mona Lapaccia cast her eyes upwards, as if she wouldask the saints if they too were not filled with surprise to hear thisword. 'And when art thou anything else? It is ever the same story withthee: eat, eat, eat. Now, the saints help me, I have borne this burdenlong enough. I will see if I cannot shift it on to other shoulders. '

She rose as she spoke, tied her yellow handkerchief over her head andsmoothed out her apron. Then she caught Filippo by his shoulder andgave him a good shake, just to teach him how wrong it was to talk ofbeing hungry, and pushing him in front of her they went downstairstogether. 

'Where art thou going?' gasped the boy as she dragged him swiftly alongthe street. 

'Wait and thou shalt see, ' she answered shortly; 'and do thou mind thymanners, else will I mind them for thee. '

Filippo ran along a little quicker on hearing this advice. He had but adim notion of what minding his manners might mean, but he guessedfairly well what would happen if his aunt minded them. Ah! here theywere at the great square of the Carmine. He had often crept into thechurch to get warm and to see those wonderful pictures on the walls. Could they be going there now?

But it was towards the convent door that Mona Lapaccia bent her steps, and, when she had rung the bell, she gave Filippo's shoulder a finalshake, and pulled his coat straight and smoothed his hair. 

A fat, good-natured brother let them in, and led them through the manypassages into a room where the prior sat finishing his midday meal. 

Filippo's hungry eyes were immediately fixed on a piece of bread whichlay upon the table, and the kindly prior smiled as he nodded his headtowards it. 

Not another invitation did Filippo need; like a bird he darted forwardand snatched the piece of good white bread, and holding it in bothhands he began to munch to his heart's content. How long it was sincehe had tasted anything like this! It was so delicious that for a fewblissful moments he forgot where he was, forgot his aunt and the greatman who was looking at him with such kind eyes. 

But presently he heard his own name spoken and then he looked up andremembered. 'And so, Filippo, thou wouldst become a monk?' the priorwas saying. 'Let me see--how old art thou?'

'Eight years old, your reverence, ' said Mona Lapaccia before Filippocould answer. Which was just as well, as his mouth was still very full. 

'And it is thy desire to leave the world, and enter our convent?'continued the prior. 'Art thou willing to give up all, that thou mayestbecome a servant of God?'

The little dirty brown hands clutched the bread in dismay. Did the kindman mean that he was to give up his bread when he had scarcely eatenhalf of it?

'No, no; eat thy bread, child, ' said the prior, with an understandingnod. 'Thou art but a babe, but we will make a good monk of thee yet. '

Then, indeed, began happy days for Filippo. No more threadbare coats, but a warm little brown serge robe, tied round the waist with a ropewhose ends grew daily shorter as the way round his waist grew longer. No more lupin skins and whiffs of fried polenta, but food enough and tospare; such food as he had not dreamt of before, and always as much ashe could eat. 

Filippo was as happy as the day was long. He had always been a merrylittle soul even when life had been hard and food scarce, and now hewould not have changed his lot with the saints in Paradise. 

But the good brothers began to think it was time Filippo should dosomething besides play and eat. 

'Let us see what the child is fit for, ' they said. 

So Filippo was called in to sit on the bench with the boys and learnhis A B C. That was dreadfully dull work. He could never remember thenames of those queer signs. Their shapes he knew quite well, and hecould draw them carefully in his copy-book, but their names were toomuch for him. And as to the Latin which the good monks tried to teachhim, they might as well have tried to teach a monkey. 

All the brightness faded from Filippo's face the moment a book was putbefore him, and he looked so dull and stupid that the brothers were indespair. Then for a little things seemed to improve. Filippo suddenlylost his stupid look as he bent over the pages, and his eyes werebright with interest. 

'Aha!' said one brother nudging the other, 'the boy has found hisbrains at last. '

But great indeed was their wrath and disappointment when they lookedover his shoulder. Instead of learning his lessons, Filippo had beenmaking all sorts of queer drawings round the margin of the page. TheA's and B's had noses and eyes, and looked out with little grinningfaces. The long music notes had legs and arms and were dancing aboutlike little black imps. Everything was scribbled over with the naughtylittle figures. 

This was really too much, and Filippo must be taken at once before theprior. 

'What, in disgrace again?' asked the kindly old man. 'What has thechild done now?'

'We can teach him nothing, ' said the brother, shaking a severe fingerat Filippo, who hung his head. 'He cannot even learn his A B C. Andbesides, he spoils his books, ay, and even the walls and benches, bydrawing such things as these upon them. ' And the indignant monk heldout the book where all those naughty figures were dancing over the page. 

The prior took the book and looked at it closely. 

'What makes thee do these things?' he asked the boy, who stood first onone foot and then on the other, twisting his rope in his fingers. 

At the sound of the kind voice, the boy looked up, and his face brokeinto a smile. 

'Indeed, I cannot help it, Father, ' he said. 'It is the fault ofthese, ' and he spread out his ten little brown fingers. 

The prior laughed. 

'Well, ' he said, 'we will not turn thee out, though they do say thouwilt never make a monk. Perhaps we may teach these ten little rascalsto do good work, even if we cannot put learning into that round head ofthine. '

So instead of books and Latin lessons, the good monks tried a differentplan. Filippo was given as a pupil to good Brother Anselmo, whose workit was to draw the delicate pictures and letters for the conventprayer-books. 

This was a different kind of lesson, indeed. Filippo's eyes shone witheagerness as he bent over his work and tried to copy the beautifullines and curves which the master set for him. 

There were other boys in the class as well, and Filippo looked at theirwork with great admiration. One boy especially, who was bigger thanFilippo, and who had a kind merry face, made such beautiful copies thatFilippo always tried to sit next him if possible. Very soon the boysbecame great friends. 

Diamante, as the elder boy was called, was pleased to be admired somuch by the little new pupil; but as time went on, his pride in his ownwork grew less as he saw with amazement how quickly Filippo's littlebrown fingers learned to draw straighter lines and more beautifulcurves than any he could manage. Brother Anselmo, too, would watch theboy at work, and his saintly old face beamed with pleasure as he looked. 

'He will pass us all, and leave us far behind, this child who is toostupid to learn his A B C, ' he would say, and his face shone withunselfish joy. 

Then when the boys grew older, they were allowed to go into the churchand watch those wonderful frescoes, which grew under the hand of thegreat awkward painter, 'Ugly Tom, ' as he was called. 

Together Filippo and Diamante stood and watched with awe, learninglessons there which the good father had not been able to teach. Thenthey would begin to put into practice what they had learned, and try tocopy in their own pictures the work of the great master. 

'Thou hast the knack of it, Filippo, ' Diamante would say as he lookedwith envy at the figures Filippo drew so easily. 

'Thy pictures are also good, ' Filippo would answer quickly, 'and thouthyself art better than any one else in the convent. '

There was no complaint now of Filippo's dullness. He soon learned allthat the painter-monks could teach him, and as years passed on theprior would rub his hands in delight to think that here was an artist, one of themselves, who would soon be able to paint the walls of thechurch and convent, and make them as famous as the convent of San Marcohad been made famous by its angelical painter. 

Then one day he called Filippo to him. 

'My son, ' he said, 'you have learned well, and it is time now to turnyour work to some account. Go into the cloister where the walls havebeen but newly whitewashed, and let us see what kind of pictures thoucanst paint. '

With burning cheeks and shining eyes, Filippo began his work. Day afterday he stood on the scaffolding, with his brown robe pinned back andhis bare arm moving swiftly as he drew figure after figure on thesmooth white wall. 

He did not pause to think what he would draw, the figures seemed togrow like magic under his touch. There were the monks in their brownand white robes, fat and laughing, or lean and anxious-minded. Therewere the people who came to say their prayers in church, littlechildren clinging to their mothers' skirts, beggars and rich folks, even the stray dog that sometimes wandered in. Yes, and the prettygirls who laughed and talked in whispers. He drew them all, just as hehad often seen them. Then, when the last piece of wall was covered, hestopped his work. 

The news soon spread through all the convent that Brother Filippo hadfinished his picture, and all the monks came hurrying to see. Thescaffolding was taken down, and then they all stood round, gazing withround eyes and open mouths. They had never seen anything like itbefore, and at first there was silence except for one long drawn 'ah-h. '

Then one by one they began to laugh and talk, and point with eager, excited fingers. 'Look, ' cried one, 'there is Brother Giovanni; I wouldknow his smile among a hundred. '

'There is that beggar who comes each day to ask for soup, ' criedanother. 

'And there is his dog, ' shouted a third. 

'Look at the maid who kneels in front, ' said Fra Diamante in a hushedvoice, 'is she not as fair as any saint?'

Then suddenly there was silence, and the brothers looked ashamed of thenoise they had been making, as the prior himself looked down on themfrom the steps above. 

'What is all this?' he asked. And his voice sounded grave anddispleased as he looked from the wall to the crowd of eager monks. Thenhe turned to Filippo. 'Are these the pictures I ordered thee to paint?'he asked. 'Is this the kind of painting to do honour to God and to ourChurch? Will these mere human figures help men to remember the saints, teach them to look up to heaven, or help them with their prayers?Quick, rub them out, and paint your pictures for heaven and not forearth. '

Filippo hung his head, the crowd of admiring monks swiftly disappeared, and he was left to begin his work all over again. 

It was so difficult for Filippo to keep his thoughts fixed on heaven, and not to think of earth. He did so love the merry world, and hisfingers, those same ten brown rascals which had got him into troublewhen he was a child, always longed to draw just the faces that he sawevery day. The pretty face of the little maid kneeling at her prayerswas so real and so delightful, and the Madonna and angels seemed sosolemn and far off. 

Still no one would have pictures which did not tell of saints andangels, so he must paint the best he could. After all, it was easy toput on wings and golden haloes until the earthly things took on aheavenly look. 

But the convent life grew daily more and more wearisome now to Filippo. The world, which he had been so willing to give up for a piece of goodwhite bread when he was eight years old, now seemed full of all thethings he loved best. 

The more he thought of it, the more he longed to see other placesoutside the convent walls, and other faces besides the monks and thepeople who came to church. 

And so one dark night, when all the brothers were asleep and the bellshad just rung the midnight hour, Fra Filippo stole out of his cell, unlocked the convent door, and ran swiftly out into the quiet street. 

How good it felt to be free! The very street itself seemed like an oldfriend, welcoming him with open arms. On and on he ran until he came tothe city gates of San Frediano, there to wait until he could slipthrough unnoticed when the gates were opened at the dawn of day. Thenon again until Florence and the convent were left behind and the wholeworld lay before him. 

There was no difficulty about living, for the people gave him food andmoney, and good-natured countrymen would stop their carts and offer hima lift along the straight white dusty roads. So by and by he reachedAncona and saw for the first time the sea. 

Filippo gazed and gazed, forgetting everything else as he drank in thebeauty of that great stretch of quivering blue, while in his earssounded words which he had almost forgotten--words which had fallen onheedless ears at matins or vespers--and which never had held anymeaning for him before: 'And before the throne was a sea of glass, likeunto crystal. '

He stood still for a few minutes and then the heavenly vision faded, and like any other boy he forgot all about beauty and colour, and onlylonged to be out in a boat enjoying the strange new delight. 

Very lucky he thought himself when he reached the shore to find a boatjust putting of, and to hear himself invited to jump in by the boys whowere going for a sail. 

Away they went, further and further from the shore, laughing andtalking. The boys were so busy telling wonderful sea-tales to the youngstranger that they did not notice how far they had gone. Then suddenlythey looked ahead and sat speechless with fear. 

A great Moorish galley was bearing down upon them, its rows of oarsflashed in the sunlight, and its great painted sails towered abovetheir heads. It was no use trying to escape. Those strong rowers easilyovertook them, and in a few minutes Filippo and his companions werehoisted up on board the galley. 

It was all so sudden that it seemed like a dream. But the chains werevery real that were fastened round their wrists and ankles, and thedark cruel faces of the Moors as they looked on smiling at their miserywere certainly no dream. 

Then followed long days of misery when the new slaves toiled at theoars under the blazing sun, and nights of cold and weariness. Many atime did Filippo long for the quiet convent, the kindly brothers, andthe long peaceful days. Many a time did he long to hear the bellscalling him to prayer, which had once only filled him with restlessimpatience. 

But at last the galley reached the coast of Barbary, and the slaveswere unchained from the oars and taken ashore. In all his miseryFilippo's keen eyes still watched with interest the people around him, and he was never tired of studying the swarthy faces and curiousgarments of the Moorish pirates. 

Then one day when he happened to be near a smooth white wall, he took acharred stick from a fire which was built close by, and began to drawthe figure of his master. 

What a delight it was to draw those rapid strokes and feel the likenessgrow beneath his fingers! He was so much interested that he did notnotice the crowd that gathered gradually round him, but he workedsteadily on until the figure was finished. 

Just as the band of monks had stood silent round his first picture inthe cloister of the Carmine, so these dark Moors stood still in wonderand amazement gazing upon the bold black figure sketched upon thesmooth white wall. 

No one had ever seen such a thing in that land before, and it seemed tothem that this man must be a dealer in magic. They whispered together, and one went off hurriedly to fetch the captain. 

The master, when he came, was as astonished as the men. He couldscarcely believe his eyes when he saw a second self drawn upon thewall, more like than his own shadow. This indeed must be no common man;and he ordered that Filippo's chains should be immediately struck off, and that he should be treated with respect and honour. 

Nothing now was too good for this man of magic, and before long Filippowas put on board a ship and carried safely back to Italy. They put himashore at Naples, and for some little time Filippo stayed therepainting pictures for the king; but his heart was in his own belovedtown, and very soon he returned to Florence. 

Perhaps he did not deserve a welcome, but every one was only toodelighted to think that the runaway had really returned. Even theprior, though he shook his head, was glad to welcome back the brotherwhose painting had already brought fame and honour to the convent. 

But in spite of all the troubles Filippo had gone through, he stilldearly loved the merry world and all its pleasures. For a long time hewould paint his saints and angels with all due diligence, and then hewould dash down brushes and pencils, leave his paints scattered around, and of he would go for a holiday. Then the work would come to astand-still, and people must just wait until Filippo should feelinclined to begin again. 

The great Cosimo de Medici, who was always the friend of painters, desired above all things that Fra Filippo should paint a picture forhim. And what is more, having heard so many tales about the idle waysof this same brother, he was determined that the picture should bepainted without any interruptions. 

'Fra Filippo shall take no holidays while at work for me, ' he said, ashe talked the matter over with the prior. 

'That may not be so easy as thou thinkest, ' said the prior, for he knewFilippo better than did this great Cosimo. 

But Cosimo did not see any difficulty in the matter whatever. High inhis palace he prepared a room for the painter, and placed thereeverything he could need. No comfort was lacking, and when Filippo camehe was treated as an honoured guest, except for one thing. Whenever theheavy door of his room swung to, there was a grating sound heard, andthe key in the lock was turned from outside. So Filippo was really acaptive in his handsome prison. 

That was all very well for a few days. Filippo laughed as he paintedaway, and laid on the tender blue of the Virgin's robe, and paintedinto her eyes the solemn look which he had so often seen on the face ofsome poor peasant woman as she knelt at prayer. But after a while hegrew restless and weary of his work. 

'Plague take this great man and his fine manners, ' he cried. 'Does hethink he can catch a lark and train it to sing in a cage at hisbidding? I am weary of saints and angels. I must out to breathe thefresh sweet air of heaven. '

But the key was always turned in the lock and the door was strong. There was the window, but it was high above the street, and the greywalls, built of huge square stones, might well have been intended toenclose a prison rather than a palace. 

It was a dark night, and the air felt hot as Filippo leaned out of thewindow. Scarce a breath stirred the still air, and every sound could beheard distinctly. Far below in the street he could hear the tread ofthe people's feet, and catch the words of a merry song as a company ofboys and girls danced merrily along. 

 'Flower of the rose, If I've been happy, what matter who knows, '

they sang. 

It was all too tempting; out he must get. Filippo looked round hisroom, and his eye rested on the bed. With a shout of triumphant delighthe ran towards it. First he seized the quilt and tore it into strips, then the blankets, then the sheets. 

'Whoever saw a grander rope?' he chuckled to himself as he knotted theends together. 

Quick as thought he tied it to the iron bar that ran across his window, and, squeezing out, he began to climb down, hand over hand, danglingand swinging to and fro. The rope was stout and good, and now he couldsteady himself by catching his toes in the great iron rings fastenedinto the wall, until at last he dropped breathless into the streetbelow. 

Next day, when Cosimo came to see how the painting went on, he sawindeed the pictures and the brushes, but no painter was there. Quicklyhe stepped to the open window, and there he saw the dangling rope ofsheets, and guessed at once how the bird had flown. 

Through the streets they searched for the missing painter, and beforelong he was found and brought back. Filippo tried to look penitent, buthis eyes were dancing with merriment, and Cosimo must needs laugh too. 

'After all, ' said Filippo, 'my talent is not like a beast of burden, tobe driven and beaten into doing its work. It is rather like one ofthose heavenly visitors whom we willingly entertain when they deign tovisit us, but whom we can never force either to come or go at will. '

'Thou art right, friend painter, ' answered the great man. 'And when Ithink how thou and thy talent might have taken wings together, had notthe rope held good, I vow I will never seek to keep thee in against thywill again. '

'Then will I work all the more willingly, ' answered Filippo. 

So with doors open, and freedom to come and go, Filippo no longerwished to escape, but worked with all his heart. The beautiful Madonnaand angel were soon finished, and besides he painted a wonderfulpicture of seven saints with St. John sitting in their midst. 

From far and near came requests that Fra Filippo Lippi should paintpictures for different churches and convents. He would much rather havepainted the scenes and the people he saw every day, but he rememberedthe prior's lecture, and still painted only the stories of saints andholy people--the gentle Madonna with her scarlet book of prayers, thedove fluttering near, and the angel messenger with shining wingsbearing the lily branch. True, the saints would sometimes look out ofhis pictures with the faces of some of his friends, but no one seemedto notice that. On the whole his was a happy life, and he was alwaysready to paint for any one that should ask him. 

Many people now were proud to know the famous young painter, but hisold companion Fra Diamante was still the friend he loved best. Wheneverit was possible they still would work together; so, great was theirdelight when one day an order came from Prato that they should both gothere to paint the walls of San Stefano. 

'Good-bye to old Florence for a while, ' cried Filippo as they set outmerrily together. He looked back as he spoke at the spires and sunbakedroofs, the white marble facade of San Miniato, and the dark cypressesstanding clear against the pure warm sky of early spring. 'I am wearyof your great men and all your pomp and splendour. Something tells mewe shall have a golden time among the good folk of Prato. '

Perhaps it was the springtime that made Filippo so joyous that morningas he rode along the dusty white road. 

Spring had come with a glad rush, as she ever comes in Italy, scattering on every side her flowers and favours. From under the deadbrown leaves of autumn, violets pushed their heads and perfumed all theair. Under the grey olives the sprouting corn spread its tender green, and the scarlet and purple of the anemones waved spring's banner farand near. It was good to be alive on such a day. 

Arrived at Prato, the two painters, with a favourite pupil calledBotticelli, worked together diligently, and covered wall after wallwith their frescoes. It seemed as if they would never be done, for eachchurch and convent had work awaiting them. 

'Truly, ' said Filippo one day when he was putting the last touches to aportrait of Fra Diamante, whom he had painted into his picture of thedeath of St. Stephen, 'I will undertake no more work for a while. It isfull time we had a holiday together. '

But even as he spoke a message was brought to him from the good abbessof the convent of Santa Margherita, begging him to come and paint analtarpiece for the sisters' chapel. 

'Ah, well, what must be, must be, ' he said to Fra Diamante, who stoodsmiling by. 'I will do what I can to please these holy women, but afterthat--no more. '

The staid and sober abbess met him at the convent door, and silentlyled him through the sunny garden, bright with flowers, where thelizards darted to right and left as they walked past the fountain andentered the dim, cool chapel. In a low, sweet voice she told him whatthey would have him paint, and showed him the space above the highaltar where the picture was to be placed. 

'Our great desire is that thou shouldst paint for us the Holy Virginwith the Blessed Child on the night of the Nativity, ' she said. 

The painter seemed to listen, but his attention wandered, and all thetime he wished himself back in the sunny garden, where he had seen afair young face looking through the pink sprays of almond blossoms, while the music of the vesper hymn sounded sweet and clear in his ears. 

'I will begin to-morrow, ' he said with a start when the low voice ofthe abbess stopped. 'I will paint the Madonna and Babe as thoudesirest. '

So next day the work began. And each time the abbess noiselesslyentered the room where the painter was at work and watched the picturegrow beneath his hand, she felt more and more sure that she had doneright in asking this painter to decorate their beloved chapel. 

True, it was said by many that the young artist was but a worldlyminded man, not like the blessed Fra Angelico, the heavenly painter ofSan Marco; but his work was truly wonderful, and his handsome facelooked good, even if a somewhat merry smile was ever wont to lurk abouthis mouth and in his eyes. 

Then came a morning when the abbess found Filippo standing idle, with adiscontented look upon his face. He was gazing at the unfinishedpicture, and for a while he did not see that any one had entered theroom. 

'Is aught amiss?' asked the gentle voice at his side, and Filippoturned and saw the abbess. 

'Something indeed seems amiss with my five fingers, ' said Filippo, withhis quick bright smile. 'Time after time have I tried to paint the faceof the Madonna, and each time I must needs paint it out again. '

Then a happy thought came into his mind. 

'I have seen a face sometimes as I passed through the convent gardenwhich is exactly what I want, ' he cried. 'If thou wouldst but let themaiden sit where I can see her for a few hours each day, I can promisethee that the Madonna will be finished as thou wouldst wish. '

The abbess stood in deep thought for a few minutes, for she was puzzledto know what she should do. 

'It is the child Lucrezia, ' she thought to herself. 'She who was senthere by her father, the noble Buti of Florence. She is but a novicestill, and there can be no harm in allowing her to lend her fair faceas a model for Our Lady. '

So she told Filippo it should be as he wished. 

It was dull in the convent, and Lucrezia was only too pleased to spendsome hours every morning, idly sitting in the great chair, while theyoung painter talked to her and told her stories while he painted. Shecounted the hours until it was time to go back, and grew happier eachday as the Madonna's face grew more and more beautiful. 

Surely there was no one so good or so handsome as this wonderfulartist. Lucrezia could not bear to think how dull her life would bewhen he was gone. Then one day, when it happened that the abbess wascalled away and they were alone, Filippo told Lucrezia that he lovedher and could not live without her; and although she was frightened atfirst, she soon grew happy, and told him that she was ready to go withhim wherever he wished. But what would the good nuns think of it? Wouldthey ever let her go? No; they must think of some other plan. 

To-morrow was the great festa of Prato, when all the nuns walked inprocession to see the holy centola, or girdle, which the Madonna hadgiven to St. Thomas. Lucrezia must take care to walk on the outside ofthe procession, and to watch for a touch upon the arm as she passed. 

The festa day dawned bright and clear, and all Prato was early astir. Procession after procession wound its way to the church where the relicwas to be shown, and the crowd grew denser every moment. Presently camethe nuns of Santa Margherita. A figure in the crowd pressed nearer. Lucrezia felt a touch upon her arm, and a strong hand clasped hers. Thecrowd swayed to and fro, and in an instant the two figures disappeared. No one noticed that the young novice was gone, and before the nunsthought of looking for their charge Lucrezia was on her way toFlorence, her horse led by the painter whom she loved, while his goodfriend Fra Diamante rode beside her. 

Then the storm burst. Lucrezia's father was furious, the good nuns weredismayed, and every one shook their heads over this last adventure ofthe Florentine painter. 

But luckily for Filippo, the great Cosimo still stood his friend andhelped him through it all. He it was who begged the Pope to allow FraFilippo to marry Lucrezia (for monks, of course, were never allowed tomarry), and the Pope, too, was kind and granted the request, so thatall went well. 

Now indeed was Lucrezia as happy as the day was long, and when thespring returned once more to Florence, a baby Filippo came with theviolets and lilies. 

'How wilt thou know us apart if thou callest him Filippo?' asked theproud father. 

'Ah, he is such a little one, dear heart, ' Lucrezia answered gaily. 'Wewill call him Filippino, and then there can be no mistake. '

There was no more need now to seek for pleasures out of doors. Filippopainted his pictures and lived his happy home life without seeking anymore adventures. His Madonnas grew ever more beautiful, for they wereall touched with the beauty that shone from Lucrezia's fair face, andthe Infant Christ had ever the smile and the curly golden hair of thebaby Filippino. 

And by and by a little daughter came to gladden their hearts, and thenindeed their cup of joy was full. 

'What name shall we give the little maid?' said Filippo. 

'Methought thou wouldst have it Lucrezia, ' answered the mother. 

'There is but one Lucrezia in all the world for me, ' he said. 'Noneother but thee shall bear that name. '

As they talked a knock sounded at the door, and presently the favouritepupil, Sandro, looked in. There was a shout of joy from littleFilippino, and the young man lifted the child in his arms and smiledwith the look of one who loves children. 

'Come, Sandro, and see the little new flower, ' said Filippo. 'Is shenot as fair as the roses which thou dost so love to paint?'

Then, as the young man looked with interest at the tiny face, Filippoclapped him on the shoulder. 

'I have it!' he cried. 'She shall be called after thee, Alessandra. Some day she will be proud to think that she bears thy name. '

For already Filippo knew that this pupil of his would ere long wake theworld to new wonder. 

The only clouds that hid the sunshine of Lucrezia's life was whenFilippo was obliged to leave her for a while and paint his pictures inother towns. She always grew sad when his work in Florence drew to aclose, for she never knew where his next work might lie. 

'Well, ' said Filippo one night as he returned home and caught up littleFilippino in his arms, 'the picture for the nuns of San Ambrogio isfinished at last! Truly they have saints and angels enough thistime--rows upon rows of sweet faces and white lilies. And the sweetestface of all is thine, Saint Lucy, kneeling in front with thy handbeneath the chin of this young cherub. '

'Is it indeed finished so soon?' asked Lucrezia, a wistful notecreeping into her voice. 

'Ay, and to-morrow I must away to Spoleto to begin my work at theChapel of Our Lady. But look not so sad, dear heart; before threemonths are past, by the time the grapes are gathered, I will return. '

But it was sad work parting, though it might only be for three months, and even her little son could not make his mother smile, though he drewwonderful pictures for her of birds and beasts, and told her he meantto be a great painter like his father when he grew up. 

Next day Filippo started, and with him went his good friend FraDiamante. 

'Fare thee well, Filippo. Take good care of him, friend Diamante, 'cried Lucrezia; and she stood watching until their figures disappearedat the end of the long white road, and then went inside to waitpatiently for their return. 

The summer days passed slowly by. The cheeks of the peaches grew softand pink under the kiss of the sun, the figs showed ripe and purplebeneath the green leaves, and the grapes hung in great transparentclusters of purple and gold from the vines that swung between thepoplar-trees. Then came the merry days of vintage, and the juice waspressed out of the ripe grapes. 

'Now he will come back, ' said Lucrezia, 'for he said "by the time thegrapes are gathered I will return. "'

The days went slowly by, and every evening she stood in the loggia andgazed across the hills. Then she would point out the long white road tolittle Filippino. 

'Thy father will come along that road ere long, ' she said, and joy sangin her voice. 

Then one evening as she watched as usual her heart beat quickly. Surelythat figure riding so slowly along was Fra Diamante? But where wasFilippo, and why did his friend ride so slowly?

When he came near and entered the house she looked into his face, andall the joy faded from her eyes. 

'You need not tell me, ' she cried; 'I know that Filippo is dead. '

It was but too true. The faithful friend had brought the sad newshimself. No one could tell how Filippo had died. A few short hours ofpain and then all was over. Some talked of poison. But who could tell?

There had just been time to send his farewell to Lucrezia, and to prayhis friend to take charge of little Filippino. 

So, as she listened, joy died out of Lucrezia's life. Spring might comeagain, and summer sunshine make others glad, but for her it would beever cold, bleak winter. For never more should her heart grow warm inthe sunshine of Filippo's smile--that sunshine which had made every onelove him, in spite of his faults, ever since he ran about the streets, a little ragged boy, in the old city of Florence. 

SANDRO BOTTICELLI

We must now go back to the days when Fra Filippo Lippi painted hispictures and so brought fame to the Carmine Convent. 

There was at that time in Florence a good citizen called MarianoFilipepi, an honest, well-to-do man, who had several sons. These sonswere all taught carefully and well trained to do each the work hechose. But the fourth son, Alessandro, or Sandro as he was called, wasa great trial to his father. He would settle to no trade or calling. Restless and uncertain, he turned from one thing to another. At onetime he would work with all his might, and then again become as idleand fitful as the summer breeze. He could learn well and quickly whenhe chose, but then there were so few things that he did choose tolearn. Music he loved, and he knew every song of the birds, andanything connected with flowers was a special joy to him. No one knewbetter than he how the different kinds of roses grew, and how thelilies hung upon their stalks. 

'And what, I should like to know, is going to be the use of all this, 'the good father would say impatiently, 'as long as thou takest no painsto read and write and do thy sums? What am I to do with such a boy, Iwonder?'

Then in despair the poor man decided to send Sandro to a neighbour'sworkshop, to see if perhaps his hands would work better than his head. 

The name of this neighbour was Botticelli, and he was a goldsmith, anda very excellent master of his art. He agreed to receive Sandro as hispupil, so it happened that the boy was called by his master's name, andwas known ever after as Sandro Botticelli. 

Sandro worked for some time with his master, and quickly learned todraw designs for the goldsmith's work. 

In those days painters and goldsmiths worked a great deal together, andSandro often saw designs for pictures and listened to the talk of theartists who came to his master's shop. Gradually, as he looked andlistened, his mind was made up. He would become a painter. All hisrestless longings and day dreams turned to this. All the music thatfloated in the air as he listened to the birds' song, the gentledancing motion of the wind among the trees, all the colours of theflowers, and the graceful twinings of the rose-stems--all these hewould catch and weave into his pictures. Yes, he would learn to paintmusic and motion, and then he would be happy. 

'So now thou wilt become a painter, ' said his father, with a hopelesssigh. 

Truly this boy was more trouble than all the rest put together. Here hehad just settled down to learn how to become a good goldsmith, and nowhe wished to try his hand at something else. Well, it was no use saying'no. ' The boy could never be made to do anything but what he wished. There was the Carmelite monk Fra Filippo Lippi, of whom all, men weretalking. It was said he was the greatest painter in Florence. The boyshould have the best teaching it was possible to give him, and perhapsthis time he would stick to his work. 

So Sandro was sent as a pupil to Fra Filippo, and he soon became agreat favourite with the happy, sunny-tempered master. The quick eye ofthe painter soon saw that this was no ordinary pupil. There wassomething about Sandro's drawing that was different to anything thatFilippo had ever seen before. His figures seemed to move, and onealmost heard the wind rustling in their flowing drapery. Instead ofwalking, they seemed to be dancing lightly along with a swaying motionas if to the rhythm of music. The very rose-leaves the boy loved topaint, seemed to flutter down to the sound of a fairy song. Filippo wasproud of his pupil. 

'The world will one day hear more of my Sandro Botticelli, ' he said;and, young though the boy was, he often took him to different places tohelp him in his work. 

So it happened that, in that wonderful spring of Filippo's life, Sandrotoo was at Prato, and worked there with Fra Diamante. And in afteryears when the master's little daughter was born, she was namedAlessandra, after the favourite pupil, to whom was also left thetraining of little Filippino. 

Now, indeed, Sandros good old father had no further cause to complain. The boy had found the work he was most fitted for, and his name soonbecame famous in Florence. 

It was the reign of gaiety and pleasure in the city of Florence at thattime. Lorenzo the Magnificent, the son of Cosimo de Medici, was rulernow, and his court was the centre of all that was most splendid andbeautiful. Rich dresses, dainty food, music, gay revels, everythingthat could give pleasure, whether good or bad, was there. 

Lorenzo, like his father, was always glad to discover a new painter, and Botticelli soon became a great favourite at court. 

But pictures of saints and angels were somewhat out of fashion at thattime, for people did not care to be reminded of anything but earthlypleasures. So Botticelli chose his subjects to please the court, andfor a while ceased to paint his sad-eyed Madonnas. 

What mattered to him what his subject was? Let him but paint hisdancing figures, tripping along in their light flowing garments, keeping time to the music of his thoughts, and the subject might be oneof the old Greek tales or any other story that served his purpose. 

All the gay court dresses, the rich quaint robes of the fair ladies, helped to train the young painter's fancy for flowing draperies andwonderful veils of filmy transparent gauze. 

There was one fair lady especially whom Sandro loved to paint--thebeautiful Simonetta, as she is still called. 

First he painted her as Venus, who was born of the sea foam. In hispicture she floats to the shore standing in a shell, her golden hairwrapped round her. The winds behind blow her onward and scatter pinkand red roses through the air. On the shore stands Spring, who holdsout a mantle, flowers nestling in its folds, ready to enwrap thegoddess when the winds shall have wafted her to land. 

Then again we see her in his wonderful picture of 'Spring, ' and inanother called 'Mars and Venus. ' She was too great a lady to stoop tothe humble painter, and he perhaps only looked up to her as a starshining in heaven, far out of the reach of his love. But he neverceased to worship her from afar. He never married or cared for anyother fair face, just as the great poet Dante, whom Botticelli admiredso much, dreamed only of his one love, Beatrice. 

But Sandro did not go sadly through life sighing for what could neverbe his. He was kindly and good-natured, full of jokes, and ready tomake merry with his pupils in the workshop. 

It once happened that one of these pupils, Biagio by name, had made acopy of one of Sandro's pictures, a beautiful Madonna surrounded byeight angels. This he was very anxious to sell, and the master kindlypromised to help him, and in the end arranged the matter with a citizenof Florence, who offered to buy it for six gold pieces. 

'Well, Biagio, ' said Sandro, when his pupil came into the studio nextmorning, 'I have sold thy picture. Let us now hang it up in a goodlight that the man who wishes to buy it may see it at its best. Thenwill he pay thee the money. '

Biagio was overjoyed. 

'Oh, master, ' he cried, 'how well thou hast done. '

Then with hands which trembled with excitement the pupil arranged thepicture in the best light, and went to fetch the purchaser. 

Now meanwhile Botticelli and his other pupils had made eight caps ofscarlet pasteboard such as the citizens of Florence then wore, andthese they fastened with wax on to the heads of the eight angels in thepicture. 

Presently Biagio came back panting with joyful excitement, and broughtwith him the citizen, who knew already of the joke. The poor boy lookedat his picture and then rubbed his eyes. What had happened? Where werehis angels? The picture must be bewitched, for instead of his angels hesaw only eight citizens in scarlet caps. 

He looked wildly around, and then at the face of the man who hadpromised to buy the picture. Of course he would refuse to take such athing. 

But, to his surprise, the citizen looked well pleased, and even praisedthe work. 

'It is well worth the money, ' he said; 'and if thou wilt return with meto my house, I will pay thee the six gold pieces. '

Biagio scarcely knew what to do. He was so puzzled and bewildered hefelt as if this must be a bad dream. 

As soon as he could, he rushed back to the studio to look again at thatpicture, and then he found that the red-capped citizens haddisappeared, and his eight angels were there instead. This of coursewas not surprising, as Sandro and his pupils had quickly removed thewax and taken off the scarlet caps. 

'Master, master, ' cried the astonished pupil, 'tell me if I amdreaming, or if I have lost my wits? When I came in just now, theseangels were Florentine citizens with red caps on their heads, and nowthey are angels once more. What may this mean?'

'I think, Biagio, that this money must have turned thy brain round, 'said Botticelli gravely. 'If the angels had looked as thou sayest, dostthou think the citizen would have bought the picture?'

'That is true, ' said Biagio, shaking his head solemnly; 'and yet Iswear I never saw anything more clearly. '

And the poor boy, for many a long day, was afraid to trust his owneyes, since they had so basely deceived him. 

But the next thing that happened at the studio did not seem like a joketo the master, for a weaver of cloth came to live close by, and hislooms made such a noise and such a shaking that Sandro was deafened, and the house shook so greatly that it was impossible to paint. 

But though Botticelli went to the weaver and explained all this mostcourteously, the man answered roughly, 'Can I not do what I like withmy own house?' So Sandro was angry, and went away and immediatelyordered a great square of stone to be brought, so big that it filled awaggon. This he had placed on the top of his wall nearest to theweaver's house, in such a way that the least shake would bring itcrashing down into the enemy's workshop. 

When the weaver saw this he was terrified, and came round at once tothe studio. 

'Take down that great stone at once, ' he shouted. 'Do you not see thatit would crush me and my workshop if it fell?'

'Not at all, ' said Botticelli. 'Why should I take it down? Can I not doas I like with my own house?'

And this taught the weaver a lesson, so that he made less noise andshaking, and Sandro had the best of the joke after all. 

There were no idle days of dreaming now for Sandro. As soon as onepicture was finished another was wanted. Money flowed in, and his pursewas always full of gold, though he emptied it almost as fast as it wasfilled. His work for the Pope at Rome alone was so well paid that themoney should have lasted him for many a long day, but in his usualcareless way he spent it all before he returned to Florence. 

Perhaps it was the gay life at Lorenzo's splendid court that had taughthim to spend money so carelessly, and to have no thought but to eat, drink, and be merry. But very soon a change began to steal over hislife. 

There was one man in Florence who looked with sad condemning eyes onall the pleasure-loving crowd that thronged the court of Lorenzo theMagnificent. In the peaceful convent of San Marco, whose walls theangel-painter had covered with pictures 'like windows into heaven, ' thestern monk Savonarola was grieving over the sin and vanity that went onaround him. He loved Florence with all his heart, and he could not bearthe thought that she was forgetting, in the whirl of pleasure, all thatwas good and pure and worth the winning. 

Then, like a battle-cry, his voice sounded through the city, and rousedthe people from their foolish dreams of ease and pleasure. Every oneflocked to the great cathedral to hear Savonarola preach, and SandroBotticelli left for a while his studio and his painting and became afollower of the great preacher. Never again did he paint those picturesof earthly subjects which had so delighted Lorenzo. When he once morereturned to his work, it was to paint his sad-eyed Madonnas; and themusic which still floated through his visions was now like the song ofangels. 

The boys of Florence especially had grown wild and rough during thereign of pleasure, and they were the terror of the city during carnivaltime. They would carry long poles, or 'stili, ' and bar the streetsacross, demanding money before they would let the people pass. Thismoney they spent on drinking and feasting, and at night they set upgreat trees in the squares or wider streets and lighted huge bonfiresaround them. Then would begin a terrible fight with stones, and many ofthe boys were hurt, and some even killed. 

No one had been able to put a stop to this until Savonarola made up hismind that it should cease. Then, as if by magic, all was changed. 

Instead of the rough game of 'stili, ' there were altars put up at thecorners of the streets, and the boys begged money of the passers-by, not for their feasts, but for the poor. 

'You shall not miss your bonfire, ' said Savonarola; 'but instead of atree you shall burn up vain and useless things, and so purify the city. '

So the children went round and collected all the 'vanities, ' as theywere called--wigs and masks and carnival dresses, foolish songs, badbooks, and evil pictures; all were heaped high and then lighted to makeone great bonfire. 

Some people think that perhaps Sandro threw into the Bonfire ofVanities some of his own beautiful pictures, but that we cannot tell. 

Then came the sad time when the people, who at one time would have madeSavonarola their king, turned against him, in the same fickle way thatcrowds will ever turn. And then the great preacher, who had spent hislife trying to help and teach them, and to do them good, was burned inthe great square of that city which he had loved so dearly. 

After this it was long before Botticelli cared to paint again. He wasold and weary now, poor and sad, sick of that world which had treatedwith such cruelty the master whom he loved. 

One last picture he painted to show the triumph of good over evil. Notwith the sword or the might of great power is the triumph won, saysSandro to us by this picture, but by the little hand of the ChristChild, conquering by love and drawing all men to Him. This Adoration ofthe Magi is in our own National Gallery in London, and is the onlypainting which Botticelli ever signed. 

'I, Alessandro, painted this picture during the troubles of Italy . . . When the devil was let loose for the space of three and a half years. Afterwards shall he be chained, and we shall see him trodden down as inthis picture. '

It is evident that Botticelli meant by this those sad years of struggleagainst evil which ended in the martyrdom of the great preacher, and hehas placed Savonarola among the crowd of worshippers drawn to His feetby the Infant Christ. 

It is sad to think of those last days when Sandro was too old and tooweary to paint. He who had loved to make his figures move with dancingfeet, was now obliged to walk with crutches. The roses and lilies ofspring were faded now, and instead of the music of his youth he heardonly the sound of harsh, ungrateful voices, in the flowerless days ofpoverty and old age. 

There is always something sad too about his pictures, but through thesadness, if we listen, we may hear the angel-song, and understand itbetter if we have in our minds the prayer which Botticelli left for us. 

'Oh, King of Wings and Lord of Lords, who alone rulest always ineternity, and who correctest all our wanderings, giver of melody to thechoir of angels, listen Thou a little to our bitter grief, and come andrule us, oh Thou highest King, with Thy love which is so sweet. '

DOMENICO GHIRLANDAIO

Ghirlandaio! what a difficult name that sounds to our English ears. Butit has a very simple meaning, and when you understand it the difficultywill vanish. 

It all happened in this way. Domenico's father was a goldsmith, one ofthe cleverest goldsmiths in Florence, and he was specially famous formaking garlands or wreaths of gold and silver. It was the fashion thenfor the young maidens of Florence to wear these garlands, or'ghirlande' as they were called, on their heads, and because thisgoldsmith made them better than any one else they gave him the name ofGhirlandaio, which means 'maker of garlands, ' and that became thefamily name. 

When the time came for the boy Domenico to learn a trade, he was sent, of course, to his father's workshop. He learned so quickly, and workedwith such strong, clever fingers, that his father was delighted. 

'The boy will make the finest goldsmith of his day, ' he said proudly, as he watched him twisting the delicate golden wire and working out hisdesigns in beaten silver. 

So he was set to make the garlands, and for a while he was contentedand happy. It was such exquisite work to twine into shape the gracefulgolden leaves, with here and there a silver lily or a jewelled rose, and to dream of the fair head on which the garland would rest. 

But the making of garlands did not satisfy Domenico for long, and likeBotticelli he soon began to dream of becoming a painter. 

You must remember that in those days goldsmiths and painters had muchin common, and often worked together. The goldsmith made his picturewith gold and silver and jewels, while the painter drew his withcolours, but they were both artists. 

So as the young Ghirlandaio watched these men draw their great designsand listened to their talk, he began to feel that the goldsmith's workwas cramped and narrow, and he longed for a larger, grander work. Dayby day the garlands were more and more neglected, and every sparemoment was spent drawing the faces of those who came to the shop, oreven those of the passers-by. 

But although, ere long, Ghirlandaio left his father's shop and learnedto make pictures with colours, instead of with gold, silver, andjewels, still the training he had received in his goldsmith's workshowed to the end in all his pictures. He painted the smallest thingswith extreme care, and was never tired of spreading them over withdelicate ornaments and decorations. It is a great deal the outward showwith Ghirlandaio, and not so much the inward soul, that we find in hispictures, though he had a wonderful gift of painting portraits. 

These portraits painted by the young Ghirlandaio seemed very wonderfulto the admiring Florentines. From all his pictures looked out faceswhich they knew and recognised immediately. There, in a group ofsaints, or in a crowd of figures around the Infant Christ, they saw thewell-known faces of Florentine nobles, the great ladies from thepalaces, ay, and even the men of the market-place, and the poor peasantwomen who sold eggs and vegetables in the streets. Once he painted anold bishop with a pair of spectacles resting on his nose. It was thefirst time that spectacles had ever been put into a picture. 

Then off he must go to Rome, like every one else, to add his share tothe famous frescoes of the Vatican. But it was in Florence that most ofhis work was done. 

In the church of Santa Maria Novella there was a great chapel whichbelonged to the Ricci family. It had once been covered by beautifulfrescoes, but now it was spoilt by damp and the rain that came throughthe leaking roof. The noble family, to whom the chapel belonged, werepoor and could not afford to have the chapel repainted, but neitherwould they allow any one else to decorate it, lest it should pass outof their hands. 

Now another noble family, called the Tournabuoni, when they heard ofthe fame of the new painter, greatly desired to have a chapel paintedby him in order to do honour to their name and family. 

Accordingly they went to the Ricci family and offered to have the wholechapel painted and to pay the artist themselves. Moreover, they saidthat the arms or crest of the Ricci family should be painted in themost honourable part of the chapel, that all might see that the chapelstill belonged to them. 

To this the Ricci family gladly agreed, and Ghirlandaio was set to workto cover the walls with his frescoes. 

'I will give thee twelve hundred gold pieces when it is done, ' saidGiovanni Tournabuoni, 'and if I like it well, then shalt thou have twohundred more. '

Here was good pay indeed. Ghirlandaio set to work with all speed, andday by day the frescoes grew. For four years he worked hard, frommorning until night, until at last the walls were covered. 

One of the subjects which he chose for these frescoes was the story ofthe Life of the Virgin, so often painted by Florentine artists. Thisstory I will tell you now, that your eyes may take greater pleasure inthe pictures when you see them. 

The Bible story of the Virgin Mary begins when the Angel Gabriel cameto tell her of the birth of the Baby Jesus, but there are many storiesor legends about her before that time, and this is one which theItalians specially loved to paint. 

Among the blue hills of Galilee, in the little town of Nazareth, therelived a man and his wife whose names were Joachim and Anna. Though theywere rich and had many flocks of sheep which fed in the rich pasturesaround, still there was one thing which God had not given them andwhich they longed for more than all beside. They had no child. They hadhoped that God would send one, but now they were both growing old, andhope began to fade. 

Joachim was a very good man, and gave a third of all that he had as anoffering to the temple; but one sad day when he took his gift, the highpriest at the altar refused to take it. 

'God has shown that He will have nought of thee, ' said the priest, 'since thou hast no child to come after thee. '

Filled with shame and grief Joachim would not go home to his wife, butinstead he wandered out into the far-of fields where his shepherds werefeeding the flocks, and there he stayed forty days. With bowed head andsad eyes when he was alone, he knelt and prayed that God would tell himwhat he had done to deserve this disgrace. 

And as he prayed God sent an angel to comfort him. 

The angel placed his hand upon the bowed head of the poor old man, andtold him to be of good cheer and to return home at once to his wife. 

'For God will even now send thee a child, ' said the angel. 

So with a thankful heart which never doubted the angel's word, Joachimturned his face homewards. 

Meanwhile, at home, Anna had been sorrowing alone. That same day shehad gone into the garden, and, as she wandered among the flowers, shewept bitterly and prayed that God would send her comfort. Then thereappeared to her also an angel, who told her that God had heard herprayer and would send her the child she longed for. 

'Go now, ' the angel added, 'and meet thy husband Joachim, who is evennow returning to thee, and thou shall find him at the entrance to theGolden Gate. '

So the husband and wife did as the angel bade them, and met together atthe Golden Gate. And the Angel of Promise hovered above them, and laida hand in blessing upon both their heads. 

There was no need for speech. As Joachim and Anna looked into eachother's eyes and read there the solemn joy of the angel's message, their hearts were filled with peace and comfort. 

And before long the angel's promise was fulfilled, and a littledaughter was born to Anna and Joachim. In their joy and thankfulnessthey said she should not be as other children, but should serve in thetemple as little Samuel had done. The name they gave the child wasMary, not knowing even then that she was to be the mother of our Lord. 

The little maid was but three years old when her parents took her topresent her in the temple. She was such a little child that they almostfeared she might be frightened to go up the steps to the great templeand meet the high priest alone. So they asked if she might go incompany with the other children who were also on their way to thetemple. But when the little band arrived at the temple steps, Marystepped forward and began to climb up, step by step, alone, while theother children and her parents watched wondering from below. Straightup to the temple gates she climbed, and stood with little head bent lowto receive the blessing of the great high priest. 

So the child was left there to be taught to serve God and to learn howto embroider the purple and fine linen for the priests' vestments. Never before had such exquisite embroidery been done as that whichMary's fingers so delicately stitched, for her work was aided by angelhands. Sleeping or waking, the blessed angels never left her. 

When it was time that the maiden should be married, so many suitorscame to seek her that it was difficult to know which to choose. Todecide the matter they were all told to bring their staves or wands andleave them in the temple all night, that God might show by a sign whowas the most worthy to be the guardian of the pure young maid. 

Now among the suitors was a poor carpenter of Nazareth called Joseph, who was much older and much poorer than any of the other suitors. Theythought it was foolish of him to bring his staff, nevertheless it wasplaced in the temple with the others. 

But when the morning came and the priest went into the temple, behold, Joseph's staff had budded into leaves and flowers, and from among theblossoms there flew out a dove as white as snow. 

So it was known that Joseph was to take charge of the young maid, andall the rest of the suitors seized their staves and broke them acrosstheir knees in rage and disappointment. 

Then the story goes on to the birth of our Saviour as it is told to youin the Bible. 

It was this story which Ghirlandaio painted on the walls of the chapel, as well as the history of John the Baptist. Then, as Giovanni directed, he painted the arms of the Tournabuoni on various shields all over thechapel, and only in the tabernacle of the sacrament on the high altarhe painted a tiny coat of arms of the Ricci family. 

The chapel was finished at last and every one flocked to see it, butfirst of all came the Ricci, the owners of the chapel. 

They looked high and low, but nowhere could they see the arms of theirfamily. Instead, on all sides, they saw the arms of the Tournabuoni. Ina great rage they hurried to the Council and demanded that GiovanniTournabuoni should be punished. But when the facts were explained, andit was shown that the Ricci arms had indeed been placed in the mosthonourable part, they were obliged to be content, though they vowedvengeance against the Tournabuoni. Neither did Ghirlandaio get hisextra two hundred gold pieces, for although Giovanni was delighted withthe frescoes he never paid the price he had promised. 

To the end of his days Ghirlandaio loved nothing so much as to workfrom morning till night. Nothing was too small or mean for him to do. He would even paint the hoops for women's baskets rather than send anywork away from his shop. 

'Oh, ' he cried, one day, 'how I wish I could paint all the walls aroundFlorence with my stories. '

But there was no time to do all that. He was only forty-four years oldwhen Death came and bade him lay down his brushes and pencil, for hiswork was done. 

Beneath his own frescoes they laid him to rest in the church of SantaMaria Novella. And although we sometimes miss the soul in his picturesand weary of the gay outward decoration of goldsmith's work, yet thereis something there which makes us love the grand show of fair ladiesand strong men in the carefully finished work of this Florentine 'Makerof Garlands. '

FILIPPINO LIPPI

The little curly-haired Filippino, left in the charge of good FraDiamante, soon showed that he meant to be a painter like his father. When, as a little boy, he drew his pictures and showed them proudly tohis mother, he told her that he, too, would learn some day to be agreat artist. And she, half smiling, would pat his curly head and tellhim that he could at least try his best. 

Then, after that sad day when Lucrezia heard of Filippo's death, andthe happy little home was broken up, Fra Diamante began in earnest totrain the boy who had been left under his care. He had plenty of money, for Filippo had been well paid for the work at Spoleto, and so it wasdecided that the boy should be placed in some studio where he could betaught all that was necessary. 

There was no fear of Filippino ever wandering about the Florentinestreets cold and hungry as his father had done. And his training wasvery different too. Instead of the convent and the kind monks, he wasplaced under the care of a great painter, and worked in the master'sstudio with other boys as well off as himself. 

The name of Filippino's master was Sandro Botticelli, a Florentineartist, who had been one of Filippo's pupils and had worked with him inPrato. Fra Diamante knew that he was the greatest artist now inFlorence, and that he would be able to teach the child better than anyone else. 

Filippino was a good, industrious boy, and had none of the faults whichhad so often led his father into so much mischief and so many strangeadventures. His boyhood passed quietly by and he learned all that hismaster could teach him, and then began to paint his own pictures. 

Strangely enough, his first work was to paint the walls of the CarmilleChapel--that same chapel where Filippo and Diamante had learned theirlessons, and had gazed with such awe and reverence on Masaccio's work. 

The great painter, Ugly Tom, was dead, and there were still parts ofthe chapel unfinished, so Filippino was invited to fill the emptyspaces with his work. No need for the new prior to warn this youngpainter against the sin of painting earthly pictures. The frescoeswhich daily grew beneath Filippino's hands were saintly and beautiful. The tall angel in flowing white robes who so gently leads St. Peter outof the prison door, shines with a pure fair light that speaks ofHeaven. The sleeping soldier looks in contrast all the more dull andheavy, while St. Peter turns his eyes towards his gentle guide andfolds his hands in reverence, wrapped in the soft reflected light ofthat fair face. And on the opposite wall, the sad face of St. Peterlooks out through the prison bars, while a brother saint standsoutside, and with uplifted hand speaks comforting words to the poorprisoner. 

By slow degrees the chapel walls were finished, and after that therewas much work ready for the young painter's hand. It is said that hewas very fond of studying old Roman ornaments and painted them into hispictures whenever it was possible, and became very famous for this kindof work. But it is the beauty of his Madonnas and angels that makes uslove his pictures, and we like to think that the memory of his gentlemother taught him how to paint those lovely faces. 

Perhaps of all his pictures the most beautiful is one in the church ofthe Badia in Florence. It tells the story of the blessed St. Bernard, and shows the saint in his desert home, as he sat among the rockswriting the history of the Madonna. He had not been able to write thatday; perhaps he felt dull, and none of his books, scattered around, were of any help. Then, as he sat lost in thought, with his pen in hishand, the Virgin herself stood before him, an angel on either side, andlittle angel faces pressed close behind her. Laying a gentle hand uponhis book, she seems to tell St. Bernard all those golden words whichhis poor earthly pen had not been able yet to write. 

It used to be the custom long ago in Italy to place in the streetssacred pictures or figures, that passers-by might be reminded of holythings and say a prayer in passing. And still in many towns you willfind in some old dusty corner a beautiful picture, painted by a masterhand. A gleam of colour will catch your eye, and looking up you see apicture or little shrine of exquisite blue-and-white glazed pottery, where the Madonna kneels and worships the Infant Christ lying amongstthe lilies at her feet. The old battered lamp which hangs in front ofthese shrines is still kept lighted by some faithful hand, and inspring-time the children will often come and lay little bunches ofwild-flowers on the ledge below. 

'It is for the Jesu Bambino, ' they will say, and their little facesgrow solemn and reverent as they kneel and say a prayer. Then off againthey go to their play. 

In a little side-street of Prato, not far from the convent whereFilippino's father first saw Lucrezia's lovely face in the sunnygarden, there is one of these wayside shrines. It is painted byFilippino, and is one of his most beautiful pictures. The sweet face ofthe Madonna looks down upon the busy street below, and the Holy Childlifts His little hand in blessing, amid the saints which stand oneither side. 

The glass that covers the picture is thick with dust, and few who passever stop to look up. The world is all too busy nowadays. The hurryingfeet pass by, the unseeing eyes grow more and more careless. ButFilippino's beautiful Madonna looks on with calm, sad eyes, and theChrist Child, surrounded by the cloud of little angel faces, stillholds in His uplifted hand a blessing for those who seek it. 

Like all the great Florentine artists, Filippino, as soon as he grewfamous, was invited to Rome, and he painted many pictures there. On hisway he stopped for a while at Spoleto, and there he designed abeautiful marble monument for his father's tomb. 

Unlike that father, Filippino was never fond of travel or adventure, and was always glad to return to Florence and live his quiet lifethere. Not even an invitation from the King of Hungary could tempt himto leave home. 

It was in the great church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence thatFilippino painted his last frescoes. They are very real and lifelike, as one of the great painter's pupils once learned to his cost. Filippino had, of course, many pupils who worked under him. They groundhis colours and watched him work, and would sometimes be allowed toprepare the less important parts of the picture. 

Now it happened that one day when the master had finished his work andhad left the chapel, that one of the pupils lingered behind. His sharpeye had caught sight of a netted purse which lay in a dark corner, dropped there by some careless visitor, or perhaps by the masterhimself. The boy darted back and caught up the treasure; but at thatmoment the master turned back to fetch something he had forgotten. Theboy looked quickly round. Where could he hide his prize? In a momenthis eye fell on a hole in the wall, underneath a step which Filippinohad been painting in the fresco. That was the very place, and he ranforward to thrust the purse inside. But, alas! the hole was only apainted one, and the boy was fairly caught, and was obliged with shameand confusion to give up his prize. 

Scarcely were these frescoes finished when Filippino was seized with aterrible fever, and he died almost as suddenly as his father had done. 

In those days when there was a funeral of a prince in Florence, theFlorentines used to shut their shops, and this was considered a greatmark of respect, and was paid only to those of royal blood. But on theday that Filippino's funeral passed along the Via dei Servi, every shopthere was closed and all Florence mourned for him. 

'Some men, ' they said, 'are born princes, and some raise themselves bytheir talents to be kings among men. Our Filippino was a prince in Art, and so do we do honour to his title. '

PIETRO PERUGINO

It was early morning, and the rays of the rising sun had scarcely yetcaught the roofs of the city of Perugia, when along the winding roadwhich led across the plain a man and a boy walked with steady, purposelike steps towards the town which crowned the hill in front. 

The man was poorly dressed in the common rough clothes of an Umbrianpeasant. Hard work and poverty had bent his shoulders and drawn sternlines upon his face, but there was a dignity about him which marked himas something above the common working man. 

The little boy who trotted barefoot along by the side of his father hada sweet, serious little face, but he looked tired and hungry, andscarcely fit for such a long rough walk. They had started from theirhome at Castello delle Pieve very early that morning, and the piece ofblack bread which had served them for breakfast had been but small. Away in front stretched that long, white, never-ending road; and thelittle dusty feet that pattered so bravely along had to take hurriedruns now and again to keep up with the long strides of the man, whilethe wistful eyes, which were fixed on that distant town, seemed towonder if they would really ever reach their journey's end. 

'Art tired already, Pietro?' asked the father at length, hearing apanting little sigh at his side. 'Why, we are not yet half-way there!Thou must step bravely out and be a man, for to-day thou shalt begin towork for thy living, and no longer live the life of an idle child. '

The boy squared his shoulders, and his eyes shone. 

'It is not I who am tired, my father, ' he said. 'It is only that mylegs cannot take such good long steps as thine; and walk as we will theroad ever seems to unwind itself further and further in front, like themagic white thread which has no end. '

The father laughed, and patted the child's head kindly. 

'The end will come ere long, ' he said. 'See where the mist lies at thefoot of the hill; there we will begin to climb among the olive-treesand leave the dusty road. I know a quicker way by which we may reachthe city. We will climb over the great stones that mark the track ofthe stream, and before the sun grows too hot we will have reached thecity gates. '

It was a great relief to the little hot, tired feet to feel the coolgrass beneath them, and to leave the dusty road. The boy almost forgothis tiredness as he scrambled from stone to stone, and filled his handswith the violets which grew thickly on the banks, scenting the morningair with their sweetness. And when at last they came out once more uponthe great white road before the city gates, there was so much to gazeupon and wonder at, that there was no room for thoughts of weariness orhunger. 

There stood the herds of great white oxen, patiently waiting to passin. Pietro wondered if their huge wide horns would not reach from sideto side of the narrow street within the gates. There the shepherd-boysplayed sweet airs upon their pipes as they walked before their flocks, and led the silly frightened sheep out of the way of passing carts. Women with bright-coloured handkerchiefs tied over their heads crowdedround, carrying baskets of fruit and vegetables from the country round. Carts full of scarlet and yellow pumpkins were driven noisily along. Whips cracked, people shouted and talked as much with their hands aswith their lips, and all were eager to pass through the great Etruscangateway, which stood grim and tall against the blue of the summer sky. Much good service had that gateway seen, and it was as strong as whenit had been first built hundreds of years before, and was still able toshut out an army of enemies, if Perugia had need to defend herself. 

Pietro and his father quickly threaded their way through the crowd, andpassed through the gateway into the steep narrow street beyond. It wascool and quiet here. The sun was shut out by the tall houses, and theshadows lay so deep that one might have thought it was the hour oftwilight, but for the peep of bright blue sky which showed between theoverhanging eaves above. Presently they reached the great squaremarket-place, where all again was sunshine and bustle, with peopleshouting and selling their wares, which they spread out on the groundup to the very steps of the cathedral and all along in front of thePalazzo Publico. Here the man stopped, and asked one of the passers-byif he could direct him to the shop of Niccolo the painter. 

'Yonder he dwells, ' answered the citizen, and pointed to a humble shopat the corner of the market-place. 'Hast thou brought the child to be amodel?'

Pietro held his head up proudly, and answered quickly for himself. 

'I am no longer a child, ' he said; 'and I have come to work and not tosit idle. '

The man laughed and went his way, while father and son hurried ontowards the little shop and entered the door. 

The old painter was busy, and they had to wait a while until he couldleave his work and come to see what they might want. 

'This is the boy of whom I spoke, ' said the father as he pushed Pietroforward by his shoulder. 'He is not well grown, but he is strong, andhas learnt to endure hardness. I promise thee that he will serve theewell if thou wilt take him as thy servant. '

The painter smiled down at the little eager face which was waiting soanxiously for his answer. 

'What canst thou do?' he asked the boy. 

'Everything, ' answered Pietro promptly. 'I can sweep out thy shop andcook thy dinner. I will learn to grind thy colours and wash thybrushes, and do a man's work. '

'In faith, ' laughed the painter, 'if thou canst do everything, beingyet so young, thou wilt soon be the greatest man in Perugia, and bringgreat fame to this fair city. Then will we call thee no longer PietroVanucci, but thou shalt take the city's name, and we will call theePerugino. '

The master spoke in jest, but as time went on and he watched the boy atwork, he marvelled at the quickness with which the child learned toperform his new duties, and began to think the jest might one day turnto earnest. 

From early morning until sundown Pietro was never idle, and when therough work was done he would stand and watch the master as he painted, and listen breathless to the tales which Niccolo loved to tell. 

'There is nothing so great in all the world as the art of painting, 'the master would say. 'It is the ladder that leads up to heaven, thewindow which lets light into the soul. A painter need never be lonelyor poor. He can create the faces he loves, while all the riches oflight and colour and beauty are always his. If thou hast it in thee tobe a painter, my little Perugino, I can wish thee no greater fortune. '

Then when the day's work was done and the short spell of twilight drewnear, the boy would leave the shop and run swiftly down the narrowstreet until he came to the grim old city gates. Once outside, underthe wide blue sky in the free open air of the country, he drew a long, long breath of pleasure, and quickly found a hidden corner in the cleftof the hoary trunk of an olive-tree, where no passer-by could see him. There he sat, his chin resting on his hands, gazing and gazing out overthe plain below, drinking in the beauty with his hungry eyes. 

How he loved that great open space of sweet fresh air, in the calm purelight of the evening hour. That white light, which seemed to belongmore to heaven than to earth, shone on everything around. Away in thedistance the purple hills faded into the sunset sky. At his feet theplain stretched away, away until it met the mountains, here and therelifting itself in some little hill crowned by a lonely town whose roofsjust caught the rays of the setting sun. The evening mist lay like agossamer veil upon the low-lying lands, and between the little townsthe long straight road could be seen, winding like a white ribbonthrough the grey and silver, and marked here and there by a darkcypress-tree or a tall poplar. And always there would be a glint ofblue, where a stream or river caught the reflection of the sky and heldit lovingly there, like a mirror among the rocks. 

But Pietro did not have much time for idle dreaming. His was not aneasy life, for Niccolo made but little money with his painting, and theboy had to do all the work of the house besides attending to the shop. But all the time he was sweeping and dusting he looked forward to thehappy days to come when he might paint pictures and become a famousartist. 

Whenever a visitor came to the shop, Pietro would listen eagerly to histalk and try to learn something of the great world of Art. Sometimes hewould even venture to ask questions, if the stranger happened to be onewho had travelled from afar. 

'Where are the most beautiful pictures to be found?' he asked one daywhen a Florentine painter had come to the little shop and had beendescribing the glories he had seen in other cities. 'And where is itthat the greatest painters dwell?'

'That is an easy question to answer, my boy, ' said the painter. 'Allthat is fairest is to be found in Florence, the most beautiful city inall the world, the City of Flowers. There one may find the best ofeverything, but above all, the most beautiful pictures and the greatestof painters. For no one there can bear to do only the second best, anda man must attain to the very highest before the Florentines will callhim great. The walls of the churches and monasteries are covered withpictures of saints and angels, and their beauty no words can describe. '

'I too will go to Florence, said Pietro to himself, and every day helonged more and more to see that wonderful city. 

It was no use to wait until he should have saved enough money to takehim there. He scarcely earned enough to live on from day to day. So atlast, poor as he was, he started off early one morning and saidgood-bye to his old master and the hard work of the little shop inPerugia. On he went down the same long white road which had seemed soendless to him that day when, as a little child, he first came toPerugia. Even now, when he was a strong young man, the way seemed longand weary across that great plain, and he was often foot-sore anddiscouraged. Day after day he travelled on, past the great lake whichlay like a sapphire in the bosom of the plain, past many towns andlittle villages, until at last he came in sight of the City of Flowers. 

It was a wonderful moment to Perugino, and he held his breath as helooked. He had passed the brow of the hill, and stood beside a littlestream bordered by a row of tall, straight poplars which showed silverywhite against the blue sky. Beyond, nestling at the foot of theencircling hills, lay the city of his dreams. Towers and palaces, acrowding together of pale red sunbaked roofs, with the great dome ofthe cathedral in the midst, and the silver thread of the Arno windingits way between--all this he saw, but he saw more than this. For itseemed to him that the Spirit of Beauty hovered above the fair city, and he almost heard the rustle of her wings and caught a glimpse of herrainbow-tinted robe in the light of the evening sky. 

Poor Pietro! Here was the world he longed to conquer, but he was only apoor country boy, and how was he to begin to climb that golden ladderof Art which led men to fame and glory?

Well, he could work, and that was always a beginning. The struggle washard, and for many a month he often went hungry and had not even a bedto lie on at night, but curled himself up on a hard wooden chest. Thengood fortune began to smile upon him. 

The Florentine artists to whose studios he went began to notice thehardworking boy, and when they looked at his work, with all its faultsand want of finish, they saw in it that divine something called geniuswhich no one can mistake. 

Then the doors of another world seemed to open to Pietro. All day longhe could now work at his beloved painting and learn fresh wonders as hewatched the great men use the brush and pencil. In the studio of thepainter Verocchio he met the men of whose fame he had so often heard, and whose work he looked upon with awe and reverence. 

There was the good-tempered monk of the Carmine, Fra Filipo Lippi, theyoung Botticelli, and a youth just his own age whom they calledLeonardo da Vinci, of whom it was whispered already that he would someday be the greatest master of the age. 

These were golden days for Perugino, as he was called, for the name ofthe city where he had come from was always now given to him. Thepictures he had longed to paint grew beneath his hand, and upon hiscanvas began to dawn the solemn dignity and open-air spaciousness ofthose evening visions he had seen when he gazed across the UmbrianPlain. There was no noise of battle, no human passion in his pictures. His saints stood quiet and solemn, single figures with just a thread ofinterest binding them together, and always beyond was the great wideopen world, with the white light shining in the sky, the blue thread ofthe river, and the single trees pointing upwards--dark, solemn cypress, or feathery larch or poplar. 

There was much for the young painter still to learn, and perhaps helearned most from the silent teaching of that little dark chapel of theCarmine, where Masaccio taught more wonderful lessons by his frescoesthan any living artist could teach. 

Then came the crowning honour when Perugino received an invitation fromthe Pope to go to Rome and paint the walls of the Sistine Chapel. Henceforth it was a different kind of life for the young painter. No need towonder where he would get his next meal, no hard rough wooden chest onwhich to rest his weary limbs when the day's work was done. Now he wasroyally entertained and softly lodged, and men counted it an honour tobe in his company. 

But though he loved Florence and was proud to do his painting in Rome, his heart ever drew him back to the city on the hill whose name he bore. 

Again he travelled along the winding road, and his heart beat fast ashe drew nearer and saw the familiar towers and roofs of Perugia. Howwell he remembered that long-ago day when the cool touch of the grasswas so grateful to his little tired dusty feet! He stooped again tofill his hands with the sweet violets, and thought them sweeter thanall the fame and fair show of the gay cities. 

And as he passed through the ancient gateway and threaded his way upthe narrow street towards the little shop, he seemed to see once morethe kindly smile of his old master and to hear him say, 'Thou wilt soonbe the greatest man in Perugia, and we will call thee no longer PietroVanucci, but Perugino. '

So it had come to pass. Here he was. No longer a little ragged, hungryboy, but a man whom all delighted to honour. Truly this was a world ofchanges!

A bigger studio was needed than the little old shop, for now he hadmore pictures to paint than he well knew how to finish. Then, too, hehad many pupils, for all were eager to enter the studio of the greatmaster. There it was that one morning a new pupil was brought to him, aboy of twelve, whose guardians begged that Perugino would teach andtrain him. 

Perugino looked with interest at the child. Seldom had he seen such abeautiful oval face, framed by such soft brown curls--a face so pureand lovable that even at first sight it drew out love from the heartsof those who looked at him. 

'His father was also a painter, ' said the guardian, 'and Raphael, here, has caught the trick of using his pencil and brush, so we would havehim learn of the greatest master in the land. '

After some talk, the boy was left in the studio at Perugia, and day byday Perugino grew to love him more. It was not only that little Raphaelwas clever and skilful, though that alone often made the master marvel. 

'He is my pupil now, but some day he will be my master, and I shalllearn of him, ' Perugino would often say as he watched the boy at work. But more than all, the pure sweet nature and the polished gentleness ofhis manners charmed the heart of the master, and he loved to have theboy always near him, and to teach him was his greatest pleasure. 

Those quiet days in the Perugia studio never lasted very long. From allquarters came calls to Perugino, and, much as he loved work, he couldnot finish all that was wanted. 

It happened once when he was in Florence that a certain prior beggedhim to come and fresco the walls of his convent. This prior was veryfamous for making a most beautiful and expensive blue colour which hewas anxious should be used in the painting of the convent walls. He wasa mean, suspicious man, and would not trust Perugino with the preciousblue colour, but always held it in his own hands and grudgingly doledit out in small quantities, torn between the desire to have the colouron his walls and his dislike to parting with anything so precious. 

As Perugino noted this, he grew angry and determined to punish theprior's meanness. The next time therefore that there was a blue sky tobe painted, he put at his side a large bowl of fresh water, and thencalled on the prior to put out a small quantity of the blue colour in alittle vase. Each time he dipped his brush into the vase, Peruginowashed it out with a swirl in the bowl at his side, so that most of thecolour was left in the water, and very little was put on to the picture. 

'I pray thee fill the vase again with blue, ' he said carelessly whenthe colour was all gone. The prior groaned aloud, and turned grudginglyto his little bag. 

'Oh what a quantity of blue is swallowed up by this plaster!' he said, as he gazed at the white wall, which scarcely showed a trace of theprecious colour. 

'Yes, ' said Perugino cheerfully, 'thou canst see thyself how it goes. '

Then afterwards, when the prior had sadly gone off with his littleempty bag, Perugino carefully poured the water from the bowl andgathered together the grains of colour which had sunk to the bottom. 

'Here is something that belongs to thee, ' he said sternly to theastonished prior. 'I would have thee learn to trust honest men and nottreat them as thieves. For with all thy suspicious care, it was easy torob thee if I had had a mind. '

During all these years in which Perugino had worked so diligently, theart of painting had been growing rapidly. Many of the new artists shookoff the old rules and ideas, and began to paint in quite a new way. There was one man especially, called Michelangelo, whose story you willhear later on, who arose like a giant, and with his new way and greaterknowledge swept everything before him. 

Perugino was jealous of all these new ideas, and clung more closelythan ever to his old ideals, his quiet, dignified saints, and spaciouslandscapes. He talked openly of his dislike of the new style, and oncehe had a serious quarrel with the great Michelangelo. 

There was a gathering of painters in Perugino's studio that day. Filippino Lippi, Botticelli, Ghirlandaio, and Leonardo were there, andin the background the pupil Raphael was listening to the talk. 

'What dost thou think of this new style of painting?' asked Botticelli. 'To me it seems but strange and unpleasing. Music and motion aredelightful, but this violent twisting of limbs to show the musclesoffends my taste. '

'Yet it is most marvellously skilful, ' said the young Leonardothoughtfully. 

'But totally unfit for the proper picturing of saints and the blessedMadonna, ' said Filippino, shaking his curly head. 

'I never trouble myself about it, ' said Ghirlandaio. 'Life is too shortto attend to other men's work. It takes all my care and attention tolook after mine own. But see, here comes the great Michelangelo himselfto listen to our criticism. '

The curious, rugged face of the great artist looked good-naturedly onthe company, but his strong knotted hands waved aside their greetings. 

'So you were busy as usual finding fault with my work, ' he said. 'Come, friend Perugino, tell me what thou hast found to grumble at. '

'I like not thy methods, and that I tell thee frankly, ' answeredPerugino, an angry light shining in his eyes. 'It is such work as thinethat drags the art of painting down from the heights of heavenly thingsto the low taste of earth. It robs it of all dignity and restfulness, and destroys the precious traditions handed down to us since the daysof Giotto. '

The face of Michelangelo grew angry and scornful as he listened to this. 

'Thou art but a dolt and a blockhead in Art, ' he said. 'Thou wilt soonsee that the day of thy saints and Madonnas is past, and wilt cease topaint them over and over again in the same manner, as a child doth hislesson in a copy book. '

Then he turned and went out of the studio before any one had time toanswer him. 

Perugino was furiously angry and would not listen to reason, but mustneeds go before the great Council and demand that they should punishMichelangelo for his hard words. This of course the Council refused todo, and Perugino left Florence for Perugia, angry and sore at heart. 

It seemed hard, after all his struggles and great successes, that as hegrew old people should begin to tire of his work, which they had oncethought so perfect. 

But if the outside world was sometimes disappointing, he had always hishome to turn to, and his beautiful wife Chiare. He had married her inhis beloved Perugia, and she meant all the joy of life to him. He wasso proud of her beauty that he would buy her the richest dresses andmost costly jewels, and with his own hands would deck her with them. Her brown eyes were like the depths of some quiet pool, her fair faceand the wonderful soul that shone there were to him the most perfectpicture in the world. 

'I will paint thee once, that the world may be the richer, ' saidPerugino, 'but only once, for thy beauty is too rare for common use. And I will paint thee not as an earthly beauty, but thou shalt be theangel in the story of Tobias which thou knowest. '

So he painted her as he said. And in our own National Gallery we stillhave the picture, and we may see her there as the beautiful angel wholeads the little boy Tobias by the hand. 

Up to the very last years of his life, Perugino painted as diligentlyas he had ever done, but the peaceful days of Perugia had long sincegiven place to war and tumult, both within and without the city. Thentoo a terrible plague swept over the countryside, and people died bythousands. 

To the hospital of Fartignano, close to Perugia, they carried Peruginowhen the deadly plague seized him, and there he died. There was no timeto think of grand funerals; the people were buried as quickly aspossible, in whatever place lay closest at hand. 

So it came to pass that Perugino was laid to rest in an open fieldunder an oak-tree close by. Later on his sons wished to have him buriedin holy ground, and some say that this was done, but nothing is knownfor certain. Perhaps if he could have chosen, he would have been gladto think that his body should rest under the shelter of the trees heloved to paint, in that waste openness of space which had always beenhis vision of beauty, since, as a little boy, he gazed across theUmbrian Plain, and the wonder of it sank into his soul. 

LEONARDO DA VINCI

On the sunny slopes of Monte Albano, between Florence and Pisa, thelittle town of Vinci lay high among the rocks that crowned the steephillside. It was but a little town. Only a few houses crowded togetherround an old castle in the midst, and it looked from a distance like aswallow's nest clinging to the bare steep rocks. 

Here in the year 1452 Leonardo, son of Ser Piero da Vinci, was born. Itwas in the age when people told fortunes by the stars, and when a babywas born they would eagerly look up and decide whether it was a luckyor unlucky star which shone upon the child. Surely if it had beenpossible in this way to tell what fortune awaited the little Leonardo, a strange new star must have shone that night, brighter than the othersand unlike the rest in the dazzling light of its strength and beauty. 

Leonardo was always a strange child. Even his beauty was not like thatof other children. He had the most wonderful waving hair, falling inregular ripples, like the waters of a fountain, the colour of brightgold, and soft as spun silk. His eyes were blue and clear, with amysterious light in them, not the warm light of a sunny sky, but ratherthe blue that glints in the iceberg. They were merry eyes too, when helaughed, but underneath was always that strange cold look. There was acharm about his smile which no one could resist, and he was a favouritewith all. Yet people shook their heads sometimes as they looked at him, and they talked in whispers of the old witch who had lent her goat tonourish the little Leonardo when he was a baby. The woman was a dealerin black magic, and who knew but that the child might be a changeling?

It was the old grandmother, Mona Lena, who brought Leonardo up andspoilt him not a little. His father, Ser Piero, was a lawyer, and spentmost of his time in Florence, but when he returned to the old castle ofVinci, he began to give Leonardo lessons and tried to find out what theboy was fit for. But Leonardo hated those lessons and would not learn, so when he was seven years old he was sent to school. 

This did not answer any better. The rough play of the boys was not tohis liking. When he saw them drag the wings off butterflies, or tortureany animal that fell into their hands, his face grew white with pain, and he would take no share in their games. The Latin grammar, too, wasa terrible task, while the many things he longed to know no one taughthim. 

So it happened that many a time, instead of going to school, he wouldslip away and escape up into the hills, as happy as a little wild goat. Here was all the sweet fresh air of heaven, instead of the stuffyschoolroom. Here were no cruel, clumsy boys, but all the wild creaturesthat he loved. Here he could learn the real things his heart was hungryto know, not merely words which meant nothing and led to nowhere. 

For hours he would lie perfectly still with his heels in the air andhis chin resting in his hands, as he watched a spider weaving its web, breathless with interest to see how the delicate threads were turned inand out. The gaily painted butterflies, the fat buzzing bees, thelittle sharp-tongued green lizards, he loved to watch them all, butabove everything he loved the birds. Oh, if only he too had wings todart like the swallows, and swoop and sail and dart again! What was thesecret power in their wings? Surely by watching he might learn it. Sometimes it seemed as if his heart would burst with the longing tolearn that secret. It was always the hidden reason of things that hedesired to know. Much as he loved the flowers he must pull their petalsof, one by one, to see how each was joined, to wonder at the dustypollen, and touch the honey-covered stamens. Then when the sun began tosink he would turn sadly homewards, very hungry, with torn clothes andtired feet, but with a store of sunshine in his heart. 

His grandmother shook her head when Leonardo appeared after one of hisdays of wandering. 

'I know thou shouldst be whipped for playing truant, ' she said; 'and Ishould also punish thee for tearing thy clothes. '

'Ah! but thou wilt not whip me, ' answered Leonardo, smiling at her withhis curious quiet smile, for he had full confidence in her love. 

'Well, I love to see thee happy, and I will not punish thee this time, 'said his grandmother; 'but if these tales reach thy father's ears, hewill not be so tender as I am towards thee. '

And, sure enough, the very next time that a complaint was made from theschool, his father happened to be at home, and then the storm burst. 

'Next time I will flog thee, ' said Ser Piero sternly, with rising angerat the careless air of the boy. 'Meanwhile we will see what a littleimprisonment will do towards making thee a better child. '

Then he took the boy by the shoulders and led him to a little darkcupboard under the stairs, and there shut him up for three whole days. 

There was no kicking or beating at the locked door. Leonardo satquietly there in the dark, thinking his own thoughts, and wondering whythere seemed so little justice in the world. But soon even that wonderpassed away, and as usual when he was alone he began to dream dreams ofthe time when he should have learned the swallows' secrets and shouldhave wings like theirs. 

But if there were complaints about Leonardo's dislike of the boys andthe Latin grammar, there would be none about the lessons he chose tolearn. Indeed, some of the masters began to dread the boy's eagerquestions, which were sometimes more than they could answer. Scarcelyhad he begun the study of arithmetic than he made such rapid progress, and wanted to puzzle out so many problems, that the masters wereamazed. His mind seemed always eagerly asking for more light, and wasnever satisfied. 

But it was out on the hillside that he spent his happiest hours. Heloved every crawling, creeping, or flying thing, however ugly. Curiousbeasts which might have frightened another child were to him charmingand interesting. There as he listened to the carolling of the birds andbent his head to catch the murmured song of the mountain-streams, thelove of music began to steal into his heart. 

He did not rest then until he managed to get a lute and learned how toplay upon it. And when he had mastered the notes and learned the rulesof music, he began to play airs which no one had ever heard before, andto sing such strange sweet songs that the golden notes flowed out asfresh and clear as the song of a lark in the early morning of spring. 

'The child is a changeling, ' said some, as they saw Leonardo tenderlylift a crushed lizard in his hand, or watched him play with a spottedsnake or great hairy spider. 

'A changeling perhaps, ' said others, 'but one that hath the voice of anangel. ' For every one stopped to listen when the boy's voice was heardsinging through the streets of the little town. 

He was a puzzle to every one, and yet a delight to all, even when theyunderstood him least. 

So time went on, and when Leonardo was thirteen his father took himaway to Florence that he might begin to be trained for some specialwork. But what work? Ah! that was the rub. The boy could do so manythings well that it was difficult to fix on one. 

At that time there was living in Florence an old man who knew a greatdeal about the stars, and who made wonderful calculations about them. He was a famous astronomer, but he cared not at all for honour or fame, but lived a simple quiet life by himself and would not mix with the gayworld. 

Few visitors ever came to see him, for it was known that he wouldreceive no one, and so it was a great surprise to old Toscanelli whenone night a gentle knock sounded at his door, and a boy walked quietlyin and stood before him. 

Hastily the old man looked up, and his first thought was to ask thechild how he dared enter without leave, and then ask him to be gone, but as he looked at the fair face he felt the charm of the curioussmile, and the light in the blue eyes, and instead he laid his handupon the boy's golden head and said: 'What dost thou seek, my son?'

'I would learn all that thou canst teach me, ' said Leonardo, for it washe. 

The old man smiled. 

'Behold the boundless self-confidence of youth!' he said. 

But as they talked together, and the boy asked his many eagerquestions, a great wonder awoke in the astronomer's mind, and his eyesshone with interest. This child-mind held depths of understanding suchas he had never met with among his learned friends. Day after day theold man and the boy bent eagerly together over their problems, and whennight fell Toscanelli would take the child up with him to his lonelytower above Florence, and teach him to know the stars and to understandmany things. 

'This is all very well, ' said Ser Piero, 'but the boy must do more thanmere star-gazing. He must earn a living for himself, and methinks wemight make a painter of him. '

That very day, therefore, he gathered together some of Leonardo'sdrawings which lay carelessly scattered about, and took them to thestudio of Verocchio the painter, who lived close by the Ponte Vecchio. 

'Dost thou think thou canst make aught of the boy?' he asked, spreadingout the drawings before Verocchio. 

The painter's quick eyes examined the work with deep interest. 

'Send him to me at once, ' he said. 'This is indeed marvellous talent. '

So Leonardo entered the studio as a pupil, and learned all that couldbe taught him with the same quickness with which he learned anythingthat he cared to know. 

Every one who saw his work declared that he would be the wonder of theage, but Verocchio shook his head. 

'He is too wonderful, ' he said. 'He aims at too great perfection. Hewants to know everything and do everything, and life is too short forthat. He finishes nothing, because he is ever starting to do somethingelse. '

Verocchio's words were true; the boy seldom worked long at one thing. His hands were never idle, and often, instead of painting, he wouldcarve out tiny windmills and curious toys which worked with pulleys andropes, or made exquisite little clay models of horses and all the otheranimals that he loved. But he never forgot the longing that had filledhis heart when he was a child--the desire to learn the secret of flying. 

For days he would sit idle and think of nothing but soaring wings, thenhe would rouse himself and begin to make some strange machine which hethought might hold the secret that he sought. 

'A waste of time, ' growled Verocchio. 'See here, thou wouldst be betteremployed if thou shouldst set to work and help me finish this pictureof the Baptism for the good monks of Vallambrosa. Let me see how thoucanst paint in the kneeling figure of the angel at the side. '

For a while the boy stood motionless before the picture as if he waslooking at something far away. Then he seized the brushes with his lefthand and began to paint with quick certain sweep. He never stopped tothink, but worked as if the angel were already there, and he were butbrushing away the veil that hid it from the light. 

Then, when it was done, the master came and looked silently on. For amoment a quick stab of jealousy ran through his heart. Year after yearhad he worked and striven to reach his ideal. Long days of toil andweary nights had he spent, winning each step upwards by sheer hardwork. And here was this boy without an effort able to rise far abovehim. All the knowledge which the master had groped after, had beengrasped at once by the wonderful mind of the pupil. But the enviousfeeling passed quickly away, and Verocchio laid his hand uponLeonardo's shoulder. 

'I have found my master, ' he said quietly, 'and I will paint no more. '

Leonardo scarcely seemed to hear; he was thinking of something elsenow, and he seldom noticed if people praised or blamed him. Histhoughts had fixed themselves upon something he had seen that morningwhich had troubled him. On the way to the studio he had passed a tinyshop in a narrow street where a seller of birds was busy hanging hiscages up on the nails fastened to the outside wall. 

The thought of those poor little prisoners beating their wings againstthe cruel bars and breaking their hearts with longing for their wildfree life, had haunted him all day, and now he could bear it no longer. He seized his cap and hurried off, all forgetful of his kneeling angeland the master's praise. 

He reached the little shop and called to the man within. 

'How much wilt thou take for thy birds?' he cried, and pointed to thelittle wooden cages that hung against the wall. 

'Plague on them, ' answered the man, 'they will often die before I canmake a sale by them. Thou canst have them all for one silver piece. '

In a moment Leonardo had paid the money and had turned towards the rowof little cages. One by one he opened the doors and set the prisonersfree, and those that were too frightened or timid to fly away, hegently drew out with his hand, and sent them gaily whirling up abovehis head into the blue sky. 

The man looked with blank astonishment at the empty cages, and wonderedif the handsome young man was mad. But Leonardo paid no heed to him, but stood gazing up until every one of the birds had disappeared. 

'Happy things, ' he said, with a sigh. 'Will you ever teach me thesecret of your wings, I wonder?'

It was with great pleasure that Ser Piero heard of his son's success atVerocchio's studio, and he began to have hopes that the boy would makea name for himself after all. It happened just then that he was on avisit to his castle at Vinci, and one morning a peasant who lived onthe estate came to ask a great favour of him. 

He had bought a rough wooden shield which he was very anxious shouldhave a design painted on it in Florence, and he begged Ser Piero to seethat it was done. The peasant was a faithful servant, and very usefulin supplying the castle with fish and game, so Ser Piero was pleased togrant him his request. 

'Leonardo shall try his hand upon it. It is time he became useful tome, ' said Ser Piero to himself. So on his return to Florence he tookthe shield to his son. 

It was a rough, badly-shaped shield, so Leonardo held it to the fireand began to straighten it. For though his hands looked delicate andbeautifully formed, they were as strong as steel, and he could bendbars of iron without an effort. Then he sent the shield to a turner tobe smoothed and rounded, and when it was ready he sat down to thinkwhat he should paint upon it, for he loved to draw strange monsters. 

'I will make it as terrifying as the head of Medusa, ' he said at last, highly delighted with the plan that had come into his head. 

Then he went out and collected together all the strangest animals hecould find--lizards, hedgehogs, newts, snakes, dragon-flies, locusts, bats, and glow-worms. These he took into his own room, which no one wasallowed to enter, and began to paint from them a curious monster, partly a lizard and partly a bat, with something of each of the otheranimals added to it. 

When it was ready Leonardo hung the shield in a good light against adark curtain, so that the painted monster stood out in brilliantcontrast, and looked as if its twisted curling limbs were full of life. 

A knock sounded at the door, and Ser Piero's voice was heard outsideasking if the shield was finished. 

'Come in, ' cried Leonardo, and Ser Piero entered. 

He cast one look at the monster hanging there and then uttered a cryand turned to flee, but Leonardo caught hold of his cloak andlaughingly told him to look closer. 

'If I have really succeeded in frightening thee, ' he said, 'I haveindeed done all I could desire. '

His father could scarcely believe that it was nothing but a painting, and he was so proud of the work that he would not part with it, butgave the peasant of Vinci another shield instead. 

Leonardo then began a drawing for a curtain which was to be woven insilk and gold and given as a present from the Florentines to the Kingof Portugal, and he also began a large picture of the Adoration of theShepherds which was never finished. 

The young painter grew restless after a while, and felt the life of thestudio narrow and cramped. He longed to leave Florence and find work insome new place. 

He was not a favourite at the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent asFilippino Lippi and Botticelli were. Lorenzo liked those who wouldflatter him and do as they were bid, while Leonardo took his own way ineverything and never said what he did not mean. 

But it happened that just then Lorenzo wished to send a present toLudovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan, and the gift he chose was amarvellous musical instrument which Leonardo had just finished. 

It was a silver lute, made in the form of a horse's head, the mostcurious and beautiful thing ever seen. Lorenzo was charmed with it. 

'Thou shalt take it thyself, as my messenger, ' he said to Leonardo. 'Idoubt if another can be found who can play upon it as thou dost. '

So Leonardo set out for Milan, and was glad to shake himself free fromthe narrow life of the Florentine studio. 

Before starting, however, he had written a letter to the Duke settingdown in simple order all the things he could do, and telling of whatuse he could be in times of war and in days of peace. 

There seemed nothing that he could not do. He could make bridges, blowup castles, dig canals, invent a new kind of cannon, build warships, and make underground passages. In days of peace he could design andbuild houses, make beautiful statues and paint pictures 'as well as anyman, be he who he may. '

The letter was written in curious writing from right to left likeHebrew or Arabic. This was how Leonardo always wrote, using his lefthand, so that it could only be read by holding the writing up to amirror. 

The Duke was half amazed and half amused when the letter reached him. 

'Either these are the words of a fool, or of a man of genius, ' said theDuke. And when he had once seen and spoken to Leonardo he saw at oncewhich of the two he deserved to be called. 

Every one at the court was charmed with the artist's beautiful face andgraceful manners. His music alone, as he swept the strings of thesilver lute and sang to it his own songs, would have brought him fame, but the Duke quickly saw that this was no mere minstrel. 

It was soon arranged therefore that Leonardo should take up his abodeat the court of Milan and receive a yearly pension from the Duke. 

Sometimes the pension was paid, and sometimes it was forgotten, butLeonardo never troubled about money matters. Somehow or other he musthave all that he wanted, and everything must be fair and dainty. Hisclothes were always rich and costly, but never bright-coloured orgaudy. There was no plume or jewelled brooch in his black velvetberetto or cap, and the only touch of colour was his golden hair, andthe mantle of dark red cloth which he wore in the fashion of theFlorentines, thrown across his shoulder. Above all, he must always havehorses in his stables, for he loved them more than human beings. 

Many were the plans and projects which the Duke entrusted to Leonardo'scare, but of all that he did, two great works stand out as greater thanall the rest. One was the painting of the Last Supper on the walls ofthe refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie, and the other the making ofa model of a great equestrian statue, a bronze horse with the figure ofthe Duke upon its back. 

'Year after year Leonardo worked at that wonderful fresco of the LastSupper. Sometimes for weeks or months he never touched it, but healways returned to it again. Then for days he would work from morningtill night, scarcely taking time to eat, and able to think of nothingelse, until suddenly he would put down his brushes and stand silentlyfor a long, long time before the picture. It seemed as if he waswasting the precious hours doing nothing, but in truth he worked morediligently with his brain when his hands were idle. 

Often too when he worked at the model for the great bronze horse, hewould suddenly stop, and walk quickly through the streets until he cameto the refectory, and there, catching up his brushes, he would paint inone or perhaps two strokes, and then return to his modelling. 

Besides all this Leonardo was busy with other plans for the Duke'samusement, and no court fete was counted successful without his help. Nothing seemed too difficult for him to contrive, and what he did wasalways new and strange and wonderful. 

Once when the King of France came as a guest to Milan, Leonardoprepared a curious model of a lion, which by some inside machinery wasable to walk forward several steps to meet the King, and then open wideits huge jaws and display inside a bed of sweet-scented lilies, theemblem of France, to do honour to her King. But while working at otherthings Leonardo never forgot his longing to learn the secret art offlying. Every now and then a new idea would come into his head, and hewould lay aside all other work until he had made the new machine whichmight perhaps act as the wings of a bird. Each fresh disappointmentonly made him more keen to try again. 

'I know we shall some day have wings, ' he said to his pupils, whosometimes wondered at the strange work of the master's hands. 'It isonly a question of knowing how to make them. I remember once when I wasa baby lying in my cradle, I fancied a bird flew to me, opened my lipsand rubbed its feathers over them. So it seems to be my fate all mylife to talk of wings. '

Very slowly the great fresco of the Last Supper grew under the master'shand until it was nearly finished. The statue, too, was almostcompleted, and then evil days fell upon Milan. The Duke was obliged toflee before the French soldiers, who forced their way into the town andtook possession of it. Before any one could prevent it, the soldiersbegan to shoot their arrows at the great statue, which they used as atarget, and in a few hours the work of sixteen years was utterlydestroyed. It is sadder still to tell the fate of Leonardo's fresco, the greatest picture perhaps that ever was painted. Dampness lurked inthe wall and began to dim and blur the colours. The careless monks cuta door through the very centre of the picture, and, later on, whenNapoleon's soldiers entered Milan, they used the refectory as a stable, and amused themselves by throwing stones at what remained of it. Butthough little of it is left now to be seen, there is still enough tomake us stand in awe and reverence before the genius of the greatmaster. 

Not far from Milan there lived a friend of Leonardo's, whom the masterloved to visit. This Girolamo Melzi had a son called Francesco, alittle motherless boy, who adored the great painter with all his heart. 

Together Leonardo and the child used to wander out to search forcurious animals and rare flowers, and as they watched the spiders weavetheir webs and pulled the flowers to pieces to find out their secrets, the boy listened with wide wondering eyes to all the tales which thepainter told him. And at night Leonardo wrapped the little one closeinside his warm cloak and carried him out to see the stars--those samestars which old Toscanelli had taught him to love long ago in Florence. Then when the day of parting came the child clung round the master'sneck and would not let him go. 

'Take me with thee, ' he cried, 'do not leave me behind all alone. '

'I cannot take thee now, little one, ' said Leonardo gently. 'Thou artstill too small, but later on thou shalt come to me and be my pupil. This I promise thee. '

It was but a weary wandering life that awaited Leonardo after he wasforced to leave his home in Milan. It seemed as if it was his fate tobegin many things but to finish nothing. For a while he lived in Rome, but he did little real work there. 

For several years he lived in Florence and began to paint a hugebattle-picture. There too he painted the famous portrait of Mona Lisa, which is now in Paris. Of all portraits that have ever been paintedthis is counted the most wonderful and perfect piece of work, althoughLeonardo himself called it unfinished. 

By this time the master had fallen on evil days. All his pupils weregone, and his friends seemed to have forgotten him. He was sittingbefore the fire one stormy night, lonely and sad, when the door openedand a tall handsome lad came in. 

'Master!' he cried, and kneeling down he kissed the old man's hands. 'Dost thou not know me? I am thy little Francesco, come to claim thypromise that I should one day be thy servant and pupil. 

Leonardo laid his hand upon the boy's fair head and looked into hisface. 

'I am growing old, ' he said, 'and I can no longer do for thee what Imight once have done. I am but a poor wanderer now. Dost thou indeedwish to cast in thy lot with mine?'

'I care only to be near thee, ' said the boy. 'I will go with thee tothe ends of the earth. '

So when, soon after, Leonardo received an invitation from the new Kingof France, he took the boy with him, and together they made their homein the little chateau of Claux near the town of Amboise. 

The master's hair was silvered now, and his long beard was as white assnow. His keen blue eyes looked weary and tired of life, and care haddrawn many deep lines on his beautiful face. Sad thoughts were alwayshis company. The one word 'failure' seemed to be written across hislife. What had he done? He had begun many things and had finished butfew. His great fresco was even now fading away and becoming dim andblurred. His model for the marvellous horse was destroyed. A fewpictures remained, but these had never quite reached his ideal. Thecrowd who had once hailed him as the greatest of all artists, could nowonly talk of Michelangelo and the young Raphael. Michelangelo himselfhad once scornfully told him he was a failure and could finish nothing. 

He was glad to leave Italy and all its memories behind, and he hoped tobegin work again in his quiet little French home. But Death was drawingnear, and before many years had passed he grew too weak to hold a brushor pencil. 

It was in the springtime of the year that the end came. Francesco hadopened the window and gently lifted the master in his strong youngarms, that he might look once more on the outside world which he lovedso dearly. The trees were putting on their dainty dress of tendergreen, white clouds swept across the blue sky, and April sunshineflooded the room. 

As he looked out, the master's tired eyes woke into life. 

'Look!' he cried, 'the swallows have come back! Oh that they would lendme their wings that I might fly away and be at rest!'

The swallows darted and circled about in the clear spring air, busywith their building plans, but Francesco thought he heard the rustle ofother wings, as the master's soul, freed from the tired body, was atlast borne upwards higher than any earthly wings could soar. 

RAPHAEL

Among the marvellous tales of the Arabian Nights, there is a story toldof a band of robbers who, by whispering certain magic words, were ableto open the door of a secret cave where treasures of gold and silverand precious jewels lay hid. Now, although the day of such delightfulmarvels is past and gone, yet there still remains a certain magic insome names which is able to open the secret doors of the hidden hauntsof beauty and delight. 

For most people the very name of 'Raphael' is like the 'Open Sesame' ofthe robber chief in the old story. In a moment a door seems to open outof the commonplace everyday world, and through it they see a stretch offair sweet country. There their eyes rest upon gentle, dark-eyedMadonnas, who smile down lovingly upon the heavenly Child, playing ather side or resting in her arms. The little St. John is also there, companion of the Infant Christ; rosy, round-limbed children both, halfhuman and half divine. And standing in the background are a crowd ofgrave, quiet figures, each one alive with interest, while over allthere is a glow of intense vivid colour. 

We know but little of the everyday life of this great artist. When wehear his name, it is of his different pictures that we think at once, for they are world-famous. We almost forget the man as we gaze at hiswork. 

It was in the little village of Urbino, in Umbria, that Raphael wasborn. His father was a painter called Giovanni Santi, and from himRaphael inherited his love of Art. His mother, Magia, was a sweet, gracious woman, and the little Raphael was like her in character andbeauty. It seemed as if the boy had received every good gift thatNature could bestow. He had a lovely oval face, and soft dark eyes thatshone with a beauty that was more of heaven than earth, and told of asoul which was as pure and lovely as his face. Above all, he had thegift of making every one love him, so that his should have been a happysunshiny life. 

But no one can ever escape trouble, and when Raphael was only eightyears old, the first cloud overspread his sky. His mother died, andsoon after his father married again. 

The new mother was very young, and did not care much for children, butRaphael did not mind that as long as he could be with his father. Butthree years later a blacker cloud arose and blotted out the sunshinefrom his life, for his father too died, and left him all alone. 

The boy had loved his father dearly, and it had been his great delightto be with him in the studio, to learn to grind and mix the colours andwatch those wonderful pictures grow from day to day. 

But now all was changed. The quiet studio rang with angry voices, andthe peaceful home was the scene of continual quarrelling. Who was tohave the money, and how were the Santi estates to be divided?Stepmother and uncle wrangled from morning until night, and no one gavea thought to the child Raphael. It was only the money that mattered. 

Then when it seemed that the boy's training was going to be totallyneglected, kindly help arrived. Simone di Ciarla, brother of Raphael'sown mother, came to look after his little nephew, and ere long carriedhim off from the noisy, quarrelsome household, and took him to Perugia. 

'Thou shalt have the best teaching in all Italy, ' said Simone as theywalked through the streets of the town. 'The great master to whosestudio we go, can hold his own even among the artists of Florence. Seethat thou art diligent to learn all that he can teach thee, so thatthou mayest become as great a painter as thy father. '

'Am I to be the pupil of the great Perugino?' asked Raphael, his eyesshining with pleasure. 'I have often heard my father speak of hismarvellous pictures. '

'We will see if he can take thee, ' answered his uncle. 

The boy's heart sunk. What if the master refused to take him as apupil? Must he return to idleness and the place which was no longerhome?

But soon his fears were set at rest. Perugino, like every one else, felt the charm of that beautiful face and gentle manner, and when hehad seen some drawings which the boy had done, he agreed readily thatRaphael should enter the studio and become his pupil. 

Perugia had been passing through evil times just before this. The twogreat parties of the Oddi and Baglioni families were always at wartogether. Whichever of them happened to be the stronger held the cityand drove out the other party, so that the fighting never ceased eitherinside or outside the gates. The peaceful country round about had beenlaid waste and desolate. The peasants did not dare go out to till theirfields or prune their olive-trees. Mothers were afraid to let theirlittle ones out of their sight, for hungry wolves and other wild beastsprowled about the deserted countryside. 

Then came a day when the outside party managed to creep silently intothe city, and the most terrible fight of all began. So long andfiercely did the battle rage that almost all the Oddi were killed. Thenfor a time there was peace in Perugia and all the country round. 

So it happened that as soon as the people of Perugia had time to thinkof other things besides fighting, they began to wish that their townmight be put in order, and that the buildings which had been injuredduring the struggles might be restored. 

This was a good opportunity for peaceful men like Perugino, for therewas much work to be done, and both he and his pupils were kept busyfrom morning till night. 

Of all his pupils, Perugino loved the young Raphael best. He saw atonce that this was no ordinary boy. 

'He is my pupil now, but soon he will be my master, ' he used to say ashe watched the boy at work. 

So he taught him with all possible carefulness, and was never tired ofgiving him good advice. 

'Learn first of all to draw, ' he would say, when Raphael looked withlonging eyes at the colours and brushes of the master. 'Draw everythingyou see, no matter what it is, but always draw and draw again. The restwill follow; but if the knowledge of drawing be lacking, nothing willafterwards succeed. Keep always at hand a sketch-book, and draw thereincarefully every manner of thing that meets thy eye. '

Raphael never forgot the good advice of his master. He was neverwithout a sketch-book, and his drawings now are almost as interestingas his great pictures, for they show the first thought that came intohis mind, before the picture was composed. 

So the years passed on, and Raphael learned all that the master couldteach him. At first his pictures were so like Perugino's, that it wasdifficult to know whether they were the work of the master or the pupil. 

But the quiet days at Perugia soon came to an end, and Perugino wentback to Florence. For some time Raphael worked at different places nearPerugia, and then followed his master to the City of Flowers, whereevery artist longed to go. Though he was still but a young man, theworld had already begun to notice his work, and Florence gladlywelcomed a new artist. 

It was just at that time that Leonardo da Vinci's fame was at itsheight, and when Raphael was shown some of the great man's work, he wasfilled with awe and wonder. The genius of Leonardo held him spellbound. 

'It is what I have dreamed of in my dreams, ' he said. 'Oh that I mightlearn his secret!'

Little by little the new ideas sunk into his heart, and the pictures hebegan to paint were no longer like those of his old master Perugino, but seemed to breathe some new spirit. 

It was always so with Raphael. He seemed to be able to gather the bestfrom every one, just as the bee goes from flower to flower and gathersits sweetness into one golden honeycomb. Only the genius of Raphaelmade all that he touched his very own, and the spirit of his picturesis unlike that of any other master. 

For many years after this he lived in Rome, where now his greatestfrescoes may be seen--frescoes so varied and wonderful that many bookshave been written about them. 

There he first met Margarita, the young maiden whom he loved all hislife. It is her face which looks down upon us from the picture of theSistine Madonna, perhaps the most famous Madonna that ever was painted. The little room in the Dresden Gallery where this picture now hangsseems almost like a holy place, for surely there is something divine inthat fair face. There she stands, the Queen of Heaven, holding in herarms the Infant Christ, with such a strange look of majesty and sadnessin her eyes as makes us realise that she was indeed fit to be theMother of our Lord. 

But the picture which all children love best is one in Florence called'The Madonna of the Goldfinch. '

It is a picture of the Holy Family, the Infant Jesus, His mother, andthe little St. John. The Christ Child is a dear little curly-headedbaby, and He stands at His mother's knee with one little bare footresting on hers. His hand is stretched out protectingly over a yellowgoldfinch which St. John, a sturdy little figure clad in goatskins, hasjust brought to Him. The baby face is full of tender love and care forthe little fluttering prisoner, and His curved hand is held over itshead to protect it. 

'Do not hurt My bird, ' He seems to say to the eager St. John, 'for itbelongs to Me and to My Father. '

These are only two of the many pictures which Raphael painted. It iswonderful to think how much work he did in his short life, for he diedwhen he was only thirty-seven. He had been at work at St. Peter's, giving directions about some alterations, and there he was seized by asevere chill, and in a few days the news spread like wildfire throughthe country that Raphael was dead. 

It seemed almost as if it could not be true. He had been so full oflife and health, so eager for work, such a living power among men. 

But there he lay, beautiful in death as he had been in life, and overhis head was hung the picture of the 'Transfiguration, ' on which he hadbeen at work, its colours yet wet, never to be finished by that stillhand. 

All Rome flocked to his funeral, and high and low mourned his loss. Buthe left behind him a fame which can never die, a name which through allthese four hundred years has never lost the magic of its greatness. 

MICHELANGELO

Sometimes in a crowd of people one sees a tall man, who stands head andshoulders higher than any one else, and who can look far over the headsof ordinary-sized mortals. 

'What a giant!' we exclaim, as we gaze up and see him towering above us. 

So among the crowd of painters travelling along the road to Fame we seeabove the rest a giant, a greater and more powerful genius than anythat came before or after him. When we hear the name of Michelangelo wepicture to ourselves a great rugged, powerful giant, a veritable son ofthunder, who, like the Titans of old, bent every force of Nature to hiswill. 

This Michelangelo was born at Caprese among the mountains of Casentino. His father, Lodovico Buonarroti, was podesta or mayor of Caprese, andcame of a very ancient and honourable family, which had oftendistinguished itself in the service of Florence. 

Now the day on which the baby was born happened to be not only aSunday, but also a morning when the stars were especially favourable. So the wise men declared that some heavenly virtue was sure to belongto a child born at that particular time, and without hesitationLodovico determined to call his little son Michael Angelo, after thearchangel Michael. Surely that was a name splendid enough to adorn anygreat career. 

It happened just then that Lodovico's year of office ended, and so hereturned with his wife and child to Florence. He had a property atSettignano, a little village just outside the city, and there hesettled down. 

Most of the people of the village were stone-cutters, and it was to thewife of one of these labourers that little Michelangelo was sent to benursed. So in after years the great master often said that if his mindwas worth anything, he owed it to the clear pure mountain air in whichhe was born, just as he owed his love of carving stone to theunconscious influence of his nurse, the stone-cutter's wife. 

As the boy grew up he clearly showed in what direction his interestlay. At school he was something of a dunce at his lessons, but let himbut have a pencil and paper and his mind was wide awake at once. Everyspare moment he spent making sketches on the walls of his father'shouse. 

But Lodovico would not hear of the boy becoming an artist. There weremany children to provide for, and the family was not rich. It would bemuch more fitting that Michelangelo should go into the silk and woollenbusiness and learn to make money. 

But it was all in vain to try to make the boy see the wisdom of allthis. Scold as they might, he cared for nothing but his pencil, andeven after he was severely beaten he would creep back to his belovedwork. How he envied his friend Francesco who worked in the shop ofMaster Ghirlandaio! It was a joy even to sit and listen to the tales ofthe studio, and it was a happy day when Francesco brought some of themaster's drawings to show to his eager friend. 

Little by little Lodovico began to see that there was nothing for itbut to give way to the boy's wishes, and so at last, when he wasfourteen years old, Michelangelo was sent to study as a pupil in thestudio of Master Ghirlandaio. 

It was just at the time when Ghirlandaio was painting the frescoes ofthe chapel in Santa Maria Novella, and Michelangelo learned manylessons as he watched the master at work, or even helped with the lessimportant parts. 

But it was like placing an eagle in a hawk's nest. The young eaglequickly learned to soar far higher than the hawk could do, and ere longbegan to 'sweep the skies alone. '

It was not pleasant for the great Florentine master, whose work all menadmired, to have his drawings corrected by a young lad, and perhapsMichelangelo was not as humble as he should have been. In the strengthof his great knowledge he would sometimes say sharp and scornfulthings, and perhaps he forgot the respect due from pupil to master. 

Be that as it may, he left Ghirlandaio's studio when he was sixteenyears old, and never had another master. Thenceforward he worked outhis own ideas in his giant strength, and was the pupil of none. 

The boy Francesco was still his friend, and together they went to studyin the gardens of San Marco, where Lorenzo the Magnificent hadcollected many statues and works of art. Here was a new field forMichelangelo. Without needing a lesson he began to copy the statues interra-cotta, and so clever was his work that Lorenzo was delighted withit. 

'See, now, what thou canst do with marble, ' he said. 'Terra-cotta isbut poor stuff to work in. '

Michelangelo had never handled a chisel before, but he chipped and cutaway the marble so marvellously that life seemed to spring out of thestone. There was a marble head of an old faun in the garden, and thisMichelangelo set himself to copy. Such a wonderful copy did he makethat Lorenzo was amazed. It was even better than the original, for theboy had introduced ideas of his own and had made the laughing mouth alittle open to show the teeth and the tongue of the faun. Lorenzonoticed this, and turned with a smile to the young artist. 

'Thou shouldst have remembered that old folks never keep all theirteeth, but that some of them are always wanting, ' he said. 

Of course Lorenzo meant this as a joke, but Michelangelo immediatelytook his hammer and struck out several of the teeth, and this toopleased Lorenzo greatly. 

There was nothing that the Magnificent ruler loved so much as genius, so Michelangelo was received into the palace and made the companion ofLorenzo's sons. Not only did good fortune thus smile upon the youngartist, but to his great astonishment Lodovico too found that benefitswere showered upon him, all for the sake of his famous young son. 

These years of peace, and calm, steady work had the greatest effect onMichelangelo's work, and he learned much from the clever, brilliant menwho thronged Lorenzo's court. Then, too, he first listened to thatringing voice which strove to raise Florence to a sense of her sins, when Savonarola preached his great sermons in the Duomo. That teachingsank deep into the heart of Michelangelo, and years afterwards he lefton the walls of the Sistine Chapel a living echo of those thunderingwords. 

Like all the other artists, he would often go to study Masaccio'sfrescoes in the little chapel of the Carmine. There was quite a band ofyoung artists working there, and very soon they began to look withenvious feelings at Michelangelo's drawings, and their jealousy grew ashis fame increased. At last, one day, a youth called Torriggiano couldbear it no longer, and began to make scornful remarks, and workedhimself up into such a rage that he aimed a blow at Michelangelo withhis fist, which not only broke his nose but crushed it in such a waythat he was marked for life. He had had a rough, rugged look beforethis, but now the crooked nose gave him almost a savage expressionwhich he never lost. 

Changes followed fast after this time of quiet. Lorenzo the Magnificentdied, and his son, the weak Piero de Medici, tried to take his place asruler of Florence. For a time Michelangelo continued to live at thecourt of Piero, but it was not encouraging to work for a master whosefoolish taste demanded statues to be made out of snow, which, ofcourse, melted at the first breath of spring. 

Michelangelo never forgot all that he owed to Lorenzo, and he loved theMedici family, but his sense of justice made him unable to take theirpart when trouble arose between them and the Florentine people. So whenthe struggle began he left Florence and went first to Venice and thento Bologna. From afar he heard how the weak Piero had been driven outof the city, but more bitter still was his grief when the news camethat the solemn warning voice of the great preacher Savonarola wassilenced for ever. 

Then a great longing to see his beloved city again filled his heart, and he returned to Florence. 

Botticelli was a sad, broken-down old man now, and Ghirlandaio was alsogrowing old, but Florence was still rich in great artists. Leonardo daVinci, Perugino, and Filippino Lippi were all there, and men talked ofthe coming of an even greater genius, the young Raphael of Urbino. 

There happened just then to be at the works of the Cathedral of St. Mary of the Flowers a huge block of marble which no one knew how touse. Leonardo da Vinci had been invited to carve a statue out of it, but he had refused to try, saying he could do nothing with it. But whenthe marble was offered to Michelangelo his eye kindled and he stood fora long time silent before the great white block. Through the outerwalls of stone he seemed to see the figure imprisoned in the marble, and his giant strength and giant mind longed to go to work to set thatfigure free. 

And when the last covering of marble was chipped and cut away therestood out a magnificent figure of the young David. Perhaps he is toostrong and powerful for our idea of the gentle shepherd-lad, but he isa wonderful figure, and Goliath might well have trembled to meet such ayoung giant. 

People flocked to see the great statue, and many were the discussionsas to where it should be placed. Artists were never tired of givingtheir opinion, and even of criticising the work. 'It seems to me, ' saidone, 'that the nose is surely much too large for the face. Could younot alter that?'

Michelangelo said nothing, but he mounted the scaffolding and pretendedto chip away at the nose with his chisel. Meanwhile he let drop somemarble chips and dust upon the head of the critic beneath. Then he camedown. 

'Is that better?' he asked gravely. 

'Admirable!' answered the artist. 'You have given it life. '

Michelangelo smiled to himself. How wise people thought themselves whenthey often knew nothing about what they were talking! But the criticwas satisfied, and did not notice the smile. 

It would fill a book to tell of all the work which Michelangelo did;but although he began so much, a great deal of it was left unfinished. If he had lived in quieter times, his work would have been morecomplete; but one after another his patrons died, or changed theirminds, and set him to work at something else before he had finishedwhat he was doing. 

The great tomb which Pope Julius had ordered him to make was neverfinished, although Michelangelo drew out all the designs for it, andfor forty years was constantly trying to complete it. The Pope began tothink it was an evil omen to build his own tomb, so he made up his mindthat Michelangelo should instead set to work to fresco the ceiling ofthe Sistine Chapel. In vain did the great sculptor repeat that he knewbut little of the art of painting. 

'Didst thou not learn to mix colours in the studio of MasterGhirlandaio?' said Julius. 'Thou hast but to remember the lessons hetaught thee. And, besides, I have heard of a great drawing of abattle-scene which thou didst make for the Florentines, and have seenmany drawings of thine, one especially: a terrible head of a furiousold man, shrieking in his rage, such as no other hand than thine couldhave drawn. Is there aught that thou canst not do if thou hast but thewill?'

And the Pope was right; for as soon as Michelangelo really made up hismind to do the work, all difficulties seemed to vanish. 

It was no easy task he had undertaken. To stand upright and cover vastwalls with painting is difficult enough, but Michelangelo was obligedto lie flat upon a scaffolding and paint the ceiling above him. Even tolook up at that ceiling for ten minutes makes the head and neck achewith pain, and we wonder how such a piece of work could ever have beendone. 

No help would the master accept, and he had no pupils. Alone he worked, and he could not bear to have any one near him looking on. In silenceand solitude he lay there painting those marvellous frescoes of thestory of the Creation to the time of Noah. Only Pope Julius himselfdared to disturb the master, and he alone climbed the scaffolding andwatched the work. 

'When wilt thou have finished?' was his constant cry. 'I long to showthy work to the world. '

'Patience, patience, ' said Michelangelo. 'Nothing is ready yet. '

'But when wilt thou make an end?' asked the impatient old man. 

'When I can, ' answered the painter. 

Then the Pope lost his temper, for he was not accustomed to be answeredlike this. 

'Dost thou want to be thrown head first from the scaffold?' he askedangrily. 'I tell thee that will happen if the work is not finished atonce. '

So, incomplete as they were, Michelangelo was obliged to uncover thefrescoes that all Rome might see them. It was many years before theceiling was finished or the final fresco of the Last Judgment paintedupon the end wall. 

Michelangelo lived to be a very old man, and his life was lonely andsolitary to the end. The one woman he loved, Vittoria Colonna, haddied, and with her death all brightness for him had faded. Although heworked so much in Rome, it was always Florence that he loved. There itwas that he began the statues for the Chapel of the Medici, and there, too, he helped to build the defences of San Miniato when the Medicifamily made war upon the City of Flowers. 

So when the great man died in Rome it seemed but fit that his bodyshould be carried back to his beloved Florence. There it now rests inthe Church of Santa Croce, while his giant works, his great andterrible thoughts breathed out into marble or flashed upon the walls ofthe Sistine Chapel, live on for ever, filling the minds of men with agreat awe and wonder as they gaze upon them. 

ANDREA DEL SARTO

Nowhere in Florence could a more honest man or a better worker be foundthan Agnolo the tailor. True, there were once evil tales whisperedabout him when he first opened his shop in the little street. It wassaid that he was no Italian, but a foreigner who had been obliged toflee from his own land because of a quarrel he had had with one of hiscustomers. People shook their heads and talked mysteriously of how thetailor's scissors had been used as a deadly weapon in the fight. Butere long these stories died away, and the tailor, with his wifeConstanza, lived a happy, busy life, and brought up their six childrencarefully and well. 

Now out of those six children five were just the ordinary commonplacelittle ones such as one would expect to meet in a tailor's household, but the sixth was like the ugly duckling in the fairy tale--a little, strange bird, unlike all the rest, who learned to swim far away andsoon left the old commonplace home behind him. 

The boy's name was Andrea. He was such a quick, sharp little boy thathe was sent very early to school, and had learned to read and writebefore he was seven years old. As that was considered quite enougheducation, his father then took him away from school and put him towork with a goldsmith. 

It is early days to begin work at seven years old, but Andrea thoughtit was quite as good as play. He was always perfectly happy if he couldhave a pencil and paper, and his drawings and designs were really sowonderfully good that his master grew to be quite proud of the childand showed the work to all his customers. 

Next door to the goldsmith's shop there lived an old artist calledBarile, who began to take a great interest in little Andrea. Barile wasnot a great painter, but still there was much that he could teach theboy, and he was anxious to have him as a pupil. So it was arranged thatAndrea should enter the studio and learn to be an artist instead of agoldsmith. 

For three years the boy worked steadily with his new master, but bythat time Barile saw that better teaching was needed than he couldgive. So after much thought the old man went to the great Florentineartist Piero di Cosimo, and asked him if he would agree to receiveAndrea as his pupil. 'You will find the boy no trouble, ' he urged. 'Hehas wonderful talent, and already he has learnt to mix his colours somarvellously that to my mind there is no artist in Florence who knowsmore about colour than little Andrea' Cosimo shook his head inunbelief. The boy was but a child, and this praise seemed absurd. However, the drawings were certainly extraordinary, and he was glad toreceive so clever a pupil. 

But little by little, as Cosimo watched the boy at work, his unbeliefvanished and his wonder grew, until he was as fond and proud of hispupil as the old master had been. 'He handles his colours as if he hadhad fifty years of experience, ' he would say proudly, as he showed offthe boy's work to some new patron. 

And truly the knowledge of drawing and colouring seemed to come to theboy without any effort. Not that he was idle or trusted to chance. Hewas never tired of work, and his greatest joy on holidays was to go ofand study the drawings of the great Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. Often he would spend the whole day copying these drawings with thegreatest care, never tired of learning more and more. 

As Andrea grew older, all Florence began to take note of the youngpainter--'Andrea del Sarto, ' as he was called, or 'the tailor'sAndrew, ' for sarto is the Italian word for tailor. 

What a splendid new star this was rising in the heaven of Art! Whocould tell how bright it would shine ere long? Perhaps the tailor's sonwould yet eclipse the magic name of Raphael. His colour was perfect, his drawing absolutely correct. They called him in their admiration'the faultless painter. ' But had he, indeed, the artist soul? That wasthe question. For, perfect as his pictures were, they still lackedsomething. Perhaps time would teach him to supply that want. 

Meanwhile there was plenty of work for the young artist, and when heset up his own studio with another young painter, he was at onceinvited to fresco the walls of the cloister of the Scalzo, orbare-footed friars. 

This was the happiest time of all Andrea's life. The two friends workedhappily together, and spent many a merry day with their companions. Every day Andrea learned to add more softness and delicacy to hiscolouring until his pictures seemed verily to glow with life. Every dayhe dreamed fresh dreams of the fame and honour that awaited him. Andwhen work was over, the two young painters would go off to meet theirfriends and make merry over their supper as they told all the latestjokes and wittiest stories, and forgot for a while the serious art ofpainting pictures. 

There were twelve of these young men who met together, and each of themwas bound to bring some particular dish for the general supper. Everyone tried to think of something especially nice and uncommon, but noone managed such surprising delicacies as Andrea. There was one specialdish which no one ever forgot. It was in the shape of a temple, withits pillars made of sausages. The pavement was formed of little squaresof different coloured jelly, the tops of the pillars were cheese, andthe roof was of sugar, with a frieze of sweets running round it. Insidethe temple there was a choir of roast birds with their mouths wideopen, and the priests were two fat pigeons. It was the most splendidsupper-dish that ever was seen. 

Every one was fond of the clever young painter. He was so kind andcourteous to all, and so simple-hearted that it was impossible for theothers to feel jealous or to grudge him the fame and praise that wasshowered upon him more and more as each fresh picture was finished. 

Then just when all gave promise of sunshine and happiness, a littlecloud rose in his blue sky, which grew and grew until it dimmed all theglory of his life. 

In the Via di San Gallo, not very far from the street where Andrea andhis friend lodged, there lived a very beautiful woman called Lucrezia. She was not a highborn lady, only the daughter of a working man, butshe was as proud and haughty as she was beautiful. Nought cared she forthings high and noble, she was only greedy of praise and filled with adesire to have her own way in everything. Yet her lovely face seemed asif it must be the mirror of a lovely soul, and when the young painterAndrea first saw her his heart went out towards her. She was hislong-dreamed-of ideal of beauty and grace, the vision of lovelinesswhich he had been trying to grasp all his life. 

'What hath bewitched thee?' asked his friend as he watched Andrearestlessly pacing up and down the studio, his brushes thrown aside andhis work left unfinished. 'Thou hast done little work for many weeks. '

'I cannot paint, ' answered Andrea, 'for I see only one face ever beforeme, and it comes between me and my work. '

'Thou art ruining all thy chances, ' said the friend sadly, 'and theface thou seest is not worth the sacrifice. '

Andrea turned on his heel with an angry look and went out. All hisfriends were against him now. No one had a good word for the beautifulLucrezia. But she was worth all the world to him, and he had made uphis mind to marry her. 

It was winter time, and the Christmas bells had but yesterday rung outthe tidings of the Holy Birthday when Andrea at last obtained hisheart's desire and made Lucrezia his wife. The joyful Christmastideseemed a fit season in which to set the seal upon his great happiness, and he thought himself the most fortunate of men. He had asked adviceof none, and had told no one what he meant to do, but the news of hismarriage was soon noised abroad. 

'Hast thou heard the news of young Andrea del Sarto?' asked the peopleof Florence of one another. 'I fear he has dealt an evil blow at hisown chances of success. '

One by one his friends left him, and many of his pupils deserted thestudio. Lucrezia's sharp tongue was unbearable, and she made mischiefamong them all. Only Andrea remained blinded by her beauty, and thoughtthat now, with such a model always near him, he would paint as he hadnever painted before. 

But little did Lucrezia care to help him with his work. His picturesmeant nothing to her except so far as they sold well and brought inmoney for her to spend. Worst of all, she began to grudge the help thathe gave to his old father and mother, who now were poor and needed hiscare. 

And yet, although Andrea saw all this, he still loved his beautifulwife and cared only how he might please her. He scarcely painted apicture that had not her face in it, for she was his ideal Madonna, Queen of Heaven. 

But it was not so easy now to put his whole heart and soul into hiswork. True, his hand drew as correctly as ever, and his colours wereeven more beautiful, but often the soul seemed lacking. 

'Thou dost work but slowly, ' the proud beauty would say, tired ofsitting still as his model. 'Why canst thou not paint quicker and sellat higher prices? I have need of more gold, and the money seems to growscarcer week by week. '

Andrea sighed. Truly the money vanished like magic, as Lucrezia'sjewels and dresses increased. 

'Dear heart, have a little patience, ' he said. 'I can but do my best. '

Then, as he looked at the angry discontented face of his wife, he laiddown his brushes and went to kneel beside her. 

'Lucrezia, ' he said, 'there needs something besides mere drawing andpainting to make a picture. They call me "the faultless painter, " andit seemed once as if I might have reached as high or even higher thanthe great Raphael. It needed but the soul put into my work, and if thoucouldst have helped me to reach my ideal, what would I not have shownthe world!'

'I do not understand thee, ' said Lucrezia petulantly, 'and this iswaste of time. Haste thee and get back to thy brushes and paints, andsee that thou drivest a better bargain with this last picture. '

No, it was no use; she could never understand! Andrea knew that he mustlook for no help from her, and that he must paint in spite of thehindrances she placed in his way. Well, his work was still consideredmost beautiful, and he must make the best of it. 

Orders for pictures came now from far and near, and before long some ofAndrea's work found its way into France; and when King Francis saw ithe was so anxious to have the painter at his court, that he sent aroyal invitation, begging Andrea to come at once to France and enterthe king's service. 

The invitation came when Andrea was feeling hopeless and dispirited. Lucrezia gave him no peace, the money was all spent, and he was wearyof work. The thought of starting afresh in another country put newcourage into him. He made up his mind to go at once to the Frenchcourt. He would leave Lucrezia in some safe place and send her all themoney he could earn. 

How good it was to leave all his troubles behind, and to set off thatglad May day when all the world breathed of new life and new hope. Perhaps the winter of his life was passed too, and only sunshine andsummer was in store. 

Andrea's welcome at the French court was most flattering. Nothing wasthought too good for the famous Florentine painter, and he was treatedlike a prince. The king loaded him with gifts, and gave him costlyclothes and money for all his needs. A portrait of the infant Dauphinwas begun at once, for which Andrea received three hundred goldenpieces. 

Month after month passed happily by. Andrea painted many pictures, andeach one was more admired than the last. But his dream of happiness didnot last long. He was hard at work one day when a letter was brought tohim, sent by his wife Lucrezia. She could not live without him, so shewrote. He must come home at once. If he delayed much longer he wouldnot find her alive. 

There could be, of course, but one answer to all this. Andrea loved hiswife too well to think of refusing her request, and the days of peaceand plenty must come to an end. Even as he read her letter he began tolong to see her again, and the thought of showing her all his gayclothes and costly presents filled him with delight. 

But the king was very loth to let the painter go, and only at lastconsented when Andrea promised most faithfully to return a few monthshence. 

'I cannot spare thee for longer, ' said Francis; 'but I will let thee goon condition that thou wilt buy for me certain works of art in Italy, which I have long coveted, and bring them back with thee. '

Then he entrusted to Andrea a large sum of money and bade him buy thebest pictures he could find, and afterwards return without fail. 

So Andrea journeyed back to Florence, and when he was once again withhis wife, his joy and delight in her were so great that he forgot allhis promises, forgot even the king's trust, and allowed Lucrezia tosquander all the money which was to have been spent on art treasuresfor King Francis. 

Then returned the evil days of trouble and quarrelling. Added to thatthe terrible feeling that he had betrayed his trust and broken hisword, made Andrea more unhappy than ever. He dared not return toFrance, but took up again his work in Florence, always with the hopethat he might make enough money to repay the debt. 

Years went by and dark days fell upon the City of Flowers. She had madea great struggle for liberty and had driven out the Medici, but theywere helped by enemies from without, and Florence was for many monthsin a state of siege. There was constant fighting going on and littletime for peaceful work. 

Yet through all those troubled days Andrea worked steadily at hispainting, and paid but little heed to the fate of the city. The stir ofbattle did not reach his quiet studio. There was enough strife at home;no need to seek it outside. 

It was about this time that he painted a beautiful picture for theCompany of San Jacopo, which was used as a banner and carried in theirprocessions. Bad weather, wind, rain, and sunshine have spoiled some ofits beauty, but much of the loveliness still remains. It is specially achildren's picture, for Andrea painted the great saint bending over alittle child in a white robe who kneels at his feet, while anotherlittle figure kneels close by. The boy has his hands folded together asif in prayer, and the kind strong hand of the saint is placed lovinglybeneath the little chin. The other child is holding a book, and bothchildren press close against the robe of the protecting saint. 

But although Andrea could paint his pictures undisturbed while war wasraging around, there was one enemy waiting to enter Florence whoclaimed attention and could not be ignored. When the triumphant troopsgained an entrance by treachery, they brought with them that deadlyscourge which was worse than any earthly enemy, the dreadful illnesscalled the plague. 

Perhaps Andrea had suffered for want of good food during the siege, perhaps he was overworked and tired; but, whatever was the cause, hewas one of the first to be seized by that terrible disease. Alone hefought the enemy, and alone he died. Lucrezia had left him as soon ashe fell ill, for she feared the deadly plague, and Andrea gladly lether go, for he loved her to the last with the same great unselfish love. 

So passed away the faultless painter, and his was the last great nameengraved upon that golden record of Florentine Art which had madeFlorence famous in the eyes of the world. Other artists came after him, but Art was on the wane in the City of Flowers, and her glory wasslowly departing. 

We can trace no other great name upon her pages and so we close thebook, and our eyes turn towards the shores of the blue Adriatic, whereVenice, Queen of the Sea, was writing, year by year, another volumefilled with the names of her own Knights of Art. 

THE BELLINI

Almost all the stories of the lives of the painters which we have beenlistening to, until now, have clustered round Florence, the City ofFlowers. She was their great mother, and her sons loved her with adeep, passionate love, thinking nothing too fair with which to deck herbeauty. Wherever they wandered she drew them back, for their veryheartstrings were wound around her, and each and all strove to give herof their best. 

But now we come to the stories of men whose lives gather round adifferent centre. Instead of the great mother-city beside the Arno, with her strong towers and warlike citizens, the noise of battle eversounding in her streets, and her flowery fields encircling her on everyside, we have now Venice, Queen of the Sea. 

No warlike tread or tramp of angry crowds disturbs her fair streets, for here are no pavements, only the cool green water which laps thewalls of her marble palaces, and gives back the sound of the dippingoar and the soft echo of passing voices, as the gondolas glide alongher watery ways. Here are no grim grey towers of defence, but fairypalaces of white and coloured marbles, which rise from the waters belowas if they had been built by the sea nymphs, who had fashioned them oftheir own sea-shells and mother-of-pearl. 

There are no flowery meadows here, but instead the vast waters of thelagoons, which reach out until they meet the blue arc of the sky ortouch the distant mountains which lie like a purple line upon thehorizon. Here and there tiny islands lie upon its bosom, so faint andfairylike that they scarcely seem like solid land, reflected as theyare in the transparent water. 

But although Venice has no meadows decked with flowers and no wealth ofblossoming trees, everywhere on every side she shines with colour, thiswonderful sea-girt city. Her white marble palaces glow with a softamber light, the cool green water that reflects her beauty glitters inrings of gold and blue, changing from colour to colour as each ripplechanges its form. At sunset, when the sun disappears over the edge ofthe lagoon and leaves behind its trail of shining clouds, she is like adream-city rising from a sea of molten gold--a double city, for in thepure gold is reflected each tower and spire, each palace and campanile, in masses of pale yellow and quivering white light, with here and therea burning touch of flame colour. She seems to have no connection withthe solid, ordinary cities of the world. There she lies in all herbeauty, silent and apart, like a white sea-bird floating upon the bosomof the ocean. 

Venice had always seemed separate and distinct from the rest of theworld. Her cathedral of San Marco was never under the rule of Rome, andher rulers, or doges, as they were called, governed the city as kings, and did not trouble themselves with the affairs of other towns. Hermerchant princes sailed to far countries and brought home preciousspoils to add to her beauty. Everything was as rich and rare andsplendid as it was possible to make it, and she was unlike any othercity on earth. 

So the painters who lived and worked in this city of the sea had theirown special way of painting, which was different to that of theFlorentine school. 

From their babyhood these men had looked upon all this beauty ofcolour, and the love of it had grown with their growth. The goldenlight on the water, the pearly-grey and tinted marbles, the gay sailsof the galleys which swept the lagoons like painted butterflies, thewide stretch of water ending in the mystery of the distant skyline--itall sank into their hearts, and it was little wonder that they shouldstrive to paint colour above all things, and at last reach a perfectionsuch as no other school of painters has equalled. 

As with the Florentine artists, so with these Venetian painters, wemust leave many names unnoticed just now, and learn first to know thosewhich shine out clearest among the many bright stars of fame. 

In the beginning of the fifteenth century, four hundred years ago, whenFra Filippo Lippi was painting in Florence, there lived in Venice acertain Jacopo Bellini, who was a painter, and who had two sons calledGentile and Giovanni. The father taught his boys with great care, andgave them the best training he could, for he was anxious that his sonsshould become great painters. He saw that they were both clever andquick to learn, and he hoped great things of them. 

'Never do less than your very best, ' he would say, as he taught theboys how to draw and use their colours. 'See how the Tuscan artistsstrive with one another, each desiring to do most honour to their cityof Florence. So, Gentile, I would have thee also strive to be great;and thou, Giovanni, endeavour to be even greater than thy brother. '

But though the boys were thus taught to try and outdo each other, stillthey were always the best of friends, and there was never any unkindrivalry between them. 

Gentile, the eldest, was fond of painting story pictures, which toldthe history of Venice, and showed the magnificent doges, and nobles, and people of the city, dressed in their rich robes. The Venetiansloved pictures which showed forth the glory of their city, and verysoon Gentile was invited to paint the walls of the Ducal Palace withhis historical pictures. 

Now Venice carried on a great trade with her ships, which sailed tomany foreign lands. These ships, loaded with merchandise, touched atdifferent ports, and the merchants sold their goods or took in exchangeother things which they brought back to Venice. It happened that one ofthe ships which set sail for Turkey had on board among other thingsseveral pictures painted by Giovanni Bellini. These were shown to theSultan of Turkey, who had never seen a picture before, and he wasamazed and delighted beyond words. His religion forbade the making ofpictures, but he paid no attention now to that law, but sent amessenger to Venice praying that the painter Bellini might come to himat once. 

The rulers of Venice were unwilling to spare Giovanni just then, butthey allowed Gentile to go, as his work at the Ducal Palace wasfinished. 

So Gentile took his canvases and paints, and, setting sail in one ofthe merchant ships, soon arrived at the court of the Grand Turk. 

He was received with every honour, and nothing was thought too good forthis wonderful painter, who could make pictures which looked likeliving men. The Sultan loaded him with gifts and favours, and he livedthere like a royal prince. Each picture painted by Gentile was thoughtmore wonderful than the last. He painted a portrait of the Sultan, andeven one of himself, which was considered little short of magic. 

Thus a whole year passed by, and Gentile had a most delightful time andwas well contented, until one day something happened which disturbedhis peace. 

He had painted a picture of the dancing daughter of Herodias, with thehead of John the Baptist in her hand, and when it was finished hebrought it and presented it to the Sultan. 

As usual, the Sultan was charmed with the new picture; but he paused inhis praises of its beauty, and looked thoughtfully at the head of St. John, and then frowned. 

'It seems to me, ' he said, 'that there is something not quite rightabout that head. I do not think a head which had just been cut offwould look exactly as that does in your picture. '

Gentile answered courteously that he did not wish to contradict hisroyal highness, but it seemed to him that the head was right. 

'We shall see, ' said the Sultan calmly, and he turned carelessly to aguard who stood close by and bade him cut of the head of one of theslaves, that Bellini might see if his picture was really correctlypainted. 

This was more than Gentile could stand. 

'Who knows, ' he said to himself, 'that the Sultan may not wish to seenext how my head would look cut off from my body!'

So while his precious head was still safe upon his shoulders he thoughtit wiser to slip quietly away and return to Venice by the very firstship he could find. 

Meanwhile Giovanni had worked steadily on, and had far surpassed bothhis father and his brother. Indeed, he had become the greatest painterin Venice, the first of that wonderful Venetian school which learned topaint such marvellous colour. 

With all the wealth of delicate shading spread out before his eyes, with the ever-changing wonder of the opal-tinted sea meeting him onevery side, it was not strange that the love of colour sank into hisvery heart. In his pictures we can see the golden glow which bathes themarble palaces, the clear green of the water, the pure blues andburning crimsons all as transparent as crystal, not mere paint butliving colour. 

Giovanni did not care to paint stories of Venice, with great crowds offigures, as Gentile did. He loved best the Madonna and saints, singlefigures full of quiet dignity. His saints are more human than thosewhich Fra Angelico painted, and yet they are not mere men and women, but something higher and nobler. Instead of the angels swinging theircensers which the painter of San Marco so lovingly drew, Giovanni'sangels are little human boys, with grave sweet faces; happy childrenwith a look of heaven in their eyes, as they play on their little lutesand mandolines. 

But besides the pictures of saints and angels, Giovanni had a wonderfulgift for painting portraits, and most of the great people of Venicecame to be painted by him. In our own National Gallery we have theportrait of the Doge Loredan, which is one of those pictures which canteach you many things when you have learned to look with seeing eyes. 

So the brothers worked together, but before long death carried off theelder, and Giovanni was left alone. 

Though he was now very old, Giovanni worked harder than ever, and hishand, instead of losing power, seemed to grow stronger and more andmore skilful. He was ninety years old when he died, and he workedalmost up to the last. 

The brothers were both buried in the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, inthe heart of Venice. There, in the dim quietness of the old church, they lie at rest together, undisturbed by the voices of the passers-byin the square outside, or the lapping of the water against the steps, as the tides ebb and flow around their quiet resting-place. 

VITTORE CARPACCIO

Like most of the other great painters, Giovanni Bellini had many pupilsworking under him--boys who helped their master, and learned theirlessons by watching him work. Among these pupils was a boy calledVittore Carpaccio, a sharp, clever lad, with keen bright eyes whichnoticed everything. No one else learned so quickly or copied themaster's work so faithfully, and when in time he became himself afamous painter, his work showed to the end traces of the master'sinfluence. 

He must have been a curious boy, this Vittore Carpaccio, for althoughwe know but little of his life, his pictures tell us many a tale abouthim. 

In the olden days, when Venice was at the height of her glory, splendidfetes were given in the city, and the gorgeous shows were a wonder tobehold. Early in the morning of these festa days, Carpaccio would stealaway in the dim light from the studio, before the others were astir. Work was left behind, for who could work indoors on days like these?There was a holiday feeling in the very air. Songs and laughter and theecho of merry voices were heard on every side, and the city seemed onevast playground, where all the grown-up children as well as the babieswere ready to spend a happy holiday. 

The little side-streets of Venice, cut up by canals, seem like averitable maze to those who do not know the city, but Carpaccio couldquickly thread his way from bridge to bridge, and by many a short cutarrive at last at the great central water street of Venice, the GrandCanal. Here it was easy to find a corner from which he could see thegay pageant, and enjoy as good a view as any of those great people whowould presently come out upon the balconies of their marble palaces. 

The bridge of the Rialto, which throws its white span across the centreof the canal, was Carpaccio's favourite perch, for from here he couldsee the markets and the long row of marble palaces on either side. Fromevery window hung gay-coloured tapestry, Turkey carpets, silkendraperies, and delicate-tinted stuffs covered with Easternembroideries. The market was crowded with a throng of holiday-makers, agarden of bright colours and from the balconies above richly dressedladies looked down, themselves a pageant of beauty, with theirwonderful golden hair and gleaming jewels, while green and crimsonparrots, fastened by golden chains to the marble balustrades, screamedand flapped their wings, and delighted Carpaccio's keen eyes with theirvivid beauty. 

Then the procession of boats swept up the great waterway, and the blazeof colour made the boy hold his breath in sheer delight. The paintedgalleys, the rowers in their quaint dresses-half one colour and halfanother--with jaunty feathered caps upon their floating curls, thenobles and rulers in their crimson robes, the silken curtains of everyhue trailing their golden fringes in the cool green water, as the boatsglided past, all made up a picture which the boy never forgot. 

Then when it was all over, Carpaccio would climb down and make his wayback to the master's studio, and with the gay scene ever before hiseyes would try, day after day, to paint every detail just as he hadseen it. 

There is another thing which we learn about Carpaccio from hispictures, and that is, that he must have loved to listen to old legendsand stories of the saints, and that he stored them up in his mind, justas he treasured the remembrance of the gay processions and the flappingwings of those crimson and green parrots. 

So, when he grew to be a man, and his fame began to spread, the firstgreat pictures he painted were of the story of St. Ursula, told inloving detail, as only one who loved the story could do it. 

But though Carpaccio might paint pictures of these old stories, it wasalways through the golden haze of Venice that he saw them. His St. Ursula is a dainty Venetian lady, and the bedroom in which she dreamsher wonderful dream is just a room in one of the old marble palaces, with a pot of pinks upon the window-sill, and her little high-heeledVenetian shoes by the bedside. Whenever it was possible, Carpacciowould paint in those scenes on which his eyes had rested since hischildhood--the painted galleys with their sails reflected in the clearwater, the dainty dresses of the Venetian ladies, their gay-colouredparrots, pet dogs, and grinning monkeys. 

In an old church of Venice there are some pictures said to have beenpainted by Carpaccio when he was a little boy only eight years old. They are scenes taken from the Bible stories, and very funny scenesthey are too. But they show already what clever little hands and what athinking head the boy had, and how Venice was the background in hismind for every story. For here is the meeting of the Queen of Sheba andKing Solomon, and instead of Jerusalem with all its glory, we see alittle wooden bridge, with King Solomon on one side and the Queen ofSheba on the other, walking towards each other, as if they were both inVenice crossing one of the little canals. 

There were many foreign sailors in Venice in those old days, who camein the trading-ships from distant lands. Many of them were poor andunable to earn money to buy food, and when they were ill there was noone to look after them or help them. So some of the richer foreignersfounded a Brotherhood, where the poor sailors might be helped in timeof need. This Brotherhood chose St. George as their patron saint, andwhen they had built a little chapel they invited Carpaccio to come andpaint the walls with pictures from the life of St. George and othersaints. 

Nothing could have suited Carpaccio better, and he began his work withgreat delight, for he had still his child's love of stories, and hewould make them as gay and wonderful as possible. There we see St. George thundering along on his war-horse, with flying hair, clad inbeautiful armour, the most perfect picture of a chivalrous knight. Thencomes the dragon breathing out flames and smoke, the most awesomedragon that ever was seen; and there too is the picture of St. Tryphonius taming the terrible basilisk. The little boy-saint hasfolded his hands together, and looks upward in prayer, paying littleheed to the evil glare of the basilisk, who prances at his feet. Acrowd of gaily dressed courtiers stand whispering and watching behindthe marble steps, and here again in the background we have the canalsand bridges of Venice, the marble palaces and gay carpets hung from outthe windows. Everything is of the very best of its kind, and paintedwith the greatest care, even to the design of the inlaid work on themarble steps. 

As we pass from picture to picture, we wish we had known thisCarpaccio, for he must have been a splendid teller of stories; and howhe would have made us shiver with his dragons and his basilisks, andlaugh over the antics of his little boys and girls, his scarlet parrotsand green lizards. 

But although we cannot hear him tell his stories, he still speaksthrough those wonderful old pictures which you will some day see whenyou visit the fairyland of Italy, and pay your court to Venice, Queenof the Sea. 

GIORGIONE

As we look back upon the lives of the great painters we can see howeach one added some new knowledge to the history of Art, and unfoldedfresh beauties to the eyes of the world. Very gradually all this wasdone, as a bud slowly unfolds its petals until the full-blown flowershows forth its perfect beauty. But here and there among the painterswe find a man who stands apart from the rest, one who takes a new andalmost startling way of his own. He does not gradually add new truthsto the old ones, but makes an entirely new scheme of his own. Such aman was Giorgione, whose story we tell to-day. 

It was at the same time as Leonardo da Vinci was the talk of theFlorentine world, that another great genius was at work in Venice, setting his mark high above all who had gone before. Giorgio Barbarelliwas born at Castel Franco, a small town not far from Venice, and it wasto the great city of the sea that he was sent as soon as he was oldenough, there to be trained under the famous Bellini. He was a handsomeboy, tall and well-built, and with such a royal bearing that hiscompanions at once gave him the name of Giorgione, or George the Great. And, as so often happened in those days, the nickname clung to him, sothat while his family name is almost forgotten he is still known asGiorgione. 

There was much of the poet nature about Giorgione, and his love ofmusic was intense. He composed his own songs and sang them to his ownmusic upon the lute, and indeed it seemed as if there were few thingswhich this Great George could not do. But it was his painting that wasmost wonderful, for his painted men and women seemed alive and real, and he caught the very spirit of music in his pictures and there heldit fast. 

Giorgione early became known as a great artist, and when he was quite ayoung man he was employed by the city of Venice to fresco the outsidewalls of the new German Exchange. Wind and rain and the salt sea airhave entirely ruined these frescoes now, and there are but few ofGiorgione's pictures left to us, but that perhaps makes them all themore precious in our eyes. 

Even his drawings are rare, and the one you see here is taken from abigger sketch in the Uffizi Gallery of Florence. It shows a man inVenetian dress helping two women to mount one of the niches of a marblepalace in order to see some passing show, and to be out of the way ofthe crowd. 

There is a picture now in the Venice Academy said to have been paintedby Giorgione, which would interest every boy and girl who loves oldstories. It tells the tale of an old Venetian legend, almost forgottennow, but which used to be told with bated breath, and was believed tobe a matter of history. The story is this:

On the 25th of February 1340 a terrible storm began to rage aroundVenice, more terrible than any that had ever been felt before. Forthree days the wild winds swept her waters and shrieked around herpalaces, churning up the sea into great waves and shaking the city toher very foundations. Lightning and thunder never ceased, and the rainpoured down in a great sheet of grey water, until it seemed as if asecond flood had come to visit the world. Slowly but surely the watersrose higher and higher, and Venice sunk lower and lower, and men saidthat unless the storm soon ceased the city would be overwhelmed. No oneventured out on the canals, and only an old fisherman who happened tobe in his boat was swept along by the canal of San Marco, and managedwith great difficulty to reach the steps. Very thankful to be safe onland he tied his boat securely, and sat down to wait until the stormshould cease. As he sat there watching the lightning and hearingnothing but the shriek of the tempest, some one touched his shoulderand a stranger's voice sounded in his ear. 

'Good fisherman, ' it said, 'wilt thou row me over to San GiorgioMaggiore? I will pay thee well if thou wilt go. '

The fisherman looked across the swirling waters to where the tallbell-tower upon the distant island could just be seen through thedriving mist and rain. 

'How is it possible to row across to San Giorgio?' he asked. 'My littleboat could not live for five minutes in those raging waters. '

But the stranger only insisted the more, and besought him to do hisbest. 

So, as the fisherman was a hardy old man and had a bold, brave soul, heloosed the boat and set off in all the storm. But, strangely enough, itwas not half so bad as he had feared, and before long the little boatwas moored safely by the steps of San Giorgio Maggiore. 

Here the stranger left the boat, but bade the fisherman wait his return. 

Presently he came back, and with him came a young man, tall and strong, bearing himself with a knightly grace. 

'Row now to San Niccolo da Lido, ' commanded the stranger. 

'How can I do that?' asked the fisherman in great fear. For San Niccolowas far distant, and he was rowing with but one oar, which is thecustom in Venice. 

'Row boldly, for it shall be possible for thee, and thou shalt be wellpaid, ' replied the stranger calmly. 

So, seeing it was the will of God, the fisherman set out once more, and, as they went, the waters spread themselves out smoothly beforethem, until they reached the distant San Niccolo da Lido. 

Here an old man with a white beard was awaiting them, and when he toohad entered the boat, the fisherman was commanded to row out towardsthe open sea. 

Now the tempest was raging more fiercely than ever, and lo! across thewild waste of foaming waters an enormous black galley came bearing downupon them. So fast did it approach that it seemed almost to fly uponthe wings of the wind, and as it came near the fisherman saw that itwas manned by fearful-looking black demons, and knew that they were ontheir way to overwhelm the fair city of Venice. 

But as the galley came near the little boat, the three men stoodupright, and with outstretched arms made high above them the sign ofthe cross, and commanded the demons to depart to the place from whencethey had come. 

In an instant the sea became calm, and with a horrible shriek thedemons in their black galley disappeared from view. 

Then the three men ordered the fisherman to return as he had come. Sothe old man was landed at San Niccolo da Lido, the young knight at SanGiorgio Maggiore, and, last of all, the stranger landed at San Marco. 

Now when the fisherman found that his work was done, he thought it wastime that he should receive his payment. For, although he had seen thegreat miracle, he had no mind to forgo his proper fare. 

'Thou art right, ' said the stranger, when the fisherman made hisdemand, 'and thou shalt indeed be well paid. Go now to the Doge andtell him all thou hast seen; how Venice would have been destroyed bythe demons of the tempest, had it not been for me and my twocompanions. I am St. Mark, the protector of your city; the brave youngknight is St. George, and the old man whom we took in last is St. Nicholas. Tell the Doge that I bade him pay thee well for thy braveservice. '

'But, and if I tell them this story, how will they believe that I speakthe truth?' asked the fisherman. 

Then St. Mark took a ring off his finger, and placed it in thefisherman's rough palm. 'Thou shalt show them this ring as a proof, ' hesaid; 'and when they look in the treasury of San Marco, they will findthat it is missing from there. '

And when he had finished saying this, St. Mark disappeared. 

Then the next day, as early as possible, the fisherman went to the Dogeand told his marvellous tale and showed the saint's ring. At first noone could believe the wild story, but when they sent and searched inSt. Mark's treasury, lo! the ring was missing. Then they knew that itmust indeed have been St. Mark who had appeared to the old fisherman, and had saved their beloved city from destruction. 

So a solemn thanksgiving service was sung in the great church of SanMarco, and the fisherman received his due reward. 

He was no longer obliged to work for his living, but received a pensionfrom the rulers of the city, so that he lived in comfort all the restof his days. 

In the picture we see the great black galley manned by the demons, sweeping down upon the little boat, in which the three saints standupright. And not only are the demons on board their ship, but some areriding on dolphins and curious-looking fish, and the little boat isentirely surrounded by the terrible crew. 

We do not know much about Giorgione's life, but we do know that it wasa short and sad one, clouded over at the end by bitter sorrow. He hadloved a beautiful Venetian girl, and was just about to marry her when afriend, whom he also loved, carried her off and left him robbed of loveand friendship. Nothing could comfort him for his loss, the lightseemed to have faded from his life, and soon life itself began to wane. A very little while after and he closed his eyes upon all the beautyand promise which had once filled his world. But though we have so fewof his pictures, those few alone are enough to show that it was morethan an idle jest which made his companions give him the nickname ofGeorge the Great. 

TITIAN

We have seen how most of the great painters loved to paint into theirpictures those scenes which they had known when they were boys, andwhich to the end of their lives they remembered clearly and vividly. AGiotto never forgets the look of his sheep on the bare hillside ofVespignano, Fra Angelico paints his heavenly pictures with the coloursof spring flowers found on the slopes of Fiesole, Perugino delights inthe wide spaciousness of the Umbrian plains with the winding river andsolitary cypresses. 

So when we come to the great Venetian painter Titian we look first withinterest to see in what manner of a country he was born, and what werethe pictures which Nature mirrored in his mind when he was still a boy. '

At the foot of the Alps, three days' journey from Venice, lies thelittle town of Cadore on the Pieve, and here it was that Titian wasborn. On every side rise great masses of rugged mountains towering upto the sky, with jagged peaks and curious fantastic shapes. Cloudsfloat around their summits, and the mist will often wrap them in gloomand give them a strange and awesome look. At the foot of the craggypass the mountain-torrent of the Pieve roars and tumbles on its way. Far-reaching forests of trees, with weather-beaten gnarled old trunks, stand firm against the mountain storms. Beneath their wide-spreadingboughs there is a gloom almost of twilight, showing peeps here andthere of deep purple distances beyond. 

Small wonder it was that Titian should love to paint mountains, andthat he should be the first to paint a purely landscape picture. Helived those strange solemn mountains and the wild country round, thedeep gloom of the woods and the purple of the distance beyond. 

The boy's father, Gregorio Vecelli, was one of the nobles of Cadore, but the family was not rich, and when Titian was ten years old he wassent to an uncle in Venice to be taught some trade. He had always beenfond of painting, and it is said that when he was a very little boy hewas found trying to paint a picture with the juices of flowers. Hisuncle, seeing that the boy had some talent, placed him in the studio ofGiovanni Bellini. 

But though Titian learned much from Bellini, it was not until he firstsaw Giorgione's work that he dreamed of what it was possible to do withcolour. Thenceforward he began to paint with that marvellous richnessof colouring which has made his name famous all over the world. 

At first young Titian worked with Giorgione, and together they began tofresco the walls of the Exchange above the Rialto bridge. But by and byGiorgione grew jealous. Titian's work was praised too highly; it waseven thought to be the better of the two. So they parted company, forGiorgione would work with him no more. 

Venice soon began to awake to the fact that in Titian she had anothergreat painter who was likely to bring fame and honour to the fair city. He was invited to finish the frescoes in the Grand Council-chamberwhich Bellini had begun, and to paint the portraits of the Doges, herrulers. 

These portraits which Titian painted were so much admired that all thegreat princes and nobles desired to have themselves painted by theVenetian artist. The Emperor Charles V. Himself when he stopped atBologna sent to Venice to fetch Titian, and so delighted was he withhis work that he made the painter a knight with a pension of twohundred crowns. 

Fame and wealth awaited Titian wherever he went, and before long he wasinvited to Rome that he might paint the portrait of the Pope. There itwas that he met Michelangelo, and that great master looked with muchinterest at the work of the Venetian artist and praised it highly, forthe colouring was such as he had never seen equalled before. 

'It is most beautiful, ' he said afterwards to a friend; 'but it is apity that in Venice they do not teach men how to draw as well as how tocolour. If this Titian drew as well as he painted, it would beimpossible to surpass him. '

But ordinary eyes can find little fault with Titian's drawing, and hisportraits are thought to be the most wonderful that ever were painted. The golden glow of Venice is cast like a magic spell over his pictures, and in him the great Venetian school of colouring reaches its height. 

Besides painting portraits, Titian painted many other pictures whichare among the world's masterpieces. 

He must have had a special love for children, this famous old Venetianpainter. We can tell by his pictures how well he understood them andhow he loved to paint them. He would learn much by watching his ownlittle daughter Lavinia as she played about the old house in Venice. His wife had died, and his eldest son was only a grief anddisappointment to his father, but the little daughter was the light ofhis eyes. 

We seem to catch a glimpse of her face in his famous picture of thelittle Virgin going up the steps to the temple. The little maid is allalone, for she has left her companions behind, and the crowd standswatching her from below, while the high priest waits for her above. Onehand is stretched out, and with the other she lifts her dress as sheclimbs up the marble steps. She looks a very real child with her longplait of golden hair and serious little face, and we cannot helpthinking that the painter's own little daughter must have been in hismind when he painted the little Virgin. 

Titian lived to be a very old man, almost a hundred years old, and upto the last he was always seen with the brush in his hand, paintingsome new picture. So, when he passed away, he left behind a rich storeof beauty, which not only decked the walls of his beloved Venice, butmade the whole world richer and more beautiful. 

TINTORETTO

It was between four and five hundred years ago that Venice sat mostproudly on her throne as Queen of the Sea. She had the greatest fleetin all the Mediterranean. She bought and sold more than any othernation. She had withstood the shock of battle and conquered all herfoes, and now she had time to deck herself with all the beauty whichart and wealth could produce. 

The merchants of Venice sailed to every port and carried with themwonderful shiploads of goods, for which their city was famous--silks, velvets, lace, and rich brocades. The secret of the marvellous Tyriandyes had been discovered by her people, and there were many dyers inVenice who were specially famous for the purple dye of Tyre, which wasthought to be the most beautiful in all the world. Then too they hadlearned the art of blowing glass into fairy-like forms, as delicate andlight as a bubble, catching in it every shade of colour, and twistingit into a hundred exquisite shapes. Truly there had never been a richeror more beautiful city than this Queen of the Sea. 

It was just when the glory of Venice was at its highest that Art tooreached its height, and Giorgione and Titian began to paint the wallsof her palaces and the altarpieces of her churches. 

In the very centre of the city where the poorer Venetians had theirhouses, there lived about this time a man called Battista Robusti whowas a dyer, or 'tintore, ' as he is called in Italy. It was his littleson Jacopo who afterwards became such a famous artist. Hisgrand-sounding name 'Tintoretto' means nothing but 'the little dyer, 'and it was given to him because of his father's trade. 

Tintoretto must have been brought up in the midst of gorgeous colours. Not only did he see the wonderful changing tints of the outside world, but in his father's workshop he must often have watched the richVenetian stuffs lifted from the dye vats, heavy with the crimson andpurple shades for which Venice was famous. Perhaps all this glowingcolour wearied his young eyes, for when he grew to be a man hispictures show that he loved solemn and dark tones, though he could alsopaint the most brilliant colours when he chose. 

Of course, the boy Tintoretto began by painting the walls of hisfather's house, as soon as he was old enough to learn the use of dyesand paints. Even if he had not had in him the artist soul, he couldscarcely have resisted the temptation to spread those lovely colours onthe smooth white walls. Any child would have done the same, butTintoretto's mischievous fingers already showed signs of talent, andhis father, instead of scolding him for wasting colours and spoilingthe walls, encouraged him to go on with his pictures. 

As the boy grew older, his great delight was to wander about the cityand watch the men at work building new palaces. But especially did helinger near those walls which Titian and Giorgione were covering withtheir wonderful frescoes. High on the scaffolding he would see thepainters at work, and as he watched the boy would build castles in theair, and dream dreams of a time when he too would be a master-painter, and be bidden by Venice to decorate her walls. 

To Tintoretto's mind Titian was the greatest man in all the world, andto be taught by him the greatest honour that heart could wish. So itwas perhaps the happiest day in all his life when his father decided totake him to Titian's studio and ask the master to receive him as apupil. 

But the happiness lasted but a very short time. Titian did not approveof the boy's work, and refused to keep him in the studio; so poor, disappointed Tintoretto went home again, and felt as if all sunshineand hope had gone for ever from his life. It was a bitterdisappointment to his father and mother too, for they had set theirhearts on the boy becoming an artist. But in spite of all this, Tintoretto did not lose heart or give up his dreams. He worked on byhimself in his own way, and Titian's paintings taught him many thingseven though the master himself refused to help him. Then too he sawsome work of the great Michelangelo, and learned many a lesson fromthat. Thenceforward his highest ideal was always 'the drawing ofMichelangelo and the colour of Titian. 

The young artist lived in a poor, bare room, and most of his money wentin the buying of little pieces of old sculpture or casts. He had a verycurious way of working the designs for his pictures. Instead of drawingmany sketches, he made little wax models of figures and arranged theminside a cardboard or wooden box in which there was a hole to admit alighted candle. So, besides the grouping of the figures, he could alsoarrange the light and shade. 

But, though he worked hard, fame was long in coming to Tintoretto. People did not understand his way of painting. It was not after themanner of any of the great artists, and they were rather afraid of hisbold, furious-looking work. 

Nevertheless Tintoretto worked steadily on, always hoping, and wheneverthere was a chance of doing any work, even without receiving paymentfor it, he seized it eagerly. 

It happened just then that the young Venetian artists had agreed tohave a show of their paintings, and had hired a room for the exhibitionin the Merceria, the busiest part of Venice. 

Tintoretto was very glad of the chance of showing his work, so he sentin a portrait of himself and also one of his brother. As soon as thesepictures were seen people began to take more notice of the clever youngpainter, and even Titian allowed that his work was good. His portraitswere always fresh and life-like, and he drew with a bold strong touch, as you will see if you look at the drawing I have shown you--the headof a Venetian boy, such as Tintoretto met daily among the fisher-folkof Venice. 

From that time Fortune began to smile on Tintoretto. Little by littlework began to come in. He was asked to paint altarpieces for thechurches, and even at last, when his name became famous, he was invitedto work upon the walls of the Ducal Palace, the highest honour which aVenetian painter could hope to win. 

The days of the poor, bare studio, and lonely, sad life were ended now. Tintoretto had no longer to struggle with poverty and neglect. Hishouse was a beautiful palace looking over the lagoon towards Murano, and he had married the daughter of a Venetian noble, and lived a happy, contented life. Children's voices made gay music in his home, and thepattering of little feet broke the silence of his studio. Fame had cometo him too. His work might be strange but it was very wonderful, andVenice was proud of her new painter. His great stormy pictures hadearned for him the name off 'the furious painter, ' and the world beganto acknowledge his greatness. 

But the real sunshine of his life was his little daughter Marietta. Assoon as she learned to walk she found her way to her father's studio, and until she was fifteen years old she was always with him and helpedhim as if she had been one of his pupils. She was dressed too as a boy, and visitors to the studio never guessed that the clever, handsome boywas really the painter's daughter. 

There were many great schools in Venice at that time, and there wasmuch work to be done in decorating their walls with paintings. A schoolwas not really a place of education, but a society of people who joinedthemselves together in charity to nurse the sick, bury the dead, andrelease any prisoners who had been taken captive. One of the greatestof the schools was the 'Scuola de San Rocco, ' and this was given intothe hands of Tintoretto, who covered the walls with his paintings, leaving but little room for other artists. 

But it is in the Ducal Palace that the master's most famous work isseen. There, covering the entire side of the great hall, hangs his'Paradiso, ' the largest oil painting in the world. 

At first it seems but a gloomy picture of Paradise. It is so vast, andsuch hundreds of figures are crowded together, and the colour is darkand sombre. There is none of that swinging of golden censers bywhite-robed angels, none of the pure glad colouring of spring flowerswhich makes us love the Paradise of Fra Angelico. 

But if we stand long enough before it a great awe steals over us, andwe forget to look for bright colours and gentle angel faces, for thefigures surging upwards are very real and human, and the Paradise intowhich we gaze seems to reveal to our eyes the very place where weourselves shall stand one day. 

At the time when Tintoretto was painting his 'Paradiso, ' his littledaughter Marietta had grown to be a woman, and her painting too hadbecome famous. She was invited to the courts of Germany and Spain topaint the portraits of the King and Emperor, but she refused to leaveVenice and her beloved father. Even when she married Mario, thejeweller, she did not go far from home, and Tintoretto grew every yearfonder and prouder of his clever and beautiful daughter. Not only couldshe paint, but she played and sang most wonderfully, and became a greatfavourite among the music-loving Venetians. 

But this happiness soon came to an end, for Marietta died suddenly inthe midst of her happy life. 

Nothing could comfort Tintoretto for the loss of his daughter. She wasburied in the church of Santa Maria dell' Orto, and there he orderedanother place to be prepared that he might be buried at her side. Itseemed, indeed, as if he could not live without her, for it was notlong before he passed away. The last great stormy picture of 'thefurious painter' was finished, and all Venice mourned as they laid himto rest beside the daughter he had loved so well. 

PAUL VERONESE

It was in the city of Verona that Paul Cagliari, the last of the greatpainters of the Venetian school, was born. The name of that old city ofthe Veneto makes us think at once of moonlight nights and fair Julietgazing from her balcony as she bids farewell to her dear Romeo. For itwas here that the two lovers lived their short lives which ended sosadly. 

But Verona has other titles to fame besides being the scene ofShakespeare's story, and one of her proudest boasts is that she gaveher name to the great Venetian artist Paolo Veronese, or Paul ofVerona, as we would say in English. 

There were many artists in Verona when Paolo was a boy. His own fatherwas a sculptor and his uncle a famous painter, so the child wasencouraged to begin work early. As soon as he showed that he had atalent for painting, he was sent to his uncle's studio to be taught hisfirst lessons in drawing. 

Verona was not very far off from Venice, and Paolo was never tired oflistening to the tales told of that beautiful Queen of the Sea. Heloved to try and picture her magnificence, her marble palaces overlaidwith gold, her richly-dressed nobles, and, above all, the wonder ofthose pictures which decked her walls. The very names of Giorgione andTitian sounded like magic in his ears. They seemed to open out beforehim a wonderful new Paradise, where stately men and women clad in therichest robes moved about in a world of glowing colour. 

At last the day came when he was to see the city of his dreams, andenter into that magic world of Art. What delight it was to study thosepictures hour by hour, and learn the secrets of the great masters. Itwas the best teaching that heart could desire. 

No one in Venice took much notice of the quiet, hard-working youngpainter, and he worked on steadily by himself for some years. But atlast his chance came, and he was commissioned to paint the ceiling ofthe church of St. Sebastian; and when this was finished Venicerecognised his genius, and saw that here was another of her sons whomshe must delight to honour. 

These great pictures of Veronese were just the kind of work to charmthe rich Venetians, those merchant princes who delighted in costlymagnificence. Never before had any painter pictured such royal scenesof grandeur. There were banqueting halls with marble balustrades justlike their own Venetian palaces. The guests that thronged these hallswere courtly gentlemen and high-born ladies arrayed in rich brocadesand dazzling jewels. Men-servants and maidservants, costly ornamentsand golden dishes were there, everything that heart could desire. 

True, there was not much room for religious feeling amid all thisgrandeur, although the painter would call the pictures by some Biblename and would paint in the figure of our Lord, or the Blessed Virgin, among the gay crowd. But no one stopped to think about religion, andwhat cared they if the guests at the 'Marriage Feast of Cana' weredressed in the rich robes of Venetian nobles, and all was as differentas possible from the simple wedding-feast where Christ worked his firstmiracle. 

So the fame of Paolo Veronese grew greater and greater, and he paintedmore and more gorgeous pictures. But here and there we find a simplerand more charming piece of his work, as when he painted the little St. John with the skin thrown over his bare shoulder and the cross in hishand. He is such a really childlike figure as he stands looking upwardand rests his little hand confidingly on the worn and wounded palm ofSt. Francis, who stands beside him. 

Although the Venetian nobles found nothing wanting in the splendidpictures which Veronese painted, the Church at last began to havedoubts as to whether they were fit as religious subjects to adorn herwalls. The Holy Office considered the question, and Veronese wasordered to appear before the council. 

Was it, indeed, fit that court jesters, little negro boys, and evencats and pet dogs should appear in pictures which were to decorate thewalls of a church? Veronese answered gravely that it was the effect ofthe picture that mattered, and that the details need not be thought of. So the complaint was dismissed. 

These pictures of Paolo Veronese were really great pieces ofdecoration, very wonderful in their way, but showing already that Artwas sinking lower instead of rising higher. 

If the spirits of the old masters could have returned to gaze upon thisnew work, what would their feelings have been? How the simple Giottowould have shaken his head over this wealth of ornament which meant solittle, even while he marvelled at the clever work. How sorrowfullywould Fra Angelico have turned away from this perfection of worldlyvanity, and sighed to think that the art of painting was no longer agolden chain to link men's souls to Heaven. Even the merry-hearted monkFra Filippo Lippi would scarce have approved of all this gorgeouscompany. 

Art had indeed shaken off the binding rules of old tradition, andVeronese was free to follow his own magnificent fancy. But who can sayif that freedom was indeed a gain? And it is with a sigh that we closethe record of Italian Art and turn our eyes, wearied with all itssplendour and the glare of the noonday sun, back to the early dawn, when the soul of the painter looked through his pictures, and taught usthe simple lesson that work done for the glory of God was greater thanthat done for the praise of men.