are seen far off in the background, crouching in the “hollow way” between two cliffs, from which spot, according to the old tradition, they beheld the sad procession.  We have quite a contrary arrangement in an early composition by Lucas van Leyden.  The procession to Calvary is seen moving along in the far distance, while the foreground is occupied by two figures only, Mary in a trance of anguish sustained by the weeping St. John.

[Footnote 1:  The veneration at all times entertained for this picture was probably enhanced by a remarkable fact in its history.  Raphael painted it towards the close of the year 1517, and when finished, it was embarked at the port of Ostia, to be consigned to Palermo.  A storm came on, the vessel foundered at sea, and all was lost except the case containing this picture, which was floated by the currents into the Bay of Genoa; and, on being landed, the wondrous masterpiece of art was taken out unhurt.  The Genoese at first refused to give it up, insisting that it had been preserved and floated to their shores by the miraculous interposition of the blessed Virgin herself; and it required a positive mandate from the Pope before they would restore it to the Olivetan fathers.—­See Passavant’s Rafael, i. 292.]

In a very fine “Portamento del Croce,” by Gaudenzio Ferrari, one of the soldiers or executioners, in repulsing the sorrowful mother, lifts up a stick as if to strike her;—­a gratuitous act of ferocity, which shocks at once the taste and the feelings, and, without adding anything to the pathos of the situation, detracts from the religious dignity of the theme.  It is like the soldier kicking our Saviour, which I remember to have seen in a version of the subject by a much later painter, Daniele Crespi.

Murillo represents Christ as fainting under the weight of the cross, while the Virgin sits on the ground by the way-side, gazing on him with fixed eyes and folded hands, and a look of unutterable anguish.[1]

[Footnote 1:  This picture, remarkable for the intense expression, was in the collection of Lord Orford, and sold in June, 1856.]

* * * * *

The Ecce Homo, by Correggio, in our National Gallery, is treated in a very peculiar manner with reference to the Virgin, and is, in fact, another version of Lo Spasimo, the fourth of her ineffable sorrows.  Here Christ, as exhibited to the people by Pilate, is placed in the distance, and is in all respects the least important part of the picture, of which we have the real subject in the far more prominent figure of the Virgin in the foreground.  At sight of the agony and degradation of her Son, she closes her eyes, and is on the point of swooning.  The pathos of expression in the half-unconscious face and helpless, almost lifeless hands, which seem to seek support, is particularly fine.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

    “Verum stabas, optima Mater, juxta crucem Filli tui, non solum
    corpore, sed mentis constatia.”