Art and Science 



Gaudenzio, and still less of any other Valsesian 

 artist. It is a work of unusual beauty, but I 

 can form no idea as to its authorship. 



I wrote the foregoing pages in the church 

 at Montrigone itself, having brought my 

 camp-stool with me. It was Sunday ; the 

 church was open all day, but there was no 

 mass said, and hardly any one came. The 

 sacristan was a kind, gentle, little old man, 

 who let me do whatever I wanted. He sat 

 on the doorstep of the main door, mending 

 vestments, and to this end was cutting up a 

 fine piece of figured silk from one to two 

 hundred years old, which, if I could have 

 got it, for half its value, I should much like 

 to have bought. I sat in the cool of the 

 church while he sat in the doorway, which 

 was still in shadow, snipping and snipping, 

 and then sewing, I am sure with admirable 

 neatness. He made a charming picture, with 

 the arched portico over his head, the green 

 grass and low church wall behind him, and 

 then a lovely landscape of wood and pasture 

 and valleys and hillside. Every now and 



then he would come and chirrup about 



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