lovely landscape, and the Madonna and St. Joseph are pacing their way
along a shady path upon the banks of a river at the side of the
picture. I had not any conception, until I got near, how much pains
had been taken with the Virgin's head; its expression is as sweet and
as intense as that of any of Raffaelle's, its reality far greater. The
painter seems to have intended that everything should be subordinate
to the beauty of this single head; and the work is a wonderful proof
of the way in which a vast field of canvas may be made conducive to
the interest of a single figure. This is partly accomplished by
slightness of painting, so that on close examination, while there is
everything to astonish in the masterly handling and purpose, there is
not much perfect or very delightful painting; in fact, the two figures
are treated like the living figures in a scene at the theatre, and
finished to perfection, while the landscape is painted as hastily as
the scenes, and with the same kind of opaque size color. It has,
however, suffered as much as any of the series, and it is hardly fair
to judge of its tones and colors in its present state.

4. _Massacre of the Innocents._ The following account of this picture,
given in "Modern Painters," may be useful to the traveller, and is
therefore here repeated. "I have before alluded to the painfulness of
Raffaelle's treatment of the Massacre of the Innocents. Fuseli affirms
of it, that, 'in dramatic gradation he disclosed all the mother
through every image of pity and terror.' If this be so, I think the
philosophical spirit has prevailed over the imaginative. The
imagination never errs; it sees all that is, and all the relations
and bearings of it; but it would not have confused the mortal frenzy
of maternal terror, with various development of maternal character.
Fear, rage, and agony, at their utmost pitch, sweep away all
character: humanity itself would be lost in maternity, the woman would
become the mere personification of animal fury or fear. For this
reason all the ordinary representations of this subject are, I think,
false and cold: the artist has not heard the shrieks, nor mingled with
the fugitives; he has sat down in his study to convulse features
methodically, and philosophize over insanity. Not so Tintoret.
Knowing, or feeling, that the expression of the human face was, in