But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring Jim has leapt on the ground; Bang! bang! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres; He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him neigh bours! Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,— By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken,— An' bad luck's in the dice if you catch him ag'in. THE ST. GEORGE. Ir stood in the artist's studio: all Florence came to look at it, all examined it with curiosity, all admired it with eagerness, all pronounced it the capo d'opera of Donatello. The whole town were in raptures; and lovely ladies, as they bent from their carriages to answer the salutes of the Princes and Dukes (instead of the common-place frivolities of fashion), said, "Have you seen the new statue by Donatello?" Is there an art like that of sculpture? Painting is a brilliant illusion-a lovely cheat. Sculpture, while it represents a reality, is itself a reality. The pencil pours its fervid hues upon perishable canvass, and they fade with the passing air; but the chisel works in eternal marble-strikes out a creation immortal as the globe, and beautiful as the soul. "I told thee, Donatello," said Lorenzo, "thou would'st excel all thy rivals!" "Fling by thy chisel now," cried another, "thou canst add nothing to that!" "I shall cease, hereafter, my devotion to the antique!" cried a third. "The power of Phidias!" exclaimed one. "The execution of Praxiteles !" said another. "You will draw votaries from Venus:" whispered a soft Italian girl, as she turned her melting eyes on the old man. "The Apollo will hereafter draw his bow unheeded!" cried an artist, whom many thought the best of his day. Among the crowds who flocked to the studio of Donatello, there was a youth who had given some promise of excellence. Many said, that, with intense study, he might one day make his name heard beyond the Alps; and some went so far as to hint, that in time he might tread close on the heels even of Donatello himself: but these were sanguine men, and great friends of the young man; besides, they spoke at random.— They called this student Michael Angelo. He had stood a long time regarding it with fixed eyes and folded arms. He walked from one position to another, measured it with his keen glances from head to foot, regarded it before, behind, and studied its profiles from various points. The venerable Donatello saw him, and awaited his long and absorbed examination, with the flattered pride of an artist, and the affectionate indulgence of a father. At length Michael Angelo stopped once more before it; inhaled a long breath, and broke the profound silence. "It wants only one thing," muttered the gifted boy. "Tell me,' cried the successful artist, "what it wants This is the first censure which my St. George has elicited, Can I improve? Can I alter? Is it in the clay or the marble? Tell me !" But the critic had disappeared. Donatello knew the mighty genius of Michael Angelo. He had beheld the flashes of the sacred fire, and watched the development of the spirit within him. "What!" cried the old man, "Michael Angelo gone to Rome, and not a word of advice about my statue?-The scape-grace! but I shall see him again, or, by the mass, I will follow him to the eternal city. His opinion is worth that of all the world! But one thing!" He looked at it again—he listened to the murmurs of applause which it drew from all who beheld it—a placid smile settled on his face. "But one thing-what can it be?" Years rolled by. Michael Angelo remained at Rome, or made excursions to other places, but had not yet returned to Florence. Wherever he had been, men regarded him as a comet-something fiery, terrible, tremendous, sublime. His fame spread over the globe; what his chisel touched it hallowed. He spurned the dull clay, and struck his vast and intensely brilliant conceptions at once from the marble. Michael Angelo was a name to worship-a spell in the artsan honour to Italy-to the world. What he praised, lived; what he condemned, perished. As Donatello grew old, his anxiety grew more powerful + know what the inspired eyes of the wonderful artist had detected in his great statue. At length the immortal Florentine turned his eyes to his native republic, and, as he reached the summit of the hill which rises on the side of Porta Romana, he beheld the magnificent and glorious dome, and Campanile, shining in the soft golden radiance of the setting sun, with the broad-topped tower of the Palazzo Vecchio lifted in the yellow light, even as at this day it stands. Ah, death! can no worth ward thee? Must the inspired artist's eyes be dark, his hand motionless, his heart still, and his inventive brain as dull as the clay he models? Yes! Donatello lies stretched on his last couch, and the light of life is passing from his eyes; yet even in that awful hour, his thoughts ran on the wishes of his past years, and he sent for the Florentine artist. His friend came instantly. "I am going, Michael,-my chisel is idle, my vision is dim; but I feel thy hand, my noble boy, and I hear thy kind breast sob. I glory in thy renown; I predicted it, and I Creator that I have lived to see it; but before I sink into the tomb, I charge thee, on thy friendship; on thy religion; answer my question truly." bless my "As I am a man, I will.” Then tell me (without equivocation) what it is that my St. George wants?" "The gift of Speech!" was the reply. A gleam of sunshine fell across the old man's face. The smile lingered on his lips long after he lay cold as the marble upon which he had so often stamped the conceptions of his genius. The statue remains the admiration of posterity, and adorns the exterior of the Chiesa d'or San Micheles.-Scottish Annual. 1 OTHELLO'S DEFENCE. DUKE, BRABANTIO, OTHELLO, IAGO, Senators and Officers. Against the general enemy Ottoman. I did not see you; welcome, signior: [To Brabantio.] We lack'd your counsel and your help to-night. Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature Duke. Why, what's the matter? Bra. My daughter! O, my daughter! Bra. Ay, to me; She is abused, stolen from me, and corrupted By spells and medicines bought of mountebacks: Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense, Sans witchcraft could not Duke. Whoe'er he be, that, in this foul proceeding, Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself, And you of her, the bloody book of law You shall yourself read in the bitter letter, After your own sense; yea, though our proper son Bra. Humbly I thank your grace. Here is the man, this Moor; whom now, it seems, Hath hither brought. Duke & Sen. We are very sorry for it. Duke. What, in your own part, can you say to this? Bra. Nothing, but this is so. Oth. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, [To Othello.] Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little of this great world can I speak, In speaking for myself; yet by your gracious patience, Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, (For such proceeding I am charged withal,) I won his daughter with. Bra. A maiden never bold; Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion To fall in love with what she feared to look on! Why this should be. I therefore vouch again, Duke. To vouch this is no proof; Without more certain and more overt test, Did you, by indirect and forced courses, Oth. I do beseech you, Send for the lady to the Sagittary, And let her speak of me before her father; If you do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office, I do hold of you, Not only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my life. Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither. Oth. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place. [Exeunt Iago and Attendants.] And, till she come, as truly as to Heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present Duke. Say it, Othello. Oth. Her father loved me; oft invited me, |