uise, the wild shapes around rendered the more conspicuous by
the abruptness of the contrast, the horror of the old man who is
seeking, with the confidence of finding himself again, this medley of
the most contradictory feelings is utterly senseless, and it is to be
lamented that talent and art should be lavished and ruined in labouring
upon such a subject."

"Your dislike," said Dietrich, "carries with it the picture's best
praise. Is not then all that tempts man a spectre, only wrapped in the
alluring form of beauty, or arming itself with an empty show of horror?
May it not be thought that a representation like this has acquired in
these latter days a double import? This temptation comes to all who are
not quite conscious what their hearts are made of; but in that holy man
we see the steady and pure eye, which is raised above fear, and has
been long enough acquainted with the real invisible beauty to spurn
horrour and trivial desire. The truly beautiful leads us into no
temptation; that which we ought to fear does not appear to us in an
ugly mask and distorted shape. The attempt therefore of the old master
admits of a justification before the tribunal of a refined taste--not
so Teniers and his fellows."

"The quality of that which we call mad, foolish, and absurd," cried the
stranger, "is boundlessness; it is that which it is, precisely because
it does not admit of being confined within bounds, for by its limit
every thing rational becomes what it is--the Beautiful, the Noble, the
Free, Art and Enthusiasm. But because in these there is a mixture of
something unearthly and inexpressible, the fools suppose, it is
unlimited, and in their assumed mysticism outrage nature and
imagination. Do you see this mad Hoellenbreughel here on this pillar? It
is precisely because his eye had not a look left for truth and taste;
because he had entirely renounced nature, and extravagance and madness
supplied the place of inspiration and judgment with him; for this very
reason do I like him the best of all the host of grotesque painters,
for he shut the door without ceremony, and left the understanding on
the outside. Look at Julio Romano's Hall of the Titans at Milan, his
strange scenes with beasts and centaurs, and all the monsters of fable,
his bacchanals, his bold mixture of the Human, the Beautiful, the
Brutal, and the Wanton; dive deep into these studies, and you will then
learn what a real poet can and may make of these strange a