any great notion of the village artist. Baptista, however, wishes he should go over and look at Correggio and his works, and to this he agrees. But the cunning innkeeper deals insincerely with both parties; and when they meet, his remarks have prepared each to treat the other rather uncivilly. The consequence is, that Michael Angelo's irritable temper carries its possessor very far from the right tone of conversation-and that at length he abuses the works of the stranger in a style of great violence.

We may imagine what effect these bitter reproaches produce in the sensitive mind of Antonio da Correggio, when he learns from Baptista, that they had been uttered by the lips of the greatest master of the age. At home, in his retirement, it is thus that the young painter soliloquises over the disappointment of all his hopes, for such is to him the discovery, (so he considers it) that his powers are incapable of doing any thing great in the art to which he has devoted all his thoughts. It will be observed, that his soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance of his wife, who essays to comfort him. We are to suppose, that after Buonarotti has uttered his bitter words and departed, Correggio, having learned his name, stands for some moments gazing on his own work in utter confusion, and then says,

Ant. (Alone. He sets down the picture,
and seems confounded.)

Is this a dream? Or has indeed the great
And gifted Buonarotti been with me?
And such his words! Oh, were it but de-
lusion!

(He sits down, holding his hand over

his fuce, then rises up again.) My brain whirls round-And yet am awake!

A frightful voice has broke my sleep" A
Bungler!"

Such name, indeed, I never had believed
That I deserv'd, if the great Buonarotti
Had not himself announc'd it!

(He stands lost in thought.)

On my sight
Rose variegated floating clouds-I deemed
That they were natural forms, and eager
seiz'd

The pencil to arrest their transient beauty-
But lo! whate'er I painted is no more
But clouds again-a many-colour'd toy,
Wherein all nobler attributes of soul
Are sought in vain-even just proportion's

rules

Are wanting too!

(Mournfully) THIS I had not suspected!

From deep internal impulse-with pure heart,

Have I my self-rewarding toil pursued;
When at the canvass placed, methought I
kneel'd
Even at the everlasting shrine of Nature,
Who smil'd on me, her favoured votary,
And glorious mysteries reveal'd. But oh,
How have I been deceived !—(A pause.)
I well remember,

When but a boy, I with my father went
To Florence on the market-day, and ran
Alone into St Lawrence church, and there
Stood at the graves of Giulio and Lorenzo;
Contemplated the immortal imagery,—
The Night, the Day, the Twilight, and

If this is all a dream, then he shall once,
Yet once more, not in anger, but with calm
And tranquil dignity, such as his Art
Has on Lorenzo's tomb pourtrayed, confirm
My sentence-Then farewell ye cherished
hopes!

Then I am still a poor and humble peasant! Aye, with a conscience pure and peaceful -still,

I shall not mourn, nor sink into despair.
If I am not a painter, yet my lot
Is neither mean nor abject-if this great
And far-famed Angelo should so denounce

me,

Yet would an inward voice, by Heaven inspired,

The assurance give, "Thou art not base nor guilty!"

Mar. (enters.) How's this, Antonio ? Thou art melancholy.

Thy picture's thrown aside 'Tis strange indeed,

To find thee unemployed when thus alone. Ant. Maria, dearest wife, my painting

now Is at an end.

Mar. Hast thou then finished quite ?

Ay, child-quite finish'd!

Thou weep'st, Antonio !

Mar. How is this? Oh, heaven,

Mar. Nay, not so, Maria.

here? Oh, tell me!

Ant. Be not afraid, Maria. I have
thought

On many things relating to our life;
And I have found, at last, that this pursuit,
By which we live, brings not prosperity;
So have I, with myself, resolv'd at once
To change it quite.

Mar. I understand thee not!

Ant. Seven years ago, when from thy father's hand,

I, as my bride, received thee; can'st thou still

Remember what the old man said, "Antonio,

Leave off this painting. He who lives and dreams

Still in the fairy world of art, in truth,
Is for this world unfit-your painters all,
And poets prove bad husbands; for with
them

The muse usurps the wife's place; and in

And unto them thy time and life devote !" Mar. He saw not that which I then lov'd in thee,

Thy genius and thy pure aspiring soul! He knew not that thine art, which he despised,

Had shar'd my love, and was itself a blessing!

Ant. My child, full many things have been believed

That were not true. Thy hopes have all been blighted!

It shall no more be thus! we shall not strive

For that which is impossible, nor waste This life in feverish dreams. I shall renounce them,

Step back into obscurity,-henceforth
I may not be an Artist, but will learn
The duties of a husband and a father!
Mar. Thou can'st not be an Artist!—
Then no more

Can Art survive upon this earth!
Ant. Dear wife,

Thou lov'st me?

Mar. Aye-because I know thee wholly. Ant. Thou smil'st so sweet and innocently-mark you,

How that unmeaning imp is grinning there? (Pointing to the picture.)

Mar. (perplexed.) Antonio?

Ant. Now I see the faults. Oh, where

fore

Have I not had ere now some faithful friend

Who might have shewn them to me? For I feel

Within me the capacity to mend them! Mar. Oh Heaven! what means all this? Ant. (interested, and contemplating the picture.)

It seems to me,

As if in that poor picture there were still
Something not wholly so contemptible→→→
Not colour only-no-nor finishing-
Nor play of light and shade-but some-
thing too

Of SOLEMN and SUBLIME!

Mar. Nay, what has happened?
Antonio-pray thee-tell me!
Ant. He shall once-

Once more confirm his sentence. He has twice

Thundered it forth, but yet my condemnation

Must be a third time utter'd-I shall then
Paint cups and be a potter!

Mar. Who has been here?
Ant. (with dignity)

The great and far-famed MICHAEL AN

GELO.

Mar. And-He-HE said these things? Ant. Be quiet child;

under the same depression of spirits, is discovered in his painting room, still occupied in finishing the picture, which he had sold to Count Octavian. He is now surprised by a visit from Giulio Romano, who is just returned, full of the highest admiration, from the church, in which, instead of what he expected, he had found some of the new masterpieces, and among others, the famous NIGHT of Correggio. The gradual change from despondency, to renewed hope and confidence in the mind of Correggio, as produced by the applauses of Giulio Romano, is brought out with a degree of sensibility and psychological accuracy, which cannot be too much commended. As we doubt not that this dialogue will prove interesting, we shall transcribe it entire. But first, another glimpse of Corregio in his solitude.

Now, there wants but the varnish! Ha! that veil

Will be far too transparent. From all eyes,
Oh might it be withdrawn? Oh why was I,
By want compelled to sell it? Was it not
Deception thus so large a sum to gain,
By such a worthless labour? Yet Octavian
Himself survey'd the picture; and the price
On his own judgment offered. I then said,
It was too much.
(Taking a pencil)

That

Yet here, amid the grass, I shall paint one pale Hyacinth. flower, When beauteous maidens die, adorns their tomb.

For me the lovely form of HOPE has now Declined in death; and for her sake shall I, For the last time here plant one flower! But then,

How shall I live if I must paint no more? For Art has like the breath of Heaven become,

A requisite of life? Well, be it so!

(A pause.)

Let the long week in manual toil be spent, For wife and child! The Sunday morning still

Remains mine own. Then, once more on my sight,

The smiling Iris with her sevenfold bow Will rise in wonted beauty. I shall draw, And groupes compose again,-and colour them,

All for mine own delight. To say the least, "Tis but a harmless luxury, and my pictures,

Will yet adorn our cottage walls, and please Maria and the boy, who love them too! When I am gone, and travellers wander here,

They will not look on them unmoved; for all

Are not like Michael Angelo.Perchance

It may be said, this man at least aspired,

And had true love for Art.

(Giulio Romano enters.) Giu. Here now he sits,

The man by Heaven inspir'd,-painting again

Some picture that shall fill the world with wonder.

Oh, how I long to speak with him? Yet patience!

I shall by gradual steps prolong my joy.
Am I awake? What have I seen? How
Giulio ?
Must thou from Rome to this poor village

come,

To find the second Rafaelle? "Tis, indeed, Wondrous and unexpected! In the city, Schools and Academies we build, and princes

Aid all our efforts,-Even from infancy Our eyes are fixed on models, and our hands

Are exercised; but when at length arrives The brilliant opportunity to prove

The powers that we have gained, what are we all

But scholars? Not indeed of praise unworthy,

Good specious IMITATORS! If, once more,
True genius is to shew itself on Earth,
It blooms not in the hot-house. All such
aid

That Amaranthine flower disdains. In woods,

And wilds, by the free breath of storms pervaded,

It flourishes, by chance implanted there, And by supernal powers upheld. We gaze With veneration on our ancient masters, And deem that genius has its acme gained, And died with them. But while, all una

Even in the humblest cells of poverty!
Antonio, (still at the picture.)
Stand there, thou little pale blue Hyacinth-
Thy hues betokening death!

Giu. He looks indeed,

Like the fair forms that he delights to paint,
Mild, amiable, and sensitive.
But care
And sadness mark his features-The fine
hues,

That to the cheeks of others he imparts,
Bloom not upon his own.-

Ant. (turning half round.)
There comes again

A stranger visitant! (They mutually salute.) Giu. Forgive me, Signor,

If I disturb you !-But how could I leave This place, till I that wondrous artist knew, Whose works adorn it ?

Ant. Then-you meet-ah Heaven, But a poor melancholy man !

Giu. How's this?

Has the bright sun that must the world il

lume,

Even for himself nor light nor warmth ? Ant. Thy looks

Are friendly, stranger!

1

And I do believe Thou dost not mock me. Yet, unconsciously, Thou wound'st me deeply. Sun indeed!

Thy name?

Ant. Antonio Allegri.

Giu. 'Tis well

ANTONIO ALLEGRI DA CORREGGIO! How can this name sound strange unto mine ears,

That shall ere long on all tongues be familiar?

I have indeed beheld thy NIGHT, Antonio, There, in the church. What thou would'st

represent, Thou hast thyself perform'd-a miracle!— Through the deep gloom of earthly life shines forth

Light to rejoice the shepherds;-and like them,

I stand amazed before you-powerless quite To explain the wonders that I look upon, Veiling my dazzled eyes, and half in doubt, If all that I behold is not delusion!

Ant. Oh, Signor-'tis indeed delusion
all!-

Thou art a man of honour-and thou lov'st
Our art-but let me venture thus to say-
I know too well what Art should be!
Giu. Thy words

Perplex me, Signor.

Ant. I have been indeed Through many a year a riddle to myself. Giu. Thou art in all things inconceivable

How has thy genius bloom'd thus all unaided ?

How has the world and thine own worth to thee

Remain'd unknown ?

Ant. But for example now,

How deem'st thou of this picture ?

Giu. How shall words

Express my feelings?-If I say 'tis NOBLE, What have I said?-Till now, Rafaelle's

Madonna

Maternal-less of queenly dignity.'
Rafaelle indeed has earthly forms endowed
With grace divine-but thou hast brought
from Heaven

Ethereal spirits, here, in mortal frames
Submissively to dwell!
Ant. (Anxiously.)

But then, indeed,

Are there no faults ?-

Giu. Where so much is achieved, Faults have no room to exist.

bliss

In the full

The virgin's smile, and then the child's? Giu. In them,

I find no fault. Original, but lovely! Ant. Not then " unmeaning,' implike," ," "honey-sweet?" + Giu. So have I to myself, in summer

dreams, Painted the smiles of angels.