Michelangelo - A Collection Of Fifteen Pictures And A Portrait Of The - Master, With Introduction And Interpretation
by Estelle M. Hurll
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The sibyl is reading aloud from one of her books of oracles. The two little genii standing behind her shoulder, and listening with absorbed attention, hold another book, not yet unclasped, ready for her. She reads her prophecy with keen, searching eyes, and a manner that is almost stern. We can see in the large, strong features the determination of her character.

It is not a gentle face, and not pleasing, but it is full of meaning. We read there the record of the centuries which have passed over her head, bringing her the deep secrets of life. Yet the prophecies are still unfulfilled, and there is a look of unsatisfied longing in her wrinkled old face.

You will notice that the outlines of the Cumaean sibyl are drawn in an oval figure similar to that inclosing the Delphic sibyl. Here, however, the oval is of a more elongated form, and the left side is broken midway by the introduction of the book.

The old writer Pausanias, writing his "Description of Greece," in the second century, says that the people of Cumae showed a small stone urn in the temple of Apollo containing the ashes of the sibyl. For many centuries her cavern was pointed out to travellers in a rock under the citadel of Cumae. Finally the fortifications of the city were undermined, but to this day a subterranean passage in the rock on which they were built is still shown as the entrance to the sibyl's cave.



The statue of Lorenzo de' Medici is the central figure on the tomb erected to the memory of this prince. He was the rather unworthy namesake of his illustrious grandfather, who was known as Lorenzo the Magnificent. The Medici family was for many generations the richest and most powerful in Florence. They were originally merchants, and, as the name signifies, physicians, and, accumulating great wealth, they became powerful leaders, and really the rulers of the republic.

Some of them were munificent patrons of art and literature. There was one named Cosimo, who did so much to make his city famous that he was called Pater Patriae, the father of the country, as was, centuries afterwards, our own Washington. His grandson Lorenzo won the title of the Magnificent for his lavish generosity and superb plans for the advancement of art and learning. So much power could not safely be in the hands of a single family. The Medici, from being benefactors, finally became tyrants.

The Lorenzo of this statue was one of the more insignificant members of the family. It is said that "he inherited the vices without the genius of the family, and was ambitious, unscrupulous, and dissipated. His uncle, Pope Leo X., after depriving the Duke of Urbino of his hereditary domains, bestowed them, with the title of duke, on Lorenzo, whom he also made general of the pontifical forces."[29] In 1518 Leo united him in marriage to a French princess, and their daughter was the afterwards celebrated Catharine de' Medici, queen of the French king, Henry II. These are the main facts in the life of a man who is remembered only because he had illustrious ancestors, a famous daughter, and a superb tomb.

[Footnote 29: Susan and Joanna Horner's Walks in Florence, vol. i. p. 125.]

It mattered nothing to Michelangelo that he had so poor a subject for a statue. It is supposed that he made no attempt at correct portraiture in the figure. The insignificant Lorenzo was transformed by the magic of his genius into a hero.

He wears a suit of Roman armor, in accordance with his career as a general in the wars with the Duke of Urbino, whose title he took. His helmet is pulled well forward over the brow, the head is bent, the cheek rests upon the left hand, the elbow supported on a casket placed on the knee. With finger laid thoughtfully upon the lips, he is thinking intently. The right hand rests, palm out, against the knee in a characteristic position of inaction.

His mood is not that of a dreamer lost to his present surroundings. Rather he seems to be keenly aware of what is going on; his meditations have to do with the present. It is as if, having given an order, he awaits its execution, his mind still intent upon his purposes, satisfied with his decision, and calmly expectant of its success. His affair is one of serious importance; no trifling matter absorbs the thought of this grave man. "A king sits in this attitude when, in the midst of his army, he orders the execution of some judicial act, like the destruction of a city. Frederic Barbarossa must have appeared thus when he caused Milan to be ploughed up."[30]

[Footnote 30: Taine, Travels in Italy.]

The lack of resemblance in the statue to the original duke Lorenzo made it for a long time doubtful whether it was intended to be his tomb. The Florentines, in their poetic way, fell into the habit of calling it Il Pensiero, that is, Thought, or Meditation, sometimes Il Pensieroso, The Thinker. These are, after all, the best names for the statue, which is allegorical rather than historical in its intention. The great English poet Milton has written a poem, which is like a companion piece to the statue, fitting it as words sometimes fit music. It begins in this way, in words which Il Pensieroso himself might speak:—

"Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly, without father bred! How little you bested, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shape possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail! thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy!"

Lorenzo's statue stands in a niche above the sarcophagus, or stone coffin, in which his body was laid. On the top of the sarcophagus are two reclining figures called Dawn and Twilight. The tomb itself is in a chapel, or sacristy, called the New Sacristy (to distinguish it from one still older), in the Church of S. Lorenzo, Florence. The entire sacristy is devoted to the memory of the Medici family, who had for several generations been benefactors of this church.

Now Michelangelo had a great deal to do with this family first and last, and his work on the tomb has an additional interest on this account. It was to Lorenzo the Magnificent that he owed his first start as a sculptor in an academy founded by this prince. He so pleased his patron that he was received into the duke's own household, and treated almost like a son. Years passed; Lorenzo had long been dead, when, one after another, two members of the same family came to the papal throne, and they desired to honor their name by employing the greatest sculptor of Italy in this monumental work.

So Michelangelo began designs for the sacristy, the entire decoration of which was intrusted to him. The walls of the rooms were panelled with marble, set with niches, in the form of windows, in which the statues were to be placed.

As the work proceeded, it was interrupted by some strange incidents, of which we shall hear later. The whole plan was never fully carried out, but in spite of incompleteness the chapel is a grand and impressive place.



The tomb of Giuliano de' Medici is the companion to the tomb of Lorenzo, and stands on the opposite side of the altar which separates them. Our illustration shows the entire work, the statue being in the niche above, and the sarcophagus standing below with two reclining figures on it.

Giuliano de' Medici, duke of Nemours, was the youngest son of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and consequently the uncle of the younger Lorenzo. In reality he was greatly superior to his nephew, but curiously enough his appearance in Michelangelo's statue is more commonplace, though his attitude is graceful. He was a thoughtful man, somewhat melancholy in disposition, and the author of a poem on suicide. He wears the costume of a Roman general, but his small head and slender throat are not those of a warrior.

You will notice that the attitude of the duke Giuliano is somewhat similar to that of Moses. Both sit with left foot drawn back and right knee extended. Both turn the head in profile, looking intently toward the left. In either case it is easy to imagine the figure suddenly springing up.

Now this fact emphasizes the difference we have already noted between the sculpture of Michelangelo and that of the Greeks. The leading idea in Greek sculpture was that of repose, while, as we have seen in the David and the Cupid, Michelangelo chose for his figures a moment of action. To give this suggestion of motion to a seated figure is even more remarkable than in the case of one standing, for the sitting posture naturally has an effect of stability.

The reclining figures on the sarcophagus of the Duke Giuliano represent Night and Day, and are supposed to be symbolic of death and resurrection. Night is a woman lying with head sunk upon the breast in a deep sleep. She is crowned with a crescent moon and star, and an owl is placed at her feet. The mask beneath her pillow symbolizes the body from which the spirit has departed. Though the figure is not beautiful in the Greek sense, it is grand and queenly. Opposite is Day, an unfinished captive, his head half freed from the stone, the arms rigid, the body contorted.

These two figures, together with Dawn and Twilight on Lorenzo's tomb, have an allegorical meaning which must be read in the light of Michelangelo's own life history. "Life is a dream between two slumbers; sleep is death's twin-brother; night is the shadow of death; death is the gate of life—such is the mysterious mythology wrought by the sculptor."[31]

[Footnote 31: Symonds, in Renaissance in Italy: the Fine Arts.]

The work on the Medicean tombs covered a period of about twelve years. During this time the Medici family passed through varying fortunes, and in consequence the fate of the tombs, and indeed that of the sculptor himself, hung in the balance. Florence became weary of tyranny and rose in a revolution which drove the Medici from the city in 1527.

Success was of short duration: the republic soon "found herself standing out against a world of foes," the Pope, Clement VII. (himself a Medici), "threatening fire and flame," and all the Medici family "getting ready to return in double force." The Florentines prepared to fight for their liberty, and Michelangelo was found among the patriots. No sense of personal gratitude to the Medici could shake his love of liberty. He forsook the monuments and turned his skill to the fortification of the city.

For eleven months Florence was besieged, and in the end the city was captured. The Medici returned conquerors. Mercenaries now broke into the houses, killing the best citizens. Had not Michelangelo been in hiding, he too would have perished. But the Pope could not afford to lose his best sculptor, and, calling him forth from his hiding-place, again set him to work in the Medici chapel. It is not strange that the sculptor's proud spirit rebelled at having to work on that which was to honor the enemies of his beloved Florence.

Thus it was that his sculpture told the story of "the tragedy of Florence: how hope had departed, how life had become a desert, and how it was hard to struggle with waking consciousness, but good to sleep and forget—nay, best of all, to be stone and feel no more."

The old writer Vasari, who was once a pupil of Michelangelo, and tells us many anecdotes of the sculptor, relates that when the statue of Night was first shown to the public, it called forth a verse from a contemporary poet (Giovan Battista Strozzi). This is the verse:—

"Night in so sweet an attitude beheld Asleep, was by an angel sculptured In this stone; and sleeping, is alive; Waken her, doubter; she will speak to thee."[32]

To this Michelangelo replied in the following lines:[33]—

"Welcome is sleep, more welcome sleep of stone Whilst crime and shame continue in the land; My happy fortune not to see or hear; Waken me not;—in mercy whisper low."[32]

The artist's verse may be taken as a keynote to the solemn tragedy of the work. In fact, the monuments are not really to Lorenzo and Giuliano, but to Florence, to "the great city which had struggled and erred so long, which had gone astray and repented, and suffered and erred again, but always mightily, with full tide of life in her veins and consciousness in her heart, until now the time had come when she was dead and past, chained down by icy oppression in a living grave."[34]

[Footnote 32: Both translations are from Horners' Walks in Florence. Symonds has also translated the verses, but less literally.]

[Footnote 33: Swinburne in his lines, "In San Lorenzo," answers these lines, "Is thine hour come to waken, slumbering Night?"]

[Footnote 34: This and the preceding quotations are from Mrs. Oliphant's Makers of Florence.]



There are in the Bible certain references to a great day when the Son of Man shall be seen "coming in the clouds with great power and glory." "And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other."[35] St. Paul, in a letter which he wrote to the Christians in Corinth, speaks of this as a "mystery," and says:[36] "We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed."

[Footnote 35: Matthew, chapter xxiv. verse 31.]

[Footnote 36: 1 Corinthians, chapter xv. verses 51, 52.]

In the Middle Ages these passages were interpreted very literally and had a great influence over the people. At that time the Christian religion was a religion of fear rather than of love, and men were continually picturing in their minds God's angry separation of the good from the wicked.

How much such thoughts occupied them we may see from Dante's great poem describing a vision of the Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise. This was written in the thirteenth century, and in the same period appeared a short Latin lyric, or hymn, called "Dies Irae," or the Day of Wrath, from an expression used by the old Hebrew prophet Zephaniah. The author was a Franciscan monk named Thomas of Celano, and we may see how deeply he felt from these verses:—

"Ah! what terror is impending When the Judge is seen descending, And each secret veil is rending.

"To the throne, the trumpet sounding, Through the sepulchres resounding, Summons all, with voice astounding.

"Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, Darkest mysteries explaining, Nothing unavenged remaining."

This vivid word picture forms the subject of many great paintings by the older Italian masters, known under the title of the Last Judgment. Michelangelo's was one of the last of these, and in general arrangement his composition resembles those of his predecessors.

From the upper air a company of angels descends, carrying a cross, a crown of thorns, and other instruments of the Saviour's sufferings. Below them is the Judge himself surrounded by the apostles and other saints. Underneath are the archangels blowing their trumpets. On earth, in the lowest part of the picture at the left, the dead rise from their graves and ascend through the air to the Judge. At the right, opposite the ascending dead, are the condemned sinners, descending to the boat which will carry them over the river Styx into the Inferno.

Our illustration gives only the central figures in this great multitude, the Divine Judge accompanied by his mother. He is a man of mighty muscular power, young and handsome, with an expression of imperious dignity. Enthroned on the clouds, he seems just rising from a sitting posture to execute his judgments. He lifts his arms in a sweeping motion as if to part the multitudes pressing upon him on both sides. In so doing he shows the wound in his right side made by the soldier's spear at the crucifixion. Neither expression nor gesture manifests anger; those beautiful hands with delicately extended fingers will strike no blow. The gesture itself is a command.

Beneath Christ's upraised arm, on his right side, sits his Mother Mary. Each must interpret for himself her attitude and expression. Some think that because she turns her face away she is shrinking from her son in terror. Yet her expression is so gentle that others say she is nestling close to him for protection. This is certainly as we should imagine the situation. When she was a young mother, she was proud to take care of her child. And now on this great day she is equally proud to let him take care of her. As he clung to her, his mother, so she now clings to him, the Judge.

Looking at the composition of the picture, we see that her figure completes a pyramid, whose apex is the uplifted hand of the Judge, and whose base lies along the cloud supporting his feet and hers. This gives proper stability to the figures which dominate the whole great picture. Considered in a larger way, the pyramid is itself the upper part of a long oval which keeps the central group apart from the surrounding host.

The picture of the Last Judgment was painted by Michelangelo on the end wall of the Sistine Chapel, over the altar, nearly twenty years after the completion of the ceiling frescoes. There is a great difference between the two works. The figures on the ceiling are strong and powerful, their attitudes spirited and graceful. Those in the Last Judgment are huge and cumbersome, their attitudes strained and violent. The entire effect of the vast company of colossal figures is awe-inspiring, but not pleasing.

It is a relief to fix our eyes upon the central portion. Here the painter expressed an idea at once noble and original. The figure of the Christ has not the delicate beauty of the dead Christ in the Pieta, or the finished elegance of the Christ Triumphant, but he has the splendid vigor of a forceful character. The Mother, less grand and noble than in the bereavement of the Pieta, less proud than in her young motherhood, is a gentle and lovely creature. Thus the intensely masculine is completed by the delicately feminine, and the artist shows us ideal types of manhood and womanhood.



In the pictures of this collection we have learned something of the work of Michelangelo as a sculptor and a painter. He was an artist whose personality was so strongly impressed upon his work that we have come thus to know, to a certain extent, the man himself. His, as we have seen, was not a happy nature, and many of the circumstances of his life conspired against his happiness.

In his early youth he seemed strangely aware of his own superior gifts and was often so overbearing that he made enemies. The story is told of a quarrel he had with a young man named Torrigiano, in whose company he was copying some frescoes in a church in Florence. Stung by some tormenting words of Michelangelo, Torrigiano retaliated with a blow of the fist, which crushed his companion's nose, and disfigured him for life.

Michelangelo's real education began in the palace of Lorenzo the Magnificent, who discovered the lad's talent and made him a favorite. "He sat at the same table with Ficino, Pico, and Poliziano, listening to dialogues on Plato, and drinking in the golden poetry of Greece. Greek literature and philosophy, expounded by the men who had discovered them, first moulded his mind to those lofty thoughts which it became the task of his life to express in form. At the same time he heard the preaching of Savonarola. In the Duomo and the cloister of S. Marco another portion of his soul was touched, and he acquired that deep religious tone which gives its majesty and terror to the Sistine."[37] In the gardens of S. Marco he had Lorenzo's fine collection of antiquities to study, and learned from them the secrets of Greek sculpture.

[Footnote 37: Symonds, in Renaissance in Italy: The Fine Arts.]

In all these opportunities it would seem that Michelangelo was a most fortunate person. Nor did he lack proper appreciation; the Pieta placed him at once on a pinnacle of fame, and the David was heartily admired.

It was when he entered the service of the Pope that his troubles began. He was never thereafter a free man. His genius was at the disposition of a series of men, each ambitious for his own fame, and caring little for the artist's personal aspirations. His proud nature was bitterly humiliated by this sacrifice of his independence. Sometimes he openly rebelled, but in the end was always obliged to yield to papal authority.

Michelangelo's sternly upright spirit found also much to sadden him in the corruption of the times. He was a lover of righteousness as well as a lover of liberty, and he greatly mourned the evils which surrounded him.

One of the pleasantest traits in his character was his warm affection for the members of his family and for the few whom he honored with his friendship. One of the latter was Vittoria Colonna, a woman of strong and beautiful character, who brought much brightness into his life.

Our portrait shows him somewhat past middle life when occupied with many important concerns. We can read in the face something of the character of the man. It is certainly not a handsome face, for any good looks he might once have boasted were destroyed by his broken nose. It is nevertheless a face full of rugged strength, with not a little kindliness in the expression. Here is a man whose enmity we should avoid, but whose friendship we should value above rubies.

It is the face of a lonely man. Michelangelo had to suffer the loneliness of genius. No one could fully understand him. He stood apart, towering like a giant above his fellow men.

On the four hundredth anniversary of Michelangelo's birthday, some verses were written by an American poet, Christopher Cranch, which one should read while looking at this portrait:—

"This is the rugged face Of him who won a place Above all kings and lords; Whose various skill and power Left Italy a dower No numbers can compute, no tongue translate in words.

"Patient to train and school His genius to the rule Art's sternest laws required; Yet, by no custom chained, His daring hand disdained The academic forms by tamer souls admired.

"In his interior light Awoke those shapes of might Once known that never die; Forms of titanic birth, The elder brood of earth, That fill the mind more grandly than they charm the eye.

"Yet when the master chose, Ideal graces rose Like flowers on gnarled boughs; For he was nursed and fed At beauty's fountain head And to the goddess pledged his earliest warmest vows."

The poet describes still further the artist's character, and then enumerates some of his great works. Whatever occupied him—

"Still proudly poised, he stepped The way his vision swept, And scorned the narrower view. He touched with glory all That pope or cardinal, With lower aim than his, allotted him to do.

* * * * *

"So stood this Angelo Four hundred years ago; So grandly still he stands, Mid lesser worlds of art, Colossal and apart, Like Memnon breathing songs across the desert sands."


The Diacritical Marks given are those found in the latest edition of Webster's International Dictionary.


A Dash ([=]) above the vowel denotes the long sound, as in fāte, ēve, tīme, nōte, ūse. A Dash and a Dot ([.=]) above the vowel denote the same sound, less prolonged. A Curve ([)]) above the vowel denotes the short sound, as in ădd, ĕnd, ĭll, ŏdd, ŭp. A Dot ([.]) above the vowel a denotes the obscure sound of a in pȧst, ȧbāte, Amĕricȧ. A Double Dot ([:])above the vowel a denotes the broad sound of a in faether, aelms. A Double Dot ([:]) below the vowel a denotes the sound of a in ball. A Wave ([~]) above the vowel e denotes the sound of e in hẽr. A Circumflex Accent ([^]) above the vowel o denotes the sound of o in born. c sounds like s. ȼ sounds like k. [s.=] sounds like z. ḡ is hard as in ḡet. ġ is soft as in ġem.

Ȧdō'nĭs. AEneas ([.=e] nē'ăs); AEneid ([.=e] nē'ĭd). Ăm'ȧzŏn. Ăm'brōṣe. Ăn'ȧthŏth. Anchises (ăn kī'sēz). Ăn'nō Dŏm'ĭnī. Ȧpŏl'lō. Ăp'pĭȧn. Ărĭmȧthē'ȧ.

Babylon (băb'ĭ lŭn); Băbylō'nĭȧn. Baerbaerŏs'sae. Baerġĕl'lō. Beethoven (bā'tō vŭn). Bĕlshăz'zȧr. Bĕth'lēhĕm. Bĕth-pē'or. Bramante (brae maen't[.=a]). Bugiardini (b[=oo] jaer dē'n[.=e]). Buonarroti (b[=oo] ō naer rŏt'[.=e]).

Canaan (kā'nȧn or kā'n[.=a] ȧn). Caerrae'ra. Celano (ch[.=a] lae'nō). Cencio, Bernardo (bẽr naer'd[.=o] chĕn'chē [.=o]). Chaldean (kăl dē'ȧn). Colonna, Vittoria (v[.=e]t tō'r[.=e] ae kō lŏn'nae). Condivi (k[.=o]n dē'v[.=e]). Cosimo (k[.=o]'z[.=e] mō). Cristo Risorto (krēs't[.=o] r[.=e] zor't[.=o]). Cumae (kū'mē). Cyrus (sī'rŭs).

Daniel (dăn'yĕl or dăn'ĭ ĕl). Dăn't[.=e]. Daphne (dăf'nē). Dȧrĭ'ŭs. Dē'lĭȧn. Delphi (dĕl'fī). Dē'mŏs. Dies Irae (dē'ās ē'rī or dī'ēz ī'rē). Dionigi, di San (dē saen d[.=e] [.=o] nē'j[.=e]). Domine, quo vadis (dō'mē n[.=a], kwō wae'dĭs or dŏm'ī n[.=e], kwō vā'dĭs). Doni, Angelo (aen'jā lō dō'n[.=e]). Douay (d[=oo] ā'). Duomo (d[=oo] ō'mō).


Febbre, della (dĕl'lae fēb'br[.=a]). Ficino (f[.=e] chē'nō). Franciscan (frăn sĭs'kȧn). Frizzi, Federigo (f[.=a] d[.=a] rē'ḡ[.=o] frēt's[.=e]).

Giovanni (j[.=o] vaen'n[.=e]). Giuliano (j[=oo] l[.=e] ae'nō). Gōlī'ȧth Gotti (ḡŏt't[.=e]). Gualfonda (gwael fŏn'dae).

Hĕl'lĕspŏnt. Huguenot (hū'ḡ[.=e] nŏt).

Infẽr'nō. Isaiah (ī zā'yȧ). Israel (ĭz'r[.=a] ĕl).

Jameson (jā'mĕ sŭn). Jēhoi'ȧkĭm. Jĕr[.=e]mī'ȧh. Jerome (j[.=e] rōm' or jĕr'ŏm). Jĕrū'sȧlĕm. Jē'thrō. Jōsī'ȧh. Judaea (j[.=u] d[.=e]'ȧ). Jū'dȧh. Jū'pĭtẽr.

Kugler (k[=oo]g'lẽr).

Lăz'ȧrŭs. L[.e]ăn'dẽr. Lŏm'bȧrd[s.].

Măg'd[.=a]l[.=e]ne. Mē'dĭȧn. Medici (mā'd[.=e] ch[.=e]). Mĕm'nŏn. Mē'n[.=e]. Michelangelo (mē kĕl aen'j[.=a] lō). Mĭd'ĭȧn, Milan (mĭl'ȧn or mĭ lăn'). Milanesi (m[.=e] lae nā'z[.=e]). Mō'ăb. Morpheus (mor'fūs).

Năz'ȧrĕth. Nē'bō. Nebuchadnezzar (nĕb ū kăd nĕz'zăr). Nemour (nĕ m[=oo]r'). Nē'rō.

Oliphant (ŏl'ĭ fȧnt).

Palazzo Vecchio (pae laet's[.=o] vĕk'k[.=e] [.=o]). Păl'ĕstīne. Pater Patriae (pae'tār pae'tr[.=e] ī or pā'tẽr pā'trĭ ē). Pausanias (pa sā'nĭ ăs). Pensiero, Il (ēl pĕn s[.=e] ā'r[.=o]); Pensieroso (pĕn s[.=e] [.=a] rō'z[.=o]). Pharaoh (fā'r[.=o]). Phĭlĭs'tĭne. Piazza della Signoria (p[.=e] aet'sae dĕl'lae s[.=e]n y[.=o] rē'ae). Pico (pē'kō). Pieta (p[.=e] [.=a] tae'). Pietro in Vincoli (p[.=e] ā'tr[.=o] ēn vēn'k[.=o] l[.=e]). Pitti, Bartolommeo (baer t[.=o] lŏm mā'[.=o] p[.=e]t't[.=e]). Plā'tō. Poliziano (p[.=o] l[.=e]t s[.=e] ae'n[.=o]) pyth'ĭ ȧ.

Raphael (rae'fā ĕl). Rucellai (r[=oo] chĕl lae'[.=e]).

Săc'rĭsty. Santarelli (saen tae rĕl'l[.=e]). Savonarola (sae v[.=o] nae] rō'lae). Scappuci, Mario (mae'r[.=e] [.=o] skaep p[=oo]'ch[.=e]). Sĕs'tŏs. Sĭb'yl. Sĭm'[.=e]ŏn. Sistine (sĭs'tēn). Solari, Cristoforo (kr[.=e]s tŏf'[.=o] r[.=o] s[.=o] lae'r[.=e]). Stabat Mater (stā'băt mā'tẽr or stae'baet mae'tār). Strozzi, Giovan Battista (j[.=o] vaen' baet tēs'tae strŏt's[.=e]). Styx. Swĭn'bŭrne. Sym'ŏnd[s.=].

Tarquin (taer'kwĭn). tē'kĕl. terribilita (tĕr r[.=e] b[.=e] l[.=e] tae'). Torrigiano (tor r[.=e] jae'n[.=o]).

Uffizi ([=oo]f fēt's[.=e]). Upharsin ([.=u] faer'sĭn). Urbano, Pietro (p[.=e] ā'tr[.=o] [=oo]r bae'n[.=o]). Urbino ([=oo]r bē'n[.=o]).

Varj dei Porcari, Metello (m[.=a] tĕl'l[.=o] vae'r[.=e] dā' [.=e] por kae'r[.=e]). Vasari (vae sae'r[.=e]). Vatican (văt'ĭ kȧn). Virgil (vẽr'jĭl). Vŭl'gāte.

Zĕd[.=e]kī'ȧh. Zephaniah (zĕf ȧ nī'ȧ).



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For descriptions and prices see other pages of this circular.


For descriptions and prices see other pages of this circular.


A colored lithograph of the historic mansion ("Washington's Headquarters") at Cambridge, in which Mr. Longfellow lived for forty years. Size, 12 by 16 inches. Price, 50 cents, net, postpaid.


(The size of cabinet photographs) of over ninety of the most celebrated American and European Authors. The 25-cent portraits and the 75-cent portraits are printed on paper measuring 9 by 12 inches, and the $1.00 portraits 11 by 14 inches. A list with prices to teachers may be had on application.





Sample of the pictures of authors' homes in the newly revised edition of Richardson's Primer of American Literature, described on the second page of this circular.


In the Riverside Literature Series the reader's attention is fixed on a great work of art in letters, with only such help as will make it more intelligible; in like manner in the Riverside Art Series the picture is the object of study, and the text is its interpretation.

Each book contains pictures which are representative of the work of a famous painter, and the most faithful reproductions of the originals have been secured. Valuable suggestions also are given by the editor as aids for further study. The editor of the Series, Miss Estelle M. Hurll, is well known by her recent valuable edition of the works of Mrs. Jameson, and her Life of Our Lord in Art.

The books of this Series will have a value as texts in art classes, as supplementary readers in schools, as guides to the best pictures in galleries both abroad and in this country, and as handy books of reference to the general reader in regard to matters pertaining to the best art.

Four numbers are assigned for publication each school year in October, December, February, and April.





Other numbers in preparation.

Each volume is 12mo in size, of about 100 pages.

Price in paper, 30 cents, net; in cloth, 40 cents, net.


Any four consecutive numbers, in paper, $1.00, net; in cloth $1.50, net.





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