ck, and in his
later years when all the world called him "Angelo" he cast off the name
his parents had given him and accepted the affectionate pet name that
clung like the love of woman.

Michelangelo was born in a shabby little village but a few miles from
Florence. In another village near by was born Leonardo. "Great men never
come singly," says Emerson. And yet Angelo and Leonardo exercised no
influence upon each other that we can trace. The younger man never came
under the spell of the older one, but moved straight on to his destiny,
showing not the slightest arc in his orbit in deference to the great
luminary of his time.

The handsome Leonardo was social: he loved women, and music, and
festivals, and gorgeous attire, and magnificent equipage. His life was
full of color and sweeping, joyous, rainbow tints.

Michelangelo was homely in feature, and the aspect of his countenance was
mutilated by a crashing blow from a rival student's mallet that flattened
his nose to his face. Torrigiano lives in history for this act alone,
thus proving that there are more ways than one to gain immortality.

Angelo was proud, self-centered, independent, and he sometimes lashed the
critics into a buzzing, bluebottle fury by his sarcastic speech. "He
affronted polite society, conformed to no one's dictates, lived like an
ascetic and worked like a packmule," says a contemporary.

Vasari, who among his many other accomplishments seems to have been the
Boswell of his time, compares Leonardo and Michelangelo. He says, "Angelo
can do everything that Leonardo can, although he does it differently."
Further, he adds, "Angelo is painter, sculptor, engineer, architect and
poet." "But," adds this versatile Italian Samuel Pepys, somewhat
sorrowfully, "he is not a gentleman."

It is to be regretted that Signor Vasari did not follow up his remarks
with his definition of the term "gentleman."

Leonardo was more of a painter than a sculptor. His pictures are full of
rollicking mirth, and the smile on the faces of his women is handed down
by imitation even to this day. The joyous freedom of animal life beckons
from every Leonardo canvas; and the backgrounds fade off into fleecy
clouds and shadowy, dreamy, opiate odor of violets.

Michelangelo, however, is true to his own life as Leonardo was to
his--for at the last the artist only reproduces himself. He never painted
a laugh, for life to him was serious and full of sober purpose. We can
not cal