hand upon the last youth’s shoulder, through the open book and the upraised arm of Christ, down to the feet of S. John and the last genius on the right side.  Florentine painters had been wont to place attendant angels at both sides of their enthroned Madonnas.  Fine examples might be chosen from the work of Filippino Lippi and Botticelli.  But their angels were winged and clothed like acolytes; the Madonna was seated on a rich throne or under a canopy, with altar-candles, wreaths of roses, flowering lilies.  It is characteristic of Michelangelo to adopt a conventional motive, and to treat it with brusque originality.  In this picture there are no accessories to the figures, and the attendant angels are Tuscan lads half draped in succinct tunics.  The style is rather that of a flat relief in stone than of a painting; and though we may feel something of Ghirlandajo’s influence, the spirit of Donatello and Luca della Robbia are more apparent.  That it was the work of an inexperienced painter is shown by the failure to indicate pictorial planes.  In spite of the marvellous and intricate beauty of the line-composition, it lacks that effect of graduated distances which might perhaps have been secured by execution in bronze or marble.  The types have not been chosen with regard to ideal loveliness or dignity, but accurately studied from living models.  This is very obvious in the heads of Christ and S. John.  The two adolescent genii on the right hand possess a high degree of natural grace.  Yet even here what strikes one most is the charm of their attitude, the lovely interlacing of their arms and breasts, the lithe alertness of the one lad contrasted with the thoughtful leaning languor of his comrade.  Only perhaps in some drawings of combined male figures made by Ingres for his picture of the Golden Age have lines of equal dignity and simple beauty been developed.  I do not think that this Madonna, supposing it to be a genuine piece by Michelangelo, belongs to the period of his first residence in Rome.  In spite of its immense intellectual power, it has an air of immaturity.  Probably Heath Wilson was right in assigning it to the time spent at Florence after Lorenzo de’ Medici’s death, when the artist was about twenty years of age.

I may take this occasion for dealing summarily with the Entombment in the National Gallery.  The picture, which is half finished, has no pedigree.  It was bought out of the collection of Cardinal Fesch, and pronounced to be a Michelangelo by the Munich painter Cornelius.  Good judges have adopted this attribution, and to differ from them requires some hardihood.  Still it is painful to believe that at any period of his life Michelangelo could have produced a composition so discordant, so unsatisfactory in some anatomical details, so feelingless and ugly.  It bears indubitable traces of his influence; that is apparent in the figure of the dead Christ.  But this colossal nude, with the massive chest and attenuated legs, reminds us