me has followed him, and nothing remains for me but infinite misery. I commend myself to

"I have received the little book of Mr Cosimo Bartholi, which you sent me, and you will find inclosed my letter of thanks, which I beg you will give him also personally from me, and I commend him to you.

"I have had, these two or three last days, great inconvenience and expense to undergo; but I also felt great pleasure in visiting all the hermitages on the mountains above Spoleto: so that I have only brought back to Rome half of myself, for one only finds real peace in woods and solitude. I have nothing else to say to you. I am satisfied in knowing that

* Nothing is more interesting than the sight of these numerous little hermitages, some of which were built by persons of an ele. vated rank One sees them placed in a sort of amphitheatre of wood, on a pleasant mountain, which rises above Spoleto. The high road is only divided from it by a rapid torrent: image of a tumultuous world, it roars at your feet, whilst above you peace dwells in these eternal solitudes.

you are in good health and spirits. I commend

myself to you.

"MICHAEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI."

66 TO CORNELIA.

"I saw yesterday that you were angry with me, but I did not know the reason; I think I have discovered it by your last letter. When you sent me the cheeses, you wrote to me to say that you would send me many other things, but that the handkerchiefs were not yet finished and I, in order to prevent your incurring expense for that, wrote to tell you not to send any thing more, but that you should ask me for something, which I should feel great pleasure in granting; as you know and even are certain of the attachment which I had for Urbino and every thing concerning him, though he be no longer alive. As to coming to see the children or sending hither Michael Angelo, my god-son, it is necessary that I should acquaint you with my present situation. It is not convenient to send Michael Angelo, because I am without a maid-servant or any house-keeper; and besides the child is too young at present. Some accident might happen to him which would grieve me much; moreover, it is now

a month ago since the Duke of Florence did every thing for me to return to that city with very great offers. I have asked him for the time necessary to arrange my matters here, and to leave the building of St Peter's in a good train, so that I reckon upon passing all the summer at Rome. When my affairs are finished and yours about the Mount of Piety, I shall go next spring to Florence forever; for I am old, and have no more time to return to Rome. I shall pass your house; if you like to let me have Michael Angelo with me, I will keep him at Florence with more affection than the children of my nephew Leonard, in teaching him what I know his father wished him to learn of me. I received your last letter yesterday, 27th March.

"MICHAEL ANGELO BUONA ROTTI."

66

LETTER AND SONNET OF MICHAEL ANGELO, WRITTEN IN HIS EIGHTY-FIRST YEAR TO VASARI.

"Would to God, my dear Vasari, I could live some few years more, notwithstanding the inconveniences of old age. I know very well that you will tell me I am too old, and that it is foolish in me to write sonnets; but it is

because many people say that I am fallen into second childhood, that I have wished to do my best. I see by your letter the attachment you have for me. Know then as a certainty that I should wish my poor remains to be buried near those of my fathers, as you desire. But in leaving Rome, I should cause the ruin of the building of St Peter's, which would be a great sin and shame to me. When this great edifice is so far advanced as to prevent the possibility of its being injured by any alterations, I hope to put in execution all you propose to me, if it be not already a very blameable thing to keep in such a miserable state so many envious rivals, who wait for my departure with impatience."

The following Sonnet, annexed to this letter, is also written by his hand.

"Giunto è già 'l corso della vita mia
Con tempestoso mar per fragil barca
Al comun porto, ov' a render si varca
Conto e ragion d'ogni opra trista, e pia.
Onde l' affetuosa fantasia

Che l'arte mi fece idolo, e monarca,
Conosco or ben, quant' era d' error carca,
E quel ch' a mal suo grado ognun' desia.

Gli amorosi pensier già vani e lieti,
Che fien' or, s' a due morte mi avvicino ?
D'una so certo, e l' altra mi minaccia.

Nè pinger, nè scolpir fia più, che quieti
L'anima volta a quello amor divino,

Ch' apprese a prender noi in croce le braccia.

It is much to my regret, that I cannot produce more than three of Michael Angelo's sonnets. It appears to me very desirable, although two editions of his poems have appeared at Florence, that a new edition should be published, accompanied by a good translation, for the convenience of those who are not well acquainted with the Italian. I think, considering the scarcity of the two editions which have already appeared, that a less voluminous collection of his poetry would be received with equal satisfaction by every one. What artist is there but would exclaim with transport, "I have read the poetry of Michael Angelo !"

I will present the reader with the first and third sonnet, extracted from the collection printed twice at Florence, under the title of "The Poems of Michael Angelo Buonarotti the Elder," to distinguish them doubtless from those of his nephew Leonardo :