The sixth chapel deals with the Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple.  The Virgin is very small, but it must be remembered that she is only seven years old and she is not nearly so small as she is at Crea, where though a life-sized figure is intended, the head is hardly bigger than an apple.  She is rushing up the steps with open arms towards the High Priest, who is standing at the top.  For her it is nothing alarming; it is the High Priest who appears frightened; but it will all come right in time.  The Virgin seems to be saying, “Why, don’t you know me?  I’m the Virgin Mary.”  But the High Priest does not feel so sure about that, and will make further inquiries.  The scene, which comprises some twenty figures, is animated enough, and though it hardly kindles enthusiasm, still does not fail to please.  It looks as though of somewhat older date than the Birth of the Virgin chapel, and I should say shows more signs of direct Valsesian influence.  In Marocco’s book about Oropa it is ascribed to Aureggio, but I find it difficult to accept this.

The seventh, and in many respects most interesting chapel at Oropa, shows what is in reality a medieval Italian girl school, as nearly like the thing itself as the artist could make it; we are expected, however, to see in this the high-class kind of Girton College for young gentlewomen that was attached to the Temple at Jerusalem, under the direction of the Chief Priest’s wife, or some one of his near female relatives.  Here all well-to-do Jewish young women completed their education, and here accordingly we find the Virgin, whose parents desired she should shine in every accomplishment, and enjoy all the advantages their ample means commanded.

I have met with no traces of the Virgin during the years between her Presentation in the Temple and her becoming head girl at Temple College.  These years, we may be assured, can hardly have been other than eventful; but incidents, or bits of life, are like living forms—­it is only here and there, as by rare chance, that one of them gets arrested and fossilized; the greater number disappear like the greater number of antediluvian molluscs, and no one can say why one of these flies, as it were, of life should get preserved in amber more than another.  Talk, indeed, about luck and cunning; what a grain of sand as against a hundredweight is cunning’s share here as against luck’s.  What moment could be more humdrum and unworthy of special record than the one chosen by the artist for the chapel we are considering?  Why should this one get arrested in its flight and made immortal when so many worthier ones have perished?  Yet preserved it assuredly is; it is as though some fairy’s wand had struck the medieval Miss Pinkerton, Amelia Sedley, and others who do duty instead of the Hebrew originals.  It has locked them up as sleeping beauties, whose charms all may look upon.  Surely the hours are like the women grinding at the mill—­the one is taken and the other left, and none can give the reason more than he can say why Gallio should have won immortality by caring for none of “these things.”