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we remember that a prior of that convent taught him anatomy. If we pass the church del Carmine, we are reminded that he there studied the early efforts of Mas. sacio. In the gallery, we behold the Dancing Faun, whose head he so admirably restored, wonder at the stern face of Brutus, or ponder his own portrait. In the Piazza is his David, in the church of San Lorenzo, his Day and Night, and that perfect embodiment of Horatio's familiar phrase a countenance more in sorrow than in anger,'—the statue of the Duke of Urbino, Here he made his figure of snow; there he buried his sleeping Cupid, which was dug up for an antique. Near St. Mark's was the school of sculpture, where he first practiced. In Santa Croce is his tomb. The memory of Michael Angelo constitutes the happiest of the many interesting associations of Florence. Not less as a man than an artist, does his name lend dignity and beauty to the scene.
We look upon the master-lines of his unfinished works, and realize the struggles of his soul towards perfection. Truly has one of his biographers remarked, • his genius was vast and wild, by turns extravagant and capricious, rarely to be implicitly followed, always to be studied with advantage.' But we think not merely here of the sculptor, painter, architect, philosopher and poet ; we dwell upon, and feel the whole character of him who so nobly proyed his eminent claim to these various titles. As we tread the chambers where he passed so many nights of study, so many days of toil, as we behold the oratory where he prayed, or stand above his ashes, we think of his noble independence which princes and prelates, in a venal
age, could not subdue, of his deep sympathy with the grand and beautiful in human nature, and of his true affection which dictated the sentiment
“ Better plea
Art seemed not an exclusive end to Michael Angelo. For fame, he cherished no morbid appetite. conscious of loftier aims. His letters and sonnets breathe the noblest aspirations, and the most perfect love of truth. When refused admittance to the Pope's presence, he quitted Rome in disgust; yet watched as tenderly by the sick.bed of a faithful servant, as at that of a son or a brother. As the architect of St. Peter's, he declined all emolument; and kissed the cold hand of Vittoria Colonna with tearful reverence. After eightyeight years spent in giving a mighty impulse to the arts, in cultivating sculpture, painting, poetry and architecture, in observing the harmless comedy of life,' in proving the supremacy of genius over wealth, of moral power over rank, of character over the world, Michael Angelo died, saying, My soul I resign to God, my body to the earth, and my possessions to my nearest kin.' He left a bequest of which he spoke not, for it was already decreed that his fame and example should shed a perennial honor upon Florence, and for ever bless the world.
THE THESPIAN SYREN.
But ever and anon of grief subdued
It was towards the close of a cool but delightful autumn evening, in Milan, the best part of which I had vainly spent in searching for a friend. All at once it occurred to me that he might beat the opera ;-yet, thought I, Fis very fastidious, and there is no particular attraction to. night. Thus weighing the matter on my mind, I came within sight of the Scala, and I was soon at the door of Count G—'s box, where F— was generally to be found. The orchestra was performing an interlude, and the footlights beaming upon the beautiful classical groups depict. ed on the drop. My friend was not visible, and I should instantly have retreated, had not a side glance revealed to me the figure of a young man, seated in the shadow of the box curtains. Count G- was partial to Americans, and I scrutinized the stranger, thinking it not impossible he was a countryman, but soon recognized the countenance of a Scotch student, with whom I had exchanged a few words at our table-d'hote in the morning. It was several minutes before I satisfied myself of his identity, so different was his aspect and demeanor. He sat opposite me, at the table, and was engaged in a most lively conversation with a flaxen-haired daughter of Vienna, who appeared delighted with the opportuuity of reciting the story of her travels to a new acquaintance, which she persisted in doing, notwithstanding the obvious displeasure of her father, a military character, who morosely devoured his dinner beside her. Her auditor repaid the lady's condescension with an account of the customs and traditions of the Highlanders, in doing which the keen air of his native hills seemed to inspire him ; for from a constrained and quiet, he gradually glided into a free and earnest manner, and evolved enthusiasm enough to draw sympathizing looks even from a coterie of native Italians, his opposite neighbors. Frank Graham was now in a totally different mood. He sat, braced in his seat, as if under the influence of some nervous affection; his lips when released from the restraint imposed upon them, quivered incessantly, and it might have been fancy—but I thought I saw, in the dusky light, several hasty tears fall upon the crimson drapery. There is something in the deep emotion of a man of intellectual vigor—and such, Graham's table-talk had proved him—which interests us deeply. The very attempt to check the tide of feeling, the struggle between the reason and the heart, the affective and reflective powers, as a phrenologist would say, awakens our sympathy. I forgot the object of my visit to the Scala, and silently resolved to lead off my fellowsojourner from the memory of his disquietude, or draw from him its cause, and, if possible, act the comforter. With this view, I approached him carelessly, as if I had not noticed his emotion, and proffered him the greetings of the evening. He looked at me vacantly, a moment, but soon rejoined with cordiality. Then rising and drawing his cloak around him, he seized my hand and exclaimed—“Let us leave this place, my friend.' There was confidence implied in his tremulous tones, yet I was half in doubt as to the propriety of alluding to his obvious depression. It was a fine moonlight night, and we walked side by side for several minutes, in silence. • How long since you left home, Mr. Graham ?' I inquired by, way of beginning a colloquy. "Five minutes ago, or thereabouts,' he replied huskily. I halted in surprise, and gazed upon him in wonder. He stopped also, and observing my astonishment continued in a clearer voice, Do not be alarmed my friend ; I am perfectly sane ; literally speaking, I left Scotland five years since, but just now your voice aroused me to a consciousness of where and what I am. I have been carried back not only to my country, but to my youth, to its richest hour, to its most vivid epoch; you, by a word, dissolved the spell : —there is the famous cathedral, this is Milan, and I am nothing now but Frank Graham ; but one memento of iny recent fairy land remains '—and he pointed to the