After the demise of Paolo, Cosmo I. Duke of Florence, by means of Vasari, earnestly intreated him to pass the remainder of his life at Florence; but the infirmities of age, and still more, inward grief for the subversion of the republic, with indignation at the established usurpation of the Medici, rendered these intreaties ineffectual. Equally unshaken by them and the vile rumour of his dotage, spread by the venal gang of Pirrho Ligorio, after crowning the Basilica with its cupola, he steered through calm and tempest on to his ninetieth year, the last of his life, 1564, and was buried in S. Apostoli; but, by the orders of Cosmo, secretly conveyed to Florence, where the pomp of academical exequies, the starched eloquence of Varchi, and a monument in Santa Croce from a design of Vasari, awaited his remains. It is difficult to decide who understood Michael Angelo less, his admirers or his censors; though both rightly agree in placing him at the head of an epoch; those of the re-establishment, these of the perversion, of style. All extremes touch each other: languid praise and frigid censure belong to the paths of mediocrity, but he who enlarges the circle of knowledge, passes from the realm of talents to that of genius, leaps on an undiscovered or long-lost shore, and stamps it with his name, commands indiscriminate homage, and provokes irreconcilable censure. He who reflects on the "Più che Uman, Angelo divino" of Ariosto, the "via terribile" of Agostino Carracci, and for centuries on the general homage of a nation allowed to legislate in art, will not be easily persuaded that these epithets, this prerogative, were granted to an artist merely for correctness of design or anatomic discrimination, or that he exclusively obtained them for uniting sculpture, painting, and architecture in himself; three branches of one stem, and diverging only in mechanism and application, they have been more than once eminently united by others, and were seldom altogether separated before the time of Carlo Maratta. And yet this is all on which the eminence of Michael Angelo has been hitherto supposed to rest, all that can be gathered from the astrologic nonsense and the Tuscan loquacity of his blind adorer, Vasari--and what he found not, it would be time idly lost to search for in his contemporaries and successors, down to Reynolds, who, though chiefly smitten with the breadth of Michael Angelo, knew him better than all the copyists of his school. The art preceded Michael Angelo as a craft; more or less practice alone distinguishes Pietro Perugino from Cimabue: whilst copy and imitation remain synonymes, there can be no choice in art; instead of the real nature it will copy the accidents of objects, and substitute the model for the man.