stood with his eyes cast down, and an expression of deep dejection. There was a confused murmur of voices. Curiosity and eager expectation were expressed in every countenance but that of the Prior's; on his sat triumphant revenge; the picture, he was confident, was unfinished in the most important figures, as he had himself seen it so on the preceding day.

"Let the curtain be withdrawn," said the Duke. Lionardo moved not; the deep emotion of the artist rendered him powerless.

The Dominican, unable to comprehend such feelings, was confirmed in the belief that the withdrawing of the curtain would be the death-warrant of Lionardo; he hastily seized the string, and, by a sudden pull, the curtain opened, and the Last Supper of Lionardo da Vinci stood revealed to the world.

Not a sound, for a few moments, broke the stillness that prevailed: at length, murmurs of applause were heard, increasing as the influence of the glorious work fell fuller upon the enthusiastic minds of the Italians, to raptures. The Duke arose and stood before Lionardo. "Well, noble Florentine, hast thou atoned for thy fault; I am proud to forgive thee all. On, on, to glory, to immortality; high rewards shall be thine. But why, holy father," said he to the Prior, who still stood motionless and pale, before the picture, "why stand you speechless there? see you not how nobly he has redeemed his pledge?"

All eyes were turned upon the Dominican, then to the figure of Judas. Suddenly they exclaimed, with one voice, "It is he! it is he!"

The brothers and monks of the cloister, who detested the Prior, repeated, "Yes, it is he; the Judas Iscariot who betrayed his Master!"

After the first surprise was over, suppressed laughter was heard. Pale with rage, the Dominican retreated behind the crowd, and made his escape to his cell, with the emotions of a demon quelled before the radiant power of an angel's divinity, and the reflection that henceforth he must go down to posterity as a second Judas! resemblance was perfect.

The

And where now was Lionardo da Vinci he who stood conspicuous among the nobles of the land—he whose might of genius had cast high birth and worldly honors into obscurity? Now, surely, was the hour of his triumph!

Alas, no! he stood humbled and depressed; bitter tears bedewed his cheeks; and when the cry was repeated again and again, "It is the Prior!" he hastily quitted the presence of the Duke, and in the solitude of his own apartment, on his knees, in an agony of repentance, "O Andrea, my master! he exclaimed, "how have I sinned against thy memory, our art, and my own soul! I have sinned, I have sinned! It was a sacrilege; in the same hour in which thou didst answer my prayer with the blessed inspiration of the vision of the Redeemer! I am unworthy of thy love, of thy divine

art, and of my own respect. 'Revenge can have no part in a great mind,' was thy last precept; how much better didst thou know me than I knew myself! Strengthen and guide, henceforth, my weak and sinful nature."

He

Such were the emotions of the artist, while all Milan and Italy rang with the fame of the work which he himself so bitterly repented. All flocked to see it, and his renown was at its zenith. shunned the applause, and in a humble spirit devoted himself to the pursuit of a nobler triumph than he had already achieved,-the triumph over himself.

This is the history of that celebrated painting, the Last Supper of Lionardo da Vinci, which is familiar to all, from the innumerable copies distributed through every civilized country, by the pencil and the burin. It is commonly understood to be a fresco; but it is not. It was painted on the dry plastering, with the use of distilled oils, in a manner invented by Lionardo. This circumstance has caused its decay. It is still in the refectory of the Dominican convent, at Milan; though, having sustained much injury from ill usage, especially when the convent was occupied by French troops at the close of the last century, it gives the traveller now but an indistinct idea of its original glory.

A WINTER MORNING.

BY ANDREWS NORTON.

THE keen, clear air the splendid sight-
We waken to a world of ice;

Where all things are enshrined in light,
As by some genie's quaint device.

His stores their countless treasures yield;
See how the diamond glances play,

In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field.

The cold, bare spot, where late we ranged,
The naked woods, are seen no more;
This earth to fairy land is changed,
With glittering silver sheeted o'er.

A shower of gems is strew'd around;

The flowers of winter, rich and rare;
Rubies and sapphires deck the ground,

The topaz, emerald, all are there.

The morning sun, with cloudless rays,

His powerless splendor round us streams; From crusted boughs, and twinkling sprays, Fly back unloosed the rainbow beams.

With more than summer beauty fair,
The trees in winter's garb are shown;
What a rich halo melts in air,

Around their crystal branches thrown!

And yesterday-how changed the view
From what then charm'd us; when the sky
Hung, with its dim and watery hue,

O'er all the soft, still prospect nigh.

The distant groves, array'd in white,
Might then like things unreal seem,
Just shown a while in silvery light,
The fictions of a poet's dream;

Like shadowy groves upon that shore
O'er which Elysium's twilight lay,

By bards and sages feign'd of yore,
Ere broke on earth heaven's brighter day.

O GOD of Nature! with what might
Of beauty, shower'd on all below,
Thy guiding power would lead aright

Earth's wanderer all thy love to know!