he Apostles and of the Old Testament were extracted from the
palimpsests. The original writing--the superincumbent rubbish being
removed--looked out in a bold, well defined character, in as fresh a
black, in some places, as when newly written; in others, in a dim, rusty
colour, which a practised eye only could decipher. Thus the war against
knowledge has gone on. The Caliph Omer burnt the Alexandrine library.
Next came the little busy creatures the monks, who, mothlike, ate up the
ancient manuscripts. Last of all appeared the Pope, with his Index
Expurgatorius, to put under lock and key what the Caliph had spared, and
the monks had not been able to devour. The torch, the sponge, the
anathema, have been tried each in its turn. Still the light spreads.

I cannot enter on the other curious manuscripts which this library
contains; nor have I anything to say of the numerous beautiful portraits
and pictures with which its walls are adorned. The _Cenacolo_, or "Last
Supper," by Leonardo da Vinci, in the refectory of the Dominican
convent, is fast perishing. It has not yet "lost all its original
brightness," and is mightier in its decay than most other pictures are
in the bloom and vigour of their youth. I recollect the great Scottish
painter Harvey saying to me, that he was more affected by "that ruin,"
than he was by all the other works of art which he saw in Italy. The
grandeur of the central head has never been approached in any copy. One
thing I regret,--I did not visit the Sant' Ambrogio, and so missed
seeing the famous brazen serpent which is to hiss just before the world
comes to an end. This serpent is the same that Moses made in the
wilderness, and which Hezekiah afterwards brake in pieces: at least it
would be heresy in Milan not to believe this. It must be comfortable to
a busy age, which has so many things to think of without troubling
itself about how or when the world is to end, to know that, if it must
end, due warning will be given of that catastrophe. The vineyards of
Lombardy are good, and monks, like other men, occasionally get thirsty;
and it might spoil the good fathers' digestion were the brazen serpent
of Sant' Ambrogio to hiss after dinner. But doubtless it will be
discreet on this head. There is said to be in some one of the
graveyards of Orkney, a tombstone on which an angel may be seen blowing
a great trumpet with all his might, while the dead man below is made to
say, "When I hear this, I will rise."