spiration." Another famous negro model was Joseph, the splendid black from St. Domingo, whom Géricault discovered among Madame Saqui's acrobats, and introduced into the terrible picture of Le Naufrage de la Méduse." This portrayal of Joseph's muscular shoulders and grand proportions obtained for him constant employment in the studios for a long period. The acrobat may not always be depended upon as a model, however. A certain artist upon one occasion found himself, like Fuseli in that, if in nothing else, put out" by nature. The model, having been duly "set," was presently found slipping, as it were, unconsciously out of his proper attitude; not only that, but in addition presenting certain abnormal appearances; muscles seemed displaced, bones were discernible in unaccountable positions. It was explained by and by that the model was a skilled performer of theatrical sprites; he was, when the season required such entertainments, a pantomime contortionist, or "no-bone" man. He had sought to improve his resources by figuring in studios when not engaged upon the stage; but his accomplishments as an acrobat interfered with his prospects as a model. He did not know when he was "in drawing," or when his limbs were out of joint

Models have their failings, it must be owned, and these are not only of a physical sort, disqualifications in the way of infirmity of line, meagreness or flaccidity of form, or poverty or unattractiveness of colour; but moral errors or weaknesses, such as unpunctuality, inattention, apathy, disregard of appointments, and an inclination to waste time. The practised model is fertile in devices to save himself fatigue. He will pretend that the chosen pose is too trying to be long endured. He must rest and stretch himself, or rub his limbs, or sit for a while in a different attitude, with a blanket gathered about him to protect him from cold. Then there is the old man who sits clothed for various characters, comic or serious, whose every movement is aimed at shortening the period of posing. He enters with an elaborate politeness; he removes his hat very slowly; he is a long time finding a convenient corner in which to deposit his walking-stick or his umbrella; his removal of his gloves (for a model of this class always wears gloves), his blowing of his nose, are protracted processes. Then he is curious as to the artist's work, anxious to inspect it, discusses it diffusely, is reminded by it of very prolix stories, which he is at pins fully to narrate. Finally, his adjusting himself in the position required of him is a matter of exceeding difficulty: something hurts him; the seat is uncomfortable; he feels constrained; he is convinced he is not quite "set," as he was on a former occasion. These operations are so many ficelles. Of course there may be excess of punctuality and readiness, as in the case of the French model who determined to be no more reproached for being behind time, undressed on the open staircase before knocking at the door of the artist's apart ments. It was the model's turn to be kept waiting. Some one mounted the staircase. Ne faites pas attention, madame; c'est L M 2-18

"Eh bien ! Qu'est-ce que vous

Ajax foudroyé." "Quelle horreur ! !" voulez? Quand je vous dis que ceci vous représente Ajax foudroyé." "C'est affreux! Est-ce que vous prenez notre escalier pour l'école de natation?" The difficulty was solved at this point by the opening of the artist's door.

Pictures appear and disappear, come and go; in their turn the models live and die, one generation succeeding and resembling another. Some patriarch now reigns in the studios, doubtless in lieu of the white-bearded functionary from Newgate Market, who obtained such favour twenty years ago or more, by his mute personation of Lear, Abraham, Moses, and the prophets. Some substitute has been found presumably for the gipsy-fellow, a brawny Hercules of most noble form and colour, who furnished such innumerable life-studies, erewhile employing his leisure moments in the "cropping" of dogsfor in those times terriers, in obedience to dog fancying fashions, were cruelly abbreviated as to ears and tail. And another poses, it may be, it must be, on the throne once occupied by that dragoon of exquisite proportions, a military Antinous, who in the interests of pictorial art deserted from his regiment, thereby involving himself in trouble from which only an army of painters could extricate him. Released from martial service, he long flourished as a model, however, carrying often under the muscular arm which once had borne a sabre a neat plaster cast of his own shapely leg. He was prepared to part with this chattel for the garnishing of studios upon very moderate terms. These and other favourites of the easel have long since vanished, probably, leaving others to pose and sit and impersonate in their places. All are not, it is to be noted, figure-models, but sit draped, for head or hair or hands, as the case may be. Nor are models eligible simply because of their youth and beauty. Art finds occupation even for the aged and the uncomely; occasionally the painters are quite eager in their quest of sitters, bald, decrepit, and wrinkled. Chelsea pensioners, with a reduced allowance of limbs, are sometimes greatly in request; or there is quite a run upon workhouse beldames, in check gowns and calico night-caps. For art has its fashions, its vagaries,

even its crazes.

The studios echo and reëcho with stories of the models. It is reasonable that there should exist kindly relations between the artists and these accessories and materials, the humble friends and poorer kinsfolk of the fine arts. Certainly they have their humours and quaintnesses not less than their uses as the representatives of nature or of character; and then, like the players, they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time. They pass from studio to studio infected as it were with art, steeped in art news and tattle. It is from Miss Godiver, for instance, that it becomes known among the painters what the superb and mysterious Scumble is at work upon. He has required her, she says with a disgusted air, to float in a large tank with her palms just visible above the surface. It

is concluded forthwith that Scumble is producing an Ophelia or an Undine. It is from Mussell likewise that little B and his friends learn what great A is doing. Mussell has been lying rigid and extended for long hours together. Of course A is once more dicovering the dead body of Harold. And gradually these models pick up even a certam knowledge of art and its methods; at least Miss Godiver can form an opinion as to whether justice has or has not been done to her symmetry or her contours by the painter; and Mussell is able to protest, when the shadow of his nose has been unduly dwelt upon, that he never was a snuff-taker, that he holds such a practice in aversion, and that he should not have been so represented. And the models are often curiously interested in the success of the pictures in which they appear. Sometimes at Burlington House may be perceived certain visitors, shabby or oddly-dressed men and women, who are clearly not artists, nor to be counted among the patrons of artists or of art-galleries; these are, in fact, the models who have not hesitated to pay their shillings at the doors that they might know how their counterfeit presentments have been dealt with by the hanging committee-in what situation upon the walls they are to be viewed by the general public.

Nature is very dear to artists; and the living model is fondly prized, of course, platonically or aesthetically. Perhaps only an artist can thoroughly know and appreciate the charm of drawing from the nude. Haydon, returning to his studio after an absence of some weeks, well expresses a painter's feelings on this subject when he writes: "My heart yearned with delight at seeing the naked figure again-its beautiful varieties. its unaffected grace." To Haydon, however, every artistic accessory had its preciousness. Doomed for

a time to renounce high art and attempt portrait-painting, he was full of pity even for his lay figure and the degradations forced upon it. He enters in his journal: Ah, my poor lay figure! He who bore the drapery of Christ and the grave-clothes of Lazarus, the cloak of the centurion, and the gown of Newton, was to-day disgraced by a black coat and waistcoat! I apostrophised him, and he seemed to sympathise, and bowed his head as if ashamed to look me in the face. Poor fellow! such are thy changes, O fortune. Such, as Napoleon said, is human grandeur: 'Il n'y a qu'un pas du sublime au ridicule.' The painter was obliged, however, not very long afterwards, to pawn his beloved lay figure for a few pounds only.

DUTTON COOK, in Time.

THE AGE OF DANTE IN THE FLORENTINE CHRONICLES.

1. Dante: an Essay. By R. W. CHURCH, M.A., D.C.L. London, 1878.

2. Florentiner Studien. Von PAUL BOICHORST SCHAEFFER. Leipzig, 1874.

3. Die Chronik des Dino Compagni. Von CARL HEGEL. Leipzig, 1875.

4. Cronache Antiche Toscane. Venezia, 1841.

THE reputation of the Dean of St. Paul's for scholarly attainments made it almost a foregone conclusion that his Essay on Dante would be a model of elegant criticism. Were the writer any other than Dr. Church, it would be matter of surprise to find medieval Christianity treated in a spirit of reverential tenderness by a dignitary of the Church of England; yet without this temper of sympathetic tolerance no one is fit to deal with the great singer of the unseen world. It is indeed somewhat strange to observe what a tribute of half-envious admiration the uncompromising intensity of Dante's convictions extorts from an age like our own, which for itself accepts feelings as a substitute for faith, vague surmise instead of honest thought, and, alike with courage to deny or vigour to investigate the reasonable grounds of belief, is content to face all the problems of life and futurity with the helpless inanity of a 'perhaps."

66

As the contribution of Dean Church to Dantesque literature is principally devoted to a delicate analysis of Dante in his works, he has wisely abstained from noticing the discussion raised of late years as to the authenticity of one of the ancient records he quotes, which the different scope of this article makes it necessary for us briefly to advert to. Modern criticism, so ruthless in sapping the foundations of history, has chosen Dino Compagni's Florentine Chronicle as the obJect of one of its most uncompromising assaults. This interesting relic, professedly narrating events in which the writer took a leading part, was until recently held as a standard authority; and Muratori, who first published it in 1726, considered it worthy to rank with Cæsar's Commentaries as a personal record of a stirring time. The first to impugn its authenticity was Signor Fanfani, a distinguished Italian critic, and the controversy opened by him has since been continued in the German press. It is argued, on the one side, from the late appearance of the Chronicle, the absence of early manuscript copies, and its occasional use of comparatively modern phrases, that it was produced in the fifteenth instead of the fourteenth century; while, on the other hand, it may be replied that few ancient documents are guaranteed by absolute extrinsic proof, and that the evidence of language as to their date is most fallacious, as it would presume their immunity from alteration at the hands of later transcribers.

The oldest Greek texts are known to have been thus modernized by the copyists of Alexandria, and it is the task of contemporary scholarship to restore the original phraseology in accordance with that of inscriptions of the earlier date.

The discrepancies between Dino's Chronicle and that of Giovanni Villani, on which much stress is laid by the German critics, may be turned into an argumen of its authenticity by the consideration that a deliberate forger would have been more likely to adhere closely to the text from which he must have compiled; while the most striking of these divergencies, the omission of all mention of the Pisan war of 1293, in which the actual Dino took a prominent part, rather suggests the idea that the narrative has been mutilated than that it is altogether apocryphal. It would seem to us that the supposition which best reconciles all these difficulties is that the manuscript, handed down in a fragmentary state, was pieced together by a later compiler with interpolations of his own, in the same way that the Chronicle of Sigonius is believed to have received large additions after his death.

But as it is not our present purpose to go into the merits of the controversy between Dino's champions and assailants, we have merely hazarded these preliminary observations to show that, if we still accept his record with others of the same date as a faithful picture of the times it relates to, we are not without some grounds to justify us in s doing. After all, our faith in any ancient document is generally founded on internal evidence; and the lively touches of nature in which Dino Compagni's narrative abounds, as they give it its chief value, are also the best warrant of its authenticity. Such is his complaint of the rival orator, Baldino Falconieri, "who occupied the tribune half the afternoon, though we had then the shortest days of the year;" and this outburst of natural petulance puts us at once in sympathy with the lively chronicler, who was no doubt burning to speak himself, while the waning light was wasted in listening to his long-winded adversary. The very brevity of the passage affords in itself presumption of its genuineness, for a forger who had hit on such a clever touch could never refrain from dwelling on it, lest it should escape observation.

66

Dino again supplies us with an invaluable bit of life-painting when he tells how the feuds of Florence were embittered by the tale-bearing of the jugglers, and how one of them, 'Scampolino" in particular, was accused of exaggerating out of deliberate malice, and of adding a fresh sting to Corso Donati's sarcasms on his dull rival Vieri Cerchi. Here we get a glimpse into the inner life of those frowning Florentine palaces, and see how the fierce nobles, in their moments of ennui, hailed with delight the mischievous gossip and ridiculous antics of vagrant mountebanks.

Thus, from the very simplicity of these early chronicles we gather some idea of the social and moral influences operating in the age which they describe, though our picture of it would be but incom