ngelo said of Raffaelle, that he possessed not his art by
nature but by long study. "Che Raffaelle non ebbe quest' arte da natura,
ma per longo studio." Raffaelle and Michael Angelo were rivals, but ever
spoke of each other with the respect and veneration they felt, and the
true meaning of the passage was to the praise of Raffaelle; those were
not the days when men were ashamed of being laborious,--and Raffaelle
himself "thanked God that he was born in the same age with that
painter."--"I feel a self-congratulation," adds Sir Joshua, "in knowing
myself capable of such sensations as he intended to excite. I reflect,
not without vanity, that these Discourses bear testimony of my
admiration of that truly divine man; and I should desire that the last
words which I should pronounce in this Academy, and from this place,
might be the name of Michael Angelo." They were his last words from the
academical chair. He died about fourteen months after the delivery of
this Discourse. Mr Burnet has given five excellent plates to this
Discourse--one from Parmegiano, one from Tibaldi, one from Titian, one
from Raffaelle, and one from Michael Angelo. Mr Burnet's first note
repeats what we have again and again elsewhere urged, the advantage of
establishing at our universities, Oxford and Cambridge, Professorships
of Painting--infinite would be the advantage to art, and to the public.
We do not despair. Mr Burnet seems to fear incorrect drawing will arise
from some passages, which he supposes encourages it, in these
Discourses; and fearing it, very properly endeavours to correct the
error in a note. We had intended to conclude this paper with some few
remarks upon Sir Joshua, his style, and influence upon art, but we have
not space. Perhaps we may fulfil this part of our intention in another
number of Maga.

* * * * *

THE YOUNG GREY HEAD.

Grief hath been known to turn the young head grey--
To silver over in a single day
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime
Scarcely o'erpast: as in the fearful time
Of Gallia's madness, that discrowned head
Serene, that on the accursed altar bled
Miscall'd of Liberty. Oh! martyr'd Queen!
What must the sufferings of that night have been--
_That one_--that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er
With time's untimely snow! But now no more
Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee--