When Leonardo da Vinci, the greatest thinker as well as the greatest painter of his age, brought all the resources of his wonderful mind to bear on the subject, then sprang forth a creation so consummate, that since that time it has been at once the wonder and the despair of those who have followed in the same path. True, the work of his hand is perishing—will soon have perished utterly. I remember well, standing before this wreck of a glorious presence, so touched by its pale, shadowy, and yet divine significance, and by its hopelessly impending ruin, that the tears sprang involuntarily. Fortunately for us, multiplied copies have preserved at least the intention of the artist in his work. We can judge of what it _has_ been, and take that for our text and for our theme. The purpose being the decoration of a refectory in a rich convent, the chamber lofty and spacious, Leonardo has adopted the usual arrangement: the table runs across from side to side, filling up the whole extent of the wall, and the figures, being above the eye, and to be viewed from a distance, are colossal; they would otherwise have appeared smaller than the real personages seated at the tables below. The moment selected is the utterance of the words, ‘Verily, verily, I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me:’ or rather the words have just been uttered, and the picture expresses their effect on the different auditors. It is of these auditors, his apostles, that I have to speak, and not of Christ himself; for the full consideration of the subject, as it regards _Him_, must be deferred; the intellectual elevation, the fineness of nature, the benign God-like dignity, suffused with the profoundest sorrow, in this divine head, surpassed all I could have conceived as possible in Art; and, faded as it is, the character there, being stamped on it by the soul, not the hand, of the artist, will remain while a line or hue remains visible. It is a divine shadow, and, until it fades into nothing, and disappears utterly, will have the lineaments of divinity. Next to Christ is St. John; he has just been addressed by Peter, who beckons to him that he should ask ‘of whom the Lord spake:’—his disconsolate attitude, as he has raised himself to reply, and leans his clasped hands on the table, the almost feminine sweetness of his countenance, express the character of this gentle and amiable apostle. Peter, leaning from behind, is all fire and energy; Judas, who knows full well of whom the Saviour spake, starts back amazed, oversetting the salt; his fingers clutch the bag, of which he has the charge, with that action which Dante describes as characteristic of the avaricious:— Questi risurgeranno dal sepolcro Col pugno chiuso. These from the tomb with clenchèd grasp shall rise.