ed the monk," the consciousness that he could not do justice to merit like yours."

"It is false" exclaimed Leonardo.

"False!" said the Duke, approaching him, his face pale with rage--" speak! what was your motive ?"

"Madness!" answered Leonardo firmly, "folly and want of self-command."

The Duke stood silent for a moment,--"whatever it was," said he proudly," perhaps you have done well, I forgive you if you accept my conditions."

"Name them, my Prince," said Leonardo, "command me through fire and water and you shall be obeyed. Make me undergo any torments and I will not complain. I will work day

and night to be restored to your confidence, and render myself worthy of your goodness."

"Be it so then," said the Duke, "you shall no longer have your attention distracted by the things of the world, your art shall be consecrated to holy purposes. The Refectory of the Dominican Cloister needs decoration, and your pencil shall be devoted to this work. I will give you a year to accomplish it."

The Prior was astonished at the calmness of the Duke-he had expected to see the storm burst and overwhelm the artist, but he was incapable of estimating the consequence which genius and talent bestow. The Florentine was already the ornament of the age, and commanded the respect of a nation.-The Monk cast a malicious glance upon him, and Leonardo felt its force; it was indeed hard for him to be shut up with such a man; to serve him with his noble art, and to be subject to the petty vexations he might inflict, and to which he knew his malice was fully equal. But he determined to bear with fortitude the evils he had drawn upon himself, and labour to redeem the confidence of the Duke.

But what subject should he select for this work? it was a new perplexity. One fine day, when the passion-week had just begun--Leonardo was walking in the beautiful garden which is near Milan. His mind was pondering upon the subject of his painting. The spring had already awoke the young blossoms, from their winter's sleep, and the trees and hedges were crowned with foliage. "I will paint the season sacred to our Lord!" he exclaimed-" his last supper with his beloved disciples-would that my pencil was equal to the subject!"

The

sun was just setting as he returned home, his mind fill

ed with the vastness of his project. Unconsciously he arrived at the cloister of the Dominicans; the pealing tones of the organ struck upon his ear, while the lofty roof of the church resounded with the chanting of the monks. The solemn sounds had stilled the tumult of his breast, and his heart was filled with sweet emotion. "O thou !" he cried, "who died for the sins of the world, how shall my feeble hand pourtray thy glory? how shall I paint that last sorrowful night when the apostles gathered around thee!" As he thus thought on the subject, it opened to his mind; he beheld the long table and the Saviour in the midst of his disciples,—the last rays of evening shining on his head-a mild radiance beaming from his eyes, at the moment when he said, "Verily I say unto you, there is one of you that shall betray me!" Leonardo was no longer in doubt; he began his work, and the Refectory was closed to all but himself and the Prior while he painted. But the Dominican well understood the art of tormenting, and it required all the self possession and resolution of the artist not to commit some extravagance-yet he persevered in his labours.

With what beauty did the group spring to light! how fresh, and yet how soft the colouring! but it was indeed an arduous task. The spring had come round, the appointed time was near, and two of the heads yet remained unfinished. One was the Saviour's, the other that of Judas. In vain Leonardo seized his pencil and prayed for divine inspiration to paint the Saviour of the world. His touch was cold and formal. Judas, too, could human nature pourtray the betrayer of his Lord ?The last week arrived—the Dominican knew that the heads remained unfinished-he exulted in his triumph over his victim, and felt that his ruin was certain. Success or death had been been the conditions, and they were fast closing upon him.

It was now that Leonardo thought of the promise of his master-" Andrea !" he cried, "let my voice reach thee among the shade of the palm trees!" Then confidence took possession of his mind; a thousand bright images floated before his imagination, and again he seized his pencil-not as before was his work unsuccessful.

The day arrived-nobles and priests were assembled-Leonardo appeared, and his friend Ambrosio with him, bearing the picture. The figure of the Saviour was completed, and all contemplated it with pious rapture-but when they turned to Judas they beheld the head of the Dominican Prior.

"It is the monk of the cloister !" exclaimed the multitude,

and young and old by whom he was equally hated, joined in

the shout.

But Leonardo felt no exultation, he knew that Andrea would have condemned such revenge, and he shut himself in his room and forgot the homage of the world. It was the last burst of passion.

The original picture of the Last Supper, in the refectory, gives to the traveller but an indistinct idea of its glory-but the painter and the engraver have transmitted to posterity many thousand copies of it.

Leonardo de Vinci, in 1520, at the age of seventy years, returned to France, in consequence of the pressing invitation of Francis I. His health was feeble, and the king often came to see him at Fontainbleau.

One day when he entered, Leonardo rose up in his bed to receive him, but fainted from weakness; Francis supported him, but the eyes of the artist had closed forever, and Leonardo lay encircled in the arms of the Monarch.

P. P.

DREAMINGS.

The broad sun sank behind the tinted west,
And night came down on all the waters: rest
Was written silvery in the quiet sky,

And on the mirror ocean-lazily

The blank sails fell against the taper mast
Waiting the coming of the living blast,

And cool and freshening dews, the sweet stars wept
On the still deck; I laid me there and slept :
And in the tranquil dreaming that came o'er me,
Strange things and beautiful were up before me.

I dream'd I roam'd upon a moonlit shore-
Moonlit and shining-beauty's glance it wore;
The timid waves came up and kiss'd their bound,
And made no noise; there was no stirring sound,
VOL. 1.--No. 4.

2

Save the crisp pebbles, as they crashed beneath
My listless footsteps: a cool nodding wreath
Was on my temples, like the coronals
That in old days were hung upon the palls

Of the young dead; or such as maiden weaves
To crown her brother's brow, of broad oak leaves.

I look'd, and lo! upon the water, bright
And gleaming with a sweet unearthly light,
Came forth a boat of lucid crystalline;
Clear as the goblet e'er the blushing wine
Hath stained its pureness and within it stood
A serene lady: Anger in its mood

Of bounding fierceness-strong out-bursting grief
Would have been still as the unstirring leaf
When the winds sleep, beneath her awful look:
She stretch'd her arm benignantly and took
Me trembling to her, and away—away—
Sprang the strange vessel: as a morning ray
Shot sidelong through the over arching trees
Of some low vale, the home of peace and ease.

No sail was lifted, but upon the bow

Sat a vast bird, meek ey'd, white as the snow
On winter hills; his brooding wings expanded
And the winds gather'd in them. Soon we landed
Again I know not where, nor how; yet there
I stood among tall trees: the cool moist air

:

Rich with all fragrant scents, went breathing on
Over the waving palms, whose tall tops shone
Yet in the silvery moonlight: then there came
Near music, swelling gladly-and again ;-
Then lingering distantly, and then returning,
With pensive murmur—like a mother's mourning.

It seem'd not like this world of want and war,
But like a stiller: some far sparkling star,
Such as the Magi dream'd of, where the soul
Freed from its earthly passions' base controul,
Soars up, and dwell forever in calm peace,
High meditation, and unanxious ease.

And then again swept by me wild and high
A pomp of sound-heart quaking melody--
So that the chilling blood ran coursing home
To its first cells it faded: the deep boam
Of the big timbrel, and the startling blare
Of the fierce trumpet melted in the air.

Then came forth scatter'd, sparkling little snatches
Of merry and sad tunes, and sadder catches

Of exquisite sound-somewhat like old white sherry,
Or any other thing that makes men merry-
(I don't mean fou)-but when the holy close
Came stealing stilly on as the rich rose
Fades from its winey red, with delicate lapse
To the sweet tinting of the outer leaves;
And, as in the still air its symphonies
Went lingering off afar--my swimming eyes
Were clos'd' for very luxury,' and I stood
With step advanc'd,-bent ear-half lifted hand.
Slowly emerging from the leafy wood
Came forth with serious march, an awful band
Of the great dead-I look'd on them and knew
The bards of olden times, and days more new.

First came the blank ey'd Homer; carelessly
Swept he his rude strange lyre; then loftily
Mounted his full clear voice; full of deep basses
Yet prankt, as with small flowers, with simple graces.
No one was by his side, yet instant there
Strode forth the Roman Virgil, with just air ;
Fresh lip'd Catullus,-brisk Anacreon,—
And Moschus, honey-voic'd,-Sicilian Bion,
And more of ancient look, whose names were not
Written upon the tablet of my thought.

Some the curv'd pan-pipe, some the mild flute bore,
And some the gay ton'd lyre, gold strung; some wore
Crowns of immortal laurel, bright smooth bay,
Or the broad, nodding vine leaf:-on their way
They pass'd with various step, and a sweet song
Rose from their voices as they march'd along :