"The writer of the epigram having to mention poetically the country of the painter, and not being able to employ the usual Fulginas, or de Fulgineo, uses a circumlocution; and to the third verse, 'Si petis auctoris nomen,' he elegantly replies :

Fulginiæ.

Nicholaus, alumnus

“I have called the phrase 'elegant,' and so I think it will be acknowledged to be by those who are familiar with the Latin poets, and who will recall the Tytion terræ omniparentis alumnum (son of the Earth) of Virgil (Æn. VI. 595), the Bistoniæ magnum alumnum (the Thracian Orpheus) of Valerius Flaccus (Argon. III. 159), the Vatinius Sutrinæ tabernæ alumnus (brought up and educated in the taverns of Sutri) of Tacitus (Annal. XV. 34), the Aurunca alumnus (Lucilius, born in Aurunca Suessa) of Juvenal (Sat. I. 30), and, to come down to the Middle Ages, the Umbria alumnus (Umbrian) of the epitaph in honour of a certain doctor Andrea, in the church of Santa Maria Nuova at Perugia. Now Vasari, or whosoever read the above-quoted epitaph for him, took no heed of the grammatical connection between the words alumnus and Fulginia, gave to the first the value of a cognomen, and assumed the second to belong by syntax as well as prosody to the pentameter. Vasari's Lives, printed in 1550, that is to say, after even Maestro Niccolò's sons were dead, penetrated into Umbria in a period when there were but few readers who were interested in such subjects, and who consequently were able or willing to confute the errors of Vasari's book. The judgments, the dates, and the names in it were by the servile herd of the crudite accepted as oracles, and were repeated and taught to the people even although they were often in flat contradiction with local testimony and traditions. The Folignese Jacobilli-second to none of the learned crew, whether for absence of criterion or for facility and audacity in lying-not only accepted the false cognomen, but used it to create, for the greater glory of the painter and his birthplace, the patrician family de Alumnis! As was natural, the word pronounced by the Aretine biographer (Vasari) was echoed everywhere in Italy and out of Italy. . . . . But in Foligno especially, where it was strengthened by the authority of the native historian, Jacobilli, it exercised, and continues to exercise, a species of fascination. The good folks of Foligno see the name Alumnus in every picture and document where Nicolaus is written; they are able to distinguish the individual so called by themselves from another Maestro Niccolò, who, they say, is also 'di Liberatore,' also a Folignese, also a quattrocentista; and they are most unwilling to suffer any one to attempt to set the error right." The simple fact of course is that there was but one Maestro Niccolò di Liberatore, da Foligno, working and living in his native town in the fifteenth century; and that the origin of his being called Alumno is that discovered by Professor Rossi.

And now let us consider a little what work this man did, and what it still has to say to us from the distance of more than four centuries.

As for his technical merits, they need not be insisted on to the student of Medieval art, and to the rest of the world it will be a sufficient guarantee that he possessed some distinguished qualities, to observe that his pictures are honourably placed in such great collections as the galleries of the Louvre, the Vatican, the Brera at Milan, the Academy of Fine Arts at Bologna, and others. But let us look now at some of his paintings with unprejudiced eyes, and try to find in them the touch of nature that makes us feel the far-away, foreign quattrocentista to be akin to our nineteenth-century selves. In the Vatican gallery, in the long room which contains the fine portrait of a Doge, by Titian, a Madonna and child enthroned, by Perugino, and other important pictures, are two large altar-pieces in several compartments, labelled "Niccolò Alumno." They are painted on wood, with gold backgrounds. Perhaps you have been enjoying the peaceful beauty, the clear symmetry and repose, which mark Perugino's Madonna and bambino surrounded by saints, and on turning round towards the opposite wall you are shocked by a distorted, upturned face, expressing the utmost abandonment of undignified sorrow. "What a hideous thing!" will probably be your unsophisticated but sincere exclamation. I have heard many such before that picture. But have a little patience, and survey old Maestro Niccolò's work a little more carefully, and I think you will find him worth considering.

The distorted face which I have mentioned belongs to a figure of St. John. The subject of the central compartment of the ancona (as the technical name for this sort of Gothic altar-piece runs) is the crucifixion, with the Magdalen kneeling at the foot of the cross, and the Virgin Mary and St. John standing on either side of it, gazing up at the figure of the Redeemer. St. John is not only weeping, he is howling! His mouth is wide open, and drawn to one side in a convulsion of crying. His hands are clasped and twisted in anguish. And, unpoetical as the phrase may be, honest truth compels me to say that his countenance gives you the vividest assurance that he is bellowing to be heard from the Vatican to Sant' Angelo! No doubt one might find all sorts of fine-spun theories to justify the distinct ugliness of St. John's demonstration of grief, and to show that in the year 1470, or thereabouts, it was the intense and naïf devotional sentiment of artists which made them so "realistic." For, alas, we have come, I fear, in this year of grace to consider the Real synonymous with the Ugly: a sad result, one would think; scarcely wholesome when confined to paint and canvas, but surely fatal if transferred to more purely spiritual regions! But it is not my business to account for Maestro Niccolò's St. John, still less to apologize for it. Let us look at the other figures in this compartment.

The Madonna's face is full of the profoundest grief, but she is neither howling nor sobbing. She has cried away all her tears long ago. The red and swollen eyelids and the ashen-grey mouth tell their own story. She stands very still and silent, with folded hands raised a

little, as if in prayer, and her gaze is fixed upon the dying figure on the cross. She has forgotten everything in the world-herself included-She will not disturb the majesty of that silent sufferThe beloved disciple may give vent to unrestrained

except her son. ing even by a sigh. emotion; not so the mother. She stands rigid and motionless, absorbed in one agony with her son. Not a fold of her dark blue draperies is stirred. She will not move again, be sure, until all is over, and they give that wounded body once more into the arms that first clasped it on earth. Mary Magdalen is kneeling, and stretches her arms upward towards Jesus. Her back is to the spectator, and is mantled with waves of flowing auburn hair. A half turn of the head enables us to see her face, tear-stained and woeful, with its brow all wrinkled up, partly with sorrow, and partly in her strained effort to gaze upward. The Saviour is an impressive figure in which the somewhat coarse presentment of physical torture is entirely over-ridden by the sublime patience of the martyr. Above the cross are angels crying and sobbing with an energy which rivals that of St. John; and one of them is applying a very large-sized pocket-handkerchief to his eyes. Somehow one cannot feel much sympathy with those angels, nor believe in one's inmost heart that they are thoroughly in earnest. Certainly the celestial sublimities seldom attained by earthly pencil and pigmentsare not here successfully grappled with by our Niccold. What he can show us is the anguish of a loving mother's heart, and the utter selfabnegation of a woman at the feet of the divinity she adores.

Well, now let us look at the figures in the side divisions. First and foremost, to the left of the spectator, comes St. Peter, clad in full episcopal robes, mitre on head, and carrying the processional cross in his left hand; whilst in his right he holds the keys. Yes; he does hold them! They are not dangling, nor loosely supported by a careless finger and thumb; but he has them in a sinewy grasp, which says very plainly to all beholders, "Dieu me les a données, le diable ne me les ôtera pas!” This figure of St. Peter is one of the most striking I have ever seen painted. The head appears to me equal to those of the very greatest masters; at least, in so far as regards force, individuality, and vitality. We are The man is alive-breathing-you think he must speak soon. on the solid earth here. And whatsoever intensity of "naïf devotion old Maestro Niccolò may have been filled with in painting his celestialities, it is clear that the inspiration did not suffice to produce anything half so good as this flesh-and-blood St. Peter-a man, and master of men! He is not aged, although his beard is grizzled, and his eyes are full of energy. I should not like to be a culprit before him if he were a judge, nor a vacillating prime minister if he were a king, nor a poltroon or incapable officer if he were a general. But he would be fair and just withal. He would take a large and sagacious view of things; would, may be, give you a hundred scudi if you were in need of them, and would certainly not let you cheat or cajole him out of a baiocco.

On the opposite side of the picture is a St. Porfirio, whose fame is, I fancy, chiefly confined to Camerino, a little town on the borders of Umbria and the Marches, where he was martyred, which also is wonderfully painted. He is not so fine a fellow as St. Peter. He is more smug and smooth; but full of quiet earnestness and intense individuality. He has a book in his hand, and looks up, holding his head on one side, with a half argumentative, half conciliatory, wholly clerkly air. I think these two were very familiar apparitions to Niccolò in the streets of Foligno. I believe that St. Peter, who grasps his keys so masterfully, was among the "priori della città "-Magnifici domini priores populi Civitatis Fulginei was their official style and title in all public acts and documents-and gave many a sagacious vote upon communal affairs. He was a man of mark and substance, be sure, and bonnets were doffed as he walked through the public ways. St. Porfirio, I fancy, was an ecclesiastic, possibly the superior of the convent of Sant' Agostino, Maestro Niccolò's favourite church, and our painter knew every turn of his face, and has given us a wonderfully vivid rendering of the courteous, soft-spoken, gentle-eyed churchman, with the suggestion of a strong, though elastic will in the velvet sheath of him.

But we must not linger before this ancona, or time will fail us to get a glimpse of the Maestro's life in his Umbrian city four hundred and odd years ago. One moment, however, I wish to pause before a companion picture in the same room and on the same wall; also an ancona painted on a gilt background. Here the central compartment displays the coronation of the Virgin, and the Virgin's face is very sweet and lovely. The colouring here appears to me to be inferior to that in the Crucifixion; whether injured by time, or by unskilful cleaning, my unlearned eyes cannot decide. But the face of that Madonna is beautiful; and it is the sort of beauty that grows on you as you gaze. The expression is wholly pure, and good, and gentle, without the over douce look of affected meekness which unpleasantly characterizes some Madonne Incoronate that I have seen. The Saviour here is far inferior in dignity and grace. Maestro Niccolò has not selected his model very happily, or has copied him too faithfully. But in truth, as I have said, the celestialities are not our Niccolo's forte. He does not breathe quite easily and naturally in the empyrean region which seems to be the native element of such a devout soul as the Beato Angelico, for example. On the other hand, the lively reality of most of his heads is very striking. They are wonderfully varied. Vasari says of him, ". . . inasmuch as he gave to all his figures heads copied from the real, and which seemed alive, his manner pleased very much." I venture to think that that "manner" will continue to please very much whenever we are fortunate enough to meet with it!

He had a great sense of humour, too, this quattrocentista. Look especially at two heads, one labelled St. Philip and the other St. James the Younger, in the lower part of the same ancona. They are halffigures, not larger than the palm of your hand, and yet how forcible and

full of character! St. Philip is reading some words painted in minute characters upon a scroll he holds, and of which one can decipher the words judicare vivos et mortuos. He has a huge pair of spectacles on his nose, and his countenance expresses the naïvest astonishment. "Bless my soul !" he seems to say, "is it possible?" He is rather of the Pantaloon type, with an advancing nose and retreating forehead; simple, credulous, and, one would say, garrulous. He may have been the barber, who retailed all the gossip of Foligno to Maestro Niccolò, as he clipped and shaved that worthy citizen and distinguished painter. St. James the Younger is also spectacled, also reading, also on the wrong side of fifty. But he is a very different individual from Philip. He has the air of a worldly-minded old gentleman, perusing the morning paper at his club, and smiling over it as he says to himself, "Ah, you won't find it easy to take me in! I understand things in general, and believe in very few of 'em." There is no shadow of historical foundation for the assertion, but nevertheless I have firmly made up my mind that this spectacled, mundane-looking apostle is the veracious portrait of the notary to the Magnifici domini priores—a functionary of some importance.

We often hear it said that the great masters of old times painted better than the moderns, and were paid worse. Without touching on the question of respective merits, it is satisfactory to know that competent artists in the fifteenth century were, on the contrary, excessively well paid. This is proved beyond the possibility of a doubt by documentary evidence. And Professor Rossi told me that he had made careful calculations, based on the price of corn, poultry, and other articles of food, from which it resulted that not only artists, but skilled artisans (the distinction between the two was a very faint and almost invisible one in the fifteenth century) were paid at a much higher rate than any such are now paid—at least in Italy.

Maestro Niccolò was born about the year 1430, in Foligno. The exact date is not known, but various circumstances, patiently hunted out from dusty rolls and archives by Professor Rossi, concur to prove that the year 1430 cannot be far from the truth. His father was Liberatore di Mariano, and seems, in spite of his want of a surname, to have belonged to a family that bore arms; for Niccolò, in a codicil to his will, bequeathed to his second son Marchesio a gold ring, engraved with the crest of his family. The house of Niccolò's father was contiguous to that of Maestro Pietro Mazzaforte, the painter. Now Maestro Pietro had an only daughter, and young Niccolò found the workshop of the well-to-do painter, Mazzaforte, a very attractive place. But that he did not spend all his time there in love-making, or in watching for a glimpse of the "bella Caterina," is satisfactorily proved by the pictures he painted. About the year 1452 the young Maestro Niccolò married Pietro Mazzaforte's daughter, and the marriage appears to have been a thoroughly well-assorted and happy one.

Thenceforward the record of our artist's life may be read from year to