6 ERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Uh "^RolTY OF 
 C >^LlFORNIA 
 
St. Makk's Eest 
 
 THE HISTORY OF VENICE 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE HELP QF THE FEW TRAVELLERS WHO STILL 
 CARE FOR HER MONUMENTS 
 
 JOHN RUSKIN, LL.D. 
 
 HONORAEY STUDENT OF CHRIST CHURCH, AND SLADE PROFESSOR OF FINE ART, OXFORD 
 
 I. BURDEN OP TYRE. 11. LATRATOR ANUBIS 
 
 III. ST. JAMES OF THE DEEP STREAM 
 
 IV. ST. THEODORE THE CHAIR-SELLER 
 V. THE SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 VI. RED AND WHITE CLOUDS 
 Vn. DIVINE RIGHTS. VIII. THE REQUIEM 
 
 SUPPLElVrENTS 
 
 FIRST— THE SHRINE OP THE SLAVES 
 SECOND— THE PLACE OP DRAGONS 
 
 APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VUL 
 
 SANCTU8, S.VNCTUS, SANCTU8 
 
 NEW YORK 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COIVIPANY 
 
 14 AND 16 Vesey Street 
 
TROWS 
 
 ««filNTING AND BOOKBINDING COMMIW|» 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
X)(a 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Great nations write their autobiographies in three manu- 
 scripts — the book of tlieir deeds, the book of their words, and 
 the book of their art. Not one of these books can be under- 
 stood unless w^e read the two others ; but of the three, the 
 only quite trustworthy one is the last. The acts of a nation 
 may be triumphant by its good fortune ; and its words mighty 
 by the genius of a few of its children : but its art, only by 
 the general gifts and common sympathies of the race. 
 
 Again, the policy of a nation may be compelled, and, there- 
 fore, not indicative of its true character. Its words may be 
 false, while yet the race remain unconscious of their false- 
 hood ; and no historian can assuredly detect the h^^ocrisy. 
 But art is always instinctive ; and the honesty or pretence of 
 it are therefore open to the day. The Delphic oracle may or 
 may not have been spoken by an honest priestess, — we cannot 
 tell by the words of it ; a liar may rationally believe them a 
 lie, such as he would himself have spoken ; and a true man, 
 with equal reason, may believe them spoken in:, truth. But 
 there is no question possible in art : at a glance (when we 
 have learned to read), we know the religion of Angehco to be 
 sincere, and of Titian, assumed. 
 
 The evidence, therefore, of the third book is the most vital 
 to our knowledge of any nation's life ; and the history of 
 Venice is chiefly written in such manuscript. It once lay 
 open on the waves, miraculous, like St. Cuthbert's book, — a 
 pfolden legend on countless leaves : now, like Baruch's roll, it 
 is being cut with the penknife, leaf by leaf, and consumed in 
 the fire of the most biiitish of the fiends. What fragments 
 of it may yet be saved in blackened scroll, like those withered 
 Cottonian relics in our National library, of which so much haa 
 
 047 
 
4 PUEFAGE. 
 
 been redeemed by love and skill, this book will help you, 
 partly, to read. Partly,— for I know only myself in part ; but 
 what I tell you, so far as it reaches, will be truer than you 
 have heard hitherto, because founded on this absolutely faith- 
 ful witness, despised by other historians, if not wholly unin- 
 telligible to them. 
 
 I am obliged to write shortly, being too old now to spare 
 time for any thing more than needful work ; and I write at 
 speed, careless of afterwards remediable mistakes, of which 
 adverse readers may gather as many as they choose : that to 
 which such readers are adverse will be found truth that can 
 abide any quantity of adversity. 
 
 As I can get my chapters done, they shall be published in 
 this form, for such service as they can presently do. The 
 entire book will consist of not more than twelve such parts, 
 with two of appendices, forming two volumes : if I can get 
 what I have to say into six parts, with one appendix, all the 
 better. 
 
 Two separate little guides, one to the Academy, the other 
 to San Giorgio de' Schiavoni, will, I hope, be ready with the 
 opening numbers of this book, which must depend somewhat 
 on their collateral illustration ; and what I find likely to be 
 of service to the traveller in my old * Stones of Venice 'is in 
 course of re-publication, with further illustration of the com- 
 plete works of Tintoret. But this cannot be ready till the 
 autumn ; and what I have said of the mightiest of Venetian 
 masters, in my lecture on his relation to Michael Angelo, will 
 be enough at preseixt to enable the student to complete the 
 range of his knowWge to the close of the story of 'St. 
 Mark's Kesi' 
 
s:.^r^.r ■ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOS 
 
 Preface 3 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 The Burden of Tyre 7 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 loATRATOR ANUBIS 15 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 St. James of the Deep Stream 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 St. Theodore the Chair-Seller 32 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 The Shadow on the Dial 43 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Red and White Clouds 49 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Divine Right 55 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 The Requiem 63 
 
 Note on the Mosaics op St. Mark's 87 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SUPPLEMENT I. 
 The Shrine of the Slaves 89 
 
 SUPPLEMENT IL 
 
 Edited by J. Buskin. 
 
 The Place of Dragons • 123 
 
 APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Edited by J. Buskin. 
 
 Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus 155 
 
 Index 181 
 
r'^f^'' -^r^ ' 
 
 ST. MARK^S REST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BUEDEN OF TYKE. 
 
 Go first into the Piazetta, and stand anywhere in the shade, 
 where you can well see its two granite pillars. 
 
 Your Murray tells you that they are ' famous,' and that tlio 
 one is "surmounted by the bronze lion of Si Mark, the other 
 by the statue of St. Theodore, the Protector of the Republic." 
 
 It does not, however, tell you why, or for what the pillars 
 are * famous.' Nor, in reply to a question which might con- 
 ceivably occur to the curious, why St. Theodore should pro- 
 tect the Republic by standing on a crocodile ; nor whether the 
 *' bronze lion of St. Mark " was cast by Sir Edwin Landseer, 
 — or some more ancient and ignorant person ; nor what these 
 rugged corners of limestone rock, at the bases of the granite, 
 were perhaps once in the shape of. Have you any idea why, 
 for the sake of any such things, these pillars were once, or 
 should yet be, more renowned than the Monument, or the 
 column of the Place Vendome, both of which are mucli 
 bigger ? 
 
 Well, they are famous, first, in memorial of something 
 which is better worth remembering than the fire of London. 
 or the achievements of the great Napoleon. And they ar 
 famous, or used to be, among artists, because they are beau- 
 tiful columns ; nay, as far as we old artists know, the most 
 beautiful columns at present extant and erect in the convei 
 iently visitable world. 
 
 Each of these causes of their fame I will try in some dim 
 degTee to set before you. 
 
8 8T. MARK'S REST. 
 
 I said hey were set there in memory of things, — not of the 
 man whv did the things. They are to Venice, in fact, what 
 the Nelsr^n column would be to London, if, instead of a statue 
 of Nelson and a coil of rope, on the top of it, we had put one 
 of the four Evangelists, and a saint, for the praise of the Gos- 
 pel and of iloliness : — trusting the memory of Nelson to our 
 own souls. 
 
 However, t^*^ memory of the Nelson of Venice, being now 
 seven hundred y^ars old, has more or less faded from the heart 
 of Venice herself^ and seldom finds its way into the heart of a 
 stranger. Somewhat concerning him, though a stranger, you 
 may care to hear, but you must hear it in quiet ; so let your 
 boatmen take you across to San Giorgio Maggiore ; there you 
 can moor your gondola under the steps in the shade, and read 
 in peace, looking up at i-he pillars when you like. 
 
 In the year 1117, when the Doge Ordelafo Falier had been 
 killed under the walls of Z^ra, Venice chose, for his successor, 
 Domenico Michiel, Michael of the Lord, * Cattolico nomo e 
 audace,'^ a catholic and brave-, man, the servant of God and of 
 St. Michael. 
 
 Another of Mr. Murray's publications for your general as- 
 sistance (* Sketches from Venetian History ') informs you that, 
 at this time, the ambassadors of ihe King of Jerusalem (the 
 second Baldwin) were " awakening the pious zeal, and stimu- 
 lating the commercial appetite, of the Venetians." 
 
 This elegantly balanced sentence is meant to suggest to you 
 that the Venetians had as little piety as we have ourselves, and 
 were as fond of money — that article being the only one which 
 an Englishman could now think of, as an object of " commer- 
 cial appetite." 
 
 The facts which take this aspect to the lively cockney, are, 
 in reality, that Venice was sincerely pious, and intensely covet- 
 ous. But not covetous merely of money. She was covetous, 
 first, of fame ; secondly, of kingdom ; thirdly, of pillars of 
 
 ' Marin Sanuto. Vitae Ducum Venetorum, henceforward quoted as 
 v., with references to the pages of Miiratori's edition. See Appendix, 
 Art. 1, which with following appendices will be given in a separate 
 number as soon as there are enough to form one. 
 
THE niJWKX OF TYRE. 
 
 mai'blc and granite, siicli as these that you see ; lastly, and 
 quite principally, of the relics of good peopla Such an ' ap- 
 petite,' oli]^-f()]!ir]i^wl roflnu'v frioixl i^ not wholly * commer- 
 cial/ 
 
 To the nation in tins religiously covetous hunger, Baldwin 
 appealed^ a captive to the Saracen. The Pope sent letters to 
 press his suit, and the Doge Michael called the State to coun- 
 cil in the church of St Mark. There he, and the Primate of 
 Venice, and her nobles, and such of the people as had due en- 
 trance with them, by way of beginning the business, cele- 
 brated the Mass of the Holy Spirit Then the Primate read 
 the Pope's letters aloud to the assembly ; then the Doge made 
 the assembly a sj^eech. And there was no opi>osition party 
 in that parliament to make opposition speeches ; and there 
 were no reports of the speech next morning in any Times 
 or Daily Telegraph. And there were no plenipotentiaries 
 sent to the East, and back again. But the vote passed for 
 war. 
 
 The Doge left his son in charge of the State ; and sailed for 
 the Holy Land, with forty, galleys and twenty-eight beaked 
 ships of battle — "ships which were jDainted with divers 
 colors," ' far seen in pleasant splendor. 
 
 Some faded likeness of them, twenty years ago, might be 
 seen in the painted sails of the fishing lx)ats which lay crowded, 
 in lowly lustre, where the development of civilization now only 
 brings black steam-tugs,' to bear the people of Venice to the 
 bathing-machines of Lido, covering their Ducal Palace with 
 soot, and consuming its sculptures with sulphurous acid. 
 
 The beaked ships of the Doge Michael had each a hundred 
 oars, — each oar pulled by two men, not accommodated with 
 sliding seats, but breathed well for their great boat-race be- 
 tween the shores of Greece and Italy, — whose names, alas, vnWi 
 
 ' * The Acts of God, by the Franks.' Afterwards quoted as G. (Gesta 
 Dei). Again, see Appendix, Art. 1. 
 
 - The sails may still be seen scattered farther east along the Riva ; but 
 the beauty of the scene, wliich gave some image of the pa.st, was in their 
 rombination with the Ducal Pahu itli the new French and K: 
 
 lish lie.stauruuts. 
 
10 ST. MARK'S BEST, 
 
 the names of their trainers, are noteless in the journals of the 
 barbarous time. 
 
 They beat their way across tlie waves, nevertheless/ to the 
 place by the sea-beach in Palestine where Dorcas worked for 
 the poor, and St. Feter lodged with his namesake tanner. 
 There, showing* first but a squadron of a few ships, they drew 
 the Saracen fleet out to sea, and so set upon them. 
 
 And the Doge, in his true Duke's j^lace, first in his beaked 
 ship, led for the Saracen admiral's, struck her, and sunk her. 
 And his host of falcons followed to the slaughter r and to the 
 prey also, — for the battle was not without gratification of the 
 commercial appetite. The Venetians took a number of ships 
 containing precious silks, and " a quantity of drugs and pep- 
 per." 
 
 After which battle, the Doge went up io Jerusalem, there 
 to take further counsel concerning the use of his Venetian 
 power ; and, being received there with honor, kept his Christ- 
 mas in the mountain of the Lord. 
 
 In the council of war that followed, debate became stern 
 whether to undertake the siege of Tyre or Ascalon. The 
 judgments of men being at pause, the matter was given to the 
 judgment of God. They put the names of the two cities in 
 an urn, on the altar of the Church of the Sepulchre. An or- 
 phan child was taken to draw the lots, who, putting his hand 
 into the urn, drew^ out the name of Tyre. 
 
 Which name you may have heard before, and read perhaps 
 words concerning her fall — careless always ivhen the fall took 
 place, or whose sword smote her. 
 
 She was still a glorious city, still queen of the treasures of 
 the sea ; ^ chiefly renowned for her work in glass and in 
 purple ; set in command of a rich plain, " irrigated with plen- 
 tiful and perfect w^aters, famous for its sugar-canes ; ' fortissi- 
 
 ^ Oars, of course, for calm, and adverse winds, only ; bright sails full 
 to the helpful breeze. 
 
 "^ '' Passava tuttavia per la pin j^opolosa e commerciante di Siria." — 
 Romanin, ' Storia Documentata di Venezia,' Venice, 1853, vol. ii , 
 whence I take what else is said in the text ; but see in the Gesta Dei, 
 tlie older Marin Sanuto, lib. iii., pars. vi. cap. xii., and pars. xiv. cap. ii. 
 
TUK BURDEN OF TYRE. i i 
 
 ma,' she lici-solf, upon her rock, double walled towards the 
 ^ea, treble walled to the l-vDd ; jdkI. lo all s<M"Uiiii"-, iinc.on- 
 qaerable but by famiue. 
 
 For their help in this great siege, the V enetians made their 
 I'onditions. 
 
 That in every city subject to the King of Jerusalem, the 
 Venetians should have a street, -^ square, a bath, and a bake- 
 house : that is to say, a pL^u;e to live in, a place to meet in, 
 and due command of water and bread, all free of tax ; that 
 they should use their own balances, weights, and measures 
 (not by any means false ones, you will please to observe) ; 
 and that the King of Jerusalem should pay annually to the 
 Doge of Venice, on the Feast of Si Peter and St Paul, three 
 hundred Saracen byzants. 
 
 Such, with due approval of the two Apostles of the Gen- 
 tiles, being the claims of these Gentile mariners from the 
 King of the Holy Cit}^ the same were accepted in these terms : 
 ''In the name of the Holy and undivided Trinity of the 
 Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, these are the treaties 
 which Baldwin, second King of the Latins in Jerusalem, made 
 with St. Mark and Dominicus Michael " ; and ratified by the 
 signatures of — 
 
 GuARiMOND, Patriarch of Jerusalem ; 
 
 Ebremaii, Ai'chbishop of C^esarea ; 
 
 Beunaiu), Archbishop of Nazareth ; 
 
 AsQuiRiN, Bishop of Bethlehem ; 
 
 GoLDUMus, Abbot of St. Mary's, in the Vale of Jehoshaphat ; 
 
 AcciL\RD, Prior of the Temple of the Lord ; 
 
 Gerard, Prior of the Holy Sepulchre ; 
 
 Arnard, Prior of Mount Syon ; and 
 
 Hugo de Pagano, Master of the Soldiers of the Temple. 
 
 With others many, whose names are in the chronicle 
 
 of Andrea Dandolo. 
 
 And thereupon tiie i^ rciich crusaders by land, and the Vene- 
 tians by sea, drew line of siege round Tyre. 
 
 You will not expect me here, at St. George's steps, to gi\( 
 
12 S7\ MARK'S REST, ^ 
 
 account of the various mischief done on each other with the 
 dart, the stone, and the fire, by the Christian and Saracen, 
 day by day. Both were at last wearied, when report came of 
 help to the Tynans by an army from Damascus, and a fleet 
 from Egypt. Upon wliich news, discord arose in the invad- 
 ing camp ; and rumor went abroad that the Venetians would 
 desert their allies, and save themselves in their fleet. TKese 
 reports coming to the ears of the Doge, he took (according to 
 tradition) the sails from his ships' masts, and the rudders 
 from their stems,' and brought sails, rudders, and tackle 
 ashore, and into the French camp, adding to these, for his 
 pledge, " grave words." 
 
 The French knights, in shame of their miscreance, bade 
 him refit his ships. The Count of Tripoli and William of 
 Bari were sent to make head against the Damascenes ; and 
 the Doge, leaving ships enough to blockade the port, sailed 
 himself, with what could be spared, to find the Egyptian fleet. 
 He sailed to Alexandria, showed his sails along the coast in 
 defiance, and returned. 
 
 Meantime his coin for payment of his mariners was spent. 
 He did not care to depend on remittances. He struck a 
 coinage of leather, with St. Mark's and his own shield on it, 
 promising his soldiers that for every leathern rag, so signed, 
 at Venice, there should be given a golden zecchin. And his 
 word was taken ; and his word was kept. 
 
 So the steady siege went on, till the Tyrians lost hope, and 
 asked terms of surrender. 
 
 They obtained secunty of person and property, to the in- 
 dignation of the Christian soldiery, who had expected the 
 sack of Tyre. The city was divided into three parts, of which 
 
 ' By doing this he left his fleet helpless before an enemy, for naval 
 warfare at this time depended wholly on the fine steering of the ships 
 at the ^moment of onset. But for all ordinary mana3uvres necessary 
 for the safety of the fleet in harbor, their oars were enough. Andrea 
 Dandolo says he took a plank ("tabula") out of each ship, — a more 
 fatal injury. I suspect the truth to have been that he simply un- 
 shipped the rudders, and brought them into camp ; a grave speechless 
 symbol, earnest enough, but not costly of useless labor. 
 
77//; nUIlDKN OF TYUK. I = 
 
 iwo wci-c ['i I ; the Kin^ of Jorusalcm, the third 1 
 \ (iuetians. 
 
 How 13al{i\vm govt'nuMi ins two liiirds, i (io iioi know, nor 
 A\ hat capacity there was in the Tyrians of being governed at 
 all. But the Venetians, for their third part, appointed a 
 * bailo * to do civil justice, and a ' viscount ' to answer for mili- 
 tary defence ; and appointed magistrates under these, who, 
 '11 entering office, took the following oath : — 
 
 ''I swear on the holy Gospels of God, that sincerely and 
 ^^ ithout fraud I will do right to all men who are under the 
 jurisdiction of Venice in the city of Tyre ; and to every other 
 who shall be brought before me for judgment, according to 
 the ancient use and law of the city. And so far as I know 
 not, and am left uninformed of that, I will act by such rule as 
 shall appear to me just, according to the appeal and answer. 
 Farther, I will give faithful and honest counsel to the Bailo 
 and the Viscount, ivhen lam asked for it ; and if they share any 
 secret with me, I will keep it ; neither will I procure by 
 fraud, good to a friend, nor evil to an enemy." And thus the 
 Venetian state planted stable colonies in Asia. 
 
 Thus far Eomanin ; to whom, nevertheless, it does not 
 occur to ask what ' establishing colonies in Asia ' meant for 
 Venice. Whether they were in Asia, Africa, or the Island of 
 Atlantis, did not at this time greatly matter ; but it mattered 
 infinitely that they were colonies living in fnendly relations 
 loith the Saracen, and that at the very same moment arose 
 cause of quite other than friendly relations, between tli^ Vo- 
 netian and the Greek. 
 
 For while the Doge Michael fought for the Christian king 
 lit Jerusalem, the Chiistiau emperor at Byzantium attacked 
 the defenceless states of Venice, on the mainland of Dalmatia, 
 and seized their cities. Whereupon the Doge set sail home- 
 wards, fell on the Greek islands of the Egean, and took the 
 spoil of them ; seized Cephalonia ; recovered the lost cities of 
 Dalmatia ; compelled the Greek emperor to sue for peace, — 
 gave it, in angiy sconi ; and set his sails at last for his own 
 Rial to, with i\\Q sceptres of Tyro and of Byzantiui 
 the feet of Venica 
 
14 ST. MARICS REST. 
 
 Spoil also lie brought, enoiigh, of such commercial kind as 
 Venice valued. These pillars that you look upon, of rosy and 
 gray rock ; and the dead bodies of St. Donato and St. Isidore. 
 
 He thus returned, in 1126 : Fate had left him yet four 
 years to live. In which, among other homely work, he made 
 the beginning for you (oh much civilized friend, you will at 
 least praise him in this) of these mighty gaseous illuminations 
 by which Venice provides for your seeing her shop-wares by 
 night, and provides against your seeing the moon, or stars, or 
 sea. 
 
 For, finding the narrow streets of Venice dark, and oppor- 
 tune for robbers, he ordered that at the heads of them there 
 should be set little tabernacles for images of the saints, and 
 bdlPore each a light kept burning. Thus he commands, — not 
 as thinking that the saints themselves had need of candles, 
 but that they would gladly grant to poor mortals in danger, 
 material no less than heavenly light. 
 
 And having in this pretty and lowly beneficence ended 
 what work he had to do in this world, feeling his strength 
 fading, he laid down sword and ducal robe together ; and be- 
 came a monk, in this island of St. George, at the shore of 
 which you are reading : but the old monastery on it which 
 sheltered him was destroyed long ago, that this stately Palla- 
 dian portico might be built, to delight Mr. Eustace on his 
 classical tour, — and other such men of renown, — and persons 
 of excellent taste, like yourself. 
 
 And there he died, and was buried ; and there he lies, vir- 
 tually tombless ; the place of his grave you find by going 
 down the steps on your right hand behind the altar, leading 
 into what was yet a monastery before the last Italian revolu- 
 tion, but is now a finally deserted loneliness. 
 
 Over his grave there is a heap of frightful modern uj)hol- 
 sterer's work, — Longhena's ; his first tomb (of which you may 
 see some probable likeness in those at the side of St. John 
 and St. Paul) being removed as too modest and time worn for 
 the vulgar Venetian of the seventeenth century; and this, 
 that you see, put up to please the Lord Mayor and the 
 beadles. 
 
LaTRATOR an V bis. 15 
 
 The old inscription wiis copied on the rotten black slate 
 which is breaking away in thin flakes, dimmed by dusty salt. 
 The beginning of it yet remains : '* Here lies the Terror of 
 the Greeks." Ilead also the last lines : 
 
 ** Whosoever thou art, who comest to behold this tomb of 
 HIS, BOW thyself down before God, because of him." 
 
 Of these things, then, the two pillars before you are 
 ' famous ' in memorial. What in themselves they i:)Ossess 
 deserving honor, we will next try to discern. But you must 
 row a little nearer to the pillars, so as to see them clearly. 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 latrator anubis. 
 
 I said these pillars were the most beautiful known to me ; 
 but you must understand this saying to be of the whole jiillar 
 — group of base, shaft, and capital — not only of theii' shafts. 
 
 You know so much of architecture, perhaps, as that an 
 * order ' of it is the system, connecting a shaft with its capital 
 iud cornice. And you can surely feel so much of architect- 
 ure, as that, if you took the heads off these pillars, and set 
 the granite shafts simply upright on the pavement, they 
 would perhaps remind you of ninepins, or rolUng-pins, but 
 would in no wise contribute either to respectful memory of 
 the Doge Michael, or to the beauty of the Piazzetta. 
 
 Their beauty, which has been so long instinctively felt by 
 ! rtists, consists then first in the proportion, and then in the 
 ( ropriety of their several parts. Do not confuse proportion 
 \ ith propriety. An elephant is as properly made as a stag ; 
 
 ut he is not so gracefully proportioned. In fine architect- 
 ure, and all other fine arts, grace and propriety meet. 
 
 I will take the fitness first. You sec that both these pillars 
 
 ave wide bases of successi^ )U can feel that these 
 
 ' Restored,— l)ut they always niu.-t '. . * i , ' ; 
 
 portion. 
 
IC) ST. MARK'S BEST. 
 
 would be ' improper ' round the pillars of an arcade in which 
 people walked, because they would be in the way. But they 
 are proper here, because they tell us the pillar is to be iso- 
 lated, and that it is a monument of importance. Look from 
 these shafts to the arcade of the Ducal Palace. Its pillars 
 have been found fault with for w^anting bases. But they 
 were meant to be walked beside without stumbling. 
 
 Next, you see the tops of the capitals of the great pillars 
 spread wide, into flat tables. You can feel, surely, that these 
 are entirely * proper,' to afford room for the statues they are 
 to receive, and that the edges, wdiich bear no weight, may 
 ' properly ' extend widely. But suppose a weight of superin- 
 cumbent wall were to be laid on these pillars ? The extent 
 of capital which is now graceful, would then be weak and 
 ridiculous. 
 
 Thus far of j^ropriety, whose simple laws are soon satisfied : 
 next, of proportion. 
 
 You see that one of the shafts — the St. Theodore's — is much 
 more slender than the other. 
 
 One general law of proportion is that a slender shaft should 
 have a slender capital, and a ponderous shaft, a ponderous 
 one. 
 
 But had this law been here followed, the companion pillars 
 would have instantly become ill-matched. The eye would 
 have discerned in a moment the fat pillar and the lean. They 
 would never have become the fraternal pillars — ' the two ' of 
 the Piazzetta. 
 
 With subtle, scarcely at first traceable, care, the designer 
 varied the curves and weight of his capitals ; and gave the 
 massive head to the slender shaft, and the slender capital to 
 the massive shaft. And thus they stand in symmetry, and 
 uncontending equity. 
 
 Next, for the form of these capitals themselves, and the 
 date of them. 
 
 You will find in the guide-books that though the shafts 
 were brought home by the Doge in 1126, no one could be 
 found able to set them up, until the year 1171, when a certain 
 Lombard, called Nicholas of the Barterers, raised them, and 
 
L. I riiA roil AX cms, 1 7 
 
 for reward of such engineering skill, bargained that he might 
 keep tables for forbidden games of chance between the shafts. 
 Whereupon the Senate ord-r^d f^'^^ pvp.Mitio^.c cl.onL} f^l^r) 
 lake place between them. 
 
 You read, and smile, and pass on with a dim sense of iiav- 
 ing heard something like a good story. 
 
 Yes ; of which I will pmy you to remark, that at that un- 
 civilized time, games of chance were forbidden in Venice, and 
 that in these modern civiUzed times they are not forbidden ; 
 and one, that of the lotteiy, even promoted by the Govern- 
 ment as gainful : and that perhaps the Venetian people might 
 find itself more prosperous on the whole by obeying that law 
 of their fathers,' and ordering that no lottery should be di"xiwn, 
 except in a place where somebody had been hanged.^ But 
 the curious thing is that while this pretty story is never for- 
 gotten, about the raising of the pillars, nothing is ever so 
 much as questioned about who put their tops and bases to 
 them ! — nothing about the resolution that lion or saint should 
 stand to preach on them, — nothing about the Saint's sermon, 
 or the Lion's ; nor enough, even, concerning the name or oc- 
 cupation of Nicholas the Barterer, to lead the pensive traveller 
 into a profitable observance of the appointment of Fate, that 
 in this Tyre of the West, the city of merchants, her monu- 
 ments of triumph over the TjTe of the East should forever 
 stand signed by a tradition recording the stern judgment of 
 her youth against the gambler's lust, which was the passion 
 of her old age. 
 
 But now of the capitals themselves. If you are the least 
 interested in architecture, should it not be of some import- 
 ance to you to note the style of them ? Twelfth century 
 capitals, as fresh as when they came from the chisel, are not 
 to be seen every day, or everywhere — much less capitals like 
 these, a fathom or so broad and high ! And if you know the 
 
 iiiuial oi" it y 
 
 •^ It orders iicv should be at the fo 
 
 Campanile ; and, weekly, tiie mob of Venire, patli 
 lilis the marble ])orcliefj with it.s anxious murmur. 
 
18 m\ MAUK'S llEST, 
 
 architecture of England and France in the twelfth century, 
 3'Ou will find these capitals still more interesting from their 
 extreme difference in manner. Not the least like our clumps 
 and humps and cushions, are they ? For these are living 
 Greek w^ork, still ; not savage Norman or clumsy Northum- 
 brian, these ; but of pure Corinthian race ; yet, with Venetifin 
 practicalness of mind, solidified from the rich clusters of light 
 leafage which wei-e their ancient form. You must find time 
 for a little practical cutting of capitals yourself, before you 
 wdll discern the beauty of these. There is nothing like a 
 littl<^ work with the fingers for teaching the eyes. 
 
 As you go home to lunch, therefore, buy a pound of Gruyere 
 cheese, or of any other equally tough and bad, wdth as few 
 holes in it as may be. And out of this pound of cheese, at 
 lunch, cut a solid cube as neatly as you can. 
 
 Now all treatment of capitals depends primarily on the way 
 in which a cube of stone, like this of cheese, is left by the 
 carver square at the top, to carry the w^all, and cut round at 
 the bottom to fit its circular pillar. Proceed therefore to cut 
 your cube so that it may fit a round pillar of cheese at the 
 bottom, such as is extracted, for tasting, by magnanimous 
 cheesemongers, for customers worth their while. Your first 
 namral proceeding will of course be to cut off four corners ; 
 so making an octagon at the bottom, which is a good part of 
 the w^ay to a circle. Now if you cut off those corners with 
 rather a long, sweeping cut, as if you were cutting a pencil, 
 you will see that already you have got very near the shape of 
 the Piazzetta capitals. But you will come still nearer, if you 
 make each of these simple corner-cuts into two narrower 
 ones, thus bringing the lower portion of your bit of cheese 
 into a twelve-sided figure. And you will see that each of 
 these double-cut angles now has taken more or less the shape 
 of a leaf, with its central rib at the angle. And if, further, 
 with such sculpturesque and graphic talent as may be in you, 
 you scratch out the real shape of a leaf at the edge of the 
 cuts and run furrows from its outer lobes to the middle, — 
 behold, you have your Piazzetta capital. All but have it, I 
 should say ; only this * all but ' is nearly all the good of it, 
 
^vhicll comes of the cxccecimg liiicness ^vith \viiicii the simple 
 curves are di-awii, and reconciled. 
 
 Nevertheless, you will have learned, if sagacious in sue] 
 matters, by this quarter of an hour's carving, so much oi 
 architectural art as will enable you to discern, and to eiijov 
 the treatment of, all the twelfth and thirteenth century capi 
 tals in Venice, which, without exception, when of native cut 
 ting, are concave bells like this, with either a springing leai 
 or a bending boss of stone which would become a leaf if i i 
 w^ere furrowed, at the angles. But the fonrtconth century 
 brings a change. 
 
 Before I tell you what took 2)lace in the fouict ciiUi ci^-niui y, 
 you must cut yourself another cube of Gruyere cheese. You 
 see that in the one you have made a capital of already, a good 
 weight of cheese out of the cube has been cut away in taj^er- 
 ing down those long-leaf comers. Suppose you try now to 
 make a capital of it without cutting away so much cheese. If 
 you begin half way down the side, with a shorter but more 
 curved cut, you may reduce the base to the same form, and — 
 supposing you are working in mai'ble instead of cheese — you 
 have not only much less trouble, but you keep a much more 
 solid block of stone to bear suj^erincumbent weight. 
 
 Now you may go back to the Piazzetta, and, thence pro- 
 ceeding, so as to get well in front of the Ducal Palace, look 
 first to the Greek shaft capitals, and then to those of the 
 Ducal Palace upper arcade. You will recognize, especially in 
 those nearest the Ponte Vlella Paglia (at least, if you have an 
 eye in your head), the shape of your second block of Gniy^ro, 
 — decorated, it is true, in manifold ways, but essentially 
 shaped like your most cheaply cut block of cheese. Modern 
 architects, in imitating these capitals, can reach as far as — 
 imitating your Giiiyere. Not being able to decorate th( 
 l>lock when they have got it, they declai*e that decoration is 
 ^' a superficial merit.'* 
 
 Yes, — very superficial. Eyelashes and eyebrows — lips and 
 nostrils — chin-dimples and curling hair, are all veiy superficial 
 things, wherewith Heaven decorates the human skull ; making 
 Hk^ maid's face of it, or the knight's. Nevertheless, wliat 1 
 
20 ST. MARK'S BEST. 
 
 want you to notice now, is but the form of the block of Istrian 
 stone, usually with a spiral, more or less elaborate, on each of 
 its projecting angles. For there is infinitude of history in 
 that solid angle, prevailing over the light Greek leaf. That is 
 related to our humps and clumps at Durham and Winchester. 
 Here is, indeed, Norman temper, prevailing over Bj^zantine ; 
 and it means, — the outcome of that quarrel of Michael with 
 the Greek Emperor. It means — western for eastern life, in 
 the mind of Venice. It means her fellowship with the west- 
 ern chivalry ; her triumph in the Crusades, — triumph over 
 her own foster nurse, Byzantium. 
 
 Which significances of it, and many others with them, if 
 we would follow, we must leave our stone-cutting for a little 
 while, and map out the chart of Venetian history from its be- 
 ginning into such masses as we may remember without con- 
 fusion. 
 
 But, since this will take time, and we cannot quite tell how 
 long it may be before we get back to the twelfth century 
 again, and to our Piazzetta shafts, let me complete what I can 
 tell you of these at once. 
 
 In the first place, the Lion of St. Mark is a splendid piece 
 of eleventh or twelfth century bronze. I know that by the 
 style of him ; but have never found out where he came from.^ 
 I may now chance on it, however, at any moment in other quests. 
 Eleventh or twelfth century, the Lion — fifteenth, or later, his 
 wings ; very delicate in feather-workmanship, but with little 
 lift or strike in them ; decorative mainly. Without doubt his 
 first wings were thin sheets of beaten bronze, shred into plu- 
 mage ; far wider in their sweep than these. ^ 
 
 1 **He" — the actual piece of forged metal, I mean. (See Appendix 
 II. for account of its recent botchings.) Your modern English explain- 
 ers of him have never heard, I observe, of any such person as an 
 ' Evangelist,' or of any Christian symbol of such a being ! See page 42 
 of Mr. Adams' ' Venice Past and Present ' (Edinburgh and New York, 
 1852). 
 
 ^ I am a little proud of this guess, for before correcting this sentence 
 in type, I found the sharp old wings represented faithfully in the wood- 
 cut of Venice in 1480, in the Correr Museum. Durer, in 1500, draws 
 the present wings ; so that we get their date fixed within twenty years. 
 
LArUATOH AmiBTS. -\ 
 
 The stilt lie of Si Theodore, whatever its age, is wholly 
 without merit. I can't make it out myself, nor find record of 
 it : in a stonemason's yard, I should have passed it as modem. 
 But this merit of the statue is here of little consequence, — 
 the power of it being wholly in its meaning. 
 
 St. Theodore represents the power of the Spirit of God in 
 all noble and useful animal life, conquering what is venomous, 
 useless, or in decay : he differs from St. George in contending 
 with material evil, instead of with sinful passion : the croco- 
 dile on which he stands is the Dragon of Eg3q)t ; slime-be- 
 gotten of old, worshipped in its malignant power, for a God. 
 St. Theodore's martyrdom was for breaking such idols ; and 
 with beautiful instinct Venice took him in her earUest days 
 for her protector and standard-bearer, representing the heav- 
 enly life of Christ in men, prevailing over chaos and the deep. 
 
 With far more than instinct, — with solemn recognition, and 
 X)rayerful vow, she took him in the pride of her chivalry, in 
 mid-thirteenth century, for the master of that chivahy in their 
 gentleness of home ministries. The 'Mariegola' (Mother- 
 Law) of the school of St. Theodore, by kind fate yet preserved 
 to us, contains the legend they believed, in its completeness, 
 and their vow of service and companionship in all its terms. 
 
 Either of which, if you care to understand, — several other 
 matters and writings must be undei*stood first ; and, among 
 others, a pretty piece of our own much boasted, — how little 
 obeyed, — Mother-Law, sung still by statute in our churches 
 at least once in the month ; the eighty-sixth Psalm. *' Her 
 foundations are in the holy Mountains." I hope you can go 
 on with it by heart, or at least have your Bible in your port- 
 manteau. Li the remote possibility that you may have thought 
 its carriage unnecessarily expensive, here is the Latin psalm, 
 with its modern Italian-Catholic ' translation ; watery enough, 
 this last, but a clear and wholesome, though little vapid, dilu- 
 tion and diffusion of its text, — making much intelUgible to 
 
 • From tho * Uffizio della B. V. Maria, Ttaliano e Latino, per tutti i 
 tempi deir anno, del Padre O. Croiset,' a well printed and most service- 
 able little duodecimo volume, for any one wishiiii^ to know somewhat 
 of Roman Catholic offices. Published in Milan and Venice. 
 
22 
 
 ST. MABK'8 REST. 
 
 the Protestant reader, which his 'private judgment' might 
 occasionally have been at fault in. 
 
 Fundamenta eius in mon- 1 Gerusalemme e fabbricata sopra 
 tibus Sanctis : diligit Dominus { ^ ^^^^^ monti : Iddio ne prende piti 
 portas Sion super omnia taber- 1 ''''''^' ^ ^' ^'""'^ P^^ ^^^ ^^^^^i S^i '^^^^i 
 nacula lacob. '^}'^' '^'' ^"^ ^^^" P^P^^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 Gloriosa dicta sunt de te, 
 civitas Dei. 
 
 Memor ero Eahab et Baby- 
 lonis, scientium me. 
 
 Ecce alienigense, et Tyrus, 
 et populus ^thiopum hi fue- 
 runt illic. 
 
 Numquid Sion dicet : Homo 
 et homo natus est in ea, et ipse 
 fundavit eam Altissimus ? 
 
 Dominus narrabit in scrip- 
 turis populorum et principum : 
 horum qui fuerunt in ea. 
 
 Sicut Isetantium omnium 
 habitatio est in te. 
 
 abitati. 
 
 Quante cose tutte piene di lode 
 sono state dette di voi, citta di 
 Dio! 
 
 Non lascero neir oblivione ne V 
 Egitto ne Babilonia, dacclie que* 
 popoli mi avranno riconosciuto per 
 loro Dio: 
 
 Quanti popoli stranieri, Tiri, Eti- 
 opi, sino a quel punto miei nemici, 
 verranno a prestarmi i loro omaggi. 
 
 Ognuno dira allora: Vedete come 
 questa citta si e popolata ! V Altissi- 
 mo r ha fondata e vuole metterla 
 in fiore. 
 
 Egli percio e V unico che conosca 
 il numero del popolo e de' grandi 
 clie ne sono gli abitanti. 
 
 Non vi e vera felicita, se non per 
 coloro che vi haune 1' abitazione. 
 
 Reading then the psalm in these words, you have it as the 
 Western Christians sang it ever since St. Jerome wrote it into 
 such interpretation for them ; and you must try io feel it as 
 these Western Christians of Venice felt it, having now their 
 own street in the holy city, and their covenant with the Prior 
 of Mount Syon, and of the Temple of the Lord : they them- 
 selves having struck down Tyre with their own swords, taken 
 to themselves her power, and now reading, as of themselves, 
 the encompassing benediction of the prophecy for all Gentile 
 Nations, '' Ecce alienigense — et Tyrus." A notable piece of 
 
Scripture lor them, t6 be dwelt on, in every word of it, with 
 all liumility of faith. 
 
 What then ''^ tl?'* niL^uuii^ ui U^u i„o \^i: ^.i^icLmnL^ 
 
 these? — 
 
 " Glorious thingy are spoken of thee, thou Cily of God. J 
 will make mention of liahab and Babylon, with them thai 
 know me.' 
 
 If you like to see a curious mistake at least of one Protes- 
 tant's * private judgment' of this verse, you must look at my 
 reference to it in Fors Clavigera of Apiil, 1876, p. 110, wdtli 
 its correction by Mr. Gordon, in Fors for June, 1876, pp. 178- 
 203, all containing variously useful notes on these verses ; of 
 which the gist is, however, that the ' Rahab ' of the Latin text 
 is the Eg\7:)tiaii * Dragon,' the crocodile, signifying in myth, 
 which has now been three thousand years continuous in human 
 mind, the total power of the crocodile-god of Egypt, couchant 
 on his slime, h(mn of it, mistakable for it, — his gray length of 
 unintelligible scales, fissured and wrinkled like dry clay, itself 
 but, as it were, a shelf or shoal of coagulated, malignant earth. 
 He and his company, the deities bom of the earth — beast 
 headed, — with only animal cries for voices : — 
 
 '* Omnigenumque De^.m monstra, et latrator Anubis 
 Contra Neptunum et Venerem, coiitraque Miner vam." 
 
 This is St. Theodore's Dragon-enemy — Egj-pt, and her captiv- 
 ity; bondage of the earth, literally to the Israehte, in making 
 bricks of it, the first condition of form for the God : in stern- 
 er than mere literal truth, the captivity of the spirit of man, 
 \vhether to earth or to its creatures. 
 
 And St. Theodore's victory is making the earth his pedestal, 
 instead of his adversary; he is the power of gentle and rational 
 Hfe, reigning over the wild creatures and senseless forces of 
 the world. The Latrator Anubis — most senseless and cruel 
 of the guardians of hell — becoming, by human mercy, the 
 faithfuUest of creature-fnends to man. 
 
 Do you think all this work useless in your Venetian guide ? 
 There is not a picture, — not a legend, — scarcely a column or 
 an ornament, in the art of Venice or of Italy, which, by this 
 
24 ,si\ MARK'S REST. 
 
 piece of work, well done, will not become more precious to 
 you. Have you ever, for instance, noticed how the baying of 
 Cerberus is stopped, in the sixth canto of Dante, — 
 
 ** II duca niio 
 Prese Id terra; et con piene le pugne 
 La gitto dentro alle bramose canne." 
 
 (To the three, therefore plural.) It is one of the innumerable 
 subtleties which mark Dante's perfect knowledge — ^inconceiv- 
 able except as a form of inspiration — of the inner meaning of 
 every myth, whether of classic or Christian theology, known 
 in his day. 
 
 Of the relation of the dog, horse, and eagle to the chivalry 
 of Europe, you will find, if you care to read, more noted, in 
 relation to part of the legend of St. Theodore, in the Fors of 
 March, this year ; the rest of his legend, with what is notablest 
 in his 'Mariegola,' I will tell you when we co^e to examine 
 Carpaccio's canonized birds and beasts ; of which, to refresh 
 you after this piece of hard ecclesiastical reading (for I can't 
 tell you about the bases of the pillars to-day. We must get 
 into another humor to see these), you may see within five 
 minutes' walk, three together, in the little chapel of St. George 
 of the Schiavoni : St. George's ' Porphyrio,' the bird of chas- 
 tity, with the bent spray of sacred vervain in its beak, at the 
 foot of the steps on which St. George is baptizing the prin- 
 cess ; St. Jerome's lion, being introduced to the monastery 
 (with resultant e£feet on the minds of the brethren) ; and St. 
 Jerome's dog, watching his master translating the Bible, with 
 highest complacency of approval. 
 
 And of St. Theodore himself you may be glad to know that 
 he was a very historical and substantial saint as late as the 
 fifteenth century, for in the inventory of the goods and chat- 
 tels of his scuola, made by order of its master (Gastoldo), and 
 the companions, in the year 1450, the first article is the body 
 of St. Theodore, with the bed it lies on, covered by a coverlid 
 of "pafio di grano di seta, brocado de oro fino." So late as 
 the middle of the fifteenth century (certified by the inventario 
 fatto a di XXX. de Novembrio MCCCCL. per. Sr nanni di 
 
S7\ ,/.M..7's or •////; DPJEP STREAM. 25 
 
 piero 1' It . 1 1 V I ( ', (^ suoi campagni, de tutte reli- 
 quie e arnesi e beni, se trova in questa horn presente in la 
 nostra scuola), hero Inv tliis trnisnrrv flo-^r to tlir f»n>^:^>'P>Y'vil 
 lieai^ of Venice. 
 
 Oh, good reader, who hast ceased to count the Dead bones 
 of men for thy treasure, hast thou then thy Dead laid up in 
 the hands of the Living God ? 
 
 CHAPTEK in. 
 
 ST. JAMES OF THE DEEP STREAM. 
 
 Twice one is two, and twice two is four ; but twice one is 
 not three, and twice two is not six, whatever Shylock may 
 wish, or say, in the matter. In wholesome memory of which 
 arithmetical, and (probably) eternal, fact, and in loyal defi- 
 ance of Shylock and his knife, I write down for you these fig- 
 ures, large and plain : 
 
 1. 2. 4. 
 
 Also in this swiftly progressive ratio, the figures may ex- 
 press what modern philosophy considei*s the rate of progress 
 of Venice, fi^om her days of religion, and golden ducats, to her 
 days of infidelity, and paper notes. 
 
 Read them backwards, then, sublime modem philosopher ; 
 and they will give you the date of the birth of that foolish 
 Venice of old time, on her narrow island. 
 
 4 2. 1. 
 
 In that year, and on the very day — (little foolish Venice 
 used to say, when she was a very child), — in which, once 
 upon a time, the world was made ; and, once upon another 
 time — the Ave Maria first said, — the first stone of Venice was 
 laid on the sea sand, in the name of St. James the fisher. 
 
 I think you had better go and see ^^ith your own eyes, — 
 tread with your own foot, — the spot of her nativity : so much 
 
26 ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 of a spring day as the task will take, cannot often be more 
 profitably spent, nor more affectionately towards God and 
 man, if indeed you love either of them. 
 
 So, from the Grand Hotel, — or the Swiss Pension — or the 
 duplicate Danieli with the drawbridge, — or wherever else 
 among the palaces of resuscitated Venice you abide, congrat- 
 ulatory modern ambassador to the Venetian Senate, — please, 
 to-day, walk through the Merceria, and through the Square 
 of St. Bartholomew, where is the little octagon turret-chapel 
 in the centre, for sale of news : and cross the Eialto — not in 
 the middle of it, but on the right hand side, crossing from St. 
 Mark's. You will probably find it very dirty, — it may be, in- 
 decently dirty, — that is modern progress, and Mr. Buckle's 
 civilization ; rejoice in it with a thankful heart, and stay in it 
 placidly, after crossing the height of the bridge, when you 
 come down just on a level with the capitals of the first story 
 of the black and white, all but ruined. Palace of the Camer- 
 lenghi ; Treasurers of Venice, built for them when she began 
 to feel anxious about her accounts. " Black and white," I call 
 it, because the dark lichens of age are yet on its marble — or, 
 at least, were, in the winter of '76-'77 ; it may be, even before 
 these pages get printed, it will be scraped and regilt — or 
 pulled down, to make a railroad station at the Bialto. 
 
 Here standing, if with good eyes, or a good opera glass, 
 you look back, up to the highest story of the blank and ugly 
 building on the side of the canal 3^ou have just crossed from, 
 — you will see between two of its higher windows, the re- 
 mains of a fresco of a female figure. It is, so far as I know, 
 the last vestige of the noble fresco painting of Venice on her 
 outside walls ; — Giorgione's, — no less, — when Titian and he 
 were house-painters, — the Sea-Queen so ranking them, for 
 her pomp, in her proud days. Of this, and of the black and 
 white palace, we will talk another day. I only asked you to 
 look at the fresco just now, because therein is seen the end of 
 my Venice, — the Venice I have to tell you of. Yours, of the 
 Grand Hotels and the Peninsular steamers, you may write the 
 history of, for yourself. 
 
 Therein, — as it fades away — ends the Venice of St. Mark's 
 
>S7: jamj:< ^f TiIi: ■-'■'" stream. 2>i 
 
 Tk s{. JUit where she was bom, you may now go quite down 
 the steps to see. Down, and through among the fruit-stalls 
 into the httle square on the right ; then turning back, the 
 low portico is in front of you — not of the ancient church in- 
 deed, but of a fifteenth century one — variously translated, in 
 succeeding times, into such small picturesqueness of stage 
 effect as it yet possesses ; escaping, by God's grace, however, 
 the fire which destroyed all the other buildings of ancient 
 Venice, round her Rialto square, in 1513.* 
 
 Some hundred or hundred and fifty years before that, 
 Venice had begun to suspect the bodies of saints to be a poor 
 property ; carrion, in fact, — and not even exchangeable cai-- 
 rion. Living flesh might be bought instead, — perhaps of 
 prettier aspect. So, as I said, for a hundred years or so, she 
 had brought home no relics, — but set her mind on trade- 
 profits, and other practical matters ; tending to the achieve- 
 ment of wealth, and its comforts, and dignities. The cuii- 
 ous result being, that at that particular moment, when the 
 fire devoured her merchants' square, centre of the then mer- 
 cantile world — she happened to have no money in her pocket 
 t o build it again with ! 
 
 Nor were any of her old methods of business again to be 
 resorted to. Her soldiers were now foreign mercenaries, and 
 had to be paid before they would fight ; and prayers, she had 
 found out long before our English wiseacre apothecaries' ap- 
 prentices, were of no use to get either money, or new houses 
 with, at a pinch Hke this. And there was really nothing for 
 ;t but doing the thing cheap, — since it had to be done. Fra 
 ( liocondo of Verona offered her a fair design ; but the city 
 could not afford it. Had to take Scarpagnino's make-shift 
 instead ; and with his help, and Sansovino's, between 1520 
 ind 1550, she just managed to botch up — what you see sur- 
 • >und the square, of architectural stateliness for her mercan- 
 tile home. Discovery of the Cape of Good Hope, the main 
 
 ' Many chronicles speak of it as burned ; but the authoritative inscrip- 
 tion of lOOl speaks of it as * consumed by age,' and is therefor. 
 . ive on this point 
 
2S ST. MARK'S RESI. 
 
 cause of these sorrowful circumstances of hers, — observe sa- 
 gacious historians. 
 
 At all events, I have no doubt the walls were painted red, 
 with some medalHons, or other cheap decoration, under the 
 cornices, enough to make the little square look comfortable. 
 Whitewashed and squalid now — it may be left, for this time, 
 without more note of it, as we turn to the little church.^ 
 
 Your Murray tells you it was built " in its present form " 
 in 1194, and "rebuilt in 1531, but precisely in the old form," 
 and that it " has a fine brick campanile." The fine brick cam- 
 panile, visible, if you look behind you, on the other side of the 
 street, belongs to the church of St. John Elemosinario. And 
 the statement that the church was "rebuilt in precisely the 
 old form " must also be received with allowances. For the 
 " campanile " here, is in the most orthodox English Jacobite 
 style of the seventeenth century, the portico is Venetian fif- 
 teenth, the walls are in no style at all, and the little Ma- 
 donna inserted in the middle of them is an exquisitely fin- 
 ished piece of the finest work of 1320 to 1350. 
 
 And, alas, the church is not only quite other in form, but 
 even other in pZace, than it was in the fifth century, having 
 been moved like a bale of goods, and with apparently as little 
 difficulty as scruple, in 1322, on a report of the Salt Commis- 
 sioners about the crowding of shops round it. And, in sum, 
 of particulars of authentically certified vicissitudes, the little 
 church has gone through these following — how many more 
 than these, one cannot say — but these at least (see Appendix 
 
 m.): 
 
 I. Founded traditionally in 421 (serious doubts whether on 
 Friday or Saturday, involving others about the year itself.) 
 The tradition is all we need care for. 
 
 II. Eebuilt, and adorned with Greek mosaic work by the 
 Doge Domenico Selvo, in 1073 ; the Doge having married a 
 Greek wife, and liking pretty things. Of this husband and 
 wife you shall hear more, anon. 
 
 ^ Do not, if you will trust me, at tliis time let your guide take yoii to 
 look at the Gobbo di Rialto, or otherwise interfere with your immediate 
 business. 
 
IRbJAM. ^') 
 
 HL Eetouchecl, and made bright again, getting also its du* 
 share of the spoil of Byzantium sent home by Henry Dau- 
 dolo, 1174. 
 
 IV. Dressed up iigain, and out of the buyers* am 1 
 sellers' way, in 1322. 
 
 V. * In stau rated ' into a more splendid church (dicto temj)! 
 in splendidiorera ecclesiam instaurato) by the elected pleb.i 
 ims, Natalis Regia, desirous of having the cliurcli devoted tr> 
 hia honor instead of St. James's, 1531. 
 
 VL Lifted up (and most likely iherciore iirst much pulled 
 down), to keep the water from coming into it, in IGOl, when 
 the double arched camp.uiile was built, and the thing finally 
 patched together in the present form. Doubtless, soon, by 
 farther 'progresso' to become a provision, or, perhaps, a p; 
 troleum- store, Venice liaving no more need of temples; and 
 being, as far as I can observe, ashamed of having so many. 
 overshadowing her buyers and sellers. Better rend the veil 
 in twain forever, if convenient storeshops may be formed in 
 side. 
 
 These, then, being authentic epochs of change, you may 
 decipher at ease the writing of each of them, — what is left of 
 it Tiie camptuiile with the ugly head in the centre of it is 
 your final Art result, 1601. The portico in front of you is 
 NataHs Regia's * instauration ' of the church as it stood after 
 1322, retaining the wooden simplicities of bracket above the 
 pillars of the early loggia ; the Madonn^i, as I said, is a piece 
 of the 1320 to 1350 work ; and of earlier is no vestige here. 
 But if you will walk twenty steps round the church, at tli 
 back of it, on the low gable, you will see an inscription in 
 firmly graven long Roman letters, under a cross, similarly in- 
 scribed- 
 
 Tkat is a vestige of the eleventh century church ; nay, moi 
 than vestige, the Voice of it — Sibylline, — left when its bod 
 ? rl died. 
 
 Wliich I will ask you to hear, iu a little while. But fir- 
 you shall see also a few of the true stones? oi the older Tempi 
 Enter it now ; and reverently ; for though at first, amid- 
 wretched whitewash and stucco, you will scai'cely see the tru 
 
so ST. MARK'S REST, 
 
 marble, those six pillars and their capitals are 3^et actual rem- 
 nants and material marble of the venerable church ; probably 
 once extending into more ai'ches in the nave ; but this tran- 
 sept ceihng of wagon vault, with the pillars that carry it, is 
 true remnant of a mediaeval church, and, in all likelihood, 
 true image of the earliest of all — of the iii-st standard of Ven- 
 ice, planted, under which to abide ; the Cross, engraven on 
 the sands thus ui relief, with two little pieces of Roman vault- 
 ing, set cross wise ; — ^your modem engineers will soon make 
 as large, in portable brickwork, for London drains, admii-able, 
 worshipful, for the salvation of London mankind : — here art- 
 lessly rounded, and with small cupola above the crossing. 
 
 Thus slie set her sign upon the shore ; some knot of gelat- 
 inous seaweed there checking the current of the 'Deep 
 Stream,' which sweeps round, as you see, in that sigma of 
 canal, as the Wharf e round the shingly bank of Bolton Abbey, 
 — a notablest Crook of Lune, this ; and Castrum, here, on 
 sands that will abide. 
 
 It is strange how seldom rivers have been named from their 
 depth. Mostly they take at once some dear, companionable 
 name, and become gods, or at least living creatures, to their 
 refreshed people ; if not thus Pagan-named, they are noted 
 by their color, or theii* purity, — White River, Black River, 
 Rio Verde, Aqua Dolce, Fiume di Latte ; but scarcely ever, 
 ' Deep River.' 
 
 And this Venetian slow-pacing water, not so much as a 
 river, or any thing like one ; but a rivulet, * fiumicello,' only, 
 rising in those low mounds of volcanic hill to the west. 
 " * Rialto,' ' Rialtum,* ' P?*ealtum ' " (another idea getting con- 
 fused with the first), "dal fiumicello di egual nome che, 
 scendendo dei colli Euganei gettavasi nel Brenta, con esso 
 scorrendo lungo quelle isole dette appunto Realtine." ^ The 
 serpentine depth, consistent always among consistent shallow, 
 being here vital ; and the conception of it partly mingled with 
 that of the power of the open sea — the infinite ' Altum ; ' 
 sought by the sacred water, as in the di^eam of Eneas, "lacu 
 
 * B-omanin. 
 
AMES OF THE DEEP STREAM. SI 
 
 fluvius sc condidit alto." Hence the timted word takes, in 
 declining Latin, the shorter form, JiidXtum^ — properly, in tli( 
 scholarship of the State-documents, *Rivoalt?/s.' So also, 
 throughout Yenice, the Latin Eivus softens into Rio ; th< 
 Latin Ripa into Eiva, in the time when you had the running 
 "water — not 'canals,* but running brooks of sea, — 'lympha 
 fugax,' — trembling in eddies, between, not quays, but bank- 
 of pasture land ; soft * campi,' of which, in St. Margaret's 
 field, I have but this autumn seen the last worn vestige trodden 
 away ; and yesterday, Feb. 26th, in the morning, a little tree 
 that was pleasant to me taken up from before the door, be- 
 cause it had Leaved the pavement an inch or two out of 
 square ; also beside the Academy, a little overhanging moment- 
 ary shade of boughs iie^vn away, ' to make the street *' bello," * 
 said the axe-bearer. 'What,' I asked, * will it be prettier in 
 summer without its trees?' *Non x'e bello il verde,' he an- 
 swered.* True oracle, though he knew not what he said ; 
 voice of the modem Church of Venice ranking herself under 
 the black standard of the jAi. 
 
 I said you should hear the oracle of her ancient Church in 
 a little while ; but 3'ou must know why, and to whom it was 
 spoken, first, — and we must leave the Rial to for to-day. Look, 
 as you recross its bridge, westward, along the broad-flowiii 
 stream ; and come here also, this evening, if the day sets cahn, 
 for then the waves of it from the Rialto island to the Ca Fos- 
 cari, glow like an Eastern tapestry in soft-flomng crimson, 
 frotlcd witli <jo\(\ : and beside them, amidst the tumult of 
 
 i ,,.,.^.i ,*, .i.c j..>v,v^ ^M ,.|,io of Edinburgh liavo tlic saiui^ i.u^l^ , .aid 
 rejoice proudly at having got an asplialt esplanade at the end of Prince's 
 Street, instead of cabbage stillers. Alas! my Scottish friends; all that 
 Prince's Street of youra has not so much beauty in it as a single cabbage- 
 stalk, if you had eyes in your heads, — rather the extreme reverse of 
 beauty ; and there is not one of the lassies who now, stagger up and 
 down the burning marie in high-heeled boots and French bonnets, who 
 wouhl not look a thouRand-fold prettier, and feel, there's no counting 
 how much nobler, bare-headed but for the snood, and bare-foot on oli 
 lasliioned grass by the Nor' loch side, bringing home from mark» t 
 basket on arm, pea^' for papa's dinner, and a bunch of cherries for 
 tab/. 
 
32 tvr, MARK'S RE^1\ 
 
 squalid ruin, remember the words that are IJie ' burden of 
 Venice/ as of Tyre : — 
 
 *' Be still, ye inhabitants of the Isle. Thou whom the mer- 
 chants of Zidon, that pass over the sea, have replenished. By 
 great waters, the seed of Silior, the harvest of the river, is her 
 revenue : and she is a mart of nations." 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 ST. THEODORE THE CHAIR-SELUHR. 
 
 The history of Venice divides itself, with more sharpne^ 
 than any other I have read, into periods of distinct tendency 
 and character ; marked, in their ti*ansition, by phenomena no 
 less definite than those of the putting forth the leaves, or 
 setting of the fruit, «in a plant ; — and as definitely connected 
 by one vitally progressive organization^ of which the energy 
 must be studied in its constancy, while its results are classed 
 in grouped system. 
 
 If we rightly tiuce the order, and estimate the duration, of 
 such periods^ we understand the life, whether of an organized 
 being or a state. But not to know the time when the seed is 
 ripe, or the soul mature, is to misunderstand the total creat- 
 ure. 
 
 In the history of gi-eat multitudes, these changes of their 
 spirit, and regenerations (for they are nothing less) of their 
 physical power, take place through so subtle gradations of 
 declining and dawning thought, that the effort to distinguish 
 them seems arbitrary. Mice separating the belts of a rainbow s 
 color by firmly drawn lines. But, at Venice, the lines are 
 drawn for us by her own hand ; and the changes in her tem- 
 per are indicated by parallel modifications of her policy and 
 constitution, to which histoiians have always attributed, as to 
 efficient causes, the national fortunes of which they are only 
 the sigTis and Kmitation. 
 
 In this history, the reader will find little importance at- 
 
-^^7: TIIEOBORE THE rUAlR-SKLLER. 33 
 
 tached i > external phenomci ^ >litical constitution ; 
 
 except as labels, or, it may be, securing seals, of the state of 
 the nation's lieai*t. They ai'e merely shapes of amphora, art- 
 ful and decorative indeed ; tempting to criticism or copy of 
 their form, usefully recordant of different ages of the wine, 
 and having occasionally, by the porousness or perfectness of 
 their clay, effect also on its quality. But it is the grape-juice 
 itself, and the changes in it, not in the forms of flask, that we 
 have in reality to study. 
 
 Fortunately also, the dates of the great changes are easily 
 remembered ; they fall with felicitous precision at the begin- 
 ning of centuries, and divide the story of the city, as the 
 pillars of her Byzantine courts, the walls of it, with syhimetric 
 stability. 
 
 . She shall also tell you, as I promised, her own story, in her 
 own handwriting, all through. Not a word shall / have to^ 
 say in the matter ; or aught to do, except to deepen the letters 
 for you when they are indistinct, and sometimes to hold 
 blank space of her chart of life to the fire of your heart for a 
 little while, until words, written secretly upon it, are seen ; — 
 if, at least, there is fire enough in your own heart to heat 
 them. 
 
 And first, therefore, I must try what power of reading you 
 have, when the letters are quite clear. We will take to-day, 
 so please you, the same walk we did yesterday ; but looking 
 at other things, and reading a wider lesson. 
 
 As early as you can (in fact, to get the good oi lal^> ualk, 
 you must be up wdth the sun), any bright morning, when the 
 streets are quiet, come with me to the front of St. Mark's, ' 
 begin our lesson there. 
 
 You see that between the arches of its vaults, there 
 oblong i)anels of bas-relief. 
 
 Two of these are the earliest pieces of real Venetian wor' 
 know of, to show you ; but before beginning witli 
 must see a piece done by her Greek masters. 
 
 Go round therefore to the side farthest from the sea, 
 in the first broad arch,' you will see a panel of like shape, 
 set horizontally ; the sculpture of which represents twelve 
 6 
 
di: ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 slieep, six on one side, six on tlie other, of a throne : on which 
 throne is set a cross ; and on the top of the cross a circle ; 
 and in the circle, a httle ca;prioling creature. 
 
 And outside of all, are two palm trees, one on each side ; 
 and under each palm tree, two baskets of dates ; and over the 
 twelve sheep, is written in delicate Greek letters, " The holy 
 A2:>ostles ;" and over the little caprioling creature, " The Lamb." 
 
 Take your glass and study the carving of this bas-relief in- 
 tently. It is full of sweet care, subtlety, tenderness of touch, 
 and mind ; and fine cadence and change of line in the little 
 bowing heads and bending leaves. Decorative in the ex- 
 treme ; a kind of stone-stitching, or sampler- work, done with 
 the innocence of a girl's heart, and in a like unlearned ful- 
 ness. Here is a Christian man, bringing order and loveli- 
 ness into the mere furrows of stone. Not by any means as 
 learned as a butcher, in the joints of lambs ; nor as a grocer, 
 in baskets of dates ; nor as a gardener, in endogenous plants ; 
 but an artist to the heart's core ; and no less true a lover of 
 Christ and His word. Helj^less, with his childish art, to carve 
 Christ, he carves a cross, and caprioling little thing in a ring 
 at the top of it. You may try — you — to carve Christ, if you 
 can. HeljDless to conceive the Twelve Apostles, these never- 
 theless are sacred letters for the bearers of the Gospel of 
 Peace. 
 
 Of such men Venice learned to touch the stone ; — to be- 
 come a Lapieida, and f urrower of the marble as well as the sea. 
 
 Now let us go back to that panel on the left side of the 
 central arch in front. ^ 
 
 This, you see, is no more a symbolical sculpture, but quite 
 
 ^ Generally note, wlien I say ' right ' or * left ' side of a clmrcli or 
 chapel, I mean, either as you enter, or as 3^011 look to the altar. It is 
 not safe to say 'north and south,' for Italian churches stand all round 
 the compass ; and besides, the phrase would be false of lateral chapels. 
 Transej)ts are awkward, because often they have an altar instead of an 
 entrance at their ends ; it will be least confusing to treat them always 
 as large lateral chapels, and place them in the series of such chapels as 
 the sides of the nave, calling the sides right and lelt as you look either 
 from the nave into the chapels, or from the nave's centre to the rose 
 window, or other termination of transept. 
 
I AIR-SELLER. ^5 
 
 distinctly pictorial, and laboriously ardent to express, though 
 in very low relief, a curly-haired personage, handsome, and 
 something like George the Fourth, dressed in richest Roman 
 armor, and sitting in an absurd manner, more or less tailor- 
 fashion, if not cross-legged himself, at least on a conspicu- 
 ously cross-legged piece of splendid furniture ; which, after 
 deciphering the Chinese, or engineer's isometrical, perspect i 
 of it, you may perceive to be only a gorgeous pic-nic or draw- 
 ing-stool, apparently of portable character, such as are bought 
 (more for luxury than labor, — for the real working apparatus 
 is your tripod) at Messrs. Newman's, or Wiusor and Newton's. 
 
 Apparently portable, I say ; by no means intended as such 
 by the sculptor. Intended for a most permanent and mag- 
 nificent throne of state ; nothing less than a derived form of 
 that Greek Thronos, in which you have seen set the cross of 
 the Lamb. Yes ; and of the Tyrian and Judsoan Thronos — 
 Solomon's, which it frightened the queen of Sheba to see him 
 sitting on. Yes ; and of the Egyptian throne of eternal gran- 
 ite, on which colossal Memnon sits, melodious to morning 
 light, — son of Aurora. Yes ; and of the throne of Isis-Ma- 
 donna, and, mightier yet than she, as we return towards the 
 nativity of queens and kings. We must keep at present to 
 our own poor little modern, practical saint — sitting on his 
 portable throne (as at the side of the opera when extra peoj)le 
 are let in who shouldn't be) ; only seven hundred years old. 
 To this crossed-legged apparatus the Egyptian throne had 
 dwindled down ; it looks even as if the saint who sits on it 
 might begin to think about getting up some day or other. 
 
 All the more when you know who he is. Can you read the 
 letters of Ijis name, written beside him ? — 
 
 SC8 GEORGIVS 
 
 — Mr. Emerson's purveyor of bacon, no less ! " And ho <l 
 look like getting up, when you observe him farther. 
 sheathing his sword, is not he ? 
 
 ' See Fors Clavig-era of Febniarv, 1873, containing tlie legends of 
 George. This, witli the otlier numbers of Fors referred to in the t. 
 of ' St. Mark's Rest,' may be bought at Venice, together with it. 
 
^^ 6'2\ MARK'S REST. 
 
 No ; sheathing it. That was the ditiicult thing he had first 
 to do, as you will find on reading the true legend of him, 
 which this sculi^tor thoroughly knew ; in whose conception of 
 the saint one x^erceives the date of said sculptor, no less than 
 in the stiff av ork, so dimly yet perceptive of the ordinary laws 
 of the aspect of things. From the bas-reliefs of the Parthe- 
 non — through sixteen hundred years of effort, and speech- 
 making, and fighting — human intelligence in the Arts has ar- 
 rived, here in Venice, thus far. But having got so far, we 
 shall come to something fresh soon ! We have become dis- 
 tinctly representative again, you see ; desiring to show, not a 
 mere symbol of a living man, but the man himself, as truly as 
 the poor stone-cutter can carve him. All bonds of tyrannous 
 tradition broken ; — the legend kept, in faith yet ; but the 
 symbol become natural ; a real armed knight, the best he 
 could form a notion of ; curly-haired and handsome ; and, his 
 also the boast of Dogberry, every thing handsome about him. 
 Thus far has Venice got in her art schools of the early thir- 
 teenth century. I can date this sculpture to that time, pretty 
 closely ; earlier, it m.ay be, — not later ; see afterwards the 
 notes closing this chapter. 
 
 And now, if you so please, we will w^alk under the clock- 
 tower, and dow^n the Merceria, as straight as we can go. 
 There is a little crook to the right, bringing us opposite St. 
 Julian's church (which, please, don't stop to look at just now) ; 
 then, sharply, to the left again, and we come to the Ponte de' 
 Baratteri, — "Kogue's Bridge " — on which, as especially a 
 grateful bridge to English business-feelings, let us reverently 
 pause. It has been widened lately, you observe, — the use of 
 such bridge being greatly increased in these times ; and in a 
 convenient angle, out of passenger current (may you find such 
 wayside withdrawal in true life), you may stop to look back at 
 the house immediately above the bridge. 
 
 In the wall of which 3^ou will see a horizontal panel of bas- 
 relief, with two shields on each side, bearing six fleur-de-lys. 
 And this you need not, I suppose, look for letters on, to tell 
 you its subject. Here is St. George indeed ! — our own beloved 
 old sign of the George and Dragon, ail correct ; and, if you 
 
kiiuw ^, nu .-,-.... ■ i...„4.iui..., ::.:i,.- :..,, . :. Jio rock, thrilled 
 witness of the figlit. And see what a dainty St. George, too ! 
 Here is no mere tailor's enthronement. Eques, ipso melior 
 Bellerophonti, — how he sits ! — how he holds his lance ! — how 
 bnghtly youthful the crisp hair under his light cap of helm, — 
 how deftly curled the fringe of his horse s crest, — how vigorous 
 in disciplined career of accustomed conquest, the two noblo 
 living creatures ! This is Venetian fifteenth century work of 
 finest style. Outside-of-house work, of course : we compare 
 at present outside work only, panel mth panel : but here are 
 three hundred years of art progress written for you, in two 
 pages, — from early thirteenth to late fifteenth century ; and' 
 in this little bas-relief is all to be seen, that can be, of ( 1 
 mentary principle, in the very crest and pride of Veneti 
 sculpture, — of which note these following points. 
 
 First, the aspirations of the front of St. Mark's have been 
 entirely achieved, and though the figure is still symbolical, it 
 is now a symbol consisting in the most literal realization p 
 sible of natural facts. That is the way, if you care to see it, 
 that a young knight rode, in 1480, or thereabouts. So, hij3 
 foot was set in stiiTup, — so his body borne, — so trim and true 
 aTid orderly every thing in his harness and his life : and this 
 rendered, observe, with the most consummate precision of 
 artistic touch. Look at the strap of the stirrap, — at the little 
 delicatest line of the spui*, — can you think they ai'e stone ? 
 don't they look like leather and steel? His flying mantle, 
 is it not silk more than marble ? That is all in the beautitiu 
 doing of it : precision first in exquisite sight of the thing 
 itself, and undei*standing of the qualities and signs, whether 
 of silk or steel ; and then, precision of touch, and cunning in 
 use of material, which it had taken three hundred years to 
 learn. Think what cunning there is in getting such edge to 
 the marble as will rei:)resent the spur line, or strap leather, 
 with such solid under-support that, from J486: tiir no^ 
 stands rain and frost! And for knowledge of fonn,— Iook 
 at the way the little princess's foot comes out under the^ 
 drapery as she shiinks back. Look at it first fi*om the left 
 
 see llOW it i'^ f.-.-o^l,. .,-<.. ,;o.l tl.i ,^^^ n,.. v.w.l- : fl.on fv.^in > 
 
38 ST. MARICS REST, 
 
 right, to see the curve of dress up the Hmb : — think of the dif- 
 fevsnce between this and the feet of poor St. George Sartor of 
 St. Mark's, pointed down all their length. Finally, see how 
 studious the whole thing is of beauty in every part, — how it 
 expects you also to be studious. Trace the rich tresses of 
 the princess's hair, wrought where the figure melts into 
 shadow ; — the sharp edges of the dragon's mail, slipping over 
 each other as he wrings neck and coils tail ; — nay, what dec- 
 orative ordering and symmetry is even in the roughness of the 
 ground and rock ! And lastly, see how the whole piece of 
 work, to the simplest frame of it, must be by the sculptor's 
 own hand : see how he breaks the line of his panel moulding 
 with the princess's hair, with St. George's helmet, with the 
 rough ground itself at the base ;— the entire tablet varied to 
 its utmost edge, dehghted in and ennobled to its extreme 
 limit of substance. 
 
 Here, then, as I said, is the top of Venetian sculpture-art. 
 Was there no going beyond this, think you ? 
 
 Assuredly, much beyond this the Venetian could have gone, 
 had he gone straight forward. But at this point he became 
 perverse, and there is one sign of evil in this piece, which you 
 must carefully discern. 
 
 In the two earlier sculptures, of the sheep, and the throned 
 SL George, the artist never meant to say that twelve sheep 
 ever stood in two such rows, and were the twelve apostles ; 
 nor that St. George ever sat in that manner in a splendid 
 chair. But he entirely believed in the facts of the Hves of 
 the apostles and saints, symbolized by such figuring. 
 
 But the fifteenth century sculptor does, partly, mean to as- 
 sert that St. George did in that manner kill a dragon : does 
 not clearly know whether he did or not ; does not care very 
 nmch whether he did or not ;— thinks it will be very nice if, 
 at any rate, people believed that he did ;— but is more bent, 
 in the heart of him, on making a pretty bas-relief than on any 
 thing else. 
 
 Half way to infidelity, the fine gentleman is, with all his 
 dainty chiselling. We will see, on those terms, what, in 
 another century, this fine chisehing conies to. 
 
Mli-SELLEU. 39 
 
 So now walk CD, down the Merceria di Sau Salvador. Pres- 
 ently, if it is morning, and the sky clear, you will see, at the 
 end of the narrow little street, the brick apse of St. Saviotir's, 
 ^varm against the blue ; and, if you stand close to the right 
 solemn piece of old Venetian wall and window on the opi* 
 site side of the calle, which you might pass under tweii 
 times without seeing, if set on the study of shops only. Tli 
 you must turn to the right ; perforce, — to the left again ; and 
 now to the left, once more ; and you are in the little piazza of 
 St. Salvador, with a building in front of you, now occupi< 
 as a furniture store, which you will please look at witli r'^^ 
 tion. 
 
 It reminds you of many things at home, I suppose ? — has a 
 respectable, old-fashioned, city-of-London look about it ; — 
 something of Greenwich Hospital, of Temple TBar, of St. Paul 
 of Charles the Second and the Constitution, and the Lord 
 Mayor and Mr. Bumble ? Truly English, in many respects, 
 this solidly rich front of Ionic pillars, with the four angels on 
 the top, rapturously directing your attention, by the graco- 
 fuUest gesticulation, to the higher figure in the centre ! 
 
 You have advanced another hundred and fifty years, and are 
 in mid seventeenth century. Here is the ' Progresso ' of Ven- 
 ice, exhibited to you, in consequence of her wealth, and g 
 life, and advance in aniitomical and other sciences. 
 
 Of which, note first, the display of her knowledge of angelic 
 anatomy. Sabra, on the rock, just showed her foot beneath 
 her robe, and that only because she was drawing back, fiight- 
 ened ; but, here, every angel has his petticoats cut up to his 
 1 highs ; he is not sufficiently sacred or sublime unless you see 
 his legs so high. 
 
 Secondly, you see how expressive are their attitudes, — 
 ** What a wonderful personage is this we have got in the mi ■ 
 die of us ! " 
 
 That is Raphaelesque art of the finest. Raphael, by this 
 time, had taught the connoisseurs of Europe that wheneve'- 
 you admire anybody, you open your mouth and eyes wid< 
 when you wish to show him to somebody else you point aL 
 him vigorously with one arm, and wave the somebody else 
 
40 ST. MARK'S BEST. 
 
 on v/ith the other ; when you have nothing to do of that sort, 
 you stand on one leg and hold up the other in a graceful line ; 
 these are the methods of true dramatic expression. Your 
 drapery, meanwhile, is to be arranged in " sublime masses," 
 and is not to be suggestive of any ^^articular stuff ! 
 
 If you study the drapery of these four angels thoroughly, 
 you can scarcely fail of knowing, henceforward, what a bad 
 drapery is, to the end of time. Here is drapery supremely, 
 exquisitely bad ; it is impossible, by any contrivance, to get 
 it worse. Merely clumsy, ill-cut clothing, you may see any 
 day ; but there is skill enough in this to make it exemplarily 
 execrable. That flabby flutter, Avrinkled swelling, and puffed 
 pomp of infinite disorder ; — the only action of it, being blown 
 up, and away ; the only calm of it, collapse ; — the resolution of 
 every miserable fold not to fall, if it can help it, into any nat- 
 ural line, — the running of every lump of it into the next, as 
 dough sticks to dough — remaining, not less, evermore inca- 
 ]3able of any harmony or following of each other's lead or way ; 
 — and the total rejection of all notion of beauty or use in the 
 staff itself. It is stuff without thickness, without fineness, 
 without warmth, without coolness, without lustre, without 
 texture ; not silk, — not Imen, — not woollen ; — something that 
 wrings, and wrinkles, and gets between legs, — that is all. 
 "Worse drapery than this, you cannot see in mortal investiture. 
 
 Nor worse ivant of drapery, neither — for the legs are as un- 
 graceful as the robes that discover them ; and the breast of 
 the central figure, whom all the angels admire, is packed 
 under its corslet like a hamper of tomato apples. 
 
 To this type the Venetians have now brought their symbol 
 of divine life in man. For this is also — St. Theodore 1 And 
 the respectable building below, in the Bumble style, is the 
 last effort of his school of Venetian gentlemen to house them- 
 selves respectably. With Ionic capitals, bare-legged angels, 
 and the Dragon, now square-headed and blunt-nosed, they 
 thus contrive their last club-house, and prepare, for resusci- 
 tated Italy, in continued ' Pi'ogresso,' a stately furniture store. 
 Here you may buy cruciform stools, indeed ! and patent oil- 
 cloths, and other supports of your Venetian worshipful dig- 
 
ST. THE on ORE THE CHAIR-SELLER. 41 
 
 iiity, to heart's content Here is your God's Gift to the nine- 
 teenth century. " Doposito mobili nazionali ed esteri ; 
 quadri ; libri autichi e modemi, ed oggetti diversi-" 
 
 Nevertheless, through all this decline in power and idea, 
 there is 3'et, let us note finally, some wreck of Christian in- 
 tention, some feeble coloiiug of Christian faith. A saint is 
 still held to be an admirable person ; he is practically still the 
 patron of your fashionable club-house, where you meet to 
 offer him periodical prayer and alms. This architecture is, 
 seriously, the best you can think of ; those angels are hand- 
 some, according to your notions of personality ; their attitudes 
 really are such as you suppose to be indicative of celestial 
 rapture, — theii; features, of celestial disposition. 
 
 We will see what change another fifty years will bring 
 about in these faded feelings of Venetian soul. 
 
 The little calle on 3^our right, as you front St, Theodore, 
 will bring you straight to the quay below the Rial to, where 
 your gondola shall be waiting, to take you as far as the bridge 
 over the Cannareggio under the Palazzo Labia. Stay your 
 gondola before passing under it, and look carefully at the 
 sculptured ornaments of the arch, and then at the correspond- 
 ent ones on the other side. 
 
 In these you see the last manner of sculpture, executed 1 
 Venetian artists, according to the mind of Venice, for her 
 own pride and pleasure. Much she has done since, of art- 
 work, to sell to strangers, executed as she thinks will please 
 the stranger best. But of art produced for her own joy and 
 in her own honor, tliis is a chosen example of the last ! 
 
 Not representing saintly persons, you see ; nor angels in 
 attitudes of admiration. Quite other personages than angelic, 
 and with expressions of any thing rather than affection or i\ 
 spect for aught of good, in earth or heaven. Such were the 
 last imaginations of her polluted heart, before death. She 
 had it no more in her |x>wer to conceive any other. ** Behold 
 thy last gods," — the Fates connH'l Imr thus to gaze n^^(^ t^^t- 
 isli. 
 
 This last stage of her . intellectuai death precedes her p' - 
 iitical one by about a century ; duiing the last half of which, 
 
42 JST. MA HE'S REST, 
 
 however, she did little more than lay foundations of walls 
 which she could not complete. Yirtually, we may close her 
 national history with the seventeenth centuiy ; we shall not 
 ourselves follow it even so far. 
 
 I have shown you, to-day, pieces of her art- work by which 
 you may easily remember its cardmal divisions. 
 
 You saw first the work of her Greek masters, under whom 
 she learned both her faith and art. 
 
 Secondly, the beginning of her own childish efforts, in the 
 St. George enthroned. 
 
 Thirdly, the culmination of her skill in the St. George com- 
 batant. 
 
 Fourthly, the languor of her faith and art power, under the 
 advance of her luxury, in the hypocrisy of St. Theodore's 
 Scuola, now a furniture warehouse. 
 
 Lastly, her dotage before shameful death. 
 
 In the next chapter, I will mark, by their natural limits, the 
 epochs of her political history, which correspond to these con- 
 ditions of her knowledge, hope, and imagination. 
 
 But as you return home, and again pass before the porches 
 of St. Mark's, I may as well say at once what I can of these 
 six bas-reliefs between them. 
 
 On the sides of the great central arch are St. George and 
 St. Demetrius, so inscribed in Latin. Between the next lat- 
 eral porches, the Virgin and Archangel Gabriel, so inscnbed, 
 — the Archangel in Latin, the " Mother of God " in Greek. 
 
 And between these and the outer porches, uninscribed, two 
 of the labors of Hercules. I am much doubtful concerning 
 these, myself, — do not know their manner of sculpture, nor 
 understand their meaning. They are fine work ; the Venetian 
 antiquaries say, very early (sixth century) ; types, it may be, 
 of physical human power prevailing over wild nature; the 
 war of the world before Christ. 
 
 Then the Madonna and Angel of Annunciation express the 
 Advent. 
 
 Then the two Christian "Warrior Saints express the heart of 
 Venice in her armies. 
 
 There is no doubt, therefore, of the purposeful choosing 
 
T2i:-: SJLWOW on the dial. 13 
 
 and i)lacm<^ of these bas-reliefa Where the outer ones were 
 brought from, I know not ; the four inner ones, I think, ai ' 
 all contemporary, and carved for their place by the Venetian 
 scholars of the Greek schools, in late twelfth or early thii-- 
 teenth century. 
 
 My special reason for assigning this origin to them is the 
 manner of the foliage under the feet of the Gabiiel, in whicli 
 is the origin of all the early foliage in the Gothic of Venice. 
 This bas-relief, however, appears to be by a better master 
 than the others — perhaps later ; and is of extreme beauty. 
 
 Of the iTider St George, and successive sculptures of Evan- 
 geUsts on the north side, I cannot yet speak with decision ; 
 nor would you, until we have followed the story of Venice 
 farther, probably care to hear. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SHADOW ON THE DIAL. 
 
 The history of Venice, then, divides itself into four quite 
 distinct periods. 
 
 L The first, in which the fugitives from many cities on the 
 mainland, gathered themselves into one nation, dependent for 
 existence on its labor upon the sea ; and which develops 
 itself, by that labor, into a race distinct in temper from all 
 the other families of Christendom. This process of growth 
 and mental formation is necessarily a long one, the result 
 being so great. It takes roughly, seven hundred years — 
 from the fifth to the eleventh century', both inclusive. Accu- 
 rately, from the Annunciation day, March 25th, 421, to the 
 day of St. Nicholas, December 6th, 1100. 
 
 At the close of this epoch Venice had fully learned Chri 
 tianity from the Greeks, chivaliy from the Normans, and the 
 laws of human life and toil from the ocean. Prudently and 
 nobly proud, she stood, a helpful and wise princess, highest in 
 counsel and mightiest in deed, among the knightly powers of 
 the world. 
 
44 ST. MARK'S REST, 
 
 IL The second period is that of her great deeds in war, 
 and of the establishment of her reign in justice and truth 
 (the best at least that she knew of either), over, nominalij, 
 the fourth part of the forraer Roman Empire. It includes the 
 whole of the tweHth and thirteenth centuries, and is chiefly 
 characterized by the religious passion of the Crusades. It 
 lasts, in accurate terms, from December 6th, 1100, to Febru- 
 ary 28th, 1297 ; but as the event of that day was not con- 
 firmed till three years afterwards, we get the fortunately pre- 
 cise terminal date of 1301. 
 
 in. The third period is that of religious meditation, as 
 distinct through not withdrawn from, religious action. It is 
 marked by the establishment of schools of kindly civil order, 
 and by its endeavors to express, in word and picture, the 
 thoughts which until then had wrought in silence. The 
 entire body of her noble art-work belongs to this time. It 
 includes the fourteenth and fifteeenth centuries, and twenty 
 years more : from 1301 ^ to 1520. 
 
 TV. The fourth j)eriod is that of the luxurious use, and dis- 
 play, of the powers attained by the labor and meditation of 
 former times, but now applied without either labor or medita- 
 tion : — religion, art, and literature, having become things of 
 custom and " costume." It spends, in eighty years, the fruits 
 of the toil of a thousand, and terminates, strictly, with the 
 death of Tintoret, in 1591 : we will say 1600. 
 
 From that day the remainder of the record of Venice is 
 only the diary of expiring delirium, and by those who love 
 her, will be traced no farther. But while you are here within 
 her walls I will endeavor to interpret clearly to you the 
 legends on them, in which she has herself related the passions 
 of her Four Ages. 
 
 And see how easily they are to be numbered and remem- 
 bered. Twelve hundred years in all ; divided — ^if, broadly, 
 we call the third period two centuries, and the fourth, one, — 
 in diminishing proportion, 7, 2, 2, 1 : it is like the spiral 
 of a shell, reversed. 
 
 I have in this first sketch of them distinguished these four 
 ' Compara ^Stones of Venice' (old edit.;, vol. ii., p. 291. 
 
riJF ."^UADow ox nil-: dial. 1-5 
 
 . s ny I . ' - lief element of eveiy nation's 
 
 I ind — its religion, with the consequent results upon its art. 
 J3ut you see I have made no mention whatever of all thai^ 
 common histonans think it their primal business to discourse 
 of, — policy, government, commercial prosperity ! One of my 
 dates however is determined by a crisis of internal policy ; 
 and I will at least note, as the material instrumentation of 
 the spiritual song, the metamorphoses of state-order which 
 accompanied, in each transition, the now nativities of the 
 ;ite's heart. 
 
 I. During the first period, which completes iiiu iiiimiiig ui 
 many tribes into one, and the softening of savage faith into 
 intelligent Christianity, we see the gradual establishment of a 
 more and more distinctly virtuous monarchic authority ; con- 
 tinually disputed, and often abused, but purified by every 
 reign into stricter duty, and obeyed by eveiy generation with 
 more sacred regard. At the close of this epoch, the helpful 
 presence of God, and the leading powers of the standard- 
 bearer Saint, and sceptre-bearing King, are vitally believed ; 
 reverently, and to the death, obeyed. And, in the eleventh 
 century, the Palace of the Duke and lawgiver of the people, 
 and his Chai3el, enshrining the body of St. Mark, stand, bright 
 with marble and gold, side by side. 
 
 II. In the second period, that of active Christian warfare, 
 there separates itself from the mass of the people, chiefly by 
 pre-eminence in knightly achievement, and persistence in pa- 
 ^ liotic virtue, — but also, by the intellectual training received 
 
 the conduct of great foreign enterprise, and maintenance 
 
 of le;jjislation among strange people, - an order of aristocracy, 
 
 raised both in wisdom and valor greatly above the average 
 
 \ el of the multitude, and gradually joining to the traditions 
 
 of Patrician Rome, the domestic refinements, and imaginative 
 
 sanctities, of the northern and Prankish chivalry, whose chiefs 
 
 re their battle comrades. At the close of the epoch, this 
 
 )re sternly educated class determines to assume authority 
 
 the government of the State, unswayed by the humor, and 
 
 unhindered by the ignorance, of the lower classes of the 
 
 people ; and the year which I have ji.ssi^niivl for Wn- ,'K*»'ni'ate 
 
^0 ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 close of tlie second period is that of the great division be- 
 tween nobles and plebeians, called by the Venetians the 
 " Closing of the Council/' — the restriction, that is to say, of 
 the powers of the Senate to the hneal aristocracy. 
 
 III. The third period shows us the advance of this now 
 separate body of Venetian gentlemen in such thought and 
 passion as the privilege of their position admitted, or its 
 temptations provoked. The gradually increasing knowledge 
 of literature, culminating at last in the discovery of printing, 
 and revival of classic formuL'B of method, modified by reflec- 
 tion, or dimmed by disbelief, the frank Christian faith of 
 earlier ages ; and social position independent of military 
 prow'css, developed at once the ingenuity, frivolity, and vanity 
 of the scholar, with the avarice and cunning of the merchant. 
 
 Protected and encouraged by a senate thus composed, dis- 
 tinct companies of craftsmen, wdiolly of the people, gathered 
 into vowed fraternities of social order ; and, retaining the 
 illiterate sincerities of their religion, labored in unambitious 
 peace, under the orders of the philosophic aristocracy ; — built 
 for them their great palaces, and overlaid their walls, within 
 and without, with gold and purple of Tyre, precious now in 
 Venetian hands as the colors of heaven more than of the sea. 
 By the hand of one of them, the picture of Venice, with her 
 nobles in her streets, at the end of this epoch, is preserved to 
 you as yet, and I trust will be, by the kind fates, preserved 
 datelessly. 
 
 IV. In the fourth period, the discovery of printing having 
 confused literature into vociferation, and the delicate skill of 
 the craftsman having provoked splendor into lasciviousness, 
 the jubilant and coruscant passions of the nobles, stately yet 
 in the forms of religion, but scornful of her discipline, ex- 
 hausted, in their own false honor, at once the treasures of 
 Venice and her skill ; reduced at last her people to misery, 
 and her policy to shame, and smoothed for themselves the 
 downward way to the abdication of their might for evermore. 
 
 Now these two histories of the religion and policy of Ven- 
 ice are only intense abstracts of the same course of thought 
 and events in every nation of Europe. Throughout the whole 
 
7/7/'; SHADOW ON Tim DIAL. 47 
 
 of Christendom, ^ like manner proceed to- 
 
 gether. The acceptance of Christianity — the practice of it — 
 the abandonment of it — and moral ruin. The development of 
 kingly authority, — the obedience to it — the con'uption of it — 
 and social ruin. But there is no evidence that the first of these 
 courses of national fate is vitally connected with the second, 
 lliat infidel kings may be just, and Christian ones cornipt, 
 was the first lesson Venice learned when she began to be a 
 scholar. 
 
 And obseiTe there are three quite distinct conditions of 
 feeling and assumptions of theory in which we may approach 
 this matter. The first, that of our numerous cockney friends, 
 — that the dukes of Venice were mostly hypocrites, and if not, 
 fools ; that their pious zeal w^as merely such a cloak for their 
 commercial appetite as modern church-going is for modern 
 swindling ; or else a pitiable hallucination and puerility : — 
 that really the attention of the supreme cockney mind would 
 be .wasted on such bygone absurdities, and that out of mere 
 respect for the common sense of monkey-born-and-bred hu- 
 manity, the less we say of them the better. 
 
 The second condition of feeling is, in its full confession, a 
 very rare one ; — that of true respect for the Christian faith, 
 and sympathy with the passions and imaginations it excited, 
 while yet in security of modern enlightenment, the observer 
 regards the faith itself only as an exquisite dream of mortal 
 childhood, and the acts of its votaries as a beautifully deceived 
 heroism of vain hope. ■ 
 
 This theory of the splendid mendacity of Heaven, and ma- 
 jestic somnambulism of man, I have only known to be held in 
 the sincere depth of its discomfort, by one of my wisest and 
 deai-est friends, under the pressure of uncomprehended sor- 
 row in his own personal experience. . But to some extent it 
 confuses or undermines the thoughts of nearly all men who 
 have been interested in the material investigations of recent 
 physical science, while retaining yet imagination and imder- 
 standing enough to enter into the heart of the religious and 
 creative ages. 
 
 And it necessai'ily takes possession of the spirit of such men 
 
48 ST. MARIVS REST. 
 
 chiefly at the times of personal sorrow, which teach even to 
 the wisest, the hoUowness of their best trust, and the vanity 
 of their dearest visions ; and when the epitaph of all human 
 virtue, and sum of human peace, seem to be written in the 
 lowly argument, — 
 
 " We are sucli stuff 
 As dreams are made of ; and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 The third, the only modest, and therefore the only rational, 
 theory, is, that we are all and always, in these as in former 
 ages, deceived by our own guilty passions, blinded by our 
 own obstinate wills, and misled by the insolence and fantasy 
 of our ungoverned thoughts ; but that there is verily a Divin- 
 ity in nature which has shaped the rough hewn deeds of our 
 weak human effort, and revealed itself in rays of broken, but 
 of eternal light, to the souls which have desired to see the day 
 of the Son of Man. 
 
 By the more than miraculous fatality which has been hither- 
 to permitted to rule the course of the kingdoms of this world, 
 the men who are capable of accepting such faith, are rarely 
 able to read the history of nations by its interpretation. 
 They nearly all belong to some one of the passionately egot- 
 istic sects of Christianity ; and are miserably perverted into the 
 missionary service of their own schism ; eager only, in the 
 records of the past, to gather evidence to the advantage of 
 their native persuasion, and to the disgrace of all opponent 
 forms of similar heresy ; or, that is to say, in every case, of 
 nine -tenths of the religion of this world. 
 
 With no less thankfulness for the lesson, than shame for 
 what it showed, I have myself been forced to recognize the 
 degree in which all my early Avork on Venetian history was 
 paralyzed by this petulance of sectarian egotism ; and it is 
 among the chief advantages I possess for the task now under- 
 taken in my closing years, that there are few of the errors 
 against which I have to warn my readers, into which I have 
 not myself at some time fallen. Of which errors, the chief, 
 and cause of all ihe rest, is the leaning on our own under- 
 
RED AND WRITE CLOUDS. -1-'^ 
 
 standing ; the thought that we can measure the hearts of (jur 
 brethren, and judge of the ways of God. Of the hearts of 
 men, noble, yet " deceitful above all things, who can know 
 them?" — that infinitely perverted scripture is yet infinitely 
 true. And for the ways of God ! Oh, my good and gentle 
 reader, bow much otherwise would not you and I have made 
 this world ? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 EED AND WHITE CLOUDS. 
 
 Not, therefore, to lean on our own sense, but in till the 
 strength it has, to use it ; not to be captives to our private 
 thoughts, but to dwell in them, without wandering, until, out 
 of the chambers of our own hearts we begin to conceive what 
 labyrinth is in those of others, — thus we have to prepare our- 
 selves, good reader, for the reading of any history. 
 
 If but we may at last succeed in reading a little of our own, 
 and discerning what scene of the world's drama we are set to 
 play in, — drama w^hose tenor, tragic or other, seemed of old 
 to rest with so few actors ; but now, with this pantomimic 
 mob upon the stage, can you make out any of the storj^ ? — 
 prove, even in your own heart, how much you believe that 
 there is any Playwright behind the scenes ? 
 
 Such a wild dream as it is ! — nay, as it always has been, 
 except in momentary fits of consciousness, and instants of 
 startled spii'it, — perceptive of heaven. For many centuries 
 the Knights of Cbiistendom wore their religion gay as their 
 crest, familiar as their gauntlet, shook it high in the summer 
 air, hm-led it fiercely in other people's faces, grasped their 
 spear the firmer for it, sat their horses the prouder ; but it 
 never entered into their minds for an instant to ask the mean- 
 ing of it ! * Forgive us our sins : ' by all means — yes, and the 
 next garrison that holds out a day longer than is convenient 
 to us, hang them every man to his battlement. * Give us this 
 day our daily bread,* — yes, and our neighbor's also, if we 
 have any luck. * Our Lady and the siiints ! ' Is there any 
 
60 ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 infidel dog that doubts of them ? — in God's name, boot and 
 spur — and let us have the head off him. It went on so, 
 frankly and bravely, to the twelfth century, at the earliest ; 
 Avhen men begin to think in a serious manner ; more or less 
 of gentle manners and domestic comfort being also then con- 
 ceivable and attainable. Eosamond is not any more asked to 
 drink out of her father's skull. Kooms begin to be matted 
 and wainscoted ; shops to hold store of marvellous foreign 
 wares ; knights and ladies learn to spell, and to read, with 
 pleasure ; music is everywhere ; — Death, also. Much to en- 
 joy — much to learn, and to endure — with Death always at the 
 gates. /'If war fail thee in thine own country, get thee with 
 haste into another," says the faithful old French knight to the 
 boy- chevalier, in early fourteenth century days. 
 
 No country stays more than two centuries in this inter- 
 mediate phase between Faith and Keason. In France it lasted 
 from about 1150 to 1350 ; in England, 1200 to 1400 ; in 
 Venice, 1300 to 1500. The course of it is always in the 
 gradual development of Christianity, — till her yoke gets at 
 once too aerial, and too straight, for the mob, who break 
 through it at last as if it were so much gossamer ; and at the 
 same fatal time, wealth and luxury, with the vanity of corrupt 
 learning, foul the faith of the upper classes, who now begin to 
 wear their Christianity, not tossed for a crest high over their 
 armor, but stuck as a plaster over their sores, inside of their 
 clothes. Then comes printing, and universal gabble of fools ; 
 gunpowder, and the end of all the noble methods of war ; 
 trade, and universal swindling ; wealth, and universal gam- 
 bling ; idleness, and universal harlotry ; and so at last — 
 Modern Science and Political Economy ; and the reign of St. 
 Petroleum instead of St. Peter. Out of which God only knows 
 what is to come next ; but He doe^ know, whatever the Jew 
 swindlers and apothecaries' 'prentices think about it. 
 
 Meantime, with what remainder of belief in Christ may be 
 left in us ; and helping that remnant with all the power wx- 
 have of imagining what Christianity was, to people who, with- 
 out understanding its claims or its meaning, did not doubf. 
 for an instant its statements of fact, and used the whole of 
 
HIJI) AN J) WlllTK CLOUDS. CI 
 
 I ( ir childish imagination to reaHze the acts of their Saviours 
 lite, and the presence of His angels, let us draw near to the 
 first sandy thresholds of tiie Venetian's home. 
 
 Before you read any of the so-called historical events of the 
 first period, I want you to have some notion of their scene. 
 You will hear of Tribunes — Consuls— Doges ; but what sort 
 of tribes were they tribunes of ? what sort of nation were 
 they dukes of ? You will hear of brave naval battle — victory 
 over sons of Emperors : what manner of people were the}-, 
 then, whose swords Hghten thus brightly in the dawn of chiv- 
 alry? 
 
 For the whole of her first seven hundred years of work and 
 war, Venice was in great part a wooden town ; the houses of 
 the noble mainland families being for long years chiefly at 
 Heraclea, and on other islands ; nor they magnificent, but 
 farm-villas mostly, of which, and their farming, more pres- 
 ently. Far too much stress has been generally laid on the 
 fishing and salt-works of early Venice, as if they were her 
 only businesses ; nevertheless at least you may be sure of this 
 much, that for seven hundred j^ears Venice had more likeness 
 in her to old Yarmouth than to new Pall Mall ; and that you 
 might come to shrewder guess of what she and her people 
 were like, by living for a year or two lovingly among the her- 
 ring-catchers of Yarmouth Roads, or the boatmen of Deal or 
 Boscastle, than by reading any lengths of eloquent history. 
 But you are to know also, and remember always, that thi- 
 amphibious city — this Phocfca, or sea-dog of towns — lookiii 
 with soft human eyes at you from the sand, Proteus hims( i 
 latent in the salt-smelling skin of her — had fields, and plot 
 of garden here and there ; and, far and near, sweet woods oi 
 CaljT^so, graceful with quivering sprays, for woof of nests — 
 f^^aunt with forked limbs for ribs of ships ; had good milk and 
 Ijutter from familiarly couchant cows ; thickets wherein fa- 
 miliar birds could sing ; and finally was observant of cloud 
 and sky, as pleasant and useful phenomena. And she had . 
 due distances among her simple dwellings, stately church( 
 of marble. 
 
 These things you may know, if you will, from the followii:. 
 
52 ST. MARK'S BEST. 
 
 ^' quite ridiculous" tradition, which, ridiculous as it may be, 
 I will beg you for once to read, since the Doge Andrea Dan- 
 dolo wrote it for you, with the attention due to the address of 
 a Venetian gentleman, and a King.' 
 
 "As head and bishop of the islands, the Bishop Magnus of 
 Altinum went from place to place to give them comfort, saying 
 that they ought to thank God lor having escaped from these 
 barbarian cruelties. And there appeared to him St. Peter, or- 
 dering him that in the head of Venice, or truly of the city of 
 Eivoalto, where he should find oxen and sheep feeding, he 
 was to build a church under his (St Peter's) name. And thus 
 he did ; building St. Peter's Clmrch i]i the island of Olivolo, 
 where at present is the seat and cathedral church of Venice. 
 
 " Afterwards appeared to him the angel Eaphael, commit- 
 ting it to him, that at another place, where he should find a 
 number of birds together, he should build him a church : and 
 so he did, which is the church of the Angel Raphael in Dor- 
 soduro. 
 
 "Afterwards appeared to him Messer Jesus Christ our 
 Lord, and committed to him that in the midst of the city he 
 should build a church, in the place, above which he should 
 see a red cloud rest : and so he did ; and it is San Salvador. 
 
 "Afterwards appeared to him the most holj^ Mary the Vir- 
 gin, very beautiful ; and commanded him that where he should 
 see a white cloud rest, he should build a church : which is the 
 church of St. Mary the Beautiful. 
 
 "Yet still appeared to him St. John the Baptist, command- 
 ing that he should build two churches, one near the other — 
 the one to be in his name, and the other in the name of his 
 father. Which he did, and they are San Giovanni in Bragola, 
 and San Zaccaria. 
 
 " Then appeared to him the apostles of Christ, wishing, they 
 
 ' A more graceful form of this legend has been translated with feel- 
 ing and care by the Countess Isobel Cholmlev, in Bermani, from an 
 MS. in her possession, copied, I believe, from one of the tenth century. 
 But I take the form in which it was written by Andrea Dandolo, tliat 
 the reader may have more direct associations with the beautiful image 
 of the Doge on his tomb in the Bai)tistery. 
 
i ■ . and they committed 
 
 liim that where he should see twelve cranes in a com- 
 paiiv, there he should build it. Lastly appeared to him the 
 blessed Virgin Giustina, and ordered him that wliere he should 
 find vines bearing fresh fruits there he should build her a 
 <^hurch." 
 
 Now this legend is quite one of the most precious things in 
 the story of Venice : preserved for us in this form at the end 
 of the fourteenth centuiy, by one of her most highly edu- 
 cated gentlemen, it shows the very heart of her rehgious and 
 domestic power, and assures for us, with other evidence, 
 these following facts. 
 
 First ; that a certain measure of pastoral home-life was 
 mingled with Venice's training of her sailors ; — evidence 
 whereof remains to this day, in the unfailing * Campo * 
 round every church ; the church ' meadow ' — not chui'ch- 
 *yard.' It happened to me, once in my life, to go to church 
 in a state of very great happiness and peace of mind ; and 
 this in a very small and secluded country church. And Fors 
 would have it that I should get a seat in the chancel ; and 
 the day was sunny, and the Httle side chancel-door was open 
 opposite into, what I hope was a field. I saw no graves in 
 it ; but in the sunshine, sheep feeding. And I never was at so 
 divine a church service before, nor have been since. If you will 
 read the opening of Wordsworth's * White Doe of Rylstone,' 
 and can enjoy it, you may learn from it what the look of an 
 old Venetian church would be, with its surrounding field. 
 St. Mark's Place was only the meadow of St. Theodore's 
 church, in those days. 
 
 Next — you observe the care and watching of animals. 
 That is still a love in the heart of Venice. One of the chief 
 little worries to me in my work here, is that I walk faster 
 than the pigeons are used to have people walk ; and am con- 
 tinually like to tread on them ; and see story in Fors, March 
 of this year, of the gondolier and his dog. Nay, though, the 
 other day, I was greatly tormented at the public gardens, in 
 the early morning, when I had counted on a quiet walk, by 
 
54 ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 a cluster of boys wlio were chasing the first twittering birds 
 of the spring from bush to bush, and throwing sand at them, 
 with wild shouts and whistles, they were not doing it, as I at 
 first thought, in mere mischief, but with hope of getting a 
 penny or two to gamble with, if they could clog the poor 
 little creatures' wings enough to bring one down — " ' Canta 
 bene, signor, quell' uccellino." Such the nineteenth century's 
 reward of Song. Meantime, among the silvery gleams of 
 islet tower on the lagoon horizon, beyond Mazorbo — a white 
 ray flashed from the place where St. Francis preached to the 
 Birds. 
 
 Then thirdly — note that curious observance of the color of 
 clouds. That is gone, indeed ; and no Venetian, or Italian, or 
 Frenchman, or Englishman, is likely to know or care, more, 
 whether any God-given cloud is white or red ; the primal ef- 
 fort of his entire human existence being now to vomit out 
 the biggest black one he can pollute the heavens with. But, in 
 their rough way, there was yet a perception in the old fisher- 
 men's eyes of the difference between white 'nebbia'on the 
 morning sea, and red clouds in the evening twilight. And 
 the Stella Maris comes in the sea Cloud ; — Leucothea : but the 
 Son of Man on the jasper throne. 
 
 Thus much of the aspect, and the thoughts of earliest Ven- 
 ice, we may gather from one tradition, carefully read. "What 
 historical evidence exists to confirm the gathering, you shall 
 see in a little while ; meantime — such being the scene of the 
 opening drama — we must next consider somewhat of the 
 character of the actors. For though what manner of houses 
 they had, has been too little known, what manner of men they 
 were, has not at all been known, or even the reverse of known, 
 — belied. 
 
DIVINE RIGHT. ^^ 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 DIVINE RIGHT. 
 
 Are you impatient with me ? and do you wish me, ceasing 
 preamble, to begin — *In the year this, happened that,' and 
 set you down a page of dates and Doges to be learned off 
 by rote? You must be denied such delight a little while 
 longer. If I begin dividing this first period, at present (and 
 it has very distinctly articulated joints of its own), we should 
 p;et confused between the subdivided and the great epochs. I 
 jiiust keep your thoughts to the Three Times, till we know 
 ibem clearly ; and in this chapter I am only going to tell you 
 the stor}' of a single Doge of the First Time, and gather what 
 we can out of it. 
 
 Onl}^ since we have been hitherto dwelling on the soft and 
 religiously sentimental parts of early Venetian character, it is 
 needful that I should ask you to notice one condition in their 
 government of a quite contrary nature, which historians usu- 
 ally pass by as if it were of no consequence ; namely, that 
 during this first period, five Doges, after being deposed, had 
 their eyes put out 
 
 Palled out, say some writers, and I think with evidence 
 reaching down as far as the endurance on our English stage 
 of the blinding of Gloster in King Lear. 
 
 But at all events the Dukes of Venice, whom her people 
 thought to have failed in their duty, were in that manner in- 
 capacitated from reigning more. 
 
 An Eastern custom, as we know : grave in judgment ; in 
 the perfectness of it, joined with infliction of grievous Sight, 
 before the infliction of giievous Blindness ; that so the last 
 memory of this world's hght might remain a grief. " And 
 they slew the sons of Zedekiah before his cyos ; and put out 
 the eyes of Zedekiah." 
 
 Custom I know not how ancient The n^^iio ui' Eliab, when 
 Judah was young in her Exodus, hke Venice, appealed to it iu 
 
S6 ST. MARK'S MEST. 
 
 their fury : *' Is it a small tiling that thou hast brought us up 
 out of a land that floweth with milk and honey, except thou 
 make thyself altogether a Prince over us ; wilt thou j)ut out 
 the eyes of these men ? " 
 
 The more wild "Western raqes of Christianity, early Irish 
 and the like, — Norman even, in the pirate times, — inflict the 
 penalty wdth reckless scorn ; ' but Venice deliberately, as was 
 her constant way ; such her practical law against leaders 
 whom she had found spiritually blind : " These, at least, shall 
 guide no more." 
 
 Very savage ! monstrous ! if you will ; whether it be not a 
 worse savageness deliberately to follow leaders ivithout sight, 
 may be debatable. 
 
 The Doge w^hose history I am going to tell you was the last 
 of deposed Kings in the first ejooch. Not blinded, he, as far 
 as I read : but permitted, I trust peaceably, to become a monk ; 
 Venice owing to him much that has been the delight of her 
 own and other people's eyes, ever since. Respecting the oc- 
 casion of his dethronement, a story remains, however, very 
 notably in connection with this manner of punishment. 
 
 Venice, throughout this first period in close alliance with the 
 Greeks, sent her Doge, in the year 1082, with a " valid fleet, 
 terrible in its most ordered disposition," to defend the Em- 
 peror Alexis against the Normans, led by the greatest of all 
 Western captains, Guiscard. 
 
 The Doge defeated him in naval battle once ; and, on the 
 third day after, once again, and so conclusively, that, think- 
 
 ^ Or sometimes pitifully : '' Olaf was bj no means an unmerciful man, 
 — much the reverse where he saw good cause. There was a wicked old 
 King Rserik, for example, one of those five kinglets whom, with their 
 bits of armaments, Olaf, by stratagem, had surrounded one night, and 
 at once bagged and subjected when morning rose, all of them consent- 
 ing ; — all of them except this Eserik, whom Olaf, as the readiest sure 
 course, took home with him ; blinded, and kept in his own house, find- 
 ing there was no alternative but that or death to the obstinate old dog, 
 who was a kind of distant cousin withal, and could not conscientiously 
 be killed' — (Carlyle, — ' Early Kings of Norway,' p. 121) — conscience, 
 and kin-ship, or '^ kindliness," declining somewhat in the Norman heart 
 afterwards. 
 
DIVINE niGIIT. 
 
 ing the debate ended, he sent liis lightest ships home, an 
 anchored on tbo A^^>*^iirv"» fo<>^f Tvith ^\v' ro^f ..^ i.m-i'iw.- /i/v. 
 his work. 
 
 But Guiscard, olherwise luiuded on that matter, with the 
 remains of liis fleet, — and his Norman temper at hottest, — 
 attacked him for the third time. The Greek allied ships fled. 
 The Venetian ones, partly disabled, had no advantage in their 
 seamanship : ^ question only remained, after the battle, how 
 the Venetians should bear themselves as prisoners. Guiscard 
 put out the eyes of some ; then, with such penalty impend- 
 ing over the rest, demanded that they should make peace 
 with the Normans, and fight for the Greek Emperor no more. 
 
 But the Venetians answered, " Know thou, Duke Robert, 
 that although also we should see our wives and children slaii 
 we will not deny our covenants with the Autocrat Alexis ; 
 neither will we cease to help him, and to fight for him with 
 our whole hearts." 
 
 The Norman chief sent them home unransomed. 
 
 There is a highwater mark for you of the waves of Venetian 
 and Western chivaliy in the eleventh century. A very notable 
 scene ; the northern leader, without rival the greatest soldier 
 of the sea whom our rocks and ice-bergs bred : of the Ven( 
 tian one, and his people, w^e will now try to learn the charac- 
 ter more perfectly, — for all this took place towards the close 
 of the Doge Selvo's life. You shall next hear what I can 
 glean of the former course of it. 
 
 In the year 1053, the Abbey of St. Nicholas, the protector 
 of mariners, had been built at the entrance of the port of 
 Venice (where, north of the bathing establishment, you now 
 see the little church of St. Nicholas of the Lido) ; the Doge 
 Domenico Contarini, the Patriarch of Grado, and the Bishop 
 of Venice, chiefly finding the funds for such edifice. 
 
 When the Doge Contarini died, the entire multitude of the 
 people of Venice came in armed boats to the Lido, and th^^ 
 Bishop of Venice, and the monks of the new abbey of Si 
 Nicholas, joined with tliem in prayer, — the monks in their 
 
 * Their crews had eaten all f1»»^ir ^u^v^^< u^,^ fi, ,<,•,. ci.i,>o ,,<...,. tiviiv"- 
 light, and would not steer wel 
 
t^S ST. MARK'S REST, 
 
 clmrch and the people on the shore and in their boats, — that 
 God would avert all dangers from their country, and grant to 
 them such a king as should be worth}^ to reign over it. And 
 as they prayed, with one accord, suddenly there rose up 
 among the multitude the cry, " Domenico Selvo, we will, and 
 w^e approve," whom a crowd of the nobles brought instantly 
 forward thereupon, and raised him on their own shoulders 
 and carried him to his boat ; into which when he had entered, 
 he put off his shoes from his feet, that he might in all humility 
 approach the church of St. Mark. And while the boats began to 
 row from the island towards Venice, the monk who saw this, and 
 tells us of it, himself began to sing the Te Deum. All around, 
 the voices of the people took up the hymn, following it with 
 the Kyrie Eleison, with such litany keeping time to their oars 
 in the bright noonday, and rejoicing on their native sea ; all 
 the towers of the city answering with triumph peals as they 
 drew nearer. They brought their Doge to the Field of St. 
 Mark, and carried him again on their shoulders to the porch 
 of the church ; there, entering barefoot, with songs of praise 
 to God round him — ^'sucli that it seemed as if the vaults must 
 fall," — he prostrated himself on the earth, and gave thanks to 
 God and St. Mark, and uttered such vow as was in his heart 
 to offer before them. Rising, he received at the altar the 
 Venetian sceptre, and thence entering the Ducal Palace, re- 
 ceived there the oath of fealty from the people.* 
 
 ^ This account of the election of the Doge Selvo is given bj Sanso- 
 vino (' Yenetia descritta,' Lib. xi. 40 ; Venice, 1663, p. 477),— saying at 
 the close of it simply, '* Thus writes Domenico Eino, who was his chap- 
 lain, and who was present at what I have related." Sansovino seems 
 therefore to have seen Rino's manuscript ; but Romanin, without 
 referring to Sansovino, gives the relation as if he had seen the MS. 
 himself, but misprints the chronicler's name as Domenico T\no, causing 
 no little trouble to my kind friend Mr. Lorenzi and me, in hunting at 
 St. Mark's and the Correr Museum for the unheard-of chronicle, till 
 Mr. Lorenzi traced the passage. And since Sansovinos time nothing 
 has been seen or further said of the Rino Chronicle.— See Foscarini, 
 *' della letteratura Yeneziana,'* Lib. ii. 
 
 Romanin has also amplified and inferred somewhat beyond Sanso- 
 vino's words. The dilapidation of the palace furniture, especially, is 
 
VI VIjMU lUUllT. 
 
 Benighted wretches, all of them, yow think, prince and 
 people alike, don't you? They were pleasanter creatures to 
 see, at any rate, than any you will see in St. Mark's field now- 
 adays. If the pretty ladies, indeed, would walk in the porch 
 like the Doge, barefoot, instead of in boots cloven in two like 
 the devil's hoofs, something might be said for them ; but 
 though they will recklessly drag their dresses through it, I 
 suppose they would scarcely care to walk, like Greek maids, 
 in that mixed mess of dust and spittle with which modern pro- 
 gressive Venice anoints her marble pavement. Pleasanter to 
 look at, I can assure you, this multitude delighting in their 
 God and their Duke, than these, who have no Paradise to trust 
 to with better gifts for them than a gazette, cigar, and pack 
 of cards ; and no better governor than their own wills. You 
 will see no especially happy or wise faces produced in St.Mark's 
 Place under these conditions. 
 
 Nevertheless, the next means that the Doge Selvo took for 
 the pleasure of his people on his coronation day savored 
 somewhat of modern republican principles. He gave them 
 *^ the pillage of his palace " — no less ! Whatever they could 
 lay their hands on, tliese faithful ones, they might caiTy away 
 with them, with the Doge's blessing. At evening he laid down 
 the uneasy crowned head of him to rest in mere dismantled 
 w^alls ; hands dexterous in the practices of profitable warfare 
 having bestirred themselves all the day. Next morning the 
 first Ducal public orders were necessarily to the uj^holsterers 
 and furnishers for readornment of the palace-rooms. Not by 
 any special grace this, or benevolent novelty of idea in th( 
 good Doge, but a received custom, hitherto ; sacred enough, 
 if one understands it, — a kind of mythical putting off all the 
 burdens of one's former wealth, and entering barefoot, bare- 
 body, bare-soul, into this one duty of Guide and Lord, light- 
 ened thus of all regai'd for his own affairs or properties. 
 *'Take all I have, from henceforth; the coq^oral vestments 
 
 not attributed by Saiisovino to festive pillage, but to neglect after Con- 
 tarinis death. Unquestionably, liowever, the custom alluded to in th«* 
 text existed from very early times. 
 
00 ST, MARK'S REST. 
 
 of me, and all that is in their pockets, I give you to-day ; the 
 stripped life of me is yours forever." Such, virtually, the 
 King's vow. 
 
 Frankest largesse thus cast to his electors (modern bribery 
 is quite as costly and not half so merry), the Doge set himself 
 to refit, not his own palace merely, but much more, God's 
 house : for this prince is one who has at once David's piety, 
 and soldiership, and Solomon's love of fine things ; a perfect 
 man, as I read him, capable at once and gentle, religious and 
 joyful, in the extreme : as a warrior the match of Koberfc 
 Guiscard, who, you vail find, was the soldier par excellence of 
 the middle ages, but not his match in the wild-cat cunning — 
 both of them alike in knightly honor, word being given. As 
 a soldier, I say, the match of Guiscard, but not holding war 
 for the pastime of life, still less for the duty of Venice or her 
 king. Peaceful affairs, the justice and the joy of human deeds 
 —in these he sought his power, by principle and passion 
 equally ; religious, as we have seen ; royal, as we shall pres- 
 ently see ; commercial, as we shall finally see ; a perfect man, 
 recognized as such with concurrent applause of people and 
 submission of noble : " Domenico Selvo, we will, and we ap- 
 prove." 
 
 No fiaw in him, then ? Nay ; " how bad the best of us ! " 
 say Punch, ' and the modern evangelical. Flaw he had, such 
 as wisest men are not unliable to, with the strongest — Solomon, 
 Samson, Hercules, Merlin the Magician. 
 
 Liking pretty things, how could he help liking pretty la- 
 dies ? He married a Greek maid, who came with new and 
 strange light on Venetian eyes, and left wild fame of herself : 
 how, every morning, she sent her handmaidens to gather the 
 dew for her to wash with, waters of earth being not pure 
 enough. So, through lapse of fifteen hundred years, de- 
 scended into her Greek heart that worship in the Temple of 
 the Dew. 
 
 Of this queen's extreme luxury, and the miraculousness of 
 
 1 Epitaph on the Bishop of Winchester (Wilberf orce) ; see Fors, Letter 
 XLIL, p. 210. 
 
j)rviN/-: niGiiT. <^>l 
 
 it iu tlio (yes of simple Venice, many traditions are current 
 among later historians; which, nevertheless, I find resolvn 
 themselves, on closer inquiry, into an appalled record of tli 
 fact that she would actually not eat her meat \vith her fingers, 
 but appHed it to her mouth with " certain two-pronged instrn- 
 ments"' (of gold, indeed, but the luxurious sin, in Venetiai 
 eyes, was evidently not in the metal, but the fork) ; and thai 
 she indulged herself greatly in the use of perfumes : esjoecially 
 about her bed, for which whether to praise her, as one would 
 an Enghsh housewife for sheets laid up in lavender, or to cry 
 haro upon her, as the '' stranger who flattereth," ^ I know 
 not, until I know better the reason of the creation of perfume 
 itself, and of its use in Eastern rehgion and delight — "All thy 
 garments smell of myrrh, aloes, and cassia, out of the ivory 
 palaces w^hereby thou hast made me glad " — fading and cor- 
 rupting at last into the incense of the mass, and the extrait de 
 MiUe-Jieurs of Bond Street. What I do know is, that there 
 was no more sacred sight to me, in ancient Florence, than the 
 Spezieria of the Monks of Santa Maria Novella, with its 
 precious vials of sweet odors, each illuminated with the little 
 picture of the flower from which it had truly been distilled 
 — and yet, that, in its loaded air one remembered that the 
 flowers had grown in the fields of the Decameron. 
 
 But this also I know, and more surely, that the beautiful 
 work done in St. Mark's during the Greek girl's reign in 
 Venice first interpreted to her people's hearts, and made legi 
 ble to their eyes, the law of Christianity in its eternal harmoii 
 with the laws of the Jew and of the Greek : and gave them the 
 glories of Venetian art in true inheritance from the angels o^ 
 that Athenian Bock, above which Ion spread his starry tape 
 try,^ and under whose shadow his mother had gathered tl 
 crocus in the dow. 
 
 ^ ' V .., ., .;.^... . ,. ... ;....„, :,..., .., a liuibu.sdiim fiiscinulis aureis li 
 bidentibus suo ori applicabat.'' (Petrus Daini anus, quoted by Dandolo.) 
 
 ^ Proverbs vii. , 5 and 17. 
 
 ^ I have myself learned more of the real meaning of Greek myt! 
 from Euripides tliau from any <ither Greek writer, except Pindar, liin 
 I do not at present know of any English rhythm interpreting hi.i;i 
 
62 ST. MARK'S REST, 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 THE EEQUIEM. 
 
 1. As I re-r^ad the description I gave, thirty years since, 
 of St. Mark's Church ; — much more as I remember, forty 
 years since, and before, the first happy hour spent in trying 
 to paint a piece of it, with my six-o'clock breakfast on the httle 
 cafe table beside me on the pavement in the morning shadow, 
 I am struck, almost into silence, by wonder at my own pert 
 little Protestant mind, which never thought for a moment of 
 asking what the Church* had been built for! 
 
 Tacitly and complacently assuming that I had had the en- 
 tire truth of God preached to me in Beresford Cha23el in the 
 Walworth Eoad, — recognizing no possible Christian use or 
 propriety in any other sort of chapel elsewhere ; and per- 
 ceiving, in this bright phenomenon before me, nothing of 
 more noble function than might be in some new and radiant 
 sea-shell, thrown up for me on the sand ; — nay, never once so 
 much as thinking, of the fair shell itself, ''Who built its 
 domed whorls, then ? " or " What manner of creature lives in 
 
 rightly — these poor sapless measures must serve my turn — (Woodhull's i 
 1778.) 
 
 ''The sacred tapestry 
 
 Then taking from the treasures of the God, 
 
 He cover'd o'er the whole, a wondrous sight 
 
 To all beholders : first he o'er the roof 
 
 Threw robes, which. Hercules, the son of Jove, 
 
 To Phoebus at his temple brought, the spoils 
 
 Of vanquished Amazons ; 
 
 On which these pictures by the loom were wrought ; 
 
 Heaven in its vast circumference all the stars 
 
 Assembling ; there his courses too the Sun 
 
 Impetuous drove, till ceas'd his waning flame, 
 
 And with him drew in his resplendent train, 
 
 Vesper^s clear light ; then clad in sable garb 
 
 Night hastened ; hastening siars accompanied 
 
 Their Goddess ; through mid-air the Pleiades, 
 
 And with his falchion arm'd, Orion mov'd. 
 
 But the sides he covered 
 
rilE llEQUIEM. 
 
 the inside?" Much less ever asking, "^Yho is lying dead 
 therein ? " 
 
 2. A marvellous thing — the Protestant mind 1 Don't think 
 I speak as a Roman Catholic, good reader : I am a mere wan- 
 dering Ai-ab, if that will less alarm you, seeking but my cup 
 of cold water in the desert ; and I speak only as an Ai*ab, or 
 an Indian, — with faint hope of ever seeing the ghost of 
 Laughing Water. A marvellous thing, nevertheless, I repeat 
 — this Protestant mind ! Down in Brixton churchyard, all 
 the fine people lie inside railings, and their relations expect 
 the passers-by to acknowledge reverently who's there : — nay, 
 only last year, in my o^vn Cathedral churchyard of Oxford, I 
 saw the new grave of a young girl fenced about duly with 
 cai'ved stone, and overlaid with flowers ; and thought no 
 shame to kneel for a minute or two at the foot of it, — though 
 there were several good Protestant persons standing by. 
 
 But the old leaven is yet so strong in me that I am very shy 
 of being caught by any of my country people kneeling near 
 St. Mark's grave. 
 
 *' Because — you know — it's all nonsense : it isn't St. Mark's 
 
 With yet more tapestry, tlie Barbaric fleet 
 To tliat of Greece opposed, was there display'd ; 
 Followed a monstrous brood, half horse, half man, 
 The Thracian monarch's furious steed subdu'd, 
 And lion of NemsEa.'' 
 
 *' . . . Underneath those craggy rocks, 
 
 North of Minerva's citadel (the kings 
 
 Of Athens call them Macra), . . 
 
 Thou cam'st, resplendent with thy golden hair, 
 
 As I the crocus gathered, in my robe 
 
 Each vivid flower assembling, to compose 
 
 Garlands of fragrance." 
 
 Tlie composition of fragrant garlands out of crocuses being howev* 
 Mr. Michael WoodhulVs improvement on Euripides, Creusa's wordsa: 
 literally, **Thou camest, thy hair flashing with gold, as I let fall the cro 
 cus petals, gleaming gold back again, into my robe at my bosom." Into 
 the folds of it. across her breast ; as an English girl would liave lei 
 them fall into her lap. 
 
and never was/' — say my intellectual English knot of shocked 
 friends. 
 
 I suppose one must allow much to modern English zeal for 
 genuineness in all commercial articles. Be it so. "Whether 
 God ever gave the Venetians what they thought He had given, 
 does not matter to us ; He gave them at least joy and peace in 
 their imagined treasure, more than we have in our real ones. 
 
 And he gave them the good heart to build this chapel, over 
 the cherished gi^ave, and to write on the walls of it, St. Mark's 
 gospel, for all eyes, — and, so far as their power went, for all 
 time. 
 
 3. But it was long before I learned to read that ; and even 
 when, with Lord Lindsay's first help, I had begun spelling it 
 out, — the old Protestant palsy still froze my heart, though my 
 eyes were unsealed ; and the preface to the Stones of Venice 
 was spoiled, in the very centre of its otherwise good work by 
 that blunder, which I've left standing in all its shame, and 
 with its hat oE — like Dr. Johnson repentant in Lichfield 
 Market, — only putting the note to it '' Fool that I was ! " (page 
 5)/ I fancied actually that the main function of Si Mark's 
 was no more than our St. George's at Windsor, to be the pri- 
 vate chapel of the king and his Imights ; — a blessed function 
 that also, but how much lower than the other ? 
 
 4. " Cliiesa Ducalk" It never entered my heart once to 
 think that there was a greater Duke than her Doge, for Venice ; 
 and that she built, for her two Dukes, each their palace, side 
 by side. The palace of the hving, and of the, — Dead, — was 
 he then — the other Duke ? 
 
 "Viva san Marco." 
 
 You wretched little cast-iron gaspipe of a cockney that you 
 are, who iiDsist that your soul's your own, (see " Punch ^' for 
 le5th March, 187^, on the duties of Lent,) as if anybody else 
 
 ' Scott liimself (God knows I say it sorrowfully, and not to excuse my 
 own error, but to prevent his from doing more miscliief,) lias made just 
 the same mistake, but more grossly and fatally, in the character given 
 to the Venetian Procurator in the '^' Talisman." His error is more 
 shameful, because he has confused the institutions of Venice in the fif- 
 teenth centurv with those of the twelfth. 
 
ciiles, and plasm, and general mess of the making of you, to feel 
 for an instant what that cry once meant, upon the lij^s of men ? 
 
 Viva, Italia ! you may still hear that cry sometimes, though 
 she lies dead enough. Viva, Vittor — Pisani ! — perhaps also 
 tliat cry, yet again. 
 
 But the answer, — " Not Pisani, but St. Mark," when will 
 you hear that again, nowadays ? Yet when those bronze horses 
 were won by the Bosphorus, it was St. Mark's standard, not 
 Henry Dandolo's, that was first planted on the tower of By- 
 zantium, — and men believed — by his own hand. Wliile yet 
 his body lay here at rest : and this, its requiem on the golden 
 scroll, was then already written over it — in Hebrew, and Greek, 
 and Latin. 
 
 In Hebrew, by the words of the prophets of Israel. 
 
 In Greek, by every effort of the building laborer's hand, 
 and vision to his eyes. 
 
 In Latin, with the rhythmic verse which Virgil had taught, 
 — calm as the flowing of Mincio. 
 
 But if you will read it, you must understand now, once 
 for all, the method of utterance in Greek art, — here, and in 
 Greece, and in Ionia, and the isles, from its first days to this 
 very hour. 
 
 5. I gave you the bas-relief of the twelve sheep and little 
 ca25rioling lamb for a general type of all Byzantine ai*t, to fix 
 in your mind at once, respecting it, that its intense first char- 
 acter is symboUsm. The thing represented means more than 
 itself, — is a sign, or letter, more than an image. 
 
 And this is true, not of Byzantine art only, but of all Greek 
 art, pur sang. Let us leave, to-day, the narrow and degrad- 
 ing word "Byzantine." There is but one Greek school, from 
 Homer's day down to the Doge Selvo's ; and these St. Mark's 
 mosaics are as truly wrought in tlie power of Daedalus, with 
 the Greek constructive instinct, and in the power of Athena, 
 mtli the Greek religious soul, as ever chest of Cypselus or 
 shaft of Erechtheum. And therefore, whatever is represented 
 here, be it flower or rock, animal or man, means more than it 
 is in itself. "^'^^ -i-<.- fiw>..,. f^.v^lv;^ ;,.,.. .....,.^ .,..,,11,, ^i-^..-... 
 
Cy'o ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 — but the twelve voices of the gospel of heaven ; — not palm- 
 trees, these shafts of shooting stem and beaded fruit, — but 
 the living grace of God in the heart, springing up in joy at 
 Christ's coming ; — not a king, merely, this crowned creature 
 in his sworded state, — but the justice of God in His eternal 
 Law ;- — not a queen, nor a maid only, this Madonna in her 
 purple shade, — but the love of God poured forth, in the Avon- 
 derfulness that passes the love of w^oman. She may forget — 
 yet will I not forget thee. 
 
 6. And in this function of his art, remember, it does not 
 matter to the Greek how far his image be perfect or not. 
 That it should be understood is enough, — if it can be beauti- 
 ful also, well ; but its function is not beauty, but instruction. 
 You cannot have purer examples of Greek art than the draw- 
 ings on any good vase of the Marathonian time. Black figures 
 on a red ground, — a few white scratches through them, mark- 
 ing the joints of their armor or the folds of their robes, — 
 white circles for eyes, — pointed pyramids for beards, — you 
 don't suppose that in these the Greek workman thought he 
 had given the likeness of gods ? Yet here, to his imagination, 
 were Athena, Poseidon, and Herakles, — and all the powers 
 that guarded his land, and cleansed his soul, and led him in 
 the way everlasting. 
 
 7. And the wider your knowledge extends over the distant 
 days and homes of sacred art, the more constantly and clearly 
 you will trace the rise of its symbolic function, from the 
 rudest fringe of racing deer, or couch ant leopards, scratched 
 on some ill-kneaded piece of clay, when men had yet scarcely 
 left their own cave-couchant life, — up to the throne of Cima- 
 bue's Madonna. All forms, and ornaments, and images, have 
 a moral meaning as a natural one. Yet out of all, a restricted 
 number, chosen for an alphabet, are recognized always as 
 given letters, of which the familiar scripture is adopted by 
 generation after generation. 
 
 8. You had best begin reading the scripture of St. Mark's 
 on the low cupolas of the baptistery, — entering, as I asked 
 you many a day since, to enter, under the tomb of the Doge 
 Andrea Dandolo. 
 
IjqUIEM. ♦ ' 
 
 You see, the little chamber consists essentially of two parts, 
 each with its low cupola : one containing the Font, the other 
 the Altar. 
 
 The one is significant of Baptism with water unto repentance. 
 
 The other of Kesurrection to newness of life. 
 
 Burial, in baptism with w^ater, of the lusts of the flesh. 
 Eesurrection, in baptism by the spirit — hero, and now, to tli( 
 beginning of life eternal. 
 
 Both the cupolas have Christ for their central figure : sur- 
 rounded, in that over the font, by the Apostles baptizing with 
 water ; in that over the altar, surrounded by the Powers of 
 Heaven, baptizing with the Holy Ghost and with fire. Each 
 of the Apostles, over the font, is seen baptizing in the country 
 to which he is sent. 
 
 Their legends, written above them, begin over the door of 
 entrance into the church, with St. John the Evangelist, and 
 end with St. Mark — the order of all being as follows : — 
 
 St. John the Evangelist baptizes in Ephesus. 
 
 St. James Judsea. 
 
 St. Philip Phrygia. 
 
 St. Matthew Ethioj)ia. 
 
 St. Simon Egypt. 
 
 St. Thomas India. 
 
 St. Andrew Achaia. 
 
 I St. Peter Pome. 
 
 St. Bartholomew (legend indecij^herable). 
 
 St. Thaddeus " Mesopotamia. 
 
 St. Matthias Palestine. 
 
 St. Mark Alexandria. 
 
 Over the door is Herod's feast. Herodias' daughter dances 
 with St. John Baptist's head in the charger, on her head, — 
 •^ simply the translation of any Greek maid on f^ r^v-vi' voc:^ 
 bearing a pitcher of water on her head. 
 
 I am not sure, but I believe the picture is meant to repix - 
 sent the two separate times of Herod's dealing with St. John : 
 and that the figure at the end of tlie table is in the former 
 time, St. John saying to him, " It is not lawful for thee to 
 have her." 
 
08 ST. 3IAIUCS REST. 
 
 9. Pass on now into tlie farther chapel under the darker 
 dome. 
 
 Darker, and very dark ; — to my old eyes, scarcely decipher- 
 able ; — to yours, if young and bright, it should be beautiful, 
 for it is indeed the origin of all those golden-domed back- 
 grounds of Bellini, and Cima, and Carpaccio ; itself a Greek 
 vase, but with new Gods. That ten-winged cherub in the re- 
 cess of it, behind the altar, has written on the circle on its 
 breast, " Fulness of Wisdom." It is the type of the Breath of 
 
 UJ -^ 
 
 y ^ 
 
 the Spirit. But it was once a Greek Harpy, and its wasted 
 limbs remain, scarcely yet clothed with flesh from the claws 
 of birds that they were. 
 
 At the sides of it are the two powers of the Seraphim and 
 Thrones : the Seraphim with sword ; the Thrones (tkonis), 
 with Fleur-de-lys sceptre, — lovely. 
 
 Opposite, on the arch by which you entered are The Vir- 
 tues, (VIRTUTES). 
 
 A dead body lies under a rock, out of which spring two tor- 
 rents — one of water, one of fire. The Angel of the Virtues 
 calls on the dead to rise. 
 
 Then the circle is thus completed : 
 
THE REQUIEM. 00 
 
 1, being the Wisdom angel ; 8, the Seraphim ; 2, the Thrones ; 
 jind 5, the Virtues. 3. Dominations. 4. Angels, f*. f Poten- 
 tates. 7. Princes: the last with hehn and sworJ. 
 
 Above, Chi'ist Himself ascends, borne in a whirlwind of 
 angels ; and, as the vaults of Bellini andCarpaccio are only the 
 ;iinplification of the Harpy- Vault, so the Paradise of Tintoret 
 is only the final fulfilment of the thought in this narrow cupola. 
 
 10. At your left hand, as you look tow^ards the altar, is the 
 most beautiful symbolic design of the Baptist's death that I 
 know in Italy. Herodias is enthroned, not merely as queen at 
 Herod's table, but high and alone, the t^^pe of the Power of 
 evil in pride of womanhood, through the past and future 
 world, until Time shall be no longer. 
 
 On her right hand is St. John's execution ; on her left, the 
 Christian disciples, marked by their black crosses, bear his 
 body to the tomb. 
 
 It is a four-square canopy, round arched ; of the exact type 
 of that in the museum at Perugia, given to the ninth cen- 
 tury ; but that over Herodias is round-trefoiled, and there is 
 no question but that these mosaics are not eaiiier than the 
 thirteenth century. 
 
 And yet they are still absolutely Greek in all modes of 
 thought, and forms of tradition. The Fountains of fire and 
 water are merely forms of the Chimera and the Peirene ; and 
 the maid dancing, though a princess of the thirteenth century 
 in sleeves of ermine, is yet the phantom of some sweet water- 
 carrier from an Arcadian spring. 
 
 11. These mosaics are the only ones in the interior of the 
 church which belong to the time (1204) when its facade was 
 completed by the placing of the Greek hoi-ses over its central 
 :irch, and illumined by the lovely series of mosaics still rep- 
 resented in Gentile Bellini's pictures, of which only one now 
 remains. That one, left nearly intact— as Fate has willed — 
 rei)resents the church itself so completed ; and the bearing of 
 the body of St. Mark into its gates, with all the great kings 
 and queens who have visited his shrine, standing to look on ; 
 not conceived, mind you, as present vX any actual timr^ 1 "^ • •? 
 always looking on in theii* heju'ta 
 
<0 sr. MARK'S BEST. 
 
 12. I say it is left nearly intact. The three figures on the 
 extreme right are restorations ; and if the reader will carefully 
 study the difference between these and the rest ; and note 
 how all the faults of the old work are caricatured, and every 
 one of its beauties lost — so that the faces which in the older 
 figures are grave or sw^eet, are in these three new ones as of 
 staring dolls, — he will know% once for all, what kind of thanks 
 he owes to the tribe of Restorers — here and elsewhere. 
 
 Please note, farther, that at this time the church had round 
 arches in the second story, (of which the shells exist yet,) but 
 ]io pinnacles or marble fringes. All that terminal filigree is of a 
 far later age. I take the fa9ade as you see it stood — just after 
 1204 — thus perfected. And I will tell you, so far as I know, 
 the meaning of it, and of what it led to, piece by piece. 
 
 13. I begin with the horses, — those I saw in my dream in 
 1871, — "putting on their harness." See ''Ariadne Floren- 
 tina," p. 203. 
 
 These are the sign to Europe of the destruction of the 
 Greek Empire by the Latin. They are chariot horses — the 
 horses of the Greek quadriga, — and they were the trophies of 
 Henry Dandolo. That is all you need know of them just 
 now ; more, I hope, hereafter ; but you must learn the mean- 
 ing of a Greek quadriga first. They stand on the great outer 
 archivolt of the facade : its ornaments, to the front, are of 
 leafage closing out of spirals into balls interposed betw^een the 
 figures of eight Proj)hets (or Patriarchs?)— Christ in their 
 midst on the keystone. No one would believe at first it was 
 thirteenth-century work, so delicate and rich as it looks ; nor 
 is there anything else like it that I know, in Europe, of the 
 date : but pure thirteenth-century work it is, of rarest chisel- 
 ling. I have cast two of its balls with their surrounding leaf- 
 age, for St. George's Museum ; the most instructive pieces of 
 sculpture of all I can ever show there. 
 
 14. Nor can you at all know how good it is, unless you 
 will learn to draw : but some things concerning it may bo 
 seen, by attentive eyes, which are worth the dwelling upon. 
 
 You see, in the first place, that the outer foliage is all of 
 one kind — pure Greek Acanthus, — not in the least trans- 
 
'jiir. nK()U}KM. 71 
 
 forming itself into iv}% or L, . (rusting wholly for its 
 
 beauty to the varied play of its own narrow and pointed lobes. 
 Narrow and pointed — but not jagged ; for the jagged form 
 of Acanthus, look at the two Jean d'Acre columns, and return 
 ti) this — you will then feel why I call it inire ; it is as nearly 
 IS possible the acanthus of early Corinth, only more flexible, 
 lud with more incipient blending of the character of the vine 
 which is used for the central bosses. You see that each leaf 
 of these last touches with its point a stellar knot of inwoven 
 braid ;. (compare the ornament round the low archivolt of the 
 ]^orch on your right below), the outer acanthus folding all in 
 -piral whorls. 
 
 15. Now all thirteenth-century ornament of every nation 
 runs much into sjDirals, and Irish and Scandinavian earher 
 lecoration into little else. But these spirals are different from 
 
 theirs. The Northern spiral is always elastic — like that of a 
 watch-spring. The Greek spiral, drifted like that of a whirl- 
 pool, or whirlwind. It is always an eddy or vortex — not a 
 living rod, like the point of a young fern. 
 
 At least, not living its own life — but under another life. 
 It is under the power of the Queen of the Air ; the power also 
 that is over the Sea, and over the human mind. The first 
 leaves I ever drew from St. Mark's were those drifted under 
 the breathing of it ; ^ these on its uppermost cornice, far love- 
 lier, are the final perfection of the Ionic spiral, and of the 
 thought in the temple of the Winds. 
 
 But perfected under a new influence. I said there was 
 
 nothing like them (that I knew) in European architecture. 
 
 >iit there is, in Eastern. They are only the amplification of 
 
 the cornice over the arches of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem, 
 
 16. I have been speaking hitherto of the front of the arch 
 only. Underneath it, the sculpture is equally rich, and much 
 
 iiore animated. It represents, — "What think you, or what 
 vv^ould you have, good reader, if you were yourself designing 
 tlie central archivolt of your native city, to companion, and 
 
 ven partly to sustain, the stones on which those eight Patri- 
 
 rchs were carved — and Clmst? 
 
72 ST. 3IARICS REST. 
 
 The great men of your city, I suppose, — or tlie good wo- 
 men of it ? or the squires round about it ? with the Master of 
 the hounds in the middle ? or the Mayor and Corporation ? 
 Well. That last guess comes near the Venetian mind, only 
 it is not my Lord Mayor, in his robes of state, nor the Cor- 
 poration at their city feast ; but the mere Craftsmen of Ven- 
 ice — the Trades, that is to say, depending on handicraft, be- 
 ginning with the shipwrights, and going on to the givers of 
 wine and bread — ending with the carpenter, the smith, and 
 the fisherman. 
 
 Beginning, I say, if read from left to right, (north to south, ) 
 with the shipwrights ; but under them is a sitting figure, 
 though sitting, yet supported by crutches. I cannot read 
 this symbol : one may fancy many meanings in it, — but I do 
 not trust fancy in such matters. Unless I know what a sym- 
 bol means, I do not tell you my own thoughts of it. 
 
 17. If, however, we read from right to left, Orientalwise, 
 the order would be more intelligible. It is then thus : 
 
 1. Fishing. 
 
 2. Forging. 
 
 3. Sawing. Rough carpentry ? 
 
 4. Cleaving wood with axe. Wheelwright? 
 
 5. Cask and tub making. 
 
 6. Barber-surgery. 
 
 7. Weaving. 
 
 Keystone — Christ the Lamb ; i. e., in humiliation. 
 
 8. Masonry. 
 
 9. Pottery. 
 
 10. The Butcher. 
 
 11. The Baker. 
 
 12. The Vintner. 
 
 13. The Shipwright. And 
 U. The rest of old age ? 
 
 18. But it is not here the place to describe these carvings 
 to you, — there are none others like-them in Venice except the 
 bases of the piazzetta shafts ; and there is little work like them 
 
THE liEQUIEM. 73 
 
 elsewhere, pure realistic sculpture of the twelfth and thu-- 
 teeuth centuries ; I may have much to say of them in their 
 clay — not now. 
 
 Under these labourers you may read, in large letters, a 
 piece of history from the Vienna Morning Post — or whatever 
 the paper was — of the year 1815, with which we are not con- 
 cerned, nor need anybody else be so, to the end of time. 
 
 Not with that ; nor with the mosaic of the vault beneath — 
 flaunting glare of Venetian art in its ruin. No vestige of old 
 work remains till we come to those steps of stone ascending 
 on each side over the inner archivolt ; a strange method of 
 enclosing its curve ; but done with special purpose. If you 
 look in the Bellini picture, you will see that these steps 
 formed the rocky midst of a mountain which rose over them 
 for the gi-ound, in the old mosaic ; the Mount of the Beati- 
 tudes. And on the vault above, stood Christ blessing for ever 
 — not as standing on the Mount, but supported above it by 
 Angels, 
 
 19, And on the archivolt itself were carved the Virtues — 
 with, it is said, the Beatitudes ; but I am not sure yet of any- 
 thing in this archivolt, except that it is entirely splendid 
 twelfth-century sculpture. I had the separate figures cast for 
 my English museum, and put off the examination of them 
 when I was overworked. The Fortitude, Justice, Faith, and 
 Temperance are clear enough on the right— and the keystone 
 figure is Constancy, but I am sure of nothing else yet : tL( 
 less that interpretation partly deiDended on the scrolls, ot 
 which the letters were gilded, not carved : — the figures also 
 gilded, in Bellini's time. 
 
 Then the innermost archivolt of all is of mere twelfth-cen- 
 tury grotesque, unworthy of its place. But there were so 
 many entrances to the atrium that the builders did not care 
 to trust special teaching to any one, even the central, except 
 as a part of the fa^*ade. The atrium, or outer cloister itself, 
 was the real porch of the temple. And that tliey covered with 
 as close scripture as they could — the Creation aiul 
 
 Book of Genesis pictured on it. 
 
 20. These ai*e the mosaics usually attributed to the Dog' 
 
74 ST. IfARK'S REST. 
 
 Selvo : I cannot myself date any mosaics securely with pre- 
 cision, never having studied the technical structure of them ; 
 and these also are different from the others of St. Mark's in 
 being more Norman than Byzantine in manner ; and in an 
 agly admittance and treatment of nude form, which I find 
 only elsewhere in manuscripts of the tenth and eleventh cen- 
 turies of the school of Monte Cassino and South Italy. On 
 the other hand, they possess some qualities of thought and 
 invention almost in a subhme degree. But I believe Selvo 
 had better work done under him than these. Better work at 
 all events, you shall now see — if you will. You must get hold 
 of the man who keeps sweeping the dust about, in St. Mark's ; 
 very thankful he will be, for a lii'a, to take you up to the gal- 
 lery on the right-hand side, (south, of St. Mark's interior ;) 
 from which gallery, where it turns into the south transept, 
 you may see, as well as it is possible to see, the mosaic of the 
 central dome. 
 
 21. Christ enthroned on a rainbow, in a sphere supported 
 by four flying angels underneath, forming white pillars of 
 caryatid mosaic. Between the windows, the twelve apostles, 
 and the Madonna, — alas, the head of this principal figure 
 frightfully "restored," and I think the greater part of the 
 central subject. Bound the circle enclosing Christ is written, 
 " Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye at gaze ? This Son of God, 
 Jesus, so taken from you, departs that He may be the arbiter 
 of the earth : in charge of judgment He comes, and to give the 
 laws that ought to be.'' 
 
 22. Such, you see, the central thought of Venetian worship. 
 Not that we shall leave the world, but that our Master will 
 come to it : and such the central hope of Venetian worship, 
 that He shall come to judge the world indeed ; not in a last 
 and destroying judgment, but in an enduring and saving 
 judgment, in truth and righteousness and peace. Catholic 
 theology of the purest, lasting at all events down to the thir- 
 teenth century ; or as long as the Byzantines had influence. 
 For these are typical Byzantine concejDtions ; how far taken 
 up and repeated by Italian workers, one cannot say ; but in 
 their gravity of purpose, meagre thinness of form, and rigid 
 
THE requtem:. v^ 
 
 drapery lines, to be remembered by you with distinctness as 
 ♦ xpressing the first school of design in Venice, comparable in 
 
 ;ii instant with her last school of design, by merely glancing 
 to the end of the north transept, where that rich piece of 
 foHage, full of patriarchs, was designed by Paul Veronese. 
 And what a dirine picture it might have been, if he had only 
 minded his own business, and let the mosaic workers mind 
 theirs ! — even now it is the only beautiful one of the late 
 niosaics, and shows a new phase of the genius of Veronese. 
 
 Ml I want you to feel, however, is the difference of temper 
 i iom the time when people liked the white pillar-like figures 
 of the dome, to that when they liked the dark exuberance of 
 ihose in the transept. 
 
 23. But from this coign of vantage you may see much 
 11 ore. Just opposite you, and above, in the arch crossing the 
 
 1 Lansept between its cupola and the central dome, are mosaics 
 of Christ's Temptation, and of his entrance to Jerusalem. 
 Tiie upper one, of the Temptation, is entirely characteristic of 
 the Byzantine mythic manner of teaching. On the left, Christ 
 sits in the rocky cave which has sheltered Him for the forty 
 days of fasting : out of the rock above issues a spring — mean- 
 ing that He drank of the waters that spring up to everlasting 
 life, of which whoso drinks shall never thirst ; and in His 
 hand is a book — the living Word of God, which is His bread. 
 The Devil holds up the stones in his laj). 
 
 Next the temptation on the pinnacle of the TemjDle, sym- 
 bolic again, wholly, as you see, — in very deed quite impossi- 
 l)le : so also that on the mountain, where the treasures of the 
 world are, I think, represented by the glittering fragments 
 on the mountain top. Finally, the falling Devil, cast down 
 head-foremost in the air, and apjiroaching angels in ministry- 
 ing troops, complete the stor}'. 
 
 24. And on the whole, these pictures are entirely represent- 
 ative to you of the food which the Venetian mind had in art, 
 down 1o the day of the Doge Selvo. Those were the kind of 
 images and sliadows they lived on : you may think of them 
 what you please, but the historic fact is, beyond all possible 
 debate, that these thin dry bones of art were nourishing meat 
 
TTT KrTMAJJK'S BEST. 
 
 to the Venetian race : tliat tbey grew and throve on that diet, 
 every day spiritually fatter for it, and more comfortably round 
 in human soiil : — no illustrated papers. to be had, no Academy 
 Exhibition to be seen. If their eyes were to be entertained 
 at all, such must be their lugubrious delectation ; pleasure 
 difficult enough to imagine, but real and pure, I doubt not; even 
 passionate. In as quite singularly incomprehensible fidelity 
 of sentiment, my cousin's least baby has fallen in love with a 
 wooden spoon ; Paul not more devoted to Virginia. The two 
 are inseparable all about the house, vainly the unimaginative 
 bystanders endeavouring to perceive, for their part, any ami- 
 ableness in the spoon. But baby thrives in his pacific attach- 
 ment, — nay, is under the most perfect moral control, pliant as 
 a reed, under the slightest threat of being parted from his 
 spoon. And I am assured that the crescent Venetian imagina- 
 tion did indeed find pleasantness in these figures ; more es- 
 pecially, — which is notable — in the extreme emaciation of 
 them, — a type of beauty kept in their hearts down to the Vi- 
 varini days ; afterwards rapidly changing to a very opposite 
 ideal indeed. 
 
 25. Nor even in its most ascetic power, disturbing these 
 conceptions of what was fitting and fair in their own persons, 
 or as a nation of fishermen. They have left us, happily, a 
 picture of themselves, at their greatest time — unnoticed, so 
 far as I can read, by any of their historians, but left for poor 
 little me to discover — and that by chance — like the inscrip- 
 tion on St. James's of the Kialto. 
 
 But before going on to see this, look behind you, where you 
 stand, at the mosaic on the west wall of the south transept. 
 
 It is not Byzantine, but rude thirteenth- century, and for- 
 tunately left, being the representation of an event of some 
 import to Venice, the recovery of fhe lost body of St. Mark. 
 
 You may find the story told, with proudly polished, or 
 loudly impudent, incredulity, in any modern guide-book. I 
 will not pause to speak of it here, nor dwell,* yet, on this mo- 
 saic, which is clearly later than the story it tells by two hun- 
 dred years. We will go on to the picture which shows us 
 things as they loere, in its time. 
 
THE REQUIEM. < i 
 
 26. You must go round the transept galleiy, and get the 
 'oor opened into the compartment of the eastern aisle, in 
 \\ liich is the organ. And going to the other side of the square 
 
 tone gallery, and looking back from behind the organ, you 
 w ill see opposite, on the vault, a mosaic of upright figures in 
 (h-esses of blue, green, purple, and white, variously embroid- 
 < red with gold. 
 
 These represent, as you are told by the inscription above 
 them — the Priests, the Clergy, the Doge, and the people of 
 ^^enice ; and are an abstract, at least, or epitome of those 
 personages, as they were, and felt themselves to be, in those 
 days. 
 
 I beUeve, early twelfth-century — late eleventh it might be 
 — later twelfth it may be, — it does not matter : these were 
 the people of Venice in the central time of her unwearied 
 life, her unsacrificed honour, her unabated power, and sacred 
 faith. Her Doge wears, not the contracted shell-like cap, but 
 the imperial crown. Her priests and clergy are ahke mitred 
 — not with the cloven, but simple, cap, like the conical hel- 
 met of a knight. Her people are also her soldiers, and their 
 Captain bears his sword, sheathed in black. 
 
 So far as features could be rendered in the rude time, the 
 faces are all noble — (one horribly restored figure on the right 
 shows what i(;nobleness, on this large scale, modern binitality 
 and ignorance can reach) ; for the most part, dark-eyed, but 
 ilic Doge brown-eyed and fair-haired, the long tresses falling 
 
 li hi^ shoulders, and his beard braided like that of an Etrus- 
 can king. 
 
 27. And this is the writing over them. 
 
 PONTIFICES. CliERUS. PoPULUS. DuX MENTE SERENl-. 
 
 Tlu' Priests, the Clerg}'. the People, the Duke, serene ^ i 
 miiul. 
 
 Most Serene Highnesses of all the after Time and World, — 
 
 ' The continuing couplet of monkish Latin, 
 *' Laudibus atque choris 
 i^ixcipiunt dulce canoris," 
 
 ■V ■ ,■■-••■■ '■•—'- ■'■-.."^ 
 
 ike in restoratid: 
 
78 ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 liow many of you knew, or know, what this Venice, first to 
 give the title, meant by her Duke's Serenity ! and why she 
 trusted it ? 
 
 The most precious " historical picture " this, to my mind, 
 of any in worldly gallery, or unworldly cloister, east or west ; 
 but for the present, all I care for you to learn of it, is that 
 these were the kind of priests, and people, and kings, who 
 wrote this Eequiem of St. Mark, of which, now, we will read 
 what more we may. 
 
 28. If 3^ou go up in front of the organ, you may see, better 
 than from below, the mosaics of the eastern dome. 
 
 This part of the church must necessarily have been first 
 completed, because it is over the altar and shrine. In it, the 
 teaching of the Mosaic legend begins, and in a sort ends ; — 
 " Christ the King," foretold of Prophets — declared of Evan- 
 gelists — born of a Virgin in due time ! 
 
 But to understand the course of legend, you must know 
 wliat the Greek teachers meant by an Evangelion, as distinct 
 from a Prophecy. Prophecy is here thought of in its nar- 
 rower sense as the foretelling of a good that is to be. 
 
 But an Evangelion is the voice of the Messenger, saying, it 
 is here. 
 
 And the four mystic Evangelists, under the figures of living 
 creatures, are not types merely of the men that are to bring 
 the Gospel message, but of the power of that message in all 
 Creation — so far as it was, and is, spoken in all living things, 
 and as the Word of God, which is Christ, was present, and 
 not merely prophesied, in the Creatures of His hand. 
 
 29. You will find in your Murray, and other illumined writ- 
 i ings of the nineteenth century, various explanations given of 
 ; the meaning of the Lion of St. Mark — derived, they occasion- 
 ally mention (nearly as if it had been derived by accident !), 
 from the description of Ezekiel. ' Which, perhaps, you may 
 have read once on a time, though even that is doubtful in 
 these blesBed days of scientific education ; — but, boy or girl, 
 man or woman, of you, not one in a thousand, if one, has 
 
 'Or, with still more enlightened Scripture research, from ''one of 
 the visions of Daniel" ! (Sketches, etc., p. 18.) 
 
THE REQUIEM. 70 
 
 ( ver, I am well assured, asked what was the use of Ezekiel's 
 Vision, either to Ezekiel, or to anybody else ; any more than 
 I used to think, myself, what St. Mark's was built for. 
 
 In case you have not a Bible with you, I must be tedious 
 enough to reprint the essential verses here. 
 
 30. ** As I was among the Captives by the River of Chebar, 
 the Heavens were opened, and I saw visions of God." 
 
 (Fugitive at least, — and all hut captive, — by the River of the 
 deep stream, — the Venetians perhaps cared yet to hear what 
 he saw.) 
 
 " In the fifth year of King Jehoiachin's captivity, the word 
 of the Lord came expressly unto Ezekiel the Priest." 
 
 ("We also — we Venetians — have our Pontifices ; we also t)ur 
 King. May we not hear ?) 
 
 "And I looked, and, behold, a whirlwind came out of the 
 north, and a fire infolding itself. Also in the midst thereof 
 was * the likeness of Four Hving Creatures. 
 
 "And this was the aspect of them ; the Likeness of a Man 
 was upon them. 
 
 " And every one had four faces, and every one four wings. 
 And they had the hands of a Man under their wings. And 
 their wings were stretched upward, two wings of every one 
 were joined one to another, and two covered their bodies. 
 And when they went, I heard the noise of their wings, like the 
 noise of great waters, as the voice of the Almighty, the voice 
 of speech, the noise of an Host." 
 
 (To us in Venice, is not the noise of the great waters known 
 — and the noise of an Host ? May we hear also the voice of 
 the Almighty ?) 
 
 " And they went every one straight forward. Whither the 
 Spirit was to go, they went. And this was the likeness of their 
 faces : they four had the face of a Man " (to the front), "ancP 
 ihe face of a Lion on the right side, and the face of an Ox / 
 the left side, and" (looking back) "the face of an Eagle."/ / 
 
 And not of an Ape, then, my beautifully-browed cockiV 
 friend ? — the unscientific Prophet ! The face of IVIan ; au 
 
 * What alterations I makr the Septiiagiuty 
 
80 ST. MARK'S IlEST. 
 
 the wild beasts of the eartli, and of the tame, and of the bird^ 
 of the air. This was the Vision of the Glory of the Lord. 
 
 31. "And as I beheld the living creatures, behold, 07ie wheel 
 upon the earth, by the living creatures, with his four faces, 
 . . . and their aspect, and their work, was as a wheel in the 
 midst of a wheel." 
 
 Crossed, that is, the meridians of the four quarters of the 
 earth. (See Holbein's drawing of it in his Old Testament 
 series.) 
 
 " And the likeness of the Firmament upon the heads of the 
 living creatures was as the colour of the terrible crystal. 
 
 " And there was a voice from the Firmament that was over 
 their heads, when they stood, and had let down their wing^. 
 
 " And above the Firmament that was over their heads was 
 the likeness of a Throne ; and upon the likeness of the 
 Throne was the likeness of the Aspect of a Man above, upon 
 it. 
 
 '^And from His loins round about I saw it as it were the 
 appearance of fire ; and it had brightness round about, as the 
 bow that is in the cloud in the day of rain. This was the 
 appearance of the likeness of the Glory of the Lord. And 
 when I saw it, I fell upon my face." 
 
 32. Can any of us do the like — or is it worth while ? — 
 with only apes' faces to fall upon, and the forehead that re- 
 fuses to be ashamed ? Or is there, nowadays, no more any- 
 thing for us to be afraid of, or to be thankful for, in all the 
 wheels, and flame, and light, of earth and heaven ? 
 
 This that follows, after the long rebuke, is their Evange- 
 lion. This the sum of the voice that speaks in them, (chap, 
 xi. 16). 
 
 • *' Therefore say, thus saith the Lord. Though I have cast 
 
 them far off among the heathen, 3^et will I be to them as a 
 
 little sanctuary in the places whither they shall come. 
 
 ■^^^ *' And I will give them one heart ; and I will put a new 
 
 ^^^'nrit within them ; and I will take the stony heart out of 
 
 man ;^, flesh, and will give them a heart of flesh. That they 
 
 ' Or, NTvalk in my statutes, and keep mine ordinances and do 
 
 the vision^j^^ jtj^^j q]^qII ]jq ^j people, and I will be their God. 
 
^vllecls beside them, aud the glory of the God of Israel \vu 
 over them above." 
 
 33. That is the story of the Altar- Vault of St. Mark's, oi 
 which though much was gone, yet, when I was last in Venice, 
 much was left, wholly lovely and mighty. The principal fig- 
 m-e of the Throned Christ was indeed forever destroyed 
 by the restorer ; but the suiTounding Prophets, and the 
 Virgin in prayer, at least retained so much of their ancient 
 coloiu' and expression as to be entirely noble, — if only on* 
 had nobility enough in one's own thoughts to forgive th* 
 failure of any other liuimin soul to speak clearly what it had 
 felt of the most divinr 
 
 My notes have got coiuused and many lost ; and now I 
 have no time to mend the thread of them : I am not sure even 
 if I have the list of the ^Prophets complete ; but these follow- 
 ing at least you will find, and (perhaps with others between) 
 in this order — chosen, each, for his message concerninL; 
 Christ, which is written on the scroll he bears. 
 
 34. 
 
 1. Oil the Madonna's left hand, Isaiah. "Behold, a 
 
 a virgin shall conceive." (Written as far as 
 "Immanuel.") 
 
 2. Jeremiah. " Hie est in quo, — Deus Noster." 
 
 3. Daniel. "Cum venerit" as far as to "cessabii 
 
 unctio." 
 
 4. Obadiah. " Ascendit sanctus in Monte Syon." 
 
 5. Habakkuk. " God shall come from the South, and 
 
 the Holy One from Mount Paran." 
 
 6. Hosea. (Un deciphered.) 
 
 7. Jonah. (Undeciphered.) 
 
 8. Zephaniah. "Seek ye the Lord, all in tl - -^--H. 
 
 time " (in mansueti tempore). 
 D. Ill" li. ''Behold, the desired of all nations shall 
 
 lU. /achariah. "Behold a man whose name i^^ 
 Branch." (Oriens.) 
 () 
 
82 ST. MARK'S HEST. 
 
 11. Malaclii. "Behold, I send my messenger/' etc. 
 
 (angelum meum). 
 
 12. Solomon. "Who is this that ascends as the 
 
 morning ? " 
 
 13. David. "Of the fruit of thy body will I set upon 
 
 thy throne." 
 
 35. The decorative power of the colour in these figures, 
 chiefly blue, purple, and white, on gold, is entirely admirable, 
 — more especially the dark purple of the Virgin's robe, with 
 lines of gold for its folds ; and the figures of David and Solo- 
 mon, both in Persian tiaras, almost Arab, with falling lappets 
 to the shoulder, for shade ; David holding a book with He- 
 brew letters on it and a cross, (a pretty sign for the Psalms ;) 
 and Solomon with rich orbs of lace like involved ornament on 
 his dark robe, cusped in the short hem of it, over gold un- 
 derneath. And note in all these mosaics that Byzantine 
 "purple," — the colour at once meaning Kinghood and its 
 Sorrow, — is the same as ours — not scarlet, but amethj^st, and 
 that deep. 
 
 36. Then in the spandrils below, come the figures of the 
 four beasts, with this inscription round, for all of them. 
 
 " quaeque sub obscukis 
 De Cristo dicta eiguris 
 His apeeire datur 
 Et in his, Deus ipse notatur." 
 
 " Whatever things under obscure figures have been said of 
 Christ, it is given to these " (creatures) '' to open ; and in' 
 these, Christ himself is seen." 
 
 A grave saying. Not in the least true of mere Matthew, 
 Mark, Luke, and John. Christ was never seen in them, 
 though told of by them. But, as the Word by which all 
 things were made. He is seen in all things made, and in the 
 Poiesis of them : and therefore, when the vision of Ezekiel is 
 repeated to St. John, changed only in that the four creatures 
 are to him more distinct — each with its single aspect, and not 
 each fourfold, — they are full of eyes within, and rest not day 
 
nor niglu, — saviu;^-, ii*'iy, ii<>ly, Holy, Lord God iVlmiirliiy, 
 which art, and wast, and art to come." 
 
 37. "We repeat the words habitually, in our own most soienn i 
 religious service ; but we repent without notieinq out (?, 
 whose mouths they come. 
 
 "Therefore," (we say, in ihli^^i oc^i-.^.nioi.tOLiwn,; N>i. 
 Angels and Archangels, and with all the Company of heaven, 
 (meaning each of us, I supj^ose, the select Company we e> 
 pect to get into there,) "we laud and magnify," etc. But i 
 ought to make a difference in our estimate of ourselves, and 
 of our power to say, with our hearts, that God is Holy, if am 
 remember that we join in saying so, not, for the present, wiil; 
 the Angels, — but with the Beasts. 
 
 38. Yet not with every manner of Beast ; for afterwards, 
 when all the Creatures in Heaven and Earth, and the Se;i 
 join in the giving of praise, it is only these four who can say 
 '' Amen." 
 
 Tlie Ox that treadeth out the corn ; and the Lion that shall 
 shall eat straw like the Ox, and lie down with the lamb ; and 
 the Eagle that fluttereth over her young ; and the human 
 creature that loves its mate, and its children. In these four 
 is all the power and all the charity of earthly 1'+'^^ • 'ind in 
 such power and charity " Deus ipse notatur." 
 
 39. Notable, in that manner, He was, at least, to the men 
 who built this shrine where once was St. Theodore's ; — not be- 
 traying nor forgetting their first master, but placing his statue 
 with St. Mark's Lion, as equal powers upon their pillars oi 
 justice ; — St. Theodore, as you have before heard, being the 
 human spirit in true conquest over the inhuman, because in 
 true sympathy with it — not as St. George in contest with, but 
 being strengthened and pedestalled by, the " Dragons and al 
 Deeps." 
 
 40. But the issue of all these lessons we cannot yet meas- 
 ure ; it is only now that we are beginning to be able to read 
 tliem, in the myths of the past, and natural history of th( 
 present world. The animal gods of Egypt and Assyria, tlb 
 animal ciy that there is no God, of the passing hour, are, boll 
 
 of \hi^u\ inrf of ilw. vil'liiMoniv ,.f fho ivli'rion Vet^»b-r,. 
 
S4 ST. MARir8 REST. 
 
 vealed, in the rule of the Holy Spirit over the venomous dust, 
 when the sucking child shall play by the hole of the asp, and 
 the weaned child lay his hand on the cockatrice den. 
 
 41. And now, if you have enough seen, and understood, 
 this eastern dome and its lesson, go down into the church 
 under the central one, and consider the story of that. 
 
 Under its angles are the four Evangelists themselves, drawn 
 as men, and each with his name. And over them the inscrip- 
 tion is widely different.^ 
 
 " Sic actus Christi 
 Desceibunt quatuor isti 
 Quod neque natura 
 Liter nent, neg utrinque figura." 
 
 " Thus do these four describe the Acts of Christ. And 
 weave his story, neither by natural knowledge, nor, contrari- 
 wise, by any figure." 
 
 Compare now the two inscrij)tions. In the living creatures, 
 Christ himself is seen by nature and by figure. But these 
 four tell us his Acts, "Not by nature — not by figure." How 
 then ? 
 
 42. You have had various "lives of Christ," German and 
 other, lately provided among your other severely historical 
 studies. Some, critical ; and some, sentimental. But there 
 is only one light by which you can read the life of Christ, — 
 the light of the life you now lead in the flesh ; and that not 
 the natural, but the won life. "Nevertheless, I live ; yet not 
 I, but Christ liveth in me." 
 
 Therefore, round the vault, as the pillars of it, are the 
 Christian virtues ; somewhat more in number, and other in 
 nature, than the swindling-born and business-bred virtues 
 which most Christians nowadays are content in acquiring. 
 But these old Venetian virtues are compliant also, in a way. 
 
 ^ I give, and construe, tliis legend as now written, but tlie five letters 
 "liter" are rec^ently restored, and I suspect them to have been origi- 
 nally either three or six, "cer" or "discer. " In all the monkish 
 rhymes I have yet read, I don t remember any so awkward a division 
 as this of natura-liter. 
 
THE REQUIEM. -^5 
 
 i, M sea-life, and there is one for every wind that 
 
 blows. 
 
 43. If }u.i ....wul in mid-ix.v.v,, iv^oking to the altar, the lirst 
 narrow window of the cupola — (I call it first for reasons pres- 
 ently given) faces you, in the due east. Call the one next it, 
 on your light, the second window ; it bears east-south-east. 
 The third, south-east ; the fourth, south-south-east ; the fifth, 
 south ; the ninth, west ; the thirteenth, north ; and the six- 
 teenth, east-north-east. 
 
 The Venetian Virtues stand, one between each window. 
 On the sides of the east window stand Fortitude and Tem- 
 perance ; Temperance the first. Fortitude the last : " he that 
 endure th to the end, the same shall be saved." 
 
 Then their order is as follows : Temperance between the 
 first and second windows, — (quenching fire with water) ; — be- 
 tween the second and third, Prudence ; and then, in sequence, 
 
 III. Humility. 
 
 IV. Kindness, (Benignitas). 
 V. Compassion. 
 
 VI. Abstinence. 
 VII. Mercy. 
 Tin. Long-suffering. 
 
 IX. Chastity. 
 
 X. Modesty. 
 
 XI. Constancy. 
 XII. Charity. 
 
 XIII. Hope. 
 
 XIV. Faith. 
 XV. Justice. 
 
 XVI. Fortitude. 
 
 44. I meant to have read all their legends, but " could do 
 it any time," and of course never did ! — but these following- 
 are the most important. Charity is put twelfth at the last at- 
 tained of the virtues belonging to human life only : but she 
 is called the '* Mother of the Virtues " — meaning, of them all, 
 when they become divine ; and chiefly of the four last, which 
 
86 ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 relate to the other world. Then Long-suffering, (Patientia,) 
 has for her legend, " Blessed are the Peacemakers " ; Chastity, 
 "Blessed are the Pure in Heart" ; Modesty, "Blessed are ye 
 when men hate you '" ; while Constancy (consistency) has the 
 two heads, balanced, one in each hand, which are given to 
 the keystone of the entrance arch : meaning, I believe, the 
 equal balance of a man's being, by which it not only stands, 
 but stands as an arch, with the double strength of the two 
 sides of his intellect and soul. " Qui sibi constat" Then note 
 that "Modestia"is here not merely shamefacedness, though 
 it includes whatever is good in that ; but it is contentment in 
 being thought little of, or hated, when one thinks one ought 
 to be made much of — a very difficult virtue to acquire indeed, 
 as I know some people who know. 
 
 45. Then the order of the circle becomes entirely clear. 
 All strength of character begins in temperance, prudence, and 
 lowliness of thought. Without these, nothing is possible, of 
 noble humanity : on these follow — kindness, (simple, as op- 
 posed to malice), and compassion, (sympathy, a much rarer 
 quality than mere kindness) ; then, selt-restriction, a quite dif- 
 ferent and higher condition than temperance, — the first being 
 not painful when rightly practised, but the latter always so ; — 
 ("I held my peace, even from good " — " quanto quisque sibi 
 plura negaverit, ab Dis plura feret "). Then come pity and 
 long-suffering, which have to deal with the sin, and not merely 
 with the sorrow, of those around us. Then the three Trial 
 virtues, through which one has to struggle forward up to the 
 power of Love, the twelfth. 
 
 All these relate only to the duties and relations of the life 
 that is now. 
 
 But Love is stronger than Death ; and through her, we have, 
 first, Hope of life to come ; then, surety of it ; living by this 
 surety, (the Just shall live by faith,) Eighteousness, and 
 Strength to the end. Who bears on her scroll, "The Lord 
 shall break the teeth of the Lions." 
 
 46. An undeveloped and simial system of human life — you 
 think it — cockney friend ! 
 
 Such as it was, the Venetians made shift to brave the war 
 
' »f this world Avitli it, as weii as ever you are like to do ; and 
 ihey had, besides, the joy of looking to the j^eace of another. 
 I or, you see, above these narrow windows, stand the Apostles, 
 iid the two angels that stood by them on the Mount of the 
 Ascension ; and between these the Virgin ; and with her, and 
 with the twelve, you are to hear the angel's word, " Why stand 
 ye at gaze ? as He departs, so shall He come, to give the Laws 
 that ought to be." 
 
 Debit A juka, 
 
 I form of "debit" little referred to in modern ledgers, but by 
 ! he Venetian acknowledged for all devoirs of commerce and 
 of war; writing, by his church, of the Eialto's business, (the 
 first words, these, mind you, that Venice ever speaks aloud,) 
 "Around this Temple, let the Merchant's law be just, his 
 weights true, and his covenants faithful." And wiiting thus, 
 in lovelier letters, above the place of St. Mark's Kest, — 
 
 " Brave be the living, who live unto the Lord ; 
 For Blessed are the dead, that die in Him." 
 
 Note. — The mosaics described iii this number of St. Mark's Rest be- 
 ■ ng now liable at any moment to destruction — from causes already enough 
 specified, I have undertaken, at the instance of Mr. Edward Burne 
 Jones, and with promise of that artist's helpful superintendence, at once 
 to obtain some permanent record of them, the best that may be at present 
 ])ossible: and to that end I have already dispatched to Venice an accom- 
 ])lished young draughtsman, who is content to devote himself, as old 
 [ winters did, to the work before him for the sake of that, and his own 
 honour, at journeyman's wages. The three of us, Mr. Burne Jones, and 
 lie, and I, are alike minded to set our hands and souls hard at this thing: 
 l>iit we can't, unless the public will a little help us. I have given away 
 
 I I ready all I have to spare, and can't carry on this work at my own cost; 
 ;id if Mr. Burne Jones gives his time and care gratis, and without stint, 
 si know he will, it is all he sliould be asked for. Therefore, the public 
 
 must give me enough to maintain my draughtsman at his task: wliat 
 
 mode of publication for the drawings may be then possible, is for after- 
 oiisideration. I ask for subscriptions at present to obtain the copies 
 Illy. Tlie reader is requested to refer also to the final note appended 
 
 t<> the new edition of the " Stones of Venice," and to send what sub- 
 . ription he may please to my publisher, Mr. G. Allen, Sunnyside, Orp- 
 
 iiiutoii, i\(Mit. 
 
FIRST SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 THE SHRIITE OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 BEING A GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES BY 
 
 VICTOR CARPACCIO 
 
 IN VENICE. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following (too impei'fev.i; .*^v.^'ant of the pkici^x^.- . 
 Carpaccio in the chapel of San Giorgio de' Schiavoni, : 
 properly a supplement to the part of *" St Mark's Eest " in 
 which I pix)pose to examine the religious mind of Venice i: 
 the fifteenth century ; but I publish these notes premature': 
 that they may the sooner become helpful, according to thei 
 power, to the EngUsh traveller. 
 
 The second supplement, which is already in the preso. .. 
 contain the analysis by my fellow- worker, Mr. James Redd. 
 Anderson, of the mythological purport of the pictures her 
 described. I sepu*ate Mi\ Anderson's work thus distinct 1 
 from my own, that he may have the entire credit of it ; bi; 
 the reader will soon perceive that it is altogether necessai 
 both for the completion and the proof of my tentative stat 
 men ts ; and that without the certificate of his scholarly i. 
 vestigation, it would have been lost time to prolong the accoui. 
 of my own conjectures or impressiona 
 
^_^ 
 
THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 Counting the canals which, entering the city from the open 
 lagoon, must be crossed as you walk from the Piazzetta to- 
 wards the Public Gardens, the fourth, called the *^ Rio della 
 Pieta" from the unfinished church of the Pieta, facing the 
 quay before yoii reach it, will presently, if 3^ou go down it in 
 gondola, and pass the Campo di S. Antonin, permit your 
 landing at some steps on the right, in front of a little chapel 
 of indescribable architecture, chiefly made up of foolish spiral 
 flourishes, which yet, by their careful execution and shallow 
 mouldings, are seen to belong to a time of refined tamper. 
 Over its door are two bas-reliefs. That of St. Catherine lean- 
 ing on her wheel seems to me anterior in date to the other, 
 and is very lovely : the second is contemporaiy^ with the 
 cinque-cento building, and fine also ; but notable chiefly for 
 the conception of the dragon as a creature formidable rather 
 by its gluttony than its malice, and degraded beneath the 
 level of all other spirits of ^rej ; its wings having wasted 
 away into mere paddles or flappers, having in them no faculty 
 or memory of flight ; its throat stretched into the flaccidity of 
 a sack, its tail swollen into a molluscous encumbrance, like an 
 enormous worm ; and the human head beneath its paw sym- 
 bolizing therefore the subjection of tJje human nature to the 
 most brutal desires. 
 
 When I came to Venice last year, it was with resolute 
 pur^wse of finding out everything that could be known of the 
 circumstances which led to the building, and determined the 
 style, of this chapel — or more strictly, sacred hall, of the 
 School of the Schiavoni. But day after day the task was 
 delayed by some more pressing subject of enquiry ; and, at 
 
94 THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 this moment— resolved at last to put what notes I have on the 
 contents of it at once together, — I find myself reduced to copy, 
 without any additional illustration, the statement of Flaminio 
 Corner/ 
 
 "In the year 1451, some charitable men of the Illyrian or 
 Sclavonic nation, many of whom were sailors, moved by 
 praiseworthy compassion, in that they saw many of their fel- 
 low-countrymen, though deserving well of the republic, perish 
 miserably, either of hard life or hunger, nor have enough to 
 pay the expenses of church burial, determined to establish a 
 charitable brotherhood under the invocation of the holy 
 martyrs St. George and St. Trifon — brotherhood whose pledge 
 was to succour poor sailors, and others of their nation, in 
 their grave need, whether by reason of sickness or old age, 
 and to conduct their bodies, after death, religiously to burial. 
 Which design was approved by the Council of Ten, in a 
 decree dated 19th May, 1451 ; after which, they obtained from 
 the pity of the Prior of the Monastery of St. John of Jeru- 
 salem, Lorenzo Marcello, the convenience of a hospice in the 
 buildings of the Priory, with rooms such as were needful for 
 their meetings ; and the privilege of building an altar in the 
 church, under the title of St. George and Trifon, the mar- 
 tyrs ; with the adjudgment of an annual rent of four zecchins, 
 two loaves, and a pound of wax, to be offered to the Priory on 
 the feast of St. George. Such were the beginnings of the 
 brotherhood, called that of St. George of the Sclavonians. 
 
 " Towards the close of the fifteenth century, the old hospice 
 being ruinous, the fraternity took counsel to raise from the 
 foundations a more splendid new one, under the title of the 
 Martyr St. George, which was brought to completion, with its 
 fayade of marble, in the year 1501. 
 
 The hospice granted by the pity of the Prior of St. John 
 cannot have been very magnificent, if this little chapel be in- 
 deed much more splendid ; nor do I yet know what rank the 
 school of the Sclavonians held, in power or number, among 
 the other minor fraternities of Venice. The relation of the 
 national character of the Dalmatians and Illyrians, not only 
 * "Notizie Storiclie," Venice, 1758, p. 167. 
 
THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVER 05 
 
 to Venice, but to Europe, I find to be of far more deep and 
 curious interest than is commonly supposed ; iind in the case 
 of the Venetians, traceable back at least to the days of Her- 
 odotus ; for the festival of the Brides of Venice, and its inter- 
 ruption by the lUyrian pirates, is one of the curious proofs of 
 the grounds he had for naming the Venetians as one of the 
 tribes of the lUyrians, and ascribing to them, alone among 
 European races, the same practice as that of the Babylonians 
 with respect to the dowries of their marriageable girls. 
 
 How it chanced that while the entire Riva, — the chief quay 
 in Venice — was named from the Sclavonians, they were yet 
 obliged to build their school on this narrow canal, and prided 
 themselves on the magnificence of so small a building, I have 
 not ascertained, nor who the builder was ; — his style, differing 
 considerably from all the Venetian practice of the same date, 
 by its refusal at once of purely classic forms, and of elaborate 
 ornament, becoming insipidly grotesque, and chastely barbar- 
 ous, in a quite unexampled degree, is noticeable enough, 
 if we had not better things to notice within the unpre- 
 tending doorway. Entering, we find ourselves in a little 
 room about the size of the commercial parlour in an 
 old-fashioned English inn ; perhaj^s an inch or two higher 
 in the ceiling, which is of good horizontal beams, nan*ow 
 and many, for effect of richness ; painted and gilded, also, 
 now tawdrily enough, but always in some such patterns 
 as you see. At the end of the low room, is an altar, \di\\ 
 doors on the right and left of it in the sides of the room, open- 
 ing, the one into the sacristy, the other to the stairs leading 
 to the upper chapel. All the rest mere flat wall, wainscoted 
 two-thirds up, eight feet or so, leaving a third of the height, 
 say four feet, claiming some kind of decent decoratioiL 
 Which modest demand you perceive to be modestly su23plied, 
 l)y pictures, fitting that measure in height, and running long 
 or short, as suits their subjects ; ten altogether, (or with the 
 altar-piece, eleven,) of which nine are worth your looking at. 
 
 Not as veiy successfully decorative work, I admit. A 
 modem Parisian upholsterer, or clever Kensington student, 
 would have done for you a far surpassing splendour in a few 
 
OG Tim SIIIUNE OF THE SLA VES. 
 
 hours : all that we can say here, at the utmost, is that the 
 place looks comfortable ; and, especially, warm, — the pictures 
 having the effect, you will feel presently, of a soft evening 
 sunshine on the walls, or glow from embers on some peaceful 
 hearth, cast up into the room where one sits waiting for dear 
 friend^ in twihght. 
 
 In a little while, if yon stiR look with general glance, yet 
 patiently, this warmth will resolve itself into a kind of chequer- 
 ing, as of an Eastern cai'pet, or old-fasliioned English sampler, 
 of more than usually broken and sudden variegation ; nay, 
 suggestive here and there of a wayward patchwork, verging 
 into gTotesqueness, or even, with some touch of fantasy in 
 masque, into harlequinade,— like a tapestry for a Clnistmas 
 night in a home a thousand years old, to adorn a carol of hon- 
 oured knights with honouring queens. 
 
 Thus far sentient of the piece, for all is indeed here but 
 one, — go forwaixl a little, please, to the second picture on 
 the left, wherein, eenti*al, is our now accustomed friend, St. 
 George : stiff and grotesque, even to humorousness^ you will 
 most likely think him, with his dragon in a singularly de- 
 pressed and, as it were, water-logged, state. Never mind him, 
 or the dragon, just now ; but take a good opera-glass, and 
 look therewith steadily and long at the heads of the two 
 princely riders on the left — \h.e Saracen king* and his daugh- 
 ter — he in high white turban, she beyond him in the crimson 
 cap, high, like a castle tower. 
 
 Look well and long. For truly, — and with hard-earned and 
 secure laiowledge of such mattei-s^ I tell you, through all this 
 round world of oui-s, searching what the best life of it has 
 done of brightest in all its times and yeso^, — you shall not find 
 another piece quite the like of that little piece of work, for su- 
 preme, serene^ unassuming, unfaltering sweetness of painter's 
 perfect art. Over every other precious thing, of such things 
 known to me, it rises, in the compass of its simplicity ; in be- 
 ing able to gather the perfections of the |oy of extreme child- 
 hood, and the joy of a hermit's age, with the strength and 
 sunshine of mid-life, all in one. 
 
 AYhich is mdeed moi^e or less true of all Carpaccio's work 
 
TIIPJ SJimNia OF TUB SLAVES. 97 
 
 au J mind ; but in this piece you have it set in close jewellery, 
 radiant, inestimable. 
 
 Extreme joy of childhood, I say. No Httle lady in her first 
 red shoes, — no soldier's baby seeing himself in the glass be- 
 neath his father's helmet, is happier in laugh than Carpaccio, 
 as he heaps and heaps his Sultan's snowy crest, and crowns 
 his pretty lady with her ruby tower. No desert herniit is 
 more temperate ; no ambassador on perilous policy more sub- 
 tle ; no preacher of first Christian gospel to a primitive raci 
 more earnest or tender. The wonderfullest of Venetian Har- 
 lequins this, — variegated, like Geryon, to the innermost mind 
 of him — to the lightest gleam of his pencil: *'Con piii color, 
 sommesse e sopraposte ; non fur mai drappi Tartari ne Tur- 
 chi ; '* and all for good. 
 
 Of course you will not believe mo at first, — nor indeed, till 
 you have unwoven many a fibre of his silk and gold. I had 
 no idea of the make of it myself, till this last year, when I hap- 
 pily had beguiled to Venice one of my best young Oxford 
 men, eager as myself to understand this historic tapestry, and 
 finer fingered than I, who once getting hold of the fringes of 
 it, has followed them thread by thread through all the gleam- 
 ing damask, and read it clear ; whose account of the real mean- 
 ing of all these pictures you shall have presently in full. 
 
 But first, w^e will go round the room to know what is herr 
 to read, and take inventory of our treasures ; and I will tell 
 you only the little I made out myself, which is all that, with- 
 out more hard work than can be got through to-day, you aw 
 likely either to see in them, or beUeve of them. 
 
 First, on the left, then, St. George and the Dragon — com- 
 batant both, to the best of their powers ; perfect each in their 
 natures of dragon and knight. No dragon that I know of. 
 pictured among mortal worms ; no knight I know of, picture^! 
 in immortal chivalry, so perfect, each in his kind, as these 
 two. What else is visible on the battleground, of living 
 creature, — frog, ne\vt, or vij^er, — no less admii-able in their 
 kind. The small black viper, central, I have painted carefully 
 for the schools of Oxford as a Natural History study, such as 
 Oxford schools prefer. St. George, for my own satisfaction, 
 7 
 
98 THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 iilso as well as I could, in the year 1872 ; and hope to get 
 liim some day better done, for an example to Sheffield in iron- 
 armour, and several other things. 
 
 Picture second, the one I first took you to see, is of the 
 Dragon led into the market-place of the Sultan's capital — 
 submissive : the piece of St. George's spear, which has gone 
 through the back of his head, being used as a bridle : but 
 the creature indeed now little needing one, being otherwise 
 subdued enough ; an entirely collapsed and confounded dragon, 
 all his bones dissolved away ; prince and people gazing as he 
 returns to his dust. 
 
 Picture third, on the left side of the altar. ' 
 
 The Sultan and his daughter are baptized by St. George. 
 
 Triumphant festival of baptism, as at the new birthday of 
 two kingly spirits. Trumpets and shawms high in resounding 
 transport ; yet something of comic no less than rapturous' in 
 the piece ; a beautiful scarlet — '' parrot " (must we call him?) 
 conspicuously mumbling at a violet flower under the steps ; 
 bim also — finding him the scarletest and mumblingest parrot 
 [ had ever seen — I tried to paint in 1872 for the Natural His- 
 tory Schools of Oxford — perhaps a new species, or extinct 
 old one, to immortalize Carpaccio's name and mine. When 
 all the imaginative arts shall be known no more, perhaps, in 
 Darwinian Museum, this scarlet " Epops Carpaccii" may pre- 
 serve our fame. 
 
 But the quaintest thing of all is St. George's own attitude 
 hi baptizing. He has taken a good platterful of water to 
 pour on the Sultan's head. The font of inlaid bronze below 
 is quite flat, and the splash is likely to be spreading. St. 
 George — carefullest of saints, it seems, in the smallest mat- 
 ters — is holding his mantle back well out of the way. I sup- 
 pose, really and truly, the instinctive action would have been 
 this, pouring at the same time so that the splash might be 
 towards himself, and not over the Sultan. 
 
 With its head close to St. George's foot, you see a sharp- 
 eared white dog, with a red collar round his neck. Not a 
 
 ^ The intermediate oblong on the lateral wall is not Carpaccio's, and 
 is good for nothing. 
 
THE SIIlilNE OF THE SLA VES. 9i^ 
 
 greyhound, by any means ; but an awkward animal : stupid- 
 looking, and not much like a saint's dog. Nor is it in the 
 least interested in the baptism, which a saint's dog would cer- 
 tainly have been. Tlie mumbling parrot, and he — what can 
 they havn fn do with tho proceedings? A very comic pict- 
 ure ! 
 
 But this next, — lor a piece of sacred art, what can we say 
 of it? 
 
 St. Tryphonius and the Basilisk— was ever so simple a saint, 
 ever so absurd a beast ? as if the absurdity of all heraldic 
 beasts that ever were, had been hatched into one perfect ab- 
 surdity — prancing there on the steps of the throne, self-satis- 
 fied ; — this the beast whose glance is mortal ! And little St. 
 Tiyphonius, with nothing remarkable about him more than is 
 in every good little boy, for all I can see. 
 
 And the worst of it is that I don't happen to know anything 
 about St. Tryphonius, whom I mix up a Httle with Tropho- 
 nius, and his cave ; also I am not very clear about the differ- 
 ence between basilisks and cockatrices ; and on the whole find 
 myself reduced, in this picture, to admiring the carpets with 
 the crosses on them hung out of the window, which, if you 
 will examine with opera-glass, you will be convinced, I think, 
 that nobody cim do the like of them by rules, at Kensington ; 
 and that if you really care to have caipets as good as they can 
 be, you must get somebody to design them who can draw 
 saints and basilisks too. 
 
 Note, also, the group under the loggia which the stair-case 
 leads up to, high on the left. It is a picture in itself ; far 
 more lovelj^ as a composition than the finest Titian or Vero- 
 nese, simple and pleasant this as the summer air, and lucent 
 as morning cloud. 
 
 On the other side also there are wonderful things, only 
 there's a black figure there that frightens me ; I can't make 
 it out at all ; aiil vv.i] t- fiiei. go on to the next picture, 
 please. 
 
 Stay — I forgot the arabesijue on the steps, with the living 
 plants taking part in the ornament, like voices chanting here 
 and there a note, as some pretty tune follows its melodious 
 
100 THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 way, on constant instruments. Nature and art at play with 
 each other — graceful and gay alike, yet all the while conscious 
 that they are at play round the steps of a throne, and under 
 the paws of a basilisk. 
 
 The fifth picture is in the darkest recess of all the room ; 
 and of darkest theme, — the Agony in the garden. I have 
 never seen it rightly, nor need you pause at it, unless to note 
 the extreme naturalness of the action in the sleeping figures 
 — their dresses drawn tight under them as they have turned, 
 restlessly. But the principal figure is hopelessly invisible. 
 
 The sixth picture is of the calling of Matthew ; visible, 
 this, in a bright day, and worth waiting for one, to see it in, 
 through any stress of weather. 
 
 For, indeed, the Gospel which the pubhcan wrote for us, 
 with its perfect Sermon on the Mount, and mostly more har- 
 monious and gentle fulness, in places where St. Luke is formal, 
 St. John mysterious, and St. Mark brief, — this Gospel, ac- 
 cording to St. Matthew, I should think, if we had to choose 
 one out of all the books in the Bible for a prison or desert 
 friend, would be the one we should keep. 
 
 And we do not enough think how much that leaving the 
 receipt of custom meant, as a sign of the man's nature, who 
 was to leave us such a notable piece of literature. 
 
 Yet observe, Carpaccio does not mean to express the fact, 
 or anything like the fact, of the literal calling of Matthew. 
 What the actual character of the publicans of Jerusalem was 
 at that time, in its general aspect, its admitted degradation, 
 and yet power of believing, with the harlot, what the masters 
 and the mothers in Israel could not believe, it is not his purpose 
 to teach you. This call from receipt of custom, he takes for 
 the symbol of the universal call to leave all that we have, and 
 are doing. " Whosoever forsaketh not all that he hath, can- 
 not be my disciple." For the other calls were easily obeyed 
 in comparison of this. To leave one's often empty nets and 
 nightly toil on sea, and become fishers of men, probably you 
 might find pescatori enough on the Riva there, within a hun- 
 dred paces of you, who would take the chance at once, if any 
 gentle person offered it them. James and Jude — Christ's 
 
THE SimiNE OF THE SLAVES. 101 
 
 cousins — no thanks to them for following Him ; their own 
 home conceivably no richer than His. Thomas and Philip, I 
 suppose, somewhat thoughtful persons on spiritual matters, 
 questioning of them long since ; going out to hear St. John 
 preach, and to see whom he had seen. But this man, busy 
 in tlie place of business — engaged in the interests of foreign 
 governments — thinking no more of an Israelite Messiah than 
 Mr. Goschen, but only of Egyptian finance, and the like- 
 suddenly the Messiah, passing by, says'" Follow me ! " and h' 
 rises up, gives Him his hand, " Yea ! to the death ; " and alj 
 sconds from his desk in that electric manner on the instant, 
 leaving his cash-box unlocked, and his books for whoso list t. > 
 balance ! — a very remarkable kind of person indeed, it seem . 
 to me. 
 
 Cai-paccio takes him, as I said, for a type of such sacrific* 
 at its best. Everything (observe in passing) is here given you 
 of the best. Dragon deadliest — knight purest — parrot scar- 
 letest — basilisk absurdest — publican publicanest ; — a perfect 
 type of the life spent in taxing one's neighbour, exacting duties, 
 per-centages, profits in general, in a due and virtuous man- 
 ner. 
 
 For do not think Christ would have called a bad or corrupt 
 publican — much less that a bad or corrupt publican would 
 have obeyed the call. Your modem English evangelical doc- 
 trine that Christ has a special liking for the souls of rascals i ^ 
 the absurdest basilisk of a doctrine that ever pranced on judg- 
 ment steps. That which is lost He comes to save, — yes ; but 
 not that which is defiantly going the way He has forbidden. 
 He showed you plainly enough what kind of publican H 
 would call, having chosen two, botli^ ^f the best: '* Behold, 
 Lord, if I have taken anything frow any xnan, I restore it 
 fourfold ! " — a beautiful manner of trade. Carpaccio knows 
 well that there were no defalcations from Levi's chest— -no op 
 l^ressions in his tax-gatheiing. This whom he has painted i 
 a true merchant of Venice, uprightest and gentlest of tli 
 merchant race ; yet with a glorious pride in him. What mer 
 chant but one of Venice would have ventured to take Christ' 
 hand, as his fiiend's— as one man takes another's? Notre 
 
102 THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES, 
 
 pentant, he, of anything he has done ; not crushed or terrified 
 by Christ's call ; but rejoicing in it, as meaning Christ's praise 
 and love. " Come up higher then, for there are nobler treas- 
 ures than these to count, and a nobler King than this to render 
 account to. Thou hast been faithful over a few things ; enter 
 thou into the joy of thy Lord." 
 
 A lovely picture, in every sense and power of painting ; 
 natural, and graceful, and quiet, and pathetic ; — divinely re- 
 ligious, yet as decorative and dainty as a bank of violets in 
 spring. 
 
 But the next picture ! How was ever such a thing allowed 
 to be put in a church ? Nothing surely could be more per- 
 fect in comic art. St. Jerome, forsooth, introducing his nov- 
 ice lion to monastic life, with the resulting effect on the vul- 
 gar monastic mind. 
 
 Do not imagine for an instant that Carpaccio does not see 
 the jest in all this, as well as you do, — perhaps even a little 
 better. ''Ask for him to-morrow, indeed, and you shall find 
 him a grave man ; " but, to-day, Mercutio himself is not more 
 fanciful, nor Shakespeare himself more gay in his fancy of " the 
 gentle beast and of a good conscience," than here the painter 
 as he drew his delicately smiling lion with his head on one 
 side like a Perugino's saint, and his left paw raised, partly to 
 show the thorn wound, partly in deprecation, — 
 
 *' For if I should, as lion, come in strife 
 Into this place, 'twere pity of my life." 
 
 The flying monks are scarcely at first intelligible but as white 
 and blue oblique masses ; and there was much debate between 
 Mr. Murray and me, as he sketched the picture for the Shef- 
 field Museum, whether the actions of flight were indeed well 
 given or not ; he maintaining that the monks were really run- 
 ning like Olympic archers, and that the fine drawing was only 
 lost under the quarteinng of the dresses ; — I on the contrary 
 believe that Carpaccio had failed, having no gift for represent- 
 ing swift motion. We are probably both right ; I doubt not 
 that the running action, if Mr. Murray says so, is rightly 
 
THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. '^ 
 
 drawn; but at this time, every Venetian painter had bet; 
 trained to represent only slow and dignified motion, and not 
 till fifty 3'ears later, under classic inliuence, came the floating 
 and rushing force of Veronese and Tintoret. 
 
 And I am confirmed in this impression by the figure of the 
 stag in the distance, which does not run freely, and by the 
 imperfect gallop of St. George's horse in the first subject. 
 
 But there are many deeper questions respecting this Si. 
 Jerome subject than those of artistic skill. The picture is ? 
 jest indeed ; but is it a jest only ? Is the tradition itself n 
 jest? or only by our own fault, and perhaps Carpaccio's, do 
 we make it so ? 
 
 In the first place, then, you will please to remember, as I 
 have often told you, Carpaccio is not answerable for himself 
 in this matter. He begins to think of his subject, intending, 
 doubtless, to execute it quite seriously. But his mind no 
 sooner fastens on it than the vision of it comes to him as :i 
 jest, and he is forced to paint it. Forced by the fates, — 
 dealing with the fate of Venice and Christendom. We must 
 ask of Atropos, not of Carpaccio, why this picture makes us 
 laugh ; and why the tradition it records has become to us a 
 dream and a scorn. No day of my life passes now to its sun- 
 set, without leaving me more doubtful of all our cherished 
 contempts, and more earnest to discover what root there 
 was for the stories of good men, which are now the mocker's 
 treasure. 
 
 And I want to read a good " Life of St. Jerome." And if I 
 go to Mr. Ongaria's I shall find, I suppose, the autobiography 
 of George Sand, and the life of— Mr. Sterhng, perhaps ; and 
 Mr. Werner, written by my own master, and which indet I 
 I've read, but forget now who either Mr. Sterling or ]VL\ Wer- 
 ner were ; and jjerhaps, in religious literature, the life of Mr. 
 Wilberforce and of Mrs. Fry ; but not the smallest scrap of 
 information about St. Jerome. To whom, nevertheless, all 
 the charity of George Sand, and all the ingenuity of Mr. Ster- 
 ling, and all the benevolence of Mr. Wilberforce, and a great 
 quantity, if we knew it, of the daily comfort and peace of our 
 own little lives every day, are verily ov/ing ; as to a lovely ol - 
 
104 THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 pair of spiritual spectacles, without whom we never had read 
 a word of the " Protestant Bible." It is of no use, however, 
 to begin a life of St. Jerome now — and of little use to look at 
 these pictures without a life of St. Jerome ; but only thus 
 much you should be clear in knowing about him, as not in 
 the least doubtful or mythical, but wholly true, and the be- 
 ginning of facts quite hmitlessly important to all modern 
 Europe — namely, that he was born of good, or at least rich 
 family, in Dalmatia, virtually midway between the east and 
 the west ; that he made the great Eastern book, the Bible, 
 legible in the west ; that he was the first great teacher of the 
 nobleness of ascetic scholarship and courtesy, as opposed to 
 ascetic savageness : — the founder, properly, of the ordered 
 cell and tended garden, where before was but the desert and 
 the wild wood ; and that he died in the monastery he had 
 Pounded at Bethlehem. 
 
 It is this union of gentleness and refinement with noble 
 continence, — this love and imagination illuminating the 
 mountain cave into a frescoed cloister, and winning its savage 
 beasts into domestic friends, which Carpaccio has been 
 ordered to paint for you ; which, with ceaseless exquisiteness 
 Df fancy, he fills these three canvases with the incidents of, — 
 meaning, as I believe, the story of all monastic life, and 
 ieath, and spiritual life forevermore : the power of this great 
 and wise and kind spirit, ruling in the perpetual future over 
 ill household scholarship ; and the help rendered by the com- 
 panion souls of the lower creatures to the highest intellect 
 md virtue of man. 
 
 And if with the last picture of St. Jerome in his study, — his 
 tiapp}^ white dog watching his face — you will mentally com- 
 pare a hunting piece by Rubens, or Snyders, with the torn 
 clogs rolled along the ground in their blood, — you may per- 
 haps begin to feel that there is something more serious in 
 this kaleidoscope of St. George's Chapel than you at first be- 
 lieved — which if you now care to follow out with me, let ns 
 think over this ludicrous subject more quietly. 
 
 What account have we here given, voluntarily or involun- 
 tarily, of monastic life, by a man of the keenest j^erception, 
 
THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. 105 
 
 living in tlie midst of it? Tliat all the monks who have 
 caught sight of the hon should be terrified out of their wits — 
 what a curious witness to the timidity of Monasticism ! Here 
 are people professing to prefer Heaven to earth — preparing 
 themselves for the change as the reward of all their present 
 self-deniaL And this is the way they receive the first chance 
 of it that offers ! 
 
 Evidently Carpaccio's impression of monks must be, not 
 that they were more brave or good than other men ; but that 
 they liked books, and gardens, and peace, and were afraid of 
 death — therefore, retiring from the warrior's danger of chiv- 
 alry somewhat selfishly and meanly. He clearly takes the 
 knight's view of them. What he may afterwards tell us of 
 good concerning them, will not be from a witness prejudiced 
 in their favour. Some good he tells us, however, even here. 
 
 The pleasant order in wildness of the trees ; the buildings 
 for agricultural and religious use, set down as if in an Amer- 
 ican clearing, here and there, as the ground was got ready 
 for them ; the perfect grace of cheerful, pure, illuminating 
 art, filling every little cornice-cusp of the chapel with its jewel- 
 picture of a saint/ — last, and chiefly, the perfect kindness to 
 and fondness for, all sorts of animals. Cannot you better con- 
 ceive, as you gaze upon the happy scene, what manner of men 
 they were who first secured from noise of war the sweet nooks 
 of meadow beside your own mountain streams at Bolton, and 
 Fountains, Furness and Tintern ? But of the saint himself 
 Carpaccio has all good to tell you. Common monks were, at 
 least, harmless creatui-es ; but here is a strong and beneficent 
 one. " Calm, before the Lion ! " say C. C. with their usual 
 perspicacity, as if the story were that the saint alone had cour- 
 age to confront the raging beast — a Daniel in the lion's den ! 
 They might as well say of Carpaccio's Venetian beauty that 
 .^he is "calm before the lapdog." The saint is leading in his 
 new pet, as he would a lamb, and vainly expostulating with 
 liis brethren for being ridiculous. The grass on which they 
 have dropped their books is beset w^ith flowers ; there is no 
 
 ' See the piece of distant monastery in the lion picture, with its frag- 
 ments of fresco on wall, its ivy-covered door, and illuminr»ted cornice. 
 
106 THE SHRTNE OF THE SLA VE8, 
 
 sign of trouble or asceticism on the old man's face, he is evi- 
 dently altogether happy, his life being complete, and the en- 
 tire scene one of the ideal simplicity and security of heavenly 
 wisdom : '' Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her 
 paths are peace." 
 
 And now pass to the second picture. At first you will per- 
 haps see principally its wealc monks — looking more foolish in 
 their sorrow than ever they did in. their fear. Portraits these, 
 evidently, ever}^ soul of them — chiefiy the one in spectacles^, 
 reading the funeral service so perfunctorily, — types, through- 
 out, of the supreme commonplace; alike in action and expres- 
 sion, except those quiet ones in purple on the right, and the 
 grand old man on crutches, come to see this sight. 
 
 But St. Jerome himself in the midst of them, the eager 
 heart of him quiet, to such uttermost quietness^— the body 
 lying — look — absolutely flat like clay, as if it had been beat 
 down, and clung, clogged, all along to the marble. Earth to 
 earth mdeed. Level clay and inlaid rock now all one — and 
 the noble head senseless as a stone, with a stone for its jdII- 
 lowv 
 
 There they gather and kneel about it — wondering, I think, 
 more than pitying. To see what was yesterday the great Life 
 in the midst of them, laid thus ! But, so far as they do not 
 wonder, they pity onl}^ and giieve. There is no looking for 
 his soul in the clouds, — no worship of relics here, implied even 
 in the kneeling figures. All look down, woefully, wistfully, as 
 into a grave. "And so Death passed upon all men, for that 
 all have sinned." 
 
 This is Carpaccio's message to us. And lest you should not 
 read it, and carelessly think that he meant only the usual com- 
 monplace of the sacredness and blessedness of the death of the 
 righteous, — look into the narrow shadow in the corner of the 
 house at the left hand side, where, on the strange forked and 
 leafless tree that occupies it, are set the cross and little vessel 
 of holy water beneath, and above, the skull, which are always 
 the sigiis of St. Jerome's place of prayer in the desert. 
 
 The lower jaw has fallen from the skull into the vessel of holy 
 
THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. 107 
 
 It is but a little sign, — ^but you will soon know how much 
 this painter indicates by such things, and that here he means 
 indeed that for the greatest, as the meanest, of the sons of 
 Adam, death is still the sign of their sin ; and that though in 
 Chiist all shall be made alive, yet also in Adam all die ; and 
 this return to their earth is not in itself the coming of peace, 
 but the infliction of shame. 
 
 At the lower edge of the marble pavement is one of Car- 
 paccio's lovely signatures, on a white scroll, held in its mouth 
 by a tiny lizard. 
 
 And now you will be able to enter into the joy of the last 
 picture, the life of St. Jerome in Heaven. 
 
 I had no thought, myself, of this being the meaning of such 
 closing scene ; but the evidence for this reading of it, laid be- 
 fore me by my fellow-worker, Mr. Anderson, seems to me, in 
 the concurrence of its many clauses, irresistible ; and this at 
 least is certain, that as the opposite St. George represents the 
 perfect Mastery of the body, in contest with the lusts of the 
 Flesh, this of St. Jerome represents the perfect Mastery of 
 the mind, in the fulfilment of the right desires of the Spirit : 
 and all the arts of man, — music (a long passage of melody 
 written clear on one of the fallen scrolls), painting (in the il- 
 luminated missal and golden alcove), and sculpture (in all tho 
 forms of furniture and the bronze work of scattered orna- 
 ments), — these — and the glad fidelity of the lower animals, — 
 all subjected in pleasant service to the more and more perfect 
 reading and teaching of the Word of God ; — read, not in 
 written pages cliiefly, but with uj)lifted eyes by the light of 
 Heaven itself, entering and filling the mn^'^i'^n^ of T^>in.ov|.il- 
 ity. 
 
 This interpretation of the picture is maile still more prob- 
 able, by the infinite pains which Carpaccio has given to th^ 
 working of it. It is quite impossible to find more beautiful 
 and right painting of detail, or more truthful tones of atmos- 
 l^liere and shadow affecting interior colours. 
 
 Here then are the principal heads of the symbolic evidence, 
 abstracted for us by Mr. Anderson from his complete accouni 
 of the whole series, now in preparation. 
 
108 THE SHRIlSfE OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 1. " The position of the picture seems to show that it sums 
 up the whole matter. The St. George series reads from left 
 to right. So, chronologically, the two others of St. Jerome ; 
 but this, which should according to the story have been first, 
 appears after the death. 
 
 2. " The figure on the altar is — most unusually — our Lord 
 with the EesuiTection -banner. The shadow of this figure falls 
 on the wall so as to make a crest for the mitre on the altar — 
 
 * Helmet of Salvation.' .... The mitre (by comparison with 
 St. Ursula's arrival in Eome it is a cardinal's mitre), censer, 
 and crosier, are laid aside. 
 
 3. " The Communion and Baptismal vessels are also laid 
 aside under this altar, not of the dead but of the Eisen Lord. 
 The curtain falling from the altar is drawn aside that we may 
 notice this. 
 
 4. " In the mosaic-covered recess above the altar there is 
 prominently inlaid the figure of a cherub or seraph ' che in 
 Dio pill I'occhio ha fisso.' 
 
 5. '' Comparing the colours of the winged and four-footed 
 parts of the ' animal binato ' in the Purgatoi*y, it is I believe 
 important to notice that the statue of our Lord is gold, the 
 dress of St. Jerome red and white, and over the shoulders a 
 cape of the brown colour of earth. 
 
 6. " While candles blaze round the dead Jerome in the pre- 
 vious picture, the candlesticks on the altar here are empty — 
 
 * they need no candle.' 
 
 7. '^The two round-topped windows in the line behind the 
 square one through which St. Jerome gazes, are the ancient 
 tables bearing the message of light, delivered * of angels * to 
 the faithful, but now put behind, and comparatively dim be- 
 side the glory of present and personal vision. Yet the light 
 which comes even through the square window streams through 
 bars like those of a prison. 
 
 ** * Through the body's prison bars 
 
 His soul possessed the sun and stars,' 
 
 Dante Eosetti writes of Dante AUighieri ; but Carpaccio 
 hangs the wheels of all visible heaven inside these bars. 
 
THE SIiniNE OF THE SLAVES. 109 
 
 St. Jerome's * possessions ' are in a farther country. These 
 ])ars are another way of putting what is signified by the 
 brown cape. 
 
 8. " The two great volumes leaning against the wall 
 by the arm-chair are the same thing, the closed testa- 
 ments. 
 
 9. **The documents hanging in the little chamber behind 
 ;ind lying at the saint's feet, remarkable for their hanging seals, 
 are shown by these seals to be titles to some property, or 
 testaments; but they are now put aside or thrown underfoot. 
 Wh}', except that possession is gotten, that Christ is risen, 
 and that * a testament is of no strength at all while the testator 
 liveth ' ? This I believe is no misuse of Paul's words, but an 
 employment of them in their mystic sense, just as the New 
 Testament writers quoted the Old Testament. There is a 
 very prominent illuminated K on one of the documents under 
 the table (I think you have written of it as Greek in its lines): 
 I cannot but fancy it is the initial letter of * ResuiTectio.' 
 AVliat the music is, Caird has sent me no information about ; 
 he was to enquire of some friend who knew about old church 
 music. The prominent bell and shell on the table puzzle me, 
 but I am sure mean something. Is the foimer the mass- 
 beU? 
 
 10. " The statuettes of Venus and the horse, and the various 
 antique fragments on the shelf behind the arm-chair are, I 
 think, symbols of the world, of the flesh, placed behind even 
 the old Scripture studies. You remember Jerome's early 
 learning, and the vision that awakened him from Pagan 
 thoughts (to read the laws of the True City) with the words, 
 *Ubi est thesauiais tuus.' 
 
 "I have put these things down without trying to dress 
 them into an argument, that you may judge them as one 
 would gather them hap-hazard from the picture. Individu- 
 ally several of them might be weak arguments, but together 
 I do think they are conclusive. The key-note is struck by the 
 (inpty altar bearing the lisen Lord. I do not think Carpaccio 
 tliought of iramoi-tality in the symbols derived from mor- 
 tiil life, through which the ordinary mind feels after it. Nor 
 
110 THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES, 
 
 surely did Dante (V. esp. Par. IV. 27 and following lines). 
 And think of the words in Canto 11 : — 
 
 ** 'Bentro dal ciel della Divina Pace 
 Si gira uii corpo nella cui virtute 
 Vessel' di iutto suo contento giace.' 
 
 But there is no use heaping up passages, as the sense that 
 in using human language he merety uses mystic metaphor is 
 continually present in Dante, and often explicitly stated. 
 And it is surely the error of regarding these picture writings 
 for children who live in the nursery of Time and Space, as if 
 they were the truth itself, which can be discovered only 
 spiritually, that leads to the inconsistencies of thought and 
 foolish talk of even good men. 
 
 *'St. Jerome, in this picture, is young and brown-haired, 
 not bent and with long white beard, as in the two others. I 
 connect this with the few who have stretched their necks 
 
 *' *-Per tempo al pan degli angeli del quale 
 Vivesi qui ma non si vien satollo.' 
 
 St. Jerome Hves here by what %8 really the immortal bread ; 
 but shall not here be filled with it so as to hunger no 
 more ; and under his earthly cloak comprehends as little per- 
 haps the Great Love he hungers after and is fed by, as his 
 dog comprehends him. I am sure the dog is there with some 
 such purpose of comparison. On that very last quoted pas- 
 sage of Dante, Landino's commentary (it was printed in 
 Venice, 1491) annotates the words ' che drizzaste 1 eollo/ 
 with a quotation, 
 
 ** ' Cum spectant animalia cetera terram 
 Os liomini sublime dedit, coelum tueri jussit.'* 
 
 I was myself brought entirely to pause of happy wonder 
 when first my friend showed me the lessons hidden in these 
 pictures ; nor do I at all expect the reader at first to believe 
 them. But the condition of his possible belief in them is that 
 he approach them with a pure heart and a meek one ; for this 
 
TEE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. Ill 
 
 Carpaccio teaching is like the tahsman of Saladin, which, 
 dipped in pui'e water, made it a healing draught, but by it- 
 self seemed only a little inwoven web of silk and gold. 
 
 But to-day, that we may bo able to read better to-morrow, 
 we will leave this cell of sweet mysteries, and examine some 
 of the painter's eaiiier work, in which we may leam his way 
 of writing more completely, and understand the degree in 
 which his own personal character, or jorejudices, or imperfec- 
 tions, mingle in the method of his scholarship, and colour or 
 divert the current of his inspiration. 
 
 Therefore now, taking gondola again, you must oe carried 
 through the sea-streets to a far-away church, in the part of 
 Venice now wholly abandoned to the poor, though a kingly 
 .; lint's — St Louis's : but there are other things in this church 
 to be noted, besides Carpaccio, which will be useful in illus- 
 tration of him ; and to see these rightly, you must compare 
 with them things of the same kind in another church where 
 there are no Carpaccios, — namely, St. Pantaleone, to which, 
 being the nearer, you had better first direct your gondolier. 
 
 For the ceilings alone of these two churches, St. Pantaleone 
 and St. zilvise, are worth a day's pilgrimage in their sorrow* 
 ful lesson. 
 
 All the mischief that Paul Veronese did may be seen in the 
 halting and hollow magnificences of them ; — all the absurdi- 
 ties, either of painting or piety, under afflatus of vile ambition. 
 Eoof puffed up and broken through, as it were, with breath 
 of the fiend from below, instead of pierced by heaven's light 
 from above ; the rags and ruins of Venetian skill, honour, and 
 worship, exjDloded all together sky-high. Miracles of frantic 
 mistake, of flaunting and thunderous hypocrisy, — universal 
 lie, shouted through speaking-trumpets. 
 
 If I could let you stand for a few minutes, first under 
 ( Uotto's four-square vault at Assisi, only thirty feet from the 
 ground, the four triangles of it wiitten with the word of God 
 close as an illuminated missal, and then suddenly take you 
 under these vast staggering Temples of Folly and Liiquity, 
 you would know what to think of "modern development" 
 t henceforth. 
 
112 THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES, 
 
 The roof of St. Panfcaleone is, I suppose, the most curious 
 example in Europe of the vulgar dramatic effects of painting. 
 That of St. Alvise is little more than a caricature of the mean 
 passion for perspective, which was the first effect of " science " 
 joining itself with art. And under it, by strange coincidence, 
 there are also two notable pieces of plausible modern senti- 
 ment, — celebrated pieces by Tiepolo. He is virtually the be- 
 ginner of Modei-nism : these two pictures of his are exactly 
 like what a first-rate Parisian Academy student would do, set- 
 ting himself to conceive the sentiment of Christ's flagellation, 
 after having read unlimited quantities of George Sand and 
 Dumas. It is well that they chance to be here : look thor- 
 oughly at them and their dramatic chiaroscuros for a little 
 time, observing that no face is without some expression of 
 crime or pain, and that everything is always put dark against 
 light or light against dark. Then return to the entrance of 
 the church, where under the gallery, frameless and neglected, 
 hang eight old pictures, — bought, the story goes, at a pawn- 
 broker's in the Giudecca for forty sous each,' — to me among 
 the most interesting pieces of art in North Italy, for they are 
 the only examples I know of an entirely great man's work in 
 extreme youth. They are Carpaccio's, when he cannot have 
 been more than eight or ten years old, and painted then half 
 in precocious pride and half in play. I would give anything 
 to know their real history. "School pictures," C. C. call 
 them ! as if they were merely bad imitations, when they are 
 the most unaccountable and unexpected pieces of absurd 
 fancy that ever came into a boy's head, and scrabbled, rather 
 than painted, by a boy's hand, — yet, with the eternal master- 
 touch in them already. 
 
 Subjects. — 1. Kachel at the Well. 2. Jacob and his Sons 
 before Joseph. 3. Tobias and the Angel. 4. The Three 
 Holy Children. 5. Job. 6. Moses, and Adoration of Golden 
 Calf (C. C). 7. Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. 8. Joshua 
 and falling Jericho. 
 
 1 ** Originally in St. Maria della Vergine " (C. C). Why are not the 
 documents on the authority of which these statements are made given 
 clearly ? 
 
THE SHRIKE OF THE SLAVES. 113 
 
 In all these pictures the qualities of Carpaccio are already 
 entirely pronounced ; the grace, quaintness, simplicity, and 
 deep intentness on the meaning of incidents. I don't know 
 if the glim statue in No. 4 is, as C. C. have it, the statue of 
 Nebuchadnezzar's dream, or that which he erected for the 
 three holy ones to worshij), — and already I forget how the 
 " worship of the golden calf " according to C. C, and " Moses'* 
 according to my note, (and I believe the inscription, for most 
 of, if not all, the subjects are inscribed with the names of the 
 persons represented,) are relatively pourtrayed. But I have 
 not forgotten, and beg my readers to note specially, the ex- 
 quisite strangeness of the boy's rendering of the meeting of 
 Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. One would have expected 
 the Queen's retinue, and her spice-bearing camels, and Solo- 
 mon's house and his servants, and his cup-bearers in all their 
 glory ; and instead of this, Solomon and the Queen stand at 
 the opposite ends of a little wooden bridge over a ditch, and 
 there is not another soul near them, — and the question seems 
 to be which first shall set foot on it ! 
 
 Now, what can we expect in the future of the man or boy 
 who conceives his subjects, or is liable to conceive them, 
 after this sort ? There is clearly something in his head which 
 we cannot at all make out ; a ditch must be to him the Eubi- 
 con, the Euphrates, the Red Sea, — Heaven only knows what ! 
 a wooden bridge must be Rialto in embryo. This unattended 
 King and Queen must mean the pre-eminence of uncounselled 
 royalty, or what not ; in a word, there's no saying, and no 
 criticizing him ; and the less, because his gift of colour and 
 his enjoyment of all \4sible things around him are so intense, 
 so instinctive, and so constant, that he is never to be thought 
 of as a responsible person, but only as a kind of magic mirror 
 which flashes back instantly whatever it sees beautifully ar- 
 ranged, but yet will flash back commonplace things often as 
 I ithfully as others. 
 
 I was especially struck with this character of his, as opposed 
 to the grave and balanced design of Luini, when after work- 
 ing six months with Carpaccio, I went back to the St. 
 Stephen at Milan, in the Monasterio Maggiore. In order 
 y 
 
114 THE 8immE OF THE SLAVES, 
 
 to do justice to either painter, they should be alternately 
 studied for a little while. In one respect, Luini greatly gains, 
 and Carpaccio suffers by this trial ; for whatever is in the 
 least flat or hard in the Venetian is felt more violently by con- 
 trast with the infinite sweetness of the Lombard's harmonies, 
 while only by contrast with the vivacity of the Venetian can 
 you entirely feel the depth in faintness, and the grace in 
 quietness, of Luini's chiaroscuro. But the principal point 
 of difference is in the command which Luini has over his 
 thoughts, every design of his being concentrated on its 
 main purpose with quite visible art, and all accessories that 
 would in the least have interfered with it withdrawn in 
 merciless asceticism ; whereas a subject under Carpaccio's 
 hand is always just as it would or might have occurred in 
 nature ; and amon-g a myriad of trivial incidents, you are 
 left, by your own sense and sympathy, to discover the vital 
 one. 
 
 For instance, there are two small pictures of his in the Brera 
 gallery at Milan, which may at once be compared with the 
 Luinis there. I find the following notice of them in my diary 
 for 6th September, 1876 :— 
 
 *'Here, in the sweet air, with a whole world in ruin round 
 me. The misery of my walk through the Brera yesterday no 
 tongue can tell ; but two curious lessons were given me by 
 Carpaccio. The first, in his preaching of St. Stephen — Ste- 
 phen up in the corner where nobody would think of him ; the 
 doctors, one in lecture throne, the rest in standing groups 
 mostly — Stephen's face radiant with true soul of heaven, — the 
 doctors, not monsters of iniquity at all, but superbly true and 
 quiet studies from the doctors of Carpaccio's time ; doctors of 
 this world — not one with that look of heaven, but respectable 
 to the uttermost, able, just, penetrating: a complete assembly 
 of highly trained old Oxford men, but with more intentness. 
 The second, the Virgin going up to the temple ; and under 
 the steps of it, a child of ten or twelve with his back to us, 
 dressed in a parti- coloured, square-cut robe, holding a fawn in 
 leash, at his side a rabbit ; on the steps under the Virgin';^ 
 feet a bas-relief of fierce fight of men with horned monsters 
 
THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES. 115 
 
 like rampant snails : one with a conger-eers body, twining 
 round the limb of the man who stiikes it." 
 
 Now both these pictures are liable to be passed almost 
 without notice ; they scarcely claim to be compositions at all ; 
 l)ut the one is a confused group of portraits ; the other, a 
 (jiiaiut piece of grotesque, apjDarently without any meaning, 
 the principal feature in it, a child in a parti-coloured 
 cloak. It is only w^hen, with more knowledge of what we 
 may expect from the painter, we examine both pictures care- 
 fully, that the real sense of either comes upon us. For the 
 heavenly look on the face of Stephen is not set off with raised 
 light, or opposed shade, or principality of place. The master 
 trusts only to what nature herself would have trusted in — ex- 
 pression pure and simple. If you cannot see heaven in the 
 boy's mind, without any turning on of the stage lights, you 
 shall not see it at all. 
 
 There is some one else, however, whom you may see, on 
 looking carefully enough. On the opposite side of the group 
 of old doctors is another youth, just of Stephen's age. And 
 :is the face of Stephen is full of heavenly rapture, so that of 
 liis opposite is full of darkest wrath, — the religious wrath 
 which all the authority of the conscience urges, instead of 
 quenching. The old doctors hear Stephen's speech with 
 doubtful pause of gloom ; but this youth has no patience, — 
 no endurance for it. He will be the first to cry. Away with 
 him, — " "Whosoever will cast a stone at him, let them lay their 
 mantle at my feet." 
 
 Again — looking again and longer at the other pictures, you 
 will first correct my mistake of wiiting " fawn " — discovering 
 the creature held by the boy to be a unicorn.* Then you 
 will at once know that the whole must be symbolic ; and 
 looking for the meaning of the unicorn, you find it signifies 
 ' hastity ; and then you see that the bas-relief on the steps, 
 which the little Virgin ascends, must mean the warring of 
 the old strengths of the world with lust : which theme you 
 will find presently taken up also and completed by the sym- 
 bols of St. George's Chapel. If now you pass from these pict- 
 * Corrected for me by Mr. C. F. Murray. 
 
116 TEE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES, 
 
 ures to any of the Luini frescoes in the same gallery, you will 
 at once recognize a total difference in conception and treat- 
 ment. The thing which Luini wishes you to observe is held 
 forth to you with direct and instant proclamation. The 
 saint, angel, or Madonna, is made central or principal ; every 
 figure in the surrounding group is subordinate, and every ac- 
 cessory subdued or generalized. All the precepts of conven- 
 tional art are obeyed, and the invention and originality of the 
 master are only shown by the variety with which he adorns 
 the commonplace, — by the unexpected grace with which he 
 executes what all have done, — and the sudden freshness with 
 which he invests what all have thought. 
 
 This external difference in the manner of the two painters 
 is connected with a much deeper element in the constitution 
 of their minds. To Carpaccio, whatever he has to represent 
 must be a reality ; whether a symbol or not, afterwards, is no 
 matter, the first condition is that it shall be real. A serpent, 
 or a bird, may perhaps mean iniquity or purity ; but pri- 
 marily, they must have real scales and feathers. But with 
 Luini, everything is primarily an idea, and only realized so 
 far as to enable you to understand what is meant. When St. 
 Stephen stands beside Christ at his scourging, and turns to us 
 who look on, asking with unmistakable passion, ''Was ever 
 sorrow like this sorrow?" Luini does not mean that St. 
 Stephen really stood there ; but only that the thought of the 
 saint who first saw Christ in glory may best lead us to the 
 thought of Christ in pain. But when Carpaccio paints St. 
 Stephen preaching, he means to make us believe that St. 
 Stephen really did preach, and as far as he can, to show ua 
 exactly how he did it. 
 
 And, lastly, to return to the point at which we left him. 
 His own notion of the way things happened may be a very 
 curious one, and the more so that it cannot be regulated even 
 by himself, but is the result of the singular power he has of 
 seeing things in vision as if they were real. So that when, as 
 we have seen, he paints Solomon and the Queen of Sheba 
 standing at opposite ends of a wooden bridge over a ditch, 
 we are not to suppose the two persons are less real to him on 
 
THE SHRINE OF THE SLA VES. 1 1 < 
 
 lliiit account, though absurd to us ; but we are to understand 
 that such a vision of them did indeed appear to the boy who 
 had passed all his dawning life among wooden bridges, over 
 ditches ; and had the habit besides of spiritualizing, or read- 
 ing like a vision, whatever he saw with eyes either of the body 
 or mind. 
 
 The delight which he had in this faculty of vision, and the 
 industry with which he cultivated it, can only be justly esti- 
 mated by close examination of the marvellous picture in the 
 Con-er Museum, representing two Venetian ladies with their 
 pets. 
 
 In the last general statement I have made of the rank of 
 painters, I named two pictures of John Bellini, the Madonna 
 in San Zaccaria, and that in the sacristy of the Frari, as, so 
 far as my knowledge went, the two best pictures in the world. 
 In that estimate of them I of course considered as one chief 
 element, their solemnity of purpose — as another, their unpre- 
 tending simplicity. Putting aside these higher conditions> 
 and looking only to perfection of execution and essentially 
 artistic power of design, I rank this Carpaccio above either of 
 them, and therefore, as in these respects, the best picture in 
 the world. I know no other which unites every nameable 
 quality of painter's art in so intense a degree — breadth with 
 minuteness, brilliancy with quietness, decision with tender- 
 ness, colour with light and shade : all that is faithf ullest in Hol- 
 land, fancifullest in Venice, severest in Florence, naturalest 
 in England. "Whatever de Hooghe could do in shade. Van 
 Eyck in detail — Giorgione in mass — Titian in colour — Bewick 
 and Landseer in animal life, is here at once ; and I know no 
 other picture in the world which can be compared with it. 
 
 It is in tempera, however, not oil : and I must note in pass- 
 ing that many of the qualities which I have been in the habit 
 f praising in Tintoret and Cai-paccio, as consummate achieve- 
 ments in oil-paintings, are, as I have found lately, either in 
 tempera altogether, or tempera with oil above. And I am 
 disposed to think that ultimately tempera will be found the 
 proper material for the gi-eater number of most delightful 
 subjects. 
 
118 THE JSHEIJSrE OF THE SLAVES, 
 
 The subject, in the present instance, is a simple study of 
 animal life in all its phases. I am quite sure that this is the 
 meaning of the picture in Carpaccio's own mind. I suppose 
 him to have been commissioned to paint the portraits of two 
 Venetian ladies — that he did not altogether like his models, 
 but yet felt himself bound to do his best for them, and con- 
 trived to do what perfectly satisfied them and himself too. 
 He has painted their pretty faces and pretty shoulders, their 
 pretty dresses and pretty jewels, their pretty ways and their 
 pretty playmates — and what would they have more ? — he him- 
 self secretly laughing at them all the time, and intending the 
 spectators of the future to laugh for ever. 
 
 It may be, however, that I err in supposing the picture a 
 portrait commission. It may be simply a study for practice, 
 gathering together every kind of thing which he could get to 
 sit to him quietly, persuading the pretty ladies to sit to him 
 in all their finery, and to keep their pets quiet as long as they 
 could, while yet he gave value to this new group of studies in 
 a certain unity of satire against the vices of society in his 
 time. 
 
 Of this satirical purpose there cannot be question for a 
 moment, with any one who knows the general tone of the 
 painter's mind, and the traditions among which he had been 
 educated. In all the didactic painting of mediaeval Chris- 
 tianity, the faultful luxury of the upper classes was symbol- 
 ized by the knight with his falcon, and lady with her pet dog, 
 both in splendid dress. This picture is only the elaboration 
 of the w^ell-recognized symbol of the lady with her pets ; but 
 there are two ladies — mother and daughter, I think — and six 
 pets, a big dog, a little dog, a parroquet, a peahen, a little 
 boy, and a china vase. The youngest of the women sits se- 
 rene in her pride, her erect head pale against the dark sky 
 — the elder is playing with the two dogs ; the least, a white 
 terrier, she is teaching to beg, holding him up by his fore- 
 paws, with her left hand ; in her right is a slender riding- 
 whip, which the larger dog has the end of in his mouth, and 
 will not let go — his mistress also having droj^ped a letter,^ he 
 - The painter's signature is on tlie supposed letter. 
 
THE SIIRINE OF THE SLAVES, 110 
 
 puts his paw on that and will not let her pick it up, looking 
 out of gentlest eyes in arch watchfulness to see how far it will 
 please her that he should carry the jest. Behind him the 
 green parroquet, red-eyed, lifts its little daw as if disliking 
 the marble pavement ; then behind the marble balustrade 
 with gilded capitals, the bird and little boy are inlaid with 
 glowing brown and red. Nothing of Hunt or Turner can 
 surpass the plume painting of the bird ; nor can Holbein sur- 
 pass the precision, while he cannot equal the radiance, of the 
 2)orcelain and jewelleiy. 
 
 To mark the satirical purpose of the whole, a pair of ladies' 
 shoes are put in the corner, (the high-stilted shoe, being, in 
 fact, a slipper on the top of a column,) which were the gross- 
 est and absurdest means of expressing female pride in the 
 Hfteenth and following centuries. 
 
 In this picture, then, you may discern at once how Carpac- 
 cio learned his business as a painter, and to what consummate 
 j^oint he learned it.' 
 
 And now, if you have begun to feel the power of these minor 
 pictures, you can return to the Academy and take up the St. 
 Ursula series, on which, however, I find it hopeless to reduce 
 my notes to any available form at present : — the question of 
 the influence of this legend on Venetian life being involved 
 with enquiries belonging properly to what I am trying to do 
 in " St. Mark's Rest." This only you have to observe gen- 
 erally, that being meant to occupy larger spaces, the St. Ursula 
 pictures are very unequal in interest, and many portions seem 
 to me tired work, while others are maintained by Mr. IMurray 
 to be only by the hands of scholars. This, however, I can my- 
 self assert, that I never yet began to copy or examine any por- 
 tion of them without continually increasing admiration ; while 
 yet there are certain shortcomings and morbid faults through- 
 
 ' Another Curpaccio, in tlie Correr Museum, of St. Mary and Eliza- 
 beth, is entirely lovely, though slighter in work ; and the so-called Man- 
 tegna, but more probably (according to Mr. Murray) early John Bellini, 
 — the Transfiguration, — full of majesty and earnestness. Note the in- 
 '^fiibed " talk" with Moses and Elias, — " Have pity upon me, have pity 
 pon me, oh ye my friends.'* 
 
T^^U THE SHRINE OF THE SLAVES, 
 
 out, unaccountable, and rendering the greater part of the work 
 powerless for good to the general public. Taken as a con- 
 nected series, the varying personality of the saint destroys its 
 interest totally. The girl talking to her father in 539 is not 
 the girl who dreams in 533 ; and the gentle little dreamer is 
 still less like the severe, stiffly dressed, and not in any supreme 
 degree well favoured, bride, in 542 ; while the middle-aged 
 woman, without any claim to beauty at all, who occupies the 
 principal place in the final Gloria, cannot by any effort of im- 
 agination be connected with the figure of the young girl kneel- 
 ing for the Pope's blessing in 546. 
 
 But indeed had the story been as consistently told as the 
 accessories are perfectly painted, there would have been no 
 occasion for me now to be lecturing on the beauties of Car- 
 paccio. The public would long since have discovered them, 
 and adopted him for a favourite. That precisely in the par- 
 ticulars which would win popular attention, the men whom it 
 would be most profitable for the public to study should so 
 often fail, becomes to me, as I grow older, one of those deepest 
 mysteries of life, which I only can hope to have explained to 
 me when my task of interpretation is ended. 
 
 But, for the sake of Christian charity, I would ask every 
 generous Protestant to pause for a while before the meeting 
 inider the Castle of St. Angelo, (546). 
 
 "Nobody knows anything about those old things," said an 
 English paterfamilias to some enquiring member of his family, 
 in the hearing of my assistant, then at work on tliis picture. 
 Which saying is indeed supremely true of us nationally. But 
 without requirmg us to know anything, this picture puts be- 
 fore us some certainties respecting mediaeval Catholicism, 
 which we shall do well to remember. 
 
 In the first place, you will find that all these bishops and 
 cardinals are evidently portraits. Their faces are too varied 
 — too quiet — too complete — to have been invented by even 
 the mightiest invention. Carpaccio was simply taking the 
 features of the priesthood of his time, throwing aside, doubt- 
 less, here and there, matter of offence ; — the too settled gloom 
 of one, the evident subtlety of another, the sensuality of a 
 
tliird ; butJincling beneath all that, what was indeed the con- 
 Btitutional power and pith of their minds,— in the deep of 
 them, rightly thoughtful, tender, and humble. 
 
 There is one cuiious little piece of satire on the fault of 
 the Church in making cardinals of too young persons. The 
 third, in the row of four behind St. Ursula, is a mere boy, 
 very beautiful, but utterly careless of what is going on, and 
 evidently no more fit to be a cardinal than a young calf would 
 be. The stiffness of his white dress, standing up under his 
 chin as if he had only put it on that day, draws especial atten- 
 tion to him. 
 
 The one opposite to him also, without this piece of white 
 dress, seems to be a mere man of the world. But the others 
 have all grave and refined faces. That of the Pope himself is 
 quite exquisite in its purity, simple-heartedness, and joyful 
 wonder at the sight of the child kneeling at his feet, in whom 
 he recognizes one whom he is himself to learn of, and follow. 
 
 The more I looked at this picture, the more I became won- 
 derstruck at the way the faith of the Christian Church has 
 been delivered to us through a series of fables, which, partly 
 meant as such, are over-ruled into expressions of truth — but 
 how much truth, it is only by our own virtuous Hfe that we 
 can know. Only remember always in criticizing such a pict- 
 ure, that it no more means to tell you as a fact ^ that St. 
 Ursula led this long procession from the sea and knelt thus 
 before the Pope, than Mantegna's St. Sebastian means that 
 the saint ever stood quietly and happily, stuck full of arrows. 
 It is as much a mythic symbol as the circles and crosses of 
 the Carita ; but only Carpaccio carries out his symbol into 
 delighted reahzation, so that it begins to be absurd to us in 
 f he perceived impossibihty. But it only signifies the essential 
 ! uth of joy in the Holy Ghost fiUing the whole body of 
 
 le Christian Church with visible inspiration, sometimes in 
 
 Id men, sometimes in children ; yet never breaking the laws 
 < f established authority and subordination — the greater saint 
 
 ' If it lutd been a fact, of course he would have liked it all the better, 
 as in the picture of St. Stephen ; but though only an idea, it must b« 
 n alizod to the full. 
 
123 TEE SERINE OF TEE SLAVES. 
 
 blessed by the lesser, when the lesser is in the higher place 
 of authority, and all the common and natural glories and de- 
 lights of the world made holy by its influence : field, and 
 earth, and mountain, and sea, and bright maiden's grace, and 
 old men's quietness, — all in one music of moving peace — the 
 very procession of them in their multitude like a chanted 
 liyirm — the purple standards drooping in the light air that yet 
 can lift St. George's gonfalon ; ^ and the angel Michael alight- 
 ing — himself seen in vision instead of his statue — on the 
 Angel's tower, sheathing his sword. 
 
 What I have to say respecting the picture that closes the 
 series, the martyrdom and funeral, is partly saddening, partly 
 depreciatory, and shall be reserved for another place. The 
 picture itself has been more injured and repainted than any 
 other (the face of the recumbent figure entirely so) ; and 
 though it is full of marvellous passages, I hope that the gen- 
 eral traveller will seal his memory of Carpaccio in the picture 
 last described. 
 
 ^ It is especially to be noted with Carpaccio, and perhaps more in this 
 than any other of the series, that he represents the beauty of religion 
 always in animating the present world, and never gives the charm to 
 the clear far-away sky which is so constant in Florentine sacred pictures. 
 
SECOND SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 THE PLxlCE OF DEAGOI^^Se 
 
 JAMES REDDIE ANDERSON, M.A. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Among the many discomforts of advancing age, which no 
 one understands till he feels them, there is one which I sel- 
 dom have heard complained of, and which, therefore, I find 
 unexpectedly disagreeable. I knew, by report, that when I 
 grew old I should most probably wish to be 3'oung again ; 
 and, verj' certainly, be ashamed of much that I had done, or 
 omitted, in the active years of life. I was prepared for sor- 
 row in the loss of friends by death ; and for pain, in the loss 
 of myself, by weakness or sickness. These, and many other 
 minor calamities, I have been long accustomed to anticipate ; 
 and therefore to read, in preparation for them, the confes- 
 sions of the w^eak, and the consolations of the wise. 
 
 But, as the time of rest, or of departure, approaches me, 
 not only do many of the evils I had heard of, and prepared 
 for, present themselves in more grievous shapes than I had 
 expected ; but one which I had scarcely ever heard of, tor- 
 ments me increasingly every hour. 
 
 I had understood it to be in the order of things that the 
 aged should lament their vanishing life as an instrument they 
 had never used, now to be taken away from them ; but not as 
 an instrument, only then perfectly tempered and sharpened, 
 and snatched out of their hands at the instant they could have 
 done some real serv'ice with it. Whereas, my own feeling, 
 now, is that everything which has hitherto happened to me, 
 or been done by me, whether well or ill, has been fitting me 
 to take greater fortune more prudently, and do better work 
 more thoroughly. And just when I seem to be coming out of 
 school — very soiTy to have been such a foolish boy, yet hav- 
 ing taken a prize or two, and expecting to enter now upon 
 
126 PREFACE. 
 
 som<i more serious business than cricket, — I am dismissed by 
 the Master I hoped to serve, with a — " That's all I want of 
 you, sir," 
 
 I imagine the sorrowfulness of these feelings must be 
 abated, in the minds of most men, by a pleasant vanity in 
 their hope of being remembered as the discoverers, at least, 
 of some important truth, or the founders of some exclusive 
 system called after their own names. But I have never ap- 
 plied myself to discover anything, being content to praise 
 w^hat had already been discovered ; and the only doctrine or 
 system peculiar to me is the abhorrence of all that is doctrinal 
 instead of demonstrable, and of all that is systematic instead 
 of useful ; so that no true disciple of mine will ever be a 
 " Euskinian " ! — he will follow, not me, but the instincts of his 
 own soul, and the guidance of its Creator. . Which, though 
 not a sorrowful subject of contemplation in itself, leaves me 
 none of the common props and crutches of halting pride. I 
 know myself to be a true master, because my pupils are w^ell 
 on the w^ay to do better than I have done ; but there is not 
 always a sense of extreme pleasure in watching their advance, 
 where one has no more strength, though more than ever the 
 will, to companion them. 
 
 Not always — be it again confessed ; but when I first read 
 the legend of St. George, which here follows, my eyes grew 
 wet with tears of true delight ; first, in the knowledge of so 
 many beautiful things, at once given to me ; and then in the 
 surety of the wide good that the work thus begun would 
 spring up into, in w^ays before wholly unconceived by me. It 
 was like coming to the brow of some healthy moorland, where 
 here and there one had watched, or helped, the reaper of 
 some patch of thinly scattered corn ; and seeing suddenly a 
 gTeat plain white to the harvest, far as the horizon. That the 
 first-fruits of it might be given in no manner of self-exaltation 
 — Fors has determined that my young scholar should have 
 his part of mortification as well as I, just in the degree in 
 which either of us may be mortified in the success of others. 
 For we both thought that the tracing of this chain of tra- 
 dition in the story of St. George was ours alone ; and that we 
 
rni:rA':i:. 1^7 
 
 had rather to apprehend the doubt of our result, than the dis^- 
 pute of our originaHty. Nor was it, indeed, without extreme 
 discomfiture and vexation that after I had been hindered 
 from pubhshing this paper for upwards of ten months from 
 the time it was fii-st put into my hands, I read, on a bright 
 autumn mornmg at Brantwood, when I expected the author's 
 visit, (the first he had made to me in my own house,) a para- 
 gi'aph in the " Spectator," giving abstract of exactly the same 
 historical statements, made by a French antiquary, M. Cler- 
 mont-Ganneau. 
 
 I am well assured that Professor Airey was not more 
 grieved, though I hope he was more conscience-stricken, for 
 his delay in the publication of Mr. Adams' calculations, than I 
 was, for some days after seeing this anticipation of my friend's 
 discoveries. He relieved my mind himself, after looking into 
 the matter, by pointing out to me that the original paper had 
 been read by JM Clei-mont-Ganneau, before the Academie des 
 Inscriptions et Belles-lettres of Paris, two months before his 
 own investigations had begun, and that all question of prior- 
 ity was, therefore, at an end. It remained for us only to sur- 
 render, both of us, what complacency we should have had in 
 first announcing these facts ; and to take a nobler pleasure in 
 the confirmation afforded of their truth by the coincidence, to 
 a degree of accuracy which neither of us had ever known take 
 place before in the work of two entirely independent investi- 
 gators, between M. Clei-mont-Ganneau's conclusions and our 
 own. I therefore desired my friend to make no alterations in 
 ]iis paper as it then stood, and to make no reference himself 
 to the French author, but to complete his own course of in- 
 vestigation independently, as it was begun. We shall have 
 some bits all to ourselves, before we have done ; and in the 
 leantime give reverent thanks to St George, for his help, to 
 lance as well as to England, in enabling the two nations to 
 ad together the truth of his tradition, on the distant clouds 
 of Heaven and Time. 
 
 Ml'. Andei-son's work remains entirely distinct, in its inter- 
 pretation of Carpaccio's picture by this tradition, and since at 
 the mouth of two — or threes witnesses shall a word be cstab- 
 
128 PREFACE. 
 
 lished, Carpaccio himself thus becomes the third, and the 
 chief, witness to its truth ; and to the power of it on the far- 
 thest race of the Knights of Venice. 
 
 The present essay treats only of the first picture in the 
 chapel of St. George. I hope it may now be soon followed 
 by its author's consecutive studies of the other subjects, in 
 which he has certainly no priority of effort to recognize, and 
 has, with the help of the good Saints and no other persons, 
 done all that we shall need. J. Euskin. 
 
 Brantwood, 
 
 %mi January, 1878. 
 
THE PLACE OF DEAGOITS. 
 
 ** '^yvOTjtTas Br I rhu irofnT^u Se'ot, efrrep jucAAoi Troirjr^s atvai, iroiciv yivBov^ 
 oAX' ov \6yops.'* — PUit. PJwido^ 61, B. 
 
 On the eve of the Feast of the Annunciation, in the year of 
 Christ 1452, the Council of Ten, by decree, permitted certain 
 Dabnatians settled in Venice to estabUsh a Lay Brotherhood, 
 called of St. George and of St. Tryphonius. The brothers 
 caused to be written in illuminated letters on the first pages 
 of their minute book their " memorandum of association.'' 
 They desire to " hold united in sacred bonds men of Dalma- 
 tian blood, to render homage to God and to His saints *b}' 
 charitable endeavours and rehgious ceremonies, and to heljj 
 by holy sacrifices the souls of brothers alive and dead." The 
 brotherhood gave, and continues to give, material support to 
 the poor of Dalmatian blood in Venice ; money to the old, and 
 education to the young. For prayer and adoration it built 
 the chapel known as St. George's of the Sclavonians. In this 
 chapel, during the first decade of the sixteenth century, Car- 
 paccio painted a series of pictures. First, three from the 
 story of St. Jerome — not that St. Jerome was officially a patron 
 of the brothers, but a fellow-countryman, and therefore, as it 
 were, an ally ; — then three from the story of St. George, one 
 from that of St Tryphonius, and two smaller from the Gospel 
 History. Allowing for doorways, window, and altar, these 
 nine pictures fill the circuit of the chapel walls. 
 
 Those representing St. George are placed opposite those of 
 St. Jerome. In the anti-chapel of the Ducal Palace, Tintoret, 
 who studied, not without result otherwise, these pictui-es of 
 Carpaccio's, has placed the same saints over against each other. 
 To him, as to C^^r'^"<^i'> ll-y rr^presented the two sides, practi- 
 u 
 
THE PLACE OF DRAGONS. 
 
 1 and comtemplative, of faithful life. This balance we still, 
 ough with less completeness, signify by the linked names 
 Martha and Mary, and Plato has expressed it fully by the 
 spective functions assigned in his ideal state to philosophers 
 d guardians. The seer " able to grasp the eternal," " spec- 
 :or of all time and of all existence," — you may see him on 
 ur right as you enter this chapel, — recognizes and declares 
 )d's Law : the guardian obeys, enforces, and, if need be, 
 hts for it. 
 
 St. George, Husbandman by name, and " Tpo7rato<^apo9," 
 iumphant Warrior, by title, secures righteous peace, turn- 
 5' his spear into a pruning-hook for the earthly nature of 
 m. He is also to be known as " McyaXofxaprvp" by his deeds, 
 e great witness for God in the world, and **Ta)v dOX-qrcov 6 
 ya? Ta^tapx'^9," marshal and leader of those who strive to 
 »tain an incorruptible crown.' St. Jerome, the seer, learned 
 50 in all the wisdom of* the heathen, is, as Plato tells us such 
 man should be. Lost in his longing after " the universal 
 V that knits human things with divine," ^ he shows himself 
 ntle and without fear, having no terror even of death. ^ In 
 e second picture on our right here we may see with how 
 eat quiet the old man has laid himself down to die, even 
 ch a pillow beneath his head as was under Jacob's upon that 
 ght of vision by the place which he thenceforward knew to 
 ) the " House of God," though " the name of it was called 
 leparation ' ^ at the first." ^ The fantastic bilingual inter - 
 
 ' These titles are taken from tlie earliest (Greek) records of him. The 
 it corresponds to that of Baron Bradwardine's revered " Mareschal- 
 ike." 
 
 '' Plat. Kep., VI. 486 A. '' Plat. Rep., VI. 486 B. 
 
 * Luz. This word stands also for the almond tree, flourishing when 
 sire fails, and * ' man goeth to his long home. " 
 
 5 In the 21st and 22nd Cantos of the "Paradise," Dante, too, connects 
 e Dream of Jacob with the ascetic, living where " e consecrato un 
 mo, Che suole esser disposto a sola latria." This is in a sphere oi 
 aven where "la dolce sinfonia del Paradiso " is heard by mortal ears 
 \y as overmastering thunder, and where the pilgrim is taught that 
 I created vision, not the seraph's '' die in Dio piu I'occhio ha fisso " 
 ay read that eternal statute by whose appointment spirits of the saints 
 forth upon their Master s business and return to Him again. 
 
HIE PLACE OF DRAGONS. 131 
 
 pretation of Jerome's name given in the " Golden Legend/' 
 standard of medijeval mythology, speaks to the same effect : 
 "Hieronimus, quod est Sanctum Nemus," Holy Grove, "a 
 nemore ubi aliquando conversati^s est,'* from that one in which 
 he sometimes had his walk — " Se dedit et sacri ne moris per- 
 palluit umbra," ^ but not beneath the laurels of " Fun giogc 
 de Parnaso," '^ to whose inferior summit, only, Dante in thai 
 line alludes, nor now under olive boughs — 
 
 " wliere the Attick bird 
 Trills lier tliick-warbled notes the summer long," 
 
 but where, once on a winter night, shepherds in their vigil 
 heard other singing, where the palm bearer of burdens, wit- 
 ness of victorious hope, offers to every man, for the gathering, 
 fruit unto everlasting life. "Ad Bethleem oppidum remea- 
 vit, ubi, prudens animal, ad prsesepe Domini se obtulit per 
 mansurum." "He went, as though home, to the town o\ 
 Bethlehem, and like a wise domestic creature presented 
 himself at his Master's manger to abide there." 
 
 After the pictures of St. George comes that of St. Try- 
 phonius, telling how the prayer of a little child shall conquei 
 the basilisk of earthly pride, though the soldier's spear cannoi 
 overthrow ihin monster, nor maiden's zone bind him. Aftei 
 the picture of St. Jerome we are given the Calling of Matthew, 
 in which Carpaccio endeavours to declare how great joy tills 
 the fugitive servant of Eiches when at last he does homage as 
 true man of another Master. Between these two is set tliG 
 central picture of the nine, small, dark itself, and in a darl^ 
 corner, in arrangement following pretty closely the simph 
 tradition of earlier Venetian masters. The scene is an until^ ' 
 garden — the subject, the Agony of our Lord. 
 
 The prominent feature of the stories Carpaccio has chosei 
 — setting aside at present the two gospel incidents — is that, 
 though heartily Christian, they are historically drawn quitt 
 as much from Greek as from media3val mythology. Even ir 
 the scenes from St. Jerome's life, a well-known classical tale, 
 
 ' Dante, "Eclogues," i. 30. - Dante, '' Par." I. 16. 
 
:3 THE PLACE OF DRAGONS. 
 
 lich mingled with his legend, is introduced, and all the 
 intings contain much ancient religious symbolism. St. 
 yphonius' conquest of the basilisk is, as we shall see, al- 
 )st 2:>urelj a legend of Apollo. From the middle ages on- 
 Lrds it has been often remarked how closely the story of 
 . George and the Dragon resembles that of Perseus and 
 idromeda. It does not merely resemble, — it is that story. 
 The earliest and central shrine of St. George, — his church, 
 nous during the crusades, at Lydda, — rose by the stream 
 lich Pausanias, in the second century, saw running still 
 •ed as blood," because Perseus had bathed there after his 
 Qquest of the sea monster. From the neighbouring town of 
 ppa, as Pliny tells us, the skeleton of that monster was 
 ought by M. Scaurus to Rome in the first century b.c. St. 
 rome was shown on this very coast a rock known by tra- 
 :ion as that to which Andromeda had been bound. Before 
 5 day Josephus had seen in that rock the holes worn by her 
 ters. 
 
 In the place chosen by fate for this the most famous and 
 ished example of harmony between the old faith and the 
 w there is a strange double piece of real mythology. Many 
 3 offended when told that with the best teaching of the 
 iristian Church Gentile symbolism and story have often 
 ngled. Some still lament vanished dreams of the world's 
 )rnii4g, echo the 
 
 '* Voice of weeping heard, and loud lament," 
 
 woodland altar and sacred thicket. But Lydda was the 
 y where St. Peter raised from death to doubly-marvellous 
 :vice that loved garment-maker, full of good works, whose 
 me was Wild Roe — Greek' type of dawn with its pure 
 dons. And Lydda *' was nigh unto Joppa," ^ where was let 
 wn from heaven the mystic sheet, full of every kind of liv- 
 
 The Hebrew poets, too, knew *' the Hind of the glow of dawn." 
 ' Near Joppa the Moslem (who also reverences St. George) sees the 
 d of some great final contest between the Evil and the Good, upon 
 Lom the ends of the world shall have come— a contest surely that will 
 luire the presence of our warrior-marshal. 
 
THE PLACE OF DRAGONS. 133 
 
 ing creature, (this, centuries before, a symbol familiar to the 
 farthest east,') for lasting witness to the faithful that through 
 his travailing creation God has appointed all things to be 
 helpful and holy to man, has mp,de nothing common or un- 
 clean. 
 
 There is a large body of further evidence proving the origin 
 of the story of St. George and the Dragon from that oi 
 Perseus. The names of certain of the persons concerned in 
 both coincide. Secondary, or Mer variations in the place oi 
 the fight appear alike in both legends. For example, the 
 scene of both is sometimes laid in Phoenicia, north of Joppa. 
 But concerning this we may note that a mythologist of the 
 age of Augustus,*^ recounting this legend, is careful to ex- 
 plain that the name of Joppa had since been changed to 
 Phoenice. The instance of most value, however — because con- 
 nected with a singular identity of local names — is that ac- 
 count which takes both Perseus and St. George to the Nile 
 delta. The Greek name of L^'dda was Diospolis. Now St. 
 Jerome speaks strangely of Alexandria as also called Dios- 
 polis, and there certainly was a DioSpoHs (later Lydda) near 
 Alexandria, where ''alone in Eg}^pt," Strabo tells us, "men 
 did not venerate the crocodile, but held it in dishonour as 
 most hateful of living things." One of the " Crocodile towns" 
 of Egypt was close by this. Curiously enough, considering 
 the locality, there was also a "Crocodile-town" a short dis- 
 tance north of Joppa. In Thebes, too, the greater Diospolis, 
 there was a shrine of Perseus, and near it another KpoKoSctAwD 
 ndXt?. This persistent recurrence of the name Diospolis 
 probably points to Perseus' original identity with the sun- 
 noblest birth of the Father of Ldghts, In its Greek form that 
 name was, of course, of eompai^atively late imposition, but we 
 may well conceive it to have had reference "" to a local termi- 
 nology and worship much more ancient. It is not unreason- 
 able to connect too the Diospolis of Cappadocia, a region so 
 
 ' Compare tlie illustrations on p. 44 pf Didrou^s ". Iconographie 
 Clirttienne " (English translation, p. 41), 
 * Conon Narr., XL. 
 ' Compare the name Heliopolis t:ivcn Lotli to Baalbeck and On. 
 
o4 THE PLAGE OF DEAGOJYS. 
 
 :equently and mysteriously referred to as that of St. George's 
 irth. 
 
 Further, the stories both of Perseus and of St. George are 
 uriously connected with the Persians; but this matter, to- 
 ether with the saint's Cappadocian nationahty, will fall to be 
 onsidered in relation to a figure in the last of Carpaccio's 
 bree pictures, which will open up to us the earliest history 
 nd deepest meaning of the myth-. 
 
 The stories of the fight given by Greeks and Christians are 
 Imost identical. There is scarcely an incident in it told by 
 ne set of writers but occurs in the account given by some 
 lember or members of the other set, even to the crowd of 
 istant spectators Carpaccio has so dwelt upon, and to the 
 otive altars raised above the body of the monster, with the 
 tream of healing that flowed beside them. And while both 
 ccounts say how the saved nations rendered thanks to the 
 father in heaven, we are told that the heathen placed, beside 
 lis altar, altars to the Maiden Wisdom and to Hermes, while 
 he Christians placed altars dedicated to the Maiden Mother 
 nd to George. Even Medusa's head did not come amiss to 
 be mediaeval artist, but set in the saint's hand became his 
 iwn, fit indication of the death by which he should afterwards 
 ;lorify God. And here we may probably trace the original 
 rror — if, indeed, to be called an error — by which the myth 
 oncerning Perseus was introduced into the story of our sol- 
 lier-saint of the East. From the fifth century to the fifteenth, 
 nythologists nearly all give, and usually with approval, an in- 
 erpretation of the word " gorgon " which makes it identical 
 n meaning and derivation with " George." When compara- 
 ively learned persons, taught too in this special subject, ac- 
 iepted such an opinion and insisted upon it, we cannot be 
 lurprised if their contemporaries, uneducated, or educated 
 )nly in the Christian mysteries, took readily a similar view, 
 jspecially when we consider the wild confusion in medijx^val 
 ninds coiicerning the spelling of classical names. Now just 
 LS into the legend of St, Hippolytus there was introduced a 
 ong episode manifestly derived from some disarranged and 
 nisunderstood series of paintings or sculptures concerning 
 
; A/iz/itr ui\jO. 
 
 the fate of the Greek Hippolytus, — and this is by no means a 
 singular example, the name inscribed on the work of art being 
 taken as evidence that it referred to the only bearer of that 
 name then thought of — so, in all probability, it came about 
 with St. George. People at Lydda far on into Christian times 
 would know vaguely, and continue to tell the story, how long 
 ago under that familiar clitf the dragon was slain and the royal 
 maid released. Then some ruined fresco or vase painting of 
 the event would exist, half forgotten, with the names of the 
 characters written after Greek f:ishion near them in the usual 
 superbly errant caligraphy. The Gorgon's name could scarcely 
 fail to be prominent in a series of pictures from Perseus's his- 
 tory, or in this scene as an explanation of the head in his hand. 
 A Christian pilgrim, or hermit, his heart full of the great 
 saint, whose name as ** TriumiDhant " filled the East, would, 
 when he had spelt out the lettering, at once exclaim, " Ah, 
 here is recorded another of my patron's victories." The prob- 
 ability of this is enhanced by the appearance in St. George's 
 story of names whose introduction seems to require a similar 
 explanation. But we shall find that the battle wdth the dragon, 
 though not reckoned among St. George's deeds before the 
 eleventh or twelfth century, is entirely appropriate to the 
 earliest sources of his legend. 
 
 One other important parallel between Perseus and St. 
 George deserves notice, though it docs not beal* directly upon 
 these pictures. Both are distinguished by their burnished 
 shields. The hero's was given him by Athena, that, watching 
 in it the reflected figure of the Gorgon,' he might strike rightly 
 with his sickle-sword, nor need to meet in face the mortal 
 horror of her look. The saint's bright shield rallied once and 
 again a breaking host of crusaders, as they seemed to see it 
 blaze in their van under Antioch " wall, and by the breaches 
 of desecrated Zion. But his was a magic mirror ; work of 
 craftsmen more cunning than might obey the Queen of Air. 
 Turned to visions of terror and death, it threw back by law 
 
 ' The allegorising Platoiiists interpret Medusa as a symbol of man's 
 sensual nature. This we shall find to be Car2)accio's view of the dragon 
 • - Actbxi. 2G. 
 
6 2 HE PLAGE OF DRAGONS. 
 
 diviner optics an altered image — the crimson blazon of its 
 OSS. ^ So much for the growth ©f the dragon legend, f rag- 
 3nt of a most ancient faith, widely spread and variously 
 3alised, thus made human by Greek, and passionately sjDir- 
 lal by Christian art. 
 
 We shall see later that Perseus is not St. George's only 
 ood-relation among the powers of earlier belief ; but for 
 igiishmen there may be a linked association, if more difficult 
 trace through historic descent, yet, in its perfect harmony, 
 en more pleasantly strange. The great heroic poem which 
 mains to us in the tongue of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors — 
 tuitive creation and honourable treasure for ever of simple 
 iglish minds — tells of a warrior whose names, like St. 
 gorge's, are " Husbandman " and " Glorious," whose crown- 
 5* deed was done in battle with the poisonous drake. Even 
 igure very important in St. George's history — one we shall 
 3et in the third of these pictures — is in this legend not with- 
 t its representative — that young kinsman of the Saxon hero, 
 imong the faithless" earls "faithful only he," who holds 
 fore the failing eyes of his lord the long rusted helm and 
 Iden standard, " wondrous in the grasp," and mystic ves- 
 Is of ancient time, treasure redeemed at last by a brave man's 
 3od from the vaulted cavern of the " Twilight Flyer." For 
 jowulf indeed slays the monster, bat wins no princess, and 
 3S of the tier}" venom that has scorched his limbs in the con- 
 st. Him there awaited such fires alone — seen from their 
 3ak promontory afar over northern ssas — as burned once 
 ►on the ridge of CEta, his the Heraklean crown of poplar 
 ives only, blackened without by the smoke of hell, and 
 the inner side washed white with the sweat of a labour- 
 's brow.^ It is a wilder form of the great story told by 
 
 ' Compare the strange reappearance of tlie ^ginetan Athena as St. 
 Im on the Florin. There the arm that bore the shield now with 
 inted finger gives emphasis and direction to the word " Behold." 
 ■ There was in his People's long lament for Beowulf one word about 
 3 hidden future, " when he must go forth from the body to become 
 . . " What to become we shall not know, for fate has struck out 
 it the four letter that would have told us. 
 
TIW PLACE OF DRAGONS. l'>7 
 
 seers ' wlio knew only the terror of nature and the daily toil 
 of men, and the doom that is over these for each of us. The 
 royal maiden for ever set free, the sprinkling of pure water 
 unto eternal life, — this only such eyes may discern as by hap- 
 pier fate have also rested upon tables whose divine blazon is 
 the law of heaven ; such hearts alone conceive, as, trained in 
 some holy city of God, have among the spirits of just men 
 made perfect, learned to love His commandment. 
 
 Such, then, was the venerable belief which Carpaccio set 
 himself to picture in the Chapel of St. George. How far he 
 knew its wide reign and ancient descent, or how far, without 
 recognising these, he intuitively acted as the knowledge would 
 have led him, and was conscious of lighting up his work by 
 Gentile learning and symbolism, must to us be doubtful It 
 is not doubtful that, whether with open ej^es, or in simple 
 obedience to the traditions of his training, or, as is most 
 likely, loyal as well in wisdom as in humility, he did so il- 
 lumine it, and very gloriously. But painting this glory, he 
 paints with it the peace that over the king-threatened cradle 
 of another Prince than Perseus, was proclaimed to the heavy- 
 laden. 
 
 The first picture on the left hand as we enter the chapel 
 shows St. George on horseback, in battle with the Dragon. 
 Other artists, even Tintoret,^ are of opinion that the Saint 
 rode a white horse. The champion of Purity must, tho} 
 hold, have been carried to victory by a charger ethereal aiul 
 
 ' ** Beowulf " was probably composed by a poet nearly contemporar v 
 with Bede. The dragon victory was not yet added to the glories of St 
 George. Indeed, Pope Gelasius, in Council, more than a couple of cen- 
 turies before, had declared him to be one of those saints '* whose nani< s 
 are justly revered among men, but whose deeds are known to God only. 
 Accordingly the Saxon teacher invokes him somewhat vaguely thus :—■ 
 
 *' Invicto mundum qui sanguine temnis 
 Infinita refers. Georgi Sancte, trophrea ! " 
 
 Yet even in these words we see a reverence similar to Carpaccio's f^r 
 St. George as patron of purity. And the deeds " known to God alone 
 were in His good time revealed to those to whom it pleased Hint. 
 -In the ante-chapel of the Ducal Palace. 
 
idb TUE PLACE OF DRAGONS, 
 
 splendid as a summer cloud. Carpaccio believed that his 
 horse was a dark brown. He knew that this colour is gener- 
 ally the mark of greatest strength and endurance ; he had no 
 wish to paint here an ascetic's victory over the flesh. St. 
 Greorge's warring is in the world, and for it ; he is the enemy 
 of its desolation, the guardian of its peace ; and all ^ital force 
 of the lower Natui-e he shall have to bear him into battle ; 
 submissive indeed to the spui% bitted and bridled for obedi- 
 ence, yet honourably decked with tmppings whose studs and 
 bosses are fair carven faces. But though of colour prosaically 
 useful, this horse has a deeper kinship with the air. Many of 
 the ancient histories and vase-paintings tell us tliat Perseus, 
 tvhen he saved Andromeda, was mounted on Pegasus. Look 
 now here at the mane and tail, swept still back upon the 
 i.vind, though ah-eady the passionate onset has been brought 
 to sudden pause in that crash of encounter. Though the flash 
 of an earthly fire be in his eye, its force in his hmbs — though 
 the clothing of his neck be Chthonian thunder — this steed is 
 brother, too, to that one, born by farthest ocean wells, whose 
 wild mane and sweeping wings stretch through the firmament 
 is light is breaking over earth. More ; these masses of bil- 
 lowy hair tossed upon the breeze of heaven are set here for a 
 5ign that this, though but one of the beasts that perish, has 
 the roots of his strong nature in the power of heavenly life, 
 ind is now about His business who is Lord of heaven and 
 Father of men. The horse is thus, as we shall see, opposed 
 to certain other signs, meant for our learning, in the dream 
 :)f horror round this monster's den.' 
 
 St. George, armed to his throat, sits firmly in the saddle. 
 A.11 the skill gained in a chivalric youth, all the might of a sol- 
 dier's manhood, he summons for this strange tourney, stooping 
 slightly and gatheiing his strength as he drives the spear- 
 point straight between his enemy's jaws. His face is very fair, 
 at once dehcate and powerful, well-bred in the fullest bear- 
 
 ' This cloudlike effect is through surface rubbing perhaps mow 
 marked now than Carpaccio intended, but must always have been most 
 noticeable. It produces a very striking resemblance to the Pegasus or 
 the Ham of Phrixus on Greek vases. 
 
rilE PLACE OF DRAaONP. 
 
 yw 
 
 ing* of the words ; a Plantagenet face in general type, but much 
 retiiied. Tiie lower lip is pressed upwards, the brow knit, in 
 anger and disgust partly, but more in care — and care not so 
 
 iiuch concerning the fight's ending, as that this thrust in it 
 
 liall now be rightly dealt. His hair llow^s in briglit golden rip- 
 , los, strong as those of a great S2)rii]g whose ui^-welHng waters 
 
 ircle through some clear pool, but it breaks at last to float 
 over brow and shoulders in tendrils of living light/ Had Car- 
 }):iccio been aware that St. George and Perseus are, in this 
 deed, one ; had he even held, as surely as Professor Miiller 
 finds reason to do, that at first Perseus was but the sun in his 
 strength — for very name, being called the "Brightly-Burn- 
 ing " — this glorious head could not have been, more completely 
 than it is, made the centre of light in the picture. In Greek 
 w orks of art, as a rule, Perseus, when he rescues Andromeda, 
 continues to wear the peaked Phrygian cap, dark helmet of 
 Hades, ^ by whose virtue he moved, invisible, upon Medusa 
 through coiling mists of dawn. Only after victory might he 
 unveil his brightness. But about George from the first is no 
 
 liadow. Creeping thing of keenest eye shall not see that 
 splendour which is so manifest, nor with guile spring upon it 
 unaware, to its darkening. Such knowledge alone for the 
 dragon — dim sense as of a horse with its rider, moving to the 
 fatal lair, hope, pulseless, — not of heart, but of talon and maw 
 — that here is yet another victim, then only between his teeth 
 that keen lance-point, thrust far before the Holy A2:)parition 
 at whose rising the Power of the Vision of Death waxes faint 
 and drops those terrible wings that bore under their shadow, 
 not healing, but wounds for men. 
 
 The spear pierces the base of the dragon's brain, its point 
 l)cnetrating right through and standing out at the back of the 
 lioad just above its junction with the spine. The shaft brealcs 
 
 1 the shock between the dragon's jaws. This shivering of St. 
 ( reorge's spear is almost alw\ays emphasized in pictures of him 
 — sometimes, as here, in act, oftener by position of the si^liu- 
 ujred fragments prominent in the foregi'ound. This is no ti.i- 
 
 ' At his martyrdom St. Georcre was hung up by his hair to be scourged. 
 * Giveu by Hermes (Chthoiiios). 
 
dition of ancient art, but a pur el}' mediseval incident, yet not, 
 I believe, merely the vacant reproduction of a sight become 
 familiar to the spectator of tournaments. The spear was type 
 of the strength of human wisdom. This checks the enemy in 
 his attack, subdues him partly, yet is shattered, having done 
 so much, and of no help in perfecting the victory or in reap- 
 ing its reward of joy. But at the Saint's " loins, girt about 
 with truth," there hangs his holier weapon — the Sword of the 
 Spirit, which is the Word of God. 
 
 The Dragon^ is bearded like a goat,*^ and essentially a 
 thorny ^ creature. Every ridge of his body, wings, and head, 
 bristles with long spines, keen, sword-like, of an earthy brown 
 colour or poisonous green. But the most truculent-looking 
 of all is a short, strong, hooked one at the back of his head, 
 close to where the spear-point protrudes." These thorns are 
 partly the same vision — though seen with even clearer eyes, 
 dreamed by a heart yet more tender — as Spenser saw in the 
 troop of urchins coming up with the host of other lusts 
 against the Castle of Temperance. They are also symbolic 
 as weeds whose deadly growth brings the power of earth to 
 waste and chokes its good. These our Lord of spiritual hus- 
 bandmen must for preliminary task destroy. The agricult- 
 ural process consequent on this first step in tillage we shall 
 see in the next picture, whose subject is the triumph of the 
 ploughshare sword, as the subject of this one is the triumpli 
 of the pruning-hook spear." To an Itahan of Carpaccio's 
 time, further, spines — etymologically connected in Greek and 
 
 ^ It should be noticed that St. George's dragon is never human-headed, 
 as often St. Michael's. 
 
 - So the Theban dragon on a vase, to be afterwards referred to. 
 
 ^ The following are Lucians words concerning the monster slain by 
 Ferseus, "Kai rb fjiei/ eireiai trecppiKhs rals &Kau6ais Kal dedirrS/Jievoi/ tm 
 Xda/xari. ' ' 
 
 * 1 do not know the meaning of this here. It bears a striking resem- 
 blance to the crests of the dragon of Triptolemus on vases. These crests 
 signify primarily the springing blade of corn. That, here, has become 
 like iron. 
 
 ^ For " pruning-hooks " in our version, the Vulgate reads *Migones ' 
 — tools for preparatory clearance. 
 
THE PLACE OF DRAGONS. Ill 
 
 Latin, as in English, with the backbone — were an acknowl- 
 edged symbol of the lust of the flesh, whose defeat the artist 
 has here set himself to paint. The mighty coiling tail, as of 
 a giant eel,' carries out the portraiture. For this, loathsomr 
 as the body is full of horror, takes the place of the snails 
 ranked by Spenser in line beside his urchins. Though the 
 monster, half-rampant, rises into air, turning claw and spikn 
 and tooth towards St. George, we are taught by this grey 
 abomination twisting in the slime of death that the threatened 
 destruction is to be dreaded not more for its horror than for 
 its shame. 
 
 Behind the dragon he, naked, with dead faces turned 
 heavenwards, two corpses — a youth's and a girls, eaten away 
 from the feet to the middle, the flesh hanging at the waist in 
 loathsome rags torn by the monster's teeth. The man's thigh 
 and upper-arm bones snapped across and sucked empty of 
 marrow, are turned to us for special sign of this destroyer's 
 power. The face, foreshortened, is drawn by death and deca} 
 into the ghastly likeness of an ape's. '^ The girl's face — seen 
 in profile — is quiet and still beautiful ; her long hair is heaped 
 as for a pillow under her head. It does not grow like St. 
 George's, in living ripples, but Kes in fantastic folds, that have 
 about them a savour, not of death only, but of corruption. 
 For all its pale gold they at once carry back one's mind to 
 Turner's Pytho, where the arrow of Apollo strikes him in the 
 midst, and, piercing, reveals his foulness. Round her throat 
 cling a few torn rags, these only remaining of the white gar- 
 
 ' Tlie eel was Venus' selected beast-shape in the '* Flight of the Gods." 
 Boccaccio has enhirged upon the signilicance of this. Gen. Deor. IV. 68. 
 One learns from other sources that a tail was often symbol of sensuality. 
 
 • In the great Botticelli of the National Gallery, known as Mars and 
 Venus, but almost identical with the picture drawn afterwards by Spen- 
 ser of the Bower of Acrasia, the sleeping youth wears an expression, 
 though less strongly marked, very similar to that of this dead face her«>. 
 Such brutish paralysis is with scientific accuracy made special to tli 
 male. It may be noticed that the power of venomously wounding, ex 
 pressed by Carpaccio through the dragon's spines, is in the Botticelli 
 signified by the swarm of hornets issuing from the tree trunk by the 
 young mans head. 
 
142 TUE PLAGE OF DRAGONS. 
 
 ment tliat clotlied lier once. Carpaccio was a diligent student 
 of ancient mythology. Boccaccio's very learned book on the 
 Gods was the standard classical dictionar}^ of those days in 
 Italy. It tells us how the Cyprian Venus — a mortal princess 
 in reality, Boccaccio holds — to cover her own disgrace led the 
 maidens of her country to the sea-sands, and, stripping them 
 there, tempted them to follow her in shame. I suspect Car- 
 paccio had this story in his mind, and meant here to reveal in 
 true dragon aspect the Venus that once seemed fair, to show 
 by this shore the fate of them that follow her. It is to be no- 
 ticed that the dead man is an addition made by Carpaccio to 
 the old story. Maidens of the people, the legend-writers 
 knew, had been sacrificed before the Princess ; but only he, 
 filling the tale — like a cup of his country's fairly fashioned 
 glass — full of the wine of profitable teaching, is aware that 
 men have often come to these yellow sands to join there in 
 the dance of death — not only, nor once for all, this Saint who 
 clasped hands with Victory. Two ships in the distance — one 
 stranded, with rigging rent or fallen, the other moving pros- 
 perously with full sails on its course — symbolically repeat this 
 thought. ' 
 
 Frogs clamber about the corpse of the man, lizards about 
 the woman. Indeed for shells and creeping things this place 
 where strangers lie slain and unburied w^ould have been to 
 the good Palissy a veritable and valued potter's field. But to 
 every one of these cold and scaly creatures a special symbol- 
 ism was attached by the science — not unwisely dreaming — 
 of Carpaccio's day. They are, each one, painted here to am- 
 plify and press home the picture's teaching. These lizards 
 are born of a dead man's flesh, these snakes of his marrow : ^ 
 and adders, the most venomous, are still only lizards ripened 
 witheringly from loathsome flower into poisonous fruit. The 
 frogs ^ — symbols, Pierius tells us, of imperfection and sliame- 
 
 ^ *• Tlie many fail, the one succeeds." 
 
 ^ "The silver cord " not "loosed " in God's peace, but thus devilishly 
 quickened. 
 
 ^ Compare the " unclean spirits come out of the mouth of the dragon," 
 in Revelation. 
 
77/yv rLAUrJ uv ifiiAUUiy.^. ±-±0 
 
 lossness — aro in transiigurecl form tlioso Lycian husl^andnien 
 \vhose foul words niockecl Latona, whose feet defiled the wells 
 of water she thirsted for, as the veiled mother painfully jour- 
 neyed with those two babes on her arm, of whom one should 
 1)6 Queen of Maidenhood, the other, Lord of Light, and 
 Guardian of the Ways of Men J This subtle association be- 
 tween batrachians and love declining to sense lay very deep 
 in the Italian mind. In '* Ariadne Florentina " there are two 
 engravings from Botticelli of Venus, as a star floating through 
 heaven and as foam-born rising from the sea. Both pictures 
 are most subtly beautiful, yet in the former the lizard like- 
 ness shows itself distinctly in the face, and a lizard's tail ap- 
 pears in manifest form as pendulous crest of the chariot, w^hile 
 in the latter not only contours of profile and back,* but the 
 selected attitude of the goddess, bent and half emergent, with 
 hand resting not over firmly upon the level shore, irresistibly 
 recall a frog. 
 
 In the foreground, between St. George and the Dragon, a 
 spotted lizard labours at the task set Sisyphus in hell for ever. 
 Sisyphus, the cold-hearted and shifty son of iEolus,^ stained 
 in life by nameless lust, received his mocking doom of toil, 
 partly for his treachery — winning this only in the end, — 
 partly because he opposed the divine conception of the -^acid 
 race ; but above all, as penalty for the attempt to elude the 
 fate of death " that is appointed alike for all," by refusal for 
 his own body of that '' sowing in corruption," against which 
 a deeper furrow is prepared by the last of husbandmen with 
 whose labour each of us has on earth to do. Then, finding 
 that Cai-paccio has had in his mind one scene of Tartarus, wi 
 may believe the corpse in the background, torn by carrion- 
 birds, to be not merely a meaningless incident of horror, but 
 a reminiscence of enduring punishment avenging upon Tity- 
 us * the insulted puiity of Artemis.* 
 
 ' Compare the account of the Frog's hump, "Ariadne Florentina," p. 93. 
 ^Compare Pindars use of aX6\os as a fit adjective for t//€C8os,Xeiii. \ iii. J-'). 
 * ''Terra? oniniparentis aliiTnnum." 
 
 ^ Or, as tlie story is otlierwise given, of the mother of Ar; u 
 
 the case of the Lyciau peasants above. 
 
1^4: THE PLACE OF DRAGONS. 
 
 The coiled adder is the familiar symbol of eternity, hero 
 meant either to seal for the defeated their fate as final, or to 
 hint, with something of Turner's sadness, that this is a battle 
 not gained " once for ever" and "for all," but to be fought 
 anew by every son of man, while, for each, defeat shall be 
 deadly, and victory still most hard, though an armed Angel of 
 the Victory of God be our marshal and leader in the contest. 
 A further comparison with Turner is suggested by the horse's 
 skull between us and Saint George. A similar skeleton is 
 prominent in the corresponding part of the foreground in the 
 ** Jason " of the Liber Studiorum. But Jason clambers to 
 victory on foot, allows no charger to bear him in the fight. 
 Turner, more an antique ^ Hellene than a Christian prophet, 
 had, as all the greatest among the Greeks, neither vision nor 
 hope of any more perfect union between lower and higher 
 nature by which that inferior creation, groaning now with us 
 in pain, should cease to be type of the mortal element, which 
 seems to shame our soul as basing it in clay, and, w^ith that 
 element, become a temple-platform, lifting man's life towards 
 heaven.^ 
 
 With Turner's adder, too, springing immortal from the Py- 
 thon's wound, we cannot but connect this other adder of Car- 
 paccio's, issuing from the white skull of a great snake. Adders, 
 according to an old fancy, were born from the jaws of their 
 living mother. Supernatural horror attaches to this symbolic 
 one, writhing out from between the teeth of that ophidian 
 death's-head. And the plague, not yet fully come forth, but 
 already about its father's business, venomously fastens on a 
 frog, type of the sinner whose degradation is but the begin- 
 ning of punishment. So soon the worm that dies not is also 
 
 1 Hamlet, V. ii. 352. 
 
 ^ Pegasus and the immortal liorses of Achilles, born like Pegasus by 
 the ocean wells, are always to be recognized as spiritual creatures, not — 
 as St. George's horse here - earthly creatures, though serving and mani- 
 festing divine power. Compare too the fate of Argus (Homer, Od. 
 XVIL) In the great Greek philosophies, similarly, we find a realm of 
 formless shadow eternally unconquered by sacred order, offering a con- 
 trast to the modern systems which aim at a unity to be reached, if not 
 by reason, at least by what one may not inaccurately call an act of faith. 
 
1 u i\ 1 j..ii I. • i^iuuiytD. 
 
 upon him — in its fang Circean poison to make the victim one 
 ^Yith his plague, as in that terrible circle those, afflicted, whom 
 
 \ ita bestial piacque e non humana." 
 
 Two spiral shells ' lie on the sand, in shape related to each 
 other as frog to lizard, or as Spenser's urchins, spoken of 
 above, to his snails. One is round and short, with smooth 
 viscous-looking lip, turned over, and lying towards the sj)ec- 
 tator. The other is finer in form, and of a kind noticeable 
 for its rows of deUcate spines. But, since the dweller in this 
 one died, the weaves of many a long-fallen tide rolling on the 
 shingle have worn j^i almost smooth, as you may see its fel- 
 lows to-day by hundreds along Lido shore. Now such shells 
 were, through heathen ages innumerable and over many 
 lands, holy things, because of their whorls moving from left 
 to right'' in some mysterious sympathy, it seemed, with the 
 sun in his daily course through heaven. Then as the open 
 clam-shell w^as special symbol of Yen us, so these became of 
 the Syrian Venus, Ashtaroth, Ej^hesian Artemis, queen, not of 
 purity but of abundance, Mylitta, t]tl<s ttot cVtiv, the many 
 named and widely worshipped.^ In Syrian figures still ex- 
 isting she bears just such a shell in her hand. Later writers, 
 with whom the source of this symbolism w\as forgotten, 
 accounted for it, partly by imaginative instinct, partly by 
 fanciful invention concerning the nature and way of Hfe of 
 these creatures. But there is here yet a further reference, 
 since from such shells along the Syrian coast was crushed out, 
 sea-pur^^le and scai'let, the juice of the Tyrian dye. And the 
 power of sensual delight throned in the chief places of each 
 merchant city, decked her "stately bed" with coverings 
 whose tincture was the stain of that baptism.* The shells are 
 
 ' Ovid associates shells with the enemy of Andromeda, but regarding 
 it as a very ancient and fish-like monster, plants them on its back — 
 "terRa cavis super obsita conchis."— Ou. Met., IV. 724. 
 In India, for the same reason, one of the leading marks of the Bud- 
 dha's perfection was liis hair, thus spiral. 
 
 ^Compare the curious tale about the Echeneis. Pliny, Ilist. Nat., 
 IX. 25. " De echeneide ej usque naturd mirabili." 
 
 ^ The purple of Lydda was famous. Compare Fors Clavigera, April, 
 1876, p. 2. and Deucalion, g 39. 
 10 
 
146 THE PLACE OF DRA G ONS. 
 
 empty now, devoured — lizards on land or sea-sliore are ever 
 to sucli " inimicissimum genus " ^ — or wasted in the deej). 
 For the ripples '^ that have thrown and left them on the sand 
 are a type of the lusts of men, that leap up from the abyss, 
 surge over the shore of life, and fall in swift ebb, leaving 
 desolation behind. 
 
 Near the coiled adder is planted a withered human head. 
 The sinews and skin of the neck spread, and clasp the 
 ground — as a zoophyte does its rock — in hideous mimicry of 
 an old tree's knotted roots. Two feet and legs, torn off by 
 the knee, lean on this head, one again^fe the brow and the 
 other behind. The scalp is bare and withered. These things 
 catch one's eye on the first glance at the picture, and though 
 so painful are made thus prominent as giving the key to a 
 large part of its symbolism. Later Platonists — and among 
 them those of the fifteenth century — developed from certain 
 texts in the Timaeus ^ a doctrine concerning the mystical 
 meaning of hair, which coincides with its significance to the 
 vision of early (pre-Platonic) Greeks. As a tree has its roots 
 in earth, and set thus, must patiently abide, bearing such 
 fruit as the laws of nature may appoint, so man, being of 
 other family — these dreamers belonged to a very "pre-scien- 
 tific epoch " — has his roots in heaven, and has the power of 
 moving to and fro over the earth for service to the Law of 
 Heaven, and as sign of his free descent. Of these diviner 
 roots the hair is visible type. Plato tells us,^ that of innocent, 
 light-hearted men, ''whose thoughts were turned heaven- 
 ward," but who "imagined in their simplicity that the clearest 
 demonstration of things above was to be obtained by sight " 
 the race of birds had being, by change of external shape 
 into due harmony with the soul ("/xercppv^/At^ero ") — such 
 persons growing feathers instead of hair.'' We have in 
 
 1 Pliny, Hist. Nat., VIII. 89. 
 
 - Under tlie name of Salacia and Venilia. See St. August , Civ. Dei, 
 VII. 22. 
 
 :^ Plato, Tim., 75, 76. ' iHd. 91, D. B. 
 
 ^ The most devoid of wisdom were stretched on eartli, becom'u-!: io(-t- 
 less and creeping things, or sunk as lisli in tlie sea. So, wo saw \'cmi's' 
 
THE PLACE OF DRAGONS. 147 
 
 Dante, ' too, an inversion of tree nature parallel to that of the 
 lioad here. The tree, with roots in air, whose sweet fruit is, 
 in Purgatory, alternately, to gluttonous souls, temptation, and 
 purifying punishment — watered, Landino interprets, by the 
 descending spray of Lethe — signifies that these souls have 
 forgotten the source and limits of earthly pleasure, seeking 
 vainly in it satisfaction for the hungry and immortal spirit. 
 80 here, this blackened head of the sensual sinner is rooted to 
 earth, the sign of strength drawn from above is stripped from 
 off it, and beside it on the sand are laid, as in hideous mock- 
 ery, the feet that might have been beautiful u^Don the moun- 
 tains. Think of the woman's body beyond, and then of this 
 head — "instead of a girdle, a rent; and instead of well-set 
 ]iair, baldness." The worm's brethren, the Dragon's elect, 
 wear such shameful tonsure, unencircled by the symbolic 
 crown ; prodigal of life, *'risurgeranno," from no quiet grave, 
 l)ut from this haunt of horror, **co crin mozzi" ' — in piteous 
 witness of wealth ruinously cast away. Then compare, in 
 light of the quotation from Plato above, the dragon's thorny 
 plumage ; compare, too, tlie charger's mane and tail, and the 
 rippling glory that crowns St. George. It is worth while, too, 
 to have in mind the words of the ** black cherub" that had 
 overheard the treacherous counsel of Guido de Montefeltro. 
 From the moment it was uttered, to that of the sinner's 
 death, the evil spirit says, "stato gli sono a crini" ^ — lord of 
 his fate. Further, in a Venetian series of engravings illus- 
 trating Dante (published 1491), the firebreathings of the 
 Dragon on Cacus' shoulders transform themselves into the 
 Centaur's femininely flowing hair, to signify the inspiration of 
 his forceful fraud. Tliis " power on his head" he has becauso 
 of such an angel. "" When we consider the Princess we shall 
 find this symbolism yet further earned, but just now have to 
 notice how the closely connected franchise of gmceful motion, 
 
 chosen transmigration was into the form of an eel — other authorities 
 say, of a fish. 
 
 'Dante, Purg., XXII., XXIII. 
 
 'Ihid. Inf., VII. 57. Purg., XXII. 40. ^ 7^,^^/. Inf., XXVII. 
 
 ^ IhUl. XXV. 
 
148 THE PLAGE OF DRAOONS. 
 
 lost to those dishonoured ones, is marked by the most care- 
 fully-painted bones lying on the left — a thigh-bone dislocated 
 from that of the hip, and then thrust through it. Curiously, 
 too, such dislocation would in life produce a hump, mimick- 
 ing fairly enough in helpless distortion that one to which the 
 frog's leaping power is due. ^ 
 
 Centrally in the foreground is set the skull, perhaps of an 
 ape, but more probably of an ape-like man, " with forehead 
 villanous low." This lies so that its eye-socket looks out, as 
 it were, through the empty eyehole of a sheep's skull beside 
 it. When man's yision has become ovine merely, it shall at 
 last, even of grass, see only such bitter and dangerous growth 
 as our husbandman must reap with a spear from a dragon's 
 wing. 
 
 The remaining minor words of this poem in a forgotten 
 tongue I cannot definitely interpret. The single skull with 
 jaw-bone broken off, lying under the dragon's belly, falls to 
 be mentioned afterwards. The ghastly heap of them, crowned 
 by a human mummy, withered and brown, ^ beside the coil of 
 the dragon's tail, seem meant merely to add general emphasis 
 to the whole. The mummy (and not this alone in the picture) 
 may be compared with Spenser's description of the Captain 
 of the Army of Lusts : — 
 
 " His body lean and meagre as a rake, 
 And skin all withered like a dryed rook, 
 Thereto as cold and dreary as a snake. 
 -;{■ -::- -)«■ ^5- * 
 
 Upon his head he wore a helmet light, 
 Made of a dead man's skull, that seemed a ghastly sight." 
 
 The row of five palm trees behind the dragon's head per- 
 haps refers to the kinds of temptation over which Victory 
 must be gained, and may thus be illustrated by the five troops 
 that in Spenser assail the several senses, or beside Chaucer's 
 five fingers of the hand of lust. It may be observed that 
 
 ^ 'Ariadne Florentina,' Lect. III., p. 93. 
 
 '^ The venom of the stellio, a spotted species of lizard, emblem oi 
 shamelessness, was held to cause blackening of the face. 
 
TJlh: PLACE OF DRAGONS. 141) 
 
 Pliny sj^eaks of the Essenes — preceders of the Christian Her- 
 iiiits — who had given up the world and its joys as *'gen9 
 socia palmarum." ' 
 
 Behind the dragon, in the far background, is a great city. 
 Its walls and towers are crowded by anxious spectators of the 
 ])attle. There stands in it, on a lofty pedestal, the equestrian 
 statue of an emperor on horseback, perhaps placed there by 
 Carpaccio for sign of Alexandria, perhaps merely from a Vene- 
 tian's pride and joy in the great figure of Colleone recently 
 set up in his city. In the background of the opposite (St. 
 George's) side of the j^icture rises a precipitous hill, crowned 
 by a church. The cliffs are waveworn, an arm of the sea 
 passing between them and the city. 
 
 Of these hieroglyphics, only the figure of the princess now 
 remains for our reading. The expression on her face, ineffa- 
 ble by descriptive words, ■* is translated into more tangible 
 symbols by the gesture of her hands and arms. These repeat, 
 with added gi-ace and infinitely deepened meaning, the move- 
 ment of maidens who encourage Theseus or Cadmus in their 
 battle with monsters on many a Greek vase. They have been 
 clasped in agony and prayer, but are now parting — still just 
 a little doubtfully — into a gesture of joyous gratitude to this 
 ca23tain of the army of salvation and to the captain's Captain. 
 Raphael ^ has painted her running from the scene of battle. 
 Even with Tintoret * she turns away for flight ; and if her 
 hands are raised to heaven, and her knees fall to the earth, it 
 is more that she stumbles in a woman's weakness, than that 
 she abides in faith or sweet self-surrender. Tintoret sees the 
 scene as in the first place a matter of fact, and paints accord- 
 
 » Pliny, Hist. Nat., V. 17. 
 
 ^ Suppose Caliban had conquered Prospero, and fettered him in a fig- 
 tree or elsewhere; that Miranda, after watching the struggle from the 
 cave, liad seen him coming triumphantly to seize her; and that the first 
 Mpearance of Ferdinand is, just at that moment, to her rescue. If we 
 conceive liow she would have looked then, it may give some parallel to 
 the expre.ssion on the princess's face in this picture, but without a cer- 
 tain light of patient devotion here well marked. 
 
 ^ Louvre. * National Gallery. 
 
150 THE PLAGE OF DRAGONS. 
 
 ingiy, following his judgment of girl nature/ Carpaccio 
 sees it as above all things a matter of faith, and paints myth- 
 ically for our teaching. Indeed, doing this, he repeats the 
 old legend with more literal accuracy. The princess was 
 offered as a sacrifice for her people. If not willing, she was 
 at least submissive ; nor for herself did she dream of flight. 
 No chains in the rock were required for the Christian Androm- 
 eda. 
 
 **And the king said, . . . 'Daughter, I would you 
 had died long ago leather than that I should lose you thus.' 
 And she fell at his feet, asking of him a father's blessing. 
 And when he had blessed her once and again, with tears she 
 went her way to the shore. Now St. George chanced to pass 
 by that place, and he saw her, and asked why she wept. But 
 she answered, * Good youth, mount quickly and flee away, 
 that you die not here shamefully with me.' Then St. George 
 said, ' Fear not, maiden, but tell me what it is you wait for 
 here, and all the people stand far off beholding.' And she 
 said, ' i see, good youth, how great of heart you are ; but 
 why do you wish to die with me ? ' And St. George answered, 
 * Maiden, do not fear ; I go not hence till you tell me why 
 you weep.' And when she had told him all, he answered, 
 ' Maiden, have no fear, for in the name of Christ will I save 
 you.' And she said, ' Good soldier, — lest you perish with 
 me ! For that I perish alone is enough, and you could not 
 save me ; you would perish with me.' Now while she spoke 
 the dragon raised his head from the waters. And the maiden 
 cried out, all trembling, ' Flee, good my lord, flee away swift- 
 ly.' " ^ But our "very loyal chevalier of the faith " saw cause 
 to disobey the lady. 
 
 Yet Carpaccio means to do much more than just repeat 
 this story. His princess, (it is impossible, without undue 
 dividing of its substance, to j)nt into logical words the truth 
 
 ^ And perhaps from a certain ascetic feeling, a sense growing witli the 
 growing license of Venice, that the soul must rather escape from this 
 monster by flight, than hope to see it subdued and made serviceable, 
 (vide p. 14). 
 
 ■^ Legenda Aurea. 
 
THE PLACE OF DRAGONS. 151 
 
 icre '' embodied in a tale,") — but this princess represents the 
 boul of man. And therefore she wears a coronet of seven 
 gems, for the seven virtues ; and of these, the midmost that 
 crowns her forehead is shaped into the figure of a cross, sig- 
 nifying faith, the saving virtue.* We shall see that in the 
 picture of Gethsemane also, Carpaccio makes the representa- 
 tive of faith central. Without faith, men indeed may shun 
 the deepest abyss, yet cannot attain the glory of heavenly 
 hope and love. Dante saw how such men — even the best — 
 may not know the joy that is perfect. Moving in the divided 
 sj^lendour merely of under earth, on sward whose *' fresh verd- 
 ure," eternally changeless, expects neither in patient waiting 
 nor in sacred hope the early and the latter rain,' " Sembianza 
 avevan no trista ne lieta." 
 
 This maiden, then, is an incarnation of spiritual life, mysti- 
 cally crowned with all the virtues. But their diviner meaning 
 is yet unrevealed, and following the one legible command she 
 goes down to such a death for her people, vainly. Only by 
 help of the hero who slays monstrous births of nature, to sow 
 and tend in its organic growth the wholesome plant of civil 
 life, may she enter into that liberty with which Christ makes 
 His people free. 
 
 The coronet of the princess is clasped about a close red cap 
 which hides her hair. Its treses are not yet cast loose, inas- 
 much as, till the dragon be subdued, heavenly life is not 
 secure for the soul, nor its marriage with the great Bride- 
 groom complete. In corners even of Western Europe to this 
 day, a maiden's hair is jealously covered till her wedding. 
 Compare now this head with that of St. George. Cai-paccio, 
 
 ' St. Tliomas Aquinas, putting logically the apostle's *' substance of 
 things hoped for," defines faitli as "a habit of mind by which eternal 
 life is begun in us " (Summa II. III. IV. 1). 
 
 • Epistle of James, v. , Dante selects (and Carpaccio follows him) as 
 h, evenly judge of a right hope that apostle who reminds his reader how 
 : lan's life is even as a vapour that appeareth for a little time and then 
 vanishetli away. For the connection — geologically historic — of grass and 
 showers with true human life, compare Genesis ii. 5 — 8, where the 
 right translation is, **And no phint of the field was yet in the earth, 
 and no herb yet sprung up or grown," etc. 
 
152 THE PLACE OF DRAGONS. 
 
 painting a divine service of mute prayer and acted prophecy, 
 has followed St. Paul's law concerning vestments. But we 
 shall see how, when prayer is answered and prophecy fulfilled, 
 the long hair — "a glory to her," and given by Nature for a 
 veil — is sufficient covering upon the maiden's head, bent in g 
 more mystic rite. 
 
 From the cap hangs a long scarf-like veil. It is twisted 
 once about the princess's left arm, and then floats in the air. 
 The effect of this veil strikes one on the first glance at the 
 picture. It gives force to the impression of natural fear, yet 
 strangely, in light fold, adds a secret sense of security, as 
 though the gauze were some sacred segis. And such indeed it 
 is, nor seen first by Carpaccio, though probably his intuitive 
 invention here. There is a Greek vase-picture ^ of Cadmus at- 
 tacking a dragon. Ares-begotten, that guarded the sacred spring 
 of the warrior-god. That fight was thus for the same holy 
 element whose symbolic sprinkling is the end of this one here. 
 A maiden anxiously watches the event ; her gesture resembles 
 the princess's ; her arm is similarly shielded by a fold of her 
 mantle. But we have a parallel at once more familiar and 
 more instructively perfect than this. Cadmus had.a daughter, 
 to whom was given power upon the sea, because in utmost 
 need she had trusted herself to the mercy of its billows. 
 Lady of its foam, in hours ^en *Hhe blackening wave is 
 edged with white," she is a holier and more helpful Aphrodite, 
 — a " water-sprite " whose voice foretells that not "wreck'' 
 but salvation " is nigh." In the last and most terrible crisis 
 of that long battle with the Power of Ocean, who denied him 
 a return to his Fatherland, Ulysses would have perished in the 
 waters without the veil of Leucothea wrapped about his breast 
 as divine life-buoy. And that veil, the " immortal " Kp-qSefjivovy' 
 was just such a scarf attached to the head-dress as this one o- 
 
 ^ Inghirami gives this (No. 239). 
 
 ^ In pursuance of the same symbolism, Troy walls were once literally 
 called " salvation," this word, with, for certain historical reasons, the 
 added epithet of '* holy," being applied to them. With the Kp^defxva 
 Penelope shielded her " tender " cheeks in presence of the suitors. 
 
TUB PLACE OF DRAGONS. 153 
 
 the princess's here. ' Curiously, too, we shall see that Leuco- 
 thea (at first called Ino), of Thebes' and Cadmus' line, daughter 
 of Harmonia, is closely connected with certain sources of the 
 story of St. George.'^ But we have first to consider the drag- 
 on's service. 
 
 ' Vide Nitsch ad Od., V. 346. 
 * KeyovTi 5* cV koX 6a\do-(ra 
 fiiorov &(pdiTou 
 *Ii/Oi rcrdxdai rhu o\ou cifxtpX xp^^ov. 
 
 (Find. 01., II. 51.) 
 
 The Editor had hope of publishing this book a full year 
 ago. lie now in all humility, yet not in uncertainty, can sum 
 the causes of its delay, both with respect fco his friend and to 
 himseK, in the words of St. Paul, 
 
 Kai iv€KO\l/€v rjfxa<i 6 Saravas* 
 
 Br/ v"^twood, 
 
 Qi/i March, 1879. 
 
APPEI^DIX TO CHAPTER VIII 
 
SANOTUS, SANOTUS, SA^-OTUS. 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF THE MOSAICS IN THE BAPTISTERY OF 
 ST. MARK'S. 
 
 ** The whole edifice is to be regarded less as a temple wherein to pray 
 than as itself a Book of Common Prayer, a vast illuminated missal, 
 bound with alabaster instead of parchment." 
 
 Stones of Venice., ii. 4, 46. 
 
 *< We must take some pains, therefore, when we enter St. Mark's, to 
 read all that is inscribed, or we shall not penetrate into the feeling 
 either of the builder or of his times.'* Stones of Venice^ ii. 4, 64. 
 
 The following catalogue of the mosaics of the Baptistery of 
 St. Mark's was written in the autumn of 1882, after a first visit 
 to Venice, and was then sent to Mr. Ruskin as a contribution to 
 his collected records of the ch\u*ch. It was not intended for 
 publication, but merely as not^s or material for which he 
 might possibly find some use ; and if the reader in Venice 
 will further remember that it is the work of no artist or anti- 
 quarian, but of a traveller on his holiday, he will, it is hoped, 
 be the more ready to pai-don errors and omissions which his 
 own observation can correct and suppl3^ The mosaics of the 
 Baptistery are, of course, only a small portion of those to be 
 seen throughout the church, but that portion is one complete 
 in itself, and more than enough to illustrate the vast amount 
 of thought contained in the scripture legible on the walls of 
 St. Mark's by every comer who is desii'ous of taking any real 
 interest in the building. 
 
 The reader, then, who proposes to make use of the present 
 guide can, by reference to the following list, see at a glance 
 
^'-'S SI. MARK'S REST. 
 
 the subjects with which these mosaics deal, and the order in 
 which his attention will be directed to them. They are, in 
 addition to the altar-piece, these : — 
 
 I. The Life of St. John the Baptist. 
 
 II. The Lifaney of Christ. 
 Ill St. Nicholas. 
 IV. The Four Evangelists. 
 
 V. The Four Saints. 
 VI. The Greek Fathers. 
 VII. The Latin Fathers. 
 VIII Christ and the Prophets. 
 IX. Christ and the Apostles. 
 
 X. Chj-Ist and the Angels. 
 
 The subject of the altar-piece is the Crucifixion. In the 
 centre is Christ on the cross, the letters IC. XC. on either 
 side. Over the cross are two angels, veiling their faces with 
 their robes ; at its foot lies a skull, — Golgotha, — upon which 
 falls the blood from Christ's feet, whilst on each side of the 
 Saviour are five figures, those at the extreme ends of the mo- 
 saic being a doge and dogaress, probably the donors of the 
 mosaic. 
 
 To the left is St. Mark— SliOElCVS— with an open book 
 in his hand, showing the words, " In illo tempore 
 Maria mater . . . ." "In that hour Mary his 
 mother . . . ." She stands next the cross, with 
 her hands clasped in grief ; above her are the 
 letters M— P © V— ^uT/rf/p ©€o{)— Mother of God. 
 To the right of the cross is St. John the Evangelist — S. 
 lOHES EVG — his face covered with his hands, receiving 
 charge of the Virgin : " When Jesus, therefore, saw his 
 mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith 
 unto his mother. Woman, behold thy son ! Then saith he to 
 the disciple, Behold thy mother ! And from that hour the 
 disciple took her unto his own home " (St. John xix. 26, 27). 
 
 Lastly, next St. John the Evangelist is St. John the Baptist, 
 bearing a scroll, on which are the words : 
 
** ECCE AGNUS DEI ECE . . . . " 
 
 ** Ecce agnus Dei, ecce qui toUit peccatum mundi." 
 
 *' Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world '* 
 (St. Johni. 29).' 
 
 L The Life of St. John the Baptist. — Leaving the altar and 
 turning to the right, we have the first mosaic in the series 
 which gives the life of the Baptist, and consists in all of ten 
 pictures. (See plan, p. 160.) 
 
 a. His birth is announced. 
 6. He is born and named. 
 i c. He is led into the desert. 
 
 d. He receives a cloak from an angeL 
 
 f . He preaches to the people. 
 /. He answers the Pharisees. 
 
 g. He baptizes Christ. 
 
 h. He is condemned to death. 
 
 ^. He is beheaded. ♦ 
 
 j. He is buried. 
 
 7. ffis hirih is announced. — This mosaic has three divisions. 
 
 1. To the left is Zacharias at the altar, with the angel ap- 
 peariag to him. He swings a censer, burning incense " in 
 the oixier of his course." He has heard the angel's message, 
 for his look and gesture show clearly that he is already struck 
 dumb. Above are the words : 
 
 IXGRESSO ZACHARIA TEPLV DNI 
 J^MNTY EI AGLS DNI STAS 
 A DEXTBIS ALTARIS 
 
 *' Ingresso Zacharia templum domini aparuit ei angelus domiiii stun- 
 a dextris altaris. '* 
 
 " When Zacharias had entered the temple of the Lord there appear* ' 
 to him an angel of the Lord standing on the right side of the altar 
 (St. Luke i. 9-11). 
 
 * Tlie scriptural referoncos in thi?; appendix are, first, to the Vulgate, 
 which most oi the legends in the Baptistery follow, and, secondly, to 
 the English version of the Bible. The visitor will also notice that 
 throughout the chajwl the sct-olls are constantly treated by the mosaic- 
 ists literally as scrolls, the text being cut short even in the middle of a 
 word by the curl of the supposed parchment. 
 
160 
 
 ST, MARK'S REST, 
 
 PLAN OF THE BAPTISTERY. 
 
 DOOR INTO TtfS Z£NO CttAPSL. 
 
APPENDIX TO CUAPTEU VIII. >♦ I 
 
 2. " And the people waited for Zacharias, and marvelled 
 that he tarried so long in the temple. And when he came 
 out, he could not speak unto them : and they perceived that 
 he had seen » vision in the temple : for he beckoned unto 
 them, and remained speechless " (St. Luke i. 21, 22), 
 
 ►> H. S. ZAHARIAS EXIT 
 TUTUS AD PPLM 
 
 ** Hie sanctus Zacharias exit tutus ad populum." 
 '*Here saint Zacharias comes out safe to the people." 
 
 3. '*He departed to his own house" (St. Luke i. 2^). 
 Zacharias embracing his wife Elizabeth. 
 
 •fiSTZ^A 
 
 RIAS. S. ELI 
 
 SABETA 
 
 h. He is born and named (opposite the door int(5 the church). 
 — Zacharias is seated to the left ^ of the picture,, and has a 
 book or " writing table " in front of him, in which 
 he has written ** Johannes est nomen ejus" — 
 *' His name is John " (Luke i. 63). To the right 
 an aged woman, Elizabeth, points to the child 
 inquiringly, " How would you have him called ? " ; 
 further to the right, another and younger woman kneels, hold- 
 ing out the child to his father. At the back a servant with a 
 basket in her arms looks on. Unlike the other two women, 
 she has no glory about her head. Above is a tablet in- 
 scribed : — 
 
 NATIVITAS 
 SANCTI JOHANNIS 
 
 BAPTISTS 
 
 and below another tablet, with the date and artist's name — 
 
 FRAN' TURESSn^S V.F. IVIDCXXVni. 
 
 * By '' iii;,iii "" .tiiti • left" in this .ipptiiuix is meant alwav.-s the riglit 
 and left hand of the spectator as he faces his subject. 
 11 
 
It)^ ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 Turning now to tlie west wall, and standing with tlie altar 
 behind us, we have the next three mosaics of the series, 
 thus — 
 
 VAULT OF ROOF 
 
 c. He is led into the desert. — The words of the legends are : — • 
 
 K> QVOM .4S^GELV' SEDOVXAT S. lOHAN. 
 I. DESERTUM. 
 
 *' Quomodo angelus seduxit (?) sanctum Joliannem 
 
 in desertum." 
 "How an angel led away saint John into the desert." 
 
 This is not biblical. '•' And the child grew and waxed strong 
 in spirit, and was in the deserts till the day of his showing unto 
 Israel" is all St. Luke (i. 80) says. Here the infant Baptist is 
 being led by an angel, who points onward with one hand, and 
 with the other holds that of the child, who, so far from being 
 "strong in spirit," looks troubled, and has one hand placed 
 on his heart in evident fear. His other hand, in the grasp of 
 the angel's, does not in any way hold it, but is held by it ; he 
 is literally being led into the desert somewhat against his will. 
 The word sedouaxat (? mediaeval for seduxit) may here well 
 have this meaning of persuasive leading. It should also be 
 noted that the child and his guide are already far on their 
 way : they have left all vegetation behind them ; only a stony 
 rock and rough ground, with one or two tufts of grass and a 
 leafless tree, are visible. 
 
 d. He 7'eceives a cloak from an angel. — This is also not bibli- 
 cal. The words above the mosaic are — 
 
 HC AGELUS EEPRESETAT VESTE BTO lOHI 
 
 "Hie angelus representat vestem be to Johanni." 
 
 " Here the angel gives (back ?) a garment to the blessed John.'* 
 
APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VIIL 163^ 
 
 Johu wears his cloak of camel's hair, and holds in one; 
 MT hand a scroll, on which is written an abbreviation 
 ^^ of the Greek *>€ravo€tT€ "— " Repent ye." 
 E 
 
 e. He preaches to the people. 
 
 HIC PREDICATJ 
 
 **Here he j^reaches" [or "predicts the Christ**]. 
 
 The Baptist is gaunt and thin ; he wears his garment of 
 camel's hair, and has in his hand a staff with a cross at the top 
 of it. He stands in a sort of pulpit, behind which is a build- 
 ing, presumably a church ; whilst in front of him Hsten three 
 old men, a woman, and a child. Below are three more women. 
 
 /. He answers the Pharisees (on the wall opposite e), — 
 To the right are the priests and Levites sent from Jerusalem, 
 asking, *'What says he of himself?" They are four in num- 
 ber, a Eabbi and three Pharisees. To the left is St. John 
 with two disciples behind him. Between them rolls the Jor- 
 dan, at the ferry to which (Bethabara) the discussion between 
 the Baptist and the Jews took place, and across the river the 
 Babbi asks : 
 
 QVOM . ERGO . BJPT 
 
 ZAS . SI NQE . XPS . NE 
 
 g . HELLA,. NEQ' PHA 
 
 ** Quomodo ergo baptizas si iieque Christus, neque Elia, neque Pro- 
 pheta ? " ' 
 
 ** Why baptizest thou, then, if thou be not that Christ, nor Eli; . 
 neither that prophet ? " (John i. 25). 
 
 St. John does not, however, give the answer recorded of 
 him in the Gospel, but another written above his head 
 thus : — 
 
 ' The mark of abbreviation ovt i )ws the omission of an h ii 
 
 the mediaeval ** predichat" 
 
 • The Vulgate has ** Quid ergo baptizas si tu non es," etc. 
 
164 JS1\ MAUirS BEST, 
 
 ►J* EGO^APTIZO INO ''Egobaptizo in nomine patrio et 
 
 MIE PATRIS _ filii & Spiritus sancti. " 
 
 ET . FILII . 7. SP' **I baptize in the name of tlie 
 
 SCI Father, and Son, and Holy Spirit." 
 
 g. He baptizes Christ. 
 
 HICE BAPTISMV XPI 
 
 On the left is a tree with an axe laid to its root. In the 
 centre stands St. John, with his hand on the head of Christ, 
 who stands in the midst of the river. Three angels look down 
 from the right bank into the water ; and in it are five fishes, 
 over one of which Christ's hand is raised in blessing. Below 
 is a child with a golden vase in one hand, probably the river 
 god of the Jordan, who is sometimes introduced into these 
 pictures. From above a ray of light, with a star and a dove 
 in it, descends on the head of Christ : " And Jesus when he 
 was baptized, went up straightway out of the water : and, lo, 
 the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of 
 God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him : and, lo, 
 a voice from heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom 
 I am well pleased " (Matt. iii. 16, 17). 
 
 h. His death is commanded by Herod (over the door into the 
 main body of the church). 
 
 
 The mosaic is (according to the sacristan) entirely restored, 
 and the letters of the legend appear to have been incorrectly 
 treated. The words are "Puellee saltanti imperavit mater 
 
APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VIII 165 
 
 nihil (? mchil) aliud petas nisi caput Johannis Baptistse " 
 **And as the girl danced her mother commanded her, sayiug, 
 Ask for nothing- else, but only for the head of John the Bap- 
 tist." 
 
 Five uguicD are seen in the mosaic : — 
 
 1. Herod with his hands raised in horror and distress, 
 ^^ exceeding sorry " (Mark vi. 26). 
 
 2. Herodias, pointing at him, with a smile of triumph. 
 
 3. Herodias' daughter dancing, with the charger on her head. 
 
 4. Another figure with regard to which see ante, p. 67, § 8, 
 where it is suggested that the figure i» St. John at a former 
 time, saying to Herod, " It is not lawful for thee to have her." 
 If this is not so, it may be that the figure represents the 
 "lords, high captains, and chief estates of Galilee " (Mark vi, 
 21) who were at the feast. 
 
 5. A servant in attendance, 
 
 I. He is beheaded, 
 
 ^l^ DECHOLACIO SCI lOHIS BAT. 
 ** The beheading of St. John the Baptist." 
 
 To the left is the headless body of St. John, still in prison. 
 ** And immediately the king sent an executioner (or * one of 
 his guard'), and he went and beheaded him in prison." The 
 Baptist has leant forward, and his hands are stretched out, as 
 if to save himself in falling. A Koman soldier is sheathing his 
 sword, and looks somewhat disgusted at the daughter of 
 Herodias as she carries the head to her mother, who sits en- 
 throned near. (See ante, p. 69, § 10.) 
 
 j. He is buried. — " And when his disciples heard of it they 
 came and took up his corpse and laid it in a tomb " (Mark ^ i. 
 
 29). 
 
 * ' Hie sepelitur corpus sancti Johan- 
 H. SEPELITVE . CO nis Baptistae "— '^ Here is being 
 
 RPVS . S . lOHIS . BAT buried tlie body of St. Jolm the 
 
 (See ante, p. 69, § 10.). Baptist." 
 
 The headless body of the Baptist is being laid in the err 
 by two disciples, whilst a third swings a censer over it. 
 
166 ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 n. The Infancy of Christ. — Going back now to the west ^nd 
 of the chapel, we have four mosaics representing scenes in the 
 infancy of Christ. 
 
 1. The wise men before Herod. | Above c and e in the Life 
 
 2. The wise men adoring Christ, j ^^ ^^- Jol^^i- 
 
 3. The flight into Egypt. ^ O^^^^.^^ , ^^^ 3_ 
 
 4. The Holy Innocents. ) 
 
 1. The loise men before Hei^od. 
 
 Herod is seated on his throne, attended by a Eoman sol- 
 dier ; he looks puzzled and anxious. Before him are the three 
 kings in attitudes of supplication ; and above are the words — 
 
 *i, VBIE . QVINATU' . EST . REX . JUD^ORUM 
 
 *' Ubi est qui natus est rex Judseorum ? " i q Tvr +f •• o 
 
 *' Where is he that is born king of the Jews ?" ) 
 
 2. The ivise men adoring Christ. 
 
 •f ADORABVT EV ONS REGES TERE ET OMS GETES SER- 
 VIENT EI 
 
 " Adorabunt eum omnes reges terrse, (et) omnes gentes servient ei." 
 ' ' Yea, all kings shall fall down before him ; all nations shall serve 
 him" (Psalm Ixxii. 10, 11). 
 
 In the centre is the Madonna seated on a throne, which is 
 also part of the stable of the inn. On her knees is the infant 
 Christ, with two fingers of his right hand raised in benediction. 
 The Madonna holds out her hand, as if showing the Child to 
 the kings, who approach Him with gifts and in attitudes of 
 devout worship. To the left is a man leading a camel out of a 
 building ; whilst to the right of the stable lies Joseph asleep, 
 with an angel descending to him : "Arise and take the young- 
 child. " (See the next mosaic.) The rays from the central 
 figure of the vaulted roof fall, one on the second of the three 
 kings, and another, the most brilliant of them, — upon which, 
 where it breaks into triple glory, the star of Bethlehem is 
 set, — upon the Madonna and the Christ, 
 
APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VIIL 167 
 
 3. The flight into Egi/pt. 
 
 >l* SVRGB ET ACGIPE PUERVM ET MATREM EU» ET FUGE 
 IN EGYPTUM . ET ESTO IBI USQ' DVM DICAM TIP>T 
 
 *' Surge et accipe piierum et matrem ejus et fuge in Egyptum 
 ibi usque dum dicam tibi." 
 
 " Arise and take the young child and his mother, and flee into i'^gypi, 
 and be there until I bring thee word " (St. Matt. ii. 13). 
 
 A youth carrying a gourd leads into a building witli :i 
 mosque-like dome a white ass, on which is seated tlie Ma- 
 donna, holding the infant Christ. Joseph walks behind, car- 
 rying a staff and cloak. The fact of the journey being sud(^n 
 and hasty is shown by the very few things which the fugitives 
 have taken with them — only a cloak and a goui'd ; they have 
 left the presents of the three kings behind. 
 
 4. The Holy Innocents, 
 
 ►^ TUNC . HERODE' VIDE' Q'MILVSV^ EET AMAGI' IRATVE . RE, 
 
 DE. 7. MIT 
 TEg OCCIDIT. QMS PUERO' QVI. ERANT . BETHLEEM Q M.OIRUS 
 FINIBUS. EIVS.i 
 
 "Tunc Herodes videns quonium illusus esset a magis iratus est valde, 
 et mittens occidit onines pueros qui erant in Bethlehem et in omnibus 
 finibus ejus." 
 
 *' Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, 
 was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children that 
 were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof " (Matt. ii. 16). 
 
 Three Roman soldiers are kilhng the children, some of 
 whom already lie dead and bleeding on the rocky gi'ound. 
 To the right is a mother with her child in her arms, and near 
 her another woman is holding up her hands in grief. 
 
 lU. St. Nicholas. 
 
 Just below the mosaic of the Holy Innocents is one of S. 
 NICOLAU' — St. Nicholas — with one hand raised in benedic- ! 
 
 ' The letters underlined are unintelligible, as otherwise the legend ] 
 follows the Vulgate. Possibly the words have been retouched, and the I 
 letters incorrectly restored. | 
 
108 ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 tion whilst the other holds a book. He is here, close to the 
 small door that opens on to the Piazzetta, the nearest to the 
 sea of all the saints in St. Mark's, because he is the sea saint, 
 the patron of all ports, and especially of Venice. He was, it 
 is well known, with St. George and St. Mark, one of the three 
 saints who saved Venice frem the demon ship in the storm 
 ivhen St. Mark gave to the fishermen the famous ring. 
 
 There now remain for the traveller's examination the three 
 vaults of the Baptistery, the arches leading from one division 
 3f the chapel to another, and the spandrils which support the 
 font and altar domes. In the arch leading from the west end 
 A the chapel to the front are the four evangelists ; in that 
 heading from the dome over the font to that over the altar are 
 four saints, whilst in the spandrils of the two last-named domes 
 ire, over the font, the four Greek, and over the altar the four 
 Latin fathers. 
 
 IV. The Four Evangelists. 
 
 S. LUCAS EVG. 
 
 St. Luke is writing in a book, and has written a letter and 
 I half, possibly QV, the first two letters of Quonium — '* For- 
 ismuch " — which is the opening word of his Gospel. 
 
 S. MARCVS EVG. 
 
 St. Mark is sharpening his pencil, and has a pair of pincers 
 Dn his desk. 
 
 S. lOHES EVG. 
 
 St. John is represented as very old, — alluding of course to 
 [lis having written his Gospel late in life. 
 
 S. MATHEV EVG. 
 
 St. Matthew is writing, and just dipping his pen in the ink. 
 
 V. Four Saints — >S'^. Anthony, St. Fietro Urseolo, St. Isidore^ 
 St. Theodore. 
 
a. SL Anthony (on tho left at the bottom of the arch). 
 
 ILB EA 
 
 TO AN 
 
 TON 10 *'I1 beato AnLoiii., -ij Bresa." 
 
 DI BR 
 
 E SA 
 
 St. Anthony is the hermit saint He stands here with 
 clasped hands, and at his side is a skull, the sign of penitence. 
 He wears, as in many other pictures of him, a monk's dress, 
 in allusion to his being **the founder of ascetic monachism," 
 "His temptations" are well known. 
 
 h, St. JPielro Urseolo (above St. Anthony), 
 
 •J* BEA TUS *' Beatus Petrus Ursiolo dux(s) Vened.'* 
 
 PETER VVRSI *^The blessed Pietro Urseolo, Doge of 
 
 O BUXS the Venetians." 
 
 LO VENED 
 
 This Doge turned monk. Influenced by the teaching of the 
 abbot Giiarino, when he came to Venice from his convent in 
 Guyenne, Pietro left his ducal palace one September night, 
 fled from Venice, and shut himself up in the monastery of 
 Cusano, where he remained for nineteen years, till his deatli 
 in 997, 
 
 Here he is represented as a monk in a white robe, with a 
 black cloak. He holds in his hand the Doge's cap, which he 
 has doffed for ever, and as he looks upwards, there shines 
 down on him a ray of light, in the centre of which is seen the 
 Holy Dove. 
 
 c. St. Isidore (opposite the Doge). 
 
 S. ISIDORVS MARTIR(?) 
 
 This is St, Isidore of Chios, a mart^T saint, who perished 
 during the persecutions of the Christians by the Emperor 
 Decius, A.D. 250. He appears to have been much worshipped 
 at Venice, where he is buried. Here he is seen dressed as a 
 warrior, and bearing a shield and a lily, the symbol of purity. 
 
 ' See Stones of Venice^ vol. ii. chap, viii § 127, and vol. iii. chap. ii. 
 p 01. His body was brought to Venice with that of St. Douato in 1126 
 by the Doge Domenico Michiel. See ante p. 14. 
 
170 ST. MARK'S REST. 
 
 d, St. Theodore, s. theoix)r. m. 
 
 He is with St. George, St. Demetrius, and St. Mercurius, 
 one of the four Greek warrior saints of Christendom, besides 
 being, of course, the patron saint of Venice. He is martyi- as 
 well as warrior, having fired the temple of Cybele, and per- 
 ished in the flames, a.d. 300. 
 
 The four saints upon this arch thus represent two forms 
 of Christian service ; St. Anthony and the Doge being chosen 
 as types of asceticism, and the other two as examples of 
 actual martyrdom. 
 
 VI. The Four Greek Fathers — St. John Chrysostoiriy St. 
 Gregory Nazianzeniis, St. Basil the Great, and St. Athanasius (on 
 the spandrils of the central dome). 
 
 a. s. lOHES CRisosTOMOS PATKA (patriarch), on the right of the 
 door leading into the church. 
 
 He has no mitre, being one of the Greek Fathers, who are 
 thus disting*uished from the Latin Fathers, all of whom, except 
 St. Jerome (the cardinal), wear mitres. 
 
 He bears a scroll — 
 
 *l^ REG 
 
 NVM.I 
 
 KTRA *' Regnum intrabit, quern non sit purus 
 
 BIT.Q arte lavabit." 
 
 VE.NON" " He shall enter the kingdom : who is 
 
 S, PVR not clean, him shall he thoroughly wash. '* 
 
 VS ^T 
 
 E.LAV 
 
 ABIT 
 
 b. s. GREGORivs NAZiANZENus (to the right of St. John Chry- 
 Bostom). He is represented, as he usually is, as old and worn 
 with fasting. On his scroll is written — 
 
 ►> QVO 
 
 BNA 
 
 TURA * * Quod natura tulit Christus baptismate 
 
 TULI curat." 
 
 T XPS "■ What nature has brought, Christ by 
 
 BAPTI baptism cures." 
 
 SMAT 
 
 ECV 
 
 RAT 
 
jiri jijiyjjiu\ I'f ' I ijii 1 Hill viu. j * l 
 
 e. s. BASIL (to the right of his friend St. Gregory]. 8t. Basil 
 the Great, the founder of inonachism in the East, began liis 
 life of devotion in early youth, and is here represented as n 
 young man. The order of the BasiHcans is still the only order 
 in the Greek Church. His scroll has — 
 
 ►J* UT SO '*Ut sole est primuin lux" (as by th' 
 
 LE EST sun first wo have light). The rest is \x\\ 
 
 PRIMUM intelligible, except the last word, whicl! 
 
 LUX)MU suggests that the comparison is between 
 
 EIRIDE the light of the sun and the spiritual light 
 
 BAfiS of baptism. 
 MUM 
 
 d. s, ATHANASius, old and white-haired. His scroll runs — 
 
 -> UT UN 
 
 UM EST 
 
 NUM '* Ut ununi est nunien, sic sacro munere 
 
 EN SI a lumen (? atque lumen)." 
 
 C SACK *'As the Godhead is one, so also by 
 
 NERE God's gift is light " (?) 
 
 OMU 
 ALV 
 MEN 
 
 Vn. The Four Latin Fathers — St. Jerome, St. Ambrose, Sf. 
 Augustine, and St. Gregory the Great (on the spandrils of the 
 altar dome). 
 
 The light here is very bad ; and even after accustoming 
 himself to it, the reader will hardly be able to do more than 
 see that all four figures have books before them, in which they 
 are writing, apparently in Greek characters. What they hav > 
 written — in nc^ case more than a few letters — is impossible t' 
 decipher from the floor of the chapel. St. Jerome wears hi- 
 cardinal's hat and robes, and St. Ambrose has his bee-hi^^ 
 near him, in allusion to the story that when in his cradle ; 
 swarm of bees once lighted on his lips and did not sting him. 
 
 The visitor has thus examined all the mosaics except those 
 of the three domes. He must now, therefore, return from 
 near the altar to the fiu-ther end of the chapel, and take the 
 first vaulting (for accurately this is not a dome) of that part 
 of the roof. 
 
liti 
 
 ST. MARK'S REST, 
 
 Vni. Christ and the Prophets. 
 
 In the centre is Christ, surrounded by the prophets and 
 patriarchs of the Old Testament, each of whom unfolds a 
 scroll and displays on it a portion of his own prophecy. 
 
 Standing with his back to the altar, the visitor will thus see 
 to the left of the Christ, Zephaniah and Elisha, and to his 
 right Isaiah and Hosea. 
 
 1. ZEPHANIAH. SOPHONIAH PHA (proplieta). 
 His scroll runs thus : — 
 
 EXPE *' Bxpecta me in die resurrectionis mese 
 
 TA ME quoniam ju(dicium meum ut congregem 
 
 INDIE gentes).'' 
 
 RESU See Zeph. iii. 8. This legend is short- 
 
 EECT ened, and not quite accurately quoted, 
 
 lONIS from the Vulgate. Our version is : — 
 
 MEB ' * Wait ye upon me until the day that 
 
 QUO I rise up . . for my determination is to 
 
 NIMA gather the nations. ..." 
 lU 
 
 2. ELISHA. 
 
 Scroll : 
 
 —PATER 
 MI PA 
 TERMI 
 CURRU^ 
 ISRAEL 
 ETAU 
 RIGA 
 EIVS 
 
 ELISEAS PHA 
 
 *' Pater mi, pater mi, currus Israel et 
 auriga ejus." 
 
 "My father, my father, the chariot of 
 Israel and the horsemen thereof." 
 
 2 Kings ii. 12. 
 
 3. ISAIAH. 
 
 Scroll : 
 
 -ECCE V 
 IRGOc 
 CIPIET 
 ETPAR 
 lET FHJ 
 UMET V 
 OCABIT_ 
 UR NOM 
 
 ISAIAS 
 PHA 
 
 ' ' Ecce virgo concipiel et pariet filium 
 et vocabitur nom (en ejus Emmanuel). " 
 
 '* Behold a virgin shall conceive' and 
 bear a son, and shall call his name Im- 
 manuel." ^ 
 
 Isa. vii. 14. 
 
 ^ Isaiah is constantly represented with these words on his scroll, as, 
 for example, on the roof of the Arena Chapel at Padua, and on tlie 
 western porches of the cathedral of Verona. 
 
APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 173 
 
 4. IIOSEA. 
 
 Scroll :— VENIT 
 EET RE 
 VERTA 
 MURAD^ 
 DOMINU 
 QVIA 
 IPSE CE 
 PITET 
 SANA 
 
 OSIA 
 PHA 
 
 '* Veuite ct revertamur ad dominum 
 quia ipse cepit et sana (bit nos)." 
 
 " Come and let us return unto the 
 Lord, for he has torn and he will heal 
 us." 
 
 Hosea vi. 1 . 
 
 Then turning around and facing the altar, we have, to the 
 left of the Christ, Jeremiah and Elijah ; to the right, Abraham 
 and Joel. 
 
 5. 
 
 JEREMIAH. 
 Scroll :-HIC EST 
 
 JEREMIAS 
 PHA 
 
 
 DEVS 
 
 *'Hic est Deus noster et non extima- 
 
 
 NOSTER 
 
 bitur alius." 
 
 
 ET NON 
 
 '*This is our God, and none other 
 
 
 EXTIMA 
 
 shall be feared. " 
 
 
 BITUR 
 
 
 
 ALIVS 
 
 
 6. 
 
 ELIJAH, 
 
 ELIA 
 PHA 
 
 
 Scroll:— DOMIN 
 
 ** Domine si(c) conversus avenit pop- 
 
 
 ESICO 
 
 ulus tuus." 
 
 
 NUER 
 
 "Lord, thus are thy people come 
 
 
 sus 
 
 against thee." 
 
 
 AVEN 
 
 This is not biblical. It is noticeable 
 
 
 ITPO 
 
 that Elijah, unlike the other prophets. 
 
 
 PVLVS 
 
 who look at the spectator, is turning to 
 
 
 TV 
 
 the Christ, whom he addresses. 
 
 
 VS 
 
 
 7. 
 
 ABRAHAM, 
 Scroll:— VISITA 
 
 ABRAN 
 PiHA. 
 
 
 VITDO 
 
 "Visitavit (autem) dominus Raram 
 
 
 MINUS 
 
 sicut- promiserat. " 
 
 
 SARAM 
 
 '*The Lord visited Sai i. i 
 
 
 SICUT 
 
 said." 
 
 
 PROMI 
 
 ( ; . 
 
 
 SERAT 
 
 
174 
 
 ST, MARK*S REST, 
 
 8. JOEL. 
 
 Scroll :— SUPER 
 
 SERVO(S) 
 
 MEOSET 
 
 SUPBRA 
 
 NCILAS 
 
 ERUNEA 
 
 MDES 
 
 PVMEO 
 
 JOEL 
 PHA 
 
 " Super servos meos efc super ancillas 
 eff undam de spiritu meo. " ^ 
 
 "Upon my men servants and hand- 
 maids will I pour out (of) mj spirit." 
 Joel ii. 29. 
 
 Then, still facing the altar, there are on the wall to the right 
 David and Solomon ; on that to the left, above the Baptism of 
 Christ, Obadiah and Jonah. 
 
 9. DAVID, 
 
 DAVID 
 
 
 PHA 
 
 Scroll:— FILIUS 
 
 
 MEV.E 
 
 * ' Filius mens es tu, ego hodie genui 
 
 STU.E 
 
 te." 
 
 GO.H 
 
 *' Thou art my son, this day have I be- 
 
 ODIB 
 
 gotten thee.'' 
 
 GEN 
 
 Psalm ii. 7. 
 
 UI.T 
 
 
 E 
 
 
 10. SOLOMON, 
 
 SALOMON 
 
 
 PHA 
 
 Scroll :— QVESI 
 
 
 VI. ILL V 
 
 
 M.ETNO 
 
 '^Qugesivi ilium et non inveni-inven- 
 
 NINVEN 
 
 erunt in me vigiles qui custodiunt civi- 
 
 I.IUENE 
 
 tatem." 
 
 RUT. IN 
 
 *'I sought him, but I found him not. 
 
 ME.VIGI 
 
 The watchmen that go about the city 
 
 LE.QVI 
 
 found (or 'came upon') me." 
 
 CUTO 
 
 Song of Solomon, iii. 2, 3. 
 
 I)IUT 
 
 
 CIUI 
 
 
 TA 
 
 
 TEM 
 
 
 ^ The mosaic has apparently *' erundam" for ** effundam,'' possibly a 
 restorer's error. The Vulgate has "spiritum neum," for "de spiritu 
 meo." 
 
APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 175 
 
 11. OBADIAH. 
 
 ABDIAS 
 
 
 PHA 
 
 Scroll:— ECCB 
 
 
 PARV 
 
 ** Ecce parvulum dedit te in gen- 
 
 ULVM 
 
 tibus." 
 
 DEDI ^ 
 
 '* Behold he has made thee small 
 
 TTE 
 
 among the heathen." 
 
 INGE 
 
 Obadiah 2. 
 
 NTI 
 
 (Vulgate has " dedi : " and so has 
 
 BV 
 
 S 
 
 our Bible "I have.") 
 
 12. JONAH. 
 
 JONAS 
 
 
 PHA 
 
 Scroll :— CLAMA 
 
 '*Clamavi ad dominum et exaudivit 
 
 VIADD 
 
 me de tribulatione mea." 
 
 OMINU 
 
 "I cried by reason of my affliction 
 
 MEEX 
 
 to the Lord, and he heard me." 
 
 AUDI 
 
 Jonah ii. 2. 
 
 VITME 
 
 
 DETR 
 
 
 IBULA 
 
 
 >^TIO 
 
 
 %N 
 
 
 IX. Christ and the Apostles. (See ante, p. 67. § 8.) 
 Passing now to under the central dome, Christ is again seen 
 < nthroned in the midst, no longer, however, of the prophets, 
 but of his own disciples. He is no longer the Messiah, but 
 the risen Christ. He wears gold and red, the emblems of 
 royalty ; his right hand is raised in blessing ; his left holds 
 tlie resurrection banner and a scroll. The marks of the nails 
 re visible in the hands and feet here only ; they are not to 
 be seen, of course, in the previous vaulting, nor are they in 
 the third or altar dome whore he sits enthroned triumpliant 
 as the Heavenly King. 
 
176 ST, MARK'S REST, 
 
 Scroll:— EVNTES 
 INMVDV 
 UNIVES 
 
 VM. PRE ''Euntes in mundum universum 
 
 DICHAT prsedicate evaiigelium omni creaturse. 
 
 EEVAN Qui crediderit et baptizatu(s fuerit sal- 
 
 GELIV vus erit)." 
 
 MOMIG ^'Go ye into all tlie world, and 
 
 REATU preach the Gospel to every creature. 
 
 REQI He that believeth and is baptized shall 
 
 CREDI be saved." 
 
 DERI St. Mark xvi. 15, 16, 
 
 TEBA 
 PTIS 
 ATU 
 
 Below, right round the dome, are the twelve Apostles, bap- 
 tizing each in the country with which his ministry is actually 
 or by tradition most associated. - A list of them has been al- 
 ready given (ante, p. 67, § 8), with their countries, except that 
 of St. Bartholomew, which is there noted as " indecipherable." 
 It is, however, legible as India. 
 
 Each Apostle is the centre of a similar group, consisting of 
 the Apostle himself, his convert, in the moment of baptism, 
 and a third figure whose position is doubtful. He may bo 
 awaiting baptism, already baptized, or merely an attendant : 
 in the group of St. James the Less, he holds a towel ; in that 
 of St. Thomas, a cross ; and in every case he w^ears the cos- 
 tume of the country where the baptism is taking place. Thus, 
 to take the most striking instances, St. Philip's Phrygian has 
 the red Phrygian cap ; St. Peter's Eoman is a Koman sol- 
 dier ; the Indians of St. Thomas and St. Bai-tholomew are (ex- 
 cept for some slight variety of colour) both dressed alike, and 
 wear turbans. Behind the figures is in each group a build- 
 ing, also characteristic architecturally of the given country. 
 In two instances there is seen a tree growing out of this 
 building, namely, in the case of Palestine and in that of 
 Achaia ; but whether or no with any special meaning or al- 
 lusion may be doubtful. 
 
APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VIII. 177 
 
 The inscriptions are as follows (see ante, p. 67) : 
 SCS lOHES EVG BAPTIZA . I EFESO 
 
 S. lACOB MINOR 
 
 S. PHVLIP 
 
 S. MATHEV . 
 
 S. SIMEON 
 
 S. TOMAS 
 
 S. ANDRE 
 
 S. PETRV 
 
 S. BARTOLOMEV 
 
 S. TADEV 
 
 S. MATIAS 
 
 SCS MARCTS EVS 
 
 I JUDEA 
 
 I FRIGIA 
 
 I ETHIOPIA 
 
 I EGIPTV 
 
 IN INDIA 
 
 I ACHAIA 
 
 IN ROMA 
 
 I INDIA 
 
 I MESOPOTAMIA 
 
 I PALESTIN 
 
 I ALESANDRIA 
 
 In this list, most careful reference is made, as has been 
 said, to the various traditions concerning the places of each 
 Apostle's special ministry, the main tradition being always 
 followed in cases of doubt. Thus St. John was bishop of 
 Ephesus ; St. James the Less bishop of Jerusalem, where he 
 received St. Paul, and introduced him to the Church ; St. 
 Philip labored in Phrygia, and is said to have died at Hiera- 
 polis ; St. Matthew chiefly in Ethiopia ; St. Simeon in Egypt ; 
 and St. Thomas (though this may be by confusion with an- 
 other Thomas) is said to have preached in India and founded 
 the Church at Malabar, where his tomb is shown, and ^' Chris- 
 tians of St. Thomas" is still a name for the Church. So, 
 again, St.' Andrew preached in Achaia, and was there crucified 
 at Patrae ; the connection of St. Peter with Rome needs no 
 comment ; both Jerome and Eusebius assign India to St. 
 Bartholomew ; St. Thaddseus or Jude preached in Syria and 
 Arabia, and died at Eddessa ; the first fifteen years of the 
 ministry of St. Matias were spent in Palestine ; and lastly, St. 
 Mark is reported to have been sent by St. Peter to Egypt, and 
 tli'Tc founded the Church at Alexandria. 
 
 \. Christ and the Angei^s. 
 
 W^e pass lastly to the altar-dome, already partly desciibed 
 in the " Requiem " chapter of this book (p. 68, § 9). 
 
 In the centre is Chiist triumphant, enthroned on the stars, 
 with the letters IC XC once more on either side of him. lu 
 
178 ST. MARirS REST. 
 
 the circle with him are two angels, whose wings veil all but 
 their faces ; round it are nine other angels, ruby-coloured for 
 love, and bearing flaming torches. *' He maketh his angels 
 spirits, and his ministers a flaming fire." 
 
 Lower down round the dome are the " angels and arch- 
 angels and all the company of heaven," w^ho " laud and mag- 
 nify His glorious name." These heavenly agencies are divided 
 into three hierarchies, each of three choirs, and these nine 
 choirs are given round this vault. 
 
 Hierarchy I. . , . Serapliim, Clierubim, Thrones. 
 Hierarchy 11. , . . Dominations, Virtues, Powers. 
 Hierarchy III. . . Princedoms, Archangels, Angels. 
 
 " The first three choirs receive their glory immediately from 
 God, and transmit it to the second ; the second illuminate 
 the third ; the third are placed in relation to the created 
 universe and man. The first hierarchy are as councillors ; the 
 second as governors ; the third as ministers. The Seraphim 
 are absorbed in perpetual love and adoration immediately 
 round the throne of God ; the Cherubim know and worship ; 
 the Thrones sustain the seat of the Most High. The Domi- 
 nations, Virtues, Powers, are the regents of the stars and ele- 
 ments. The last three orders — Princedoms, Archangels, and 
 Angels — are the protectors of the great monarchies on earth, 
 and the executors of the will of God throughout the universe." ^ 
 The visitor can see for himself how accurately this state- 
 ment is borne out by the mosaics of the altar-dome. Imme- 
 diately over the altar, and nearest therefore to the presence 
 of God, is the Cherubim, " the Lord of those that know," with 
 the words "fulness of knowledge," "plenitudo scientise," on 
 his heart ; to the left is the Seraphim ; to the right the 
 Thrones, " sustaining the seat of the Most High." Further 
 to the right come the Dominations — an armed angel, holding 
 in one liand a balance, in the other a spear. Li one scale of 
 the balance is a man, in the other the book of the law ; and 
 this latter scale is being just snatched at by a winged demon, 
 who, grovelling on the ground, turns round to meet the spear 
 ^ Mrs. Jameson's '• Legendary Art," p. 45. 
 
APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VIIL 179 
 
 the angel. Opposite the Dominations are the Princedoms 
 tu PrincipaHties, another armed angel, wearing a helmet and 
 calmly seated among the stars; and the Powers ("potes- 
 tates ") with a black devil chained at his feet. The Virtues 
 come next, with a skeleton in a grave below, and at the back 
 a pillar of fire ; and, lastly, the Angels and Archangels, '' the 
 executors of the will of God throughout the universe," are 
 seen nearest to the gospel-dome, standing above a rocky cave, 
 in which are three figures. They appear to have various 
 functions in the resurrection ; the angel holds out a swathed 
 man to the archangel, who holds a man (perhaps the same 
 man), from whom the grave-clothes are falling. Between 
 them they thus complete the resurrection of the dead. 
 
 It remains only for the visitor to observe, before leaving the 
 chapel, the manner in which its different parts are related to 
 each other. Upon the arch at the entrance to the gospel- 
 dome are ' the Four Evangelists ; on that which prefaces the 
 altar-dome, with its display of heavenly triumph, are four 
 saints "militant here on earth." But it is the domes them- 
 selves whose meaning is most evidently connected. In all, 
 the same Figure is seen in the centre, surrounded in the first 
 by the prophets of the Old Testament, in the second by the 
 Apostles, in the third by the heavenly choirs, the three to- 
 gether thus proclaiming the promise, the ministry, and the 
 triumph of the prophesied, crucified and glorified Christ. 
 
 SANCTUS, SANCTUS, SANCTUS, 
 
 DOMINUS, DEUS, OMNIPOTENS, 
 
 QUI ERAT, QUI EST, ET QUI VENTURUS EST. 
 
 Rev. iv. 8. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Abraham, St. Mark's Baptistery, mosaic, 173. 
 
 Adams' *' Venice Past and Present," quoted, 20 n. 
 
 Adder coiled, symbolical of eternity, 144. 
 
 Age, feelings of old, 125. 
 
 Alexis, Emperor, and Venice, 56. 
 
 Altinum, Bishop of, founds early Venetian churches, 52. 
 
 Anderson, J. R., on Carpaccio, 1 S. pref. ; St. George, 1 S. 96 ; 2 S. 
 
 128 ; St. Jerome, 1 S. 104, seq. 
 Angelico, liis religion sincere, pref., 3. 
 Angels, the hierarchies of, 68, 178 ; sculpture of, 39. 
 Animals, place of, in European Chivalry, 8 ; Venetian love of, 53. 
 Apostles, baptizing (St. Mark's Baptistery), 67 seq., 176 seq. 
 
 '* scenes of their ministry, 176. 
 Arabesques, of Carpaccio, 1 S. , 99. 
 Achitecture, an ' order ' of, 15. 
 Art, great, combines grace and fitness, 15. 
 ** always instinctive, pref. 3. 
 " depends on national sympathy, pref. 3. 
 '' as material of history, pref. 4 seq. 
 *' the faithful witness, pref. 3. 
 Ascalon, not attacked by Venice, 10. 
 Ascension, mosaic of the, St. Mark's, 87. 
 Assisi, Giotto's cliapel at, 1 S. 111. 
 Assyria, gods of, 83. 
 Athena, 70. 
 Athens and Ion, 61. 
 Author, the — 
 
 diary quoted on Carpaccio's at Milan (Sept. 6, 1876), 1 S. 114. 
 drawings of St. George's viper (1872), 1 S. 97. 
 " of Carpaccio's parrot, 1 S., 98. 
 ** earlie.st, of St. Mark's, 62. 
 errors of his early teaching, 48. 
 
 feelings of, in advancing years, not disabled but enabled, 2 S. 125. 
 knowledge of Greek myths, 62 n. 
 plan for collecting records of St. Mark's, 87 n. 
 protestantism of (see *' religion "). 
 religion and early religious teaching, 21, 62-63. 
 
 *' its effect on his early work in Venice, 48. 
 teaching of, not a discoverer, 2 S. 126, 127. 
 
 ** abhors doctrine for proof, system for usefulness, 2 S. 126. 
 " a "true master," ib. 
 
182 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 teaching his disciples not ''Buskinians," but free, 126. 
 books of, referred to — 
 
 Ariadne Florentina, p. (203) 70. 
 Examples of Venetian Architecture, 71. 
 Fors Clavigera, purchasable in Venice, 36 n. 
 *' '* iii. Feb. (on St. George), 36 n. 
 
 '' '* iv., p. 125 ('Punch'), 60 n. 
 
 " ** vi. 110, 178-203 (on Psalm Ixxvi.), 33. 
 
 *' " vii. 75, gondolier and dog, 53. 
 
 ** " vii. 68, on St Theodore, 24. 
 
 Michael Angelo and Tintoret, pref . 4. 
 
 St. Mark's Rest, delay in issue of 2d Supplement, 2 S. 155 n. 
 " " scheme of and plans for, iv., 8 n. 
 
 ** *' sold in Venice, 36 n. 
 
 *' '* style of, pref. 3. 
 
 ** *' Supplement I., why issued, 1 S. pref. 91, 92u 
 
 Stones of Venice, errors of, and Author's Protestantism, 64, 
 ** " quoted, 129, 147, 44 n. 
 
 ** *' republication of, planned, pref. 4. 
 
 ** *' St. Mark's, description of, 62. 
 
 Baldwin, king of Jerusalem, 9. 
 
 Baptism of Christ (St. Mark's mosaic), 164. 
 
 Baptist, the. Life of (St. Mark's mosaic), 159. 
 
 Bari, William of, at siege of Tyre, 12. 
 
 Baruch's roll, pref. 3. 
 
 Basilicans, the only order of the Greek Church, 171. 
 
 Basilisk, Carpaccio's, 1 S. 98. 
 
 Bellini, Gentile, picture of Venice, 47. 
 
 Bellini, Gentile, picture of St. Mark's fa9ade, 69, 70, 73. 
 
 Bellini Giovanni, vaults of, 69, 70. 
 
 *' *' Correr Museum (Transfiguration), 1 S. 120 n. 
 
 '^ *' pictures by in the Frari, St. Zaccaria, 1 S. 117. 
 
 Bewick, 1 S. 117. 
 Bible quoted — 
 
 Genesis xxi 173 
 
 Numbers xvi. 13 56 
 
 2 Kings ii. 12 172 
 
 " XXV. 7 55 
 
 Proverbs iii. 17 1 S. 106 
 
 vii. 5, 17 61 
 
 Psalm ii. 7 174 
 
 '' xlv.8 61 
 
 " Ixxii. 10. 11 166 
 
 *' Ixxvi. (Vulgate^ and Italian 
 
 versions) 7 
 
 Song of Solomon iii. 2, 3 174 
 
 Isaiah vii. 14 172 
 
 " xi. 8 84 
 
 " xxiii. 2 32 
 
 Jeremiah xvii. 9 49 
 
 Ezekiel i . 79 seq. 
 
 xi. 16, 19, 22 80 
 
 Hosea vi. 1 173 
 
 Joel ii. 29 174 
 
 Obadiah2 175 
 
 Jonah ii. 2 175 
 
 Zephaniah iii. 8 172 
 
 St. Matthew ii. 2 166 
 
 ii. 16 167 
 
 iii. 16, 17 165 
 
 v.8-11 86 
 
 X. 22 85 
 
 St. Mark vi. 21, 26 165 
 
 '* xvi. 15, 16 176 
 
 St. Lukei. 9, 11 160 
 
 21-22 160 
 
 " 63 ih. 
 
 80 162 
 
 xiv. 33 1 S. 100 
 
 xix.8 1 S.lOl 
 
 xix. 17 1 S. 102 
 
 St. John i. 25 163 
 
 *' i. 29 159 
 
 " xix. 26-27 ib. 
 
 Romans v. 12 1 S. 106 
 
 Galatians ii. 20 84 
 
 1 Thess. ii. 18 2 S. 153 
 
 Rev.iv.S &3, 179 
 
Birds, chased by N'enetiau boys, 54 ; legend of, and churches oi \ uu- 
 
 ice, 8. 
 Bolton Abbey, 30. 
 Bribery, 60. 
 
 Brides of Venice, 1 S. 95. 
 British Museum, Cotton MS., pref. 3. 
 Buckle's civilization, 2(5. 
 Byzantine art, mytliical, 74, 
 
 '' "St. Mark's typical of, 65. 
 
 Byzantium conquered by Venice, 65. 
 
 Camerlenghi, treasurers of Venice, 26. 
 
 Cape of Good Hope, discovery of, ruins Venice, 27. 
 
 Capitals, laws of their treatment, 17, 19 
 
 *' of twelfth to fourteenth centuries, 17, 20. 
 Cardinals, Carpaccio's satire on, 1 S. 118. 
 Carlyle, Thomas, R.'s master, 1 S. 123. 
 
 *' " Early Kings of Norway " quoted, 56 n. 
 
 *' Sterling, Life of, 1 S. 103 ; and of Werner, 103. 
 
 Carpaccio: (1) General Characteristics of his Art, 1 S. 113 ; Its Charac- 
 teristics, 115 ; (2) Details of his pictures ; (3j Particular 
 pictures. 
 
 (1 ) General Characteristics of his Art : — 
 composition of, 1 S. 99. 
 
 details have important meanings with, 1. S. 107. 
 and Luini, 1 S. 116 
 
 religion, as animatincc the present world, 1 S. 122 n. 
 satire of, 1 S. 118, 121. 
 
 sense of humour, and power of seriousness, 1 S. 102. 
 simplicity, strength, and joy, 1 S. 96-97. 
 study of, feelings requisite to the, 1 S. 113. 
 symbolism, 1 S. 121. 
 
 - ) Details of his Pictures : — 
 
 arabesques (S. Tryphonius), i. S. 99. 
 
 dogs, i. S. 99. 
 
 parrot, i. S. 99. 
 
 signatures of, lovely, 1. S. 106. 
 
 vaults of, 69, 70. 
 
 (3) Partkular Pictures of: — 
 
 Agony in the Garden, i. S. 100. 
 
 St. George and Dragon series, 24; 1 S.-98 seq., 108 ; 2 S. 138 
 
 seq. 
 St. Jerome, 1 S. 104, 106, 108. 
 St. Mary and Elizabeth (Correr Museum), 1 S. 119. 
 St. Matthew, calling of (St. Giorgio dei Schiavoni), 1 S. 100. 
 St. Stephen (Brera Gallery, Milan), 1 S. 114. 
 St. Tryphonius (St. Giorgio dei Scliiavoni), 1 S. 99. 
 St. Ursula series (Accademia, Venice), 1 S. 119, 121. 
 Venetian ladies and their pets (Correr MnstMiinV in what sense 
 
 the best existing picture, 1 S. 116. 
 Virgin (Brera Gallery, Milan\ 1 S. 114. 
 youthful sketches by, St. Alvise, i. S. 111. 
 
184 INDEX, 
 
 Carpets, Eastern, 1 S. 96. 
 
 Catholicism, mediaeval, as shown by Carpaccio, 1 S. 120. 
 
 Ceilings painted, Venice, 1 S. 111. 
 
 Cephalonia, taken by Venice, 1 S. 99. 
 
 Cerberus, Dante's, 24. 
 
 Charity, St, Mark's mosaic, 85. 
 
 Cheese, lessons in capital carving, by use of, 18 seq. 
 
 Cherubim, the St. Mark's Baptistery, 66. 
 
 Chivalry, places of animals in, 24. 
 
 *' of Venice and the West, a.d. 1100, 56. 
 Chomley, Countess Isabel, legend translated by, 52 n. 
 Christ and the Angels, St. Mark's Baptistery, 163. 
 
 *' and the Apostles, *' *' 67. 
 
 *' baptism of, '' '' 164. 
 
 *' infancy of, *' " 166. 
 
 " and the Prophets, ** ** 172. 
 
 ' * modern lives of, 84. 
 
 *' ''saves the lost,'' 1 S. 101. 
 Christianity, development of, 50. 
 Churches of Venice, legend of their foundation, 52. 
 
 '* '* guide to points of compass in, 35 n. 
 
 See 'Venice,' and under names of particular churches, 28. 
 Churchyards, 53. 
 Cimabue, 68. 
 
 Classical learning and Venice, 46. 
 Clermont-Ganneau on St. George, S. 127. 
 Cockneyism, 9, 64, 86, 99. 
 
 Coinage, leathern of Doge Domenico, Michiel, 8. 
 Colour, Venetian feeling for, 58. 
 
 Corner, Flaminio, on St. Giorgio dei Schiavoni, 1 S. 93. 
 Correr Museum, woodcut maps of Venice (1480) in, 21. 
 
 " " Carpaccio's "Venetian Ladies," 1 S. 117. 
 
 Cotton MS., British Museum, pref. vi. 51. 
 Creusa (Euripides' " Ion "), 62 n. 
 Croiset's office of the B. V. M., 22. 
 Crowe and Cavalcasella, 1 S. 105, 112, 113. 
 Crucifixion, St. Mark's Baptistery, 98. 
 Crusades, Venice and the, 44. 
 Customs, blinding of deposed Doges, 55. 
 
 '* pillage of palace on election of Doge, 59 n. 
 Cybele, temple of, 169. 
 
 Dalmatia, attacked by Byzantium, 13. 
 
 Damascus, and siege of Tyre, 12, 10. 
 
 Dandolo, Doge Andrea, chronicle of, 11, 12, 65 n. 
 
 " *' legend of Venetian Churches, 51, 52. 
 
 '*. '* his tomb, St. Mark's Baptistery, 52 n. 
 
 *' Henry, 70; adorns church of St. James of the Bialta^ JS8. 
 Dante's grasp of theology, 24. 
 
 ** Cerberus (Canto vi.), 24. 
 Darwinism, 17, 1 S. 99. 
 Dates, recollection of, 25, 43. 
 David, piety and soldiership of, 60. 
 
jMvid, mosaic of, ?St. Mark si>aj)iistery, 157. 
 
 " '* , eastern dome. 74. 
 
 Death, commonplace about blessedness of, 1 S. 106. 
 Decoration, not ' a superticial merit,' 19. 
 De Hooghe, chiaroscuro of, 1 S. 117. 
 Delphi, oracle of, pref. 4 
 Dogs, Carpaccio's, St. George's, 1 S. 99. 
 
 '' St. Jerome's, 24, 1 S. 104. 
 
 Doges, blinding of live deposed, 421-1100, 55. 
 ** election of (Doge Selvo), 58 seq. 
 
 " JSee under Domenico Michiel, St. Pietro Urseolo, Selva 
 Doge's palace, pillage of, on election of Doge, 59, 60 n. 
 Domenico, Michiel, Doge, 13. 
 
 *' *' and conquest of Tyre, 8 seq. 
 
 *' *' dismantles his ships, 12 n. 
 
 *' *' leathern coinage of, 12. 
 
 ** " seizes Egean isles and Cephalonia, 13. 
 
 *' " closing years and death, 14. 
 
 '* *' tomb of (San Giorgio Maggiore), 14. 
 
 Doubt, religious feeling of, 50 seq. 
 Dragon, Carpaccio's, 1 S. 101, 2 S. 132. 
 Drapery, good and bad, 37. 
 Ducal Palace, see 'Venice — Ducal Palace,' 16. 
 Dumas, 1 S. 112. 
 
 Diirer's engraving of St. Mark^s Lion, 20. 
 Durham Cathedral, 20. 
 
 Edinburgh, Prince's street, asphalted, 31 n. 
 Egean islands, seized by Venice, 13. 
 Egypt, dragon of, 23, 26. 
 
 *' flight into, 167. 
 Egypt, gods of, 121. 
 
 ** and siege of Tyre, 11, 12. 
 Eliab, sons of, 55. ♦ 
 
 Elijah, mosaic of, St. Mark's Baptistery, 173.; 
 Emerson referred to, 35. 
 England, abbeys of, their quiet peace, 1 S. 96. 
 
 ** classical architecture of, 40. 
 
 ** commerce, 36, 64. 
 
 ** *' and greed of money, 8. 
 
 '' religion of, 1200-1400, 50. 
 Euripides' ' Ion ' quoted, 61 n. 
 Europe, course of history, 40. 
 Evangelical doctrine of salvation, 1 S. 101. 
 Evangel ion and prophecy, 78. 
 Evangelists, the, beasts of the, 83. 
 
 '♦ '* (St. Mark's mosaics), 82, 164 
 
 gospels of, IS. 100. 
 '' sculpture of (St. Mark's), 35. 
 
 Executions, between Piazzetta pillan, 17. 
 Eyes, putting out the, 55. 
 Ezekiel's vision, 78. 
 
loo IjSDEX, 
 
 Faitli and reason, 50. 
 
 Fathers, the Greeks and Latin, 168 seq. 
 
 Fawn in Carpaccio's * Virgin,' Brera, Milan, 1 S. 115. 
 
 Fishing in early Venice, 51. 
 
 Florence, sacred pictures of, 1 S. 122. 
 
 ** Spezieria of S. M. Novella, 61. 
 Forks, thought a luxury, 61. 
 ' Fors ' and the author, 54. 
 
 " ordering of events by, S. 127. 
 Foscarini, on Doge Selvo's election, 59 n. 
 France, religion of, 1150-1350, 50. 
 
 Gabriel, Archangel, St. Mark's bas-reliefs, 34, 
 
 Geryon, 1 S. 97. 
 
 Gesta Dei, quoted, 10, 11 n. 
 
 Giotto's chapel at Assisi, 1 S. 111. 
 
 Giocondo, Fra, makes designs for Venice after 1513 fire, 28. 
 
 Giorgione's frescoes, 26 ; arrangement of masses, 1 S. 109, 
 
 Giustina, church to S., founded, 53. 
 
 Gordon, Eev. O., on Ps. Ixxxvi., 23. 
 
 Goschen, Mr., 1 S. 101. 
 
 Gothic, foilage, origin of Venetian, 43. 
 
 Greek acanthus, 71. 
 
 *' art, but one school of, 65. 
 
 *' "its aim, first instruction, then beauty, 66. 
 
 *' capitals, 18. 
 
 *' harpy, 68. 
 
 *' myths (Euripides and Pindar), 61 n. 
 
 *' temple of the Dew, 60. 
 
 *' Thronos on St. Mark's, 35. 
 
 "• work on St. Marks, 42, 43, 61, 65. 
 Guiscard, and Doge Selvo, 57 seq. 
 
 *' " the soldier par excellence of the Middle Ages," 60. 
 Gunpowder, 51. 
 
 Heraclea, Venetian villas at, 51. 
 
 Hercules, 42 ; labours of, St. Mark's bas-relief, 33. 
 
 Herod and St. John Baptist, 67, 165 ; and the wise men, 166. 
 
 Herodias, type of evil womanhood, 69. 
 
 Historians, sectarianism of, 48. 
 
 History, the course of European, 46. 
 
 " transitional period of, 32, 
 
 *' the materials of, a nation's acts, words, and art, pref. p. 4. 
 
 " how to read, 50. 
 Holbein's jewel-painting, 1 S. 118. 
 Horses of St. Mark, 69, 70. 
 Hunt, William, 31. 
 
 Idleness, evils of, 51. 
 Infidelity, signs of, in art, 38. 
 
 '• modern, 50. 
 
 Innocents, Holy (St. Mark's Mosaics), 168. 
 Inscription on St. James di Rialto, 27. 
 
Inscription on St. Mark's mosaics, b4. 
 
 •' *' Baptistery, 157-179 passim. 
 
 Inscription on tomb of Doge Domenico AT^-hi<'l, 14. 
 Inspiration and the Church, 1 J^. 121. 
 Ion and Athens, G5. 
 Irish decoration, 71. 
 
 '• savagery, oG. 
 Italian revolution and Venice, 13. 
 
 Jameson, Mrs. ' Legendary Art,' quoted, 178. 
 Jeremiah, St. Mark's Baptistery, 173. 
 Jerusalem, Holy Sepulchre, arches of the, 71. 
 
 " Baldwin, king of, at Venice, 8. 
 
 Johnson, Dr., penance of, 04 
 
 Jones, E Burne, helps R. re St. Marks mosaics, 87. 
 Jordan, river god of the, 164. 
 
 Kensington schools, 1 S. 99. 
 Knight, a, of the 15th century, 37. 
 
 Landseer, Sir E., 7. 
 
 Latrator Anubis, 15 seq.; meaning of, 22. 
 
 Legenda Aurea, the, on St. George, 2 S. 149. 
 
 Legend of foundation of Venetian churches, 52. 
 
 Leucothea, 54. 
 
 Lindsay, Lord, * Christian Art ' of, 63. 
 
 Lion, St. Jerome's, 24. 
 
 " St. Mark's, Venice (see St. Mark's). 
 London, fire of, 7 ; the Monument, 8 ; Nelson column, 8. 
 Longhena's tomb of Doge Dom. Michiel, 14. 
 Lord's Prayer, the, and mediaeval chivalry, 49. 
 Lorenzi, M., helps R., 50 n. 
 Lotteries in old and new Venice, 17 n. 
 Luini and Carpaccio, 1 S. 114, 115, 116. 
 Luxury, mediaeval, how symbolized, 1 S. 118. 
 
 ** of Venice, and her fate, 44. 
 Lydda, church of St. George at, 2 S. 132. 
 
 Madonna on St. James di Rialto, 28, 29. 
 
 Mantegna's '' Transfiguration," Correr Museum, 1 S. 119. 
 
 ** St. Sebastian, 1 S. 121. 
 
 Mariegola, of St. Theodore, 21, 24. 
 Mazorbo, 54. 
 Mem 11 on, 35. 
 Merlin, 60. 
 M. Angelo, pref. 4. 
 
 Milan, Monasterio Maggiore, Luini's St. Stephen, 1 S. 114. 
 Milan, Brera Gallery, Carpaccio's in, 1 S. 114. 
 Modesty, St. Mark's mosaic, 95. 
 
 Monasticism, as explained by Carpaccio's St. Jerome, 1 S, 86, 105, lOG. 
 Mosaics, of St Mark s (see under *' Venice— St. Mark's"), 157. 
 Muratori'? orlition of Sanuto, 8 n. 
 Murray. S. 102, 1 S. 115, 1 S. 119. 
 
1«« INDEX. 
 
 Murra}', Jolm, Guide to Venice, on Piazzetta pillars, 7. 
 
 " " '* St. James di Rialto, 29, 30. 
 
 " '' St. Mark's Lion, 78. 
 
 " " Sketches of Venetian History, 8. 
 
 Napoleon I., 8. 
 
 Natalis Regia, rebuilds St. James di Rialto, 1531, 29. 
 
 Nelson column, 8. 
 
 Nicholas of the Barterers, sets up Piazzetta pillars, 17. 
 
 Norman architecture, savagery of, 18. 
 
 Northumbrian architecture, clumsy work in, 18. 
 
 Oath of Venetian magistrates at Tyre, 13. 
 
 Olat-, blinds King R^rik, 56 n. 
 
 Oxford schools, author's drawings at, 1 S. 96, 97. 
 
 Pall Mall, 51. 
 
 Palladio, 14. 
 
 Palm trees, in Carpaccio's St. George, meaning of, 2 8. 148. 
 
 Paris, Vendome column, 7. 
 
 Parliament, English, party politics, 8. 
 
 Parrot, Carpaccio's, 1 S. 97. 
 
 Parthenon bas-reliefs, 35. 
 
 Perfumes, use of, 61 ; manufacture of by Florentine monks, ^6. 
 
 Perseus and St. George, 2 S. 133. 
 
 Persia and St. George, 2 S. 134. 
 
 Perugia, canopy at, 69. 
 
 Perugino, 1 S. 102. 
 
 Petroleum, 50. 
 
 Piazzetta pillars (see under "Venice — Piazzetta pillars''), 7. 
 
 Pindar, and Greek myths, 61 n. 
 
 Political Economy, 50. 
 
 Practice with lingers teaches eyes, 18. 
 
 Prayer Book, quoted, 83. 
 
 Printing, discovery of, 50 ; and Venice, 41. 
 
 Progress, modern, in Venice, 30 ; and inventions, 46. 
 
 Prophets, mosaics of, St. Mark's altar- dome, 81 ; baptistery, 168. 
 
 Proportion and propriety, distinct, 15. 
 
 Protestantism, ' private judgment,' 21, 22, 62, 63, 1 S. 103, 120. 
 
 ' Punch,' on Bishop Wilberforce, 60; March 15, 1879, 64. 
 
 Purple, Byzantine, 82. 
 
 Rahab, meaning of in Ps. Ixxxvi., 23. 
 
 Raphael, teaching of in art, 39 (see " S. Raphael"). 
 
 Reason and Faith, 50. 
 
 ' Red and White Clouds,' chap. vi. 
 
 Religion, of early Christian chivalry, 49. 
 
 ' ' and doubt, 47 seq. 
 
 " stage between faith and reason, 50. 
 
 *' of Venice, 40 seq. ; the keynote (with art) of her history, 41. 
 Renaissance, and revival of learning, 46. 
 Restoration, evil of, illustrated, 70. 
 Rialto, meaning of, 30, 31. 
 
INDEX. 1S9 
 
 i;i , i . named from colour or clearness, rarely from depth, 30. 
 
 liomaii Empire and Venice, 43. 
 
 Komanin, on. 13 ; on llialio, 30, 31 ; ou Selvo's election, 59 n. 
 
 Rosamond and her father's skull, 50. 
 
 Kubens, 1 S. 1U4. 
 
 Ruskin, Mr. /Sed " Author. " 
 
 Sabra and St. George, 37. 
 
 '' lier symbolical meaning 2 S. 151. 
 fcaint Alvise. Venice, ceiling of, 1 S. 111. 
 
 *' Ambrose, St. Mark's Baptistery. 171. 
 
 *' Anthony '' '' 168. 
 
 *' Athanasius ** " 170. 
 
 '' Augustine " *' 171. 
 
 ** Basil *' ♦* 171. 
 
 *' Cuthbert's book, pref. 3. 
 
 " Demetrius, St Mark's bas relief, 42 ; warrior saint, 170. 
 
 ** Donato's body brought to Venice, 14. 
 
 '* Francis and the birds, 54. 
 
 ** Gabriel, St. Marks bas-relief, 42. 
 
 *' George, his function and meaning, 21, 170 ; 2 S. 138. 
 
 *' '' history of, 2 S. 12^^ seq. 
 
 *' *' and the princess, legend quoted, 2 S. 150. 
 
 *' " connection with Perseus, and Persia, 2 S. 134. 
 
 '* " horse oP, its colour, by Carpaccio and Tintoret, 2 S. 138. 
 
 " " pictures of, Carpaccio's, 23, 1 S. 9(3 seq., 97. 
 
 *' «' Porphyrio, " Bird of Chastity," 24. 
 
 '* " sculptures of, in Venice, 33, 35, 37, 38, 42. 
 
 *' " '* sheathing his sword," 35. 
 shield of, burnished, 2 S. 12. 
 
 '' George's Museum, Slieffield, casts of St. Mark's, 70. 
 
 ** Giorgio dei Schiavoni {aee " Carpaccio,' and " Venice *'), 
 
 *' Maggiore, 8 
 
 *' Giovanni in Bragola, church to, founded, 57. 
 
 ** e Paolo, tombs in church of, 14. 
 
 *' Giustina, church to, founded, 53. 
 
 *' Gregory the Great, St. Mark's Baptistery, 171. 
 
 ♦' Nazianzen *' ** 170. 
 
 *' Isidore's body brought to Venice, 14. 
 
 *' ** (St. Mark's mosaic), 158 and n. 
 
 *' James di Rialto, history of, 20 seq , chap. iii. 
 
 ** " inscription on, 28, 87. 
 
 *' *' " discovered by author, 76. 
 
 *' ** interior of, 28. 
 
 ** Jerome, no good biography of, 1 S. 104. 
 
 '* ** Carpaccio's pictures of, 1 S. 101 seq. (lion) ; 106 (burial) » 
 107 (in Heaven). 
 
 " " his lion and dog, 24. 
 
 *' *• mosaic of St. Mark's Baptistery, 170. 
 
 *' '* teaching of, 22 ; 1 S. 104. 
 
 *' John Chrysostom (mosaic, 170. 
 
 ** Louis' part of Venice, 1 S. 111. 
 
 ** Maria Formosa, church to, founded, 52. 
 
190 INDEX, 
 
 Saint Mark, recovery of his body (mosaic of), 76. 
 
 '^ Mark's church, etc., Venice (see "Venice, St. Mark's")- 
 ** Matthew, calling of, 1 S. 100 ; gospel of, 1 S. 100. 
 *' Mercury, 122. 
 
 " Nicholas of the Lido, 57 ; mosaic of, 167. 
 << Pietro Urseolo, Doge, 169. 
 ** Raphael, church of, founded, 52. 
 ** Stephen, Carpaccio's, Brera, Milan, 1 S. 114. 
 ** Theodore, 7. 
 
 *' '* his body at Venice, 1450, 24. 
 
 " *' "the chair seller," 33, iv. ; meaning of, 42. 
 
 " '* church to, on site of St. Mark's, 83. 
 
 *' ** mosaic of, St. Mark's, 170. 
 
 *' *' patron of Venice, 21. 
 
 *' ** statue of, Piazzetta pillar, 15. 
 
 '* *' *' St. [Salvador, 39. 
 
 '* '* his teaching, 21, 24. 
 
 ** Tryphonius and the Basilisk, Carpaccio's, 1 S. 99 ; 2 S. 129. 
 '* Zaccaria, church of, founded, 52. 
 Salt-works of early Venice, 51. 
 Samplers, English, 1 S. 96. 
 Samson and Delilah, 61. 
 * Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,' 157, 179. 
 Sand, George, 1 S. 103, 112. 
 Sansovino, on election of Doge Selvo, 58. 
 
 " rebuilds at Venice, 1513, 27. 
 
 Sanuto, Marin, 2-5. 
 
 Scarpagnino rebuilds at Venice, 1513, 27. 
 Scepticism, modern, 79. 
 Science, modern, its effect on belief, 48-51. 
 Sclavonians and Venice, 1 S. 95. 
 Scott, Sir. W., " Fortunes of Nigel," its moral, 17 n. 
 
 *' "Talisman," its errors, 65. 
 
 Sculpture above Ponte dei Baratteri, 36. 
 
 " rise and fall of Venetian, chap, iv., 37. 
 Selvo, Doge, history of, 56 seq. [iice St. George, sculpture of), 
 '* mosaics of St. Mark's, 78. 
 
 '' rebuilds St. James di Bialto, 1073, 28. 
 " wife of, Greek, 60. 
 
 •Shadow on the Dial,' the, chap. 5. 
 Shalts and capitals, relations of, 15. 
 Shakspere, Hamlet, 48. 
 
 " King Lear, blinding of Gloster in, 55. 
 '* Merchant of Venice (Shy lock), 25. 
 
 " Midsummer Nights Dream, ' If I should as lion,' 1 S. 102. 
 
 " Much Ado about Nothing (Dogberry), 36. 
 
 ** Romeo and Juliet, 'Ask for him to-morrow,' 1 S. 102. 
 
 Sheffield, author's plans for, 11. 
 Shells, in Carpaccio s ' St. George,* 2 S. 145. 
 Ships, dismantling of Venetian, 12. 
 Skull, in Carpaccio's 'St. George,' 2 S. 148. 
 Smoke pestilence, modern, 54. 
 Snyders, 1 S. 104. 
 
IJSDEX. lyi 
 
 Solomon, love of fine things, 60. 
 
 St. Mark's mosaics, 82, 174. 
 
 Queen of Sheba and, Carpaccio's, 35, 1 S. 116. 
 Surjuw, feeling under, 47 seq. 
 Spirals. Greek and iS'orthern, 71. 
 Spoon, story of child's love lor a wooden, 76. 
 Symbolism, growth of, in art, 37, 38. 
 
 Tempera, use of, 1 S. 117 ; by Carpaccio and Tintoret, w. 
 
 Temptation, the, mosaic of, St. Mark's, 75. 
 
 Thrones, of the world, 38. 
 
 Theories of belief, 47, 48 seq. 
 
 Tiepolo's ceiling, St. Alvise, 1 S. 111. 
 
 Tintoret, ' miglitiest of the Venetians,' pref. 4. 
 
 death of, and fall of Venice (1594), 44. 
 
 ' rushing force ' of, 1 S. 102. 
 
 studied Carpaccio, 2 S. 129. 
 
 tempera used by, and R.'s praise of, 1 S. 117. 
 Titian, color of, 1 S. 117. 
 frescoes of, 26. 
 religion of, assumed, pref. 3. 
 Trade, modern, 50. 
 
 Trades of Venice, St. Mark's mosaics, 74. 
 
 Tree, removal of, from before Accademia, Venice (Feb., 1877), 31. 
 Turner, could not beat Carpaccio s paroquet, 1 S. 119. 
 Tyre, burden of, chap. i. 
 
 ** siege of, chap, i., p. 7, 10-12 ; surrender of, 12, 
 * ' oatli of Venetian magistrates at, 13. 
 
 Upholstery, modern, 1 S. 112. 
 
 Van Eyck, detail of, 1 S. 117. 
 
 Venice : (1) Her Character and Art ; (2) Her History ; (3) Architecture, 
 Painting, and Sculpture ; (4) Modern Venice. 
 
 (1) Her Character and her Art : — 
 
 Her ambition, its objects, 7, 10. 
 
 *' aristocracy, its growth, 46. 
 
 ** art, the best material for her history, pref. 4. 
 
 *' " its growth shown, 34 seq., 89, 41, 75 ; recapitulated, 43. 
 aspect of early, 63. 
 
 change from Eastern to Western temper, 20. 
 character, love of home, of animals, of colour, 58 seq. 
 chivalry learnt from Normans, 48, 45. 
 Christianity of, learnt from Greeks, 43. 
 commerce, 24, 26. 
 council, in deciding on war, 9. 
 deliberateness of action, 56. 
 doges, treatment of deposed, 55-8. 
 fall of, 44, 46 ; and gambling, 17. 
 intellectual death of. 41. 
 modern debasement, 42. 
 home lif« of early, 53. 
 
192 INDEX, 
 
 Venice {continued) — 
 
 people of, mosaic of doge and, 77. 
 
 piety and covetousness of, 8. 
 
 religion of, 1300-1500, chap, v., 43 seq.; 1 S. pref. 
 
 relics, at last despised by, 'Zl, 
 
 revival of learning and, 46. 
 
 Rome's influence on, 46. 
 
 iindersta^id, how to, 21-49. 
 
 (2) Her History : — 
 
 progressive, but its periods distinct, 32. 
 four periods of, (a) formation, 421-1100, 43. 
 
 {h) establishment, 1100-1301, 43-44. 
 
 [0 meditation, 1301-1520, 44. 
 
 {d) luxury and fall, 1520-1600. 
 tells her own story, 33. 
 errors of her historians, 32. 
 religion and arts, its keynotes, 44. 
 alliance with Alexis against Guiscard, 57. 
 conquers Byzantium, 13. 
 colonies in Asia, 13. 
 fire of 1513, 27. 
 founded, 421, 25. 
 war with Guiscard, 57 seq. 
 mercenary army, 27. 
 war with Saracens, 9 seq., 10. 
 Serrar del Consiglio (period ii.), 44-47. 
 conquers Tyre, 12. 
 
 (3) ArcMteciure, Painting^ and Sculpture of: — 
 
 Academy, Carpaccio's St. Ursula, 1 S. 119. 
 Camerlenghi Palace, 26. 
 Ducal Palace built, 45. 
 
 • pillars of arcade baseless, and why, 15, 16. 
 
 capitals of upper arcade, 16. 
 
 Foscari Palace, sunset, 31. 
 Gobbo di Rialto, 28 n. 
 Grand Canal at sunset, 31. 
 Jean d'Acre pillars, 71. 
 Labia, palace, 40. 
 Merceria, 26-36, 
 Piazzetta, pillars of the, 7. 
 
 ** "the most beautiful in the world, 7 ; and why, 15. 
 
 " " capitals and bases of, 16, 17 (history of not 
 
 known). 
 
 *' " date of (12th century), 18. 
 
 ** " famous and whv, 7 seq. 
 
 '* " history of, 15, 17. 
 
 ■ " ** match each other, and how, 16. 
 
 *♦ " St. Theodore and St. Mark's Lion, on, 20, 21. 
 
 " " space between, how used, 17. 
 
 •* ** steps of restored, 16 n. 
 
INDEX. i 
 
 Venice {continued)— 
 
 Ponte de' Barrateri, sculpture near the, 36. 
 St. Alvise, ceiling of, 1 S. 111. 
 St. Antonin, campo di, 1 S. 93. 
 St. Bartholomew's Square, 26. 
 St. Giorgio dei Schiavoni, 24. 
 
 t* " foundation of, 1, S. 94 ; S. 1. 
 
 <* '< interior of, 1, S. 95, and see *^C 
 
 paccio." 
 
 Maggiore, 8, 14, 15. 
 
 St. James di Rialto, 42 seq.; history of, 27. 
 
 St. John Eleemosynario, campanile, 28. 
 
 St. Julian, 36. 
 
 St. Louis' Quarter, 1 S. 111. 
 
 St. Margaret's Campo, 51. 
 
 St. Marks Church, built, 45. 
 
 '* t' baptistery of, 67 seq. ; plan of, 160 ; mosa 
 
 157 seq. 
 
 *' *' campanile, lotteries beneath, 17 n. 
 
 " *' fa9ade of, 34. 
 
 «* «« *' temp. Gentile Bellini, 69. 
 
 *' ** horses of, 69. 
 
 «' *' northwest corner of, sculpture of apostles, 
 
 ** *' porches of, bas-reliefs on, 42. 
 
 *♦ " tomb of Doge A. Dandolo, 52. 
 
 *< ** mosaics of, 82. 
 
 *' " *' designs of Veronese, 73. 
 
 *' ** ** collection of records of, 157. 
 
 ** ** *» central archivolt, bad, 71. 
 
 ** " *' baptistery, 67 seq., 158. 
 
 ** ti n (i their connection 
 
 meaning, 179. 
 
 " " " central dome, 74, 101. 
 
 " " *' east dome, 84. 
 
 *« " ** north transept, 75. 
 
 " ** ** south transept, 76. 
 
 ** ** sculptures, central archivolt, 70 seq. 
 
 '' '' " of foliage, 70. 
 
 " *' " of sheep and lamb, northwest 
 
 ner, 38. 
 
 ** ♦* " left of central arch, 34. 
 
 . Lion. 78. 
 
 Place, nowadays, 59. 
 
 St. Pantaleone, ceiling, 1 S. 112. 
 
 St. Pietro Castello, cathedral church of Venice, 52. 
 
 St. Raphael, cliurch of, founded. 52. 
 
 St. Salvadore, church of, founded, 52 ; piazza of, 39. 
 
 (4) Modern Venice: — 
 
 church, and campo, 53. 
 destruction of old by new, 26, pre! 6. 
 dirt of, 26. 
 hotels of, 26. 
 
 18 
 
194 INDEX, 
 
 Venice {continued) — 
 lighting of, 14. 
 lotteries of, 17 and n. 
 progress of, 59. 
 restaurants of 10 n. 
 sails of, 10 n. 
 steamers in, 10. 
 
 tree cut down before Academy (Feb. 26, 1877), 31. 
 Veronese, P., designs some of St. Mark's mosaics, 75, 1 S. 98-103. 
 
 ** mischief done by, 1 S. 111. 
 
 Virgil, quoted, Aen. , viii. 698, 23. 
 Virgin, Carpaccio's Brera Gallery, Milan, 1 S. 114. 
 
 " St. Mark's bas-reliefs, 42. 
 Virtues, on St. Mark's central dome mosaics, 96, 
 
 *^ and the seven gems, Carpaccio's St. George, 2 S. 150. 
 ** Venetian, 95. 
 Vivarini, 76. 
 
 Wealth, evils of, 50. 
 Wise men, the, 166. 
 Wordsworth's * White Doe of Rylstone,' 53, 
 
 Zacharias, mosaic, St. Mark's, 161. 
 Zara, siege of, 8. 
 Zedekiah, blinding of, 58. 
 
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