hands. The breadth of middle tint on the pillar, blending it with the Saviour's face and figure, continues the story and deepens the impression. The colouring, with all its hues exquisitely broken, is adapted to the sentiment. The carnations are the leading tones. The flesh is rather fair, but of a manly complexion. It is flesh, not wax, for you can see the blood under the skin. The crimson of the robe is reduced as much as possible. The linen about the waist is a coarse white, and while setting off the surrounding colours, it serves to display the fingers of the Christ. The blue cloak of the Virgin, of a deep tone, adds to the solemnity of the scene, and while harmonizing with the bluish-gray of the balustrade, it produces, by contrast to the hands, the strongest effect of relief, and gives roundness and unity to the whole.

The light, as it travels, touches the hands and face of the Virgin, and reminds us of her presence. It certainly needs no apology.

As Protestants, we cannot, of course, be expected to share the feelings of those for whom this picture was painted, but it is due to Correggio that we attempt to understand them. In his day, the worship of the Madonna was an almost passionate idolatry, and her life was systematically interwoven by the Romish Church with that of our Lord. She was supposed to be inseparably connected with him, and theologians insisted upon her introduction into sacred pictures. Those subjects were avoided where her presence was palpably impossible, and those scenes chosen where she might be brought before the people, with at any rate the same frequency and importance as her son. This accounts for her being here, and for her prominent position. She is in the foreground, for she is to divide the attention of the spectator with the Saviour, and every one who looks at the picture

must see her, for she faints. Hooded to the eyes, as usual, in blue, the colour of the cloak enhances the pallor of her face, besides acting as a foil to the mass of flesh-tint in the middle of the picture. The eyelids are dropping as in death. The hands, like all the other bands, correspond with the face. They are closing with the eyes. She has been clutching at the balustrade, but, falling back in a swoon, she has been obliged to relax her hold. They are almost helpless, just as her face is almost unconscious. Her weakness betrays her nature. She is but a woman after all. The contrast becomes something more than pictorial. There is a strong resemblance between the features of the Virgin and those of our Lord, but it is in form and not in expression. The likeness is more bodily than spiritual. At any rate, as represented here, she resembles him rather in countenance than in character.*

Pilate is standing just within the judgment hall, and he is connected with the scene by the breadth of middle tint on the pillar, by his hand which is pointing to the Christ, and by his eyes which are looking at the Sanhedrim as he speaks to them. The hand is an index to the time. It is not yet withdrawn, for his words (which give the name to the picture) are only just uttered. There is a shapelessness about his form and an awkwardness about his attitude, which seem to betray that he is not at his ease. From the very outset he has been embarrassed and uncomfortable, and all througout the trial he has endeavoured to

*This oversight has been noticed by Catholic writers. Thus, Molanus observes that "the blessed Virgin should not be painted in a swoon, as if an ordinary mother, for as the holy fathers say, she retained her consistency and hope to the end, even when all others failed; therefore, only by paleness and tears is her sorrow to be manifested." Petrus Canasus says, "painters who represent her fainting are inexcusable."

evade the decision. He is now quite as much annoyed with himself as with the chief priests. He is afraid, for he cannot understand his hesitation and unprecedented scruples; a little while since he had mingled the blood of other Galileans with their sacrifices without any compunction, and now he finds that he is anxious to save this Galilean from the thirsty Jews. Wearied out at last, with their resistance and his own relentings irritated at the course events were taking-he has wrapped his robe around him, as if he would, if he could, hide his vexation. His robe of office and jewelled turban can do nothing for him. He forms another contrast in the picture to the selfpossession and dignity of our Lord. The Virgin, in a faint, falls back. upon an arm of flesh, and Correggio has so managed the figure of Pilate, even to the fold and colour of his dress, that you can see what manner of man he was. His well-known words become the more distinct, and the naked, bleeding form, crowned with thorns, with the garb of mockery slipping off its shoulders, becomes all the more conspicuous. The dress of the governor is a rather light yellow with stripes of pale pinkish-purple, his beard is light, and the uncertain hues of the headcovering serve for the repetition and degradation of the blue and red robes of the principal figures.

Connoisseurs are divided in their opinion as to whether it is the Magdalen, or the beloved disciple who is supporting the Virgin; it is possible that some restorer is to blame for giving the occasion for such a question.

This picture, formerly in the pos

session of the Counts Prati of Parma, was subsequently long in the Colonna Palace at Rome, and it was reckoned the best work of Correggio in that city. It was purchased in the early part of the French revolution by Sir Simon Clarke, who, not succeeding in removing it from Italy, was induced to part from it to Murat, then king of Naples. In 1834 it became the property of the Marquis of Londonderry, and was for fourteen years one of the most admired ornaments in the collection at Holderness House. It was bought for the public, together with "The Academy of Cupid," at the price of £11,500.

Last year a picture purporting to be the replica of this Ecce Homo, was on view in London, and excited considerable attention. It was found at Rome, painted over, and it had evidently been thus concealed for more than a century. The greatest gems have been discovered under the same disguise. The replica of the Dresden Magdalen had been painted over to look like a dog lying down in a landscape, and was purchased at Rome by Lord Dudley for a very large sum. This disguise was adopted to prevent valuable pictures from being taken as plunder in times of disturbance. The old masters often produced two works on the same subject, almost identical in design, as, for instance, we saw in our last paper, was the case with the "Madonna della Seggiola." The history of Correggio's pictures is so singularly imperfect, that the historical test fails altogether. Whether the work be entitled to the distinction claimed for it is a point which we believe is yet unsettled.

But there are other cases in which the authority of common sense is painfully felt, while at the same time we have a secret suspicion, or even conviction, that this authority is not altogether a righteous one. The youth who discovers that the world is full of abuses feels astonished that his forefathers should have neglected to uproot them, and is determined that, at least in his own walk of life, he will effect a radical and complete reform. In this confidence he sets his mind upon a lofty ideal, and makes no allowance for disturbing forces nor any abatement for defective materials. Accordingly his friends soon begin to express their fervent hope that a little common sense may come to his rescue, and prevent his becoming an impracticable enthusaist. For example, a youthful candidate for the architectural profession may rise from the study of Pugin's "contrasts" with a grim resolution against sham windows, and a determination never to accept a commission which involves painted marble or any immoral concealment of material or construction. His worldly-minded friends are of opinion that the wants of a wife and family will teach him common sense, and that this will soon wean him from his fine impracticable notions. They assure him that if he cannot do as well as he would, common sense would urge him to do as well as he can. He feels in a perplexed sort of way that there is some considerable force in this, and perhaps just on that account is the hotter for the present in his reprobation of a time-serving expediency." But as time goes on, and the true difficulties of life are felt, he begins to learn that high moral principles are not so involved in bricks and mor

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tar as to be capable of producing all their fine shades of difference in such coarse material; and even where important laws of taste are transgressed, he distinguishes between his own responsibility and that of his employer, so that he often regards himself as more sinned against than sinning. We are aware that all this may be carried too far, to the destruction of principle, honour, and self-respect. We are not defending any course which would result in this. But it is always a blessing for a visionary mind to learn the real bearing of moral truth, and the limits of its own responsibility. And the source of this blessing to many a high-spirited, impatient, romantic youth is the common sense which is gained by experience.

But if, on the one hand, common sense, like many an authority, gains some little power from the vagueness of its claims and the unknown extent of its resources, on the other hand we are persuaded that it would often meet with less resistance if its real nature were understood. The observation to which we have referred, that of all senses common sense is the most uncommon, is not merely a smart saying, much less an affected conceit; for all who are brought much into contact with their fellow-creatures will allow that there are few to whose judgment we may confidently appeal without any attempt to commend our arguments to their prejudices, or fears, or self-importance. Much has been said about the spirit of candour and fair play inherent in an English mob; yet, in addressing such an audience, what popular orator is able to abstain from a flattery, which, if addressed to a single man, would at once appear fulsome and offensive? The self-importance of the people must be enlisted on the side of the speaker, or their prejudices must be aroused, or their immaculate virtue must be assumed, and then both ears and hearts are gained

easily enough. In this respect Demetrius of Ephesus has been too much the model for public speakers all the world over. The argumentum ad hominem is always the most telling with high or low, learned or ignorant, rich or poor. But this appears scarcely consistent with the prevalence of common sense, for it implies that the judgment is generally warped or blinded by considerations which have no legitimate bearing on the question in hand.

But it may be asked, if this be so how has the name of common sense arisen? for with what meaning can that be called common, which is one of the most uncommon of all things? The paradox is not difficult of explanation. Common sense does not receive this name because it is actually a common possession of mankind, but rather because it is that healthy exercise of ordinary human faculties to which all may attain if they will. It is independent of any peculiar gifts, and only requires a sound mental constitution, free from morbid tendencies and disturbing passions. All men are able to observe more or less accurately. All are able to reflect on what they observe. And common sense 18 simply the result of a conscientious use of ordinary faculties for observation and reflection. It is a common capacity, but not necessarily a common attainment--commonly possible, but not so commonly realized. The most ordinary man may possess it, but few care to cultivate that self-control and freedom from prejudice which are absolutely necessary to its exercise.

There is indeed another meaning which may be given to the words. As when we talk of taking the sense of a meeting, so when we speak of the common sense of mankind, we may mean the judgment of the majority, or more accurately, in the latter case, the feelings which all share alike. Thus we may say that the common sense of mankind rejects

Atheism, the exceptions being too few and doubtful to be of any account. Wherever there is so universal and so profound a unity of feeling as in this example, the common sense of mankind is a very high authority, which we shall do well to respect. But if the phrase be taken to mean simply the judgment of the majority, often ill-founded and hasty, often a mere vague impression, which has been received rather than formed, then we shall justify all that the worst enemies of common sense could say against it; for in that case it would be as often wrong as right. The story of the popular song would have to be reversed, and while genius soars to the stars, we should have common sense perpetually stumbling into a quagmire of ignorance and prejudice. Such common sense as this always contradicts at first the fresh conclusions of extensive knowledge and deep reflection. It has resisted almost every step of human progress, and is always incredulous of those refined perceptions which only come with laborious cultivation. This is that common sense which once treated the designs of George Stephenson as visionary delusions; this is that which for long baffled the wisdom and devotion of the late chaplain of Proston Gaol; and this also is that common sense which, with sad satisfaction in its own blindness, has often sneered at the more subtle doctrines and higher experiences of religion.

But it is not an accurate use of terms to speak of this as common sense; for, as we have seen, "the common sense of mankind" signifies a universal feeling rather than the judgment of the majority. And when we speak of a man of sound common sense, we certainly do not mean one who shouts with the crowd, but a man of independent judgment, and of healthy ordinary faculties; above all, one who is able to keep the right and wrong of a question distinct from irrelevant personal