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his " Lives of the Painters," some particulars of the domestic life of his master, which he learned later it would have been wiser to have left unsaid, and which he subsequently recalled. But for the art of del Sarto Vasari has no praise high enough to bestow. The death of Andrea was, he says, not only of infinite loss to his native city, but a blow to art itself, for each year his progress had been so great and so continued that, had he not been cut off" at the early age of forty-two, he must have brought painting to a perfection not hitherto attained. " Better it is," he writes, " to go on acquiring little by little, and with firm and secure step to overcome the difficulties of art, than to force nature, and achieve abnormal results." In these words he touches the secret of del Sarto's character and the strong point of his work, in which there is nothing forced, and nothing outrt. We have traced the gradual development of the artist's powers, watched the ease with which he worked, and felt, too, as he probably never felt himself, the pathos of his genius, fettered by domestic tyrannies, limited by inherent timidities, and forced to repeat itself with exacting reiterance as a means of money-making. But to know what del Sarto really is, and to see the greatness of his success, we must visit Florence, and in their native air and sunshine make personal acquaint-