In an article which appeared lately on the subject of animal taming in the _Times_ newspaper, mention is made of Mr King, owner of the “learned horse” at present exhibiting in London. This person states that his secret depends upon pressing a certain nerve in the horse’s mouth, which he calls the “nerve of susceptibility.” May not the set of whispering have likewise depended upon compressing with the teeth some similar nerve in the ear?
“Raphael was buried in the Pantheon (Sta. Maria della Rotunda), in a chapel which he had himself endowed, and near the place where his betrothed bride had been laid. The immediate neighbourhood was afterwards selected by other painters as their place of rest. Baldassane Peruzzi, Giovanni da Udine, Pierino del Vaga, Taddeo Zuccaro, and others, are buried near. No question had ever existed as to the precise spot where the remains of the master lay; but a few years since the Roman antiquaries began to raise doubts even respecting the church in which Raphael was buried. In the end, permission was obtained to make actual search; and Vasari’s account was in this instance verified. The tomb was found as he describes it, behind the altar itself of the chapel above mentioned. Four views of the tomb and its contents were engraved from drawings by Cammucini, and thus preserve the appearance that presented itself. The shroud had been fastened with a number of metal rings and points; some of these were kept by the sculptor Fabrio of Rome, who is also in possession of casts from the skull and right hand. Passavant remarks, judging from the cast, that the skull was of a singularly fine form. The bones of the hand were all perfect, but they crumbled into dust after the mould was taken. The skeleton measured about five feet seven inches. The coffin was extremely narrow, indicating a very slender frame. The precious relics were ultimately restored to the same spot, after being placed in a magnificent sarcophagus, presented by the present Pope.”--_Quarterly Review._
Ay, there are glorious things even in the dust Which still must ever from the human heart Win homage next devotion. ’Tis in vain To ask the wherefore, or demand what are they Amid the keen realities of life? Old coin, or broken casque, or fretted stone-- The waste of Time--the rack upon life’s shore Thrown up by the spent waves of centuries-- They have no meaning in the vulgar tongue; Their very uses know them not--things past Into the chaos of forgotten forms. But here the root of this deep error lies.