am, and in the weeds of this time; only with eyes hich seek out labour, and with a faith, not learned, yet alous of prayer. Do this; so shall thy soul stand efore thee always, and perplex thee no more."

And Chiaro did as she bade him. While he worked, is face grew solemn with knowledge: and before the hadows had turned, his work was done. Having nished, he lay back where he sat, and was asleep immeiately for the growth of that strong sunset was heavy bout him, and he felt weak and haggard; like one just ome out of a dusk, hollow country, bewildered with choes, where he had lost himself, and who has not slept For many days and nights. And when she saw him lie back, the beautiful woman came to him, and sat at his head, gazing, and quieted his sleep with her voice.

The tumult of the factions had endured all that day hrough all Pisa, though Chiaro had not heard it and the last service of that feast was a mass sung at midnight from the windows of all the churches for the many dead who lay about the city, and who had to be buried before morning, because of the extreme heat.

Such as

In the spring of 1847, I was at Florence. were there at the same time with myself--those, at least, to whom Art is something,-will certainly recollect how many rooms of the Pitti Gallery were closed through that season, in order that some of the pictures they contained might be examined and repaired without the necessity of removal. The hall, the staircases, and the vast central suite of apartments, were the only accessible portions; and in these such paintings as they could admit from the sealed penetralia were profanely huddled together, without respect of dates, schools, or persons.

I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed seeing many of the best pictures. I do not mean only the most talked of: for these, as they were restored,

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generally found their way somehow into the open rooms owing to the clamours raised by the students; and remember how old Ercoli's, the curator's, spectacles uses to be mirrored in the reclaimed surface, as he leaned CO mysteriously over these works with some of the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate.

One picture that I saw that spring, I shall not easily forget. It was among those, I believe, brought from the other rooms, and had been hung, obviously out of all chronology, immediately beneath that head by Raphae so long known as the Berrettino, and now said to be the portrait of Cecco Ciulli.

The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents merely the figure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet with a green and grey raiment, chaste and early in its fashion, but exceedingly simple. She is standing: her hands are held together lightly, and her eyes set earnestly open.

You

The face and hands in this picture, though wrought with great delicacy, have the appearance of being painted at once, in a single sitting: the drapery is unfinished. As soon as I saw the figure, it drew an awe upon me, like water in shadow. I shall not attempt to describe it more than I have already done; for the most absorbing wonder of it was its literality. knew that figure, when painted, had been seen ; yet it was not a thing to be seen of men. This language will appear ridiculous to such as have never looked on the work; and it may be even to some among those who have. On examining it closely, I perceived in one corner of the canvas the words Manus Animam pinxit, and the date 1239.

I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the pictures were all displaced. I then stepped up to the Cavaliere Ercoli, who was in the room at the moment, and asked him regarding the subject and authorship of the painting. He treated the matter, I thought, somewhat slightingly, and said that he could show me the

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eference in the Catalogue, which he had compiled. This, vhen found, was not of much value, as it merely said, 'Schizzo d'autore incerto," adding the inscription.* I could willingly have prolonged my inquiry, in the hope hat it might somehow lead to some result; but I had disturbed the curator from certain yards of Guido, and he was not communicative. I went back, therefore, and stood before the picture till it grew dusk.

The next day I was there again; but this time a circle of students was round the spot, all copying the Berrettino. I contrived, however, to find a place whence I could see my picture, and where I seemed to be in nobody's way. For some minutes I remained undisturbed; and then I heard, in an English voice: "Might I beg of you, sir, to stand a little more to this side, as you interrupt my view?"

I felt vexed, for, standing where he asked me, a glare struck on the picture from the windows, and I could not see it. However, the request was reasonably made, and from a countryman; so I complied, and turning away, stood by his easel. I knew it was not worth while; yet I referred in some way to the work underneath the one he was copying. He did not laugh, but he smiled as we do in England. "Very odd, is it not?" said he.

The other students near us were all continental; and seeing an Englishman select an Englishman to speak with, conceived, I suppose, that he could understand no language but his own. They had evidently been noticing the interest which the little picture appeared to excite in me.

* I should here say, that in the latest catalogues (owing, as in cases before mentioned, to the zeal and enthusiasm of Dr. Aemmster), this, and several other pictures, have been more competently entered. The work in question is now placed in the Sala Sessagona, a room I did not see-under the number 161. It is described as Figura mistica di Chiaro dell' Erma," and there is a brief notice of the author appended.

"

One of them, an Italian, said something to another who stood next to him. He spoke with a Genoese accent, and I lost the sense in the villanous dialect. "Che so?" replied the other, lifting his eyebrows towards the figure; "roba mistica: 'st' Inglesi son matti sul misticismo: somiglia alle nebbie di là. Li fa pensare alla patria,

'e intenerisce il core

Lo di ch' han detto ai dolci amici adio.'"

"La notte, vuoi dire," said a third.

There was a general laugh. My compatriot was evidently a novice in the language, and did not take in what was said. I remained silent, being amused.

"Et toi donc ?" said he who had quoted Dante, turning to a student, whose birthplace was unmistakable, even had he been addressed in any other language: que dis-tu de ce genre-là?"

"Moi?" returned the Frenchman, standing back from his easel, and looking at me and at the figure, quite politely, though with an evident reservation: "Je dis, mon cher, que c'est une spécialité dont je me fiche pas mal. Je tiens que quand on ne comprend pas une chose, c'est qu' elle ne signifie rien."

My reader thinks possibly that the French student was right.

SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION.

"In all my life," said my uncle in his customary voice, made up goodness and trusting simplicity, and a spice of piety withal, hich, an't pleased your worship, made it sound the sweeter,— In all my life," quoth my uncle Toby, "I have never heard a anger story than one which was told me by a sergeant in aclure's regiment, and which, with your permission, Doctor, I ill relate."

"No stranger, brother Toby," said my father testily, "than a rtain tale to be found in Slawkenbergius (being the eighth of s third Decad), and called by him the History of an Icelandish ose."

61 'Nor than the golden legend of Saint Anschankus of Lithuania,” lded Dr. Slop, "who, being troubled digestively while delivering s discourse 'de sanctis sanctorum,' was tempted by the Devil in nagine vasis in contumeliam,—which is to say,-in the form of a essel unto dishonour.'

Now Excentrio, as one mocking, sayeth, etc., etc.-TRISTRAM

HANDY.

MONG my earliest recollections, none is stronger than at of my father standing before the fire when he came ome in the London winter evenings, and singing to us his sweet, generous tones: sometimes ancient English itties,—such songs as one might translate from the irds, and the brooks might set to music; sometimes hose with which foreign travel had familiarized his outh,—among them the great tunes which have rung he world's changes since '89. I used to sit on the ■earth-rug, listening to him, and look between his knees nto the fire till it burned my face, while the sights warming up in it seemed changed and changed with the music: till the music and the fire and my heart burned ogether, and I would take paper and pencil, and try in some childish way to fix the shapes that rose within me. For my hope, even then, was to be a painter.