to the less
familiar schools of Franconia and Swabia; there we find the very
opposite. As art it is savage and rough, but it lives--it weeps, nay it
cries aloud, but it prays. We must look at the works of these unkempt
geniuses, such as Gruenewald, whose Christs, rebellious and wrathful,
grind their teeth; or Zeitblom, whose 'Veronica's veil,' in the Berlin
Museum, is unpleasant, no doubt; the angels have black leather crosses
on their breasts, and the Saviour's head is terrible, horrible; still
there is such energy in the work, such decision, such crudity, that the
very sincerity of its ugliness is impressive.

"Certainly," Durtal went on, "even setting apart such daring painters as
Gruenewald, I prefer many an unknown artist whose work is strange rather
than beautiful, but at any rate mystical, to the honey and lard of
Cologne; for instance, an anonymous painter who is to be found in the
Grand Duke's collection at Gotha, as the author of one of those curious
Mass-scenes which in the Middle Ages were called the 'Mass of Saint
Gregory,' wherefore, we know not."

Durtal turned over his note-book and read through the description he had
recorded of this work, which he remembered as an instance of a sort of
pious brutality.

The picture was set out on a gold background. A little above the altar,
but scarcely higher, a wooden sarcophagus, a sort of square bath, was
seen, with a board over it from end to end. On this plank-bridge sat the
Christ, His legs hidden in this tomb, holding a cross. His face was
haggard and hollow, He was crowned with green thorns, and His emaciated
body was spotted all over by the ends of the scourges as if the wounds
were flea-bites. Over Him, in the air, floated the instruments of the
Passion: the nails, the sponge, a hammer and a spear; to the left, on a
very small scale, were the busts of Jesus and of Judas, near a pedestal
on which lay three rows of pieces of silver.

In front of this altar, adoring this truly hideous Saviour painted in
accordance with the prophetic descriptions of Isaiah and David, were
Pope Gregory on his knees, his hands clasped, a grave Cardinal, whose
hands were hidden under his robe, and a rough-looking Bishop, standing,
in a dark green cloak embroidered with gold; he held a cross.

It was enigmatical and it was sinister, but those austere and commanding
faces were alive. There was a stamp of faith, indomitable and resolute,
in those countenances. It was harsh to th