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ed before, obtained for it much more favorable terms than the Rhodians had dared to expect. It is related, that Protogenes was found engaged in painting in his garden, when the troops of Demetrius entered, so absorbed in his occupation as to appear regardless of the tumult around. On being brought before the conqueror, and asked why he exhibited so little concern, amid the general calamity, he replied, “that he understood Demetrius warred with men, not with the arts." The King in return, requested the artist to furnish him with a painting of his own production, and sent him a hundred talents.

It is recorded of Apelles that he never painted on walls, nor on any thing that could not be saved in a fire. He would have had the works of the best masters carried from one country to another, and could not endure that a picture should have but one master; because painting, he said, was a common good to all the world.'


On a certain day in the year 1260, the whole city of Florence appeared to be in motion. The roofs of the houses were filled with spectators, the balconies crowded, and the streets thronged. Few seemed to understand exactly what was the occasion. Some said a miracle was to be performed. All were in eager expectation of something strange and wonderful.

At length, the deep solemn chant of the monks was heard, and a long procession of holy fathers appeared in sight. The loud impatience of the populace was now awed. into silence, while the monks proceeded along the streets, their heads covered with cowls, and their long black robes giving an unearthly appearance to their figures; yet from the eyes that glanced beneath their dark hoods might be discerned expressions of

triumph and exultation; there was none of the misericordia of their usual department. It was not like a procession formed for the house of death. They walked with rapid strides, ever and anon looking impatiently behind, and even their hands, instead of being meekly folded on the bosom, had a free motion.

They were on their way to the church St. Maria Novella. Two Italians stood on a small eminence that bordered the Arno; one was of mature age, the other a mere boy, and wore evidently the dress of a shepherd; but what put his occupation beyond doubt, was the crook which he bore, and a large dog by his side, of the race which the Italian peasants use, to watch their flocks.

“Come, come, Giotto," said the oldest, “the day is getting far advanced, the sun strikes the old tower yonder, and we must be about our work; we cannot be idling here.”

“Nay, father,” said the youngest, "the holy fathers have already arrived at the church, and the triumphal procession will soon follow."

“In truth,” said Giacopo, “thou art possessed, — by thy young master Cimabue ; – St. Peter grant it may not be by an evil spirit.”

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How canst thou say that, father ?” said the boy, “ Did he not save my life among the hills, when I lay sleeping, and my faithful Fido was away? Yes, Fido," said the boy, patting the head of the dog, who, hearing his own name, wagged his tail, and licked his master's hand, “when thou wert away; for hadst thou been by, I should not have wanted any body else. Oh, never shall I forget when I first heard the growl of the panther. I awoke from my sleep quick enough. There he was, crouched on the crag above, his eyes looking like balls of fire, and only waiting for me to move, to spring upon me : before me was the deep ravine through which the mountain torrent was pouring. I shut my eyes, and prayed to the blessed mother — and then suddenly I heard a loud howl, and in a moment the panther, struggling in the agony of death came rolling down, crushing the very trees by his weight, and fell headlong into the torrent. Then I breathed, and looked up, and there stood Cimabue, my young master, with his bow still in his hand. -- Ah, father, can I ever forget that moment ?

66 Thou shouldst not, my son,” replied the old Giotto, “but thou must not set thy

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young master above the virgin Mary, and the holy saints ; didst thou not say, even now, that thou prayed to the blessed mother? it was she that saved thy life, and put vigor into the arm of Cimabue, and directed the arrow as it sped from the bow."

“And well, father, has he repaid the deed. Ah! thou wilt see the beautiful picture he has drawn of her ; all Florence will see it. - Hark, dost thou not hear the sound of cymbals and trumpets ? It comes ! it comes ! On, father, on! Let us to the street through which it must pass."

They hastened to the Borgo Allegri, , which took its name from the joyous occasion. The procession advanced. ture of the Virgin Mary, larger than life, was borne on a triumphal car, by milk-white steeds, with nodding plumes, and harnessed with blooming wreaths. The Tuscan girls preceded it, dressed in white robes, and strewing flowers. Every little while, a bell was rung, and the host elevated. To the joyous acclamations of the multitude that shook the air, profound silence succeeded, every knee was bent : again the bell rung, and all

and animation. Then came a new procession of priests, with the

The pic

was life

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