I had a store of such remarks, be

sure,

Which, after I found leisure, turned

to use:

I drew men's faces on my copy-books, Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge,

Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes,

Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's,

And made a string of pictures of the world

Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun,

On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. "Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say?

In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark.

What if at last we get our man of parts,

We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese

And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine

And put the front on it that ought to be!"

And hereupon he bade me daub away. Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank,

Never was such prompt disemburdening.

First every sort of monk, the black and white,

I drew them, fat and lean: then, folks at church,

From good old gossips waiting to confess

'Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,

To the breathless fellow at the altarfoot,

not to see,

Being simple bodies, - "That's the very man!

Look at the boy who stoop to pat the dog!

That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes

To care about his asthma: it's the life!"

But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked ; Their betters took their turn to see

and say: The Prior and the learned pulled a face And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here?

Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all!

Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the

true

As much as pea and pea! it's devil's game!

Your business is not to catch men with show,

ting there

With the little children round him in

a row

Of admiration, half for his beard, and half

For that white anger of his victim's

son

Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,

Signing himself with the other because of Christ

(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this

After the passion of a thousand years),

Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God,

That sets us praising, why not stop with him?

Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head

With wonder at lines, colors, and what not?

Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!

Rub all out, try at it a second time! Oh! that white smallish female with the breasts,

She's just my niece. . . Herodias, I would say,

Who went and danced, and got men's heads cut off!

Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask?

A fine way to paint soul, by painting body

So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go farther

Thus, yellow

And can't fare worse! does for white When what you put for yellow's simply black,

And any sort of meaning looks in

heads shake still-"It's art's decline, my son ! You're not of the true painters, great and old;

Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find:

Brother Lorenzo stands his single

In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass

After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,

Although the miller does not preach to him

The only good of grass is to make chaff.

What would men have? Do they like grass or no

May they or inayn't they? all I want's the thing

Settled forever one way. As it is, You tell too many lies and hurt yourself:

You don't like what you only like toc much,

You do like what, if given you at your word,

You find abundantly detestable. For me, I think I speak as I was taught.

I always see the garden, and God there

A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned,

The value and significance of flesh, I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.

You understand me: I'm a beast, I know.

But see, now-why, I see as certainly

As that the morning-star's about to shine,

What will hap some day. We've a youngster here

Comes to our convent, studies what I do,

Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop:

His name is Guidi-he'll not mind the monks

Just as they are, careless what comes of it?

God's works-paint any one, and count it crime

To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works

Are here already; nature is complete: Suppose you reproduce her- (which you can't)

There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."

For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love

First when we see them painted,
things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to
And

see;

so they are better, painted — better to us,

Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;

God uses us to help each other so, Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now

Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk,

And trust me but you should, though! How much more

If I drew higher things with the same truth!

That were to take the Prior's pulpit