would have taught him how inconsistent was such a close to the life which the God who gave it had alone the right to take away? How we used to revel in the account of the Roman infant, born in a fuller's workshop, to whose nurse a vision appeared, telling her that she was nurturing a great blessing for all Romans; but whose nursling, after a mingled course of weakness, crime, and many good deeds, was murdered on the sea-shore, leaving his discourse on old age, and numerous other writings, to instruct posterity and render his name famous. The Romans seem to have looked upon self-destruction with peculiar satisfaction, for they furnish a singularly large list of complacent executioners in this line. Brutus, by some supposed to be of plebeian parentage, was one of these notorieties, and received a fatal wound by falling upon his sword in the presence of friends who had passed the night with him; but the strangest of the self-immolaters were Antonius and Cleopatra, the former of whom, having lost a battle, and, in despair at the supposed death of his inconstant and beautiful wife, pierced himself with a dagger; and then, finding that Cleopatra still lived, was drawn up to her by women into an upper apartment, where he soon expired, and his example was imitated by his extraordinary wife, who feasted herself on delicacies, and then, decked in diadem and regal robes, allowed an asp to sting her to death. It is difficult to quit the Eternal City when once author or artist has entered within its precincts; yet, ere we leave them, we would reverently advert to the sacred victim of man's injustice, who was sacrificed within its walls only one century later than the barbarian examples just quoted. Born of no mean lineage, how astonished would the proud young Hebrew have felt, had any one prophesied in his youth that, a few years later, a new faith should have arisen, which would no longer single out the Israelites as a peculiar people to be solely honoured by its adoption; and that, in defence of this new creed, he would abjure friends, country, the time-honoured ritual of his native Jerusalem; and, supporting himself by the work of his own hands, would finally lay down his life in the far-famed Roman city, which his exe cution, by the monster Nero, was thenceforth to render yet more hallowed in the sight of nations. Of kingly departures to another world, perhaps the most peacefully interesting is that of Louis the Ninth, who was born when hot warfare was raging with the Albigenses, and who, well brought up by his gentle, pious mother, ended his days in the Holy Land, for whose rescue, from the Turks, he believed it to be his sacred duty to fight. On his dying bed he sent messages of affection to other sick persons, wasting under the hot sun of Palestine, and dictated the holiest precepts to his son and successor. He was then, at his own request, laid on a couch of ashes, and the long-expected fleet bringing succour to the plaguestricken crusaders, came in sight, as the truly-pious king breathed his last. A few centuries earlier, but in the same eastern land, a little baby, born, it was declared, amidst the strangest portents in heaven and earth, grew up to found a religious empire, which, even now, exceeds that of the whole Christian race; but who, when the closing scene arrived, was compelled, like other mortals, to supplicate the Omnipotent Father of all for support in the hour of death. He gave orders that his slaves should all be set free, and, with his head resting on the lap of his beloved wife, Ayesha, he exclaimed, in a faint voice, "Oh, Allah, be it so! among the glorious associates in Paradise," and became numbered with the dead. To rightly estimate the sublimity of the death-bed of Ignatius Loyola, would require that his arduous life-time should be well studied; but those who have followed the high-born Spanish page, gallant and warlike through his eventful existence, will enter with awe his lonely chamber, in the city of Rome, at sunrise, on the 30th of July, 1556, where lay extended the emaciated form of the founder of the great Jesuit sect. pulse was failing, but his eye retained its vigour; and, as the ministering monks came in, and knelt around their dying superior, the single word “Jesus" escaped his lips, and his spirit passed away. Let us next turn to the naughty little son of a poor watchmaker of Geneva, who afterwards made himself a world-wide reputation, as an author and a disinterested So His cialist, of modern times (no ordinary praise); and the summons having gone forth, he asked his wife to sit beside him, desiring her, at the same time, to open the window; and, looking out at the beautiful green of the fields, he observed, "How pure and beautiful is the sky! There is not a cloud. I trust the Almighty will receive me there above." Dazzled by the brightness of the day, he then fell forward, and, in so doing, expired. Need we say that his name was Jean Jaques Rousseau? He lies buried in an island shaded by poplars, on a small lake in the park of Ermenonville. In the Rue Charles, on the 15th of August, 1769, in the town of Ajaccio, behold a young and handsome woman, the wife of an acute lawyer of a respectable Ghibelline family; she has been to Mass, and, on her hasty return,is resting on a couch covered with tapestry representing the heroes of the Iliad, on which she gives birth to an infant, whose beauty promises to rival her own; and who, hardily educated, grows up in the same retired island, and prepares to follow the profession of arms. Fifty-two years after the birth of this child, we must transport ourselves, in imagination, to another island, far, far away from Corsica, and there, in a secluded chamber, guarded like a prison of importance, by military videttes, we behold the celebrated Corsican whose name has been the watch-word of aggression throughout Europe for at least a score of years. Extreme unction is administered amidst the raging of a tremendous hurricane, which roots up the state-prisoner's favourite willow tree; and, on the 5th of May, the French hero of a hundred battles, muttering "tête d'armée, breathes his last; and, a few days later, is borne to his grave by British grenadiers, his requiem being fitly performed by salvos of artillery over the tomb on the rocky islet, whose faroff seclusion had served to restrain any further outbursts of the fiery spirit which had so long desolated the European world. Twenty-four years after this, the dust of the mighty warrior is disinterred, and, amidst unbounded enthusiasm, is deposited in the Hotel d'Invallides, on the banks of the Seine. XANTHUS. 'MICHAEL ANGELO. We trust the period is approaching in which the beauty and dignity of art will be more universally acknowledged and when its influence on the age as an educator, intellectually, morally, and religiously, will be more thoroughly felt and recognised. That such will be the case eventually, we firmly believe; and we could advert to many proofs in confirmation of the fact that an advance is being made in the right direction. We will only allude incidentally to the Great Industrial Exhibition of last year, which, however it may have embodied the more practical and utilitarian tendencies of the time, was yet most emphatically the palace of the beautiful; and, indeed, there is no reason why these two elements (of beauty and of usefulness) should ever be disjoined. We could wish, however, that the love of the beautiful and the artistic were still more widely diffused, and enshrined in the cottages of the poor, as well as in the mansions of the rich. Some may assert that this is an impossibility; ; but we maintain that where there is a taste for the graceful and the refined, it may always be cultivated, more or less, while the trees wave in the forest solitudes, and the flowers, "earth's stars," smile from the wayside hedges. But the truth is, that at present the people "care but for few of these things;" and we cannot choose but believe, that it would add greatly to their happiness if they did. It would remove them from the sphere of daily cares, anxieties, and all the distraction and frivolity of ordinary life; or, rather, it would impart a dignity to the more practical duties of existence. The lover of the beautiful is exalted into a brighter region, a land of overflowing delight. He breathes a purer and more celestial atmosphere he has opened to him the portals of a temple exceeding in extent and magnificence the fabled palaces of Eastern enchantment. When going out, faint at heart from the clash of business and intercourse with the cold and unfeeling, he enters at will into fair, green pasture lands, bright with visions of surpassing loveliness, and filled with all the music of heaven. And let not the utilitarians be alarmed lest the age become too poetical, too dreamy and imaginative. We fear there is no danger of that: though, if there must be one extreme, we would rather the error lay in this direction, in the ennobling, the upward, and the diffusive; for surely it is better to be extravagant, if that be possible, in what tends to spiritualise and refine, than in that which would rather narrow and depress. The biographies of artists are attractive in a twofold degree: not only do they often relate the history of men very remarkable in themselves, apart from their profession, but they involve, in a great measure, the annals of art and its progress. We are thus led to contemplate the quaint simplicity, and the unearthly beauty of the PreRaphaelites, the vigour of Giotto, the sweetness of Perugino, the seraphic loveliness of Fra Angelico, and the simple nobleness and saintly purity of Bartholomeo. In Raffaelle's "Il Divino," we behold the very perfection of grace, of inimitable refinement, and the most varied intellectuality, while the youth and beauty of the artist inspire us with additional interest. Turning to the school of Venice, we are enchanted by the richest and softest colouring. The Florentine strikes us with the grandeur of design. In Lionardo da Vinci we observe a wonderful union of accomplishments. Beautiful in person, and fascinating in address, he was at once the finest gentleman and one of the greatest artists of the time. He was a first-rate mathematician. He excelled in fencing and horsemanship, in music, and in poetry, and was one of the most celebrated improvisatori of the age-in truth, the "Admirable Crichton" of Italy. And reverting to Michael Angelo, the subject of our present sketch, we remark the grand master of majestic design, the sculptor, the painter, and the architect-the Dante of modern art. Michael Angelo Buonarotti was born near Florence, at Settignano, in 1474, of a noble, but poor, family. He was descended from the Counts of Canossa, feudal lords of North Italy, but they had gradually become reduced in rank and fortune. Luigi Lionardo Buonarotti Simoni, our artist's father, was a magistrate at Chinsi, and his ambition was bounded with the hope of seeing his son an advocate in his native city. But Michael Angelo, from his earliest years, possessed an irrepressible love of painting and statuary, and his highest delight consisted in resorting to the studios of the various Florentine painters, and watching the artists at work. The eldest Buonarotti was much averse to his son's favourite studies, for the fine arts at that time were but little conducive to wealth or fame; moreover, he thought the profession degrading to one of high birth: truly, a great mistake; genius is the real nobility; and this is a fact which is becoming universally recognised, and will be more so in the progression of the years. Few, at this period of the world's history, know or care anything about the Counts of Canossa, but who has not heard the name of Michael Angelo? The possession of genius raises a man above thrones and princes; it enrobes him in a mantle which is better than regal purple; it encircles his brow with a halo of light, whose rays are more dazzling than the flash of a jewelled crown. And genius, rightly employed, not only thus exalts the man intellectually and morally, but it gives him, besides, an immortality on earth; for, sooner or later, comes the recognition, and then is he Cast back again upon the lap of life, It is related of Michael Angelo, that, when a child, he was observed, during a fearful storm, on the highest turret of his father's castle; and there, wrapt in deep silence and intense enthusiasm, he stood unmoved amid the passion of wind, and rain, and lightning, and thunder, and caught, doubtless, upon his spirit-wings the reflex of that solemn splendour, the majesty of that stern and dark magnificence. The young Buonarotti for a long time studied in secret, and made such surprising progress that, at length, when he was fourteen years of age, his father was prevailed upon to place him with Ghirlandaio. This artist, instead of receiving any premium from Lionardo Buonarotti, agreed to pay him for the first, second, and third years, six, eight, and twelve florins in gold for his son's services. The young artist soon surpassed his master; and about this time Lorenzo the Magnificent, who then reigned over Florence, invited a number of young men to study in his gardens, where he had formed a fine collection of antique statuary. Here Buonarotti first turned his attention to sculpture, under the direction of an artist named Bertoldo. Lorenzo de Medici was soon struck with the surpassing powers exhibited in the productions of Michael Angelo. He took him under his own especial patronage, and treated him as one of his own sons; and for a long time he resided at the Ducal Palace. Here he met in familiar intercourse with the men of the age most eminent for learning and refinement. This friendship between the prince and the artist continued till the death of the former, and does equal honour to both. One of the works which the young artist executed for his munificent patron was a basso-relievo in marble, the subject of which was the Battle of the Centaurs, which was much admired. Of course, these marks of favour soon excited the envy of the young sculptor's fellow-students; and Michael Angelo possessed by no means a conciliatory disposition. On one occasion, while they were drawing together, he had a quarrel with an artist named Torregiano, and received, in consequence, a blow on the face which disfigured him for life. The offender was deservedly banished from Florence. Benvenuto Cellini, in his interesting autobiography, has a passage relative to this affair which is worthy of note, inasmuch as it contains Torregiano's own version of the story : "About this time " (1519, most probably) "there came to Florence a sculptor named Pietro Torregiano, who had just arrived from England, where he had resided several years; and, as he was an intimate friend of my master's, he every day came to see him. This artist having seen my drawings and workmanship, said to me: 'I am come to Florence to invite as many young artists as I can to England; and having a great work in hand for the king of England, I should be glad of the assistance of any fellow-citizens of Florence. I perceive that your manner of working and your designs are rather those of a sculptor than a goldsmith; now, I have considerable undertakings in bronze, so that if you will go with me to England, I will at once make your fortune.' This Torregiano was a handsome man, of consummate assurance, having rather the air of a bravo than of a sculptor; above all, his fierce gestures, and sonorous voice, with a peculiar manner of knitting his brows, were enough to frighten every one that saw him, and he was continually talking of his valiant feats among those bears of Englishmen. His conversation one day happened to turn upon Michael Angelo Buonarotti. A drawing of mine taken from one of the cartoons of that divine artist gave rise to this discourse. Torregiano, holding this drawing of mine in his hand, spoke thus: "This Buonarotti and I went, when we were boys, to learn to draw at the Chapel of Masaccio, in the Church of the Carmelites; and it was customary with Buonarotti to rally all those who were learning to draw there. One day, a sarcasm of his having stung me to the quick, I was provoked to an uncommon degree, and gave him so violent a blow upon the nose with my fist, that I felt the bone and cartilage yield under my hand, as if they had been made of paste, and the mark I then gave him he will carry to his grave. Such is Torregiano's account, and Benvenuto Cellini adds: "This speech raised in me such an aversion to the fellow, because I had seen the works of the divine Michael Angelo, that, far from having any inclination to go with him to England, I could never more bear the sight of him." His It was while he was under the Medicean patronage that Buonarotti cultivated his naturally fine taste for poetry. He has bequeathed to the world sonnets, canzoni, and other specimens, vindicating his right to be ranked among the poets of his native land. poetical works were published at Florence in 1623, and again reprinted in 1726, with annotations by Benedotto Varchi, and Marco Ginducei. They are distinguished by the same grandeur and simplicity which characterise his painting and statuary. Dante was his favourite author. He illustrated the "Divina Commedia" with a series of pen-and-ink drawings, which have been, unfortunately, lost. Assuredly, no artist was ever better calculated to interpret Dante than Michael Angelo. He bears, indeed, a striking resemblance to him in many respects. Both minds were, by nature, directed to the dark, the stern, and the terrible. Both, again, possessed considerable learning, and were lavish of its display. Dante is the exile, restless and agitated, with the fire of genius flashing from his eye, and the breath of inspiration fluttering on his lips. Michael Angelo is as one of his own frescoed prophets; his brow sublime, with an unearthly power enthroned in the solemn silence of exalted thought, and crowned with the majesty of a stern repose. We have elsewhere, in a paper on Dante,* remarked on his touches of surpassing tenderness, as deep, as truthful, and impressive, as the sterner and more generally acknowledged attributes of his genius: and we may here observe that it is a great mistake to presume that Michael Angelo, the master of the terrible, had no corresponding appreciation for the beautiful and the refined; there is a figure of Eve, in the Capella Sistina, which is worthy of Raffaelle in its sentiment of all that is fair and enchanting in feminine grace. When Michael Angelo was but eighteen years of age, he suffered a great loss from the death of his generous friend, Lorenzo, whose son and successor, Pietro de Medici, still extended his patronage to the young student, with, however, but little idea of the nobleness of art, and still less of the high genius of Buonarotti: he even ordered him, on one occasion, to model a statue of snow, for the amusement of his courtiers; the sport of an idle hour, to be melted into nothingness by the reckless smile of the monarch of the noon. Not so! We wrong thee, Angelo. A great thought can never die; and we doubt not but that a noble thought was enshrined in that monument of snow. It was at this time that Buonarotti directed all the energies of his powerful mind towards the study of anatomy, a science to the mastery of which he is said to have devoted twelve years of his life, to the great injury of his health. He projected a tract on all the movements of the human body, in its external appearances and on the bones, with an ingenious theory the fruit of his long study. So Condivi relates, and it is certain that his attention to this subject laid the foundation for the attainment of that lofty excellence in design and the delineation of the human figure in which he has ever continued unrivalled. He remained at Florence, absorbed in his devotion to art, until the temporary banishment of the Medici, when he was compelled to seek a refuge at Bologna. On his return, he executed a statue of Cupid. It was so exceedingly beautiful, that it was actually mistaken for an antique. Michael Angelo favoured the idea by sending it to Rome, and causing it to be exhibited as a piece of sculpture which had been dug up from a vineyard. It was pronounced by various connoisseurs to be genuine, and superior to everything which contemporary art was capable of producing. But the trick was at length revealed, and the fame of the artist became wonderfully augmented. I This circumstance occasioned his introduction to the Cardinal San Georgio, by whom he was invited to Rome. While there, he produced the group of the Virgin and the dead Christ, entitled "La Pieta." It is singular that this is the only one of his works on which the artist engraved his name. Michael Angelo stood, one day, contemplating its effect in the church where it was placed, when two persons entered, and commenced disputing with regard to the author of the sculpture. Both agreed in extolling it as a production of extraordinary merit: one represented it as the work of a sculptor of Bologna. Buonarotti heard the conversation in silence; and that very night he returned to the church alone, and, by lamp-light, he carved his name deeply on the marble, in a position where it could be seen the best. After his stay at Rome, he was recalled to Florence, in 1504, to execute some public works. The first undertaking on which he exercised his genius was a statue of David. This work had been commenced some time before by Simon da Fiesole, who, after finding that he had commenced a work which he could not satisfactorily perform, abandoned it in despair. From the misshapen mass, Buonarotti carved a new design, and produced from it the sublime statue which ornaments the great square at Florence. He was soon after commissioned to prepare some cartoons, in competition with Lionardo da Vinci, for frescoes to decorate the Palazzo Vecchio, or town-hall |