rious type of
perfection. Where shall we seek this highest, holiest impersonation!
Where has it been attained, or even approached? Not, certainly, in the
mere woman, nor yet in the mere idol; not in those lovely creations
which awaken a sympathetic throb of tenderness; nor in those stern,
motionless types,--which embody a dogma; not in the classic features
of marble goddesses, borrowed as models; nor in the painted images
which stare upon us from tawdry altars in flaxen wigs and embroidered
petticoats. But where?

Of course we each form to ourselves some notion of what we require;
and these requirements will be as diverse as our natures and our
habits of thought. For myself, I have seen my own ideal once, and only
once, attained: _there_, where Raphael--inspired if ever painter was
inspired--projected on the space before him that wonderful creation
which we style the _Madonna di San Sisto_ (Dresden Gal.); for there
she stands--the transfigured woman, at once completely human and
completely divine, an abstraction of power, purity, and love, poised
on the empurpled air, and requiring no other support; looking out,
with her melancholy, loving mouth, her slightly dilated, sibylline
eyes, quite through the universe, to the end and consummation of all
things;--sad, as if she beheld afar off the visionary sword that
was to reach her heart through HIM, now resting as enthroned on
that heart; yet already exalted through the homage of the redeemed
generations who were to salute her as Blessed. Six times have I
visited the city made glorious by the possession of this treasure, and
as often, when again at a distance, with recollections disturbed by
feeble copies and prints, I have begun to think, "Is it so indeed? is
she indeed so divine? or does not rather the imagination encircle
her with a halo of religion and poetry, and lend a grace which is not
really there?" and as often, when returned, I have stood before it and
confessed that there is more in that form and face than I had ever
yet conceived. I cannot here talk the language of critics, and speak
of this picture merely as a picture, for to me it was a revelation.
In the same gallery is the lovely Madonna of the Meyer family:
inexpressibly touching and perfect in its way, but conveying only one
of the attributes of Mary, her benign pity; while the Madonna di San
Sisto is an abstract of _all_.[1]

[Footnote 1: Expression is the great and characteristic excellence of
Raphael