above fortune and above kings; by that alone, and not by the splendour of titles, is glory acquired; that glory which it will be your happiness and pride to transmit unspotted to your posterity." After the death of her husband, she betook herself to solitude, that she might lament his loss and celebrate his exploits. Young, and of consummate beauty both of mind and person, she uniformly refused to accept a second husband, though sought in marriage by persons of high distinction. She devoted herself to poetry, and so general was her fame throughout Italy, that ARIOSTO inscribed several of his verses to her. But her peculiar merit as a poet was, that in an age of immorality and grossness, she was the first who consecrated her lyre to subjects of piety unmixed with other matters. To such a person it was that Michael Angelo devoted his soul and his muse. It does not, however, appear whether or not she felt any answering affection, though it is observed by an elegant artist, that he thinks some traces of such a correspondence appear in his poems*. It is however certain that she wrote to him frequently letters of warm regard, and that she many times went to Rome expressly to see and converse with him, openly avowing the pleasure she received from his society; but in the poems of Vittoria Colonna, not a tinge of passion is discernible, though it glows with infinite ardour and tenderness in those of Buonaroti.

The Italian poets of the time amused the multitude, and were admired by them because they made their poetry subservient to levity and gross representations. Michael Angelo, however, did not follow their example, but trod in the path of Dante and Petrarch, his great masters. The platonic notions relating to the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, entirely imbued the minds of the masters of this school, at the time when the fine arts and poetry came forth out of the deep darkness which had shrouded them. It was the object of these men to draw love from the slavery of the senses, and to place it under the guidance of reason; not representing its exterior acts and sensible enjoyments, but delineating that which

* See a very eloquent article by Sig. Radici on the poems of Michael Angelo, vol. xiii. p. 248. of the Retrospective Review. It is to this article, and to Mr. Duppa's life, that we are indebted for what is stated of the poetry of Michael Angelo.

arises in the minds of the good alone, when this, like other affections and passions, is purified and made conformable with virtue. From this cause, neither the works of Dante, Petrarch, nor Michael Angelo received applause except from the learned and good, and more particularly those whose minds were filled with the platonic conceptions of love. It should be observed that Lorenzo de' Medici, Michael Angelo's great and early patron, had drawn around him a society of platonic philosophers consisting of the most celebrated men of his time, and had caused Plato's dialogues to be translated; and it is probable that their doctrines concerning the power of the soul's energies in the configuration of the countenance and person, according to the established habits of virtue and vice, tended at once to awaken the attention of Michael Angelo in his choice of subjects and expression of qualities for the perfection of beauty, and also to imbue him with that peculiar spirit which is apparent in his writings. The following sonnets by Michael Angelo, which have been translated by Mr. Wordsworth, will illustrate the doctrine of this school.

No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my soul felt her destiny divine;
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
Heaven-born the soul a heaven-ward course must

hold:

Beyond the visible world she soars, to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
ideal form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes; nor will he lend

His heart to aught which doth on time depend,
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
Which kills the soul: love betters what is best
Even here below, but more in heaven above.—

Yes hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetray'd;
For if of our affections none nnd grace
Insight of heaven, then wherefore hath God made
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His love is treacherons only whose love dies
With beanty, which is varying every hour,
But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power
of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower
That breathes on earth the air of Paradise.

The world which we inhabit? Better plea

WORDSWORTH.

In all Michael Angelo's compositions traces of his admiration of Dante are to be found; it is stated that he knew the Divina Commedia by heart ;" and who

+Monsignor Bottari, in his life of Michael Angelo, mentions that he had a copy of Dante in his possession, (the large folio edition with Landino's commentary,) on the margins of which he had drawn with a pen every thing which was contained in the poeins

ever" (observes Sig. Radici) "has meditated on the productions of these two extraordinary minds, will be constrained to confess that never did two souls agree with so perfect a harmony-whether we look at the awful and terrible nature of their imagings, or at the loftiness of their sentiments, or at the perfectness of their representations, the thirst for renown, the consciousness of their own worth, the scorn of the blind vulgar, a constant dissatisfaction of things appertaining to this world, and an incessant panting, and, as it were, striving after the mysterious beatitudes of heaven, which may be seen a thousand times in the writings and in the lives of both these illustrious Italians. The deep contempt in which the lofty mind of Dante held the vulgar is apparent in every part of his writings. By the vulgar, however, he did not mean the simple inhabitants of lonely streets or humble cottages, but that abject and sordid crowd of all classes and all places,-the vulgar of kings, of popes-to whom he allotted punishment, not so much for their crimes, as for the baseness of their minds and the meanness of their desires --of priests, of nobles, of plebeians, of learned men, of knaves-the vulgar of every degree.

"It is the fate of lofty genius, like that of Dante and Michael Angelo, to be unable to support the scoffs and restraints imposed by the multitude; who, often malignant, and offended by greatness, try to fetter and deride it, calling those

of Dante, and amongst the rest an infinite number of the most excellent naked figures in the most striking attitudes. The book got into the hands of Antonio Montanti, an intimate friend of Antonio Maria Silvia, as appears from Silvia's published letters. Montanti was an able statuary, and set a very high value on this book, and on going to Rome from Florence, he sent all his effects by sea, when the vessel and its freight perished-and thus was lost to the world this inestimable volume, which alone would have done honour to the library of the greatest monarch.

The demons in the last judgment, the figures rising from the grave, and the subject of the brazen serpent and the execution of Haman, in the Sistine chapel, all will convince the reader of Dante how kindred his genius was to that of Bonnaroti's, and how worthy the painter was to embody the ideas of the poet; but the work, observes Sig. Radici, in which Michael Angelo truly showed that his mind was, so to speak, an emanation of that of Dante, is the one which is so unlike the production of all other painters, that we may truly say, he was inspired to execute it, viz. of the Virgin looking at her son with dry eyes, the expression of which is far removed from all mourning or sorrow, thus imaging the true and philosophical meaning of that sublime prayer in the last canto of

the Paradiso.

O virgin mother, daughter of thy son! Created beings all in lowliness Surpassing, as in height above them all.

actions which their grovelling minds cannot understand, madness.

"Indeed it seems to have been the peculiar hard fate of him and his contemporaries, who were to become in after times the great ornaments of their age, and the glory and pride of their country, to have experienced little else than continual opposition and oppression. Tasso, after living forty-seven years in the midst of the railleries of courtiers, the dulness of pedants, and the haughtiness of princes, at one time imprisoned-awanderer-always indigent-lying on his death bed, wrote, I will not complain of the malignity of fortune, because I do not choose to speak of the ingratitude of men who have succeeded in dragging me to the tomb of a mendicant.' Dante for many years went begging from door to door; he whose noble verse had aroused Italy from her slumbers, and breathed into her a new and nobler soul; he who in his youth had drawn his sword in the sacred cause of his country's liberty; he who was overcome with longing after the paternal roof-an exile-was not permitted to behold again the towers of his native city, nor to embrace the tomb of his ancestors even in death:" and Michael Angelo, in one of two fine sonnets to the memory of Dante, has indignantly noticed his country's cruel injustice.

SONNET.

How shall we speak of him, for our blind eyes
Easier it is to blame his enemies
Are all unequal to his dazzling rays?
Than for the tongue to tell his lightest praise.
For us did he explore the realms of woe;
And at his coming did high heaven expand
Her lofty gates, to whom his native land
Refused to open hers. Yet shalt thou know,
Ungrateful city, in thine own despite,
That thou hast fostered best thy Dante's fame
For virtue when oppressed appears more bright,
And brighter therefore shall his glory be,
Suffering of all mankind most wrongfully,
Since in the world there lives no greater name!

With regard to Michael Angelo, no one can have read the preceding short and imperfect narrative of his life, without seeing the cruel and unmerited treatment he experienced from the great; the perpetual and the harassing opposition he met from those who, willing to avail themselves of his genius, and to unite their names and fame with his in the hopes of reaching posterity by this means, were yet unwilling to allow him the free use of his powers, or to brook that independence and freedom that would not allow him to humble himself before their baseness. His feelings may be completely collected both

from his letters and his poetry; and in his madrigal to Riccio, he again expresses his opinion of those by whom it was his lot to be surrounded.

Ill hath he chosen his part who seeks to please
The worthless world,-ill hath he chosen his part,
For often must he wear the look of ease

When grief is at his heart;

And often in his hours of happier feeling
With sorrow must his countenance be hung.
And ever his own better thoughts concealing
Must he in stupid grandeur's praise be loud,
And to the errors of the ignorant crowd

Assent with lying tongue.

Thus much would I conceal that none should know
What secret cause I have for silent woe;
And taught by many a melancholy proof

That those whom Fortune favours it pollates,
I from the blind and faithless world aloof,
Nor fear its envy nor desire its praise.
But choose my path through solitary ways.
SOUTHEY.

We have been induced, notwithstanding the narrowness of our limits, to give these extracts of the poetry of Michael Angelo, not only for their intrinsic beauty, but because we have no better means of showing the constitution of his mind, and making him, in fact, in the most important part of his history, that of his feelings and opinions, become his own biographer.

To M. Luca Martini. Most noble Messer Luca, (1)—I have received from M. Bartolommeo Bettini (2) your letter, enclosing me a commentary (3) upon a sonnet which was the offspring of my pen. The sonnet is verily mine, but the commentary on it is the gift of Heaven; for of a truth it is an admirable production-not by the award of my judgment, but by that of the most able men, and more especially of M. Donato Giannotti (4), who seems as if he could never read it enough, and begs to be specially commended to you. As regards the sonnet, I know what it is: but be that as it may, it is impossible but that I must feel a little vain glory from the circumstance of its having given rise to so beautiful and erudite a comment; and inasmuch as the author of the same pronounces me, by his fine words and praises, to be what I know I Let me beg of you that you will speak for me in return, and in language such as is due to so much affection, courtesy, and love. I do entreat you to this the more from a sense of my own inferiority, and because he who enjoys the good opinion of the world ought not to tempt fortune, it being more wise in him to hold his peace than to get a fall from on high. I am old; and death hath already deprived me of the thoughts of my youth: and let him who knows nothing of old age from experience wait patiently till it arrive, for he can form no opinion of it sooner. Recommend me, as I have said, to Varchi, as one who is most attached to him, and to his virtues, and no less devoted to his service wheresoever I am.

am not.

nothing about laying the foundations in St. Peter at Montorio, both because the Pope would not give his assent, and because I was aware that you had been informed of it by your man. I will now tell you what followed; which is, that the Pope went yesterday morning to Montorio, and sent for me there (5). I met him on the bridge as he was returning; and at the conclusion of a long conversation I had with him respecting the sepultures, he told me he had resolved not to have them erected over that hill, but in the church of the Florentines. He asked me my opinion, and also with regard to some plans, and I encouraged him much to continue in that intention; thinking that by this means the church will be brought to perfection. As for the three letters which I received from you, my pen is incapable of making due answer to the fine things you say of me; but if it would delight me to be in some part such as you describe me, it would only be because you might thus have a servant worth something. But I do not wonder that you, who resuscitate the dead (6), may also lengthen the life of the living, or for an infinite number of years rescue from death persons who are hardly alive. To conclude; such as I am, I remain all yours. Rome, Aug. 1, 1550.

To the same.

At Rome.

M. A. BUONAROTI.

To Giorgio Vasari.

boxes, one span thick, but of different lengths and widths, and put the largest on the pavement, at such a distance from the wall of the door as you wish the staircase to be steep or inclined; then place another box upon that, so much smaller on every side that it may leave sufficient space for the foot to mount, and let the steps go up decreasing in the same proportion until the last perfectly fits the door. Let this oval part of the staircase have two wings, one on each side, continuing the same steps, but not oval. Of this, let the middle serve for the lord from the middle of the staircase upwards, and let the turnings of the wings return to the wall. From the middle down to the pavement they should go, together with all the staircase, about three spans from the wall; so that the basement of the circumference should be nowhere occupied, and every face remain free. I fear you will laugh at what I am writing, but I know you will find something that will do.

Rome, Sept. 15, 1550.

To the sume.

My dear Mr. George,-As soon as Bartolommeo (7) arrived here, I went to speak to the Pope; and having seen that he wished to have the foundations of the sepultures laid at Montorio, I provided a mason from St. Peter's. But the busy-bodies (8) having heard of it, would send another instead; and I withdrew immediately, not to contend with him who gives motion to the winds: because, being a man of small weight, I should not like to be blown away into the middle of some bush. I shall only say that, in my opinion, we should no longer think of the church of the Florentines (9). Return soon; and farewell. Nothing else occurs to me for the present.

Rome, Oct. 13, 1550.

To the same. My dear friend George,-I have derived the greatest pleasure from your letter, seeing that you still remember the poor old man; and moreover, from your having been present at the triumph of the birth of another Buonaroti; for which news I give you my best thanks (10); but I do not like such pomp: for man should not laugh when all the world weeps; wherefore, I think Leonardo should not make those rejoicings for the birth of a child, which should be reserved for the death of one who has

lived well. Do not wonder at my not answering you immediately: I have delayed a little, that I might not appear like a merchant. Now, I will tell you, that if I deserved but the least part of the great praise you bestow on me in your letter, I should think that, when I entirely gave myself to you in mind and body, I had given you something, and thus paid some small portion of the great debt I owe to you. On the contrary, I always recognise you as my creditor for a sum much larger than I have means to pay. Being much advanced in age (11), I no longer hope to be able to strike a balance in this world; but I do not despair of doing so in the other. Meanwhile, I beg you to have patience, and I am always yours. Affairs go on much the same! Rome.

To the same.

My dear friend George,-I call God to witness, that Pope Paul the Third, ten years ago, forced me to take the management of St. Peter at Rome (12), though I was very reluctant to accept it; and if they had continued working at that building, as at that time they did, I should now be so much advanced in the construction of it that I should wish to return amongst you; but from want of money it has been greatly delayed, and is still delayed, when it has just reached the most laborious and difficult parts; so that, if I abandoned it now, I should only lose, with the greatest shame and sin, the fruit of the hardships I have endured these ten years for the love of God (13). I write you this as an answer to yours, and also because I have received a letter from the Duke, which makes me wonder how his grace has deigned to write with so much kindness. I thank God and his excellence for it as much as I can. I wander from the question; having lost both my memory and head, and because writing gives me great trouble, not being my art. The object of this, however, is to make you understand what would ensue if I abandoned the abovementioned building and departed from Rome: I should please several thieves, cause its ruin, and perhaps lose my own reputation for ever.

To the same.

My dear George,-I cannot write with facility (14), but notwithstanding I will say something in answer to your letter. You know Urbino (15) is dead. This was a very great favour that God

was pleased to bestow on me, but it caused me also a serious loss, and immense grief. The favour was, that whilst he was in life, he kept me alive; in dying, he taught me how to die, not only without being sorry for it, but to wish for death. I kept him twenty-six years with me, and I have found him very precious to me and faithful; and now that I had made him rich, and that I expected him to be the support and comfort of my old age, he has been taken from me, and no other hope remains but that of seeing him again in paradise; and God gave me an indication of this by the happy death of my companion, who regretted much more than dying the leaving me in this treacherous world amidst so many troubles. My greater part is gone with him, and nothing remains to me but an unbounded wretchedness. I recommend myself to you.

To the same.

My dear friend George,—I have received the little book of M. Cosimo, which you sent me, and I enclose you a letter of thanks to him. I beg you to forward it, together with my compliments. I have lately undergone great fatigue and expense, and also had great pleasure, in the mountains of Spoleti (16), visiting those hermits; so that I returned to Rome less than half myself: because it is really impossible to find peace except in the woods. I have nothing else to say. I am glad you are well, sound in health, and happy, and I commend myself to you. Sept. 18, 1556.

To the same.

May it please God, Vasari, that, though with great trouble, I may keep myself in life a few years more. I know you will say I am old and silly when I presume to make sonnets; but I am become a child again, just as many people say, and thus you see I am but playing my part. I see from your letter how much you love me; and I assure you I should like to lay my bones by the side of those of my father, as you wish me to do; but in leaving this place at present, I should be the cause of a great ruin to the building of St. Peter, which would be a great shame and a great sin; but as soon as it is carried in a manner that it may no longer be altered, I hope to do as you write me; if it is not already a sin to disappoint a number of greedy cormorants, who anxiously wish for my depar

ture.

To Messer Benedetto Varchi. To show you in some manner that I have received your little book, I will send you something in answer to your question, though it may tend to show my ignorance (17). I say then that painting seems more esteemed when it most approaches relief, and that relief is thought worse in proportion as it most approaches painting. On this account I used to think that sculpture was the source of light to painting, and that their difference from each other was like that of the sun and the moon. Now, after having read in your little book that part where you say that, philosophically speaking, things which have a common end are the same, I have changed my opinion, and I say, that if superior judgment and difficulty, impediment and labour, do not constitute superior worth, painting and sculpture are the same thing; and, in order that they should be thought such, every painter should consider sculpture as not less than painting, and the sculptor esteem painting equally with sculpture.-I mean by sculpture, that which consists in cutting off: for that which consists in adding, is like painting. I shall only add, that as sculpture and painting proceed from the same intelligence, it would be better to cause them to make peace together, and to give up so many disputes; for people lose more time in them than in making figures. He who wrote that painting was more noble than sculpture would have been surpassed by my own servant, if she had equally known the other things which he wrote. There is an infinite number of things to say about that science, which never were said before; but, as I have said, this would take too much time, and I have very little of it to waste, being not only an old man, but almost in the number of the dead. I therefore beg you to excuse me, and I recommend myself to you,'and I thank you as much as I can or know how, for the excessive honour you do me, of which I am quite unworthy.

Rome.

To Messer Bartolommeo*. It cannot be denied that Bramante was (18) as excellent in architecture as any other man of ancient or modern times. He laid the first stone of St. Peter; not full of confusion, but clear, plain, luminous, and insulated all around, so that it was of no prejudice to the rest of the

Most probably Ammanati, the architect.