But his last hour approached, and from his sick bed he thus addressed the mourner by his side: " Why weepest thou unmanly tears, now that the time is come that I must depart hence? Earth demands her offering and her right?"

"And heaven too,”—interrupted Leonardo, kissing the withered and trembling hands of his dying friend. "Heaven calls the noble undying spirit back to its home."

"Dost thou wonder, then," resumed Andreas, "that I have been seized with home-sickness? Do I not depart with the conviction, that with thee I leave behind a portion of my being, and that I have fulfilled the mission entrusted to me, a weak instrument, to usher in the dawn which, from the unprofaned temple of thy genius, now sheds its mild radiance over Italy?"

"But which," said Leonardo, mournfully," the Perugier would darken !"

"No envy, my son," interrupted Andreas, mildly; "is this Pietro, then, the only painter? Surely, the path we are all treading is wide enough for many. Behold how various nature is in her formations! how diversified in material and design! and shall the ideal world, the world of dreams, be found so poor, that one may exhaust the magazine, and leave nothing for a fellow-worker? Therefore, my son, no envy in thy pure bosom! No ugly jealousy! Above all, never let these personal feelings of hatred or contempt be transferred to thy works! That is alike unworthy of a noble art, and a generous artist. Even when thou smartest under the lash of oppression, or the reproach of undeserved persecution, never degrade the dignity of thy art, by making it the instrument of thy revenge. Revenge thyself by words of mildness, by deeds of charity: then will thy productions, free from the stain of unworthy passions, go down to future ages, living memorials of thy merits and thy wrongs. My strength is fast sinking; but, before I depart, give me thy hand, and promise me that thou wilt observe my words, and, never refusing the honour due to the merits of others, pursue thy appointed path in cheerful ness and humility. Give me thy hand, and promise me this, Leonardo !"

And Leonardo gave him his hand.

"Then will I be also near to thee," said the master, while an unearthly smile played upon his features, "in the hour of thy greatest earthly need. My spirit shall hover near thee; and when, bowed down by the thought of what seems impracticable, every human resource fails thee, and thou art threatened by undeserved shame and disgrace, then cry aloud, that thy voice may reach me amid the palm-trees of Paradise; cry aloud, Andreas! Andreas-And-I will . . . .”

The angel of death gently interrupted the words of promise and comfort. The head of the faithful master sank back upon the pillow, and Leonardo, in the bitter sorrow of separation, closed the eyes of the departed, and, with the sign of the holy cross, blessed the gentle spirit of his beloved master to its eternal rest.

It is needless here to tell of the eminence and celebrity which Leonardo da Vinci subsequently attained, or how much he contributed, in conjunction with the first Perugino, to the restoration of the art of painting. His merits are known and acknowledged by the whole of the civilized world, which, even at this day, after the lapse of four centuries, admires the fragments of his genius, though time, which wraps everything in mist, has deprived the colouring of its freshness, and covered his paintings with the yellow hue of age. But he shone as a man as well as a painter, excelling in every good and noble quality which can enrich the heart and dignify the character; and, in obedience to his master's precepts, ever judged mildly of another's faults, acknowledged generously another's merits, and, with meek patience, endured much bitter persecution. Of this, however, the world knows but little; and only those who have had the opportunity of reading his manuscript notices of his life, preserved in the Ambrosian Library, and in

the Escurial, can rightly appreciate these points of his character. These prove their author to have been a profound thinker, an enthusiastic lover of his art, and an upright noble-minded man. His acquirements were various. He excelled as engineer and architect, as well as painter. For even in this age of mechanical wonders, men admire the skill displayed in a work, at that time deemed impracticable--that, namely, of carrying the waters of the Adige to Milan; those of the Arno from Pisa to Florence; and the canal of Mortsana through the valleys of Chiavenna and the Voktellina, a distance of two hundred miles. Nay, he even constructed automata, the like of which had not been seen until his day; for when, at the entrance of the French king, Louis XII. into Milan, the citizens begged him to execute some novel and extraordinary work in honour of their august visitor, he performed the task committed to him in a manner which showed how well he deserved their confidence. As the King, in triumphant pomp, passed through the state rooms of the palace, a majestic lion approached, lashing himself with his tail, and gazing round with flashing eyes. Suddenly he threw himself at the King's feet, his breast opened, and displayed to the astonished monarch, and the gaping multitude, the arms of the French king. This lion was the work of Leonardo da Vinci. As a writer upon the arts, he surpassed any of his contemporaries; nor was his soul less susceptible of the ennobling influence of music. With all this, he was a cheerful and entertaining companion, who despised no amusement that conduced to harmless and healthy enjoyment, reining in the untamed horse with the skill of an experienced rider, and fighting in the lists like a Roman Gladiator. On these various accounts, his fame was noised abroad throughout all Italy, at that time the only country where the arts and sciences found a shelter, under the protection of the noble house of Medicis, the magnificent Pope Leo X., and various other princes. It was this well-earned reputation which induced Ludovico Moro Sforza, Duke of Milan, by the most brilliant offers, to seek to allure him to his court. Most unwillingly did Leonardo accept this flattering invitation; most unwillingly did he forsake the land of his birth, and his own lovely Florence; for he had a gloomy presentiment of coming evil. He shuddered, too, at the thought of entering that den of slaughter, in which the inhuman Galeazzo Maria, unlike his noble father Francis, had raged like a wild beast, and whose blood still reeked upon the ducal throne; for he fell a sacrifice to the revenging Nemesis, by the hand of an assassin. Upon this throne sat his brother, the above-mentioned Ludovico, who, no less cruel, but more subtle and cautious, had succeeded in usurping the inheritance from John Galeazzo, the son of his murdered brother. But, at that time, where was there a spot in Italy that was not disgraced by the perpetration of the most scandalous crimes? Did not the members of the princely house of Medicis stain their hands red with human blood? Did not Florence and Pisa, in bitter and deadly feud, slaughter each other's children? Even in Rome itself, were not virtue, life, and everything held sacred by the faith or the affections of mankind, to be purchased with gold? Little, then, could it matter to the man of refined taste and intellectual pursuits, where, under these circumstances, he took up his abode. Here was Sodom, there Gomorrah, and the danger which threatened his pure life and simple manners not greater in Milan than in Florence.

Another motive urged Leonardo to accept the invitation of Ludovico Sforza. His residence in Florence had become embittered to him by the bold unbending opposition of a boy, not yet eighteen years old, with a mind, however, far beyond his years, who, in proud anticipation of future greatness, met every advance of the mild and contemplative Leonardo with enmity and contempt, and embittered to him his beloved city, and the spot where the ashes of his master rested. This boy was Michel Angelo Buonarotti. He overcame, therefore, his reluc

tance, controlled the gloomy presentiments which oppressed him, and, encouraging himself by contemplating the prospect opened to him of higher and more varied exertion in his art, bade his lovely home adieu, and, with the light and buoyant spirits of youth and inexperience, directed his steps to Milan. Let no one blame him also, if, young, ardent, ambitious, and gifted with every faculty of enjoyment, the anticipation of the rewards and pleasures that awaited him in that rich and luxurious Babylon of Lombardy, formed part of his happy dream. The Duke gave him a reception honourable alike to both, and in accordance with the fashion of those times, when patrons sought to add to their own lustre, by pay ing honour to those whose merit had already gained for them a renown more enduring than that which depends upon the smile of princes. The haughty, yet cunning Ludovico, drew in his dangerous talons, and caressed the master with an appearance of fondness. The courtiers, according to their wont, began also to follow the example set them, and overwhelmed the guest and favourite of their prince with their hollow kindnesses.

The most prominent among those whom he was in the habit of meeting at the court, was a monk, whose tall, lean, ghost-like figure was continually crossing his path, as if to watch his movements. His small restless eyes gleamed maliciously from beneath his dark brows, above which rose, like a wall of rock, the hard, yellow, angular forehead. The nose was aquiline; the firmly compressed mouth wore a constant, though scarcely perceptible sneer, and the pointed chin was overgrown by a beard of mingled red and black. This was the Prior of the Dominican monastery of St. Maria della Grazia, the Duke's confidential adviser. His speech distilled like honey-drops, but the poison of asps lurked beneath his lips. From the first moment of Leonardo's arrival, he had inwardly chafed at the favour in which he stood with the Prince, and, at each meeting, the bitter, though concealed hatred of the one, and the undefined antipathy and apprehension of the other, increased; and it was strange that these feelings oppressed the painter most when occupied by his labour within doors. When in the open air, superintending his mechanical and architectural undertakings, he could breathe more freely. He felt refreshed and strengthened by the ever-varying, ever-beautiful forms and colouring of nature; the light breezes that played round his temples-the soft grey morning-the dewy evening-night, with the delicious melody of the nightingale, and her eternal heaven of stars; and, by day, the bustle and hurry-the driving and riding over hill and vale-all this, by occupying his mind, gave him courage and cheerfulness. But, when he sat alone before his easel, in his solitary chamber, a vague, almost supernatural horror would seize him, till the sweat-drops stood upon his brow, and the trembling and uncertain hand could with difficulty guide his pencil. And thus it is that we have so few paintings of this master belonging to this particular period of his life; most of them were destroyed by himself, and many of them when wanting only the last touches.

The Duke often stood enraptured before his growing picture, but, when he began to hope the painting would soon be ready to adorn his gallery, he found it on his next visit destroyed-torn in pieces or burnt. This, doubtless, was vexatious enough; still he might have been content with those which did receive completion, and consequently, were stamped with the seal of the master's own approbation.

"Now, master," he exclaimed, upon one occasion, "this time you shall paint me, and, of course, in this instance, we shall hear nothing of cutting or burning."

The descent of a thunderbolt when the sky is clear and cloudless, could not have struck more sudden terror into the heart of Leonardo, than did this announcement of the Duke's, accompanied as it was, by the ambiguous smile of the Dominican. What? he, the refined and fastidious painter, accustomed to depict only the most noble and lovely of nature's forms, or the beautiful and fairy

like creations of his own exuberant fancy he shall paint that face, the personification of ugliness, where might be read, as in an open book, the characters of the worst passions that ever disgraced humanity-the history of a nature inhumanized by crime; that grey, bristly hair, starting from every side of the abominable head; those cheeks of ashy paleness, the graves of worn-out passions; those mulberry marks upon the neck, from which he had received the name of "Moro;" the cruel malicious twitching of the pale lips, visible through the disordered beard! No, it was impossible! And yet the command had been given; what was he to do? To paint, or not to paint? And, if he painted-would he not be required to flatter the tyrant,-conceal his ugliness with a professional lie? But then, what would remain of the original features? The picture, in that case, would be no likeness. If, on the contrary, his pencil should be faithful, what reward might he not expect from a tyrant whom all feared, if he presented to him, as himself, a copy of distorted humanity, frightful enough to be taken for a counterfeit of the devil himself? Verily, the painter was in a sore strait, and often and anxiously did his mind revert to the promise of his departed master. On whichever side he turned, he saw nothing but ruin awaiting him; shame and disgrace to his professional reputation, as well as to his moral character, if, for the sake of wealth and patronage, he stooped to produce a false and flattering picture; or the most terrible revenge of which an insulted tyrant is capable, if he represented him in his

true colours.

"Oh, what shall I do? how shall I save myself?" exclaimed the trembler, as with anxious steps he paced his lonely chamber, and thought of the last words of his master.

"Oh Andreas! Andreas! hear me and help me as thou promisedst, in this my greatest need!" But his master heard him not; the time was not yet come; Leonardo had not yet encountered the greatest difficulty he was to meet with upon earth.

"Be it so, then," he exclaimed at length; "I will drink this bitter cup, and paint the truth, for I can do no other."

The day for the first sitting came; with a trembling hand he seized his pencil, for before him sat the haughty Duke arrayed in princely ermine, and urged him to dispatch. Another sitting, and the sketch was complete. The finishing now alone remained; but, with each day that the picture advanced towards completion, the painter's anxiety and gloomy forebodings increased. At length, it stood finished before him, against the wall; and, as he gazed, the hateful figure so worked upon his heated imagination, that it appeared to him like some dreadful apparition from the nether world. "What!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that Leonardo da Vinci's pencil can have produced thee, thou frightful monster ! and that, for centuries to come, thou wilt hang in the gallery as his work? Must I be forced to stain my noble art and my future fame with this specimen of distortion? Away from my sight, Satan !" and, in the violence of his rage, he stamped upon the unlucky painting till the canvass cracked, and scarcely knowing what he did, tore it with the violence of a maniac, and scattered it in a thousand pieces about the room.

"So, ho!" croaked the Dominican, who had been sent by the Duke to inquire after the progress of his picture, peeping through the half-opened door, "you seem to have a violent, I might almost say, a dangerous paroxysm! Well, I will not disturb you."

Leonardo, thus recalled to his senses, felt his blood freeze with horror, and, as the dreadful spectre disappeared as softly as it had approached, he became fully conscious of the mad action he had committed. He had abused the portrait of his sovereign, and what might he not expect from the anger of one whom he had so grossly insulted? But a deeper sorrow than that arising from the fear of punishment struck upon his generous heart. It was his patron, his benefactor, whom he had thus ill-treated.

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"

Oh, what have I done?" he groaned out, as he gazed upon the destruction that surrounded him, and began gathering up the fragments. Those eyes, though their glance might have been cruel to others, have ever looked on me with kindness. Those pale lips have never addressed me but with favour. Oh, my prince! to others thou may'st be all that thy face betrays, but to me, thou wert only a friend and benefactor. It is not thy fault that thou art a rival of the devil himself in ugliness." And as he spoke, bitter and sorrowful tears fell upon the torn relics. The door again opened, and he received a summons to attend the Duke.

"I do not now invoke thee, Andreas, in this my greatest need," he said softly; "thou canst not hear me, for I have sinned by giving way to a foolish passion. What ever happens, I have deserved it." And thus prepared for the worst, he entered the saloon of the palace.

The Duke was pacing gloomily up and down the apartment. The Prior sat in a window recess, his hands folded, and his eyes fixed upon the ground. The courtiers stood round in silence, and not a breath disturbed the oppressive calm which announced an approaching tempest. It was long before the Duke spoke; at length, in a tone scarcely audible from suppressed rage, he asked the trembling painter, "Where is my portrait ?"

"It is destroyed," stammered Leonardo. "Destroyed!" exclaimed the Duke, in a louder tone, destroyed again destroyed! and nothing else but destroyed! And, even myself-my picture! And wherefore?" Leonardo stood with his eyes rooted to the earth, unable to answer a word.

Upon this, the Prior raised his head and softly whispered, "Most probably from reverence, your highness ! from a feeling of his own inability, not being yet equal to so great a work; from a fear that he might not do justice to his illustrious original."

"You lie, Father Prior !" shouted the enraged painter, with the desperate courage of one who already knew his ruin certain.

"He lies?" repeated the Duke, stepping back, while his countenance assumed the paleness of death, "therefore that was not the reason; and you assert that so boldly and without further explanation! What was it then?" "Madness, my lord," replied Leonardo, more composedly; rage at myself."

If that was it," interrupted the Duke proudly, "I will not say that you have acted altogether wrong; it is better for your fame that an inferior work should not descend to posterity, more especially with such a subject. Take care, however, that the like happen not again." "Forgive me, my prince!" entreated Leonardo, "give me but a different task; drive me through fire and water -send me into the abode of the damned, and your commands shall be obeyed. I will work day and night to show myself worthy of your kindness, and, if possible, to recover your confidence."

"It shall be as you have said," returned the Duke, "and, for the future, as no secular subject appears to succeed with you, you shall dedicate your art to what is sacred. The refectory of the Dominican Monastery of

St. Maria della Grazia is in need of some decoration; to your pencil it shall be entrusted. You shall paint upon the wall the Last Supper of our Lord, and complete the work within a year from this day. And again I say to you, and for the last time, forget your folly."

The Prior smiled maliciously, and, glancing contemptuously at Leonardo, extolled the clemency of the Duke, and poured out his thanks for the favour bestowed upon him and his Monastery. The courtiers again decked their faces with smiles, though they could not help inwardly marvelling, that the threatening storm should have passed away without some one suffering from its fury. They considered not, it is true, that the great and free Florentine, whose services had already been so numerous and valuable, and who was ranked among the ornaments of his age, deserved to be treated with a leniency to which none of them had any claim.

Again deeply agitated, Leonardo escaped as soon as possible into the fresh air. The sense of his own merits pressed upon him much less forcibly than the kindness of his patron. He smote his forehead, and exclaimed, "Is this the return which Satan makes for ingratitude? what more could a saint do to bless those that curse him? But stay-am I not a fool to fancy the danger over? I may only have escaped Scylla to fall into Charybdis. It must be so ;" and, all at once, the idea struck him, that the direction which the affair had taken could have been suggested by no other than the crafty Dominican. Still, what kind of a viper would creep out of it, was to him a mystery, while this mystery only served to increase his uneasiness, as the fear of a concealed danger is more harassing to the mind than a known and positive evil. Whatever might be the result, it jarred sorely upon his feelings, there to dedicate his pencil to the Most Holy, where the hated monk resided. This, however, had been precisely the object of the latter. Yes, he-the proud, high-minded painter, who scarcely deigned him a look, who had supplanted him in the favour of his prince-he should be made to devote to him and his convent the splendid efforts of his genius, or perish. This had been his motive in the plan he had recommended to the Duke; for, if the master completed his difficult task, the more difficult for being in a style to which he was little accustomed, he had served him, the Prior--had been the minister of his wishes. Should he, however, fail in his task, which was more probable, and more agreeable to his hate; or, should he execute it in an unworthy manner, it was only calling upon his enemy, the stripling Buonarotti, to do it better, a step to which it would not be difficult to persuade the already displeased prince, and his ruin as a painter was certain. For, that Leonardo's fiery temperament would not endure this disgrace, without breaking out into some fresh insult to the Duke, who would be disposed to show little ceremony or kindness towards one whose reputation was sullied, and whose services were no longer indispensable, followed in the Prior's calculation as matters of course. (To be concluded in our next.)

STATESMEN OF THE REIGN OF GEORGE III.*

THE period over which the long reign of George III. extended, possesses an interest of a peculiar kind into the region of time past," but has not yet for the men of this generation. It is fast receding Its events, and the men who fairly reached it. figured in them, have scarcely come to be regarded by us with the quiet absence of emotion with which we look upon matters of pure history, however important in their results, although they have, in a great measure, ceased to awaken any of those contentious feelings, which it is difficult to repress when our attention is directed to matters or persons of interest belonging to our own day. Few of us have seen any of the great men of that era, and still fewer of us have been personally affected by their political failures or successes; but we have lived and conversed with those to whom their names were familiar as household words-who were their warm partisans or bitter foes-who regarded them as paragons of good or of evil, as the saviours or destroyers of their country; and we feel, therefore, a kind of reflected and subdued interest, a curiosity not unpleasantly warm, yet not coldly speculative, regarding their real characters, and the exact situation of the niche which each of them is destined to occupy in the temple of Fame.

"Historical Sketches of Statesmen who flou

* Sketches of Statesmen of the Reign of George III. By LORD BROUGHAM. London: Charles Knight.