engraving of Martin Schoen; but the prominence given to
the group of women, the dramatic propriety and pathetic grace in the
action of each, and the consummate skill shown in the arrangement
of the whole, belong only to Raphael.[1] In Martin Schoen's vivid
composition, the Virgin, and the women her companions, 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.]

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The