to decorate the choir of the duomo at Spoleto, but was destined never to finish these frescos. After a sudden illness, supposed to have been the result of poison, he died at Spoleto on the 9th of October, 1469, and was buried in the duomo of that city. Following this family history a little farther, we find that Filippino Lippi, born about 1457, became a pupil of Botticelli, and studied the frescos of Masaccio in the Brancaccio chapel, as his father had done before him. In 1484, he was chosen to complete these frescos, left unfinished by the master sixty years previous to that time. This work established his reputation, and caused him to receive the commission to fresco the Strozzi chapel in the church of Santa Maria Novella, at Florence. In 1497, Filippino Lippi married Maddalena, the daughter of Pietro Paolo Monti. He died eight years afterward, on the 3rd of April, 1505. The result of this union was a son, Francesco, who is mentioned in the quaint, conceited memoirs of the celebrated goldsmith, Benvenuto Cellini, in these words: "About that time (1518) I contracted a close and familiar friendship with an amiable lad of my own age, who was also in the goldsmith's trade. He was called Francesco, son of Filippo and grandson of Fra Filippo Lippi, that most excellent painter. Through intercourse together, such love grew up between us that, day or night, we never stayed apart. The house where he lived was still full of the fine studies which his father had made, bound up in several books of drawings by his hand, and taken from the best antiquities in Rome. The sight of these things filled me with passionate enthusiasm, and for two years or thereabouts we lived in intimacy." The knowledge of these few facts in the life history of these two painters of the fifteenth century makes the visit to Prato seem truly a pilgrimage to the shrine of love and genius. One treads with thoughtful steps the narrow, roughly paved streets where, six centuries before, human ambition and human love played so prominent a part, and made this little Italian town stand out from among its fellows as the background of a romance unique in the annals of the world's history. It makes the student pause before the open door in the high convent wall which runs along the via Margherita, to glance with an interest which forbids the imputation of curiosity, at the worn tiled flooring beyond the court, where the feet of the young nun must have passed and repassed many hundreds of times during her enforced seclusion It compels him to pay homage to the filial affection which erected a shrine in a niche in the wall outside, where behind wooden panels a Madonna by Filippino Lippi commemorates a parent's love, as human in its tendencies as that of the bright-faced Italian mothers who come with their bambini in their arms to kneel before it. It causes him to visit the old duomo, where, if time presses, scarce noting the beautiful circular pulpit carved with sphinxes and serpents by Mino da Fiesole and Rossellino, he passes on to the choir to peer at the frescos, once glowing with the life and color of Filippo ADORATION OF THE MAGI," BY FILIPPINO LIPPI. Lippi's brush, but now beautiful only to a Ruskinian disciple with patience enough to await the one hour in the day when the sunlight throws it brightest shafts through the stained windows. It causes a return to Florence with a renewed interest in the frescos of the Strozzi chapel by Filippino Lippi, and in those by the same hand in the church of Santa Maria del Carmine which completes the chain of circumstances connecting the lives of father and son; the old convent church forming the center and circumference between which their lives circled. And then, having received his reward for this self-imposed duty which ends in pleas ure, the student may feast his eyes freely tradistinction to the æsthetes who preceded upon the works of these two masters-beau- his school. Browning, in "Fra Lippo Lippi," tiful alike to the initiated and uninitiated puts these words into the monk's mouth: which decorate the walls of the Uffizi and Pitti galleries, like jewels upon a queen's fair front. In the Pitti there hangs a Madonna in a rich frame, by Filippo Lippi. The face of this Madonna is the real portrait of the nun Lucretia Buti, whose flesh tones gleam with the pale bisque tints so characteristic of the artist who delighted in showing the material, rather than the spiritual side of motherhood. The sentimentalist may prefer the supposed portrait of the young novitiate which, in a painting called "The Painter Lippi and the Nun Buti,'' hangs on the walls of the Academy of Fine Arts among the modern Florentine works of art. But the authenticity of the former portrait is well established, while the latter is merely the creation of poetic fancy. "We're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed 66 MADONNA ENTHRONED." monk, painted by himself, in his "Coronation of the Virgin"-a work in his latest style, and one of his masterpieces. It is remarkable for its unusual size, and for clear, harmonious coloring. The kneeling monk at the right of the picture, from whose clasped hands there floats a scroll bearing the words "Is perfecit opus," is Filippo Lippi. The face is characteristic of the artist, who was essentially a painter of the material things of life, in con with the same correct judg ment of the monk's character: "Fra Filippo Lippi added to that whole-strength and sanity of sight an even clearer perception of natural beauty and grace. The glories of the physical realm in landscape, in the power of men, and in the loveliness of women were handled now with a growing boldness which outran the delicate timidity that had restrained it in the shadow of the church." There is anround other Madonna on the Pitti walls which shares equal honors, in the public eye, with the elder Lippi's Madonna. This is Filippino's "Sainted Family with Angels," a painting charming in conception, composition, and richness of The color, shown in the wonderful green-tipped crimson wings of the adoring angels, and the garments of the kneeling figures. delightfully conventionalized background with roses, suggests Botticelli; and one might be pardoned for attributing this chef-d'œuvre to the master instead of the pupil. Unmistakably the work of the younger Lippi is the "Adoration of the Magi," in the Uffizi, with excellent portrait faces, among which may be seen the features of Pietro Francesco de' Medici. In the same gallery hangs a "Madonna Enthroned," by the same artist; in richness of design it suggests Carlo Crivelli, but shows decidedly original treatment in the descending angels in the upper half of the painting. Very different from this artist's other works is his "Death of Lucretia," a long, narrow canvas in the Pitti. He has taken the death of the wife of Collatinus as his subject, probably gratifying a personal feeling, which prompted the portrayal of a scene in the life of the Roman matron whose name was the same as that which his mother bore. The painting is filled with figures whose interesting facial expressions and grouping form its principal attraction. In the distance, through the arches of the background, may be seen a pleasing landscape effect. This closes the description of the life, and of most of the principal works of two of the chief artists of their time, whose influence made itself felt upon the work of succeeding Florentine painters, and whose glowing canvases are today lasting attractions in the galleries of Florence. The touch of nature which makes the whole world akin is present in all their handiwork, and causes their Madonnas, in their material loveliness, to rival the more saintly creations of brother artists. Where is Arcady? where ARCADY. BY CLINTON SCOLLARD. Is that lovely land? you say; You have footed a weary track and dreary Yet never a pilgrim found Who has glimpsed its hills afar, But met many dreaming of the beaming Where is Arcady? where Is that wondrous clime? you cry; Where unfolden is the olden Charm of its golden sky? 'Tis given to every soul To gaze on it once, forsooth! With the eyes of-in the guise of Under the skies of - Youth! A DAY IN TENERIFFE. 66 BY MARY CHOLMONDELEY, AUTHOR OF RED POTTAGE." T is seven o'clock on a February morning. Candelaria has just brought me a cup of goat's milk, and I may as well drink it at the open window. What an air comes blowing in, warm as an English June, but laden with which would tell me that I was in a sub-tropical climate, if I shut my eyes. High and near at hand, shutting out most of the turquoise blue of the sky, which will be bluer still presently, rise the fantastic, tortured outlines of the range of volcanic hills which shelter Santa Cruz from the north. These hills fill me with a species of horror. They appear to me like the work of demons, and as if temptation and crime lurked among their stony-tilted ravines and rent clefts. Among those clinging cactuses and clumps of "devil's fingers" Faust might have walked and stumbled, with Mephistopheles at his ear. But today, with the morning sun and the cloud shadows upon their seared, grotesque faces, they look almost dignified, almost absolved of evil. A weird beauty takes possession of them. It is silent up there. Down here at their feet the day is already in full career. The black goats are bleating and ringing their bells. The Canarien birts," as a German friend calls them, are shouting among the pepper trees. The canaries are not yellow, as they ought to be, but brown, which I regard in the light of a personal injury. There goes the hoopoo again. "Cuk! cuk! cuk!" just like the first note of the cuckoo, repeated three times over, but more sweetly. I wish I could see him. A girl's voice, fresh and gay as any bird's, but with a strident note in it, comes from the tomato gardens near at hand. I lean out of the window. Yes, they are all at work again picking the tomatoes. An immensely stout woman, clad in white trousers, is poising a tray of tomatoes on her head. Surely the most advanced of our "new women only needs to see a few of these fat Spanish women in trousers, in order to be convinced that we cannot in all things imitate man with advantage. The costume certainly makes the feet look small, but when one has said that one has said all. These trousers make such a deep impression on my mind that I inquire into them. I find that they are lent by the farmers to the peasant women to protect their dresses while they pick their tomato crops. On one stone terrace above another narrow strips of earth have been rescued from the hillside, and here, in long lines, the crops are grown. On the terraces below the tomato crop the prickly pears stand in serried ranks, with a white bandage on each of the many fat, upraised hands. They look like a plant hospital. Even the chance prickly pears the out-patients-struggling up the hillside are nearly all similarly bandaged. It is the first process of the manufacture of cochineal. The young of the cochineal insects are sprinkled on these bandages, which are then tied round the unlucky cactus, which is obliged, so to speak, to furnish board and lodging to the insect. Seen near at hand, this insect does not present an engaging appearance, having a strong resemblance to the Norfolk Howard family. I applied the point of my umbrella to the poor parasite-covered plant the other day, in a spirit of inquiry. Several cochineal insects immediately went to their last account, and a deep red blot trickled down the cactus and stained the point of my umbrella. I looked. I felt that I had committed murder. I fled. When the insect is full grown he is collected, passed through a sieve, ground into powder, and finally becomes, among other things, a means of culinary beauty. Whenever I see persons eating a pink blancmange or" shape" in the future I shall make a point of mentioning this interesting process to them. And now Candelaria reappears with a Baño caliente. Candelaria is a very pretty girl, and she wears a pink cotton blouse with crimson rings on it, which suits her olive complexion admirably. She looks even better in it than in her white cotton gown of yesterday, when she waited at table, with flowers in her hair, and two gold rings on her fingers. Victor, the butler, also wears a gold ring on Sundays. I cannot imagine why he does not marry Candelaria; but perhaps he will, if he is given time, especially as at present he is restricted almost entirely to her society, because he dare not take a walk for fear of the conscription. I wake V., who is still sleeping the sleep of the sluggard in an adjoining room, in what she calls her "meat-safe"; and an hour later, having breakfasted, we take a turn in the garden. We peep over our neighbors' wall to see how they are getting on, to the surprise of a little golden-brown calf which is lying in the sun, tethered to a twisted shrub of plumbago, the blue flowers of which almost touch him. Though it is not yet ten o'clock, it is already hot, in spite of a fresh, light-hearted air that comes dancing across from the sea. The sunlight trembles on the yellow stone steps and on the trailing, climbing masses of the bougainvillea, which has flung its mantle of purple over the balustrade. Through an opening in the trees we glance down across the white watercourses and green terraces to the little town of Santa Cruz-its irregular, flat-topped buildings and quaint cupolas, outlined as if cut out in white paper, sharp white, against the fierce blue of the sea. Far away on the horizon the Grand Canary lies like a cloud. We look ruefully at that blue sea. We have no colors in our paint boxes to reproduce that vivid marvel of color. The sky reflects it, as one dazzled glance shows us, through the network of pink almond blossom above our heads. An immense, prosaic German steamer, with yellow quarantine flag flying, after making a vulgar and unseemly noise, has anchored exactly on the top of the highest white-lace cupola, making a capital T of it. "If B. were here, wrestling with her art," says V., meditatively, "she would draw in that steamer exactly as it is now, impaled on the top of that spire." The aloe near at hand has drooped even since last week. Poor aloe! I watch it with a painful interest. It has put out a monster flower, a giant, as high as the house, and is dying slowly in consequence. I did not realize that it was a flower until I was told. "Methought it was a trusty tree"; and I supposed that all the leaves what great double-edged saws they are, eight to ten feet long!- had grown at its foot by mistake. What I took for the trunk is the stalk of the flower! Once in a hundred years, it is said, the aloe flowers thus, and then dies. We turn back into the shade, and drag our deck chairs along the stone flags to the yellow tank under the orange trees. "Now," I say sternly, "if we don't improve our minds early in the day, we shall never improve them at all. Fetch Prescott." We are reading" The Conquest of Mexico " aloud to each other. We have been reading A GROUP OF TENERIFFE CRAFTSWOMEN. it for some time, but we make but little progress. When the "Conquest" is shut (as it generally is), our marker seems to cleave to the fly-leaf. This, however, is not true, as we are in reality half way through the first chapter. V. opens the book and spreads out the atlas on her knee. A large yellow butterfly comes floating through the shadow, and settles on a crimson hibiscus, which is hanging like a flame against the pale green stem of a coral tree. The two ardent colors quiver together in the sunshine. Where were we?" I ask stoically, when the butterfly has flown away. "They had just sent a humming-bird out of the ark," says V., " and that apparently without any collusion with the old world;" and she begins to read. "The dyes used by the ancient Mexicans were obtained from both mineral and vegetable substances. Among them was the rich and crimson of the cochineal, the modern rival of |