“What things of shame does not this figure show forth!  I discern in it the end of that Christian art which paints the soul and inspires the beholder with an ardent desire for heaven.  Future painters will not restrain themselves as does this one to portraying on the side of a wall or on a wooden panel the cursed matter of which our bodies are formed; they will celebrate and glorify it.  They will clothe their figures with dangerous appearances of flesh, and these figures will seem like real persons.  Their bodies will be seen; their forms will appear through their clothing.  St. Magdalen will have a bosom.  St. Martha a belly, St. Barbara hips, St. Agnes buttocks; St. Sebastian will unveil his youthful beauty, and St. George will display beneath his armour the muscular wealth of a robust virility; apostles, confessors, doctors, and God the Father himself will appear as ordinary beings like you and me; the angels will affect an equivocal, ambiguous, mysterious beauty which will trouble hearts.  What desire for heaven will these representations impart?  None; but from them you will learn to take pleasure in the forms of terrestrial life.  Where will painters stop in their indiscreet inquiries?  They will stop nowhere.  They will go so far as to show men and women naked like the idols of the Romans.  There will be a sacred art and a profane art, and the sacred art will not be less profane than the other.”

“Get ye behind me, demons,” exclaimed the old master.  For in prophetic vision he saw the righteous and the saints assuming the appearance of melancholy athletes.  He saw Apollos playing the lute on a flowery hill, in the midst of the Muses wearing light tunics.  He saw Venuses lying under shady myrtles and the Danae exposing their charming sides to the golden rain.  He saw pictures of Jesus under the pillar’s of the temple amidst patricians, fair ladies, musicians, pages, negroes, dogs, and parrots.  He saw in an inextricable confusion of human limbs, outspread wings, and flying draperies, crowds of tumultuous Nativities, opulent Holy Families, emphatic Crucifixions.  He saw St. Catherines, St. Barbaras, St. Agneses humiliating patricians by the sumptuousness of their velvets, their brocades, and their pearls, and by the splendour of their breasts.  He saw Auroras scattering roses, and a multitude of naked Dianas and Nymphs surprised on the banks of retired streams.  And the great Margaritone died, strangled by so horrible a presentiment of the Renaissance and the Bolognese School.

VI.  MARBODIUS

We possess a precious monument of the Penguin literature of the fifteenth century.  It is a narrative of a journey to hell undertaken by the monk Marbodius, of the order of St. Benedict, who professed a fervent admiration for the poet Virgil.  This narrative, written in fairly good Latin, has been published by M. du Clos des Limes.  It is here translated for the first time.  I believe that I am doing a service