The Cloister.

A Corner Of The Loggia Of Vincigliata.

Crowning a cypress-covered hill, three miles from Florence, stands the old monastery of La Certosa, its white walls glistening in the sun as they have done for more than five hundred years. So far as a defensible site and massive construction are concerned, it might survive as many centuries more, but now its days are numbered; for, like many other monasteries in Italy, it has been abolished by the government. Yet, though the farm belonging to the monks is leased by the authorities for cultivation, the government has consented, out of pity for its worthy inmates, to leave the monastery undisturbed, until the few brothers who remain there shall have passed away. A white-haired monk, clad in the pure white robe of the Order, received us courteously, and led us into an enclosure, consisting of a spacious vegetable and flower garden surrounded by long cloisters, which have for centuries echoed to the footsteps of Carthusian monks. Only about ten brothers are now left, all of them old, and some too feeble to do even the little work of caring for the cabbages and roses. The monk who acted as our guide gave each of us a small bouquet, and offered for sale not only some of the famous cordial which they manufacture, but also cakes of soap and bottles of perfumery. How odd it seemed to think of these aged monks, awaiting death within their ancient monastery, yet thus providing for the comfort of the outside world, of which they know so little!

La Certosa.

La Certosa, And Convent-Yard.

The Monks Of La Certosa.

The Church of La Certosa is superb with its marble candelabra, numerous statues and ornaments of lapis-lazuli. Moreover, I have rarely seen, even in Spain, such elaborate wood-carving as that which decorates the stalls and wardrobes for the monks, and I have never walked upon a more magnificent pavement than that which here displays its glittering expanse of variegated marble, inlaid with beautiful designs of white, red, black, and green mosaic.

Though less gorgeously decorated than the church, the chapter-house of the monastery would repay a visit, if only to behold the recumbent statue of a former superior of the order, Leonardo Buonafede, which lies upon the marble floor, apparently sunk in a sleep that has continued for three hundred and fifty years. As a specimen of elaborate workmanship this figure has few equals; for, from the exquisitely embroidered cushion which supports the bishop's head to the rings on his forefinger and thumb, and the stockings on his feet, everything reveals the most scrupulous attention to details.

Despite my efforts to the contrary, I found myself, when near this reminder of death, furtively looking at the venerable monk who stood beside us, and picturing this little brotherhood becoming gradually smaller and smaller, until at last but two survivors should remain to gaze into each other's eyes, dreading the hour when only one of them will be left - the last of all in these deserted halls - to die. These sad reflections were, however, quickly dispelled when, changing my position, I gained a front view of the slumbering prelate. Involuntarily I laughed aloud; for the head, inclined a little to one side, gives to the statue a peculiarly jocose appearance, as if the worthy man were feigning sleep, and might at any moment open his eyes and laugh at us for our mistake. Such absolute satisfaction I have never seen depicted elsewhere in a sculptured face. Apparently his dreams are most agreeable. No midnight call to prayer disturbs him now. "After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." We may be sure that to the last he loved good cheer, and frequently assumed, just after dinner, the peaceful attitude which the shrewd sculptor deemed best suited to his memory. The cheerful influence of this statue so affected us, that all the gloomy thoughts suggested by the waning brotherhood vanished; and, ere we rode down from the mountain height, we made use of the excellent cordial manufactured here, to drink the toast that the remaining brothers might feel in life and show in death as much serene contentment as Buonafede.