his own mind's working. We may be sure that, in these fundamental points, we all have the same experience. The only difference is, one man understands his own experience in one way, and another man in another. Of course, I mean that our experience is necessarily the same, so far as our experience depends upon those unchangeable things in which our minds are all alike. There is nothing true in mental philosophy that is not true of your mind. You are to be judge for yourself. Permit Nothing true in no man to judge for you. There is one conclumental Philoso sion the same for us all, however different the phy that is not true of yourself. views we take as to what consciousness properly is. Let consciousness be what it may, we have no source but consciousness to draw from, for our mental philosophy. We recall for a moment our own definition of consciousness, as the mind's knowledge of what it does. Perhaps it Consciousness will be best to consider consciousness in a twoconsidered in a twofold way. fold light, according to the twofold way in which we may understand the word "knowledge." Knowing, as we have seen, may mean either one particular act of the mind, occupying a mere instant of time, or a permanent state of mind, such that the mind can at will call up the idea or fact known. Consciousness is the mind's knowledge of its own acts, whether you take knowledge in the one or in the other of these two senses. Consciousness, as an act, you may perhaps decide takes the place of every other act during the moment that it occupies in being performed. Consciousness, as a state, exists continuously through all the different acts of whatever sort that the mind can perform. By virtue of consciousness the mind is at any moment capable of observing its own acts, and of making these the objects of thought. One would be tempted to guess that Two apparently this might be Sir William Hamilton's idea of ments of Hamil. Consciousness, when he calls consciousness the "general condition" of the existence of mental "modifications," "or of their existence within the sphere of intelligence," as also when he says, "whatever division of the mental phenomena may be adopted, all its members must be within consciousness itself, which must be viewed as comprehensive of the whole phenomena to be divided."* But, on the other hand, Sir William speaks of the "act of consciousness," and says: "Consciousness is an actual or living, and not a potential or dormant knowledge." These expressions forbid our giving the sense of "state," instead of "act" to Sir William's word consciousness, and leave us as much at a loss as ever for his precise teaching on this point. inconsistent state ton. language among Of course we are, any of us, quite at liberty to give such names as we please to the powers of the mind, and to mental states and actions. There is no uniform usage observed No uniform use of by different philosophers and perhaps no philosophers. usage entirely uniform by any one philosopher. I submit it as possibly a useful distinction, to make consciousness both an act and a state; that is, both A useful distinc- the momentary act, and the permanent ability tion proposed. to perform the momentary act, of observing our own mental states and operations. Whether this observing of our own mental states and operations, is done by an act absolutely simultaneous with the states and operations observed, or whether it is done by an instantaneously succeeding act, we do not yet determine. If the latter, there must sometimes be an almost infinitely swift alternation of thinking, and thinking of the thinking. * Lectures, pp. 126, 127. + Lectures, p. 133. Lectures, p. 143. SENSATION. Consciousness we have defined as the knowledge of our own mental acts or states, knowledge, first, in the sense of actual knowing done at the moment, and, secondly, in the sense of ability to do the knowing at will. Consciousness, in this twofold sense of the word, is necessarily our sole source of mental philosophy. Consciousness, let it be carefully noted, is not, as Sir William would make it to be, the total sum of the knowledge, on every subject whatsoever, that we possess; it is simply the total sum of our knowledge, actual, or, by an effort of will, possible, respecting our own mental acts or states. Whatever knowledge, other than this, we may have obtained, say, of history, physics, political economy, anything knowable, is excluded. Consciousness, as here used, includes nothing but acts or states of the mind immediately known by the mind itself. If now we consider our own acts or states of mind, we shall see at once that they naturally divide Two great classes themselves into two great classes, namely-states. first, those acts or states in realizing which the mind employs the body; and, secondly, those acts or states which depend wholly on the mind itself. When we use any one of our five senses, we are performing mental acts of the former class; when we think, remember, judge, exercise emotions, we are performing mental acts of the latter class. Let us give our attention now to mental acts in which the mind employs the body. Of these acts we may reckon two subdivisions: first, acts of sensation; secondly, acts of perception. of mental acts or Sensation is that act of the mind in which What is sensation? the mind feels by means of the body. To this definition it may be objected that the word "feel" in it is a synonym for sensation, and therefore does not define sensation. This is true, but the fault is one that could not be avoided. The idea of sensation is a simple idea which everybody has, and which nobody can truly define. The definition proposed is not a proper definition, but a statement of something that is true respecting sensation. The statement contains three things to be The statement analyzed. specially noted. The first thing is that sensation is an act. Now, of course, as everybody knows, many of our sensations arise in connection with something done to us. We, for instance, feel nothing by the sense of touch, until an object of some sort resists us. I grasp this pen with which I now write. But my act in grasping gives me no feeling of touch, until the pen meets my fingers and resists them. If the pen did not resist, I should not feel it. It is not what I do, it is what is done to me, Sensation of touch that gives me a sensation. This fact holds, encountered. equally perhaps, if not obviously, with every one of my senses that yields a true sensation. Still, though such is the case, it remains true that sensation is an act. What we suffer, that is, what is done to us, Sensation still an constitutes the occasion of our sensation, but act. the sensation itself is an act. We are passive, to be sure, but we are active, too, and, except so far as we are active we do not have a sensation, we do not feel. The feeling, the having of the sensation, is the acting which attends the being acted upon. Sensation is not the receiving of an impression, it is the feeling of the impression. You do more than simply submit to the impression; you, so to speak, respond to it, in sensation. due to resistance Yes, some one says, it is true enough that sensation is an act. But is it an act of the mind? Is it not A question raised. the body that feels in sensation? When, for instance, I am pricked with a pin in the hand, is it not my hand that feels the pain? Well, I reply, of course, in familiar language, we, not improperly, say so. But do we not all acknowledge that in strictness of speech, we ought rather to say, I feel the pain? I shall not deny that we feel the pain in the hand-but it is still we that feel it, not the hand. The hand may be cut off, and under certain circumstances, we may, so I am led to believe, continue to have a pain of which we shall naturally say, it is in the hand. Such is the feeling. This shows that Sensation is of the the feeling is not the hand's, but our own. mind. If we are absent-minded, as we say; that is, if our minds are occupied with thoughts out of relation with what is happening to us at the moment, or what we are mechanically doing, some part of our body may be wounded and we not feel the pain. A considerate dentist will, while performing an operation likely to give pain to his patient, exert himself to divert the patient's mind. Why? Because, if the mind is busy with something else, it will have less leisure to feel pain. Sensation is certainly an act, and it is certainly an act of the mind. Perhaps the active form of the participial noun "feeling," equivalent to sensation, is the testimony, indirectly borne, of popular language to the active quality in the thing thus named. The third thing in our quasi-definition of sensation requiring a remark is the last clause, "by means of the body." The body's part Sensation is distinguished from emotion by the in sensation. fact that sensation is feeling by means of the body, whereas emotion is feeling independent of the body. You can imagine the body non-existent, and still the mind experiencing emotions of joy or sorrow. On the other hand, abolish the body and you can not imagine the mind to go on having sensations, as of thirst, hunger, fatigue, pain. Hence, we may conclude that sensation is truly spoken of as that act of the mind in which the mind feels by means of the body. At this point a difficulty may be started. Some one may A difficulty. say, your quasi-definition of sensation supposes a contrast between mind and body. How do I know that such a contrast exists? Mind and body may be the same in substance, for aught that I know. I reply, I will not insist at all upon any contrast in substance between mind and The difficulty be- body. That is a question in ontology with longs to ontology, which we will not meddle here. I take what is granted. Certain it is that among the various forms of activity of which we are capable, there exists a broad line of contrast separating them into two classes. One class of A criterion for our activities have this for their distinguishing distinguishing mental from bod. mark, that they are, conceivably at least, open ily activities. to the observation of other persons than ourselves. If I move what all men agree to call my body, the movement is such that others may observe it. If, on the other hand, I exert what, by universal consent, is called my mind, such exertion is not capable of being observed by anybody but myself. Now let go the words body and mind, and consider that some of our acts are observable to others than ourselves, while some are not. Here you have a distinction that nobody can possibly deny to exist. Note well that the distinction does not depend upon conditions subject to change. The distinction lies in the nature of the The distinction absolute. case. Some of our acts are such that, whether really observed or not by others than ourselves, they at all events are capable of being so observed; while again there is a different class of our acts that you can not even conceive of as being observed by anybody but ourselves. We perceive, we feel, we think, we will, and these activities of ours are exerted without liability to any alien observation, unless we should except the omniscient observation of God. Very well, this distinction in our acts is quite enough for our purpose in the present study. Without entering at all into the question of the ultimate difference or identity between mind and body as to substance, we will satisfy ourselves with simply calling the activities that we exert wholly within ourselves, so as to be in these activities free from others' observation, we will call these activities mental, and consider them proper for examination in making up our science of the mind. According to this discrimination, then, beyond dispute sensation is a mental act. Nobody other than yourself could possibly observe you feeling. There are perhaps certain muscular, nervous, or molecular movements accompanying your sensation, which, if your body were transparent, and if your neighbor's eyes were microscopic, he might conceivably discern; but the sensation itself would infallibly elude him. You can not even imagine him seeing you feel. In this practical sense, accordingly, sensation is to be reckoned a mental act. casion of con Now sensation is a very important point in our mental experience. If we could get at the true history of our sensations, beginning from the very moment of Sensation of great philosophical imour birth, such a history would throw a flood portance. of light, greater than is ever likely to be thrown in fact, over the whole field of mental philosophy. But there is a difficulty that we can not overcome. Nobody can recollect his first sensation, much less the story of all his sensations from the beginning of his life. Reasoning backward, reasoning and guessing, not, be it remembered, Sensation probaobserving, we are almost forced to believe that bly, the first ocour first sensation, whatever it was, when- sciousness. ever it arose, however it was occasioned, our first sensation marked for us the beginning of our conscious existence. We can easily imagine an existence for ourselves without sensation of any sort, but we can not imagine such an existence as conscious. It seems probable that sensation was what first revealed to us the fact of our own being. I say revealed to us, for sensation was not itself the beginning to us of being. Sensation could not have existed without some one's existing to have the sensation. This is an irresistible belief. The contrary of the fact we can not think of as possible. On the other hand, we can not doubt that the very first sensation, or, if not the first sensation, then, at least, the first change of sensation on our part awoke within us the consciousness of individual being. We did not fully, did not vividly, awake at that first call; but we roused somewhat, and every succeeding sensation still further made us conscious of ourselves. Tennyson, with characteristic justness and wisdom of thought, hints at such a growth of consciousness occurring in the beginning of our life: The baby, new to earth and sky, And learns the use of "I" and "me," of not-self. Sensation, therefore, of whatever sort, or however caused, may be credited with being the occasion of our acquiring the idea of self. It may be by some maintained that we learn the notion of self only in immediate connection and contrast with something that is not self. But I do not see why this must needs be so. Can we'not sup- The idea of self not necessarily pose a human being experiencing first, say, dependent for its the sensation of thirst? This sensation is not origin on the idea occasioned by anything without. There are certain outward conditions, but no outward producing cause. It arises spontaneously within. Now, would not this sensation, or, if not this, then the sensation, say, of hunger, following the sensation of thirst in a degree strong enough to efface that, give to the person the idea of self? And what, in such a case, would there be to give rise in connection to the idea of not-self? For aught that occurs to me, sensation alone may furnish the idea of self, and furnish this idea quite apart from any connected and contrasted idea of not-self. This is especially true Taste of a twofold nature. of those forms of sensation, sometimes called organic, which arise independently of any immediate external cause; sensations, I mean, such as hunger, thirst, fatigue. The sensation of smell is a kind of intermediate sensaSmell an intermediate sensation. tion, that is, a sensation which does not force on the mind the idea of something not self, as the cause of the sensation, while, notwithstanding, that idea is faintly suggested. Perhaps the fact that we smell in connection with drawing in the breath, helps the impression of an outward producing cause-touch blending with smell. The sensation of taste being, as a matter of experience, always associated, and more strikingly than smell, with the sensation of touch, partakes at once of two characters: on one side, resembling smell in not obtruding, though suggesting, a cause distinct from self, and, on the other side, resembling touch in a particular presently to be mentioned. The sensation of touch is the sensation of resistance. Evidently there never could arise the sensation of touch unless our body at the point of touch met resistance. The stronger the resistance, the livelier the sensation. You scarcely feel the air, when you scarcely move in it. Quicken your motion, and, with the increased energy of resistance encountered, you experience a livelier sensation. Now, resistance has in it the very idea of something not self. You do not resist yourself. If you feel yourself resisted, you are at once aware that there is something not yourself resisting you. The sensation of touch, Touch gives clear- therefore, carries with it not only the idea of ly the idea of notself. self, but also the idea of not-self. Still it may be doubted whether after all, as a matter of human experience, touch does yield to the mind either its first idea of self, or its first idea of not-self. True it is, the world is so framed that the fact of touch begins for us all as soon as existence itself begins. As soon as we are, we must be somewhere, and wherever that is, we must rest, or be supported, on something. This fact of contact never intermits for a moment. We can not escape gravitation. But the very circumstance that touch as a fact is so early with us, and after that so constant, renders it likely that something else than touch is first to apprise us of self and not-self, of these two ideas, I mean, together and in contrast. What is that The idea of not- something else? It is, unless I mistake, someself first given in sight. thing that is not sensation at all. It is perception-perception by the eye. TO BE CONTINUED.] when all is summed up, a man never speaks of himself without loss. A man's accusations of himself are always believed; his praises never. There may be some of my complexion who better instruct me by contrariety than similtude, and more by avoiding than imitating; the elder Cato had a regard to this sort of discipline, when he said that "the wise may learn more of fools than fools of the wise;"* and Pausanias tells us of an ancient player upon the lyre, who used to make his scholars go to hear one that lived over against him, and played very ill, that they might learn to hate his discords and false measures. The horror of cruelty more inclines me to clemency than any example of clemency could do; a good rider does not so much mend my seat as an attorney or a Venetian on horseback; and a clownish way of speaking does more to reform mine than the most elegant. Every day the foolish countenance of another is advertising and advising me; that which pricks, rouses and incites, much better than that which tickles. The present time is fitting to reform us backward; more by dissenting than agreeing, by differing than consenting. Profiting little by good examples, I make use of those that are ill, which are everywhere to be found; I endeavor to render myself as agreeable as I see others offensive; as constant as I see others fickle; as affable as I see others rough; and as good as I see others evil; but I proposed to myself impracticable measures. The most fruitful and natural exercise of the mind, in my opinion, is conversation; I find the use of it more sweet than of any other action of life; and for that reason it is that, if I were now compelled to choose, I should sooner, I think, consent to lose my sight than my hearing and speech. The Athenians, and also the Romans, kept this exercise in great honor in their academies; the Italians retain some footsteps of it to this day, to their great advantage, as is manifest by the comparison of our understandings with theirs. The study of books is a languishing and feeble motion, that heats not, whereas conversation teaches and exercises at once. If I converse with a man of mind, and no flincher, who presses hard upon and digs at me right and left, his imagination raises up mine; jealousy, glory, and contention stimulate and raise me up to something above myself; unison is a quality altogether obnoxious in conversation, but as our minds fortify themselves by the communication of vigorous and regular understandings, 'tis not to be expressed how much they lose and degenerate by the continual commerce and frequentation we OF THE ART OF CONVERSATION. have with those that are mean and sickly; there is no con 'Tis a custom of our justice to condemn some for a warning to others. To condemn them for having done amiss were folly, as Plato says,* for what is done can never be undone; but 'tis that they may offend no more, and that others may avoid the example of their offense; we do not correct the man we hang; we correct others by him. I do the same; my errors are sometimes natural and incorrigible; but the good which virtuous men do the public in making themselves imitated, I perhaps may do in making my manners avoided: "Behold the son Of Albus there, and Barrus, too, undone! To caution you from squandering their estate;" while I publish and accuse my own imperfections, somebody will learn to be afraid of them. The parts I most esteem in myself derive more honor from decrying, than from commending my own manners; which is the reason why I so often fall into and so much insist upon that strain. But, *Laws, xi. tagion that spreads like that; I know sufficiently by experience what 'tis worth a yard. I love to discourse and dispute; but it is with but few men, and for myself; for to do it as a spectacle and entertainment to great persons, and to make a parade of a man's wit and power of talking is, in my opinion, very unbecoming a man of honor. Folly is a scurvy quality; but not to be able to endure it, to fret and vex at it as I do, is another sort of disease, little inferior in troublesomeness to folly itself; and this is what I would now accuse in myself. I enter into conversation and dispute with great liberty and ease, forasmuch as opinion meets in me with a soil very unfit for penetration, or taking any deep root; no propositions astonish me, no belief offends me, though never so contrary to my own; there is no fancy so frivolous and extravagant that does not seem to me a suitable product of the human mind. We, who deprive our judgments of the right of determining, look calmly at adverse opinions, and if we incline not our judgments to them, yet we easily give them the hearing. Where one scale is totally empty, I let the other waver under old wives' dreams; and I think myself excusable, if I * Plutarch, in Vitá. rather choose the odd number, Thursday rather than Friday; and if I had rather be twelfth or fourteenth than thirteenth at table; if I had rather on a journey see a hare run by me than cross my way; and rather give my man my left foot than my right, when he comes to dress me. All such whimsies as are in use amongst us deserve at least to be hearkened unto; for my part, they only with me import inanity, but they import that. Moreover, vulgar and casual opinions are something more than nothing in nature; and he who will not suffer himself to proceed so far, perhaps falls into the vice of obstinacy, to avoid that of superstition. The contradictions of judgments, then, do neither offend nor alter, they only rouse and exercise me. We evade correction, whereas we ought to offer and present ourselves to it, especially when it appears in the form of conversation, and not of dictation. At every opposition we do not consider whether or no it be just, but right or wrong, how to disengage ourselves; instead of extending the arms, we thrust out our claws. I could suffer myself to be rudely handled by my friends; "Thou art a fool; thou knowest not what thou art talking about." I love stout expressions amongst gallant men, and to have them speak as they think; we must fortify and harden our hearing against this tenderness as to ceremonious sound of words. I love a strong and manly familiarity and converse; a friendship that flatters itself in the sharpness and vigor of its communication, as love, in biting and scratching; it is not vigorous and generous enough if it be not quarrelsome, if civilized and artificial, if it treads nicely and fears a shock; Neque enim disputari, sine reprehensione, potest. "For no man can dispute without reprehending." When any one contradicts me, he raises my attention and not my anger; I advance toward him that controverts, as to one that instructs me; the cause of truth ought to be the common cause of both; what will he answer? The poison of anger has already confounded his judgment; has usurped the place of reason. It were not amiss that the decision of our disputes should be a matter of wager; that there might be a material mark of our losses, to the end we might the better remember them, and that my man might tell me: "Your ignorance and obstinacy cost you last year, at twenty times, a hundred crowns." I embrace and caress truth in what hand soever I find it, and cheerfully surrender myself, and extend to it my conquered arms, as far off as I can discover it; and, provided it be not too imperiously or airishly, take a pleasure in being reproved, and accommodate myself to my accusers, very often more by reason of civility than amend⚫ment, loving to gratify and nourish the liberty of admonition, by my facility of submitting to it, even at my own expense. *Cicero, de Finib. i. 8. CHRISTIANITY IN ART. IV. MICHAEL ANGELO'S "LAST JUDGMENT." individual appeal-"Is it I?"—we shall find that there are three forms of this appeal, represented respectively in Thomas, Philip, and James the Elder. Philip lays his his hands earnestly on his breast and calls on Christ to witness his pure heart, to judge his inmost intentions. Thomas does not seem to search within his own heart for an answer to his question, but looks only for outward assurance from Christ-"Is it I?" James the Elder presents a third form of this appeal-he remonstrates against the possibility of Christ's having meant him. It can not be possible that he would do such a thing. And yet, Christ's words have made a general charge against the whole band-"ONE of you shall betray me"-until this is made a specific charge by the further indication with the sop of bread, each disciple bears to some extent the burden of the accusation. Each one is called upon to clear himself. A's, however, there are many other feelings and thoughts which must be expressed in this picture, Da Vinci has devoted only this one group to the phase of personal inquiry regarding one's own relation to this deed. The others do not think of themselves as possible betrayers, all save the one who knows that he will do the deed. Considering the picture from this point of view, it is best to understand James the Elder as repelling the very suggestion of a possibility that he can betray his Lord. It is important, too, that we do not refer any action or expression in the picture to a knowledge of the guilt of Judas. Later, after the sop has been given, the guilty one is known. That moment would require an altogether different treatment in a painting. Here, the disciples do not yet know, though perhaps some suspect, the traitor. In contrast with Da Vinci, stands Michael Angelo as an artist. In the former, sentiment prevails rather than form and character. The individuality is expressed by gestures of the hands, minute movemeuts of the facial muscles and postures of the body. We find ourselves in the presence of beings who feel sensitively, and who do not hold back the expression of their feelings. The characters of Da Vinci are as naive as children. Michael Angelo refuses to express this immediate consciousness of one's self. He presents us | with characters moved by such momentous impulses that they are quite unconscious of their own feelings on the subject. His method is in a certain sense more appropriate for sculpture than for painting. Sculpture is fitted to express the state of the individual wherein he loses special consciousness of his bodily pain or pleasure, but is lost in a higher interest-the general interest, or the cause,-feels himself to be the type or representative of some social whole, or ethical principle. To express the sympathy for another's pain, or for one's own pain by contortions of the face, or by gestures of the hands, is not Michael Angelo's method. The expression must be a rapt absorption in the great event that is transpiring-a sort of forgetfulness of immediate feelings, in the thought of the situation. Thus Michael Angelo's pictures require more maturity in the spectator for their appreciation. One must be able to form for himself the conception which presents itself before the mind of characters portrayed. He must realize the mighty impulse of the mind which those superhuman beings embody. Great characters, moved by great occasions, they must be understood by elevating our minds to lofty thoughts and conceiving world-wide interests. I hope that the readers of THE CHAUTAUQUAN who are interested in this series of articles, have studied "The Last Supper" with care and have discovered the various "mo- Michael Angelo's sculptured figures of "Morning and tives" that animate the several characters and connect them Evening," "Day and Night," "Moses," "David," and the with the whole. One further suggestion has occurred to frescoes of the prophets and sibyls on the ceiling of the Sisme in regard to the expression given to James the Elder. I tine chapel are creations of this order-beings of extraorspoke of him as showing horror and detestation of the dinary elevation of mind, grasp of thought, breadth of traitor, in his face, and "the arms seeming to appeal to view, (imagined to be) placed in situations that are sublime Christ to interpose his power and confound the deeds of and terrible. To conceive and paint these, it was necessary such a traitor." If we interpret the idea of Da Vinci in the that Michael Angelo should move in such a world of first group at the left of Christ to be the expression of direct | thought himself and live in constant view of the great reali Another patri probably Abraham) to come to the front. archal face can be distinguished close to the Baptist's left have foretold the coming of Christ, and very likely the mother of Mary (Anna) and other ancestors. ties of time and eternity. He was a sublime soul seeing quite through the shams and injustice of society, state and church in his age, and cordially hating iniquity and hold-hand. The other persons of this group are the prophets who ing up the mirror to it in his works of art. Such a man could decorate the walls and ceilings of the Sistine chapel at Rome with those sublimest creations of modern art- | perhaps the sublimest creations that art has furnished in any age. On the ceiling we have the scenes of Old Testament history-the dealings of Jehovah with men. The prophets and sibyls appear as revealers of his word and foretellers of the coming of Christ. On the wall at the end of the chapel is painted in fresco the scene of the "Last Judgment."* The size of this painting is about forty-five feet in width by nearly sixty feet in height. It contains over four hundred human figures. These may be studied as forming fifteen groups: I.-Christ as Judge, sentencing the wicked. He sits on his throne in the midst of an immense throng of prophets, saints and martyrs. The Virgin Mother sits at his right side, but averts her face with sorrow from the wicked. Christ looks down toward his left, beholding the condemned sinners and raises his right hand showing the wound of the nail which fastened him to the cross. At the same time he holds his left hand so as to show the corresponding wound, and a slight turn of the body toward his left exhibits the spear-wound in the side, and the nail marks on the feet are clearly visible. It is the sight of these wounds that cause the descent of the groups into the lurid flames of the inferno beneath. It is not a frown of spite and malice, but a look of sorrow and tenderness mingled, that we see on Christ's face. It is not so much the words "Depart from me" that drives them into torment as the sight of their own deeds, done on him and on the martyr witnesses who form the large group at the left of Christ. These souls reap the fruit of their own deeds and they wish to escape from the sight of what they have done-even mountains are desired to cover them from view. The reprobate souls have crucified their own everlasting life. From this central figure of Christ streams the light that illuminates the angelic groups, the troops of blessed spirits, and the graves beneath giving up their dead. Only on the (our) right at the bottom of the picture we see groups lit up by the dull red flames of the inferno, which spread a ghastly glare over the faces of the demons. II.-On the left of Christ the most prominent figure is the form of Peter, bending forward and in the act of delivering up the keys that open up the doors to happiness or misery. Just beyond his face is seen that of Paul. Kneeling between Peter and Christ with his right hand upraised is Saint John; and lower down, with hands clasped is the first Christian martyr, Stephen. The face of Dante peers out between the limbs of Peter and those of Paul. Back of Peter and Paul (i. e., higher up in the picture) are to be seen the Church fathers and saints. One may look for Saint Bernard and Saint Francis (the latter is holding up his left hand showing the nail-print-he had the stigmata, or marks of the crucifixion, appear on the body). Augustine wears a turban, and near him are the other three Latin fathers, and, beyond, the four Greek fathers. Saint III. On the right of Christ a very prominent figure is John the Baptist, his right hand grasping his garment of camel's hair. David (Christ was the "Son of David") stands between the Baptist and Christ, his back partly turned toward us, his harp on his right arm. He seems to reach out to make room for the old man (one of the patriarchs, *One can get a photograph of the "Last Judgment" from John P. Soule, 338 Washington Street, Boston, Mass., for the sum of forty cents, mounted on card-board, or thirty cents, unmounted. IV. The group of martyrs is the most noticeable one in the whole picture, after those mentioned. Below the Virgin Mary, Saint Lawrence is seen with the gridiron on which he was martyred. Many others are characterized by the instruments of torture which they hold. Saint Bartholomew holds up to view the knife with which he was flayed alive, and in his other hand holds the skin flayed from his body. On his left appears Saint Simon thrusting out the saw that tortured him; Saint Philip with his cross, Saint Hippolytus with the iron currycombs, Saint Catherine with her wheel, Saint Sebastian with his arrows, and above the last Saint Andrew, holding his cross against his back. V.-Above the martyrs appear throngs of blessed spirits full of joy at meeting again. Many embrace their lost ones with great emotion. VI.-Below the martyrs are the wicked seen struggling with the seven mortal sins which in the guise of demons are dragging them down toward the pit. Lust, at the left (our right), is pulling down a cardinal whom Michael Angelo knew; intemperance (gluttony), a little below and to one side of Saint Simon, grievously besets a sinner; directly beneath him is pride, fallen the lowest; avarice has a pope by the head (the keys and bag of money tell the tale); anger, envy and indolence have each their victims. VII. To the (our) left of the mortal sins is the group of angels, of whom seven have trumpets. The one who acts as leader seems to stop the angel that points his trumpet toward the inferno, and direct him toward the graves at the right (our left). One of the "recording angels" holds the small Book of Life toward the rising just ones, while two angels support the great book containing the names of those departing toward the inferno. The cheeks of the trumpeters are distended while they fill the air with their blasts. VIII.-Lowest down, on our left, are the graves opening and all stages of decay quickening into life at the sound of the trumpets. As the dead arise and breathe again, they look up anxiously to see from whence the blasts proceed; some have a bewildered and sleepy look, some are tearing the grave wrappages from their bodies. IX. Near the pit an exciting contest is going on; some demons, issuing from the pit, between the graves and the inferno, have seized some of the risen dead and are trying to drag them off into the pit, while they struggle to free themselves, and call for help, which comes in the shape of angels, who pull them away from the demons. Note the fact that the demons are pulling the dead by their garments and by cords coiled around them-this scene is the counterpart of the seven mortal sins, it is purgatory, or the struggle to be rid of the besetting sins or demons. X.-The pit shows its cave-like entrance between the graves and the inferno where Charon's boat is loaded with sinners, and moving off toward the flames. In good engravings and photographs of good engravings, there may be seen the dim forms of demons in the gloom of the cave, watching through an opening to the (our) left the struggle going on in the grave-yard. XI. The inferno, or hell, is represented on our left at the bottom of the picture-nearly as it is described in some of the passages in the fore part of Dante's "Inferno." Charon, "with eyes of burning coal," is beating the laggard spirits with his oar and causing them to land upon the "Stygian shore." Some hold their hands over their ears to shield them from blows, some cover their heads with their mantles. Demons of various descriptions grasp them as they appear on the edge of the boat. One is taken on the back |