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BOTTLED LIGHT. Countless accidents, as | every one knows, arise from the use of matches. To obtain light without employing them, and so without the danger of setting things on fire, an ingenious contrivance is now used by the watchmen of Paris in all magazines where explosive or inflammable materials are kept. Any one may easily make trial of it. Take an oblong phial of the whitest and clearest glass, and put into it a piece of phosphorus about the size of a pea. Pour some olive oil, heated to the boiling point, upon the phosphorus: fill the phial about one-third full and then cork it tightly. To use this novel light, remove the cork, allow the air to enter the phial, and then recork it. The empty space in the phial will become luminous, and the light obtained will be equal to that of a lamp. When the light grows dim, its power can be

increased by taking out the cork, and allowing a fresh supply of air to enter the phial. In winter it is sometimes necessary to heat the phial between the hands in order to increase the fluidity of the oil. The apparatus, thus prepared, may be used for six months.

Cassell's Magazine.

AN oriental museum has been lately opened at Vienna, which is very curious and complete. It consists of fourteen rooms assigned to China, Japan, Egypt, Persia, Turkey, Tunis, and Morocco. A well-known orientalist, Baron Hoffmann, is at the head of this new establishment.

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I often think this unseen, unsung song,
With all its strangeness, will have notes we

And we shall hear its awful chords among
The mingled music of our long ago.
The simple snatches of our baby-rhymes;
The thrilling bars of youth's triumphant

The peals of melody, like wedding chimes, That bring our summer love-song back again.

It may be this new song is hard to sing, But shall we grudge to learn it, who have grown

Tired and voiceless in earth's carolling,

Yet fain would have some melody our own? And, though it is the song of death, we know That, singing it, to endless life we go.

All The Year Round.

From Blackwood's Magazine.

in his characteristic features, in his ways of speaking as in his ways of working, in DURING the course of the month which the infirmities of his temper and the greathas just passed, the artists and the critics ness of his soul, is as well known to us, and the art-lovers of Italy-no inconsid- nay, better, than if he lived to-day. There erable band - along with all the populace was a third, as great as the others we of Florence, which inherits as its birth- have named, living at the same time in right that knowledge and love for the Italy; but to compare Raphael with beautiful which in other regions is con- either of these veterans would be almost nected with the highest culture only, have as strange as to measure the angel of the been celebrating the fourth centenary of Annunciation with the men who gaze at the birth of Michael Angelo Buonarotti, the him in the pictures. Raphael's very youth greatest of all those great masters whose cuts him off from the comparison, as well works have glorified Florence and made her as the manner of his mind, in which the illustrious. We have little inclination to characteristic peculiarities of the others enter into the details of a ceremonial more find no place. He is not one who appeals or less like all ceremonials of the kind. to the intellect and the judgment, as they By this time, at least, everybody has do. He does but take our hearts, smiling, learned that in such celebrations genuine so that neither he nor we are fully aware enthusiasm is so alloyed and mixed up whether it is the mightiness of his genius with the spurious, and so diluted by that or the sweetness of human sympathy love of shows and pleasuring which is which subdues us to him. But the others common to the crowd everywhere, that are not unconscious. From the first to the vulgar and ludicrous sides of the the last Michael Angelo is aware of himmatter are more generally prominent than self; he knows his power, and that he is the heroic. But it cannot be amiss to not as other men; with no generous contake advantage of the occasion, and to re-fidence of sympathy, but with a certain mind the reader of the real claims upon despotism he rules-nay, domineers — posterity which are possessed by so re- over us, pleased if we tremble somewhat markable a man. These claims have been as well as applaud, and feel his superior already set before the world again and greatness to the bottom of our hearts. again, but it is not easy to exhaust a gen- He stands like his own "David" looking ius so great and a personality so striking; down upon the smaller figures round him, and the moment is propitious, and tempts with no kind delusion in his mind as to a word more on so attractive a subject. the difference between them and himself. In an age remarkable not only for artists | And as he has thus held his place, subut for notable men of every descrip- preme in Florence, from his youth, almost tion, Michael Angelo stands alone in from his childhood, not without a certain greatness and individuality, more univer- brag of his strength, half-humorous, halfsal in his genius, more striking in charac- angry, so he does still, reigning imperiter, than any contemporary artist, unless, ously, not careless of his sway, nor indifindeed, it be the kindred but much less well- ferent to the homage which he will force known figure of Leonardo, whose prodig. out of us, rather than go without it. In ious powers we all take to a great extent the picture-galleries and on the hillside; on trust, impressed still, at the distance of confronting us in the public piazza at the centuries, by the extraordinary impression very doors of the old palace; and in the which he made upon his time. But Buo- deepest gloom of the dark cathedral, benarotti stands in no mysterious glory, hind the altar, surprising us even in the vaguely disclosed among the mists of ruin dimness with his princely presence - he and still vaguer vapours of praise, like is everywhere, throwing vivid sayings at Leonardo. His steps are clearly traced us where there is nothing else to be done, for us across the far distance; his actions, and even by means of the great works of his works, even his thoughts, are preserved others, leaving a certain trace of personal in distinctest certainty; and himself, even | magnificence to show where he has passed

by. More people, we believe, think, when they look at the great gates of San Giovanni, of him who said they were fit to be the gates of heaven, than of him who made them; and when we pass by Donatello's San Giorgio, the critic who for all comment gave that noble figure the word of command and bade him "March!" is almost more present with us than the older sculptor. And from his early youth, when he called the splendid church of Santa Maria Novella, all sweet and shining in those frescoed glories which his own boyish hand helped to dress her in, his bride to that moment in which he chose his resting-place in Santa Croce at the exact spot whence, when the great doors were open, he could see the cathedral, and watch from his tomb the glorious dome through all the centuries, rising steadfast against the Italian sky-his very sayings usurp the sovereignty of the city, putting him before us wherever we turn, and, whether we will or not, first and foremost before any other man.

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to which, on the other hand, they can be as gentle as angels when the meaner mass perceives its own inferiority. Perhaps the half-solemn, half-contemptuous bravado which we find in Michael Angelo, the pleasure he evidently had in making it apparent how easily he could excel and surpass other men, was peculiar to himself; but the consciousness of an elevation above their kind is common to this type of greatness, not so attractive as the brotherliness of the sweeter nature, but perhaps more impressive to the common imagination, which always in its soul believes more in self-assertion than in natural humility. The great artist was but a boy-apprentice in the workshop of Domenico Ghirlandajo when he drew round one of his master's designs in the hands of a fellow-pupil, the correct outline of the figure which the hand of the bottega had drawn badly or carelessly - a boyish feat which is much more important as an evidence of character than even as a proof of the superlative genius which taught him more than his master could; for such contemptuous indifference to the feelings of others is as striking in its way as the wonderful power displayed. Reverence or subordination do not seem to have been virtues possible to Michael Angelo; then and after he brooked no control or reproof, and having no doubt of his own right to be first, took his place always with an arrogance which, whether we like it or not, we are forced to accept as an integral part of his character. The same mixture of scorn does not appear in the more solemn arrogance of Dante. When the poet said, at a great public crisis, "If I go, who will stay? and if I stay, who will go?" the utter seriousness of the question veils the prodigious self-estimation in it; but the painter's attitude is one of proud carelessness, as of a being so much above the others that even they themselves could have no doubt on the subject. So intense a sense of personal value and importance is not amiable; but it is, as we have said, deeply impressive to the common mind, and entirely characteristic of this manner of man.

The story of Michael Angelo's long life has been so often told, that, so far as mere information goes, it may be thought a work of supererogation to give it over again; but it is impossible even to think of Florence, and leave out the man, who of all the despots of Florence was the most potent, and the only one whom all Florentines accept heartily and with no jealousy of his power. He is altogether different from the homelier type of Tuscan character, the pâte which produced such men as Giotto, Donatello, and Botticelli, a race joyous and robust and simple, children of the soil and of the sunshine; but he is still more characteristically Florentine in his masterful force and haughty personality, manifestly of the same blood as him who made the great journey through hell and heaven. Men of this class are always remarkable, whatever may be the landscape that encloses them. They are like mountains, austere and solitary in a grandeur of nature, which no effort can bring others up to, or amiable inclination on their own part bow down. Such men have always a certain gloom about them, a habit of imperiousness, an impatience Like Dante, too, Michael Angelo was almost pitiless of the smaller crowd around, of noble birth, a fact which perhaps ac

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