Chapter VIII: Part I: Of the Beautiful in Art (2)

If the ideas and interests of human life form the ground of the action, the latter is accomplished by the characters upon whom the interest is fastened. General ideas may, indeed, be personated by beings superior to man, by certain divinities like those which figure in ancient epic poetry and tragedy. But it is to man that action, properly so-called, returns; it is he who occupies the scene. Now, how reconcile divine action and human action, the will of the gods and that of man? Such is the problem which has made shipwreck of so many poets and artists. To maintain a proper equipoise it is necessary that the gods have supreme direction, and that man preserve his freedom and his independence without which he is no more than the passive instrument of the will of the gods; fatality weighs upon all his acts. The true solution consists in maintaining the identity of the two terms, in spite of their difference; in so acting that what is attributed to the gods shall appear at the same time to emanate from the inner nature of the _dramatis personæ_ and from their character. The talent of the artist must reconcile the two aspects. “The heart of man must be revealed in his gods, personifications of the grand motives which allure him and govern him within.” This is the problem resolved by the great poets of antiquity, Homer, Æschylus, and Sophocles.

The general principles, those grand motives which are the basis of the action, by the fact that they are living in the soul of the characters, form, also, the very ground of the _passions_; this is the essence of true pathos. Passion, here, in the elevated ideal sense, is, in fact, not an arbitrary, capricious, irregular movement of the soul; it is a noble principle, which blends itself with a great idea, with one of the eternal verities of moral or religious order. Such is the passion of Antigone, the holy love for her brother; such, the vengeance of Orestes. It is an essentially legitimate power of the soul which contains one of the eternal principles of the reason and the will. This is still the ideal, the true ideal, although it appears under the form of a passion. It relieves, ennobles and purifies it; it thus gives to the action a serious and profound interest.

It is in this sense that passion constitutes the centre and true domain of art; it is the principle of emotion, the source of true pathos.

Now, this moral verity, this eternal principle which descends into the heart of man and there takes the form of great and noble passion, identifying itself with the will of the _dramatis personæ_, constitutes, also, their character. Without this high idea which serves as support and as basis to passion, there is no true character. Character is the culminating point of ideal representation. It is the embodiment of all that precedes. It is in the creation of the characters, that the genius of the artist or of the poet is displayed.

Three principal elements must be united to form the ideal character, _richness_, _vitality_, and _stability_. Richness consists in not being limited to a single quality, which would make of the person an abstraction, an allegoric being. To a single dominant quality there should be added all those which make of the personage or hero a real and complete man, capable of being developed in diverse situations and under varying aspects. Such a multiplicity alone can give vitality to the character. This is not sufficient, however; it is necessary that the qualities be moulded together in such a manner as to form not a simple assemblage and a complex whole, but one and the same individual, having peculiar and original physiognomy. This is the case when a particular sentiment, a ruling passion, presents the salient trait of the character of a person, and gives to him a fixed aim, to which all his resolutions and his acts refer. Unity and variety, simplicity and completeness of detail, these are presented to us in the characters of Sophocles, Shakspeare, and others.

Lastly, what constitutes essentially the ideal in character is consistency and stability. An inconsistent, undecided, irresolute character, is the utter want of character. Contradictions, without doubt, exist in human nature, but unity should be maintained in spite of these fluctuations. Something identical ought to be found throughout, as a fundamental trait. To be self-determining, to follow a design, to embrace a resolution and persist in it, constitute the very foundation of personality; to suffer one’s self to be determined by another, to hesitate, to vacillate, this is to surrender one’s will, to cease to be one’s self, to lack character; this is, in all cases, the opposite of the ideal character.

Hegel on this subject strongly protests against the characters which figure in modern pieces and romances, and of which Werther is the type.

These pretended characters, says he, represent only unhealthiness of spirit, and feebleness of soul. Now true and healthy art does not represent what is false and sickly, what lacks consistency and decision, but that which is true, healthy and strong. The ideal, in a word, is the idea realized; man can realize it only as a free person, that is to say, by displaying all the energy and constancy which can make it triumph.

We shall find more than once, in the course of the work, the same ideas developed with the same force and precision.

That which constitutes the very ground of the ideal is the inmost essence of things, especially the lofty conceptions of the spirit, and the development of the powers of the soul. These ideas are manifest in an action in which are placed upon the scene the grand interests of life, the passions of the human heart, the will and the character of actors. But this action is itself developed in the midst of an external nature which, moreover, lends to the ideal, colors and a determinate form. These external surroundings must also be conceived and fashioned in the meaning of the ideal, according to the laws of _regularity_, _symmetry_, and _harmony_, of which mention has been made above. How ought man to be represented in his relations with external nature? How ought this prose of life to be idealized? If art, in fact, frees man from the wants of material life, it cannot, however, elevate him above the conditions of human existence, and suppress these connections.

Hegel devotes a special examination to this new phase of the question of the ideal, which he designates by this title—_Of the external determination of the ideal_.

In our days we have given an exaggerated importance to this external side, which we have made the principal object. We are too unmindful that art should represent the ideas and sentiments of the human soul, that this is the true ground of its works. Hence all these minute descriptions, this external care given to the picturesque element or to the local color, to furniture, to costumes, to all those artificial means employed to disguise the emptiness and insignificance of the subject, the absence of ideas, the falsity of the situations, the feebleness of the characters, and the improbability of the action.

Nevertheless, this side has its place in art, and should not be neglected. It gives clearness, truthfulness, life, and interest to its works, by the secret sympathy which exists between man and nature. It is characteristic of the great masters to represent nature with perfect truthfulness. Homer is an example of this. Without forgetting the content for the form, picture for the frame, he presents to us a faultless and precise image of the theatre of action. The arts differ much in this respect. Sculpture limits itself to certain symbolic indications; painting, which has at its disposal means more extended, enriches with these objects the content of its pictures. Among the varieties of poetry, the epic is more circumstantial in its descriptions than the drama or lyric poetry. But this external fidelity should not, in any art, extend to the representation of insignificant details, to the making of them an object of predilection, and to subordinating to them the developments which the subject itself claims. The grand point in these descriptions is that we perceive a secret harmony between man and nature, between the action and the theatre on which it occurs.

Another species of accord is established between man and the objects of physical nature, when, through his free activity, he impresses upon them his intelligence and will, and appropriates them to his own use; the ideal consists in causing misery and necessity to disappear from the domain of art, in revealing the freedom which develops itself without effort under our eyes, and easily surmounts obstacles.

Such is the ideal considered under this aspect. Thus the gods of polytheism themselves have garments and arms; they drink nectar and are nourished by ambrosia. The garment is an ornament designed to heighten the glory of the features, to give nobleness to the countenance, to facilitate movement, or to indicate force and agility. The most brilliant objects, the metals, precious stones, purple and ivory, are employed for the same end. All concur to produce the effect of grace and beauty.

In the satisfaction of physical wants the ideal consists, above all, in the simplicity of the means. Instead of being artificial, factitious, complex, the latter emanate directly from the activity of man, and freedom. The heroes of Homer themselves slay the oxen which are to serve for the feast, and roast them; they forge their arms, and prepare their couches. This is not, as one might think, a relic of barbarous manners, something prosaic; but we see, penetrating everywhere the delight of invention, the pleasure of easy toil and free activity exercised on material objects. Everything is peculiar to and inherent in his character, and a means for the hero of revealing the force of his arm and the skill of his hand; while, in civilized society, these objects depend on a thousand foreign causes, on a complex adjustment in which man is converted into a machine subordinated to other machines. Things have lost their freshness and vitality; they remain inanimate, and are no longer proper, direct creations of the human person, in which the man loves to solace and contemplate himself.

A final point relative to the external _form of the ideal_ is that which concerns the _relation of works of art to the public_, that is to say, to the nation and epoch for which the artist or the poet composes his works. Ought the artist, when he treats a subject, to consult, above all, the spirit, taste and manners of the people whom he addresses, and conform himself to their ideas? This is the means of exciting interest in fabulous and imaginary or even historic persons. But then there is a liability to distort history and tradition.

Ought he, on the other hand, to reproduce with scrupulous exactness the manners and customs of another time, to give to the facts and the characters their proper coloring and their original and primitive costume? This is the problem. Hence arise two schools and two opposite modes of representation. In the age of Louis XIV., for example, the Greeks and Romans are conceived in the likeness of Frenchmen. Since then, by a natural reaction, the contrary tendency has prevailed. Today the poet must have the knowledge of an archeologist, and possess his scrupulous exactness, and pay close attention, above all, to local color, and historic verity has become the principal and essential aim of art.

Truth here, as always, lies between the two extremes. It is necessary to maintain, at the same time, the rights of art and these of the public, to have a proper regard for the spirit of the epoch, and to satisfy the exigencies of the subject treated. These are the very judicious rules which the author states upon this delicate point.

The subject should be intelligible and interesting to the public to which it is addressed. But this end the poet or the artist will attain only so far as, by his general spirit, his work responds to some one of the essential ideas of the human spirit and to the general interests of humanity. The particularities of an epoch are not of true and enduring interest to us.

If, then, the subject is borrowed from remote epochs of history, or from some far-off tradition, it is necessary that, by our general culture, we should be familiarized with it. It is thus only that we can sympathize with an epoch and with manners that are no more. Hence the two essential conditions; that the subject present the general human character, then that it be in relation with our ideas.

Art is not designed for a small number of scholars and men of science; it is addressed to the entire nation. Its works should be comprehended and relished of themselves, and not after a course of difficult research. Thus national subjects are the most favorable. All great poems are national poems. The Bible histories have for us a particular charm, because we are familiar with them from our infancy. Nevertheless, in the measure that relations are multiplied between peoples, art can borrow its subjects from all latitudes and from all epochs. It should, indeed, as to the principal features, preserve, to the traditions, events, and personages, to manners and institutions, their historic or traditional character; but the duty of the artist, above all, is to place the idea which constitutes its content in harmony with the spirit of his own age, and the peculiar genius of his nation.

In this necessity lies the reason and excuse for what is called anachronism in art. When the anachronism bears only upon external circumstances it is unimportant. It becomes a matter of more moment if we attribute to the characters, the ideas, and sentiments of another epoch. Respect must be paid to historic truth, but regard must also be had to the manners and intellectual culture of one’s own time. The heroes of Homer themselves are more than were the real personages of the epoch which he presents; and the characters of Sophocles are brought still nearer to us. To violate thus the rules of historic reality, is a necessary anachronism in art. Finally, another form of anachronism, which the utmost moderation and genius can alone make pardonable, is that which transfers the religious or moral ideas of a more advanced civilization to an anterior epoch; when one attributes, for example, to the ancients the ideas of the moderns. Some great poets have ventured upon this intentionally; few have been successful in it.

The general conclusion is this: “The artist should be required to make himself the cotemporary of past ages, and become penetrated himself with their spirit. For if the substance of those ideas be true, it remains clear for all time. But to undertake to reproduce with a scrupulous exactness the external element of history, with all its details and particulars,—in a word, all the rust of antiquity, is the work of a puerile erudition, which attaches itself only to a superficial aim. We should not wrest from art the right which it has to float between reality and fiction.”

This first part concludes with an examination of the qualities necessary to an artist, such as imagination, genius, inspiration, originality, etc. The author does not deem it obligatory to treat at much length this subject, which appears to him to allow only a small number of general rules or psychological observations. The manner in which he treats of many points, and particularly of the imagination, causes us to regret that he has not thought it worth while to give a larger space to these questions, which occupy the principal place in the majority of æsthetical treatises; we shall find them again under another form in the theory of the arts.

[The next number will continue this translation through the treatment of the Symbolic, Classic, and Romantic forms of art.]

NOTES ON RAPHAEL’S “TRANSFIGURATION.”

[Read before the St. Louis Art Society in November, 1866.]

I. THE ENGRAVING.

He who studies the “Transfiguration” of Raphael is fortunate if he has access to the engraving of it by Raphael Morghen. This engraver, as one learns from the Encyclopædia, was a Florentine, and executed this—his most elaborate work—in 1795, from a drawing of Tofanelli, after having discovered that a copy he had partly finished from another drawing, was very inadequate when compared with the original.

Upon comparison with engravings by other artists, it seems to me that this engraving has not received all the praise it deserves; I refer especially to the seizing of the “motives” of the picture, which are so essential in a work of great scope, to give it the requisite unity. What the engraver has achieved in the present instance, I hope to be able to show in some degree. But one will not be able to verify my results if he takes up an engraving by a less fortunate artist; e.g.: one by Pavoni, of recent origin.

II. HISTORICAL.

It is currently reported that Raphael painted the “Transfiguration” at the instance of Cardinal Giulio de Medici, and that in honor of the latter he introduced the two saints—Julian and Lawrence—on the mount; St. Julian suggesting the ill-fated Giuliano de Medici, the Cardinal’s father, and St. Lawrence representing his uncle, “Lorenzo the Magnificent,” the greatest of the Medici line, and greatest man of his time in Italy. “The haughty Michael Angelo refused to enter the lists in person against Raphael, but put forward as a fitting rival Sebastian del Piombo, a Venetian.” Raphael painted, as his masterpiece, the “Transfiguration,” and Sebastian, with the help of Michael Angelo, painted the “Raising of Lazarus.” In 1520, before the picture was quite finished, Raphael died. His favorite disciple, Giulio Romano, finished the lower part of the picture (especially the demoniac) in the spirit of Raphael, who had completed the upper portion and most of the lower.

III. LEGEND.

The Legend portrayed here—slightly varying from the one in the New Testament, but not contradicting it—is as follows: Christ goes out with his twelve disciples to Mount Tabor,(?) and, leaving the nine others at the foot, ascends with the favored three to the summit, where the scene of the Transfiguration takes place. While this transpires, the family group approach with the demoniac, seeking help from a miraculous source.

Raphael has added to this legend the circumstance that two sympathetic strangers, passing that way up the mount, carry to the Beatified One the intelligence of the event below, and solicit his immediate and gracious interference.

The Testament account leads us to suppose the scene to be Mount Tabor, southeast of Nazareth, at whose base he had healed many, a few days before, and where he had held many conversations with his disciples. “On the following day, when they were come down, they met the family,” says Luke; but Matthew and Mark do not fix so precisely the day.

IV. CHARACTERIZATION.

It may be safely affirmed that there is scarcely a picture in existence in which the individualities are more strongly marked by internal essential characteristics.

Above, there is no figure to be mistaken: Christ floats toward the source of light—the Invisible Father, by whom _all_ is made visible that is visible. On the right, Moses appears in strong contrast to Elias on the left—the former the law-giver, and the latter the spontaneous, fiery, eagle-eyed prophet.

On the mountain top—prostrate beneath, are the three disciples—one recognizes on the right hand, John, gracefully bending his face down from the overpowering light, while on the left James buries his face in his humility. But Peter, the bold one, is fain to gaze directly on the splendor. He turns his face up in the act, but is, as on another occasion, mistaken in his estimate of his own endurance, and is obliged to cover his eyes, involuntarily, with his hand.

Below the mount, are two opposed groups. On the right, coming from the hamlet in the distance, is the family group, of which a demoniac boy forms the centre. They, without doubt, saw Christ pass on his way to this solitude, and, at length, concluded to follow him and test his might which had been “noised abroad” in that region. It is easy to see the relationship of the whole group. First the boy, actually “possessed,” or a maniac; then his father—a man evidently predisposed to insanity—supporting and restraining him. Kneeling at the right of the boy is his mother, whose fair Grecian face has become haggard with the trials she has endured from her son. Just beyond her is her brother, and in the shade of the mountain, is her father. In the foreground is her sister. Back of the father, to the right, is seen an uncle (on the father’s side) of the demoniac boy, whose features and gestures show him to be a simpleton, and near him is seen the face of the father’s sister, also a weak-minded person. The parents of the father are not to be seen, for the obvious reason that old age is not a characteristic of persons predisposed to insanity. Again, it is marked that in a family thus predisposed, some will be brilliant to a degree resembling genius, and others will be simpletons. The whole group at the right are supplicating the nine disciples, in the most earnest manner, for relief. The disciples, grouped on the left, are full of sympathy, but their looks tell plainly that they can do nothing. One, at the left and near the front, holds the books of the Law in his right hand, but the letter needs the spirit to give life, and the mere Law of Moses does not help the demoniac, and only excites the sorrowful indignation of the beautiful sister in the foreground.

The curious student of the New Testament may succeed in identifying the different disciples: Andrew, holding the books of the Law, is Peter’s brother, and bears a family resemblance. Judas, at the extreme left, cannot be mistaken. Matthew looks over the shoulder of Bartholomew, who is pointing to the demoniac; while Thomas—distinguished by his youthful appearance—bends over toward the boy with a look of intense interest. Simon (?), kneeling between Thomas and Bartholomew, is indicating to the mother, by the gesture with his left hand, the absence of the Master. Philip, whose face is turned towards Judas, is pointing to the scene on the mount, and apparently suggesting the propriety of going for the absent one. James, the son of Alpheus, resembles Christ in features, and stands behind Jude, his brother, who points up to the mount while looking at the father.

V. ORGANIC UNITY.

(_a_) Doubtless every true work of art should have what is called an “organic unity.” That is to say, all the parts of the work should be related to each other in such a way that a harmony of design arises. Two entirely unrelated things brought into the piece would form two centres of attraction and hence divide the work into two different works. It should be so constituted that the study of one part leads to all the other parts as being necessarily implied in it. This common life of the whole work is the central idea which necessitates all the parts, and hence makes the work an organism instead of a mere conglomerate or mechanical aggregate,—a fortuitous concourse of atoms which would make a chaos only.

(_b_) This central idea, however, cannot be represented in a work of art without contrasts, and hence there must be antitheses present.

(_c_) And these antitheses must be again reduced to unity by the manifest dependence of each side upon the central idea.

What is the central idea of this picture?

(_a_) Almost every thoughtful person that has examined it, has said: “Here is the Divine in contrast with the Human, and the dependence of the latter upon the former.” This may be stated in a variety of ways. The Infinite is there above, and the Finite here below seeking it.

(_b_) The grandest antithesis is that between the two parts of the Picture, the above and the below. The transfigured Christ, there, dazzling with light; below, the shadow of mortal life, only illuminated by such rays as come from above. _There_, serenity; and here, rending calamity.

Then there are minor antitheses.

(1) Above we have a Twofold. The three celestial light-seekers who soar rapturously to the invisible source of light, and below them, the three disciples swooning beneath the power of the celestial vision. (2) Then below the mountain we have a similar contrast in the two groups; the one broken in spirit by the calamity that “pierces their own souls,” and the other group powerfully affected by sympathy, and feeling keenly their impotence during the absence of their Lord.

Again even, there appear other antitheses. So completely does the idea penetrate the material in this work of art, that everywhere we see the mirror of the whole. In the highest and most celestial we have the antithesis of Christ and the twain; Moses the law or letter, Elias the spirit or the prophet, and Christ the living unity. Even Christ himself, though comparatively the point of repose of the whole picture, is a contrast of soul striving against the visible body. So, too, the antitheses of the three disciples, John, Peter, James,—grace, strength, and humility. Everywhere the subject is exhaustively treated; the family in its different members, the disciples with the different shades of sympathy and concern. (The maniac boy is a perfect picture of a being, torn asunder by violent internal contradiction.)

(_c_) The unity is no less remarkable. First, the absolute unity of the piece, is the transfigured Christ. To it, mediately or immediately, everything refers. All the light in the picture streams thence. All the action in the piece has its motive power in Him;—first, the two celestials soar to gaze in his light; then the three disciples are expressing, by the posture of every limb, the intense effect of the same light. On the left, the mediating strangers stand imploring Christ to descend and be merciful to the miserable of this life. Below, the disciples are painfully reminded of Him absent, by the present need of his all-healing power, and their gestures refer to his stay on the mountain top; while the group at the right, are frantic in supplications for his assistance.

Besides the central unity, we find minor unities that do not contradict the higher unity, for the reason that they are only reflections of it, and each one carries us, of its own accord, to the higher unity, and loses itself in it. To illustrate: Below, the immediate unity of all (centre of interest) is the maniac boy, and yet he convulsively points to the miraculous scene above, and the perfect unrest exhibited in his attitude repels the soul irresistibly to seek another unity. The Christ above, gives us a comparatively serene point of repose, while the unity of the Below or finite side of the picture is an absolute antagonism, hurling us beyond to the higher unity.

Before the approach of the distressed family, the others were intently listening to the grave and elderly disciple, Andrew, who was reading and expounding the Scriptures to them. This was a different unity, and would have clashed with the organic unity of the piece; the approach of the boy brings in a new unity, which immediately reflects all to the higher unity.

VI. SENSE AND REASON _VS._ UNDERSTANDING.

At this point a few reflections are suggested to render more obvious, certain higher phases in the unity of this work of art, which must now be considered.

A work of art, it will be conceded, must, first of all, appeal to the senses. Equally, too, its content must be an idea of the Reason, and this is not so readily granted by every one. But if there were no idea of the Reason in it, there would be no unity to the work, and it could not be distinguished from any other work _not_ a work of art. Between the Reason and the Senses there lies a broad realm, called the “Understanding” by modern speculative writers. It was formerly called the “discursive intellect.” The Understanding applies the criterion “_use_.” It does not know _beauty_, or, indeed, anything which is _for itself_; it knows only what is good for something else. In a work of art, after it has asked what it is good for, it proceeds to construe it all into prose, for it is the _prose faculty_. It must have the picture tell us what is the _external fact_ in nature, and not trouble us with any transcendental imaginative products. It wants imitation of nature merely.

But the artist frequently neglects this faculty, and shocks it to the uttermost by such things as the abridged mountain in this picture, or the shadow cast toward the sun, that Eckermann tells of.

The artist must never violate the sensuous harmony, nor fail to have the deeper unity of the Idea. It is evident that the sensuous side is always cared for by Raphael.

Here are some of the effects in the picture that are purely sensuous and yet of such a kind that they immediately call up the idea. The source of light in the picture is Christ’s form; _below_, it is reflected in the garments of the conspicuous figure in the foreground. Above, is Christ; opposite and below, a female that suggests the Madonna. In the same manner Elias, or the inspired prophet, is the opposite to the maniac boy; the former inspired by the _celestial_; the latter, by the _demonic_. So Moses, the law-giver, is antithetic to the old disciple that has the roll of the Law in his hand. So, too, in the posture, Elias floats freely, while Moses is brought against the tree, and mars the impression of free self-support. The heavy tables of the Law seem to draw him down, while Elias seems to have difficulty in descending sufficiently to place himself in subordination to Christ.

Even the contradiction that the understanding finds in the abridgment of the mountain, is corrected sensuously by the perspective at the right, and the shade that the edge of the rock casts which isolates the above so completely from the below.

We see that Raphael has brought them to a secluded spot just near the top of the mountain. The view of the distant vale tells us as effectually that this is a mountain top as could be done by a full length painting of it. Hence the criticism rests upon a misunderstanding of the fact Raphael has portrayed.

VII. ROMANTIC _vs._ CLASSIC.

Finally, we must recur to those distinctions so much talked of, in order to introduce the consideration of the grandest strokes of genius which Raphael has displayed in this work.

The distinction of Classic and Romantic Art, of Greek Art from Christian: the former is characterized by a complete repose, or equilibrium between the Sense and Reason—or between matter and form. The idea seems completely expressed, and the expression completely adequate to the idea.

But in Christian Art we do not find this equilibrium; but everywhere we find an intimation that the idea is too transcendent for the matter to express. Hence, Romantic Art is self contradictory—it _expresses_ the _inadequacy_ of _expression_.

“I have that within which passeth show;
These but the _trappings_ and the _suits_ of woe.”

In Gothic Architecture, all strives upward and seems to derive its support from above (i. e. the Spiritual, light). All Romantic Art points to a _beyond_. The Madonnas seem to say: “I am a beyond which cannot be represented in a sensuous form;” “a saintly contempt for the flesh hovers about their features,” as some one has expressed it.

But in this picture, Christ himself, no more a child in the Madonna’s arms, but even in his meridian glory, looks beyond, and expresses dependence on a Being who is not and cannot be represented. His face is serene, beatific; he is at unity with this Absolute Being, but the unity is an internal one, and his upraised gaze towards the source of light is a plain statement that the True which supports him is not a sensuous one. “God dwelleth not in temples made with hands; but those who would approach Him must do it in _spirit_ and in _truth_.”

This is the idea which belongs to the method of all modern Art; but Raphael has not left this as the general spirit of the picture merely, but has emphasized it in a way that exhibits the happy temper of his genius in dealing with refractory subjects. And this last point has proved too much for his critics. Reference is made to the two saints painted at the left. How fine it would be, thought the Cardinal de Medici, to have St. Lawrence and St. Julian painted in there, to commemorate my father and uncle! They can represent mediators, and thereby connect the two parts of the picture more closely!

Of course, Raphael put them in there! “Alas!” say his critics, “what a fatal mistake! What have those two figures to do there but to mar the work! All for the gratification of a selfish pride!”

Always trust an Artist to dispose of the Finite; he, of all men, knows how to digest it and subordinate it to the idea.

Raphael wanted just such figures in just that place. Of course, the most natural thing in the world that could happen, would be the ascent of some one to bear the message to Christ that there was need of him below. But what is the effect of that upon the work as a piece of Romantic Art? It would destroy that characteristic, if permitted in certain forms. Raphael, however, seizes upon this incident to show the entire spiritual character of the upper part of the picture. The disciples are dazzled so, that even the firm Peter cannot endure the light at all. Is this a physical light? Look at the messengers that have come up the mountain! Do their eyes indicate anything bright, not to say dazzling? They stand there with supplicating looks and gestures, but see no transfiguration. It must be confessed, Cardinal de Medici, that your uncle and father are not much complimented, after all; they are merely natural men, and have no inner sense by which to see the Eternal Verities that illume the mystery of existence! Even if you are Cardinal, and they were Popes’ counselors, they never saw anything higher in Religion than what should add comfort to us here below!

No! The transfiguration, as Raphael clearly tells us, was a Spiritual one: Christ, on the mountain with his favored three disciples, opened up such celestial clearness in his exposition of the truth, that they saw Moses and Elias, as it were, combined in one Person, and a new Heaven and a new Earth arose before them, and they were lost in that revelation of infinite splendor.

In closing, a remark forces itself upon us with reference to the comparative merits of Raphael and Michael Angelo.

Raphael is the perfection of Romantic Art. Michael Angelo is almost a Greek. His paintings all seem to be pictures of statuary. In his grandest—The Last Judgment—we have the visible presence as the highest. Art with him could represent the Absolute. With Raphael it could only, in its loftiest flights, express its own impotence.

Whether we are to consider Raphael or Michael Angelo as the higher artist, must be decided by an investigation of the merits of the “Last Judgment.”

INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.