to his race.  For attaining such heights of impression the means employed by Raphael are of an incomprehensible simplicity.  The Infant Jesus nestles familiarly in his mother’s arms.  Sitting on a fold of the white veil that the Virgin supports with her left hand, he leans against the Madonna’s right arm; his legs are crossed one above the other; the whole of the left arm follows the bend of the body and the left hand rests upon the right leg; at the same time, the right shoulder being raised by Mary’s hand, the right arm is bent at the elbow and the hand grasps the Virgin’s veil.  This attitude, so natural, so true, so unstudied, expresses grandeur and sovereignty.  Nothing can be more elementary nor more powerful.  The light rests calmly upon every part of this beautiful body and all its members in such fine repose.  Humanity was never seen under such radiance.  The Son of God, in transporting to Heaven the terrestrial form of his infancy, has made it divine for all eternity.  Raphael doubtless owed to antiquity something of the power that enabled him spontaneously to create such a masterpiece; but in this case he has far surpassed his models, and we should search vainly in antique art for a more ideal and grand figure than that of this marvellous infant.  However, hitherto we have only examined the body, what shall we say about the head to give a true idea of it?  In fact, that is perhaps the most extraordinary and most indescribable part of the whole picture.  The Infant Jesus seems to recoil from the spectacle of human shame; he lovingly presses against the Virgin’s breast, softly rests his forehead against his Mother’s cheek, and darts towards the world one of those flaming and terrible glances at which, it is said, everything in heaven, on earth, and in hell trembles.  His disordered hair stands upright and quivers as in the breath of the tempest, and sombre clouds pass across the widely modelled forehead; the brows are frowning, the pupils dilate and the flame is ready to dart forth; the eyes, profound and terrible, are preparing to flash with lightning; they still withhold it, but we feel that it may break forth, and we tremble.  This glance is truly splendid; it fascinates you, attracts you, and, at the same time, fills you with terror.  The lips are quivering, and, from the point of view of line, that is the great mystery, I think; the upper lip, visibly lifted on the left side, assumes a strange accent of anger and indignation.  This deviation of a single feature is materially a small matter, and yet it suffices to stamp the whole countenance with irresistible action.  The Infant Jesus assumes a formidable aspect; we recognize in him the Sovereign Judge; his power is infinite and one act of his will be sufficient to condemn or absolve.  The Virgin of the Chair had given us a presentiment of this image in 1516; the Virgin of St. Sixtus shows it to us in 1518, in its eternal grandeur and sublime reality.  But the Word of God would scarcely leave room for anything but fear, if the Virgin did not immediately come to shed hope in the soul terrified at the idea of justice.