"There's no getting at the rights of it," said Gabriel, turning to his work.

"Cain Ball, you'll come to a bit of bread!" groaned Joseph Poorgrass.

Then the reapers' hooks were flourished again, and the old sounds went on. Gabriel, without making any pretence of being lively, did nothing to show that he was particularly dull. However, Coggan knew pretty nearly how the land lay, and when they were in a nook together he

said

"Don't take on about her, Gabriel. What difference does it make whose sweetheart she is, since she can't be yours?"

"That's the very thing I say to myself," said Gabriel.

From Macmillan's Magazine.
THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO.
THE PAINTER.

cious things of the past, a point in which other nations of the world have been less careful. San Marco is empty, swept, and garnished; but at least it is left in perfect good order, and watched over as becomes its importance in the history of Florence and in that of Art. What stirr ing scenes, and what still ones, these old walls have seen, disguising their antiquity as they do but as scarcely any building of their date could do in England by the harmony of everything around, the homogeneous character of the town! It would be affectation for any observer brought up in the faith, and bred in the atmosphere, of Gothic art, to pretend to any admiration of the external aspect of the ordinary Italian basilica. There is nothing in these buildings except their associations, and sometimes the wealth and splendour of their decorations, pictorial or otherwise, to charm or impress eyes accustomed to Westminster and Notre Dame. The white convent walls shutting in everything that is remarkable AMONG all the many historical places, within, in straight lines of blank inclosacred by right of the feet that have trod- sure, are scarcely less interesting outside den them, and the thoughts that have than is the lofty gable-end which forms taken origin within them, which attract the the façade of most churches in Florence, spectator in the storied city of Florence, whether clothed in shining lines of marthere is not one, perhaps, more interest-ble or rugged coat of plaster. The ing or attractive than the convent of St. church of San Marco has not even the Mark, now, by a necessity of state which distinction of this superficial splendour some approve and some condemn, or squalor. It does not appeal to the emptied of its traditionary inhabitants. sympathy of the beholder, as so many No black and white monk now bars Florentine churches did a few years smilingly to profane feminine feet the ago, and as the cathedral still does with entrance to the sunny cloister: no breth- its stripped and unsightly façade; but ren of Saint Dominic inhabit the hushed stands fast in respectable completeness, and empty cells. Chapter-house, refec- looking out upon a sunshiny square, tory, library, all lie vacant and open -a arranged into the smooth prettiness of a museum for the state. a blank piece of very ordinary garden by the new spirit of public property, open to any chance good order which has come upon Italy. comer. It would be churlish to complain It is difficult, in sight of the shrubs, and of a freedom which makes so interesting flowers, and grass-plats, the peaceable a place known to the many; but it is ordinary houses around, to realize that it almost impossible not to regret the entire was here that Savonarola preached to disappearance of the old possessors, the excited crowds, filling up every morsel of preachers of many a fervent age, the elo-standing-ground; and that these homely quent Order which in this very cloister convent walls, white and blank in the sunproduced so great an example of the shine, were once beseiged by mad Flororator's undying power. Savonarola's ence, wildly seeking the blood of the convent, we cannot but feel, might have prophet who had not given it the miracle been one of the few spared by the exi- it sought. The place is as still now as gencies of public poverty, that most monotonous peace and calm can make it. strenuous of all reformers. On this Some wrecks of faded pictures keep their point, however, whatever may be the places upon the walls, the priests chant stranger's regrets, Italy of course must their monotonous masses, the bad organ be the the final judge, as we have all plays worse music — though this is melobeen in our day; and Italy has at least dious Italy, the country of song; and the the grace of accepting her position as only thing that touches the heart in this art-guardian and custodian of the pre-historical place is a sight that is common

in every parish church throughout almost | rural riches, and by the lovely prospect all Catholic countries, at least through- that enchanted their eyes daily, in comout all Italy the sight of the handful parison with the happiness of getting of homely people who in the midst of back again to their beloved town. The their work come in to say their prayers, vicissitudes of their exile, and the conor having a little leisure, sit down and nection of the brotherhood with the spemuse in the soft and consecrated silence. cial tumults of the time may all be found I think no gorgeous funzione, no Pon- in Padre Marchese's great work, "San tifical High Mass, is half so affecting. Marco Illustrato," but are at once too Their faces are towards the altar, but detailed and too vague to be followed nothing is doing there. What are they here. In process of time they were alabout? Not recalling the associations of lowed to descend the hill to San Giorgio the place, thinking of Savonarola, as we on the other side of the Arno, which was are; but musing, upon what is far more still a partial banishment; and at last close and intimate, their own daily trials regained popularity and influence so and temptations, their difficulties, their completely that the naughty Silvestrini anxieties. The coolness and dimness of were compelled to relinquish their larger the place, a refuge from the blazing sun house, and marched out of San Marco without, now and then a monotonous aggrieved and reluctant across the bridge, chanting, or the little tinkle of the bell while the Reformed Dominicans, with which rouses them from their thoughts for joyful chanting of psalms, streamed across a moment, and bids every beholder bend a in procession to the new home, which reverend knee in sympathy with what is was not only a commodious habitation, going on somewhere behind those dim but a prize of virtue. Perhaps this kind pillars-some Low Mass in an unseen of transfer was not exactly the way to chapel-all this forms a fit atmosphere make the brethren love each other; but around those musing souls. And that history says nothing more of the Silvesis the most interesting sight that is to be trini. The Dominicans do not seem to seen in San Marco, though the strangers have had, immediately at least, so pleaswho come from afar to visit Savonarola's ant a removing as they hoped, for their church and dwelling-place stray about the new convent was dilapidated, and scarcely side chapels and gaze at the pictures, and inhabitable. Cosmo de Medici, the first take little enough note of the unpictu- great chief of that ambitious family, the eresque devotion of to-day. wily and wise founder of its fortunes, the Pater Patriæ, whom Florence not long before had summoned back to guide and rule the turbulent city, took the case of the monks in hand. He rebuilt their convent for them, while they encamped in huts and watched over the work. when it was so far completed as to be habitable, royal Cosmo gave a commission to a certain monk among them skilled in such work, to decorate with pictures the new walls. These deccrations, and the gentle, simple, uneventful life of this monk and his brethren, furnish a soft prelude to the stormy strain of further story of which San Marco was to be the subject. Its period of fame and greatness, destined to conclude in thunders of excommunication, in more tangible thunders of assault and siege, in popular violence, tragic anguish, and destruction, began thus with flutings of angels, with soft triumphs of art, with such serene, sweet quiet, and beautiful industry, as may be exercised, who knows, in the outer courts of heaven itself. A stranger introduction to the passion and struggle of Savonarola's prophetic career could scarcely be, than that which is con

The history of the remarkable convent and church which has thus fallen into the blank uses of a museum on the one hand, and the commonplace routine of a parish on the other, has long ceased to be great; all that was most notable in it indeed its virtual foundation, or rebuilding, when transferred to the Dominican order, its decoration, its tragic climax of power and closely following downfall were all summed up within the fifteenth century. But it is one of the great charms of the storied cities of Italy that they make the fifteenth century (not to speak of ages still more remote) as yesterday to the spectator, placing him with a loving sympathy in the very heart of the past. I need not enter into the story of the events which gained to the Dominican order possession of San Marco, originally the property of an order of Silvestrini; but may sum them up here, in a few words. For various reasons, partly moral, partly political, a community of Dominicans had been banished to Fiesole, where they lived and longed for years, gazing at their Florence from among the olive gardens, and setting naught by all these

And

tained in this gentle chapter of conven- to belong to this period have been injured tual existence, at its fairest and brightest, which no one can ignore who steps across the storied threshold of San Marco, and is led to the grave silence of Prior Girolamo's cell between two lines of walls from which soft faces look at him like benedictions, fresh (or so it seems) from Angelico's tender hand.

The painter whom we know by this name, which is not his name any more than it is the name of the Angelical doctor, St. Thomas Aquinas, or the Angelical father, Saint Francis, was born in the neighbourhood of Florence, in (as Padre Marchese describes it) the fertile and fair province of Mugello - in the latter part of the fourteenth century. His name was Guido di Pietro; Guido, the son of Peter -evidently not with any further distinction of lineage. Where he studied his divine art, or by whom he was taught, is not known. Vasari suggests that he was a pupil of Starnina, and Eyre and Cavalcaselle imagine that more likely the Starnina traditions came to him through Masolino or Masaccio, and that he formed his style upon that of Orcagna. These, however, do not seem much more than conjectures, and the only facts known of his simple history are that in 1407, when he was twenty, his brother and he, taking the names of Benedetto and Giovanni, together entered the Dominican order in the convent at Fiesole. This community had a troubled life for some years, and the young disciples were sent to Cortona, where there are various pictures which testify to the fact that Fra Giovanni was already a painter of no mean power. All the dates however of this early part of his life are confused, and the story uncertain; for indeed it is probable no one knew that the young monk was to become the Angelican painter, the glory of his convent, and one of the wonders of his age. What is certain, however, is, that he returned from Cortona, and lived for many years in the convent of San Dominico, half way up to Fiesole, upon the sunny slopes where nothing ventures to grow that does not bear fruit; where flowers are weeds, and roses form the hedges, and the lovely cloudy foliage of the olive affords both shade and wealth. There is not very much record of the painter in all those silent cloistered years. Books which he is said to have illuminated with exquisite grace and skill are doubtfully appropriated by critics to his brother or to humbler workers of their school, and the few pictures which seem

in some cases, and in others destroyed. Fra Giovanni performed all his monastic duties with the devotion of the humblest brother; and lived little known, without troubling himself about fame, watching no doubt the nightly sunsets and moonrises over that glorious Val d'Arno which shone and slumbered at his feet, and noting silently how the mountain watchers stood round about, and the little Tuscan hills on a closer level stretched their vine garlands like hands each to the other, and drew near, a wistful friendly band, to see what Florence was doing. Florence, heart and soul of all, lay under him, as he took his moonlight meditative stroll on the terrace or gazed and mused out of his narrow window. One can fancy that the composition of that lovely landscape stole into the painter's eye and worked itself into his works, in almost all of which some group of reverent spectators, Dominican brethren with rapt faces, or saintly women, or angel lookerson more ethereal still, stand by and watch with adoring awe the sacred mysteries transacted in their presence, with something of the same deep calm and hush which breathes about the blue spectator heights round the City of Flowers. What Fra Giovanni saw was not what we see. No noble dome had yet crowned the Cathedral, and Giotto's Campanile, divinely tall, fair and light as a lily stalk, had not yet thrown itself up into mid air; nothing but the rugged grace of the old Tower of the Signoria - contrasting now in picturesque characteristic Tuscan humanity with the more heavenly creations that rival it raised up then its protecting standard from the lower level of ancient domes and lofty houses, soaring above the Bargello and the Badia, in the days of the Angelical painter. But there was enough in this, with all its summer hazes and wintry brightness, with the shadows that flit over the wide landscape like some divine breath, and the broid, dazzling, rejoicing glow of the Italian sun, and Arno glimmering through the midst like a silver thread, and white castellos shining further and further off in the blue distance up to the very skirt of Apennine, to inspire his genius. In those days men said little about Nature, and did not even love her, the critics think - rather had to find out how to love her, when modern civilization came to teach them how. But if Fra Giovanni, pacing his solitary walk upon that mouat of vision at San Dominico, evening after

evening, year after year, did not note | patriotism gaining, as it were, in intensity those lights and shades and atmospheric when circumscribed in the extent of its changes, and lay up in his still soul a object- the monks of San Marco must hundred variations of sweet colour, soft have felt a glow of generous pride in glooms, and heavenly shadows, then it is their growing gallery of unique and origihard to think where he got his lore, and nal pictures. The artist himself, howharder still that Heaven should be so ever, worked with a simple unity of moprodigal of a training which was not put tive, little known either in that or any to use. Heaven is still prodigal, and na- other age. He painted his pictures as he ture tints her pallet with as many hues said his prayers, out of pure devotion. as ever; but there is no Angelical paint- So far as we are informed, Fra Giovanni, er at the windows of San Dominico to of the order of Preachers, was no preachtake advantage of them now. er by word or doctrine. He had another The Florence to which these monks way of edifying the holy and convincing were so eager to return, and where event- the sinner. He could not argue or exually they came, carrying their treasures hort, but he could set before them the in procession, making the narrow hill- sweetest heaven that ever appeared to side ways resound with psalms, and wind- poetic vision, the tenderest friendly aning in long trains of black and white gels, the gentlest and loveliest of virgin through the streets of their regained mothers. Neither profit nor glory came home was at that time, amid all its to the monk in his convent. He began other tumults and agitations (and these his work on his knees, appealing to his were neither few nor light), in the full God for the inspiration that so great an possession of that art-culture which undertaking required, and - carrying with lasted as long as there was genius to keep him the défauts de ses qualités, as all it up, and which has made the city now men of primitive virtue do- declined one of the treasuries of the world. The with gentle obstinacy to make any change advent of a new painter was still some- or improvement after, in the works thus thing to stir the minds of a people who conceived under the influence of Heaven. had not so many ages before called one of While he was engaged in painting a crutheir streets" Allegri," because of the cifix, Vasari tells us the tears would run joy and pride of the town over Cimabue's down his cheeks, in his vivid realization sad Madonna. There is little evidence, of the Divine suffering therein expressed. however, that Florence knew much of the Thus it was with the full fervour of a man monk's work, who, as yet, was chiefly who feels himself at last entered upon distinguished, it would seem, as a minia- the true mission of his life, and able, turist and painter of beautiful manu- once and for all, to preach in the most scripts. But wily Cosmo, the father of acceptable way the truth that had been his country, could have done few things dumb within him, that the Angelical more popular, and likely to enhance his painter began his work. The soft and reputation, than his liberality in thus en-heavenly inspiration in it has never been couraging and developing another genius questioned, and the mind of the lookerfor the delight and credit of the city. most before the cloister was finished, historians suppose, Fra Giovanni had got his hands on the smooth white wall, so delightful to a painter's imagination. We do not pretend to determine the succession of his work, and say where he began; but it is to be supposed that the cloister and chapter-house, as first completed, would afford him his first opportunity. No doubt there were many mingled motives in that noble and fine eagerness to decorate and make beautiful their homes which possessed the minds of the men of that gorgeous age, whether in the world or the church. For the glory of God, for the glory of the convent and order, for the glory of Florence, which every Florentine sought with almost more than patriotic ardour the passion of

--

Al-on,

after these long centuries, can scarcely help expanding with a thrill of human sympathy to realize the profound and tender satisfaction of that gentle soul, thus enabled to paint his best, to preach his best, in the way God had endowed him for, with the additional happiness and favour of high heaven, that his lovely visions were to be the inheritance of his brethren and sons in the Church, the only succession an ecclesiastic could hope for.

It would appear, however, that the interior of San Marco must have been so soon ready for Fra Giovanni's beautifying hand, that he had but little time to expend himself on the cloisters which are now bright with the works of inferior artists. It would be difficult to convey to any one who has not stood within an Ítal

ian cloister, and felt the warm brightness | vance but by the spreading of His kingof the pictured walls cheer his eyes and dom-yet, alas! with only every indihis heart, even when the painters have vidual's narrow human notion of what not been great, or the works very re- that kingdom was, and which the way of markable—the special charm and sweet- spreading it. In Florence, happily, at ness of those frescoed decorations. The that moment, the Reformed Dominicans, outer cloister of San Marco glows within the warmth of their revival, could acpictures not very fine, perhaps, yet cept the blazon of their Order thus set with an interest of their own. There the forth with all their hearts. They had restranger who has time, or cares to look at newed their dedication of themselves to the illustrations of a past age, may read that perpetual preaching of Christ's sacrithe story of Saint Antonino, who was fice and imitation of His self-renunciadistinguished as the good Archbishop of tion, which was the highest meaning of Florence, and canonized accordingly, to their vows; and no doubt each obscure the great glory of his order, and honour father, each musing humble novice in his of his convent. But Antonino himself white gown felt a glow of rapt enthusiwas one of the brethren who stood by asm as he watched the new picture grow and watched and admired Fra Giovanni's into life, and found in the absorbed face work on the new walls. Was the first of of the holy founder of his Order, at once all, perhaps, that crucifix which faces the the inspiration and reflection of his own. spectator as he enters, at the end of the The other little pictures in this cloister cloister, double expression of devotion to which are pure Angelico are entirely conChrist crucified and Dominic his ser-ventual, addressed to the brethren, as vant? It is the most important of An- was natural in this, the centre of their gelico's works in this outer inclosure. common existence. Peter Martyr, one of Our gentle painter could not paint agony their most distinguished saints, stands or the passion of suffering, which was over one doorway, finger on lip suggestalien to his heavenly nature. The figure ing the silence that befitted a grave comon the cross, here as elsewhere, is beau-munity devoted to the highest studies tiful in youthful resignation and patience, and reflections. Over another door are no suffering Son of God, but a celestial two Dominican brethren, receiving (it is symbol of depths into which the painter the guest-chamber of the monastery) the could not penetrate; but the kneeling Redeemer Himself, worn with travel, figure, in the black and white robes of to their hospitable shelter. Curiously the order, which clasps the cross in a enough, the beautiful, gentle, young travrapt embrace, and raises a face of earnest eller, with his pilgrim's hat falling from and all-absorbing worship to the Divine his golden curls, which is the best repreSufferer, embodies the whole tradition of sentation our gentle Angelico could make monastic life in its best aspect. No son always angelical, like his name of of St. Dominic could look at that rapt the Lord of life, might almost have figure without a clearer sense of the utter served as model for that other beautiful, self-devotion required of himself as gentle, young peasant Christ, whom anDominic's follower, the annihilation of other great painter, late in this nineevery lesser motive and lesser contempla- teenth century, has given forth to us as tion than that of the great sacrifice of all he knows of the central figure of the Christianity example and consecration world's history. Mr. Holman Hunt has of all sacrifices, which his vow bound less excuse than the mild monk whose him to follow and muse upon all his life very gospel was beauty, for so strange a through. This picture fills something of failure in conception. To some has been the same place as the blazon of a knightly | given the power to make Christ, to others house over its warlike gates is meant to contadini, as the two rival sculptors said do. It is the tradition, the glory, the to each other. Angelico rarely advances meaning of the order all in one, as seen above this low ideal. His angels are by Angelico's beauty-loving eyes, as well lovely beyond description; he underas by those stern, glowing eyes of Sa- stood the unity of a creature more ethevonarola, who was to come; and perhaps real than flesh and blood, yet made up even in their dull, ferocious, mistaken of soft submission, obedience, devotedway by the Torquemados, who have ness-beautiful human qualities; but brought St. Dominic to evil fame. For the contact of the human with the diChrist, and Christ alone, counting no vine was beyond himas, indeed, cost; thinking of nothing but conquering might be said of most painters. There the world for Him; conceiving of no ad- can be little doubt that this difficulty of