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But there is, beside these sharp stinging sentences, a lovely view of gentle tenderness in his writing. "A Childe," which opens the series, is one of the most exquisite and feeling delineations in literature.

His father has writ him as his own little story wherein he reads those days of his life that he cannot remember; and sighs to see what innocence he has outlived. The elder he grows he is a stair lower from God, and like his first parent much worse in his breeches. Could he put off his body with his little coat, he had got eternity without a burthen, and exchanged one heaven for another.

But it would be easy to quote and quote and give no real idea of the fertility, the wit, the pathos of the man. All humanity is before him, and must be handled tenderly because he is a part of it himself, and because faults, like ugly features, are sent us

to be modified, perhaps; to be eradicated, no!

The one strain in character which throughout afflicts him most, and for which he reserves his most distilled contempt, is the strain of unreality— the affectation whose sin is always to please, and which fails so singularly of its object. Hypocrisy, pretension, falseness against everything which has that lack of simplicity so fatal to true life he sets his face. For the rest he can hardly read the enigma he only states it reverently. Like the old Persian poet, he say:

seems to

Oh Thou, who Man of baser earth didst make,

And e'en with Paradise devise the Snake:

For all the Sin wherewith the face of Man

Is blacken'd-Man's forgiveness give-and take!

A PASSION PLAY ON THE ITALIAN LAKES.

VISITORS Who go to Italy to study Italian art make a great mistake in devoting themselves solely, or even mainly, to picture-galleries. Two of the principal facts about the great Italian painters, and those just the facts which make their work most interesting, cannot so be learned. Italian art, alike in its motives and in its models, was a reflection of Italian life. "It is a constant law," says Mr. Ruskin, "that the greatest men, whether poets or painters, live entirely in their own age,"—and, he might have added, in their own land. The old Italian masters painted their everrecurring cycle of religious subjects, because those were the subjects in which the people around them were vitally interested. And we in a later

age can only enter into the spirit of the old pictures by placing ourselves at the old point of view. Similarly with the types of beauty which the Italian masters selected for the setting of their sacred legends. They painted the fair faces and the beautiful scenery that they saw round them. They represented the Madonna not as a Jewish maiden but as an Italian contadina; and the hills beneath which their Holy Families took their repose were not the mountains that stand round about Jerusalem, but those that encircle Florence or rise from the horizon of Venice. But all these things can be seen better in the reality than in the painted imitation, and it is only after inhaling, as it were, the Italian atmosphere, that one can properly appreciate and enjoy Italian art. In the matter of landscape most travellers would readily admit this fact. Every one sees, for instance, that the proper preparation for enjoying Titian's canvases is a drive through Titian's country in the Dolomites. The everlasting

hills are the same now as then, and one may stand to-day at the very point of view at Caverzano, near Belluno— from which Titian took the mountain forms and effect of evening light in that picture of the "Repose" which now hangs in our National Gallery.

The religious sentiment and the facial type of the Italian peasantry are not so easily discernible, but they may still occasionally be found in native purity, and they are then seen to be not less constant to the old configuration than are the hills and valleys of their home. We had a pretty instance of this fact the other day, when we chanced to be witnesses of a Passion Play in the lake district of Italy. It was a very humble audience and a very primitive play. The time was not the tourist's season, and there was no cause or desire on any side to play to the stranger's gallery. It was a purely native function; and at every turn we, who were chance spectators of it, were reminded of old pictures at Florence or Venice, to the inner meaning of which we had often sought in vain to find the clue. Here, in the graceful figures and soft faces of the peasant players, we recognised the models of the Italian masters; and here, in the sentiment of the play and its reception by the audience, we saw a living instance of the religious feeling which was the motive of early Italian art. In the pictures the motive is often hard to find and still harder to entirely understand. It is so naïve sometimes that it seems less than religious, and yet so sincere, that it seems more than childish. Who that recalls the "Adams and Eves,' the "Creations," the "Last Judgments," which he has seen in collections of early Italian pictures, will not admit that they have more often offended than interested him, more

often amused than impressed? But one comes to such pictures with a better understanding and a fuller sympathy after seeing them transferred, as it were, from canvas to the real life of the peasantry themselves. And, perhaps, here and there another visitor will find some help towards the enjoyment of old Italian art in this simple record of a Passion Play among the Italian lakes.

We had landed one day in the early spring at the principal inn (and, indeed, there are not many to boast of) in the little town of Orta, on the lake of that

name.

That speck of white just on its marge Is Pella; see, in the evening-glow,

How sharp the silver spear-heads charge, When Alp meets heaven in snow!

But for all Mr. Browning's pretty poem, Orta is still little known to the general body of tourists. Even the railway that was opened last year has not spoiled the solitude of the spot. The long range of Monte Motterone, which separates the lake of Orta from the Lago Maggiore, still wards off the travelling locusts on the north; the hill, surmounted by the ancient tower of Buccione, dividing the lake from "the waveless plain of Lombardy," still forms a barrier on the south. The town of Orta itself, standing on the most inaccessible of promontories, has a curious old-world look about it compared with Baveno and Pallanza. Here are none of the barracks of Bellaggio or palaces of Cadenabbia. The old inn stands on the little marketplace or piazza (it must be a poor town indeed that has not self-respect enough to christen its open space piazza), and sees all the life of the village, or, indeed, of the commune, transacted underneath its windows. Oleanders and southern plants stand between the pillars of its portico. Some of the gardens of Orta are indeed a wonder. We have passed great hedge-rows of banksia rose, and of glorious yellow tea-roses on our way; and now that we have come upon the Albergo S.

Giulio, it is a patch of sunshine after the narrow overhanging street. The landlord welcomes us with old-fashioned courtesy, and we enter the weatherworn old stone courtyard, built round a square open to the sky, where, as you look up, hanging pots of creepers and twining plants seem to frame the blue. Here, we thought, if anywhere still in Italy, we should see some traces of the old Italian life; and we had not long to wait. Outside, in the sunny piazza, a gipsy encampment had just alighted from three gaily-painted green and yellow vans, hung with lace curtains and containing perfect nests of families, like the conjurors' magic boxes. The tiny olive-skinned children tumbled about in the dust with a litter of puppies, which also formed part of the cavalcade. As our windows looked directly on to the piazza, and as the gipsies took up their abode here for several days, we had ample opportunities for becoming acquainted with them.

All the domestic arrangements of the company were conducted in public, and they were a most merry, sunnytempered crew, ever exchanging a laugh or a joke with the passers-by. But it was two or three days before we learnt that the gipsies were strolling players, and that a grand dramatic representation was preparing. The excitement of market day had come and gone, and that great weekly festival had almost cast the gipsies into shade; but now we observed the men very busily erecting a marquee at one side of the piazza, under the linden trees close to the lake. They stopped often, like all Italian workmen, for a chat, or a doze, or a laugh; but still the tent progressed, and by nightfall it was all overhung with rough oil-paintings of wonderful description, and of bold, not to say brilliant, colouring. On one of these was depicted a woman with a tiger about to spring on her; on another a man being pierced with four spears at once (the drawing reminding us somewhat of Margaritone); but the masterpiece was Judas writhing in the

flames of hell. Underneath this latter work of art a notice in a round elementary hand was soon posted up informing us that nothing less than the Passion Play was to be attempted. Coming back from a row on the lake in the afternoon, we noticed two pairs of dusty little bare legs sticking out of the tent. These we found belonged to the two most troublesome of the babies, a ubiquitous little boy and girl, who had the knack of being everywhere at once and mostly in the way; they were now poking their heads under the tent in a wild attempt to see what was going on. The business did not seem even yet to be very engrossing; the handsome, lazy gipsies hung about outside, talking and laughing in most picturesque groups. It was Wilhelm Meister and his company, we thought, come to Italy. Here was Laertes, a dark-eyed youth, and there, Friedrich, the fair-haired boy. Yonder was Philina, cracking nuts and laughing with Wilhelm (a superior sort of person who seemed to be stage-manager). Half-past eight had been the time fixed upon for the representation.

It grew dark and still the families sat on, leisurely enjoying their coffee and polenta on the steps of their caravans. As we passed near, the old woman called to us and graciously offered us some coffee, tendering her own cup to drink out of: "Of what country were we? Ah, Inglese! Was it very far off further than Venice, perhaps?" At last the men retired to wash and get ready. Sitting by the lake, we overheard two handsome youths discussing their respective parts. They both wished to take the part of Jesus, and waxed warm over the question. At last, the younger one-a beautiful, curly-haired stripling-gave up, on condition that St. John should be allotted to him. Then, this being decided, the man who was to be Jesus began leisurely to wash his hands in the lake-and much they needed the operation.

At half-past eight we presented ourselves at the marquee and paid our

money to the old grandmother, who was in fact the Mrs. Grudden of the company. The tickets were of two prices: twenty-five centimes for reserved seats, and fifteen centimes for standing room. The chairs, like Mr. Crummles' family-boxes, carried double, so that many rosy white-capped girls, and boys in blouses, were accommodated on their fathers' and mothers' laps, where they remained motionless, their wide-open eyes staring at the stage in mute astonishment. In the doorway, the grandfather of the company sat playing a barrel - organ (boasting of but one tune of eight bars) and continued it throughout the evening with greater zeal than consideration. The actors all ran about, seeing every one to their places, in their glittering tinsel dresses, which one would have thought rather tended to detract from the subsequent effect. We had modestly taken seats near the door in order to slip out more easily should the entertainment prove too long. But we were overruled; they insisted on our changing and taking the places they thought best. One of the girls came and sat beside us, and we talked for a few minutes before the play began. She told us that her name was Angela. She was twentyone, and had been married three years; she had had three children, but two were dead, and now there was only the tiny elf-like baby, thirty days old to-day, she said, and it had been a long, long journey from Venice. We felt a strange pity for her that she evidently did not feel for herself. But now a stalwart Roman captain approached us, and, in a sort of polyglot of French, Italian, and German, informed us that he had the honour of being the scene-painter: "Indeed," he added, modestly, "I can do a little of all-I have been in all countries." His company had just left Venice and Milan, where they had done a great business; "but," he said, "I have not had time to study art as much as I should have liked." Then he hastened away as the stage-bell rang, and the

curtain drew up, not without a few hitches and a very visible stage-carpenter tugging away hard in the corner. The scene opened with Mary remonstrating with her Son, and complaining of Him to His disciples. She wore the traditional blue robes, figured with gold arabesques; a rather strident voice detracted from her charms, but though her action was weak and monotonous, she was by far the best player among the female section of the company. On her entrance, a little girl next to us cried out awe-stricken, Ecco la Madonna! It was the only remark she made through the performance, words evidently failing her after this. The youth who took the much-coveted part of Jesus was certainly the star of the troop, and his acting was always reverent and quiet. He was excellently made-up, too, and alike in type of face and colour of drapery he might have stepped straight from some old painter's

canvas.

The wives, who came on as Roman soldiers and centurions, we were amused to find, had little or nothing to do but Ichime in with the chorus. Some of the dresses looked as though they had seen much wear; poor Angela, we noticed, wore the dustiest tunic of all, and hose that had been plentifully darned ! We pictured her sitting up at night to mend them in the dim light of the caravan, by her sickly baby, while her big, handsome husband dozed beside her. The play grew rather tedious towards the end; true, the scenes were short, but then they were monotonous and innumerable. After the garden of Gethsemane came the seven stations of the cross, each requiring a separate raising of the curtain. But though we were somewhat bored by this succession of similar scenes, just as in a picture-gallery, or in the chapels of a church, the painted scenes are apt to pall,—there was no trace of listlessness or indifference on the part of the audience at large. Even the regulation finale, without which no scene was complete, seemed to come to them each time as

on

a fresh delight. At a given signal all the actors got into position in a circle, and went slowly round to music (the eternal eight bars of the barrel-organ), a sliding board. This simple manœuvre was continually repeated, and thus no portion of the actor's robes was lost to any spectator, whatever his position in the house. At about the third station appeared Simon the Cyrenian robed in black; he turned out to be a comic character, and elicited peals of laughter from the audience, who up to this time had remained perfectly grave, reverent, and impressed-even in face of the slidingboard! There must have been a dearth of principal actors, for we recognized the same man in Simon the Cyrenian, Judas, and the High Priest; but then, as one knows, the old masters often used the same model for the most diverse characters. Of the High Priest there was certainly too much; but if that was in order to show off his wonderful robes, it was a licence which the greatest painters freely allowed themselves. Then there appeared St. Veronica with her handkerchief, who grated somewhat on us, being a stagey woman with a harsh voice, decidedly the least pleasing of the sisterhood. Indeed, the men were altogether better players than the women. Judas was especially well done, in the true melodramatic style; and when in the end the devil (represented as a sort of pantomime bogey) came to carry him off, the excitement was tremendous. Directly after this, when we thought the play was over, the stage-manager leapt upon the boards to announce that there would now be a further collection of ten centimes per head, and also that those who paid this sum would be allowed to see "the Resurrection, with Bengal lights." could not imagine a better illustration of that mixture of business and sentiment which characterized alike the mediæval Church and the artists who ministered to it.

One

Next day we were wakened at daybreak by the same old tune on the

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