"
"I do not think I shall like Rubens," was my reply.
"But you will, though. Yet never judge till you have been to Antwerp."
So, during our various meanders, I kept my eye with a steady resolve
on this place. I confess I went out to see the painting without much
enthusiasm. My experience with Correggio's Notte, and some of the
celebrities of Dresden, was not encouraging. I was weary, too, with
sightseeing. I expected to find an old, dim picture, half spoiled by
cleaning, which I should be required to look into shape, by an
exercise of my jaded imagination.
Alter coming down from hearing the chimes, we went into a side room,
and sat down before the painting. My first sensation was of
astonishment, blank, absolute, overwhelming. After all that I had
seen, I had no idea of a painting like this. I was lifted off my feet,
as much as by Cologne cathedral, or Niagara Falls, so that I could
neither reason nor think whether I was pleased or not. It is
difficult, even now, to analyze the sources of this wonderful power.
The excellence of this picture does not lie, like Raphael's, in a
certain ideal spirituality, by which the scene is raised above earth
to the heavenly sphere; but rather in a power, strong, human, almost
homely, by which, not an ideal, but the real scene is forced home upon
the heart.
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