persons, any kind of water, from the fountain, the well, or the river, made a little warm, is enough." Little is known of the life of Cennini. Were it not for his treatise, his name might have been forgotten. He wrote it in his old age, at about eighty years, a prisoner for debt in Florence. It is impossible to discover whether his misfortunes arose from the neglect of his patrons, or his own imprudence; for there is no further evidence of the fact than the date at the end of his book, in an attempt at Latin, mixed up with Italian,—“ Finito libro referamus gratia Christi, 1437 adi 31 di luglio. Ex* Stincarum f." Vasari notices his treatise at some length, and says, "Besides the works which he executed together with his master in Florence, there is a picture, under the loggia of the hospital of Bonifazio Lapi, of our Lady with certain Saints, coloured in such a manner, that it is even at this time in excellent preservation." This picture, upon the rebuilding of the hospital by Leopold, was placed in the Chapel, on the right-hand side of the altar. We have seen it there, and can attest to its excellent preservation two hundred and seventy years since Vasari saw it. The colouring is unusually vivid for so old a painting. It is divided by arches into five compartments; in the middle one is seated our Lady with the infant in her lap; and there are eight saints, in couples, under the arches on each side of her. Cennini appears to have considered Giotto's style as the perfection of art, as indeed he intimates throughout his book, and no attempt is made in this picture to improve upon him. There is all the quaintness and angular drawing of that school, with less of its energy; at the same time it has its simplicity of attitude, and its quiet expression of a holy feeling. The Virgin is graceful, and the harmony of colour, particularly in her figure, is well preserved. St. George with a dragon, not much bigger than a lizard, is a mistake, and the child is strangely out of proportion. We have not heard of any other paintings ascribed to Cennini, though there are doubtless many of his among the numerous works of the Giotto school, which it is impossible for the best judges to attribute to any particular hand. To do justice to Giotto, we ought to look at the works of Cimabue. Raphael did not excel his master Perugino, more than Giotto excelled his predecessor. Besides, Raphael had other and better teachers than his master it is well known he carefully studied the works of Leonardo da Vinci; he was personally instructed by Fra. Bartolomeo ; the treasures of Grecian sculpture were then brought to light; and his contemporaries were Michael Angelo and the host of Italy's wonderful painters. He surpassed them all in the perfection of the art-its poetry. His forms are not only graceful and beautiful, they are replete with sentiment, with thought, in every feature, in every limb, and he breathed a soul throughout the creations of his fancy. This praise, in a less degree, in spite of his stiffness and weak drawing, is due to Giotto. In him we see a constant yearning after beauty and sentiment, often successful, and never utterly failing. A modern critic, speaking of the Campo Santo at Pisa, where, among others, there are several frescoes by Giotto, says, "The best idea, perhaps, which I can give an Englishman of the general character of the painting, is by referring * Le Stinche, the common prison for debtors in Florence. him to the engravings of Albert Durer, and the serious parts of Chaucer. There is the same want of proper costume-the same intense feeling of the human being, both in body and soul-the same bookish, romantic and retired character-the same evidences, in short, of antiquity and commencement, weak (where it is weak) for want of a settled art and language, but strong for that very reason in first impulses, and in putting down all that is felt." There are numerous specimens of Giotto scattered in Italy; but we advise travellers, in addition to the Campo Santo at Pisa, to visit the Cathedrals of Padua and Assisi, where there are some of his best works, and the Refectory of the Convent of Santa Croce, in Florence, where there is a "Last Supper" by him, from which Leonardo da Vinci has borrowed largely for his fresco on the same subject. A translation of Cennino Cennini, together with one of Armenini, would be of the highest importance to artists. Notes should be added to the volume, making as much known as possible respecting the modern discoveries. Palmaroli's edition of Mazzocchi, on the chemical and other properties of colours used in Italy at the present day, would be of great assistance. We are aware it will be difficult, among our own countrymen, to obtain all the information they can afford for these notes; as many of our painters, and of the first class, endeavour to keep their secrets, if they have any, to themselves. They allege, as their apology, that every man has a right to his own discoveries; and that, in keeping them secret they follow the example of Titian. For the first, they may be answered, that their argument does not sound so well for a liberal as an illiberal art; and as for their other excuse, if what they urge against Titian is true, why not rival him in his colouring rather than in his selfishness and envy ? A FRAGMENT. THE brain is like a cavern wherein lies And sometimes these two mingle (lake and stream); Is shaped and floats upon its aery way ;— And so is born, as poets' voices say, Imagination! MYSTICUS. WIT MADE EASY, OR A HINT TO WORD-CATCHERS. A. HERE comes B. the liveliest yet most tiresome of word-catchers. I wonder whether he'll have wit enough to hear good news of his mistress. Well, B., my dear boy, I hope I see you well. B.-I hope you do, my dear A., otherwise you have lost your eyesight. A.-Good. Well, how do you do? B.-How? Why as other people do. eccentric, would you? You would not have me A.-Nonsense. I mean, how do you find yourself? B. Find myself! Where's the necessity of finding myself? I have not been lost. A.-Incorrigible dog! come now; to be serious. B.-I am come, to be serious. A.-Come now; nonsense, B., leave off this. (Laying his hand on his arm.) B.-(Looking down at his arm.)-I can't leave off this. It would look very absurd to go without a sleeve. A.-Ah, ha! You make me laugh in spite of myself. How's Jackson? B. The deuce! How's Jackson! Well I never should have thought that. How can Howe be Jackson? "Surname and arms," I suppose, of some rich uncle? I have not seen him gazetted. B.—(Detaining him.)—“ Good Bye!" What a sudden enthusiasm in favour of some virtuous man of the name of Bye! "Good Bye!"-To think of Ashton standing at the corner of the street, doating aloud on the integrity of a Mr. Bye! A.-Ludicrous enough. I can't help laughing, I confess. But laughing does not always imply merriment. You do not delight us, Jack, with these sort of jokes, but tickle us; and tickling may give pain. B. Don't accept it then. You need not take every thing that is given you. A. You'll want a strait-forward answer some day, and thenB.-You'll describe a circle about me, before you give it. Well, that's your affair, not mine. You'll astonish the natives, that's all. A.-It's great nonsense, you must allow. B.-I can't see why it is greater nonsense than any other pronoun. A.-(In despair.)-Well, it's of no use, I see. B.-Excuse me it is of the very greatest use. I don't know a part of speech more useful. It performs all the greatest offices of nature, and contains, in fact, the whole agency and mystery of the world. It rains. It is fine weather. It freezes. It thaws. It (which is very odd) is one o'clock. "It has been a very frequent observation." It goes. Here it goes. How goes it ?-(which, by the way, is a translation from the Latin,) Eo, is, it; Eo, I go; is, thou goest; it, he or it goes. In short A.-In short, if I wanted a dissertation on it, now's the time for it. But I don't; so, good bye.-(going)—I saw Miss M. last night. B. The devil you did! Where was it? A.-(To himself)-Now I have him, and will revenge myself. Where was it? Where was it, eh? Oh you must know a great deal more about it than I do. B.-Nay, my dear fellow, do tell me. I'm on thorns. A. On thorns! Very odd thorns. I never saw an acanthus look so like a pavement. B.-Come now, to be serious. A.-(Comes close to B. and looks tragic.) B.-He, he! Very fair, egad. But do tell me now where was she? How did she look? Who was with her? A.-Oh, ho! Hoo was with her was he? his name. who's Hoo? Well, I wanted to know I could not tell who the devil it was. But I say, Jack, B. Good. He, he! Devilish fair! But now, my dear Will, for God's sake, you know how interested I am. A. The deuce you are! I always took you for a disinterested fellow. I always said of Jack B., Jack 's apt to overdo his credit for wit; but a more honest disinterested fellow I never met with. B.-Well, then, as you think so be merciful. Where is Miss M.? A. This is more astonishing news than any. Ware is Miss M. I know her passion for music; but this is wonderful. Good Heavens ! To think of a delicate young lady dressing herself in man's clothes, and leading the band at the theatre under the name of Ware. B.-Now, my dear Will, consider. I acknowledge I have been tiresome; I confess it is a bad habit, this word-catching; but consider my love. A.-(Falls in an attitude of musing.) B.-Well. A.-Don't interrupt me. I am considering your love. B.-I repent; I am truly sorry. What shall I do ?—(Laying his hand on his heart.)—I'll give up this cursed habit. A.-You will ?-upon honour ? B. Upon my honour. A.-On the spot ? B.-Now, this instant. A.-Strip away then. B.-Strip? for what? Now, and for ever. A. You said you'd give up that cursed habit. B. Now my dear A. for the love of every thing that is sacred; for the love of your own love A.-Well, you promise me sincerely? B.-Heart and soul. A.-Step over the way, then, into the coffee-house, and I'll tell you. Street-Sweeper.-Plase your honour, pray remember the poor swape. B. My friend, I'll never forget you, if that will be of any service. I'll think of you next year. A. What again! B. The last time, as I hope to be saved. Here, my friend ; there's a shilling for you. Charity covers a multitude of bad jokes. Street-Sweeper.-God send your honour thousands of them. Street-Sweeper.-Och, the shillings. Divil a bit the bad jokes. 1 can make them myself, and a shilling 's no joke any how. A.-What! really silent! and in spite of the dog's equivocal Irish face! Come, B., I now see you can give up a jest, and are really in love; and your mistress, I will undertake to say, will not be sorry to be convinced of both. Women like to begin with merriment well enough ; but they are mightily fond of coming to a grave conclusion. RECORDS OF WOMAN.-NO. IV. The Indian City.* ROYAL in splendour went down the day And its deep groves pierced by the rays that made As a tree midst the Genii-gardens old, And the cypress pointed a blazing spire, And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire. Many a white pagoda's gleam Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed Its glory forth on their crystal bed. Many a graceful Hindoo maid With the water-vase from the palmy shade, There wander'd a noble Moslem boy Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose, He turn'd where birds through the gorgeous gloom He track'd the brink of the shining lake, By the tall canes feather'd in tuft and brake, And there lay the water as if enshrined In a rocky urn from the sun and wind, * See Forbes's Oriental Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 337, in which this story is related of Dhuboy, a city in Guzerat. |