Having thus discovered that one masterpiece
of High Art does not address itself to me,
and to the large majority whom I represent,
let me go next to the Vatican, and see how
the second master-piece (the Transfiguration,
by Raphael,) can vindicate its magnificent
reputation among critics and connoisseurs.
This picture I approach under the advantage
of knowing, beforehand, that I must
make certain allowances for minor defects
in it, which are recognised even by the
learned authorities themselves. I am indeed
prepared to be disappointed, at the outset,
because I have been prepared by an artist
friend to make allowances:

First, for defects of colour, which spoil the
general effect of the picture on the spectator;
all the lights being lividly tinged with green,
and all the shadows being grimly hardened
with black. This mischief is said to have
been worked by the tricks of French cleaners
and restorers, who have so fatally tampered
with the whole surface, that Raphael's
original colouring must be given up as lost.
Rather a considerable loss, this, to begin
with; but not Raphael's fault. Therefore,
let it by no means depreciate the picture in
my estimation.

Secondly, I have to make allowances for
the introduction of two Roman Catholic
Saints (St. Julian and St. Lawrence),
represented by the painter as being actually
present at the Transfiguration, in order to please
Cardinal de' Medici, for whom the picture
was painted. This is Raphael's fault. This
sets him forth in the rather anomalous
character of a great painter with no respect for
his art. I have some doubts about him,
after that,—doubts which my critical friends
might possibly share if Raphael were only a
modern painter.

Thirdly, I have to make allowances for the
scene of the Transfiguration on the high
mountain, and the scene of the inability of
the disciples to cure the boy possessed with
a devil, being represented, without the
slightest division, one at the top and the
other at the bottom of the same canvas,—
both events thus appearing to be connected
by happening in the same place within view
of each other, when we know very well that
they were only connected by happening at
the same time. Also, when I see some of the
disciples painted in the act of pointing up to
the Transfiguration, the mountain itself
being the background against which they
stand, I am to remember (though the whole
of the rest of the picture is most absolutely
and unflinchingly literal in treatment) that
here Raphael has suddenly broken out into
allegory, and desires to indicate by the pointing
hands of the disciples that it is the duty
of the afflicted to look to Heaven for relief in
their calamities. Having made all these
rather important allowances, I may now look
impartially at the upper half of this famous
composition.

I find myself looking away again very soon
indeed. It may be that three figures clothed
in gracefully fluttering drapery, and dancing
at symmetrically exact distances from each
other in the air, represent such an unearthly
spectacle as that of the Transfiguration to the
satisfaction of great judges of art. I can also
imagine that some few select persons may be
able to look at the top of the high mountain,
as represented in the picture, without feeling
their gravity in the smallest degree
endangered by seeing that the ugly knob of
ground on which the disciples are lying
prostrate, is barely big enough to hold them,
and most certainly would not hold them if
they all moved briskly on it together. These
things are matters of taste, on which I have
the misfortune to differ with the connoisseurs.
Not feeling bold enough to venture on
defending myself against the masters who are
teaching me to appreciate High Art, I can
only look away from the upper part of the
picture as quickly as possible, and try if I
can derive any useful or pleasant impressions
from the lower half of the composition, in
which no supernatural event is depicted, and
which it is therefore perfectly justifiable to
judge by referring it to the standard of
dramatic truth, or, in one word, of Nature. As
for this portion of the picture, I can hardly
believe my eyes when I first look at it.
Excepting the convulsed face of the boy, and a
certain hard eagerness in the look of the man
who is holding him, all the other faces
display a stony inexpressiveness, which, when I
think of the great name of Raphael in
connection with what I see, fairly amazes me.
I look down incredulously at my guide-book.
Yes! there is indeed the critical authority of
Lanzi quoted for my benefit. Lanzi tells me
in plain terms that I behold represented in
the picture before me "the most pathetic
story Raphael ever conceived," and refers, in
proof of it, to the "compassion evinced by
the apostles." I look attentively at them all,
and behold an assembly of hard-featured,,
bearded men, standing, sitting, and gesticulating,
in conventional academic attitudes;
their faces not expressing naturally, not even
affecting to express artificially, compassion
for the suffering boy, humility at their own
incapability to relieve him, or any other
human emotion likely to be suggested by the
situation in which they are placed. I find it
still more dismaying to look next at the
figure of a brawny woman, with her back to
the spectator, entreating the help of the
apostles theatrically on one knee, with her
insensible classical profile turned in one
direction, and both her muscular arms
stretched out in the other; it is still more
dismaying to look at such a figure as this,
and then to be gravely told by Lanzi that it
exhibits "the affliction of a beautiful and
interesting female." I observe, on entering
the room in which the Transfiguration is
placed, as I have previously observed on