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 seems to indicate that he has received the message and turns with the intention of recording it. The massive grandeur of his features is in accordance with the dignified repose of the action, and over all there is the lofty look of the prophet not unaccustomed to hold intercourse with God. I believe this to be the most triumphant realization of a complicated expression and action combined with the most consummate grandeur of face and form that was ever achieved. The first impression of the sight of this figure in its gigantic size on the ceiling, sixty feet above one's head, is that of amazement at the mighty art that produced it; in this case Nature really seems to have been surpassed and a new creation made. But the imagination of the artist-how justly called 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 thing is in perfect balance: the turn of the shoulders follows the movement of the head; the limbs answer to and balance each other exactly as in Nature; and the figures have thus a more absolute vitality than any other artist has ever been able to give. All other artists-except, perhaps, Raphael, and he only when he had caught the inspiration from Michelangelo is to be excepted—seem to place their figures in attitudes. It is his amazing and almost incredible power of seizing the passing movement that makes Michelangelo's figures appear positively alive; an instant more, and the position is changed. To draw from one of his figures is like drawing from Nature itself; it was only in only in copying portions of these figures that I appreciated how profound a realism underlies the ideal of this greatest of artists. 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 did we go Unto the second, which a Contains, but as much more of bitter woe. There Minos stood, with darkly-frowning face; He searches out the sins of those who come; 'Tis said, when the lost souls unto their Approach, each deed of guiltiness is told, And he, the guardian of the place of gloom, Perceives what gulf of hell their crime should hold: As many grades as they must downward they must downward go, So many times his tail doth round him fold. Alway before him stands a mournful row: Slowly in turn they come unto their fate; They speak and hear, and sink unto their woe. "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; 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." sky, Thus did I see this shadowy array Borne onward ever with a mournful cry. I said, "My master, who are those that so By the black air are chastened dolefully?" "The first of those whose story thou wouldst know," At once to me he courteously replied, "Was one before whom many lands did bow; In such luxurious vice did she abide That license was made lawful 'neath her sway; Thus to escape the shame of guilt she tried. She is Semiramis, of whom they say She was the wife of Ninus, and his heir; She ruled where reigns the sultan at this day. And she who killed herself for love was there, Who to Sichæus' ashes broke her faith; Then Cleopatra came, that wanton fair; He said, "When, borne along the doleful air, They near us come, adjure them by the love That leads them on, and they will hear thy prayer." And when they came, his counsel I did prove, And said, "O sad and weary souls, be still And speak, if none forbid." And as the dove Whom the sweet calling of desire doth thrill With spread and moveless wing flies to the nest, Borne onward only by the power of will, Even thus those two, departing from the rest, Came toward us through the darksome air malign: So strong was the appeal to love addrest. "O being who art gracious and benign, 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, 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 I said, We were alone, and had no thought of ill, And often from the book our eyes had gone, And often did our flushing cheeks grow pale, But we were conquered by one word alone. When we had read within that ancient tale How sweet of such a loving one the kiss, Then he who from my side shall never fail His lips to mine all tremblingly did press: Galeotto was the author, and his name. That day we read no more." And then while thus One spake, such pity all my soul o'ercame, Beholding the sad tears the other shed, That on the strand of dark and dreadful fame, Fainting, with sudden shock I fell as falls the dead. |