any kind whatsoever, now existing in the world;
and it is, I believe, on the eve of final destruction; for it is said
that the angle of the great council-chamber is soon to be rebuilt; and
that process will involve the destruction of the picture by removal,
and, far more, by repainting. I had thought of making some effort to
save it by an appeal in London to persons generally interested in the
arts; but the recent desolation of Paris has familiarized us with
destruction, and I have no doubt the answer to me would be, that Venice
must take care of her own. But remember, at least, that I have borne
witness to you to-day of the treasures that we forget, while we amuse
ourselves with the poor toys, and the petty, or vile, arts, of our own
time.

The years of that time have perhaps come, when we are to be taught to
look no more to the dreams of painters, either for knowledge of
Judgment, or of Paradise. The anger of Heaven will not longer, I think,
be mocked for our amusement; and perhaps its love may not always be
despised by our pride. Believe me, all the arts, and all the treasures
of men, are fulfilled and preserved to them only, so far as they have
chosen first, with their hearts, not the curse of God, but His blessing.
Our Earth is now encumbered with ruin, our Heaven is clouded by Death.
May we not wisely judge ourselves in some things now, instead of amusing
ourselves with the painting of judgments to come?

_The Relation Between Michael Angelo and Tintoret_ (London, 1872).

AURORA

(_GUIDO RENI_)

CHARLOTTE A. EATON

On the roof of the summer-house of the Palazzo Rospigliosi, is painted
the celebrated fresco of Guido's _Aurora_. Its colouring is clear,
harmonious, airy, brilliant--unfaded by time; and the enthusiastic
admirer of Guido's genius may be permitted to hope that this, his
noblest work, will be immortal as his fame.

[Illustration: AURORA.
_Guido Reni_.]

Morghen's fine engraving may give you some idea of the design and
composition of this beautiful painting; but it cannot convey the soft
harmony of the tints, the living touches, the brilliant forms, the
realized dream of the imagination, that bursts, with all its magic, upon
your enraptured sight in the matchless original. It is embodied poetry.
The Hours, that hand-in-hand encircle the car of Phoebus, advance with
rapid pace. The paler, milder forms of those gentler sisters who rule
over declining day, and the glowing glan