but the honour of the restoration of painting is generally attributed to Cimabue, a Florentine, who lived 1240-1300. He was succeeded by a pupil, Giotto, who was originally a shepherd, and commenced by sketching the sheep which it was his duty to tend. He died in 1336.

Michael Angelo Buonarroti was born in Tuscany, March 6th, 1474. While still an infant, he was sent to be nursed by a woman who was the daughter and also the wife of a stonemason; and hence he afterwards facetiously remarked that "it was no wonder he was delighted with a chisel, since it was given to him with his nurse's milk." Being of a noble family, his father wished to educate him for a learned profession, and sent him to a school in Florence. Books had, however, at that time, little attraction for the young artist, who made drawing both his study and his amusement. In copying pictures he was not content to reproduce the original, but referred for the colours to the natural objects, going to the fishmarket to observe the eyes and fins of fish, and so throughout the whole work. He copied a head at this period so well, that he substituted his copy for the original without the change being at first discovered.

His father at first treated him harshly, thinking the family would be disgraced if he became an artist; but perceiving it was hopeless to try to bend his mind in any other direction, he at length consented to place him under Domenico Ghirlandajo, then one of the most celebrated painters in Italy. In 1488, Michael Angelo, being then 14, was articled to Ghirlandajo; and it is said the pupil soon excited the envy of the master, by showing himself the better painter. Lorenzo de Medici, having placed a number of antique statues in a garden at Florence, permitted the young artists to study there. Michael Angelo availed himself of this permission with much success; and after copying in painting many of the statues, determined to try his skill in marble; and having begged a piece of marble and borrowed a chisel, he copied the head of a laughing faun so well, that Lorenzo was led to take him under his own more immediate patronage, and offered to adopt

him. Michael Angelo's father willingly consented, considering it was a disgrace for him to become a sculptor, or as he called it, a stone-mason. In the palace of Lorenzo, the young artist had the advantage of meeting the most learned men of the age, and his taste became more refined by such intercourse.

In all the portraits of Michael Angelo it will be observed that the nose is peculiar. This is accounted for by a story that an artist named Torrigiano, being irritated by a jest, gave him such a violent blow on the nose as to break it. This same Torrigiano executed the monument of Henry VII. in Westminster Abbey, and received for it £1000.

He

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Michael Angelo was indefatigable in his labours. He particularly admired the poems of Dante and Petrarch, and committed great part of them to memory. gave close study to the Old and New Testament. made himself master of anatomy; and even when an old man he said, "I am still going to school, still trying to learn something.' As he never married, a friend remarked to him that it was a pity his name would not be perpetuated by children. "My children," he replied, are my works, and to them I commit my name.

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On the death of Lorenzo, the artist removed to Bologna, where he spent a year in study, after which he returned to his father's house. He cut a Cupid in marble, which was buried to give it an appearance of age; and being then taken for "an antique," gained great admiration. Its real author afterwards becoming known, it caused him to be invited to Rome, where a marble group which he executed rapidly advanced his reputation. In a short time he was generally recognised as a most eminent sculptor, and he then resolved to resume his pencil. He was as successful in painting as in sculpture.

Pope Julius II. summoned Michael Angelo to Rome, and employed him in a project for rebuilding St. Peter's. In this undertaking the artist displayed his excellent habit of himself seeing to all the details of his work; and spent eight months before commencing the building at the quarries of Carrara, in obtaining pure and beautiful marble. In the same spirit he is said to have

mixed his own paints, and partly made his own chisels. Afterwards Michael Angelo spent eight years in painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. His labours were interrupted by changes in the popes; but he completed many great works both in Rome and other cities of Italy; one of the most important being the painting of "The Last Judgment" in the Sistine Chapel at Rome, completed in 1541. In 1546 he was again appointed architect of St. Peter's, which had occupied other artists in the meantime. For this work Angelo would accept no payment. The glorious fabric grew to its colossal proportions under the creative genius of the venerable architect: after seventeen years' toil he advanced it to the base of the cupola, and constructed a model of the dome in clay; and it was afterwards executed in wood under his direction. He died in 1563, aged 89, and his will was in these words, "I give my soul to God, I leave my body to the earth, and I bequeath my goods to my nearest relations."

Distinguished in painting, unsurpassed in sculpture, perfect in architecture, and possessed of considerable poetic talent, this colossus of genius was endowed by God with a bountiful profusion of noble gifts, and right well he used them. His industry was unequalled, and his delight in his work unbounded. But his greatest beauty of mind was his unaffected piety; so were his glorious intellectual powers adorned and hallowed by the loftiest and purest sentiments of religion. The following sonnet was composed by Michael Angelo in his 84th year. The translation is by Hazlitt:

"Well nigh the voyage now is overpast,

And my frail bark, through troubled seas and rude,
Draws near that common haven, where at last,

Of every action, be it evil or good,

Must due account be rendered. Well I know

How vain will then appear that favoured art,
Sole idol long, and monarch of my heart;
For all is vain that man desires below.
And now remorseful thoughts the past upbraid,
And fear of twofold death my soul alarms,

That which must come, and that beyond the grave.
Picture and sculpture lose their feeble charms;
And to that love divine I turn for aid,

Who from the cross extends his arms to save."

THE RABBI'S JEWELS.

'Twas morn; and while the sun's first smile awoke An Eastern clime to life and loveliness,

There rose a Jewish Rabbi to fulfil

The duties of the holy Sabbath day.
Forth to a distant school he bent his steps,
Within whose old and venerated walls

The Hebrew youth were gathering, that he,
Their honoured teacher, might conduct their feet
To tread the paths of pleasantness and peace.
Few were the members of his scattered race
To whom the Rabbi's fame extended not;
But he, far dearer than his own renown,
Held three loved objects of his tend'rest care,-
A gentle wife, and two young sons whose minds
Were now beginning to unfold themselves,
And show, like op'ning flower-buds, the stores
That lay enclosed within. Two sons; alas!
The flush of health lay glowing on their cheeks
That morn when, at the threshold of his door,
Their father kissed and blessed them,-but before
The sun attained a noon-day height in heav'n,
Fever had seized their veins, and rapidly
They withered in its burning hand away;
While she who prized them more than life itself
Received upon her lap each drooping head,
And watched, unaided, save by faith divine,
Her blossoms fading in their early bloom.
Lo, all was over now.

The mother raised

Her tearless eyes to heav'n, and found the strength
She humbly sought for there. Then she arose
And bore the lifeless bodies of her sons

To her own inner room, where, on a couch,

She laid them tenderly, as if to rest.

Behold! her ear has caught her husband's step,
Returning to his home, and forth she goes

To welcome him! "Where are my sons?" he cried,
And glanced all eagerly around. Thy sons

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Have left thee, husband;-they are gone to school."

"Tis strange then," he returned, "that I within

The schoolroom's bounds in vain have sought for them."

Yet marked he not his wife's averted head,

Nor heard her smothered sigh. 'Twas evetide now;
And low upon the crimsoned west the sun

Stood, like a golden idol glittering

Within its jewelled shrine. The Rabbi gazed

Upon that scene of tranquil loveliness,

And watched the birds wing homewards thro' the air;"The Sabbath wanes," he cries; "where are my sons, That we unitedly may raise to heav'n

"Rabbi,

Our hearts and tongues in gratitude?"
They are not far away. Yet hearken first
To me. Long days ago there hither came
A wayfarer, who bore within his arms

Two caskets filled with priceless gems, which he
Confided to my watchful care. The trust

In truth was precious, and by night and day
With pride I guarded them. But now, alas!
The traveller demands that I resign

His treasures; say,-should I then with old them?"
"Art thou my wife?" the Rabbi quick replied;
"And wouldst thou unlawfully retain

That which is not thine own?" "I waited first
But thy consent, my husband. Come with me."
She led him where their dead sons sleeping lay,
And with a gentle hand upraised the veil
That shrouded them. Instant the Rabbi burst
Into loud sobs and lamentations. "My sons,
My sons, dear sunlight of my fading eyes,-
Ye who about my heart entwined yourselves
Like creeper-plants that round a rugged stem
Cling blossoming,-why died I not for ye?"
Well had the mother stood the light'ning stroke
That left her desolate; but now she wept,
And beat her breast in agony of soul.

Then suddenly her voice arose and hushed
The Rabbi's sobs to stillness. 66

What, husband,"

She exclaimed, "wouldst thou restore those caskets

To their lender, and shall we not resign

Our precious ones to Him who gave them? Lo!
It is the Lord; He giveth all in love,

And with a love as great at times
Sees also good to take away. Blessed,
For ever blessed, be His holy name."
The Rabbi bowed his head submissively,
While the deep echo of his voice replied,

"Yea, blessed be the Lord." "Oh, wife," he said
All fervently, "thou art indeed a gift

More precious far than all the pearls that hide
Their modest beauties in the ocean depths.
Within thy mouth is wisdom's dwelling place,
And on thy tongue the law of kindness bangs!"
The veil of night enshrouded half the world,
And the still moonlight like a glory fell
On two bowed heads,-for, kneeling by the couch
Of their dead sons, the Rabbi and his wife
Adored the Power who gives and takes away.

B. A. J.

Were but human beings always what they are in their best moments, we should already have on earth a kingdom of heaven.