their fur caps, they become
almost ogres, even as they must have done in the popular mind. The
shooting of deserters and prisoners is reduced to the figures at the
stake, the six carbine muzzles facing them: no shooting soldiers, no
stocks to the carbines, any more than in the feeling of the man who
was being shot. The artistic training, the habit of deliberately or
unconsciously looking for visible effects which all educated moderns
possess, prevents even our writers from thus reproducing what has been
the actual mental reality. But Goya does not for a moment let us suspect
the presence of the artist, the quasi-writer. The impression reproduced
is the impression, not of the artistic bystander, but of the sufferer or
the sufferer's comrades. This makes him extraordinarily faithful to the
epigraphs of his plates. We feel that the woman, all alone, without
bystanders, earthworks, fascines, smoke, &c., firing off the cannon,
is the woman as she is remembered by the creature who exclaims, "Que
valor!" We feel that the half-dead soldier being stripped, the condemned
turning his head aside as far as the rope will permit, the man fallen
crushed beneath his horse or vomiting out his blood, is the wretch who
exclaims, "Por eso soy nacido!" They are, these etchings of Goya's, the
representation of the sufferings, real and imaginative, of the real
sufferers. In the most absolute sense they are the art which does not
merely show, but tells; the suggestive and dramatic art of the individual,
unaided and unhampered by tradition, indifferent to form and technicality,
the art which even like the art of the immediate predecessors of Giotto,
those Giuntas and Berlinghieris, who left us the hideous and terrible
Crucifixions, says to the world, "You shall understand and feel."

TUSCAN SCULPTURE

I

We are all of us familiar with the two adjacent rooms at South Kensington
which contain, respectively, the casts from antique sculpture and those
from the sculpture of the Renaissance; and we are familiar also with the
sense of irritation or of relief which accompanies our passing from
one of them to the other. This feeling is typical of our frame of mind
towards various branches of the same art, and, indeed, towards all
things which might be alike, but happen to be unlike. Times, countries,
nations, temperaments, ideas, and tendencies, all benefit and suffer
alternately by our habit of considering that if two things of one sort
are n