his own share, which has slipped from his shoulder. There is a pair who converse over their task, and another pair perform it with careless indifference, as if weary and uninterested; and all these various pictures are depicted with a realism of expression and action, a beauty of form and face, an absolute accuracy of anatomical expression, a splendor of light and shade, a roundness of modelling and minuteness of finish to perfect drawing of every nail on hand or foot and the graceful turn of every lock of hair, which never flags for a moment and which is never at fault. The beauty of the heads of these figures is beyond all that ever was done in art; nothing of Raphael's, to my mind, approaches them, and on one point he differs widely from the Greeks: while he gives to many of his faces the beautiful refinement of a woman's, he has never sacrificed one atom of the manliness. The figure before us, with all the melancholy tenderness of its face, has nothing but the character of a man, and the figure is massive as rock with all the beauty of its forms. Not so the Greeks, who made their Apollos so effeminate that it is difficult to tell from the head whether a man or woman is represented. The beauty of the heads of these figures is, as I say, beyond all that ever was done, but it is hardly more extraordinary than the beauty of the bodies and limbs. The hands and feet especially are invariably perfect, and, being the most difficult part of the figure, show in contrast to most of our modern work, for they are precisely the parts that are always the most perfectly done and the most finished. But more wonderful than all is the harmony of design; the figures being in pairs and facing each other, they are made. to a certain extent to correspond. The perfectly natural way in which this is done without forcing the action of the figures into similar forms is not the least astounding part of the work. One pair is in action, another in repose, and yet it never occurs to the spectator, till he begins to examine the work as a composition, that this is a matter of most careful arrangement. The lines of composition, too, of each figure are not only most harmonious in themselves, but in perfect harmony with every figure round it. But what shall I say, in what words shall I express myself, when I come to speak of the inspired beings, sibyls and prophets, who sit enthroned below? The realization of these sublime forms is carried to the highest pitch. Nothing so true as the expression and action of these figures down to the most trivial points was ever done. The most magnificent of these figures, to my thinking, is the prophet Isaiah; he receives inspiration from a cherub, who, with excited looks, is pointing behind him, his flying drapery indicating that he has come, like the winged Mercury of the pagans, with a direct message from Heaven. With all the grandeur of this figure, the movement and expression are as exactly true as any painter of child-life could desire. Turn to the prophet himself; what a subtle combination of expressions on his face! His right hand drawing forth the book wherein he records the inspirations he receives from Heaven, he listens to the divine message with a mingled expression of attention and wonder. His downcast eyes have a fixed look, as though they saw not; his brow is half raised in wonder, half frowning in deepest thought, and a slight look of bewilderment plays hesitat ing round his mouth as with his left hand he | thing is in perfect balance: the turn of the seems to indicate that he has received the shoulders follows the movement of the head; message and turns with the intention of re- the limbs answer to and balance each other cording it. The massive grandeur of his exactly as in Nature; and the figures have features is in accordance with the dignified thus a more absolute vitality than any other repose of the action, and over all there is artist has ever been able to give. All other the lofty look of the prophet not unaccus- artists-except, perhaps, Raphael, and he tomed to hold intercourse with God. I beI be- only when he had caught the inspiration lieve this to be the most triumphant realiza- from Michelangelo is to be excepted—seem tion of a complicated expression and action to place their figures in attitudes. It is his combined with the most consuminate grand- amazing and almost incredible power of seizeur of face and form that was ever achieved. ing the passing movement that makes MichelThe first impression of the sight of this fig- angelo's figures appear positively alive; an ure in its gigantic size on the ceiling, sixty instant more, and the position is changed. feet above one's head, is that of amazement To draw from one of his figures is like drawat the mighty art that produced it; in this ing from Nature itself; it was only in copycase Nature really seems to have been sur- ing portions of these figures that I apprecipassed and a new creation made. But the ated how profound a realism underlies the imagination of the artist-how justly called ideal of this greatest of artists. "divine"!-rises to yet higher flights when he treats of the creation of the world and the history of our first parents in the centre compartments of the ceiling. But throughout, from beginning to end, through all the hundreds of groups and figures which make up this triumph of the decorative art, there is this one predominant feeling—that no matter how supremely difficult the position or action of the figures, no matter whether he be representing prophet, cherub or ordinary mortal, or even those scenes where the Almighty manifests his glory in acts of creation, the expression of face and figure is realized with the utmost attention to truth. The draperies take not the least important place in this expression: they clothe and express the form of the limbs without affectation and in the most natural manner. As the figure moves, so the drapery moves; as the figure rests, so the drapery falls, Every These are the mighty works that like the gorgeous symphonies of Beethoven and the choruses of Handel stand out in sublime solitude above the efforts of other men. It will be well for students-and, indeed, for all artists-to remember that if they wish to catch some reflections of the beauties that appear revealed in these lofty creations of genius, they will fail most egregiously if they only aspire to imitate them; whereas it is in the power of each one to follow in the steps of this most glorious master by seeking in Nature, as he did, for some of her hidden truths, by never condescending to substitute dexterity for knowledge or to catch applause by wilfully falsifying for fear that truth should be misunderstood. In this way they will find that it is not necessary to treat of angels or prophets to produce a thing of beauty, for realism of this noble kind can glorify the humblest subject. EDWARD J. POYNTER, R. A. THE SECOND CIRCLE OF THE INFERNO. FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE ALLIGHIERI. ROM the first circle downward | My master answered: "Why this angry "O thou who comest to this dolorous And then I knew that to this torment dire gate," Said Minos, when he saw me enter there, Leaving the office of such direful weight, "Look well in whom thou trustest, and beware, Although this place such ample entrance hath." Those guilty ones were brought by carnal sin : In life their reason bowed before desire; And as the starlings, borne upon the wing, Fly in large flocks in the cold winter air, Thus did the blast those wretched spirits. fling Through all that dreary clime, now here, To me were shown by my instructor kind, now there; And never may they hope for happier day Of rest, or even a lesser pain to bear. As cranes that fly, and, singing still their lay, Deep grief and pity all my heart o'er came; Then I began: "O poet, do thou find Stretch out their lengthened line against the Who seem to fly so lightly on the wind." Helen, for whom were done such deeds of And through the dismal air thy way dost The city of my birth is near the beach Where, with its tributary streams, the Po Flows to the sea, its place of rest to reach. Love, that all gentle hearts so quickly know, For my fair form, from me so foully ta'en, Inspired the soul who by my side doth go; Love that will have the loved to love again So bent my heart toward him that e'en yet He doth not leave me in this place of pain, The sorrows that those weary souls befell, Until the poet said to me, "Now tell The thing thou ponderest." I said, What love and musings sweet those two have led The downward way unto this dolorous pass?" Then unto them I turned myself and said, "Francesca, on my soul thy sorrow lies So pitiful that these sad tears I shed. But tell me in the season of sweet sighs How did it e'er befall that ye should show Your mutual love unto each other's eyes?" And she replied to me: " No greater woe Can be than to remember happy days In misery; this doth thy leader know. But if desire to hear the early ways Of our affection so thy spirit fill, I speak as one who weeps for what he says. One day we read, for pastime, how the thrill Of love the heart of Lancelot had known. |