experiences that the means of expression are multiplied. The inner
meaning of what they have wrought, its message, its morality, its
subtler spirit, the artists do not care ever to talk over, even with
each other. This is intangible and incommunicable; and it is too
personal, too intimate, to be vulgarized in words; it is to be felt
rather than phrased. Above all, it must speak for itself, for it is
there because it had to be there, and not because the artist put it
there deliberately. If he has not builded better than he knew, then is
the result of his labor limited and narrow. A story is told of
Thorwaldsen in his old age, when a friend found him disconsolate before
a finished statue and inquired if he was despondent because he had not
been able to realize his ideal. And the sculptor responded that, on the
contrary, he had realized his ideal, and therefore he was downcast; for
the first time his hand had been able to accomplish all that his mind
had planned.

"Neither in life, nor even in literature and in art, can we always do
what we intend to do," M. Brunetière once asserted, adding that, "in
compensation, we have not always intended to do all that we have
actually accomplished." Often no one is more astonished than the artist
himself--be he poet or painter--at what the critics sometimes find in
his work; and he is frankly unaware of any intention on his part to do
all the fine things which he is told that he has done. But the critics
may be justified, despite the disclaimer of the artist; and the fine
things are, of a truth, to be discovered even tho they get into the work
by accident, as it were, and even tho they may be the result of an
intention which was either unconscious on the artist's part, or
subconscious.

We cannot help feeling the sublimity so obvious in the frescos of the