me of the spirit
of his great master.]

THE DEATH OF PROCRIS

(_PIERO DI COSIMO_)

EDWARD T. COOK

A very characteristic work by Piero, called di Cosimo, after his
godfather and master, Cosimo Rosselli. Piero's peculiarities are well
known to all readers of George Eliot's _Romola_, where everything told
us about him by Vasari is carefully worked up. The first impression left
by this picture--its quaintness--is precisely typical of the man. He
shut himself off from the world, and stopped his ears; lived in the
untidiest of rooms, and would not have his garden tended, "preferring to
see all things wild and savage about him." He took his meals at times
and in ways that no other man did, and Romola used to coax him with
sweets and hard-boiled eggs. His fondness for quaint landscape ("he
would sometimes stand beside a wall," says Vasari, "and image forth the
most extraordinary landscapes that ever were") may be seen in this
picture: so also may his love of animals, in which, says Vasari, he took
"indescribable pleasure."

[Illustration: THE DEATH OF PROCRIS.
_Piero di Cosimo._]

The subjects of his pictures were generally allegorical. In _Romola_ he
paints Tito and Romola as Bacchus and Ariadne; here he shows the death
of Procris, the story in which the ancients embodied the folly of
jealousy. For Procris being told that Cephalus was unfaithful,
straight-way believed the report and secretly followed him to the
woods, for he was a great hunter. And Cephalus called upon "aura," the
Latin for breeze, for Cephalus was hot after the chase: "Sweet air, O
come," and echo answered, "Come, sweet air." But Procris, thinking that
he was calling after his mistress, turned to see, and as she moved she
made a rustling in the leaves, which Cephalus mistook for the motion of
some beast of the forest, and let fly his unerring dart, which Procris
once had given him.

But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers,
Shot in the throat. From out the little wound
The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn showers
Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground.
None saw her die but Lelaps, the swift hound,
That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear,
Till at the dawn, the horned wood-men found
And bore her gently on a sylvan bier,
To lie beside the sea,--with many an uncouth tear.

AUSTIN DOBSON: _Old World Lyrics_.

_A Popular Handbook to the National Gallery_ (London and New York,