ART IN GREECE.-THE CONVENTS OF MOUNT

ATHOS.

MOUNT ATHOS lies to the south of Macedonia, between the gulfs of Contessa and Monte Santo, at the extremity of a peninsula connected with the continent by an isthmus about a mile and a half long. It is a round and almost conical mass, rising to a height of about three thousand feet above the level of the sea, and casting an immense shadow in the setting sun almost across the Archipelago. Little mention is made of it in the works of Grecian historians beyond the record of two facts-the one, that Xerxes caused a canal to be cut across the isthmus to give a passage to his fleet; and the other, that a Greek sculptor, Dinocrates, proposed to Alexander the Great to cut the mountain into the form of a statue with outstretched arm, and holding in its hand a town containing ten thousand inhabitants.

The hill is called at the present day by many of the Greeks Hagion Oros, or the Holy Mountain, and it is rendered remarkable by the fact, that its population now consists of about six thousand monks, forming a separate and almost independent community, and inhabiting several convents built along the slopes. These convents were the cradle of Byzantine art fourteen hundred years ago, and now, after a thousand storms of war, and change, and revolution have rolled over Greece, they form its last refuge.

Concerning the origin of this religious community, we have no certain information. In the persecutions with which the Christians were pursued in the first centuries of the Christian era, many faced martyrdom without hesitation, and even with joy; others, less confident in their own strength of nerve, sought security in desert fastnesses, and adopted the life of anchorites. It was thus that the seeds of Christianity were scattered over the solitudes of Nubia and Syria. Many more fled to Mount Athos, and took up their abode along its sides, hoping that the seclusion of the place, and the difficulty of access, would afford them safety, however precarious, from the rage of their enemies. When Constantinę removed the seat of the empire to Constantinople, and avowed his adherence to the new faith, the population of Mount Athos rapidly increased, and convents were built, such, in all probability, as we now see them. It is right to mention, however, that this is mainly conjecture; history is entirely silent regarding this retired but interesting corner of the Byzantine empire. We have said that these convents are the last refuge of Greek art; we may add, that they contain some interesting relics of old Byzantine civilisation, and manners, and forms of faith, and are by no means an uninteresting subject of study for those who seek to lift up the pall which for four centuries has shrouded the remains of Greek greatness. They number in all twenty-three, lying around the mountain, none of them at any great distance from the sea. The most ancient to which our attention will principally be directed, are the Aghia Labra, or holy monastery, Vatopedi, Ivirôn, and Xilandari. The first, which at present contains about four hundred monks, was founded by St. Athanasius about the beginning of the fourth century, and to this circumstance owes its preeminence over all the others. While they are simply dedicated to some saint, it is entitled the holy monastery par excellence. Vatopedi was the one to which John Contocuzine, whose romantic story has been so well told by Gibbon, retired to spend the remaining years of his life, when, disgusted with power, he abdicated the imperial throne.

On the highest point of the mountain rises the little Church of the Transfiguration, and scattered around are a town and some little villages; and in the centre of the peninsula lies the protalon or metropolis of Mount Athos, Karies-all inhabited by a shifting population of monks, whose sole occupation is the importation of provisions and other necessaries from Salomen for their brethren in the convent. The monks are divided into two classes, brothers and fathers, or papas, and are made up of an indiscriminate mixture of Sclaves, Greeks, Wallachians, and Armenians, all reduced to the same state of torpor, both physical and mental, under the rigidity of

the monastic rule. The convent buildings present for the most part great uniformity of appearance, generally an irregular and confused mass, with no evidence of unity of design in the arrangement of the different parts. A single door, which is always fastened at twilight, gives entrance to a square court-yard, around which the cells of the inmates are ranged in one or more stories; additions being made, upon a plan apparently dictated solely by caprice, when any increase took place in their number. In the centre stands the church, surrounded by a crowd of small chapels, but all built of brick, and so imperfectly, that frequent repairs have effaced all traces of the primitive style. On all the walls appear stiff, sad-looking, and austere pictures, which form a singular contrast to the easy, indolent, and insouciant appearance of the monks.

Mount Athos was in the earlier days of Christianity the great seat of intellectual activity-the hot-bed of theological and metaphysical discussion; but the state of listless indolence in which its inhabitants are now plunged is a strange satire upon its former glory. All the convents contain libraries of greater or less extent, filled with manuscripts and rare and valuable relics of the literature of antiquity; but the monks, far from studying them, suffer them to be lost or injured through carelessness, in utter and complete ignorance of the treasures of which they are the guardians. They read nothing but their offices, write but rarely, and are for the most part plunged in complete ignorance, not only of everything that is passing in the outer world-but of the very rudiments of literature and science. There is hardly a doubt that a diligent search by competent persons would bring to light many valuable works of classical authors hitherto supposed to be lost, or known to the western world only in a mutilated state. Some of the monks who visit Salomen to transact business for the convents, take advantage of their stay, to pick up a smattering knowledge of medicine and the Turkish language, but this is the only effort towards self-improvement that is ever made. The rude daubs by which Byzantine art is now represented amongst them, furnish additional proof of their mental degradation when we remember that, during the first two centuries after the establishment of the convents on Mount Athos, they were the chief seats of religious art in the world, and students resorted thither from all parts of Europe to receive instruction from the inmates.

In these times such names as those of St. Athanasius and Peter the Athonite figured in their annals, in no very striking contrast with many others of scarce inferior zeal and learning. The church of Aghia Labra, founded by Athanasius in the early part of the fourth century, was endowed richly A.D. 965 by the emperor Nicephorus. The gates, which probably belong to that period, are composed of wrought copper, and display great beauty of execution. They remind one of those of the church of Ravello near Amalfi, as well as of many other religious monuments of Apulia. The portico is covered with Turkish ornaments. The general arrangement is that of the church of St. Mark at Venice. The altar is covered with a great deal of rich gilding, as also most parts of the ceiling, which is covered with carved and fretted work, and encaustic paintings in great abundance; and the body of the church contains desks, pulpits, and other articles of a similar nature of great richness. The monks have substituted these for the massive pulpits of the ancient Latin church. Nearly all are the gifts of the Russian government.

The Byzantine school, which was a school of transition from ancient art, that sought the beautiful merely for the form itself, to Christian art, which uses the form only to veil an idea, devoted itself from the very first to preparing for the transformation which inevitably followed the adoption of this new aim by the cultivators of art. In this point of view the Byzantine artists were successful in arriving at a unity such as has never been attained by those of the Renaissance, and from which they are still very far indeed. The Italian mosaics, executed by Italian artists, can alone give us a right idea of the laborious changes which Byzantine art underwent before it assumed its definitive form from the teachings of the

great masters of the school. At a later period, to preserve the established forms from the influences of time or caprice or fashion, a monk named Denys collected the acknowledged and established principles of the school, and compiled them in a code. His manuscript was distributed through the various convents and carefully copied, and thenceforward became the text-book of the painters; and so powerful has been its influence, that it is impossible to fix the date of a Byzantine painting by its style. So closely have its rules been attended to, through a long lapse of time, so intimate, too, has been the connexion between Greek painting and the Greek worship, that the former has everywhere followed in the march of the priests, and we find it prevailing almost to the exclusion of every other in Russia, in Greece, in Asia Minor, and in the regions bordering on Mount Sinai, where Greek convents are numerous. The church, Aghia Labra, contains the best specimens of it extant. The cupola is entirely occupied by a colossal figure of Christ, with that air of purity and dignity which the painters of the Renaissance have adopted. The complexion is straw-coloured, as the monks there express; one hand is extended towards St. John, as if in the act of instructing, and the other is laid on his heart. The hair is fair, but the beard is black, as also the eyebrows, which give the half-closed eyes an air of mingled simplicity, sweetness, and firmness. The Byzantine artists indicated the importance of the personage they painted by the size of the figure. The saints increase in height as they increase in holiness, while Christ is taller than them all by the head and shoulders.

At the base of the cupola stand a row of archangels in shining robes, holding huge sceptres in their hands, surmounted by images of the Redeemer. The brilliant colours of their garments stand in dazzling contrast to the sombre black of the ground, and in their faces and attitudes there is an air of lofty, calm majesty. Over their heads an innumerable multitude of cherubs flutter round Christ as a centre, and as if typifying the spirits of the blest, they seem to grow more and more ethereal the nearer they approach him. There is nothing human in their figures except the head. The rest is composed of a great number of wings, pointing in every direction, and looking like stars in the deep blue firmament of the vault above; while on a golden ground, and on a grand scale, the image of Christ looks down from the midst of them all, so that in whatever part of the building the worshipper kneels, he seems to have his eye upon him.

The pendentives represent the four evangelists writing at the dictation of an apostle, and the walls of the rest of the church are covered with subjects drawn from the Old or New Testament. On the two arms of the cross we see the saints of the church militant, who shook off the dust of the schools, and defended their faith on the fields of force, standing upright upon a black ground, in an attitude of vigilant repose. The churches of the other convents present precisely the same aspect, though on a more diminutive and less perfect scale, in accordance with the Medo-Persian laws of the Byzantine school, which treated all subjects in the same manner, with the same figures, in the same attitudes. Towards the end of the principal nave, to the left, appears a painting with an inscription, now illegible, evidently representing one of the Latin chiefs of the Crusades, who fixed their abode in Greece on their return from the Holy Land. His head-dress is that of the Merovingian kings, and his robe, as well as his crown, is sprinkled with fleurs-de-lis, and in his hands he holds a model representation of the façade of a church, probably of one which owed it existence to his pious munificence; in front of him appears his son, wearing the same costume.

Under the external portico we find figures of the ancient asceti, or anchorites, in an attitude of prayer, who, in imitation of the fathers of the desert, lived in grottoes and caverns in the mountain side. They appear to have been reduced to the last extremity of hunger, and are clothed in a simple and primitive garment of leaves, while their beard descends almost to their knees. Beside them an inscription informs us, "Such was the life of these anchorites." These ascetics themselves travelled from convent to convent, painting those vivid repre

sentations of their own unhappy lives, and also sculptured numerous little crucifixes in wood, many of which are still preserved.'

The monks attribute the paintings which adorn the church of Aghia Labra to a brother of their order, named Manuel Panselinos (the moon in all its splendour), but they are unable to say at what period he lived. The figures are executed in fresco, in very low relief, which disappears at the distance of the floor; the tone is very light, and certainly betrays no attempt at imitation, and the whole is rather coloured than painted. Fresco-painting is very ancient, and is not due to the Byzantine school, but to a Roman artist, named Ludius, who, in the reign of Augustus, substituted it for the encaustic. The only means of arriving at a near estimate of the date of these works, is by comparing them with others of the same character in Italy, the date of which is known. They may be safely referred in chronological order, we should think, to the mosaics of Santa Pudentiana, executed at Rome in the second century of the Christian era, in which the artist, with his pagan notions still running in his head, has given Christ the features of Jupiter; and those of St. Paul outside the walls of St. John of Lateran, in the fourth century, a period in which the Byzantine art shared in the complete triumph of Christianity. The parallel might be followed out in several instances of a still later date, did our space permit.

Compared with the Italian mosaics, the Byzantine art resembles them in the amplitude of outline of those which certainly belong to the earlier periods of the Christian era, when Greek art was still in its prime. This amplitude disappeared totally after the ninth century, and was not seen again till the period of the Renaissance, and the return to antique forms was plainly due to Michael Angelo. So that we must either attribute these Byzantine paintings at Aghia Labra to a very early date, or suppose them to have been executed since the Renaissance under the influence of the Vasari school. The latter supposition is, however, inadmissible, owing to the historical accuracy displayed in the rendering of the details. The armour, the little chains, the helmets, all warrant us in believing that the artist was the contemporary of the knights and nobles whom he represents, and whom he must have seen at the court of the Palæologi and the Comneri. The perfect state of preservation in which the works appear is accounted for by the fact, that Mount Athos has remained intact for ages from all political storms and agitations.

The mode of instruction in painting pursued by the monks, whatever be its effectiveness, has certainly the merit of extreme simplicity. Those of the pupils who exhibit most ability are placed on a platform behind those who have been promoted to the rank of masters, and there watch them while at work. After a few years of this, they are themselves permitted to practise. Before commencing, the wall is entirely laid bare, and then covered with a coating of plaster, which is carefully smoothed by the trowel. The ablest of the monastic artists then indicates to his subordinate the nature of the design to be executed, the size of the principal figure or figures, and the legend which is to accompany it. The latter then sketches the outline in a brownish-red, and hands the brush to one still less advanced, who gives the figure some local tones, and makes some attempt at shading. The finishing is done by the same hand which traces the outline, but the execution is in most instances extremely rude.

It is a trite remark, that there is no unmixed evil under the sun; and yet this is a truth which, like many others equally obvious, is too often lost sight of by hasty disputants and headstrong innovators. The subject of which we have been treating supplies a case in point. Nothing is more common than to hear people denounce the monastic system as an unmitigated curse to society. Convents are described as mere nests of corruption, or, at best, cradles of absurd superstition, and monks as lazy worthless drones, whose existence is scarcely to be tolerated. Yet, from what has been stated above, it appears they may be, and history tells us they have been, of great service to literature and art, not to mention their many deeds of charity.

THE Valley of Meyringen, in the canton of Berne, is completely shut in by some of the grandest and most picturesque mountain scenery in Switzerland. The Alps rise in rugged magnificence on every side, their snow-capped summits contrasting strangely with the verdant, flowery valley, dotted here and there with rustic chalets, and watered by the river Aar, which is crossed by wooden bridges, similar to the one represented in our sketch (p. 41). This river is fed by the neighbouring mountain torrents, which, when swollen by rain or snow, have several times threatened the village of Meyringen with

of which is 200 feet in height, and its column of water nearly thirty feet in diameter. If visited in the morning, when the rays of the sun are upon it, a triple bow or iris is to be seen on the spray, which has a very beautiful effect.

The wealth of the inhabitants of this valley consists chiefly in cattle, for which the mountains yield plentiful pasturage during the summer, and in the autumn the herdsman, anticipating the severity of the coming winter, descends with his flocks to seek shelter in the valley; for the weather is such during the winter months as to render it dangerous to expose

destruction. In the year 1762, it was buried twenty feet in debris in one hour. The church was filled with sand and gravel to the height of eighteen feet. This catastrophe was caused by a swollen torrent, descending from the mountains behind the village; carrying with it quantities of sand and rubbish, together with uprooted fir-trees and masses of rock. From this disaster the village has scarcely yet recovered. In the year 1733, many houses were carried away by an inundation.

In this valley are to be seen some of the most celebrated falls of Switzerland-those of the Reichenbach-the principal

the cattle in the long cold nights. These herdsmen lead a migratory life, moving about from place to place with their flocks.

As spring approaches, the cattle, lying upon the grass, or perched upon the rocks and bridges, as the artist has represented them in the accompanying illustration (p. 41), throw longing glances towards their mountain home. Then, also, the herdsman, who loves his mountain life as the sailor loves the sea, joyously prepares to leave the valley. But when, like the man of whom we give a sketch above, he begins to re-ascend the mountain, he casts an affectionate glance on the chalet

where he has just left his family. He can still see the smoke issuing from the roof, and thinks how they will miss him at the frugal meal. But he proceeds on his way, and now the projections of the rocks shutting out these cherished objects from his view, he finds himself alone with his flocks among the grand and towering Alps.

The athletic man, represented on the opposite page, carries upon his broad shoulders his household furniture, holding in one hand his milk-pail, in the other a thick staff, pointed with iron, upon which he leans, and which would be a formidable weapon in his powerful hand. A large basket on his back contains his milk-strainer, some straw, a one-legged milkingstool, a cheese mould, the stand on which the cheeses are placed

to drain, and the great kettle in which the milk is collected, heated, and made into curds.

The Swiss herdsman's is, in reality, not so idle a life as it is often described to be; he has to collect eighty or ninety cows twice a day to be milked, many of which have often strayed away in different directions. Besides this he has to make the cheese, and keep all his utensils scrupulously clean. Hardy, robust, and indefatigable, inured to exposure from earliest childhood, his weather-beaten frame is indifferent to the vicissitudes of climate. He is wild, uncultivated, and ignorant of the usages of other people, but simple and uncontaminated by the vices, unfortunately, too common among the labouring population of most other districts.

"Come, bring forth the prisoners."-Richard III.

It was a spectacle worthy of the hand of a painter to commemorate, or of a historian to describe-that moment when Zeno directed the attention of the Venetian army to the strange flotilla moving slowly downwards from Chioggia. The cheers and shouting which a moment before ran along the camp were now hushed to the profoundest silence. The tumultuous mass of troops, partially armed, in all variety of costumes, and speaking in different dialects and tongues, surging like the waves of the sea when the wind drives them to and fro, were now motionless and mute as that sea in a summer calm. They gazed in speechless astonishment at this evidence of a sudden and desperate courage on the part of the Genoese, and felt that a deadly struggle was near at hand. The general felt that the crisis was at hand, and promptly and skilfully he availed himself of it.

"Look, soldiers," exclaimed Zeno, "while ye are wasting

your energies in causeless complaints, the prize of all our toils, that which should crown our patient perseverance, is about to escape from us. See, the Genoese are bearing away all their riches, the spoil which should soon have been yours by the right of war-the pillage which I would have given to you when we should enter Chioggia. But it is not yet too late. The admiral will aid us. See, he is ready." And pointing to where the Venetian fleet lay, he showed them Pisani steadily bearing down so as at the same time to intercept the vessels of the Genoese admiral, Muraffo, from forming a junction with the rafts, and to prevent the latter getting out of the lagunes.

The words of the general, added to the sight which the troops beheld, produced a change in the feelings of the soldiers as sudden as it was complete. They felt that if they now refused to act cordially under the command of the

republic, the Genoese would assuredly escape with their property and equipments. The approach, too, of the enemy aroused all their martial feelings, and a simultaneous hearty cheer burst from all sides; and cries of "To arms! to arms! Viva San Marco! viva la Signoria!" ran along the lines and rent the air. Zeno was not slow in seizing upon this favourable conjuncture, for he knew well how evanescent and uncertain is the enthusiasm of the masses; he, therefore, called upon the soldiery to arm themselves with all speed, and to be prepared at once to act under his command. Nor was he without assistance. The sagacious mind of Recanati at once perceived that the tide of popular feeling was completely turned, at least for the present; he, therefore, determined to affect to guide the current which he could not oppose, and patiently await its reflux. And so he now joined in the exhortations of Zeno, and commanded his band to equip themselves in their armour and be prepared for an approaching engagement. It was not long before the whole force of the republic, domestic and foreign, were under arms and drawn up as orderly and quiet as if no mutiny had, within the last hour, threatened to overturn all authority and discipline.

And now the rafts, crowded with Genoese soldiers and sunk to the water's edge, were bearing down through the shallows. At the same moment the Genoese fleet made all sail towards the barricades that had been placed across the mouth of the lagune with the intention of driving with full force against them, and so sweeping them away. But Pisani was not an idle spectator of this movement. Dividing his flotilla into two, he placed one portion at the barricades to meet the fleet of Muraffo, and reserved the other for the rafts that were coming down the lagune The action commenced between the fleets of the two republics, each commanded by its admiral. In vain did the Genoese galleys bear down upon the Venetians-again and again they were repulsed; and as the object of Pisani was to protect the barricades from his enemy, he was contented to act merely upon the defensive, avoiding, as much as possible, a close collision with the hostile fleet, and keeping them from coming side by side by a constant discharge from the archers with which his galleys were manned. Meantime, the other portion of the Venetian fleet awaited the nearer approach of the rafts. These latter had now reached a part of the lagune, where the Venetians had driven down piles of timber attached to which were beams which floated across the water. In order to pass these the Genoese were forced to get off the rafts and stand in the shallows nearly up to their necks, while they endeavoured to lift the rafts over the floating barrier. With infinite toil they had now succeeded in forcing two or three of the lightest of the rafts beyond the beams, and still, to their surprise, their enemies looked on without an effort to check them. Another and another of those frail barks was freed, and the men springing from nearly all the others into the water, prepared for one simultaneous and decisive effort. Now was the moment for which the Venetians had waited. The land forces had moved down to the brink of the lagune, watching in silence and ill-restrained eagerness the progress of the enemy. The moment was now come when that restraint should be removed. Drawing his sword, Zeno waved it over his head, and crying out-"On comrades, on; follow me"-he plunged into the waters and was soon wading deeply through them. The cheers of a thousand voices promptly responded to his cry-" On, on! follow the general," was heard on all sides, and the troops dashed impetuously into the lagune and struggled onward to meet the foe.

While the land forces were thus occupied in this singular movement, Pisani's galleys bore down upon the ill-fated rafts. The collision was terrible, as the large, heavy galleys came crushing over the frail and ill-constructed floats, smashing through them as the ploughshare tears through the soil and breaks it in pieces. Many of them were sunk with drowning wretches clinging to the spars; those which had not yet passed the boom made all speed back towards Chioggia; but great numbers of the men were already disembarked, and with the courage of despair now fought their way onwards in

the water. It was at this crisis that the forces of Zeno

reached their enemy. A terrible and a novel sight it was truly, to see land forces thus engaged in a species of sea-fight, standing not upon the decks of galleys, but mid-deep in the water. A silent, deadly struggle ensued; silent save when that silence was broken by the gurgle of some death-groan bubbling up through the water, or the splash of the wounded man as he fell down dying the double death of slaughter and drowning. At length victory declared in favour of the Venetians. The greater portion of the Genoese who had thus rashly deserted their rafts were slain, the residue of them contrived to struggle back and rejoined their companions, and ultimately regained Chioggia, with a considerable portion of their effects, which, fortunately for them, had been stowed upon the rearmost rafts, and thus remained above the boom. There was little booty, therefore, for the soldiers, save what armour was on the slain, and such jewels and money as they had upon their persons. But the issue of the day was of no small importance to Zeno. He had succeeded in checking the spirit of discontent and insubordination, and animated the troops with new vigour and fresh dependence upon him. Above all, he had counterplotted the crafty condottiere, and even made use of him, without his knowledge, as a vehicle of communicating the schemes which he was plotting against the republic.

And now the day was well nigh finished, when but one further duty remained to be discharged. Zeno sat in the large apartment of the fort which we have already described; around him were several of the military leaders, and amongst them some faces with which we are already acquainted the Count Polani, Checco, and Roberto di Recanati. In the midst of the apartment stood the German arblasteer and the three Italian soldiers, the latter with their hands bound. It was a court-martial, which, notwithstanding the busy events of the day, Zeno did not neglect to call.

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'Signori," said the general, addressing the officers, "I must crave the aid of your judgments for a short space. The affairs of the morning prevented my disposing of this matter sooner."

A moment's pause ensued, when he continued,

"Stand forth, good arblasteer, and state to the court thy grievance."

The big German, whose wrath had cooled down considerably since the morning, seemed but little desirous to prosecute the matter any further. Nevertheless, in his own defence, he was forced to detail the transactions which we have already related. When he had ended his story, he exclaimed with a rude good nature,

"Der teufel, general, I bear no malice, not I. Let yonder lance-man give me back what he won of me, and I am content."

"Dost hear what the German says, fellow?" asked the general of the Italian soldier. "Wilt thou do as he requires ?" The lance-man looked at his companions, and then replied, "So please your excellency, I will."

"It is well," said Zeno. "Thou doest voluntarily that which, hadst thou refused, thou shouldst have been compelled to do. So much for the matter between thee and this German. Now for that which is of graver import. Messires, I crave your attention."

Zeno then detailed to those whom he had summoned, the tumultuous scene of the morning, the immediate cause of which was the complaints of the three men of Recanati's band, and their demand for increased pay. When he had ended the statement, he asked,

"And now, Messires, is not this a plain violation of the allegiance which the soldier owes to the state that pays him? What say you?"

There was but one whose voice was not heard in affirmation of Zeno's question. To that one Zeno now turned, and said,

"Sir Roberto di Recanati, I would have your judgment in this matter, as the captain of these men. Perhaps I am