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own Venice; his fair and bright-haired mistress, his honors and wealth, contrasting strangely with a death amid pestilence and desertion, come over the memory like a vivid picture. infancy, Titian colored a print of the Virgin with the juice of flowers, in a masterly manner. In early youth he deserted his teachers for the higher school nature opened to him. The passers uncovered to his portrait of Paul III., as it rested on a terrace at Rome, deeming it alive; and when Charles V. of Spain sat to him for the last portrait, he exclaimed, “This is the third time I have been made immortal!" These exuberant tokens of contemporary appreciation-these, and countless other indications of a life of success and enjoyment, seem woven into the fleshy tints of his Venus, and laugh out in the bright faces. of Flora and La Bella. And Correggio's sad story;-his lowly toil as a potter, the electric joy with which the conviction came home to him, that he, too, was a painter;-his lonely struggle with obscure poverty;--his almost utter want of appreciation and sympathy;-the limits of a narrow lot pressing upon so fine a soul, and then his rare achievements and bitter death, -worn down by the weight of the very lucre his genius had gained, can fancy, in her widest range, depict a more affecting picture of the "highest in man's heart struggling vainly against the lowest in man's destiny?" His Magdalene, bowed down yet serene, sad yet beautiful, sinful yet forgiven, is an emblem as lovely as it is true, of the genius and fate of Correggio. Salvator Rosa has written the history of his own life in those wild landscapes he loved so well. One might have inferred his Neapolitan origin. There is that in his pictures that breathes of a southern fancy. We there feel not the chastened tone of a Tuscan mind, not the religious solemnity of a Roman, but rather the half-savage genius of that singular region, where the

lazzaroni sleep on the strand and the fishermen grow swarthy beneath the warmest sky of Italy. The wanderer, the lover of masquerade, he who mingled in the revolt of Massaniello, and roamed amid the gloomy grandeur of the mountains, speaks to us from the canvas of Salvator. Delicacy and affection, taste and sentiment characterize Raphael's paintings. There is in them that refinement of tone, born only of delicate natures, such as this rude world often jars into the insanity of an Ophelia, or bows to the early tomb of a Kirk White. Murillo's style has been characterized as between the Flemish and high Italian, and we are told that, as a man, he combined rare simplicity of manners with the greatest elevation and modesty of soul. Michael Angelo has traced the inflexibility of his nature in the bust of Brutus, his self-possessed virtue in the calm grandeur of his muscular figures. One dreams over them of stern integrity and noble self-dependence.

It is common to talk of the genius of artists as partaking of the "fine phrensy " attributed to that of the poet. The intense excitement which accompanies the process of conception, is, however, comparatively rare, with the votaries of art. They have this advantage over the great thinker and the earnest bard—that much of their labor is mechanical, and calls rather for the exercise of taste than mental effort. There is, indeed, a period in every work when imagination is greatly excited and the whole mind fervidly active, but the painter and sculptor have many intervals of repose, when physical dexterity and imitative skill are alone requisite. And when the hand of the artist has acquired that habitual power which makes it ever obedient to the will, when he is perfectly master of the whole machinery of his art, and is confident of realizing, to a great degree, his every conception, a delightful serenity takes possession

of his mind. Calm trust in his own resources, and the daily happiness of watching the growth of his work, induce a placid and hopeful mood. And when his aim is exalted and his success progressive, there are few happier men. They have an object, the interest of which familiarity cannot lessen nor time dissipate. They follow an occupation delightful and serene. The atmosphere of their vocation is above the "smoke and stir of this dim spot that men call earth." The graceful, the vivid, and the delicate elements of their art, refine their sensibilities and elevate their views. Nature and life minister to them more richly than to those who only "poke about for pence." Hence the masters of the art have generally been remarkable for longevity. Their tranquil occupation, and the happy exercise of their faculties were favorable to life.

It has been said of Michael Angelo's pupils, that they were "nursed in the lap of grandeur." And it may be said of all true artists, that they are buoyed up by that spirit of beauty that is so essential to true happiness. I have ever found in genuine artists, a remarkable simplicity and truthfulness of character. There is a repose about them as of men who commune with something superior, and for whom the frivolous idols of the multitude have no attraction. I have found them usually fond of music, and if not addicted to general literature, ardently attached to a particular poet. They read so constantly the book of nature, that written lore is not so requisite for them. The human face, the waving bough, the flower and the cloud, the fantastic play of the smouldering embers, moonlight on a cornice, and the vast imagery of dreams, are full of teachings for them.

There is a definiteness in the art of sculpture, that renders its language more direct and immediate than that of painting.

Masses of stone were revered as idols, in remote antiquity; and men soon learned to hew them into rude figures. When architecture, the elder sister of sculpture, had given birth to temples of religion, the statues of deities were their chief ornaments. Images of domestic gods existed as early as the twenty-third century before the Christian era. The early Indian and Hindoo idols, as well as the gloomy sculpture of the Egyptians, evidence how naturally the art sprang from the human mind, even before a refined taste had developed its real dignity. Sculpture was a great element of Grecian culture. In the age of Pericles, it attained perfection. In the square and the temple, on the hill-top and within the private dwelling, the beautiful productions of the chisel met the eye. They addressed every sentiment of devotion and patriotism. They filled the soul with ideals of symmetry and grace, and the traces of their silent eloquence were written in the noble air, the harmonious costume, and the very forms of the ancient Greeks. The era of ideal models and a classic style passed away. In the thirteenth century, the art revived in Italy, and there are preserved some of the noblest specimens of Grecian genius, as well as those to which M. Angelo and his countrymen gave birth. The Apollo looks out upon the sky of Rome, while the Venus "loves in stone" and Niobe bends over her clinging babe in the Florence gallery. Shelley used to say, that he would value a peasant's criticism upon sculpture, as much as that of the most educated man. Form is, indeed, more easily judged than color. There is a certain vagueness in painting, while sculpture is palpable, bold, and clear. There is a severe nobility in the art; its influence is to calm and elevate rather than excite. The Laocoon, Niobe, and Alessandro doloroso are indeed expressions of passion; but they are striking exceptions. Sculpture soothes the impetu

ous soul. The heads of the honored dead wear a solemn dignity. The stainless and cold marble breathes a pure repose, stamped with the calm of immortality. In walking through the Vatican by torch-light, we might deem ourselves, without much exercise of fancy, in a world of spirits. The tall white figures looming forward in the gloom, the snowy faces, upon which the flambeaux glare, the winding drapery and the outstretched arm, strike the eye in that artificial light, with a startling look of life. One feels like an intruder into some hall of death, or conclave of the great departed. A good bust is an invaluable memorial; it preserves the features and expression without their temporary hue. There is associated with it the idea of durability and exactitude. Though the most common offspring of sculpture, it is one of the rarest in perfection. Few sculptors can copy nature so faithfully as to give us the very lineaments wholly free from caricature or embellishment. Those who have an eye for the detail of expression, often fail in general effect. To copy the form of the eye, the texture of the hair, every delicate line of the mouth, and yet preserve throughout an air of verisimilitude and that unity of effect which always exists in nature, is no ordinary achievement. The requisite talent must be a native endowment; no mechanical dexterity can ever reach it. "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever." This sentiment spontaneously fills the heart in view of the great products of the chisel. We contemplate the Niobe and Apollo, as millions have before us, with growing delight and the most intense admiration. They have come down to us from departed ages, like messengers of love; they assure us, with touching eloquence, that human genius and affection, the aspirations and wants, the sorrow and the enthusiasm of the soul, were ever the same; they invoke us to endure bravely and to cherish the