Then what becomes of this needless multiplication of the miracle? this message to a royal conscience, singly expressed—­for it was said, “thy kingdom is divided,”—­simultaneously impressed upon the fancies of a thousand courtiers, who were implied in it neither directly nor grammatically?  But admitting the artist’s own version of the story, and that the sight was seen also by the thousand courtiers—­let it have been visible to all Babylon—­as the knees of Belshazzar were shaken, and his countenance troubled, even so would the knees of every man in Babylon, and their countenances, as of an individual man, been troubled; bowed, bent down, so would they have remained, stupor-fixed, with no thought of struggling with that inevitable judgment.

Not all that is optically possible to be seen, is to be shown in every picture.  The eye delightedly dwells upon the brilliant individualities in a “Marriage at Cana,” by Veronese, or Titian, to the very texture and colour of the wedding garments, the ring glittering upon the bride’s fingers, the metal and fashion of the wine pots; for at such seasons there is leisure and luxury to be curious.  But in a “day of judgment,” or in a “day of lesser horrors, yet divine,” as at the impious feast of Belshazzar, the eye should see, as the actual eye of an agent or patient in the immediate scene would see, only in masses and indistinction.  Not only the female attire and jewelry exposed to the critical eye of the fashion, as minutely as the dresses in a lady’s magazine, in the criticised picture,—­but perhaps the curiosities of anatomical science, and studied diversities of posture in the falling angels and sinners of Michael Angelo,—­have no business in their great subjects.  There was no leisure of them.

By a wise falsification, the great masters of painting got at their true conclusions; by not showing the actual appearances, that is, all that was to be seen at any given moment by an indifferent eye, but only what the eye might be supposed to see in the doing or suffering of some portentous action.  Suppose the moment of the swallowing up of Pompeii.  There they were to be seen—­houses, columns, architectural proportions, differences of public and private buildings, men and women at their standing occupations, the diversified thousand postures, attitudes, dresses, in some confusion truly, but physically they were visible.  But what eye saw them at that eclipsing moment, which reduces confusion to a kind of unity, and when the senses are upturned from their proprieties, when sight and hearing are a feeling only?  A thousand years have passed, and we are at leisure to contemplate the weaver fixed standing at his shuttle, the baker at his oven, and to turn over with antiquarian coolness the pots and pans of Pompeii.