, • r,: , ,• : ,-;::.-.. ':, , - .:''. - . . ‘, . - •. . , ',":' ' ; 7'"? . . , ,,,,,, 1 , ,, ,..;4-••'' , - . -'. • . ‘.- .!` -• .1,3• . . . ' -, ,-,. -:•......;. : .n... , . • .. —,:..-.•!-.- . • . . .... .... • • .-. . AO ~....,, .. ihh. . 4- '• Ir , 1 .. . .. . ,: ~.. ~, • ...,,.. • .. 2 •'I - --": '''''': :;. 4.. ...... f,g ..... • • SY P.OBERT 7777117 E IvI=LETON.] Office of the Star & Banner : Chambersburg Street, a few doors West o the Court-House. CONDITIONS; I. The STAR & REPUBLIV AN BANNER is pub lished at TWO DOLLARS( per annum (or Vol ume of 5'2 numbers,) payable hull-yearly in ad vance: or TWO DOLLARS & PIPTY CENTS if not paid until after the expiration of the year. IL No subscription will be revelry(' f.r a shorter period than six months; nor will the paper be dis continued until. all arremages are paid, unless at the option of the Editor. A failure to notify a dis continuance will be considered a new engagement, and the papsff forwarded accordingly. 111. AnyclertssmENTA not exceeding a square, will be inserted Tit 11E1: times for $l, and 25 cents for each subsequent insertion—the number of in sertions to be marked, or they will be published till forbid and charged accordingly; longer ones in the same proportion. A reasonable deduction will be made to those who advertise by the year. IV. All Letters and Communications addressed to the Editor by mail must be post-paid, or they willnot be attended to. THE GARLAND. —"With sweetest dowers enrich'd, From various gardens enli'd with care." =Ea THE DEAD BOY. • 'And have they wrapped thee in that cold--cold shrnu And have they torn thee from thy mother dear, 0 yes—those prattling lips—thou beauty browed— In silence sleep, for thou art on thy bier; And they will hide thee 'neath the grassy sod From thy young playmates, to be with thy God. Yes, thou art dead—tbe beautiful—the bright. The spirit-boy—has flown to the blue sky; The flow'ret's withered, and the fairy light Of intellect, has left hie dull cold eye To bLam in heaven—Oh, he'll be happy now, For immortality entwines his brow! Ah, 'tis thus often in the early spring Of joyous childhood, comes a with'ring power, When beauty buds,and hope is ou the wing, To blight the grades of the opening flower; 'Tis well—the early called aro always blest, They sink so sweetly to their tear gcmm'd rest! VIII 7 Mal2.3aVrbta?_to From the U. S. Magazine and Democratic Review. The "Last Supper" of Leon ardo de Pinch. nuotaxon on his conch lay the excellent old Andrea Verochia. The dews of death moistened his furrowed and pale forehead; yet hid eyes spark led still with a deep enthusiasin,as he contemplat ed a picture he had completed for the relig,lettx de ti alombreuse: It was the baptism of our Saviour; but it was not the work of his own pencil that he was contemplating; it was the figure of an angel, which his youthful pupil, Leonardo de Vinci, had introduced. He had given it a celestial expression, an ethereal smile, that the master felt was far be yond his own conception. At that moment his pupil entered. ‘4llly son," said he, "I have closed my easel and laid aside my pencil forever! But not with me expires my art; to thee I bequopth these implements; thou shslt go forward, and thy fame extend over Italy; in thy hands they may reach an excellenCe unknown before; but remember, that in mine they have never been degraded to an unworthy use! Gtuird them, my eon; but, abcivaall, guard thyself!" Leonardo kissed the Ornacistad hgpd which press ed his own. "My more than, father," he exclaimed; 4ithou knowest my imperfections; that I am proud .and headstrong; passionate and easily offended, .iovinigefu/, and prone to a disposition to ridicule and Cati:C:tituFe 7 :Thou knowest my many faults; yet thy voi6C, nay; thy very glance, can subdue my overbearing temper; but without thee what am • * ••Iy son," said the old man, smiling faintly, 4 , thou must do that for thyielf which I cannot do for thee. Thatklinst.the seeds of great good and gteai evil. To mature the ono and repress the other must he the devoted object of thy own per petual self-vigilance. - I leave thee my precepts, as they have full often been repeated, and my ex . , ample, such as it has been; and were I living I could give thee no more.. I know, indeed, thy .nature—it is capable of the most glorious efforts; ` . eitut beware of the first impulses of every emotion 4`Vii . worthy of it. Why, tell me, wort thou cold and 311flilTeient,yeste4day,wlian I akilauded Porugino's work! Ilewaro of envy!" • - The. color of Leonardo rose high, and his eyes kparkkd with an irriliSanted fire. "To that charge, /lot guilty," ho quicklyexclaitned. "I looked cold ly on the work becrarso I felt that he had not done his noblestillject justice. Envy, at least, has no :share in my composition." "I believe thee;" said Andrea; "remember that Perugino has his own merit; thou thine. Seek not to obscure that of each other. Always bear in mind, that it is for the perfection of thy divine .art thou art laboring, not fur thy own glory. There WO many paths to eminence. Observe how mul tiplied and various arc the forms of nature—how .endless the realms of imagination. Cultivate a "patient and hiririble temper; be open to reproof, And leant to subdue,thy, irritable nature.). If thou ran snaring under the scourge of oppression, or the bitterness of undeserved calumny, profane not thy exalted art by low and satirical revenge,which can have no pert in a truly great mind. I repeat to thee, use it for no ignoble purposes. Leta pure soul animate thy works. Tread with generous steps the path of fame. Make room for thy com peers, if they overtake thee, and honor the excel !erica to which perhaps thou mayst not attain." . "I have been gazing on thy work," continued he, g•and I confess to thee, Leonardo, that were my life to be prolonged, I would not retouch that picture. I feel that thy gift is beyond rhine. I ,rejoice that it is so. I have cast but a faint light would me, thou wilt illuminate distant regions; • yet. remember, thy brightness will not be like the slec*r of noonday. but like the rising beam of the morning, or the mild lustre of the evening.— Thy powers are various; thou art not horn to fill the ideal alone. i perceive in thee the germs of invention and usefulness: cultivate them, my son; narrow not thy path of life; live for thy fellow men; for thy age; and long after the name of Pe rugino is forgotten, may that of Leonardo de Vinci be preserved by its own brightness. Virtue cre ates immortality; genius may emblazon the mime of nn artist in this lower world: but his virtues aro to find their reward in heaven. Be it yours to live in the blessings of posterity; but look only to a nother existence for their recompense. My strength is fast failing; I must depart to that land where the good and the trite shall meet again.— Thou couldst not desire to detain me here. Fare well! I leave behind me, in thee, a glorious con tinuation of myself. My mission is finished." In a few nannies after these his last words,Leon ardo's tears fell fast and bitter on the lifeless form of his good old master, as he gently closed his eyes, and signed the holy cross on his venerable forehead. "Yes," he exclaimed, as he knelt reverently by his side, "thy' prayers shall be fulfilled. I will subdue the evil elements of my nature; and not for myself, but for mankind, will I labor in the divine art which I learned from thee,and of which thy last lesson has now taught me the true spirit; and my reward shall be with thee in Heaven." The Chateau do Vinci, situated in the beautiful Val il'Arim, was the birth-place of Leonardo. Ile was one of the most accomplished men of his time. His face was fine and intellectual, his figure com manding, his bearing graceful, his air noble and courteous. He was also distinguished for his youth- ' fel strength and skill in all manly exercises, and for his acquaintance with military science. His voice was clear and musical, his conversation a musing and instructive, while ho united a peculiar gentle simplicity of manners with politeness and natural dignity. When to this was added his glori ous and almost universal genius, it is not strange that ho was generally regarded as one of the most mm1111(111)10 men of his day. Ile excelled in music, poetry, and belles-letters. He was not less suc cessful in architecture and in sculpture, (of which lie began the study with his old master, Andrea,) than in painting; while ho cultivated all the science of the age, chemistry, anatomy, and mathematics, to make them all subservient to his art. One peculiarity deserves to be noted, that all his manuscripts which have been preserved are written in the oriental manner, from right to left, the re verse of the common usage. It has been conjectur ed from observation of his drawings and designs, that ho used his left hand instead of his right, as they are all reversed from what is generally found in the works of other artists, whether ancient or modern. From the time of the death of his master, ho made rapid advances in excellence. He cherished his memory with the most reverent affection; he reflected on his lessons, and studied to model him self by his precepts. He examined his own per formanceir with the moat jeeloux and fostitliouttoye, finding always more to condemn than approve, by the unappmaohobio otanderd of his own idea.— He oven carried this self-dissatisfaction too far.— The higher the perfection he attained in his art, the less was he himself satisfied with his own pro ductions. He thus destroyed a great number of his own performances,especially of his earlier days. The duke of Milan; Ludovico Sforza, was anxi ous to secure so brilliant an .ornament to his court, and was eager in offering inducements to attract Leonardo to a residence in his dominions; and he accordingly was prevailed upon to leave his native abode near Florence, for that purpose. It is said that the jealoussy and suspicion of Michael Angelo, who was just then beginning to rise into distinc tion, made him the more willing to quit a place where ho was hated as a rival. Though both of the artists were of surpassing excellence, their per fections lay in different lines. Leonardo was full of sensibility and imagination; his region was mind; he delighted to express all the pure and ex alted emotions of the soul. He was select in his choice of subjects, and unless they wore such as to interest his heart, his hand became utterly para lyzed, and he abandoned his attempt. He was sensitive and delicate; but his passions, when ex cited, were hasty and violent. If Raphael after wards surpassed him, he had the glory of being first in the new path which ho struck out. Michael Angelo, on the other. hand, studied strength and sublimity, and affected to look down on the less bold conceptions of Leonardo, while ho met his generous advances with coldness, and appeared to avoid any association. It may readily lie imagined that the duke of Milan welcomed De Vinci, and loaded him with honors. He prevailed on him to lie director of the Academy of Architecture which he had just estab lished. Here, Leonardo soon restored the beauti ful simplicity of the Greek and Roman styles. He constructed the famous aqueduct that supplies the city of Milan with water, which gees by the name of Mortesana, and by which the waters of Adda aro conducted two hundred miles to the city. - The following anecdote has an interest, as illus- trating the wonderful versatility of talent of Leon ardo. The painter, the sculptor, the architect, the poet, the man of science and polite literature, the accomplished gentleman and soldier, and equally distinguished in all, it exhihits him also as remark- ably ingenious in the principles and art of me chanics. In IVO, when Louis XII. of Prance was to make his entrance into Milan, ho constructed an automaton lion, which marched out to meet the king, reared upon its hind lege, and, opening its • breast, displayed an escutcheon with the arms of Franco quartered upon it. In the military sports and feats which were performed, Leonardo was unrivalled; and, as a horseman, ho excited univer sal admiration,by the boldness and skill with which ho could manage the wildest and most ungovern- hie steed. Louis greatly coveted the honor of possessing so distinguished an acquisition to his court, and is said to have made him splendid offers; but Leonardo declined them all. Certainly, how- ever, ho felt no great frier.dsl'ip for, or sympathy with, the duke, who possessed a countenance cx- pressing. all the luw passions of his character, and which could excito iu tho high-minded artist only aversion and disgust There was one, also, who was constantly with be duke, tht‘t regarded the Florentine with an evil eye; this was the prior of the Dominican convent. Though his words dropped honey, the honey was mingled with gull. His dark malicious eyes look ed slily out from owerlianging eyebrows; his fore- head was knit into a thousand wrinkles, and Lim Sl - IVISII NO OTHER HERALD, NO OTHER SPEAKER OF MY LIVING ACTIONS, TO KEEP MINE HONOR FROH CORRUPTION. -SHAHS aitautwlrazirateat..r. - eacl tvvz.rea47:oQaut o QatQazavm aao acNJacl an evil spirit. I will not interrupt thee." And he hastily retired. Leonardo awoke from the delirium of passion to the consciousness of the deed. A feeling of self reproach came over him, which was even more poignant than his fears of the vengeance of the prince. It was his protector, his benefactor, that he had thus insulted. "What have I done," ho exclaimed, as ho gazed upon the fragments, and gathered them from the floor. "Those eyes have looked upon me with kindness; those colorless lips have spoken words of friendship. 0,, my prince, whatever thou wert to others, to me thou wcrt a friend and benefactor;" and his tears fell fast upou the fragments of the picture. The door opened, and a messenger came to say that tho duke required his presence. Leonardo trembled. 4.1 may not call on thee, Ahdrea," said he, 4.1 have sinned against thy pre- . With faltering stops ho approached the duke, whose countenance was dark and lowering. De- scornful mouth covered with a bristly rsvd heard; his nose hooked over his frightful mouth, like the beak of some obscene bird; in short, his whole ap pearance inspired equal distrust and detestation. Nothing could exceed the displeasure with which this monk regarded Leonaido, whose abhorrence for so fiend-like a countenance, and contempt for the character of which it was the mirror, were probably scarcely concealed. Every honor which the duke conferred upon the artist, he considered an insult to himself, and he determined to hesitate at no means which might accomplish his ruin. Leonardo soon found himself, nt the court of the duke of Milan, in a situation wholly uncongenial to his tastes, and the darkest gloom took posses sion of his mind, and which he in vain endeavored to banish. He sometimes succeeded in the open air, when ho was engaged in his mechanical or architectural works, for then the bright and glow ing colors of nature spread their own hues over his feelings. The fresh air invigorated his mind; the showers of the morning. the dews of the evening. the exhalations of the night, the starry vault of the heavens, all gave impulse to his spirit, and carried him over hills and through valleys. But when he . sat silent before his -easel, then did his brow be come clouded, and his hand unsteady. At this time many of the pictures of Leonardo are lost; he often destroyed them himself in n fit of disgust, when they only wanted a few masterly strokes to complete them. The duke possessed nn ardent love of the fine arts; his great misfortune was that of having fallen so entirely under the influence of the artful Domi nican, who swayed him to hie own purposes,which were all low and selfish. Often did he stnnd en raptured over the works of the artist. "This," he would exclaim, "will be the gem of my collection. Gifted Florentine; proceed with thy work,nnd ask what thou wilt; all price is below it!" The Dominican was enraged by all the new honors heaped upon Leonardo, and he determined to destroy him. He had minutely observed him, studied his character,and the peculiar,delicate con stitution of his initial; hatred is patient and inde fatigable in its labors; he knew that Leonardo's pencil became powerless, unless his taste, mind and heart went along with it,nnd on this knowledge he formed his plan. "My lord," said ho to the duke, "I feel most bitterly for your many disappointments; no soon er have you set your heart on a picture than the capricious and daring Florentine draws his brush over it. Let me advise you to sit for your own portrait; this at least he will not presume to dis honor; and you may have one perfect gem from his hand for your collection." The duke seized instantly upon the idea. "You shall paint my portrait," said he to Leon ardo; "then one of your pictures at least will be saved from destruction. Your respect for me, as well as your affection, will not permit you to draw tho brush over tho lineaments of your friend and patron." I The artist trembled at the order. How, indeed, I could Leonardo, who delighted to paintnature in !CT trureselorrns, erratum anew airaby.m.,nu.t':: bination of physical ugliness, utterly unredeemed by moral beauty or sublimity! The red shock hair, the grey twinkling eyes, the pale ashy check, and ill-shaped head—it was impossible, and yet the duke commanded it! Refuse ho could not; yet, if he obeyed, could he prostitute his glorious art tol flatter the tyrant, and disguise his hideousness by a deceitful falsehood! While, if ho painted him true to nature, what a specimen of his art would go down to posterity, to be pointed to through after ages, as a proof that Leonardo do Vinci sold his pencil for gold! It was in vain that ho called upon the spirit of his master, Andrea. "Well, then," exclaimed Leonardo, "I must drink the bitter cup, and must paint him as he is. It is true he will read in his portrait his own hateful character; but I will not degrade my pencil by flattery; I will not deserve the scorn of after ages." With a trembling hand ho seized the pencil, while the duke sat before him with proud impor tance, and arrayed in princely ermine. Behind him the Dominican had placed himself, and look ed at the artist with exulting malice, reading in his troubled eye and trembling hand the full influence of the malignant spell which hie wiles had cast up on him. In vain Leonardo essayed to draw an I.nutline; ho saw nothing but the horrible face of the monk. At length he exclaimed, throwing down his pencil, , 41 can do nothing unless . your highness remains with me alone." The diikeler dered the Dominican to depart, and a now motive to revenge arose in the monk's heart. Leonardo proceeded with his work,day after day, but the nearer the painting approached its comple tion, the more dissatisfied became the artist. At length, however, the last stroli,o was given, and it stood finished against the wall in all its revolting ugliness "How," cried Leonnrilo,losing all self-command, "shall a picture like this go down to posterity!— Shall I tarnish my fame and soil my future great- nest' by such a specimenl—rather perish my art, rather perish myself!" exclaimed ho, striking his foot with violence against the pannol. It flew into ragmonts "So, so, master," smoothly said the Dominican, entering the room, - by the command of the duke, to see the picture conveyed to him. He had come with the intention of working him up to this catas trophe; but it was unnecessary; the ungovernable passions of the artist had anticipated him. .So, master Leonardo, I perceive thou art possessed o side him stood the hated monk, with folded hands and affected humility. o What have you done with my portrait?" ex claimed the duke, with fmppressed passion. “Destroyed it," replied Leonardo, with a trem bling voice. "And why?" said the duke, still commanding himself; “It was the feeling of his own worthlessness sire,” exclaimed the monk; "the consciousness tha ho could not do you justice." "It is falser' said Leolanai° oFalse!" exclaimed the duke, approaching him Ilia (ace pale with rage, "speak, what was thy mo "Iktadness," answered Leonardo, firmiy, .ona( nevi,. and want of self-command." The duke stood silent for a inetnent—"What ever was the cause," said he, "perhaps you have done well,and I forgive you,if you accept my condi- "Name them; my prince," said Leonardo, "corn mend mo through fire and water, and you shall be obeyed. Make me undergo any torments, I will not complain. I will devote my best art, day and night, to redeem my crime, and to render myself worthy of your goodness." "Bo it so, then," said the duke. "You shall no longer have your attention distracted by the things of this world; your art shall be consecrated to holy purposes. The refectory of the Dominican clois ter needs decoration, and your talent shall be de voted to this work. I will give you one 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; he had not sufficiently esti mated the consequence which the power of genius bestows. The Florentine was already the orna ment of the age, and commanded the respect of nations. The monk cast a malicious glance at him. 'Leonardo felt its force; it was hard for him to be shut up with such a man a whole year, and, to 'be subject to the petty vexations he might in filet, 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 to labor to redeem the confidence of his patron. But what' subject should he select for the work?—it was a now perplexity; and months passed in a disorder ed and unhinged state of mind, which rendered it impossible for him either to conceive or execute any attempt of his art. One day, when the Passion Week was just begun, Leonardo was walking in the beautiful gardens near Titan. His mind was pondering on the subject of his aiming. The spring had already awoke the young lossoms from their winter's sleep, and the trees and hedges were crowned with the fresh foliage of the season. "1 will paint the season sacred to our Lord!" tie exclaimed—"his last supper with his disciples— rimuld that my pencil was equal to the task!" ' The sun was just setting as he returned home, his mind filled with the vastness of the project. Uncon sciously he arrived at the cloister of the Dominicans; the pealing tones of the organ struck upon his ear, while the lofty roof of the oliurch resounded with the chant of the monks. The solemn sound had stilled the tumult of his breast.and his heart was filled with i gentle and deeply religious emotions. 1 _op short?'- he cried. "who died for the sine of the human nature *hien Is s., sinful And passionate in me bow shall my feeble howl portray thy glory! now shall I paint that last sorrowful night when the upon ties gathered around thee!" As he dwelt on the subject, it gradually expanded tit his mind; he beheld the long, table and the Savior 40 the midst of his disciples—the last rays of evening Inning on his head--a wild radialice bearniug from his! eyes,wheu tie ex/aimed, "Verily, I say unto you, there is one of you that shall betray mc!" And with what beauty did the group spring to light under the pencil inspired by such emotion! flora fresh and tet how soft the coloring! But it was indeed an arduous task. Spring had tome round and two of the heads yet remained unfinished. One was the Savior's, the ether that of Judas—the one because his soul trembled to approach it, with reverential awe; the other because the beautiful purity of his own spirit shrank in horror.from the task of creating the fitting conception of that visage. hi vain Leonardo sat be fore his cascl,with his pencil in his haud,and prayed for divine inspiration to paint the Savior of the world. His touch w..s cold and formal. Where was the hea venly benevolence that irradiated his face—the pity. ing forgiveness towards the apostle that he knew would deny him—the glance of divine sorrow,unrnix ed with atiger,which he cast upon his betrayer! And the contrast of the traitor, how - was he ever to por tray it worthily! The last week arrived,and the heads were yet un finished. "Dost thou know the conditions?" exclaim ed the exulting monk; "success or death: so said the duke, and his word is never recalled." "I know theni well," replied Leonardo, in a des pairing tone. "Then hasten en thy work," said the Dominican; '"is life so worthless that thou caust not afford a daub of thy brush to save it? As well might the mighty 1 discovery of painting have slumbered ,if it will not do I thee this slight service. Come, loud me thy brush— to-morrow is the day; I will furnish thee with a head and perhaps it may save thine own," fastening upon' him a searching glance, with a flashing expression of conscious power and triumph. I "Ha!" excla'nied Leonardo; "I thank thee,good sir Prior,for this last offer; thou hast indeed inspired me. He hastened to the refrectory, closed and secured the door, and through the rest of that day, and the whole solitude of that last night, sat almost without intermission at the glorious task which has immorta lized him. The head of Judas was completed before the shades of night came on; but that of the Savior still remained. There was the beautiful oval—the locks parted on the forehead—but all else of the face was a blank. He felt the task beyond his power, yet his generous spirit would not profane his own ideal, nor degrade his art, by an unworthy performance. The last rays of the sun were setting; he turned towards the west—" Andrea;" he cried, "now in this hour of my last extremity of despair, let my voice reach thee among the shade of the palm trees of paradise!" As by a sudden inspiration, confidence took posses sion of his mind—celestial images floated before his imagination—the pealing roof seemed to ring'stith ho sannahs—and in the vacant space the imagination of the painter beheld the countenance, the divine couu tenancem Well he had been in vain attempting to por tray. Ouce more ho seizes his brush; he has only to follow the traits impreised forever by that single vi sion•gleam on his memory. How noble, how sublime, how much they partake of divinity, is decided not only down to the present age, but will be by ages yet unborn. Thu next morning Leonardo did not make his ap pearance, nor was any reply returned to the applica tion of the Prior at the door; it iyas the day on which the picture was to be exhibited, and his relnorseless enemy exulted in the belief that iu his despair, ho had sought the fate of the Judas he had found him self incompetent to depict. At length the hour arrived, and the Duke Sforza, accompanied by the principal nobility of Milan, pro evaded in state to the Dominican monastry, and gave orders that the refrectory should be thrown open. The piclurc,which was in fresco,upon the wall nt one end, was concealed by a curtain, aud, the'artist stood on one side with his eyes cast down, and an expres sion of deep dejection. There was aconfused murmur of voices; curiosity and eager ,expectation were ex pressed 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 fig. urea, as ho had himself seen it so on the preceding day. "Let the curtain be wlthdrawn," said the duke. Leonardo moved not; the deep emotion of the lu st rendered him powerless. The Doruinican,unable te comprehend such feelings was confirmed in the belief that the withdrawing of the curtain would be the death-warrant - of Leonardo: he hastily seized the string, and be a sudden 'lull the curtain opened, and the LAST SUPPER of !Amor -40 de Vthei stood teeeilled to too world. I Not a sound for a few moments broke the stillness that prcrailed: at length murmurs of applause were heard,increasinr„as the influence of the glorious work fell fuller upon the enthusiastic minds of the Italians, to raptures. The Duke arose and stood before Le onardo— "Well, noble Florentine, host thou stoned for thy fault. lam proud to forgive thee ail. On, on, to glo ry, to immortality ; high rewards shall be thine.— But why, holy father," said he to the Prior,wbo still stood, motionless and pale,hefore the picture; "why stood you speechless there? See yuu not how nobly lie 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 cloisters, who de tested the Prior, repeated—" Yes, it is he—the Judas Iscariot who betrayed his masterr* After the first surprise was orer,suppressed laugh ter was heard Pale with rage,the Dominican retrea ted beh ind the crowd and made his escape to his cell, with the emotions of a demon quelled before the ra diant power of an angel's divinity, and the reflection that henceforth he must go down to posterity as a se cond Judas! The resemblance was perfect. And where now was Leonardo de Vinci? he who stood conspicuous among the nobles of the land—he whose might of genius host high birth and worldly honors into obscurity? Now, surely, was the hour of his triumph! Alas, no! he stood humbled and de pressed; bitter tears bedewed his cheeks, and when the cry was repeated again and again, "It is the Pri or!" he hastily quitted the presence of the duke, and in the solitude of his owu apartment, on his• knees, in an agony of repentance, "0 Andrea,my master!" ho exclaimed, "how have I sinned against thy memory, our art,and my own soul' I have sinned, I have sin :led! It was a sacrilege—in the same hour in which thou didst antwer my prayer with the blessed . inspi ration of the s talon 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." Such wore the emotions of the artist,whilo all Mi lan and Italy rang with the fame of the work which ho himself so bitterly repented. Al! flocked to see it, and his renown was at its highest zenith He shun ned the applause which it attracted, and in an humble spirit devoted himself to the pursuit of a nobler tri umph than be bad already achieved—the triumph over himself. This is the history of that celebrated painting, the Last Supper of Leonardo de Vinci, which is familiar to all,from the innumerable copies transmitted to pos terity, and distributed through every civilized coon try,by the pencil and the burin. It is Mill in the re fectory of the Dominican co went, at Milan, though, having sustained much injury from ill-usage,especial ly 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. Leonardo de Vinci, in 1520, visited France, in con sequence of the pressing solicitation of the noble chi valric Francis I. His health was feeble,and the king often came lose° him at Fontainblen. One day when he entered, Leonardo rose up in his bed to receive him, but, in the effort, fainted from excess of weak ness. Francis hastened to support him, but the eyes of the artist had alosed forever,and Leonardo lay en circled in the arms of the monarch! Such wan the death of the subject of the foregoing sketch. Experience proves, that to indulge in what is fallacious, though it may please the imagination vitiates the taste, indisposes the mind to a pursuit after truth, and impairs the judgement by giving it a false bias. hence, it is observable, that those who are most inclined to that kind of entertainment have generally but little relish for serious subjects, and least of all for the truths of religion. Many thiugs in the course of human life are grievous for wnnt of rightly pondering this tteth: that if we needed them -I...—t..thoruirtneet with them; and if we do need them, we ought not to wish an exemption from them. If lam asked, who is the greatest' man? I an swer, the best; and if I am required to say who is the best; I.reply, ho who has deserved most of his fellow creatures. CONJUGAL.-A man has been arrested in Ohio for stealing money from his wife. What can be done with the knave? A friend says—give him another wife, and compel him to live with both.— Horrid! Not bad—Patriot wit—A Sovereign Remedy. —The United States officers on board the steam- Seat New England, under the command of Lieut. Champlin, on her recent visit to Dunkirk, found all the boxes containing arms and ammunition marked curd for the King's Evil!" Some one osked a lad how it was ho was so short for his age? He replied—u Father always keeps me so busy I hent time to grow!" Fon THE LAorr.s.—Kisses admit of a greater variety of character than perhaps even our fair readers are aware. Eight diversities are mention ed in Scripture, .viz: The kisses of Salutation, Sam. xx. 11; Valediction, Ruth, i. 9; Reconcilia• tion, 2 Sam. xiv. 33; Subjection, Psalm. ii. 12; Approbation, Prov. ii. 12; Adoration, Luke; vii 38; Treachery, Mat. xxvi, 49; Affection, Gen xxix. 13. Mr. CILLEY.—The Portland Advertiser of Thursday last, which contains the partic- ulars of the recent melancholy duel, adds— We understand from private letters receiv ed in this city, that before the duel, Mr. Cll. ley called on the Hon. Keul Williams, of Augusta. and informed him, that he intend 'ed to fight. Mr. W. and his friends used every argument to dissuade him,but in vain. Mr. Cilley replied that there was no other way for him to clear himself from the affair. He appeared perfectly cool and collected.-- To a lady who was of Hr. Williams' family, ho made the request that she would write to his wife in case he fell, and if in her power, call on her when she should return to Maine: Ile wrote all the necessary letters to his friends,and made the requisite arrangements concerning his business. The affair must have been arranged with great secrecy and promptitude, or it seems to us, a seasonable interposition might have prevented the me lancholy consequences. Mr. Citley was about 31 years of age—a Graduate of Bowdoin College, and a young man ofsuperior talents: - Although we wore opposed to him in his political principles, we do not deny that he had sufficient talents and ability to make himself respected as an ad- vocate, even of a bad cause. FREDEHICK-ToWIN BEANCII BANE.--John McPherson, Esq., having dechnod.as Cas hier of this institution, inconsequence dill health, Cvuue Msxrz, Esq., has been ap- pointed hip Herold: ke.,,z,, , [VOL. 8-.N0.'50. SUB-TREASURY 1111,4: SPEECH , . .., OF THE , .. . . . . hen. Daniel Webster, ..:.:: On the SA-Treasury Bill, delivered in the Sin;ite of t&e U. States, January 31, 1838'.. "Let the Government attend to its own business and let the People attend to theirs!' "Let the GoVernment take race that it pecnras a sound Currency for its own use.and let it leave AI the rest to the States rind to the People." TUE ' SE ominous sentences, Mr. President,`. have been ringing in my ears ever since they:, were uttered yesterday,by the member from : New York. Let the Government take care" ` of itself,and let the people take care of them selves. This is the whole, prineiple and policy of the administration, at the present' most critical moment, and on this great and' . all-absorbing question of the currency. Sir, this is an ill.hoding announcement. It has nothing of consolation, of solace, ter ' of hope in it. It will carry through all the classes of commerce and business, nothing but more discouragement, and deeper fears. And yet it is but repetition. It is only a renewed exhibition of the same spirit, which was breathed by the message; and the bill of the last session, of which this bill is also full,and which has pervaded all the recommenda tions, and all the measures of Government, since May. Yet I confess that lam not, even yet, so familiar with it, so accustomed to hear such sentiments avowed,as that they cease to astonish me. lam either groping in thick and palpable darkness myself, in re gard to the true objects of the constitution, and the duties of Congress under it, or else these principles of public policy,thus declar ed, are at war with our most positive and urgent obligations. The honorable member made other obser. vations indicative of the same general tone , of political feeling. Among his chosen to- pies of commendation of the bill before us, a prominent one was, to shelter the admin istration from that shower of imputations, as he expressed the idea,which would always beat upon it, as it heats now,when disasters should happen to the currency. Indeed! And why should the administration, mower ever, be sheltered from that shower? Is not currency a subject over which the power and duty of Government extend? Is not Govern- meat justly responsible for its condition? Is ~ it not, of necessity, wholly and entirely un der the control and regulation of political power? Is it not a' matter, in regard to which, the people cannot, by any possibility, protect themselves,any more than they 0A.U...._ by their own individual efforts,supersede the necessity of the exercise, by Government. of any other political power? Whattan the iieora-- 3 -`mr - thermehres to irnprorc tricr-cur...:- - rency? Sir, the tiovernment-ie justly an- swerable for the disasters of the currency; saving always those accidents which cannot at all times be foreseen or provided against. It is at least answerable for its own neglect, if it shall be guilty of it, in not exercising all its constitutional authority for the correc tion, and restoration of the currency. Why does it, how can it, shrink from this respon sibility? Why does it retreat from its own duty? Why does it seek, not the laurels of victory, not the reputation even of manly contest, but the poor honors of studied and eager escape? Sir, it never can escape.— . The common sense of all men pronounces that the Government is, and ought to be,and must be,answerable for the regulation of the currency of the country; that it ought to abide, and must abide, the peltings of the storm of imputation, so long as it turns its back upon this momentous question, and seeks to shelter itself in the safes and the vaults, the cells and the caverns, of a Sub- Treasury system. But of all Governments that ever existed, the present administration has least excuse for withdrawing its care from the currency, or shrinking from its just resFonsibility in regard to it. Its predecessor, in whose footsteps it pro. leases to tread, has interfered, fatally inter fered, with that subject. That interference was, and has been, the productive cause of our disasters. Did the administration dia. claim power over the currency in 1833,when it removed the deposites? And what mettnt,;;:, all its subsequent transactions, all its profess: : , :;:,:g sions, and all its efforts, for that better cur:;:;,,V2. rency which it promised,if in truth it did not hold itself responsible to the people of the ' United States, for a good currency? From the very first year of the late administration o the last,there was hardly a session,if there was a single session, in which this duty of Government was not acknowledged, prom ises of high improvement put forth, or loud claims of merit asserted, for benefits already conferred. It professed to erect the great temple of its glory on improvements of the currency. And, sir, t:.e better currency which has been so long promised, was not currency for the Government, but a cur rency fur the people. It was not for the use of revenue merely, but for the use of the whole commerce, trade, and bushiess of the nation. And now,when the whole industry, business, and labor of the country,is harass. ed and distressed, by the evils brought upon us by its own interference,Government talks with all possible coolness,of the great advan- ' tago it will be to adopt a systein,which shall shield itself from a thick•falling.t shower of imputations. It disclaims, it renounces, it, abandons its duties, and then seeks an tnglo. nous shelter in its profesard want of power. to relieve the people. We demand the better currency; we insist on the fulfilment of the high and •flattering , " promises; and surely there never wain Gov. eminent on the face of the earth, that could, with less propriety, resist the glom/god; yes,. we Set) it seek' refuge in a bold, cold, sad; lueirtlea•slon.4l,l comeetency c,f de our* + 'l * '7l M; *." : 4•9°
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