through it. Technically, the masterpiece bears signs of fatigue and
discontent, in spite of its extraordinary vigour of conception and
execution. The man was old and tired, thwarted in his wishes and
oppressed with troubles. His very science had become more formal, his
types more arid and schematic, than they used to be. The thrilling
life, the divine afflatus, of the Sistine vault have passed out of the
Last Judgment. Wholly admirable, unrivalled, and unequalled by any
other human work upon a similar scale as this fresco may be in its
command over the varied resources of the human body, it does not
strike our mind as the production of a master glorying in carnal pride
and mental insolence, but rather as that of one discomfited and
terrified, upon the point of losing heart.

Henri Beyle, jotting down his impressions in the Sistine Chapel, was
reminded of the Grand Army's flight after the burning of Moscow.
"When, in our disastrous retreat from Russia, it chanced that we were
suddenly awakened in the middle of the dark night by an obstinate
cannonading, which at each moment seemed to gain in nearness, then all
the forces of a man's nature gathered close around his heart; he felt
himself in the presence of fate, and having no attention left for
things of vulgar interest, he made himself ready to dispute his life
with destiny. The sight of Michelangelo's picture has brought back to
my consciousness that almost forgotten sensation." This is a piece of
just and sympathetic criticism, and upon its note I am fain to close.

V

It is probable that the fame of the Last Judgment spread rapidly
abroad through Italy, and that many visits to Rome were made for the
purpose of inspecting it. Complimentary sonnets must also have been
addressed to the painter. I take it that Niccolo Martelli sent some
poems on the subject from Florence, for Michelangelo replied upon the
20th of January 1542 in the following letter of singular modesty and
urbane kindness:--

"I received from Messer Vincenzo Perini your letter with two sonnets
and a madrigal. The letter and the sonnet addressed to me are so
marvellously fine, that if a man should find in them anything to
castigate, it would be impossible to castigate him as thoroughly as
they are castigated. It is true they praise me so much, that had I
Paradise in my bosom, less of praise would suffice. I perceive that
you suppose me to be just what God wishes that I were. I am a poor man
and of