The belief that the girdle is preserved in the Cathedral at Pistoia has rendered this legend a popular subject with the Florentine painters; and we find it treated, not merely as an incident in the scene of the Assumption, but in a manner purely mystic and devotional. Thus, in a charming bas-relief by Luca della Robbia,[224] the Virgin, surrounded by a choir of angels, presents her girdle to the apostle. In a beautiful picture by Granacci,[225] the Virgin is seated in the clouds; beneath is her empty sepulchre: on one side kneels St. Thomas, who receives with reverence the sacred girdle; on the other kneels the Archangel Michael. In simplicity of arrangement, beauty of expression, and tender harmony of colour, this picture has seldom been exceeded. Granacci has again treated this subject, and St. Thomas receives the girdle in the presence of St. John the Baptist, St. James Major, St. Laurence, and St. Bartholomew.[226] We have the same subject by Paolino da Pistoia; by Sogliani; and by Mainardi, a large and very fine fresco in the church of Santa Croce at Florence.

A poetical and truly mystical version of this subject is that wherein the Infant Saviour, seated or standing on his mother’s knee, looses her girdle and presents it to St. Thomas. Of this I have seen several examples; one in the Duomo at Viterbo.[227]

In the Martyrdom of St. Thomas, several idolaters pierce him through with lances and javelins. It was so represented on the doors of San Paolo, with four figures only. Rubens, in his large picture, has followed the legend very exactly; St. Thomas embraces the cross, at the foot of which he is about to fall, transfixed by spears. A large picture in the gallery of Count Harrach at Vienna, called there the Martyrdom of St. Jude, I believe to represent the Martyrdom of St. Thomas. Two of the idolatrous priests pierce him with lances. Albert Dürer, in his beautiful print of St. Thomas, represents him holding the lance, the instrument of his martyrdom: but this is very unusual.

The eighth in the order of the Apostles is the Evangelist St. Matthew, of whom I have spoken at length.

St. James Minor.

The ninth is St. James Minor, or the Less, called also the Just: he was a near relative of Christ, being the son of Mary, the wife of Cleophas, who was the sister of the Virgin Mary; hence he is styled ‘the Lord’s brother.’ Nothing particular is related of him till after the ascension. He is regarded as first Christian bishop of Jerusalem, and venerated for his self-denial, his piety, his wisdom, and his charity. These characteristics are conspicuous in the beautiful Epistle which bears his name. Having excited, by the fervour of his teaching, the fury of the Scribes and Pharisees, and particularly the enmity of the high-priest Ananus, they flung him down from a terrace or parapet of the Temple, and one of the infuriated populace below beat out his brains with a fuller’s club.

In single figures and devotional pictures, St. James is generally leaning on this club, the instrument of his martyrdom. According to an early tradition, he so nearly resembled our Lord in person, in features, and deportment, that it was difficult to distinguish them. ‘The Holy Virgin herself,’ says the legend, ‘had she been capable of error, might have mistaken one for the other:’ and this exact resemblance rendered necessary the kiss of the traitor Judas, in order to point out his victim to the soldiers.

1. The Council of the Apostles held at Jerusalem, in which St. James was nominated chief or bishop of the infant Church. 2. Our Saviour after his resurrection appears to St. James, who had vowed not to eat till he should see Christ.[228] 3. St. James thrown down from the pulpit in the court of the Temple. 4. He is slain by the fuller. 5. A certain merchant is stript of all his goods by a tyrant, and cast into prison. He implores the protection of St. James, who, leading him to the summit of the tower, commands the tower to bow itself to the ground, and the merchant steps from it and escapes; or, according to the version followed in the fresco, the apostle lifts the tower on one side from its foundation, and the prisoner escapes from under it, like a mouse out of a trap. 6. A poor pilgrim, having neither money nor food, fell asleep by the way-side, and, on waking, found that St. James had placed beside him a loaf of bread, which miraculously supplied his wants to the end of his journey. These two last stories are told also of St. James of Galicia, but I have never met with any pictures of his life in which they are included. Here they undoubtedly refer to St. James Minor, the chapel being consecrated to his honour.

St. Simon Zelotes (or the Zealot). St. Jude (Thaddeus, or Lebbeus).

The uncertainty, contradiction, and confusion which I find in all the ecclesiastical biographies relative to these apostles, make it impossible to give any clear account of them; and as subjects of Art they are so unimportant, and so uninteresting, that it is the less necessary. According to one tradition, they were the same mentioned by Matthew as our Lord’s brethren or kinsmen. But, according to another tradition, they were not the same, but two brothers who were among the shepherds to whom the angel and the heavenly host revealed the birth of the Saviour. Those painters who followed the first tradition represent Simon and Jude as young, or at least in the prime of life. Those who adopt the second represent them as very old, taking it for granted that at the birth of Christ they must have been full-grown men; and this, I think, is the legend usually followed. It seems, however, generally agreed, that they preached the Gospel together in Syria and Mesopotamia, and together suffered martyrdom in Persia: in what manner they suffered is unknown; but it is supposed that St. Simon was sawn asunder, and St. Thaddeus killed with a halberd.

In a series of apostles, St. Simon bears the saw, and St. Thaddeus a halberd. In Greek Art, Jude and Thaddeus are two different persons. Jude is represented young, Thaddeus old. St. Simon in extreme old age, with a bald head, and long white beard. In the Greek representation of his martyrdom, he is affixed to a cross exactly like that of our Saviour, so that, but for the superscription Ο CΙΜΩΝ, he might be mistaken for Christ. I do not know of any separate picture of these apostles.

There is, however, one manner of treating them, with reference to their supposed relationship to our Saviour, which is peculiarly beautiful. Assuming that the three last-named apostles, James, the son of Mary Cleophas; Simon and Jude; Joseph or Joses the Just, also named by Matthew among the brethren of Christ; together with James and John, the sons of Mary Salome,—were all nearly related to the Saviour; it was surely a charming idea to group as children around him in his infancy those who were afterwards called to be the chosen ministers of his Word. Christianity, which has glorified womanhood and childhood, never suggested to the Christian artist a more beautiful subject, nor one which it would be more easy, by an unworthy or too picturesque treatment, to render merely pretty and commonplace. This version, however, of the Sacra Famiglia is rarely met with. There is an example in the Louvre, signed ‘Laurentius’ (Lorenzo di Pavia, A.D. 1513), which is remarkable as a religious representation; but the most beautiful instance of this treatment is a chef-d’œuvre of Perugino, in the Musée at Marseilles. In the centre is the Virgin, seated on a throne; she holds the Infant Christ in her arms. Behind her is St. Anna, her two hands resting affectionately on the shoulders of the Virgin. In front, at the foot of the throne, are two lovely children, undraped, with glories round their heads, on which are inscribed their names, Simon and Thaddeus. To the right is Mary Salome, a beautiful young woman, holding a child in her arms—St. John, afterwards the evangelist. Near her is Joachim, the father of the Virgin. At his feet another child, James Major. To the left of the Virgin, Mary the wife of Cleophas, standing, holds by the hand James Minor: behind her, Joseph, the husband of the Virgin, and at his feet another child, Joseph (or Joses) Justus. I have also seen this subject in illuminated MSS., and, however treated, it is surely very poetical and suggestive.[229]

St. Matthias.

Ital. San Mattia. Fr. St. Mathias. (Feb. 24.)

St. Matthias, who was chosen by lot to fill the place of the traitor Judas, is the last of the apostles. (Acts i.) He preached the Gospel in Judea, and suffered martyrdom at the hands of the Jews, either by the lance or by the axe. In the Italian series of the apostles, he bears as his attribute the lance; in the German sets, more commonly the axe.[230] The ceremony of choosing St. Matthias by lot is the subject of a mediocre picture by Boschi. St. Denis says that the apostles were directed in their choice by a beam of divine splendour, for it were impious to suppose that such an election was made by chance. In this picture of Boschi, a ray of light falls from heaven on the head of St. Matthias.

There is a figure of this apostle by Cosimo Roselli, holding a sword by the point: what might be the intention of that capricious painter it is now impossible to guess.[231] Separate pictures of St. Matthias are very rare, and he is seldom included in sets of the apostles.

Judas Iscariot.

The very name of Judas Iscariot has become a by-word; his person and character an eternal type of impiety, treachery, and ingratitude. We shudder at the associations called up by his memory; his crime, without a name, so distances all possible human turpitude, that he cannot even be held forth as a terror to evil doers; we set him aside as one cut off; we never think of him but in reference to the sole and unequalled crime recorded of him. Not so our ancestors; one should have lived in the middle ages, to conceive the profound, the ever-present, horror with which Judas Iscariot was then regarded. The devil himself did not inspire the same passionate hatred and indignation. Being the devil, what could he be but devilish? His wickedness was according to his infernal nature: but the crime of Judas remains the perpetual shame and reproach of our humanity. The devil betrayed mankind, but Judas betrayed his God.

The Gospels are silent as to the life of Judas before he became an apostle, but our progenitors of the middle ages, who could not conceive it possible that any being, however perverse, would rush at once into such an abyss of guilt, have filled up the omissions of Scripture after their own fancy. They picture Judas as a wretch foredoomed from the beginning of the world, and prepared by a long course of vice and crime for that crowning guilt which filled the measure full. According to this legend, he was of the tribe of Reuben. Before his mother brought him forth, she dreamed that the son who lay in her womb would be accursed, that he would murder his father, commit incest with his mother, and sell his God. Terrified at her dream, she took counsel with her husband, and they agreed to avert the threatened calamity by exposing the child. As in the story of Œdipus, from which, indeed, this strange wild legend seems partly borrowed, the means taken to avert the threatened curse caused its fulfilment. Judas, at his birth, is enclosed in a chest, and flung into the sea; the sea casts him up, and, being found on the shore, he is fostered by a certain king and queen as their own son; they have, however, another son, whom Judas, malignant from his birth, beats and oppresses, and at length kills in a quarrel over a game at chess. He then flies to Judea, where he enters the service of Pontius Pilate as page. In due time he commits the other monstrous crimes to which he was predestined; and when he learns from his mother the secret of his birth, he is filled with a sudden contrition and terror; he hears of the prophet who has power on earth to forgive sins; and seeking out Christ throws himself at his feet. Our Saviour, not deceived, but seeing in him the destined betrayer, and that all things may be accomplished, accepts him as his apostle: he becomes the seneschal or steward of Christ, bears the purse, and provides for the common wants. In this position, avarice, the only vice to which he was not yet addicted, takes possession of his soul, and makes the corruption complete. Through avarice, he grudges every penny given to the poor, and when Mary Magdalene anoints the feet of our Lord he is full of wrath at what he considers the waste of the precious perfume: ‘Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor? This he said, not that he cared for the poor, but because he was a thief.’ Through avarice, he yields to the bribe offered by the Jews. Then follow the scenes of the betrayal of Christ, and the late repentance and terrible suicide of the traitor, as recorded in Scripture. But in the old Mystery of the ‘Passion of Christ’ the repentance and fate of Judas are very dramatically worked out, and with all possible circumstances of horror. When he beholds the mild Saviour before the judgment-seat of Herod, he repents: Remorse, who figures as a real personage, seizes on the fated wretch, and torments him till in his agony he invokes Despair. Despair appears, almost in the guise of the ‘accursed wight’ in Spenser, and, with like arguments, urges him to make away with his life:—

Or in the more homely language of the old French mystery,—

The offer here of the bodkins and the allumettes reminds us of the speech of Falconbridge:—

Judas chooses the rope, and hangs himself forthwith; ‘and falling headlong, he burst asunder in the midst, and all his bowels gushed out:’ which account is explained by an early tradition, that being found and cut down, his body was thrown over the parapet of the Temple into the ravine below, and, in the fall, was riven and dashed to pieces.

There required but one more touch of horror to complete the picture; and this is furnished by a sonnet of Giani, which I remember to have read in my youth. When Judas falls from the fatal tree, his evil genius seizes the broken rope, and drags him down to the seething abyss below: at his approach, hell sends forth a shout of rejoicing; Lucifer smooths his brow, corrugated with fire and pain, and rises from his burning throne to welcome a greater sinner than himself:—

The retribution imaged in the last two lines borders, I am afraid, on a concetto; but it makes one shiver, notwithstanding.

Separate representations of the figure or of the life of Judas Iscariot are not, of course, to be looked for; they would have been regarded as profane, as ominous,—worse than the evil-eye. In those Scripture scenes in which he finds a place, it was the aim of the early artists to give him a countenance as hateful, as expressive of treachery, meanness, malignity, as their skill could compass,—the Italians having depended more on expression, the German and Spanish painters on form. We have a conviction, that if the man had really worn such a look, such features, he would have been cast out from the company of the apostles; the legend already referred to says expressly that Judas was of a comely appearance, and was recommended to the service of Pontius Pilate by his beauty of person; but the painters, speaking to the people in the language of form, were right to admit of no equivocation. The same feeling which induced them to concentrate on the image of the Demon all they could conceive of hideous and repulsive, made them picture the exterior of Judas as deformed and hateful as the soul within; and, by an exaggeration of the Jewish cast of features combined with red hair and beard, they flattered themselves that they had attained the desired object. But as if this were not enough, the ancient painters, particularly in the old illuminations, and in Byzantine Art, represent Judas as directly and literally possessed by the Devil: sometimes it is a little black demon seated on his shoulder, and whispering in his ear; sometimes entering his mouth: thus, in their simplicity, rendering the words of the Gospel, ‘Then entered Satan into Judas.’

The colour proper to the dress of Judas is a dirty dingy yellow; and in Spain this colour is so intimately associated with the image of the arch-traitor, as to be held in universal dislike: both in Spain and in Italy, malefactors and galley-slaves are clothed in yellow.[232] At Venice the Jews were obliged to wear yellow hats.

In some of the scriptural scenes in which Judas is mentioned or supposed to be present, it is worth while to remark whether the painter has passed him over as spoiling the harmony of the sacred composition by his intrusive ugliness and wickedness, or has rendered him conspicuous by a distinct and characteristic treatment. In a picture by Niccolò Frumenti[233] of the Magdalene at the feet of our Saviour, Judas stands in the foreground, looking on with a most diabolical expression of grudging malice mingled with scorn; he seems to grind his teeth as he says, ‘To what purpose is this waste?’ In Perugino’s beautiful picture of the washing the feet of the disciples,[234] Judas is at once distinguished, looking askance with a wicked sneer on his face, which is not otherwise ugly. In Raphael’s composition of the Magdalene anointing the feet of Christ, Judas leans across the table with an angry look of expostulation.

Those subjects in which Judas Iscariot appears as a principal personage follow here.

1. Angelico da Fiesole.[235] He is bribed by the Jews. The high-priest pays into the hand of Judas the thirty pieces of silver. They are standing before a doorway on some steps; Judas is seen in profile, and has the nimbus as one of the apostles: three persons are behind, one of whom expresses disapprobation and anxiety. In this subject, and in others wherein Judas is introduced, Angelico has not given him ugly and deformed features; but in the scowling eye and bent brow there is a vicious expression.

In Duccio’s series of the ‘Passion of our Saviour,’ in the Duomo at Siena, he has, in this and in other scenes, represented Judas with regular and not ugly features; but he has a villanous, and at the same time anxious, expression;—he has a bad conscience.

The scene between Judas and the high-priest is also given by Schalken as a candle-light effect, and in the genuine Dutch style.

2. ‘Judas betrays his Master with a kiss.’ This subject will be noticed at large in the Life of Christ. The early Italians, in giving this scene with much dramatic power, never forgot the scriptural dignity required; while the early Germans, in their endeavour to render Judas as odious in physiognomy as in heart, have, in this as in many other instances, rendered the awful and the pathetic merely grotesque. We must infer from Scripture, that Judas, with all his perversity, had a conscience: he would not else have hanged himself. In the physiognomy given to him by the old Germans, there is no trace of this; he is an ugly malignant brute, and nothing more.

3. Rembrandt. ‘Judas throws down the thirty pieces of silver in the Temple, and departs.’[236]

4. ‘The remorse of Judas.’ He is seated and in the act of putting the rope about his neck; beside him is seen the purse and the money, scattered about the ground. The design is by Bloemart, and, from the Latin inscription underneath, appears to be intended as a warning to all unrighteous dealers.

5. ‘Judas hanging on a tree’ is sometimes introduced into the background, in ancient pictures of the Deposition and the Entombment: there is one in the Frankfort Museum.

6. ‘Demons toss the soul of Judas from hand to hand in the manner of a ball:’ in an old French miniature.[237] This is sufficiently grotesque in representation; yet, in the idea, there is a restless, giddy horror which thrills us. At all events, it is better than placing Judas between the jaws of Satan with his legs in the air, as Dante has done, and as Orcagna in his Dantesque fresco has very literally rendered the description of the poet.[238]

The Last Supper.

I have already mentioned the principal scenes in which the Twelve always appear together; there is, however, one event belonging properly to the life of Christ, so important in itself, presenting the Apostles under an aspect so peculiar, and throwing so much interest around them collectively and individually, that I must bring it under notice here.

Next to the Crucifixion, there is no subject taken from the history of our redemption so consecrated in Art as the Last Supper. The awful signification lent to it by Protestants as well as Catholics has given it a deep religious import, and caused its frequent representation in churches; it has been, more particularly, the appropriate decoration of the refectories of convents, hospitals, and other institutions having a sacred character. In our Protestant churches, it is generally the subject of the altar-piece, where we have one.

Besides being one of the most important and interesting, it is one of the most difficult among the sacred subjects treated in Art. While the fixed number of personages introduced, the divine and paramount dignity of One among them, the well-known character of all, have limited the invention of the artist, they have tasked to the utmost his power of expression. The occasion, that of a repast eaten by twelve persons, is, under its material aspect, so commonplace, and, taken in the spiritual sense, so awful, that to elevate himself to the height of his theme, while keeping the ideal conscientiously bounded within its frame of circumstance, demanded in the artist aspirations of the grandest order, tempered by the utmost sobriety of reflection; and the deepest insight into the springs of character, combined with the most perfect knowledge of the indications of character as manifested through form. On the other hand, if it has been difficult to succeed, it has been equally difficult to fail signally and completely; because the spectator is not here, as in the crucifixion, in danger of being perpetually shocked by the intrusion of anomalous incidents, and is always ready to supply the dignity and meaning of a scene so familiar in itself out of his own mind and heart. It has followed, that mediocrity has been more prevalent and more endurable in this than in any other of the more serious subjects of Art. But where excellence has been in some few instances attained, it has been attained in such a supreme degree, that these examples have become a perpetual source of contemplation and of emulation, and rank among the most renowned productions of human genius.

But, before I come to consider these analytically, it is necessary to premise one or two observations, which will assist us to discrimination in the general treatment.

Pictures and works of art, which represent the Last Supper of our Lord, admit of the same classification which I have adhered to generally throughout this work. Those which represent it as a religious mystery must be considered as devotional; those which represent it merely as a scene in the passion of our Saviour are historical. In the first, we have the spiritual origin of the Eucharist; in the second, the highly dramatic detection of Judas. It is evident that the predominating motif in each must be widely different. In paintings which are intended for the altar, or for the chapels of the Holy Sacrament, we have the first, the mystical version;—it is the distribution of the spiritual food. In the second form, as the Last Supper eaten by Christ with his disciples, as leading the mind to an humble and grateful sense of his sacrifice, as repressing all sinful indulgence in food, it has been the subject chosen to decorate the refectory or common dining-room of convents.

It is curious that on the Christian sarcophagi the Last Supper does not occur. There is, in the Vatican, a rude painting taken from the catacombs representing twelve persons in a semicircle, with something like plates and dishes before them. I could not determine whether this was our Saviour and his apostles, or merely one of those feasts or suppers instituted by the early Christians called Agapæ or love-feasts; but I should think the latter.

On the Dalmatica (deacon’s robe) preserved in the sacristy of the Vatican, there is, if the date be exact (A.D. 795), the most ancient representation I have seen of the institution of the Sacrament. The embroidery, which is wonderfully beautiful, is a copy from Byzantine Art. On one side, our Saviour stands by a table or altar, and presents the cup to his apostles, one of whom approaches in a reverential attitude, and with his hands folded in his robe; on the other side, Christ presents the wafer or host: so that we have the two separate moments in separate groups.

There exists in the Duomo of Lodi the most ancient sculptural example of this subject I have met with; it is a bas-relief of the twelfth century, dated 1163, and fixed in the wall to the left of the entrance. Christ and the apostles are in a straight row, all very much alike; six of the apostles lay their hands on their breast,—‘Lord, is it I?’ and Christ presents the sop to Judas, who sits in front, and is as ugly as possible.

Although all the Byzantine pictures of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries which have come under my notice represent Christ breaking the bread or holding the cup, that is, the institution of the Sacrament, the Greek formula published by Didron distinguishes between this scene and that of the repast in which Judas is denounced as a traitor. The earliest representation to which I can refer in Western Art, as taking the historical form, is the Cenacolo of Giotto, the oldest and the most important that has been preserved to us; it was painted by him in the refectory of the convent of Santa Croce at Florence. This refectory, when I visited it in 1847, was a carpet manufactory, and it was difficult to get a good view of the fresco by reason of the intervention of the carpet-looms. It has been often restored, and is now in a bad state; still, enough remains to understand the original intention of the artist, and that arrangement which has since been the groundwork of similar compositions.

A long table extends across the picture from side to side: in the middle, and fronting the spectator, sits the Redeemer; to the right, St. John, his head reclining on the lap of Christ; next to him, Peter; after Peter, St. James Major; thus placing together the three favourite disciples. Next to St. James, St. Matthew, St. Bartholomew, and a young beardless apostle, probably St. Philip.

On the left hand of our Saviour is St. Andrew; and next to him, St. James Minor (the two St. Jameses bearing the traditional resemblance to Christ); then St. Simon and St. Jude; and lastly, a young apostle, probably St. Thomas. (The reader will have the goodness to recollect that I give this explanation of the names and position of the eleven apostles as my own, and with due deference to the opinion of those who on a further study of the fresco may differ from me.) Opposite to the Saviour, and on the near side of the table, sits Judas, apart from the rest, and in the act of dipping his hand into the dish. It is evident that the moment chosen by the artist is, ‘He that dippeth with me in the dish, the same shall betray me.’

Although the excuse may be found in the literal adoption of the words of the Gospel,[239] it appears to me a fault to make St. John leaning, as one half asleep, on the lap of our Saviour, after such words have been uttered as must have roused, or at least ought to have roused, the young and beloved apostle from his supine attitude; therefore, we may suppose that Christ is about to speak the words, but has not yet spoken them. The position of Judas is caused by the necessity of placing him sufficiently near to Christ to dip his hand in the same dish; while to have placed him on the same side of the table, so as to give him the precedence over the more favoured disciples, would have appeared to the early artists nothing less than profane. Giotto has paid great attention to the heads, which are individually characterised, but there is little dramatic expression; the attention is not yet directed to Judas, who is seen in profile, looking up, not ugly in feature, but with a mean vicious countenance, and bent shoulders.

The arrangement of the table and figures, so peculiarly fitted for a refectory, has been generally adopted since the time of Giotto in pictures painted for this especial purpose. The subject is placed on the upper wall of the chamber; the table extending from side to side: the tables of the monks are placed, as in the dining-rooms of our colleges, length-ways; thus all can behold the divine assembly, and Christ appears to preside over and sanctify the meal.

In another Cenacolo by Giotto,[240] which forms one of the scenes in the history of Christ, he has given us a totally different version of the subject; and, not being intended for a refectory, but as an action or event, it is more dramatic. It is evident that our Saviour has just uttered the words, ‘He that dippeth with me in the dish, the same shall betray me.’ Judas, who has mean, ugly, irregular features, looks up alarmed, and seems in the act of rising to escape. One apostle (Philip, I think) points at him, and the attention of all is more or less directed to him. This would be a fault if the subject were intended for a refectory, or to represent the celebration of the Eucharist. But here, where the subject is historical, it is a propriety.

The composition of Duccio of Siena, in the Duomo at Siena, must have been nearly contemporary with, if it did not precede, those of Giotto (A.D. 1308); it is quite different, quite original in motif and arrangement. Seven apostles sit on the same side with Christ, and five opposite to him, turning their backs on the spectator; the faces are seen in profile. The attitude of St. John, leaning against our Saviour with downcast eyes, is much more graceful than in the composition of Giotto. St. Peter is on the right of Christ; next to him St. James Minor: two young apostles sit at the extreme ends of the table, whom I suppose to be St. Philip and St. Thomas: the other apostles I am unable to discriminate, with the exception of Judas, who, with regular features, has a characteristic scowl on his brow. Christ holds out a piece of bread in his hand: two of the apostles likewise hold bread, and two others hold a cup; the rest look attentive or pensive, but the general character of the heads is deficient in elevation. The moment chosen may be the distribution of the bread and wine; but, to me, it rather expresses the commencement of the meal, and our Saviour’s address: ‘With desire have I desired to eat this passover with you before I suffer’ (Luke xxii. 15). The next compartment of the same series, which represents the apostles seated in a group before Christ, and listening with upturned faces and the most profound attention to his last words, has much more of character, solemnity, and beauty, than the Last Supper. Judas is here omitted; ‘for he, having received the sop, went immediately out.’

Angelico da Fiesole, in his life of Christ, has been careful to distinguish between the detection of Judas and the institution of the Eucharist.[241] He has given us both scenes. In the first compartment, John is leaning down with his face to the Saviour; the back of his head only is seen, and he appears too unmindful of what is going forward. The other apostles are well discriminated, the usual type strictly followed in Peter, Andrew, James Major and James Minor. To the right of Christ are Peter, Andrew, Bartholomew; to the left, James Minor. Four turn their backs, and two young apostles stand on each side,—I presume Thomas and Philip; they seem to be waiting on the rest: Judas dips his hand in the dish. I suppose the moment to be the same as in the composition of Duccio.

But in the next compartment the motif is different. All have risen. from table; it is no longer a repast, it is a sacred mystery; Christ is in the act of administering the bread to St. John; all kneel; and Judas is seen kneeling behind Christ, near an open door, and apart from the rest, as if he were watching for the opportunity to escape. To dispose of Judas in this holy ceremony is always a difficulty. To represent him as receiving with the rest the sacred rite is an offence to the pious. The expression used by St. John (xii. 30), ‘After he had received the sop he went out,’ implies that Judas was not present at the Lord’s Supper, which succeeded the celebration of the paschal supper. St. Luke and St. Mark, neither of whom were present, leave us to suppose that Judas partook, with the other disciples, of the mystic bread and wine; yet we can hardly believe that, after having been pointed out as the betrayer, the conscience-stricken Judas should remain to receive the Eucharist. Sometimes he is omitted altogether; sometimes he is stealing out at the door. In the composition of Luca Signorelli, which I saw at Cortona, all the twelve apostles are kneeling; Christ is distributing the wafer; and Judas, turning away with a malignant look, puts his wafer into his satchel. In the composition of Palmezzano, in the Duomo at Forlì, our Saviour stands, holding a plate, and is in the act of presenting the wafer to Peter, who kneels: St. John stands by the side of Christ, holding the cup: Judas is in the background; he kneels by the door, and seems to be watching for the opportunity to steal away.

The fine composition, fine also in sentiment and character, of Ghirlandajo, was painted for the small refectory in the San Marco at Florence. The arrangement is ingenious: the table is of what we call the horse-shoe form, which allows all the figures to face the spectator; and at the same time takes up less room than where the table runs across the picture from side to side. Judas sits in front, alone; Christ has just designated him. ‘He it is to whom I shall give the sop when I have dipped it.’ (John xiii. 26.) Judas holds the sop in his hand, with an alarmed conscious look. Behind sits an ill-omened cat, probably intended for the fiend. John, to the left of Christ, appears to have swooned away. The other apostles express, in various ways, amazement and horror.

It has been a question among critics, whether the purse ought to be placed in the hand of Judas when present at the Last Supper, because it is usually understood as containing the thirty pieces of silver: but this is a mistake; and it leads to the mistake of representing him as hiding the purse, as if it contained the price of his treachery. Judas carries the purse openly, for he was the steward, or purse-bearer, of the party ‘he had the bag, and bare what was put therein’ (John xii. 6, xiii. 29): and as the money-bag is also the attribute of St. Matthew the tax-gatherer, we must take care not to confound him with the traitor and thief. This brings me to the consideration of the subject as treated by Albert Dürer.

In the series of large woodcuts from the Passion of our Saviour (styled ‘La grande Passion’), the Cenacolo is an event, and not a mystery. John, as a beautiful youth, is leaning against our Saviour with downcast eyes; he does not look as if he had thrown himself down half asleep, but as if Christ had put his arm around him, and drawn and pressed him fondly towards him. On the right is Peter: the other apostles are not easily discriminated, but they have all that sort of grandiose ugliness which is so full of character, and so particularly the characteristic of the artist: the apostle seated in front in a cowering attitude, holding the purse which he seems anxious to conceal, and looking up apprehensively, I suppose to be Judas.

In the smaller set of woodcuts (‘La petite Passion’) I believe the apostle with the purse in the foreground to be St. Matthew; while the ugly, lank-haired personage behind Christ, who looks as if about to steal away, is probably intended for Judas: one of the apostles has laid hold of him, and seems to say, ‘Thou art the man!’

There is a third Cenacolo, by Albert Dürer, which plainly represents the Eucharist. The cup only is on the table, and Judas is omitted.

In a Cenacolo by another old German, Judas is in the act of receiving the sop which Christ is putting into his mouth; and at the same time he is hiding the purse:—a mistake, as I have already observed.

These examples must suffice to give some idea of the manner in which this subject was generally treated by the early German and Italian artists. But, whether presented before us as a dramatic scene expressing individual character, or as an historical event memorable in the life of Christ, or as a religious rite of awful and mysterious import—all the examples I have mentioned are in some respects deficient. We have the feeling, that, whatever may be the merit in sentiment, in intention, in detail, what has been attempted has not been achieved.

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:—