The Stones of Venice

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THE

tncFig

^nni

VOLUME THE THIRD.

C|)e ^alU

BY JOHN RUSKIN, LL.D.

AUTHOR or " XODBRN PAIMnSS," *K. tfK.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS DRAWN BY THE AUTHOR

A NEW EDITION.

LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 16 WATERLOO PLACE.

1874.

[tHB AUTBOB BBBEBYES THK right of TRAK8LATI0N.]

l^A ^2/1.2.3

/

-B

BOMKUKCM AMU LOM OOIC

CONTENTS.

THIRD, OR RENAISSANCE PERIOD.

Ghapteb I. Early ^Renaissance -
XL Roman Bbkaissance -

III. Grotesque Renaissance

IV. Conclusion

Page

1

32
112
166

APPENDIX.

1. Abohitbot of thb Ducal Pai.acb . . -

2. ThboiiOOT of Sfknseb - . .

3. AusTBUN Gk>vaBiniKNT IN Italy ...

4. Date of ths Palaces of ths Btzantikb Bbmaissamcx

5. Bbmaissance Side of Ducal Palace

6. Chabaotbb of the Dooe Miohels Mobosini

7. MoDxmi Education - . - - -

8. EablY Venetian Mabbiaoes - - - -

9. Chabacteb of the Venetian Abibtocbact -

10. Final Appendix - . . - .

199
204
207
209
210
211
212
219
219
221

I. Pebsonal Index
II. Local Index -
III Topical Index
IV. Venetian Index

INDICES.

257
263
267
283

LIST OF PLATES.

Plate

I. Temperance and Intemperance in Ornament -

to face page 6

11. Gothic Capitals - - - .

8

III. Noble and Ignoble Grotesque

125

IV. Mosaics of Olive-tree and Flowers -

179

V. Byzantine Bases - - - -

221

VL Byzantine Jambs . - - -

225

VII. Gothic Jambs . . . .

226

VIII Byzantine Arcbivolts . - - -

237

IX. Gothic Archivolts . - - .

239

X. Cornices . - . . -

241

XL Tracery Bars -----

245

XII. Capitals of Fondaco de' Turchi

299

THE

l\.

STONES OF VENICE.

THIED, OE EENAISSANCE PEEIOD.

CHAPTER L

EARLY RENAISSANCE.

§ I. I TRUST that the reader has been enabled, by the preceding
chapters, to form some conception of the magnificence of the
streets of Venice during the course of the thirteenth and four-
teenth centuries. Yet by all this magnificence she was not
supremely distinguished above the other cities of the middle ages.
Her early edifices have been preserved to our times by the
circuit of her waves ; while continual recurrences of ruin have
defaced the glory of her sister cities. But such fragments as
are still left in their lonely squares, and in the comers of their
sixeete. 80 far from bemg iSerior to the buildings of Venice,
are even more rich, more finished, more admirable in invention,
more exuberant in beauty. And although, in the North of
Europe, civilisation was less advanced, and the knowledge of
the arts was more confined to the ecclesiastical orders, so that,
for domestic architecture, the period of perfection must be

VOL. in. B

A

2 THIRD PERIOD.

there placed much later than in Italy, and considered as extend-
ing to the middle of the fifteenth century ; yet, as each city
reached a certain point in civilisation, its streets became decorated
with the same magnificence, varied only in style according to
the materials at hand, and temper of the people. And I am
not aware of any town of wealth and importance in the middle
ages, in which some proof does not exist that, at its period of
greatest energy and prosperity, its streets were inwrought with
rich sculpture, and even (though in this, as before noticed, Venice
always stood supreme) glowing with colour and with gold.
Now, therefore, let the reader, — ^forming for himself as vivid and
real a conception as he is able, either of a group of Venetian
palaces in the fourteenth century, or, if he likes better, of one
of the more fantastic but even richer street scenes of Rouen,
Antwerp, Cologne, or Nuremberg, and keeping this gorgeous
•image before him, — ^go out into any thoroughfare representative,
in a general and characteristic way, of the feeling for domestic
architecture in modem times ; let him, for instance, if in London,
walk once up and down Harley Street, or Baker Street, or
Gower Street ; and then, looking upon this picture and on this,
set himself to consider (for this is to be the subject of our
following and final inquiry) what have been the causes which
have induced so vast a change in the European mind. .

§ II. Renaissance architecture is the school which has con-
ducted men's inventive and constructive faculties firam the
Grand Canal to Gower Street ; from the marble shaft, and the
lancet arch, and the wreathed leafage, and the glowing and
melting harmony of gold and azure, to the square cavity in the
brick walL We have now to consider the causes and the steps
of this change; and, as we endeavoured above to investigate
the nature of Gothic, here to investigate also the nature of
Renaissance.

§ III. Although Renaissance architecture assumes very dif-
ferent forms among different nations, it may be conveniently
referred to three heads : — ^Early Renaissance, consisting of the
first corruptions introduced into the Gothic schools : Central

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 3

o. Ko^ Re^ai^anc *eh i, the p^feoUy ' fo™>ed atyle:
»>d Grot«q.e Bea.i»u>ce. whioh i. a« corruption of the
Renaissance it8el£

§ IV. Now, in order to do full justice to the adverse cause,
we will consider the abstract nature of the school with reference
only to its best or Central examples. The forms of bmlding
which must be classed generally under the term Early Re-
naissance are, in many cases, only the extravagances and
corruptions of the languid Gothic, for whose errors the classical
principle is in nowise answerable. It was stated in the second
chapter of the "Seven Lamps," that, unless luxury had ener-
vated and subtlety fiodsified the Gothic forms, Roman traditions
could not have prevailed against them ; and, although these
enervated and false conditions are almost instantly coloured by
the classical influence, it would be utterly unfair to lay to the
charge of that influence the first debasement of the earlier
schools, which had lost the strength of their system before they
could be struck by the plague.

§ V. The manner, however, of the debasement of all schools of.
art, so far as it is natural, is in all ages the same ; luxuriance of
ornament, refinement of execution, and idle subtleties of fancy,
taking the place of true thought and firm handling : and I do
not intend to delay the reader long by the Gothic sick-bed, for
our task is not so much to watch the wasting of fever in the
features of the expiring king, as to trace the character of that
Hazael who dipped the cloth in water, and laid it upon his face.
Nevertheless, it is necessary to the completeness of our view of
the architecture of Venice, as well as to our understanding of the
manner in which the Central Renaissance obtained its universal
dominion, that we glance briefly at the principal^ forms into which
Venetian Gothic first declined. They are two* in number : one
the corruption of the Gothic itself ; the other a partial return
to Byzantine forms : for the Venetian mind having carried the
Gothic to a point at which it was dissatisfied, tried to retrace its
steps, fell back first upon Byzantiue types, and through them
passed to the first Roman. But in thus retracing its steps, it

4 THIED PEBIOD.

does not recover its own lost energy. It revisits the places
through which it had passed in the morning light, but it is now
with wearied limbs, and under the gloomy shadows of evening.

§ VI. It has just been said that the two principal causes of
natural decline in any school are over-luxuriance and over-refine-
ment. The corrupt Gothic of Venice furnishes us with a curious
instance of the one, and the corrupt Byzantine of the other. We
shall examine them in succession.

• Now, observe, first, I do not mean by luxuriance of ornament,
quantity of ornament. In the best Gothic in the world there is
hardly an inch of stone left unsculptured. But I mean that
character of extravagance in the ornament itself which shows
that it was addressed to jaded faculties ; a violence and coarse-
ness in curvature, a depth of shadow, a lusciousness in ar-
rangement of line, evidently arising out of an incapability of
feeling the true beauty of chaste form and restrained power,
I do not know any character of design which may be more
easily recognised at a glance than this over-lusciousness ; and
yet it seems to me that at the present day there is nothing
so little understood as the essential difference between chaste-
ness and extravagance, whether in colour, shade, or lines. We
speak loosely and inaccurately of "overcharged" ornament,
with an obscure feeling that there is indeed something in
visible Form which is correspondent to Intemperance in moral
habits ; but without any distinct detection of the character
which offends us, far less with any understanding of the most
important lesson which there can be no doubt was intended to be
conveyed by the universality of this ornamental law.

§ VII. In a word, then, the safeguard of highest beauty, in all
visible work, is exactly that which is also the safeguard of con-
duct in the soul, — ^Temperance, in the broadest sense ; the Tem-
perance which we have seen sitting on an equal throne with
Justice amidst the Four Cardinal virtues, and, wanting which,
there is not any other virtue which may not lead us into despe-
rate error. Now, observe : Temperance, in the nobler sense, does
not mean a subdued and imperfect energy ; it does not mean a
stopping short in any good thing, as in Love or in Faith; but

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 5

it means the power which governs the most intense energy, and
prevents its acting in any way but as it ought And with
respect to things in which there may be excess, it does not mean
imperfect enjoyment of them ; but the regulation of their quan-
tity, so that the enjoyment of them shall be greatest. For in-
stance, in the matter we have at present in hand, temperance in
colour does not mean imperfect or dull enjoyment of colour ;
but it means that government of colour which shall bring the
utmost possible enjoyment out of all hues. A bad colourist does
not love beautiful colour better than the best colourist does, nor
half so much. But he indulges in it to excess ; he uses it in large
masses, and unsubdued ; and then it is a law of Nature, a law as
universal as that of gravitation, that he shall not be able to enjoy
it so much as if he had used it in less quantity. His eye is jaded
and satiated, and the blue and red have life in them no more.
He tries to paint them bluer and redder, in vain: all the blue
has become grey, and gets greyer the more he adds to it ; all his
crimson has become brown, and gets more sere and autumnal
the more he deepens it. But the great painter is sternly tempe-
rate in his work ; he loves the vivid colour with all his heart ;
but for a long time he does not allow himself anything like it,
nothing but sober browns and dull greys, and colours that have
no conceivable beauty in them ; but these by his government be-
come lovely : and after bringing out of them all the life and
power they possess, and enjoying them to the uttermost, — cau-
tiously, and as the crown of the work, and the consummation
of its music, he permits the momentary crimson and azure, and
the whole canvas is in a flame.

§ VIII. Again, in curvature, which is the cause of loveliness
in all form ; the bad designer does not enjoy it more than the
great designer, but he indulges in it till his eye is satiated, and
he cannot obtain enough of it to touch his jaded feeling for grace.
But the great and temperate designer does not allow himself any
violent curves ; he works much with liijes in which the curva-
ture, though always existing, is long before it is perceived He
dwells on all these subdued curvatures to the uttermost, and
opposes them with still severer lines to bring them out in fuller

6 THIRD PERIOD.

sweetness ; and, at last, he allows himself a momentary curve of
energy, and all the work is, in an instant, full of life and grace.

The curves drawn in. Plate VII., p. 216. of the first volume,
were chosen entirely to show this character of dignity * and
restraint, as it appears in the lines of nature, together with
the perpetual changefulness of the degrees of curvature in one
and the same line; but although the purpose of that plate
was carefully explained in the chapter which it illustrates, as
well as in the passages of " Modem Painters " therein referred
to (vol. ii. pp. 43. 79.), so little are we now in the habit of
considering the character of abstract lines, that it was thought
by many persons that this plate only illustrated Hogarth's
reversed line of beauty, even although the curve of the salvia
leaf, which was the one taken from that plate for future use, in
architecture, was not a reversed or serpentine curve at all. I
shall now, however, I hope, be able to show my meaning better.

§ IX. Fig. 1. in Plate I., opposite, is a piece of ornamentation
from a Norman-French manuscript of the thirteenth century,
and fig. 2. from an Italian one of the fifteenth. Observe in the
first its stem moderation in curvature ; the gradually united
lines nearly straight^ though none quite straight, used for its
main limb, and contrasted with the bold but simple ofishoots
of its leaves, and the noble spiral from which it shoots, these in
their turn opposed by the sharp trefoils and thorny cusps.
And see what a reserve of resource there is in the whole ; how
easy it would have been to make the curves more palpable and
the foliage more rich, and how the noble hand has stayed itself,
and refused to grant one wave of motion more.

§ X. Then observe the other example, in which, while the
same idea is continually repeated, excitement and interest are
sought for by means of violent and continual curvatures wholly
unrestrained, and rolling hither and thither in confused wanton-
ness. Compare the character of the separate lines in these two
examples carefully, and be assured that wherever this redundant
and luxurious curvature shows itself in omamentation, it is a
sign of jaded energy and failing invention. Do not confuse it

i

Temperance and Intemperance .
In Curvature .

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 7

with fulness or richness. Wealth is not necessarily wantonness :
a Gothic moulding may be buried half a foot deep in thorns and
leaves, and yet will be chaste in every line ; and a late Re-
naissance moulding may be utterly barren and poverty-stricken,
and yet will show the disposition to luxury in every line.

§ XI. Plate XX, in the second volume, though prepared
for the special illustration of the notices of capitals, becomes
peculiarly interesting when considered in relation to the points
at present under consideration. The four leaves in the upper
row are Byzantine ; the two middle rows are transitional, all
but fig. 11. which is of the formed Gothic; fig. 12. is perfect
Gothic of the finest time (Ducal Palace, oldest part) ; fig. 13.
is Gothic beginning to decline; fig. 14. is Renaissance Gothic
in complete corruption.

Now observe, first, the Gothic naturalism advancing gradually
from the Byzantine severity ; how from the sharp, hard, formalised
conventionality of the upper series the leaves gradually expand
into more free and flexible animation, until in fig. 12. we have
the perfect living leaf as if just fresh gathered out of the dew.
And then, in the last two examples, and partly in fig. 11.,
observe how the forms which can advance no longer in ani-
mation, advance, or rather decline, into luxury and effeminacy
as the strength of the school expires.

§ XII. In the second place, note that the Byzantine and Gothic
schools, however differing in degi'ee of life, are both alike in
temperancey though the temperance of the Gothic is the nobler,
because it consists with entire animation. Observe how severe
and subtle the curvatures are in all the leaves from fig. 1. to
fig. 12., except only in fig. II. ; and observe ^specially the
firmness and strength obtained by the close approximation to
the straight line in the lateral ribs of the leaf, fig. 12. The
longer the eye rests on these temperate curvatures the more it
will enjoy them, but it will assuredly in the end be wearied by
the morbid exaggeration of the last example.

§ XIII. Finally, observe — and this is very important — ^how
one and the same character in the work may be a sign of totally

8 THIRD PERIOD.

different states of mind, and therefore in one case bad, and in
the other good. The examples, fig. 3. and fig. 12., are botli
equally pure in line; but one is subdivided in the extreme,
the other lm>ad in the extreme, and both are beautiful The
Byzantine mind delighted in the delicacy of subdivision which
nature shows in the fern-leaf or parsley-leaf ; and so, also, often
the Gothic mind, much enjoying the oak, thorn, and thistle.
But the builder of the Ducal Palace used great breadth in his
foliage, in order to harmonise with the broad surface of his
mighty wall, and delighted in this breadth as nature delights in
the sweeping freshness of the dock-leaf or water-lily. Both
breadth and subdivision are thus noble, when they are contem-
plated or conceived by a mind in health ; and both become
ignoble, when conceived by a mind jaded and satiated. The sub-
division in fig. 13. as compared with the type, fig. 12., which it
was intended to improve, is the sign, not of a mind which loved
intricacy, but of one which could not relish simplicity, which had
not strength enough to enjoy the broad masses of the earlier
leaves, and cut them to pieces idly, like a child tearing the book
which, in its weariness, it cannot read. And on the other hand, we
shall continually find, in other examples of work of the same
period, an unwholesome breadth or heaviness, which results from
the mind having no longer any care for refinement or precision,
nor taking any delight in delicate forms, but making all things
blunted, cumbrous, and dead, losing at the same time the sense
of the elasticity and spring of natural curves. It is as if
thct soul of man, itself severed from the root of its health, and
about to fall into corruption, lost the perception of life in
all things aroimd it; and could no more distinguish the wave
of the strong branches, full of muscular strength and sanguine
circulation, from the lax bending of a broken cord, nor the
sinuousness of the edge of the leaf, crushed into deep folds
by the expansion of its living growth, from the wrinkled con-
traction of its decay.* Thus, in morals, there is a care for

* There is a curious instance of this in the modem imitations of the Qothic
capitals of the Casa d' Oro, employed in its restorations. The old capitals look

(lotliic Capitals

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 9

trifles which proceeds from love and conscience, and is most
holy ; and a care for trifles which comes of idleness and fri-
volity, and is most base. And so, also, there is a gravity
proceeding from thought, which is most noble ; and a gravity
proceeding from dulness and mere incapability of enjoyment,
which is most base. Now, in the various forms assumed by
the later Gothic of Venice, there are one or two features which,
under other circumstances, would not have been signs of de-
cline; but, in the particular manner of their occurrence here,
indicate the fatal weariness of decay. Of all these features the
most distinctive are its crockets and finials.

§ XIV. There is not to be found a single crocket or finial upon
any part of the Ducal Palace built during the fourteenth century ;
and although they occur on contemporary, and on some much
earlier, buildings, they either indicate detached examples of
schools not properly Venetian, or are signs of incipient decline.

The reason of this is, that the finial is properly the ornament
of gabled architecture ; it is the compliance, in the minor features
of the building, with the spirit of its towers, ridged roof, and
spires. Venetian buHding is not gabled, but horizontal in its
roofs and general masses ; therefore the finial is a feature contra-
dictory to its spirit, and adopted only in that search for morbid
excitement which is the infallible indication of decline. When
it occurs earlier, it is on fragments of true gabled architecture ;
as, for instance, on the porch of the Carmini.

In proportion to the unjustifiableness of its introduction was
the extravagance of the form it assumed; becoming, sometimes,
a tuft at the top of the ogee windows, half as high as the arch
itself, and consisting, in the richest examples, of a human figure,
half emergent out of a cup of leafage ; as, for instance, in the
small archway of the Campo San Zaccaria : while the crockets,
as being at the side of the arch, and not so strictly connected
with its balance and symmetry, appear to consider themselves at

like clusters of leaves, the modem ones like kneaded masses of dough with holes
in them.

10 THIRD PERIOD.

greater liberty even than the finials, and fling themselves hither
and thither in the wildest contortions. Fig. 4. in Plate I. is
the outline of one, carved in stone, from the later Gk)thic of
St. Mark's ; fig. 3. a crocket from the fine Veronese Gothic ; in
order to enable the reader to discern the Renaissance character
better by comparison with the examples of curvature above them,
taken from the manuscripts. And not content with this exube-
rance in the external ornaments of the arch, the finial interferes
with its traceries. The increased intricacy of these, aa such, being
a natural process in the developement of Gothic, would have been
no evil ; but they are corrupted by the enrichment of the finial
at the point of the cusp, — corrupted, that is to say, in Venice :
for at Verona the finial, in the form of a fleur-de-lis, appears long
previously at the cusp point, with exquisite effect ; and in our own
best Northern Gothic it is often used beautifully in this place, as in
the window from Salisbury, Plate XII. (Vol. II.) fig. 2. But in
Venice, such a treatment of it was utterly contrary to the severe
spirit of the ancient traceries ; and the adoption of a leafy finial
at the extremity of the cusps in the door of San Stefano, as
opposed to the simple ball which terminates those of the Ducal
Palace, is an immistakable indication of a tendency to decline.

In like manner, the enrichment and complication of the jamb
mouldings, which, in other schools, might and did take place in
the healthiest periods, are, at Venice, signs of decline, owing to
the entire inconsistency of such mouldings with the ancient love
of the single square jamb and archivolt. The process of enrich-
ment in them is shown by the successive examples given in
Plate VII., below. They are numbered, and explained in the
Appendix.

§ XV. The date at which this corrupt form of Gothic first
prevailed over the early simplicity of the Venetian types can
be determined in an instant on the steps of the choir of the
Church of St. John and Paul. On our left hand, as we enter, is
the tomb of the Doge Marco Comaro, who died in 1367. It is
rich and fully developed Gothic, with crockets and finials, but
not yet attaining any extravagant developement. Opposite to

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 11

it is that of the Doge Andrea Morosini, who died in 1382. Its
Gothic is voluptuous, and over-wrought ; the crockets are bold
and floridy and the enormous finial represents a statue of St.
Michael. There is no excuse for the antiquaries who, having
this tomb before them, could have attributed the severe archi-
tecture of the Ducal Palace to a later date; for every one of
the Renaissance errors is here in complete developement, though
not so grossly as entirely to destroy the loveKness of the Gothic
forms. In the Porta della Carta, 1423, the vice reaches its
climax.

§ XVI. Against this degraded Gothic, then, came up the Re-
naissance armies ; and their first assault was in the requirement
of universal perfection. For the first time since the destruction
of Rome, the world had seen, in the work of the greatest artists of
the fifteenth century, — ^in the painting of Ghirlandajo, Masaccio,
Francia, Perugino, Pinturicchio, and Bellini ; in the sculpture
of Mino da Fiesole, of Ghiberti, and Verrocchio, — a perfection of
execution and fulness of knowledge which cast all previous art
into the shade, and which, being in the work of those men
united with all that was great in that of former days, did in-
deed justify the utmost enthusiasm with which their efforts
were, or could be, regarded. But when this perfection had
once been exhibited in anything, it was required in everything ;
the world could no longer be satisfied with less exquisite execu-
tion, or less disciplined knowledge. The first thing that it
demanded in all work was, that it should be done in a consum-
mate and learned way ; and men altogether forgot that it was
possible to consummate what was contemptible, and to know
what was useless. Imperatively requiring dexterity of touch,
they gradually forgot to look for tenderness of feeling; impera-
tively requiring accuracy of knowledge, they gradually forgot
to ask for originality of thought. The thought and the feeling
which they despised departed from them, and they were left to
felicitate themselves on their small science and their neat
fingering. This is the history of the first attack of the Re-
naissance upon the Gothic schools, and of its rapid results ; more

12 ■ THIRD PERIOD.

I

J

fatal and immediate in architecture than in any other art,
because there the demand for perfection was less reasonable, and
less consistent with the capabilities of the workman ; being utterly
opposed to that rudeness or savageness on which, as we saw
above, the nobility of the elder schools in great part depends. *j,

But, inasmuch as the innovations were founded on some of the I

most beautiful examples of art, and headed by some of the
greatest men that the world ever saw, and as the Gothic with
which they interfered was corrupt and valueless, the first ap-
pearance of the Renaissance feeling had the appearance of a
healthy movement. A new energy replaced whatever weariness j

or dulness had affected the Gothic mind; an exquisite taste
and refinement, aided by extended knowledge, furnished the first
models of the new school ; and over the whole of Italy a style
arose, generally now known as cinque-cento, which in sculpture
and painting, as I just stated, produced the noblest masters ■

whom the world ever saw, headed by Michael Angelo, Eaphael,
and Leonardo ; but which failed of doing the same in archi-
tecture, because, as we have seen above, perfection is therein not i
possible, and failed more totally than it would otherwise have
done, because the classical enthusiasm had destroyed the best
types of architectural form.

§ XVII. For, observe here very carefully, the Renaissance
principle, aa it consisted in a demand for universal perfection, is
quite distinct firom the Renaissance principle as it consists in a
demand for classical and Roman forms of perfection. And if I
had space to follow out the subject as I should desire, I would
first endeavour to ascertain what might have been the course
of the art of Europe if no manuscripts of classical authors had
been recovered, and no remains of classical architecture left, in
the fifteenth century; so that the executive perfection to which
the efforts of all great men had tended for five hundred years,
and which now at last was reached, might have been allowed
to develope itself in its own natural and proper form, in con-
nection with the architectural structure of earlier schools. This
refinement and perfection had indeed its own perils, and the

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 13

history of later Italy, as she sank into pleasure and thence into
corruption, would probably have been the same whether she
had ever learned again to write pure Latin or not. Still the
inquiry into the probable cause of the enervation which might
naturally have followed the highest exertion of her energies, is
a totally distinct one from that into the particular form giveiii to
this enervation by her classical learning ; and it js matter of
considerable regret to me that I cannot treat these two subjects
separately : I must be content with marking them for separation
in the mind of the reader.

§ XVIII. The eflfect, then, of the sudden enthusiasm for clas-
sical literature, which gained strength during every hour of the
fifteenth century, was, as far as respected architecture, to do
away with the entire system of Gothic science. ' The pointed
arch, the shadowy vault, the clustered shaft, the heaven-pointing
spire, were all swept away; and no structure was any longer
permitted but that of the plain cross-beam from pillar to pUlar,
over the round arch, with square or circular shafts, and a low-
gabled roof and pediment : two elements of noble form, which
had fortunately existed in Rome, were, however, for that reason,
stm permitted ; the cupola, and, intemaUy, the waggon vault. .

§ xix. These changes in form were all of them unfortunate ;
and it is almost impossible to do justice to the occasionally
exquisite ornamentation of the fifteenth century, on account of
its being placed upon edifices of the cold and meagre Roman
outUne. There is, as far as I know, only one Gothic building
in Europe, the Duomo of Florence, in which, though the orna-
ment be of a much earlier school, it is yet so exquisitely finished
as to enable us to imagine what might have been the efiect of
the perfect workmanship of the Renaissance, coming out of the
hands of men like Verrocchio and Ghiberti, had it been employed
on the magnificent framework of Gothic structure. This is the
question which, as I shall note in the concluding chapter, Ave
ought to set ourselves practically to solve in modem times.

§ XX, The changes eflfected in form, however, were the least
part of the evil principles of the Renaissance. As I have just

t

14 THIRD PERIOD.

Baid, its main mistake, in its early stages, was the unwholesome
demand for perfectiony at any cost. I hope enough has been
advanced, in the chapter on the Nature of Gothic, to show the
reader tliat perfection is not to be had from the general workman,
but at the cost of everything, — of his whole life, thought, and
energy. And Eenaissance Europe thought this a small price to
pay for manipulative perfection. Men like Verrocchio and Ghi-
berti were not to be had every day, nor in every place ; and to
require from the common workman execution or knowledge like
theirs, was to require him to become their copyist Their
strength was great enough to enable them to join science with
invention, method with emotion, finish with fire ; but in them
the invention and the fire were first, while Europe saw in them
only the methoa and the finish. This was new to the minds of
men, and they pursued it to the neglect of everything else.
"This," they cried, "we must have in all our work hencefor-
ward : " and they were obeyed. The lower workman secured
method and finish, and lost, in exchange for them, his soul.

§ XXI. Now, therefore, do not let me be misunderstood when
I speak generally of the evil spirit of the Renaissance. The
reader may look through all I have written, from first to
last, and he will not find one word but of the most profound
reverence for those mighty men who could wear the Renais-
sance armour of proof, and yet not feel it encumber their
living limbs,* — Leonardo and Michael Angelo, Ghirlandajo and
Masaccio, Titian and Tintoret. But I speak of the Renaissance
as an evil time, because, when it saw those men go burning
forth into the battle, it mistook their armour for their strength ;
and forthwith encumbered with the painful panoply every strip-
ling who ought to have gone forth only with his own choice of
three smooth stones out of the brook.

§ XXII. This, then, the reader must always keep in mind
when ,he is examining for himself any examples of cinque-cento

•

* Not that even these men were able to wear it altogether without harm, as
we shall see in the next chapter.

■^

I. EARLY KENAISSANCE. 15

work. When it has been done by a truly great man, whose
life and strength could not be oppressed, and who turned
to good account the whole science of his day, nothing is more
exquisite. I do not believe, for instance, that there is a more
glorious work of sculpture existing in the world than that
equestrian statue of Bartolomeo C!!olleone, by Verrocchio, of which,
I hope, before these pages are printed, there will be a cast in
England. But when the cinque-cento work has been done by
those meaner men, who, in the Gothic times, though in a rough
way, would yet have found some means of speaking out what
was in their hearts, it is utterly inanimate, — a base and helpless
copy of more accomplished models ; or, if not this, a mere
accumulation of technical skiU, in gaining which the workman
had surrendered aU other powers that were in him.

There is, therefore, of course, an infinite gradation in the
art of the period, from .the Sistine Chapel down to modern
upholstery ; but, for the most part, since in architecture the
workman must be of an inferior order, it will be found that this
cinque-cento painting and higher religious sculpture is noble,
while the cinque-cento architecture, with its subordinate sculp-
ture, is imiversally bad ; sometimes, however, assuming forms in
which the consummate refinement almost atones for the loss of
force. .

§ XXIII. This is especially the case with that second branch
of the Kenaissance which, as above noticed, was engrafted at
Venice on the Byzantine types. So soon as the classical enthu-
siasm required the banishment of Gothic forms, it was natural
that the Venetian mind should turn back with afiection to the
Byzantine models in which the round arches and simple shafts,
necessitated by recent law, were presented under a form conse-
crated by the usage of their ancestors. * And, accordingly, the
first distinct school of architecture^ which arose under the new
dynasty was one in which the method of inlaying marble,
and the general forms of shaft and arch, were adopted from

* Appendix 4. : ^' Date of Palaces of Bjssantme Renaissance.''

16 THIRD PERIOD.

the buildings of the twelfth century, and applied with the
utmost possible refinements of modem skill. Both at Verona
and Venice the resulting architecture is exceedingly beautiful
At Verona it is, indeed, less Byzantine, but possesses a character
of richness and tenderness almost peculiar to that city. At
Venice it is more severe, but yet adorned with sculpture which,
for sharpness of touch and delicacy of minute form, cannot be
rivalled, and rendered especially brilliant and beautiful by the
introduction of those inlaid circles of coloured marble, serpentine,
and porphyry, by which PhiUippe de Commynes was so much
struck on his first entrance into the city. The two most refined
buildings in this style in Venice are, the small Church of the
Miracoli, and the Scuola di San Marco beside the Church of
St. John and St. Paul. The noblest is the Rio Fa9ade of the
Ducal Palace. The Casa Dario, and Casa Manzoni, on the Grand
Canal, are exquisite examples of the school, as applied to domestic
architecture ; and, in the reach of the Canal between the Casa
Foscari and the Rialto, there are several palaces, of which the
Casa Contarini (called "delle Figure") is the principal, be-
longing to the same group, though somewhat later, and remark-
able for the association of the Byzantine principles of colour
with the severest lines of the Roman pediment, gradually super-
«ding U>e «™nd arcL The precision of ^ and Li^y
of proportion in the ornament and general lines of these palaces
cannot be too highly praised ; and I believe that the traveller in
Venice, in general, gives them rather too little attention than too
much. But while I would ask him to stay his gondola beside
each of them long enough to examine their every line, I must
also warn him to observe most carefully the peculiar feebleness
and want of soul in the conception of their ornament, which
mark them as belonging to a period of decline ; as well as the
absurd mode of introduction of their pieces of coloured marble :
these, instead of being simply and naturally inserted in the
masonry, are placed in small circular or oblong frames of sculp-
ture, like mirrors or pictures, and are represented as suspended
by ribands against the wall ; a pair of wings being generally

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE, 17

fastened on to the circular tablets, as if to relieve the ribsinds
and knots from their weight, and the whole series tied under
the chin of a Uttle cherub at the top, who is nailed against the
fa9ade like a hawk on a bam door.

But chiefly let him notice, in the Casa Contarini delle
Figure, one most strange incident, seeming to have been per-
mitted, like the choice of the subjects at the three angles of the
Ducal Palace, in order to teach us, by a single lesson, the true
nature of the style in which it occurs. In the intervals of
the wmdow, of L tot s,»ry, certain shield, and torches .re
attached, in the form of trophies, to the stems of two trees
whose boughs have been cut oflF, and only one or two of their
faded leaves left, scarcely observable, but delicately sculptured
here and there, beneath the insertions of the severed boughs.

It is as if the workman had intended to leave us an image of
the expiring naturalism of the Gothic school I had not seen
this sculpture when I wrote the passage referring to its period,
in the first volume of this work (Chap. XX. § xxxi.) : —
"Autumn came, — ^the leaves were shed, — and the eye was
directed to the extremities of the delicate branches. TAe Renais-
sance frosts came, and all perished ! "

§ XXIV. And the hues of this autumn of the early Eenaissance
are the last which appear in architecture. The winter which
succeeded was colourless as it was cold ; and although the Vene-
tian painters struggled long against its influence, the numbness
of the architecture prevailed over them at last, and the exteriors
of all the latter palaces were built only in barren stone. As at
this point of our inquiry, therefore, we must bid farewell to
colour, I have reserved for this place the continuation of the
history of chromatic decoration, from the Byzantine period, when
we left it in the fifth chapter of the second volume, down to its
final close.

§ XXV. It was above stated, that the principal difference in
general form and treatment between the Byzantine and Gothic
palaces was the contraction of the marble facing into the narrow

VOL. III. c

18 THIRD PERIOD.

spaces between the windows, leaving large fields of brick wall
perfectly bare. The reason for this appears to have been, that
the Gothic builders were no longer satisfied with the faint and
delicate hues of the veined marble ; they wished for some more
forcible and piquant mode of decoration, corresponding more
completely with the gradually advancing splendour of chivalric
costume and heraldic device. What I have said above of the
simple habits of life of the thirteenth century, in nowise refers
either to costumes of state or of military service ; and any illu-
mination of the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries (the
great period being, it seems to me, from 1250 to 1350), while it
shows a peculiar majesty and simplicity in the fall of the robes
(often worn over the chain armour), indicates, at the same time,
an exquisite brilliancy of colour and power of design in the hems
and borders, as well as in the armorial bearings with which they
are charged; and while, as we have seen, a peculiar simplicity
is found also in the forms of the architecture, corresponding to
that of the folds of the robes, its colours were constantly increas-
ing in brilliancy and decision, corresponding to those of the quar-
tering of the shield, and of the embroidery of the mantle.

§ XXVI. Whether, indeed, derived from the quarterings of the
knights' shields, or from what other source, I know not; but
there is one magnificent attribute of the colouring of the late
twelfth, the whole thirteenth, and the early fourteenth century,
which I do not find definitely in any previous work, nor after-
wards in general art, though constantly, and necessarily,.in that
of great colourists, namely, the imion of one colour with an-
other by reciprocal interference: that is to say, if a mass of
red is to be set beside a mass of blue, a piece of the red will
be carried into the blue, and a piece of the blue carried into
the red ; sometimes in nearly equal portions, as in a shield divided
into four quarters, of which the uppermost on one side will be
of the same colour as the lowermost on the other; sometimes
in smaller fragments, but, in the periods above named, always
definitely and grandly, though in a thousand various ways.
And I call it a magnificent principle, for it is an eternal and

J

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 19

universal one, not in art only,* but in human life. It is the
great principle of Brotherhood, not by equality, nor by likeness,
but by giving and receiving ; the souls that are unlike, and the
nations that are unlike, and the natures that are unlike, being
bound into one noble whole by each receiving something from
and of the others' gifts and the others' glory. I have not space
to follow out this thought, — it is of infinite extent and applica-
tion, — ^but I note it for the reader's pursuit, because I have long
believed, and the whole second volume of " Modem Painters "
was written to prove, that in whatever has been made by the
Deity externally delightful to the human sense of beauty, there
is some type of God's nature or of God's laws ; nor are any of
His laws, in one sense, greater than the appointment that the
most lovely and perfect unity shall be obtained by the taking of
one nature into another. I trespass upon too high ground ; and
yet I cannot fully show the reader the extent of this law, but by
leading him thus far. And it is just because it is so vast and so
awful a law, that it has rule over the smallest things ; and there
is not a vein of colour on the slightest leaf which the spring winds
are at this moment unfolding in the fields around us, but it is
an illustration of an ordainment to which the earth and its crea-
tures owe their continuance and their Redemption.

§ xxvii. It is perfectly inconceivable, until it has been made
a subject of special inquiry, how perpetually Nature employs this
principle in the distribution of her light and shade ; how by the

* In the various works which Mr. Prout has written on light and shade, no
principle will be found insisted on more strongly than this carrying of the dark
into the light, and vice versa. It is curious to find the untaught instinct of a
merely picturesque artist in the ninfeteenth century, fbdng itself so intensely on a
principle which regulated the entire sacred composition of the thirteenth. I say
" untaught ** instinct, for Mr. Prout was, throughout his life, the discoverer of
his own principles; fortunately so, considering what principles were taught in
his time, but unfortunately in the abstract, for there were gifts in him, which,
had there been any wholesome influences to cherish them, might have made him
one of the greatest men of his age. He was great, under aU adverse circum-
stances, but the mere wreck of what he might have been, if, after the rough
training noticed in my pamphlet on Pre-Raphaelitism, as having fitted him for
his great function in the world he had met with a teacher who could have
appreciated his powers, and directed them.

20 THIRD PERIOD.

most extraordinary adaptations, apparently accidental, but always
in exactly the right place, she contrives to bring darkness into
light, and light into darkness ; and that so sharply and decisively,
that at the very instant when one object changes from light to
dark, the thing relieved upon it will change from dark to light,
and yet so subtly that the eye will not detect the transition till it
looks for it. The secret of a great part of the grandeur in all the
noblest compositions is the doing of this delicately in degree, and
broadly in mass ; in colour it may be done much more decisively
than in light and shade, and, according to the simplicity of the
work, with greater frankness of confession, until, in purely deco-
rative art, as in the illumination, glass-painting, and heraldry of
the great periods, we find it reduced to segmental accuracy.
Its greatest masters, in high art, are Tintoret, Veronese, and
Turner.

§ XXVIII. Together with this great principle of quartering is
introduced another, also of very high value as far as regards the
delight of the eye, though not of so profound meaning. As soon
as colour began to be used in broad and opposed fields, it was
perceived that the mass of it destroyed its brilliancy, and it was
tempered by chequering it with some other colour or colours in
smaller quantities, mingled with minute portions of pure white.
The two moral principles of which this is the type are those of
Temperance and Purity; the one requiring the fulness of the
colour to be subdued, and the other that it shall be subdued
without losing either its own purity or that of the colours with
which it is associated.

§ XXIX. Hence arose the universal and admirable system of
the diapered or chequered backgrounds of early ornamental art.
They are completely developed in the thirteenth century, and
extend through the whole of the fourteenth, gradually yielding
to landscape and other pictorial backgrounds, as the designers lost
perception of the purpose of their art, and of the value of colour.
The chromatic decoration of the Gothic palaces of Venice was of
course founded on these two great principles, which prevailed
constantly wherever the true chivalric and Gothic spirit possessed

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 21

any influence. The windows, with their intermediate spaces
of marble, were considered as the objects to be relieved, and
variously quartered with vigorous colour. The whole space of
the brick wall was considered as a background ; it was covered
with stucco, and painted in fresco, with diaper patterns.

§ XXX. What ? the reader asks in some surprise, — Stucco I and
in the great Gothic period ? Even so, but not stucco to imitate
stone. Herein lies all the difference ; it is stucco confessed and
understood, and laid on the bricks precisely as gesso is laid on
canvas, in order to form them into a ground for receiving colour
from the human hand, — colour which, if well laid on, might
render the brick wall more precious than if it had been built of
emeralds. Whenever we wish to paint, we may prepare our
paper as we choose ; the value of the ground in nowise adds to
the value of the picture. A Tintoret on beaten gold would be
of no more value than a Tintoret on coarse canvas; the gold
would merely be wasted. All that we have to do is to make the
ground as good and fit for the colour as possible, by whatever
means.

§ XXXI. I am not sure if I am right in applying the term
" stucco " to the ground of fresco ; but this is of no consequence ;
the reader will understand that it was white, and that the
whole wall of the palace was considered as the page of a book to
be illuminated : but he will understand also that the sea winds
are bad librarians ; that, when once the painted stucco began to
fade or to fall, the unsightliness of the defaced colour would
necessitate its immediate restoration; and that therefore, of all
the chromatic decoration of the Gothic palaces, there is hardly a
fragment left.

Happily, in the pictures of Gentile Bellini, the fresco colouring
of the Gothic palaces is recorded, as it still remained in his time ;
not with rigid accuracy, but quite distinctly enough to enable us,
by comparing it with the existing coloured designs in the manu-
scripts and glass of the period, to ascertain precisely what it
must have been.

§ XXXII. The walls were generally covered with chequers of

22 THIRD PERIOD.

very warm colour, a russet inclining to scarlet more or less
relieved with white, black, and grey; as still se^n in the only
example which, having been executed in marble, has been
perfectly preserved, the front of the Ducal Palace. This, how-
ever, owing to the nature of its materials, was a peculiarly
simple example; the ground is white, crossed with double bars
of pale red, and in the centre of each chequer there is a cross,
alternately black with a red centre and red with a black centre
where the arms cross. In painted work the grounds would be,
of course, as varied and complicated as those of manuscripts ;
but I only know of one example left, on the Casa Sagredo,
where, on some fragmente of stucco, a very early chequer
background is traceable, composed of crimson quatrefoils inter-
laced, with cherubims stretching their wings filling the intervals.
A small portion of this ground is seen beside the window taken
from the palace, Vol. II. Plate XIIL fig. 1.

§ xxxiii. It ought to be especially noticed, that, in all
chequered patterns employed in the coloured designs of these
noble periods, the greatest care is taken to mark that they are
grounds of design rather than designs themselves. Modern
architects, in such minor imitations as they are beginning to
attempt, endeavour to dispose the parts of the patterns so as to
occupy certain symmetrical positions with respect to the parts
of the architecture. A Gothic builder never does this : he cuts
his ground into pieces of the shape he requires with utter
remorselessness, and places his windows or doors upon it
with no regard whatever to the lines in which they cut the
pattern : and, in illuminations of manuscripts, the chequer itself
is constantly changed in the most subtle and arbitrary way,
wherever there is the least chance of its regularity attracting
the eye, and making it of importance. So iiitentional is this,
that a diaper pattern is often set obliquely to the vertical lines
of the designs, for fear it should appear in any way connected
with them.

§ xxxiv. On these russet or crimson backgrounds the entire
space of the series of windows was relieved, for the most part,

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 23

as a subdued white field of alabaster ; and on this delicate and
veined white were set the circular disks of purple and green.
The arms of the family were of course blazoned in their own
proper colours, but I think generally on a pure azure ground ;
the blue colour is still left behind the shields in the Casa Priuli
and one or two more of the palaces which are unrestored, and
the blue ground was used also to relieve the sculptures of reli-
gious subject. Finally, all the mouldings, capitals, cornices, cusps,
and traceries, were either entirely gilded or profusely touched
with gold.

The whole firont of a Gothic palace in Venice may, therefore,
be simply described as a field of subdued russet, quartered with
broad sculptured masses of white and gold ; these latter being
relieved by smaller inlaid fragments of blue, purple, and deep
green.

§ XXXV. Now, from the beginning of the fourteenth century,
when painting and architecture were thus united, two processes
of change went on simultaneously to the beginning of the seven-
teenth. The merely decorative chequerings on the walls yielded
gradually to more elaborate paintings of figure-subject; first
small and quaint, and then enlarging into enormous pictures
filled by figures generally colossal. As these paintings became
of greater merit and importance, the architecture with which
they were associated was less studied ; and at last a style was
introduced in which the framework of the building was little
more interesting than that of a Manchester factory, but the
whole space of its walls was covered with the most precious
fresco paintings. Such edifices are of course no longer to be
considered as forming an architectural school ; they were merely
large preparations of artist's panels ; and Titian, Giorgione, and
Veronese no more conferred merit on the later architecture of
Venice, as such, by painting on its fa9ades, than Landseer or
Watts could confer merit on that of London by first white-
washing and then painting its brick streets from one end to the
other.

§ XXXVI. Contemporarily with this change in the relative

24 THIBD PERIOD.

values of the colour decoration and the stonework, one equally
important was taking place in the opposite direction, but of
course in another group of buildings. For in proportion as
the architect felt himself thrust aside or forgotten in one edifice,
he endeavoured to make himself principal in another ; and, in
retaliation for the painter's entire usurpation of certain fields
of design, succeeded in excluding him totally from those in
which his own influence was predominant. Or, more accurately
speaking, the architects began to be too proud to receive assist-
ance fi:om the colourists ; and these latter sought for ground
which the architect had abandoned for the unrestrained display
of their own skill. And thus, while one series of edifices is con-
tinually becoming feebler in design and richer in superimposed
paintings, another, that of which we have so often spoken as
the earliest or Byzantine Renaissance, fragment by fragment
rejects the pictorial decoration ; supplies its place first with
marbles, and then, as the latter are felt by the architect, daily
increasing in arrogance and deepening in coldness, to be too
bright for his dignity, he casts even these aside one by one:
and when the last porphyry circle has vanished from the facade,
we find two palaces standing side by side, one built, so far as
mere masonry goes, with consummate care and skiU, but without
the slightest vestige of colour in any part of it ; the other utterly
without any claim to interest in its architectural form, but
covered firom top to bottom with paintings by Veronese. At
this period, then, we bid farewell to colour, leaving the painters
to their own peculiar field ; and only regretting that they waste
their noblest work on walls, fi*om which in a couple of centuries,
if not before, the greater part of their labour must be effaced.
On the other hand, the architecture whose decline we are tracing,
has now assumed an entirely new condition, that of the Central
or True Renaissance, whose nature we are to examine in the
next chapter.

§ XXXVII. But before leaving these last palaces over which the
Byzantine influence extended itself, there is one more lesson to

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 25

be learned from them of much importance to us. Though in
many respects debased in style, they are consummate in work-
manship, and unstained in honour ; there is no imperfection in
them, and no dishonesty. That there is absolutely no imperfec-
tion, is indeed, as we have seen above, a proof of their being
wanting in the highest qualities of architecture ; but, as lessons
in masonry, they have their value, and may well be studied for
the excellence they display in methods of levelling stones, for
the precision of their inlaying, and other such qualities, which
in them are indeed too principal, yet very instructive in their
particular way,

§ xxxvin. F(tr instance, in the inlaid design of the dove with
the olive branch, from the Casa Trevisan (Vol. I. Plate XX.
p. 358.), it is impossible for anything to go beyond the precision
with which the olive leaves are cut out of the white marble ; and,
in some wreaths of laurel below, the rippled edge of each leaf is as
finely and easily drawn, as if by a delicate pencil. No Florentine
table is more exquisitely finished than the facade of this entire
palace ; and as ideals of an executive perfection, which, though
we must not turn aside from bur main path to reach it, may yet
with much advantage be kept in our sight and memory, these
palaces are most notable amidst the architecture of Europe.
The Rio Fajade of the Ducal Palace, though very sparing in
colour, is yet, as an example of finished masonry in a vast build-
ing, one of the finest things, not only in Venice, but in the world.
It differs from other work of the Byzantine Renaissance, in being
on a very large scale ; and it still retains one pure Gothic character,
which adds not a little to its nobleness, that of perpetual variety.
There is hardly one window of it, or one panel, that is like another;
and this continual change so increases its apparent size by con-
fusing the eye, that, though presenting no bold features, or
striking masses of any kind, there are few things in Italy more
impressive than the vision of it overhead, as the gondola glides
from beneath the Bridge of Sighs. And lastly (unless we are to
blame these buildings for some pieces of very childish perspective),

26 THIBD PERIOD.

they axe magnificently honesty as well as perfect. I do not re-
member even any gilding upon them ; all is pure marble, and of
the finest kind.* '

And therefore, in finally leaving the Ducal Palace,t let us
take with us one more lesson, the last which we shall receive
from the Stones of Venice, except in the form of a warning,

§ XXXIX. The school of architecture which we have just been
examining is, as we have seen above, redeemed from severe con-
demnation by its careful and noble use of inlaid marbles as a
means of colour. From that time forward, this art has been
unknown or despised ; the firescoes of the swift and daring
Venetian painters long contended with the inlaid marbles, out-
vying them with colour, indeed more glorious than theirs, but
fugitive as the hues of woods in autumn ; and, at last, as the art
itself of painting in this mighty manner failed from among men, J
the modem decorative system established itself, which united the
meaninglessness of the veined marble with the evanescence of the
fresco, and completed the harmony by falsehood.

§ XL. Since first, in the second chapter of the " Seven Lamps,"
I endeavoured to show the culpableness, as well as the base-
ness, of our common modes of decoration by painted imitation
of various woods or marbles, the subject has been discussed
in various architectural works, and is evidently becoming one
of daily increasing interest When it is considered how many
persons there are whose means of livelihood consist altogether in

* There may, however, be a kind of dishonesty even in the use of marble, if
it is attempted to make the marble look like something else. See the final or
Venetian Index, under head " Scalzi."

t Appendix 5. : << Renaissance Side of Ducal Palace."

t We have, as far as I know, at present among us, only one painter, Q. F. Watts,
who is capable of design in colour on a large scale. He stands alone among our
artists of the old school in his perception of the value of breadth in distant
masses, and in the vigour of invention by which such breadth must be sustained ;
and his power of expression and depth of thought are not less remarkable than
his bold conception of colour effect Very probably some of the Pre-Raphaelites
have the gift also ; I am nearly certain that Rossetti has it, and I think also
Millais ; but the experiment has yet to be tried. I wish it could be made in Mr.
Hope's church in Margaret Street

I. EABLY RENAISSANCE. 27

these spurious arts, and how difficult it is, even for the most
candid, to admit a conviction contrary both to their interests and
to their inveterate habits of practice and thought, it is rather a
matter of wonder that the cause of Truth should have found
even a few maintainers, than that it should have encountered a
host of adversaries. It has, however, been defended repeatedly
by architects themselves, and so successfully; that I believe, so
far as the desirableness of this or that method of ornamentation
is to be measured by the fact of its simple honesty or dishonesty,
there is little need to add anything to what has been already
urged upon the subject. But there are some points connected
with the pra.ctice of imitating marble, which I have been unable
to touch upon until now, and by the consideration of which wo
may be enabled to see something of the policy of honesty in this
matter, without in the least abandoning the higher ground of
principle.

§ xu. Consider, then, first, what marble seems to have been
made for. Over the greater part of the surface of the world,
we find that a rock has been providentially distributed, in a
manner particularly pointing it out as intended for the service
of man. Not altogether a common rock, it is yet rare enough
to command a certain degree of interest and attention wherever
it is found ; but not so rare as to preclude its use for any pur-
pose to which it is fitted. It is exactly of the consistence which
is best adapted for sculpture : that is to say, neither hard nor
brittle, nor flaky nor splintry, but uniform and delicately, yet
not ignobly, soft, — exactly soft enough to allow the sculptor to
work it without force, and trace on it the finest lines of finished
form ; and yet so hard as never to betray the touch or moulder
away beneath the steel; and so admirably crystallized, and of
such permanent elements, that no rain dissolves it, no time
changes it, no atmosphere decomposes it: once shaped, it is
shaped for ever, unless subjected to actual violence or attrition.
This rock, then, is prepared by Nature for the sculptor and
architect, just as paper is prepared by tlie manufacturer for the
artist, with as great — ^nay, with greater — care, and more perfect

28 THIRD PERIOD.

adaptation of the material to the requirements. And of this
marble paper, some is white and some coloured; but more is
coloured than white, because the white is evidently meant for
sculpture, and the coloured for the covering of large surfaces.

§ XLU. Now, if we would take Nature at her word, and use
this precious paper which she has taken so much care to provide
for us (it is a long process, the making of that paper; the pulp
of it needing the subtlest possible solution, and the pressing of
it — ^for it is all hot-pressed — having to be done under the sea,
or under something at least as heavy) ; if, I say, we use it as
Nature would have us, consider what advantages would follow.
The colours of marble are mingled for us just as if on a pre-
pared palette. They are of all shades and hues (except bad ones),
some being united and even, some broken, mixed, and inter-
rupted, in order to supply, as far as possible, the want of the
painter^s power of breaking and mingling the colour with the
brush. But there is more in the colours than this delicacy of
adaptation. There is history in them. By the manner in which
they are arranged in every piece of marble, they record the
means by which that marble has been produced, and the sue-
cessive changes through which it has passed. And in all their
veins and zones, and flame-Uke stainings, or broken and discon-
nected lines, they write various legends, never untrue, of the
former political state of the mountain kingdom to which they
belonged, of its infirmities and fortitudes, convulsions and con-
solidations, from the befidnning of time.

Now, if we were aever in the habit of «eing ^j&ing hot
real marbles, this language of theirs would soon begin to be un-
derstood; that is to say, even the least observant of us would
recognise such and such stones as forming a peculiar class, and
would begin to inquire where they came from, and, at last, take
some feeble interest in the main question, Why they were only
to be found in that or the other place, and how they came to
make a part of this mountain, and not of that ? And in a little
while, it would not be possible to stand for a moment at a shop
door, leaning against the pillars of it, without remembering or

I. EAKLY RENAISSANCE. 29

questioning of something well worth the memory or the inquiry,
touching the hills of Italy, or Greece, or Africa, or Spain ; and
we should be led on from knowledge to knowledge, until even
the unsculptured walls of our streets became to us volumes as
precious as those of our libraries.

§ XLiii. But the moment we admit imitation of marble, this
source of knowledge is destroyed. None of us can be at the
pains to go through the work of verification. If we knew that
every coloured stpne we saw was natural, certain questions, con-
clusions, interests, would force themselves upon us without any
effort of our own ; but we have none of us time to stop in the
midst of our daily business, to touch and pore over, and decide
with painful minuteness of investigation, whether such and such
a pillar be stucco or stone. And the whole field of this know-
ledge, which Nature intended us to possess when we were
children, is hopelessly shut out from us. Worse than shut
out, for the mass of coarse imitations confuses our knowledge
acquired from other sources; and our memory of the marbles
we have perhaps once or twice carefully examined, is disturbed
and distorted by the inaccuracy of the imitations which are
brought before us continually.

§ XLiv. But it will be said, that it is too expensive to employ
real marbles in ordinary cases. It may be so: yet not always
more expensive than the fitting windows with enormous plate
glass, and decorating them with elaborate stucco mouldings, and
other useless sources of expenditure in modern building; nay,
not always in the end more expensive than the frequent repaint-
ing of the dingy pillars, which a little water dashed against them
would refresh from day to day, if they were of true stone. But,
granting that it be so, in that very costliness, checking their
common use in certain localities, is part of the interest of marbles,
considered as history. Where they are not found. Nature has
supplied other materials, — clay for brick, or forest for timber, —
in the working of which she intends other characters of the
human mind to be developed, and by the proper use of which
certain local advantages will assuredly be attained, while the de-

30 THIBD PERIOD.

lightfulness and meaning of the precious marbles will be felt more
forcibly in the districts where they occur, or on the occasions
when they may be procured.

§ XLV. It can hardly be necessary to add that, as the imitation
of marbles interferes with and checks the knowledge of geography
and geology, so the imitation of wood interferes with that of
botany; and that our acquaintance with the nature, uses, and
manner of growth of the timber trees of our own and of foreign
countries, would probably, in the majority of cases, become accu-
rate and extensive, without any labour or sacrifice of time, were
not all inquiry checked, and all observation betrayed, by the
wretched labours of the " Grainer."

§ XLVi. But this is not all. As the practice of imitation re-
tards knowledge, so also it retards art.

There is not a meaner occupation for the human mind than the
imitation of the stains and stria? of marble and wood. When en-
gaged in any easy and simple mechanical occupation, there is still
some liberty for the mind to leave the literal work ; and the clash
of the loom or the activity of the fingers will not always prevent
the thoughts from some happy expatiation in their own domains.
But the grainer must think of what he is doing; and veritable
attention and care, and occasionally considerable skill, are con-
sumed in the doing of a more absolute nothing than I can name
in any other department of painful idleness. I know not any-
thing so humiUating as to see a human being, with arms and limbs
complete, and apparently a head, and assuredly a soul, yet into
the hands of which when you have put a brush and pallet, it
cannot do anything with them but imitate a piece of wood. It
cannot colour, it has no ideas of colour; it cannot draw, it has
no ideas of form ; it cannot caricature, it has no ideas of humour.
It is incapable of anything beyond knots. All its achievement,
the entire result of the daily application of its imagination and
immortality, is to be such a piece of texture as the sun and
dew are sucking up out of the muddy ground, and weaving
together, far more finely, in millions of millions of growing
branches over every rood of waste woodland and shady hill.

I. EARLY RENAISSANCE. 31

§ XLVii. But what is to be done, the reader asks, with men
who are capable of nothing else than this ? Nay, they may be
capable of everything else, for all we know, and what we are to
do with them I will try to say in the next chapter ; but mean-
while, one word more touching the higher principles of action
in this matter, from which we have descended to those of ex-
pediency. I trust that some day the language of Types will be
more read and understood by us than it has been for centuries ;
and when this language, a better one than' either Greek or Latin,
is again recognized amongst us, we shall find, or remember,
that as the other visible elements of the universe — its air, its
water, and its flame — ^set forth, in their pure energies, the life-
giving, purifying, and sanctifying influences of the Deity upon
His creatures, so the earth, in its purity, sets forth His eternity
and His Truth. I have dwelt above on the historical language
of stones; let us not forget this, which is their theological
language; and, as we would not wantonly pollute the fresh
waters when they issue forth in their clear glory from the rock,
nor stay the mountain winds into pestilential stagnancy, nor
mock the sunbeams with artificial and inefiective light ; so let
us not, by our own base and barren falsehoods, replace the
crystalline strength and burning colour of the earth from which
we were bom, and to which we must return ; the earth which,
like our own bodies, though dust in its degradation, is full of
splendour when God's hand gathers its atoms ; and which was
for ever sanctified by Him, as the symbol no less of His love
than of His truth, when He bade the high priest bear the
names of the Children of Israel on the clear stones of the
Breastplate of Judgment.

32 THIRD PERIOD.

CHAPTER II.

ROMAN RENAISSANCE.

§ I. Of all the buildings in Venice, later in date than the final
additions to the Ducal Palace, the noblest is, beyond all question,
that which, having been condemned by its proprietor, not many
years ago, to be pulled down and sold for the value of its mate-
rials, was rescued by the Austrian Government, and appropriated —
the Government officers having no other use for it — to the business
of the Post-Office; though still known to the gondolier by its
ancient name, the Casa Grimani. It is composed of three stories
of the Corinthian order, at once simple, delicate, and sublime ; but
on so colossal a scale, that the three-storied palaces on its right
and left only reach to the cornice which marks the level of its
first floor. Yet it is not at first perceived to be so vast ; and it
is only when some expedient is employed to hide it from the eye,
that by the sudden dwarfing of the whole reach of the Grand
Canal, which it commands, we become aware that it is to the
majesty of the Casa Grimani that the Rialto itself, and the
whole group of neighbouring buildings, owe the greater part of
their impressiveness. Nor is the finish of its details less notable
than the grandeur of their scale. There is not an erring line,
nor a mistaken proportion, throughout its noble front; and the
exceeding fineness of the chiselling gives an appearance of light-
ness to the vast blocks of stone out of whoso perfect union that
front is composed. The decoration is sparing, but delicate:
the first story only simpler than the rest, in that it has pilasters
instead of shafts, but all with Corinthian capitals, rich in leafage,
and fluted delicately; the rest of the walls flat and smooth,
and their mouldings sharp and shallow, so that the bold shafts
look like crystals of beryl running through a rock of quartz.

II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 33

§ 11. This palace is the principal type at Venice, and one of
the best in Europe, of the central architecture of the Renaissance
schools ; that carefully studied and perfectly executed architec-
ture to which those schools owe their principal claims to our
respect, and which became the model of most of the impor-
tant works subsequently produced by civilised nations. I have
called it the Eoman Renaissance, because it is founded, both
in its principles of superimposition, and in the style of its orna-
ment, upon the architecture of classic Rome at its best period.
The revival of Latin literature both led to its adoption and
directed its form ; and the most important example of it which
exists is the modem Roman basilica of St. Peter s. It had, at its
Renaissance or new birth, no resemblance either to Greek, Gothic,
or Byzantine forms, except in retaining the use of the round arch,
vault, and dome ; in the treatment of all details, it was exclusively
Latin; the last links of connexion with mediasval tradition
having been broken by its builders in their enthusiasm for
classical art, and the forms of true Greek or Athenian architec-
ture being still unknown to them. The study of these noble
Greek forms has induced various modifications of the Renaissance
in our own times ; but the conditions which are found most
applicable to the uses of modem life are still Roman, and the
entire style may most fitly be expressed by the term ^ Roman
Renaissance."

§ HI. It is this style, in its purity and fullest form, — repre-
sented by such buildings as the Casa Grimani at Venice (built
by San Micheli), -the Town Hall at Vicenza (by Palladio), St.
Peter's at Rome (by Michael Angelo), St. Paul's and Whitehall
in London (by Wren and Inigo Jones), — which is the true an-
tagonist of the Gothic school. The intermediate, or corrapt
conditions of it, though multiplied over Europe, are no longer
admired by architects, or made the subjects of their study ; but
the finished work of this central school is still, in most cases, the
model set before the student of the nineteenth century, as
opposed to those Gothic, Romanesque, or Byzantine forms which
have long been considered barbarous, and are so still by most of

VOL. III. D

34 THIRD PERIOD,

the leading men of the day. That they are, on the contrary,
most noble and beautiful^ and that the antagonistic Renaissance
is, in the main, unworthy and unadmirable, whatever perfection
of a certain kind it may possess, it was my principal purpose to
show, when first I undertook the labour of this work. It has
been attempted already to put before the reader th^ various
elements which unite in the Nature of Gothic, and to enable him
thus to judge, not merely of the beauty of the forms which that
system has produced already, but of its fature applicability to
the wants of mankind, and endless power over their hearts. I
would now endeavour, in like manner, to set before the reader the
Nature of Renaissance, and thus to enable him to compare the
two styles under the same light, and with the same enlarged
view of their relations to the intellect, and capacities for the
service, of man.

§ IV. It will not be necessary for me to enter at length into
any examination of its external form. It uses, whether for
its roofs of aperture or roofe proper, the low gable or circular
arch: but it differs from Romanesque work in attaching great
importance to the horizontal lintel or architrave above the arch ;
transferring the energy of the principal shafts to the supporting
of this horizontal beam, and thus rendering the arch a sub-
ordinate,^ if not altogether a superfluous, feature. The tjrpe of
this arrangement has been given already at c, Fig. XXXVL,
p. 140. Vol. I. : and I might insist at length upon the absurdity
of a construction in which the shorter shaft, which has the real
weight of wall to carry, is split into two by the taller one, which
has nothing to carry at all, — ^that taller one being strengthened,
nevertheless, as if the whole weight of the building bore upon
it ; and on the ungracefulness, never conquered in any Palladian
work, of the two half-capitals glued, as it were, against the
slippery round sides of the central shaft. But it is not the
form of this architecture against which I would plead. Its
defects are shared by many of the noblest forms of earlier
building, and might have been entirely atoned for by excellence
of spirit. But it is the moral nature of it which is corrupt, and

.--n

L PBTOB or scuorox. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 35

which it must, therefore, be our principal business to examine
and expose.

§ V. The moral, or immoral, elements which unite to form the
spirit of Central Renaissance architecture are, I believe, in the
main, two, — Pride and Infidelity ; but the pride resolves itself
into three main branches, — ^Pride of Science, Pride of State,
and Pride of System : and thus we have four separate mental
conditions which must be examined successively.

§ VI. 1. Pride of Science. It would have been more chari-
table, but more confusing, to have added another element to our
list, namely the Love of Science; but the love is included in
the pride, and is usually so very subordinate an element, that
it does not deserve equality of nomenclature. But, whether
pursued in pride or in aflFection (how far by either we shall see
presently), the first notable characteristic of the Renaissance
central school is its introduction of accurate knowledge into
all its work, so far as it possesses such knowledge ; and its evi-
dent conviction that such science is necessary to the excellence of
the work, and is the first thing to be expressed therein. So that
all the forms introduced, even in its minor ornament, are studied
with the utmost care; the anatomy of all animal structure is
thoroughly understood and elaborately expressed, and the whole
of the execution skilful and practised in the highest degree. Per-
spective, linear and aerial, perfect drawing and accurate light and
shade in painting, and true anatomy in all representations of the
human form, drawn or sculptured, are the first requirements in
all the work of this school

§ VII. Now, first considering aU this in the most charitable
light, as pursued from a real love of truth, and not from vanity,
it would, of course, have . been aU excellent and admirable, had it
been regarded as the aid of art, and not as its essence. But the
grand mistake of the Renaissance schools lay in supposing that
science and art were the same things, and that to advance in the
one was necessarily to perfect the other. Whereas they are, in
reality, things not only different, but so opposed that to advance
in the one is, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, to retro-

36 THIRD PERIOD. i. rams of boibvcx.

grade in the other. This is the point to which I would at present
especially bespeak the reader's attention.

§ VIII. Science and art are commonly distinguished by the
nature of their actions ; the one as knowing, the other as chan-
ging, producing, or creating. But there is a still more important
distinction in the nature of the things they deal with. Science
deals exdusively with things as they are in themselves ; and art
exclusively with things as they affect the human senses and hu-
man souL* Her work is to portray the appearances of things,
and to deepen the natural impressions which they produce upon
living creatures. The work of science is to substitute facts for
appearances, and demonstrations for impressions. Both, observe,
are equally concerned with truth ; the one with truth of aspect,
the other with truth of essence. Art does not represent things
falsely, but truly as they appear to mankind. Science studies
the relations of things to each other : but art studies only their
relations to man ; and it requires of everything which is submitted
to it imperatively this, and only this, — what that thing is to the
human eyes and human heart, what it has to say to men, and
what it can become to them : a field of question just as much
vaster than that of science, as the soul is larger than the material
creation.

§ IX. Take a single instance. Science informs us that the sun
is ninety-five millions of miles distant from, and 111 times broader
than, the earth : that we and all the planets revolve roimd it ;
and that it revolves on its own axis in 25 days, 14 hours, and 4
minutes. With all this, art has nothing whatsoever to do. It has
no care to know anything of this kind. But the things which it
does care to know are these : that in the heavens God hath set a
tabernacle for the sun, ** which is as a bridegroom coming out of
his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race. Efis
going forth is from the end of the heaven, and his circuit unto
the ends of it, and there is nothing hid from the heat thereof."

♦ Or, more briefly, science has to do with facta, art with phenomena. To
science, phenomena are of nae only as they lead to facts ; and to art, facts are of
use only as they lead to phenomena. I use the word "art" here with reference
to the fine arte only, for the lower arts of mechanical production I should reserre
the word '' manufacture."

1. PRiDi OF SCIENCE. . II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 37

§ X, This, then, being the kind of truth with which art is exclu-
sively concerned, how is such truth as this to be ascertained and
accumulated ? Evidently, and only, by perception and feeling.
Never either by reasoning or report. Nothing must come be-
tween Nature and the artist's sight ; nothing between God and
the artist's soul. Neither calculation nor hearsay, — ^be it the most
subtle of calculations, or the wisest of sayings, — ^may be allowed
to come between the imiverse, and the witness which axt bears to
its visible nature. The whole value of that witness depends on
its being e^e- witness ; the whole genuineness, acceptableness, and
dominion of it depend on the personal assurance of the man who
utters it. All its victory depends on the veracity of the one
preceding word, " Vidi."

The whole function of the artist in the world is to be a seeing
and feeling creature ; to be an instrument of such tenderness and
sensitiveness, that no shadow, no hue, no line, no instantaneous
and evanescent expression of the visible things around him, nor
any of the emotions which they are capable of conveying to the
spirit which has been given him, shall either be left unrecorded>
or fade from the book of record. It is not his business either to
think, to judge, to argue, or to know. His place is neither in the
closet, nor on the bench, nor at the bar, nor in the library. They
are for other men and other work. He may think, in a by-way ;
reason, now and then, when he has nothing better to do ; know,
such fragments of knowledge as he can gather without stooping,
or reach without pains ; but none of these things are to be his
care. The work of his life is to be two-fold only ; to see, to feel.

§ XI. Nay, but, the reader perhaps pleads with me, one of the
great uses of knowledge is to open the eyes ; to make things
perceivable which never would have been seen, unless first they
had been known.

Not so. This could only be said or believed by those who do
not know what the perceptive faculty of a great artist is, in com-
parison with that of other men. There is no great painter, no
great workman in any art, but he sees more with the glance of a
moment than he could learn by the labour of a thousand hours.

38 THIRD PERIOD. l pridi of aonorcK.

God has made every man fit for his ^ork : He has given to the
man whom He means for a student, the reflective, logical^ se-
quential faculties ; and to the man whom He means for an artist,
the perceptive, sensitive, retentive faculties. And neither of these
men, so far from being able to do the other's work, can even com-
prehend the way in which it is done. The student has no under-
standing of the vision, nor the painter of the process ; but chiefly,
the student has no idea of the colossal grasp of the true painter's
vision and sensibility.

The labour of the whole Geological Society, for the last fifty
years, has but now arrived at the ascertainment of those truths
respecting mountain form which Turner saw and expressed with
a few strokes of a camel's hair pencil fifty years ago, when he
was a boy. The knowledge of all the laws of the planetary sys-
tem, and of all the curves of the motion of projectiles, would
never enable the man of science to draw a waterfall or a wave ;
and all the members of Surgeons' Hall helping each other could
not at this moment see, or represent, the natural movement of
a human body in vigorous action, as a poor dyer's son did two
hundred years ago.*

§ XII. But surely, it is still insisted, granting this peculiar
faculty to the painter, he will still see more as he knows more,
and the more knowledge he obtains, therefore, the better. No ;
not even so. It is indeed true that, here and there, a piece of
knowledge will enable the eye to detect a truth which might
otherwise have escaped it ; as, for instance, in watching a sunrise,
the knowledge of the true nature of the orb may lead the painter
to feci more profoundly, and express more fully, the distance
between the bars of cloud that cross it, and the sphere of flame
that lifts itself slowly beyond them into the infinite heaven.
But, for one visible truth to which knowledge thus opens the
eyes, it seals them to a thousand : that is to say, if the know-
ledge occur to the mind so as to occupy its powers of con-
templation at the moment when the sight-work is to be done,

* Tintoret

L PRIDE OF 8CIKKCB. II. KOMAN RENAISSANCE. 39

the mind retires inward, fixes itself upon the known fact, and
forgets the passing visible ones; and a moment of such forget-
ftdness loses more to the painter than a day's thought can gain.
This is no new or strange assertion. Every person accustomed
to careful reflection of any kind knows that its natural operation
is to close his eyes to the external world. While he is thinking
deeply, he neither sees nor feels, even though naturally he may
possess strong powers of sight and emotion. He who, having
journeyed all day beside the Leman Lake, asked of his com-
panions, at evening, where it was,* probably was not wanting
in sensibility ; but he was generally a thinker, not a perceiver.
And this instance is only an extreme one of the effect which, in
aU cases, knowledge, becoming a subject of reflection, produces
upon the sensitive faculties. It must be but poor and lifeless
knowledge, if it has no tendency to force itself forward, and
become ground for reflection, in despite of the succession of
external objects. It wiU not obey their succession. The first
that comes gives it food enough for its day's work ; it is its
habit, it« duty, to cast the rest aside, and fasten upon that.
The first thing that a thinking and knowing man sees in the
course of the day, he will not easily quit. It is not his way to
quit anything without getting to the bottom of it, if possible.
But the artist is bound to receive all things on the broad, white,
lucid field of his soul, not to grasp at one. For instance, as the
knowing and thinking man watches the sunrise, he sees something
in the colour of a ray, or the change of a cloud, that is new to
him ; and this he follows out forthwith into a labyrinth of
optical and pneumatical laws, perceiving no more clouds nor rays
all the morning. But the painter must catch all the rays, all the
colours that come, and see them all truly, aU in their real rela-
tions and succession ; therefore, everything that occupies room in
his mind he must cast aside for the time as completely as may be.
The thoughtful man is gone far away to seek ; but the perceiving
man must sit still, and open his heart to receive. The thoughtful

* St. Bernard.

40 THIRD PERIOD. ^ i?Bn>i of scixkcil

man is knitting and sharpening himself into a two-edged sword,
wherewith to pierce. The perceiving man is stretching himself
into a four-cornered sheet, wherewith to catch. And all the
breadth to which he can expand himself, and all the white
emptiness into which he can blanch himself, will not be enough
to receive what God has to give him.

§ XIII. What, then, it will be indignantly asked, is an utterly
ignorant and unthinking man likely to make the best artist ?
No, not so neither. Knowledge is good for him so long as he
can keep it utterly, servilely, subordinate to his own divine work,
and trample it under his feet, and out of his way, the moment it
is likely to entangle him.

And in this respect, observe, there is an enormous di£rerence
between knowledge and education. An artist need not be a
leai^ned man ; in all probability it will be a disadvantage to him
to become so ; but he ought, if possible, always to be an educated
man : that is, one who has imderstanding of his own uses and
duties in the world, and therefore of the general nature of the
things done and existing in the world ; and who has so trained
himself, or been trained, as to turn to the best and most courteous
account whatever faculties or knowledge he has. The mind of
an educated man is greater than the knowledge it possesses ; it is
like the vault of heaven, encompassing the earth which lives and [

flourishes beneath it : but the mind of an uneducated and learned |

man is like a caoutchouc band, with an everlasting spirit of con- I

traction in it, fastening together papers which it cannot open,
and keeps others from opening. '

Half our artists are ruined for want of education, and by the
possession of knowledge ; the best that I have known have been
educated and illiterate. The ideal of an artist, however, is not
that he should be illiterate, but well read in the best books, and ^

thoroughly high bred, both in heart and in bearing. In a word,
he should be fit for the best society, and should keep out of it.*

♦ Society always has a destructive influence upon an artist : first, by its sym-
pathy with his meanest powers ; secondly, by its chilling want of understanding
of his greatest ; and, thirdly, by its vain occupation of his time and thoughts. Of

X. PRIDE OF BOUNCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 41

§ XIV. There are, indeed, some kinds of knowledge with which
an artist ought to be thoroughly furnished ; those, for instance,
which enable him to express himself : for this knowledge relieves
instead of encumbering his mind, and permits it to attend to its
purposes instead of wearying itself about means. The whole
mystery of manipulation and manufacture should be familiar to
the painter from a child. He should know the chemistry of all
colours and materials whatsoever, and should prepare all his
colours himself, in a little laboratory of his own. Limiting his
chemistry to this one object, the amount of practical science
necessary for it, and such accidental discoveries as might fall in
his way in the course of his work, of better colours or better
methods of preparing them, would be an infinite refreshment to
his mind ; a minor subject of interest, to which it might turn
when jaded with comfortless labour, or exhausted with feverish
invention, and yet which wotdd never interfere with its higher
functions, when it .chose to address itself to them. Even a con-
siderable amount of manual labour, sturdy colour-grinding and
canvas-stretching, would be advantageous; though this kind of
work ought to be in great part done* by pupils. For it is one
of the conditions of perfect knowledge in these matters, that every
great master should have a certain number of pupils, to whom
he is to impart all the knowledge of materials and means which
he himself possesses, as soon as possible ; so that, at any rate, by
the time they are fifteen years old, they may know all that he
knows himself in this kind ; that is to say, all that the world of
artists know, and his own discoveries besides, and so never be
troubled about methods any more. Not that the knowledge even
of his own particular methods is to be of purpose confined to
himself and his pupils, but that necessarily it must be so in some
degree ; for only those who see him at work daily can understand
his small and multitudinous ways of practice. These cannot
verbally be explained to everybody, nor is it needful that they

course a painter of men most be among men ; but it ongbt to be as a watcher
not as a companion.

42 THIRD PERIOD. i. pridi ot acnoics.

should ; only let them be concealed from nobody who cares to
see them; in which case, of course, his attendant scholars will
know them best. But all that can be made public in matters of
this kind should be so with all speed, every artist throwing his
discovery into the common stock, and the whole body of artists
taking such pains in this department of science as that there
shall be no unsettled questions about any known material or
method: that it shall be an entirely ascertained and indis-
putable matter which is the best white, and which the best
brown; which the strongest canvas, and safest varnish; and
which the shortest and most perfect way of doing everything
known up to that time : and if any one discovers a better, he is
to make it public forthwith. All of them taking care to embarass
themselves with no theories or reasons for anjrthing, but to work
empirically only : it not being in anywise their business to know
whether light moves in rays or in waves ; or whether the blue
rays of the spectrum move slower or faster than the rest; but
simply to know how many minutes and seconds such and such
a powder must be calcined, to give the brightest blue.

§ XV. Now it is perhaps the most exquisite absurdity of the
whole Eenaissance system, that while it has encumbered the
artist with every species of knowledge that is of no use to
him, this one precious and necessary knowledge it has utterly
lost. There is not, I believe, at this moment, a single ques-
tion which could be put respecting pigments and methods, on
which the body of living artists would agree in their answers.
The lives of artists are passed in fruitless experiments ; fruitless,
' because undirected by experience and uncommunicated in their
results. Every man has methods of his own, which he knows to
be insuflScient, and yet jealously conceals from his fellow-work-
men : every colour-man has materials of his own, to which it is
rare that the artist can trust: and in the very front of the
majestic advance of chemical science, the empirical science of
the artist has been annihilated, and the days which should have
led us to higher perfection are passed in guessing at, or in mourn-
ing over, lost processes ; while" the so-called Dark ages, possessing

J

I. PBiDS OF 80IXNCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 43

no more knowledge of chemistry than a village herbalist does
now, discovered, established, and put into daily practice such
methods of operation as have made their work, at this day.
the despair of all who look upon it.

§ XVI. And yet even this, to the painter, the safest of sciences,
and in some degree necessary, has its temptations, and capabilities
of abuse. For the simplest means are always enough for a great
man ; and when once he has obtained a few ordinary colours
which he is sure wiU stand, and a white surface that wiU not
darken, nor moulder, nor rend, he is master of the world, and of
his fellow-men. And, indeed, as if in these times we were bent
on furnishing examples of every species of opposite error, while
we have suffered the traditions to escape us of the simple
methods of doing simple things, which are enough for all the arts,
and to all the ages, we have set ourselves to discover fantastic
modes of doing fantastic things, — new mixtures and manipula-
tions of metal, and porcelain, and leather, and paper, and every
conceivable condition of false substance and cheap work, to our
own infinitely multiplied confusion, — blinding ourselves daily
more and more to the great, changeless, and inevitable truth, that
there is but one goodness in art ; and that is one which the
chemist cannot prepare, nor the merchant cheapen, for it comes
only of a rare human hand, and rare human souL

§ XVII. Within its due limits, however, here is one branch of
science which the artist may pursue; and, within limits still
more strict, another also, namely, the science of the appearances
of things as they have been ascertained and registered by his
fellow-men. For no day passes but some visible fact is pointed
out to us by others, which, without their help, we should not
have noticed ; and the accumulation and generalization of visible
facts have formed, in the succession of ages, the sciences of light
and shade, and perspective, linear and aerial : so that the artist
is now at once put in possession of certain truths respecting the
appearances of things, which, so pointed out to him> any man
may in a few days understand and acknowledge; but which,
without aid, he could not probably discover in his lifetime. I

44 THIRD PERIOD.

L PBIDK or aCIKVCK.

say, probably could not, because the time which the history of
art shows us to have been actually occupied in the discovery
and systematization of such truth is no measure of the time
necessary for such discovery. The lengthened period which
elapsed between the earliest and the perfect developement of the
science of light (if I may so call it) was not occupied in the
actual effort to ascertain its laws, but in acquiring the dis-
position to make thai effort. It did not take five centuries to
find out the appearance of natural objects; but it took five
centuries to make people care about representing them. An
artist of the twelfth century did not desire to represent Nature.
His work was symbolical and ornamental. So long as it was
intelligible and lovely, he had no care to make it like Nature.
As, for instance, when an old painter represented the glory
round a saint's head by a burnished plate of pure gold, he had
no intention of imitating an effect of light. He meant to tell
the spectator that the figure so decorated was a saint, and to
produce splendour of effect by the golden circle. It was no
matter to him what light was like. So soon aa it entered into
his intention to represent the appearance of light, he was not
long in discovering the natural facts necessary for his purpose.

§ XVIII. But this being fully allowed, it is still true that the ac-
cumulation of facts now known respecting visible phenomena is
greater than any man could hope to gather for himself, and that
it is weU for him to be made acquainted with them; provided
always, that he receive them only at their true value, and do not
suffer himself to be misled by them. I say, at their true value ;
that is, an exceedingly small one. All the information which men
can receive firom the accumulated experience of others is of
no use but to enable them more quickly and accurately to see
for themselves. It will in nowise take the place of this personal
sight. Nothing can be done well in art except by vision.
Scientific principles and experiences are helps to the eye, as a
microscope is ; and they are of exactly as much use without the
eye. No science of perspective, or of anything else, will enable
us to draw the simplest natural line accurately, unless we see it

L PRiDB OP SCIENCE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 45

and feel it. Science is soon at her wits' end. All the professors of
perspective in Europe could not, by perspective, draw the line of
curve of a sea-beach ; naj, could not outline one pool of the
quiet water left among the sand. The eye and hand can do it,
nothing else. All the rules of aerial perspective that ever were
written, will not tell me how sharply the pines on the hill top
are drawn at this moment on the sky. I shall know if I see
them, and love them ; not till then. I may study the laws of
atmospheric gradation for fourscore years and ten, and I shaU not
be able to draw so much as a brick-kiln through its own smoke,
unless I look at it : and that in an entirely humble and un-
scientific manner, ready to see all that the smoke, my master, is
ready to show me, and expecting to see nothing more.

§ XIX. So that all the knowledge a man has must be held
cheap, and neither trusted nor respected, the moment he comes
face to face with Nature. K it help him, well ; if not, but, on
the contrary, thrust itself upon him in an impertinent and
contradictory temper, and venture to set itself in the slightest
degree in opposition to, or comparison with, his sight, let it be
disgraced forthwith. And the slave is less likely to take too
much upon herself if she has not been bought for a high price.
All the knowledge an artist needs will, in these days, come to
him almost without his seeking ; if he has far to look for it, he
may be sure he does not want it. Prout became Prout with-
out knowing a single rule of perspective to the end of his days ;
and all the perspective in the Encyclopaedia will never produce
us another Prout.

§ XX. And observe, also, knowledge is not only very often
unnecessary, but it is often untrustworthy. It is inaccurate, and
betrays us where the eye would have been true to us. Let
us take the single instance of the knowledge of aerial per-
spective, of which the modems are so proud, and see how it
betrays us in various ways. First by the conceit of it, which
often prevents our enjoying work in which higher and better
things were thought of than effects of mist. The other day
I showed a fine impression of Albert Durer's "St. Hubert"

46 THIRD PERIOD. i. pbidi of acmrcK.

to a modern engraver, who had never seen it nor any other of
Albert Durer's works. He looked at it for a minute contemp-
tuously, then turned away : " Ah, I see that man did not know
much about aerial perspective ! " All the glorious work and
thought of the mighty master, all the redundant landscape,
the living vegetation, the magnificent truth of line, were dead
letters to him, because he happened to have been taught one
particidar piece of knowledge which Durer despised.

§ XXI. But not only in the conceit of it, but in the inaccuracy
of it, this science betrays us. Aerial perspective, as given by
the modem artist, is, in nine cases out of ten, a gross and
ridiculous exaggeration, as is demonstrable in a moment. The
ejffect of air in altering the hue and depth of colour is of course
great in the exact proportion of the volume of air between the
observer and the object. It is not violent within the first few
yards, and then diminished graduaUy, but it is equal for each
foot of interposing air. Now in a clear day, and clear
climate, such as that generally presupposed in a work of
fine colour, objects are completely visible at a distance of
ten miles ; visible in light and shade, with gradations between
the two. Take, then, the faintest possible hue of shadow,
or of any colour, and the most violent and positive possible,
and set them side by side. The interval between them is
greater than the real difference (for objects may often be seen
clearly much farther than ten miles ; I have seen Mont Blanc
at 120) caused by the ten miles of intervening air between any
given hue of the nearest and most distant objecte ; but let us
assume it, in courtesy to the masters of aerial perspective, to be
the real difference. Then roughly estimating a mile at less than
it really is, also in courtesy to them, or at 5000 feet, we have
this difference between tints produced by 50,000 feet of air.
Then, ten feet of air will produce the 5000th part of this differ-
ence. Let the reader take the two extreme tints, and carefully
gradate the one into the other. Let him divide this gradated
shadow or colour into 5000 successive parts ; and the difference
in depth between one of these parts and the next is the exact

I. FRiDB OF scuNCs. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 47

amount of aerial perspective between one object and another^ ten
feet behind it, on a clear day.

§ XXII. Now, in Millais' " Huguenot," the figures were standing
about three feet from the wall behind them ; and the wise world
of critics, which could find no other fault with the picture, pro-
fessed to have its eyes hurt by the want of an aerial perspective,
which, had it been accurately given (as, indeed, I believe it was),
would have amounted to the V 5000th, or less than the 15,000th
part of the depth of any given colour. It would be interesting to
see a picture painted by the critics upon this scientific principle.
The aerial perspective usually represented is entirely conven-
tional and ridiculous ; a mere struggle on the part of the pre-
tendedly well-informed, but reaJly ignorant, artist, to express
distances by mist which he cannot by drawing.

It is curious that the critical world is just as much ofiended by
the true presence of aerial perspective, over distances of fifty miles,
and with definite purpose of representing mist, in the works of
Turner, as by the true absence of aerial perspective, over distances
of three feet, and in clear weather, in those of Millais.

§ XXIII. " Well but," still answers the reader, " this kind of error
may here and there be occasioned by too much respect for undi-
gested knowledge ; but, on the whole, the gain is greater than the
loss, and the fact is, that a picture of the Eenaissance period, or
by a modem master, does indeed represent Nature more faithfully
than one wrought in the ignorance of old times." No, not one
whit ; for the most part, less faithfully. Indeed, the outside of
Nature is more truly drawn; the material commonplace, which
can be systematized, catalogued, and taught to all painstaking
mankind, — forms of ribs and scapulsB,* of eyebrows and lips, and

* I intended in tliis place to have introdaced some special consideration of the
science of anatomy, which I believe to have been, in great part the canse of the
decline of modem art ; but I have been anticipated by a writer better able to
treat the subject. I have only glanced at his book ; and there is something in
the spirit of it which I do not like, and some parts of it are assuredly wrong ;
but, respecting anatomy, it seems to me to settle the question indisputably, more
especially as being written by a master of the science. I quote two passages,
and must refer the reader to the sequel :

48 THIRD PERIOD. i. pbidb of scmcE.

curls of hair. Whatever can be measured and handled, dissected
and demonstrated, — in a word, whatever is of the body only, —
that the schook of knowledge do resolutely and courageously
possess themselves of, and portray. But whatever is immeasur-
able, intangible, indivisible, and of the spirit, that the schools
of knowledge do as certainly lose, and blot out of their sight:
that is to say, all that is worth art's possessing or recording at
all ; for whatever can be arrested, measured, and systematized,
we can contemplate as much as we will in Nature herself. But

'^ The icientific men of forty cefUuries have failed to describe so accuratelj, so
beautifnUy, so artistically as Homer did, the organic elements constitating the
emblems of youth and beauty, and the waste and decay which these sustain by
time and age. All these Homer understood better, and has described moie
truthfully, than the scientific men of forty centuries

"Before I approach this question, permit me to make a few remarks on the
pre-historic period of Greece ; that era which seems to have produced nearly all
the great men.

"On looking attentively at the statues within my observation, I cannot find
the slightest foundation for the assertion that their sculptors must have dissected
the human frame, and been well acquainted with human anatomy. They, like
Homer, had discovered Nature*s secret, and bestowed their whole attention on the
exterior. The exterior they read profoundly, and studied deeply — ^the living
exterior and the dead. Above all, they avoided displaying the dead and dissected
interior, through the exterior. They had discovered that the interior presents
hideous shapes, but not forms. Men during the philosophic era of Greece saw
all this, each reading the antique to the best of his abilities. The man of genius
rediscovered the canon of the ancient masters, and wrought on its principles.
The greater number, as now, unequal to this step, merely imitated and copied
those who preceded them." — Great Artiete and Great Anatomiete. By R. Knox, M.D.
London, Van Voorst, 1852.

Respecting the value of literaiy knowledge in general as regards art, the
reader will also do well to meditate on the following sentences from HaUam's
'* Literature of Europe ; " remembering at the same time what I have above said,
that ''the root of all great art in Europe ia struck in the' thirteenth centuty,**
and that the great time is from 1250 to 1350 :

<'In Germany, the tenth century, Leibnitz declares, was a golden age of learning
compared with the thirteenth."

*'The writers of the thirteenth century display an incredible ignorance, not only
of pure idiom, but of common grammatical rules.''

The fourteenth century was " not superior to the thirteenth in learning. . . .
We may justly praise Richard of Bury for his zeal in collecting books. But his
erudition appears crude, his style indifi'erent, and his thoughts superficial"

I doubt the superficialness of the thoughts .\ at all events, this is not a character
of the time, though it may be of the writer ; for this would affect art more even
than literature.

J

I. PRIDE OF sciBKCi. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 49

what we want art to do for us is to stay what is fleeting, and to
enlighten what is incomprehensible, to incorporate the things that
have no measure, and immortalize the things that have no dura-
tion. The dimly seen, momentary glance, the flitting shadow of
faint emotion, the imperfect lines of fading thought, and all that
by and through such things as these is recorded on the features
of man, and all that in man's person and actions, and in the
great natural world, is infinite and wonderful ; having in it that
spirit and power which man may witness, but not weigh ; con-
ceive, but not comprehend ; love, but not limit ; and imagine, but
not define ; — this, the beginning and the end of the aim of all
noble art, we have, in the ancient art, by perception ; and we
have not, in the newer art, by knowledge. Giotto gives it us ;
Orcagna gives it us ; AngeUco, Memmi, Pisano, — it matters not
who, — all simple and unlearned men, in their measure and
manner, — give it us ; and the learned men that followed them give
it us not, and we, in our supreme learning, own ourselves at this
day farther from it than ever.

§ XXIV. " Nay," but it is still answered, " this is because we have
not yet brought our knowledge into right use, but have been seeking
to accumulate it, rather than to apply it wisely to the ends of art.
Let us now do this, and we may achieve all that was done by that
elder ignorant art, and infinitely more." No, not so ; for as soon
as we try to put our knowledge to good use, we shall find that
we have much more than we can use, and that what more we
have is an encumbrance. All our errors in this respect arise from
a gross misconception as to the true nature of knowledge itself.
We talk of learned and ignorant men, as if there were a certain
quantity of knowledge, which to possess was to be learned,
and which not to possess was to be ignorant ; instead of con-
sidering that knowledge is infinite, and that the man most
learned in human estimation is just as far from knowing any-
thing as he ought to know it, as the unlettered peasant. Men
are merely on a lower or higher stage of an eminence, whose
summit is God's throne, infinitely above all ; and there is just as
much reason for the wisest as for the simplest man being dis-

VOL. III. E

50 THIRD PERIOD. i. pbtob or acDErci.

contented with his position^ as respects the real quantity of
knowledge he possesses. And, for both of them, the only true
reasons for contentment with the sum of knowledge they possess
are these : that it is the kind of knowledge they need for their
duty and happiness in life; that all they have is tested and
certain, so far as it is in their power ; that all they have is well
in order, and within reach when they need it ; that it has not
cost too much time in the getting ; that none of it, once got,
has been lost ; and that there is not too much to be easily taken
care of

§ XXV. Consider these requirements a little, and the evils
that result in our education and polity from neglecting them.
Knowledge is mental food, and is exactly to the spirit what food
is to the body (except that the spirit needs several sorts of food,
of which knowledge is only one), and it is liable to the same kind
of misuses. It may be mixed and disguised by art. tiU it be-
comes unwholesome; it may be refined, sweetened, and made
palatable, until it has lost all its power of nourishment; and,
even of its best kind, it may be eaten to surfeiting, and minister
to disease and death.

§ XXVI. Therefore, with respect to knowledge, we axe to reason
and act exactly as with respect to food. "We no more live to know,
than we live to eat. We live to contemplate, enjoy, act, adore ;
and we may know all that is to be known in this world, and what
Satan knows in the other, without being able to do any of these.
We are to ask, therefore, first, is the knowledge we would have
fit food for us, good and simple, not artificial and decorated?
and secondly, how much of it will enable us best for our work ;
and will leave our hearts light, and our eyes clear ? For no more
than that is to be eaten without the old Eve-sin.

§ XXVII, Observe, also, the difference between tasting knowledge,
and hoarding it. In this respect it is also like food ; since, in some
measure, the knowledge of all men is laid up in granaries, for
future use ; much of it is at any given moment dormant, not fed
upon or enjoyed, but in store. And by all it is to be remembered,
that knowledge in this form may be kept without air till it rots, or

L PEiDB OF scDoroB. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 51

«

in such unthreshed disorder that it is of no use ; and that, however
good or orderly, it is still only in being tasted that it becomes of
use ; and that men may easily starve in their own granaries, men
of science, perhaps, most of all, fo:r they are likely to seek accu-
mulation of their store, rather than nourishment firom it. Yet let
it not be thought that I woidd undervalue them. The good and
great among them are like Joseph, to whom all nations sought to
buy com ; or like the sower going forth to sow beside all waters,
sending forth thither the feet of the ox and the ass : only let us
remember that this is not all men's work. We are not intended
to be all keepers of granaries, nor all to be measured by the
filling of the storehouse ; but many, nay, most of us, are to
receive day by day our daily bread, and shall be as well nourished
and as fit for our labour, and often, also, fit for nobler and more
divine labour, in feeding from the barrel of meal that does not
waste and from the cruse of oil that does not fail, than if our
bams were filled with plenty, and our presses bursting out with
new wine.

§ XXVIII. It is for each man to find his own measure in this
matter ; in great part, also, for others to find it for him, while
he is yet a youth. And the desperate evil of the whole
Renaissance system is, that all idea of measure is therein for-
gotten, 'that knowledge is thought the one and the only good,
and it is never inquired whether men are vivified by it or
paralyzed. Let us leave figures. The reader may not believe
the analogy I have been pressing so far; but let him consider
the subject in itself, let him examine the effect of knowledge in
his own heart, and see whether the trees of knowledge and of
life are one now, any more than in Paradise. He must
feel that the real animating power of knowledge is only in the
moment of its being first received, when it fills us with wonder
and joy ; a joy for which, observe, the previous ignorance is
iust as' necessary as the present knowledge. That man is
always happy ^o is in Z presence of s^metiiing which he
cannot know to the full, which he is always going on to know.
This is the necessary condition of a finite creature with divinely

52 THIRD PERIOD. i. pwd« of scikkci.

•

rooted 'and divinely directed intelligence; this, therefore, its
happy state, — but observe, a state, not of triumph or joy in
what it knows, but of joy rather in the continual discovery of
new ignorance, continual self-abasement, continual astonishment.
Once thoroughly our own, the knowledge ceases to give us
pleasure. It may be practically useful to us, it may be good
for others, or good for usury to obtain more; but, in itself,
once let it be thoroughly familiar, and it is dead. The wonder
is gone from it, and all the fine colour which it had when first
we drew it up out of the infinite sea. And what does it matter
how much or how little of it we have laid aside, when our only
enjoyment is stiU in the casting of that deep-sea line ? What
does it matter ? Nay, in one respect, it matters much, and
not to our advantage. For one effect of knowledge is to deaden
the force of the imagination and the original energy of the
whole man : under the weight of his knowledge he cannot
move so lightly as in the days of his simplicity. The pack-
horse is furnished for the journey, the war-horse is armed for
war ; but the freedom of the field and the lightness of the limb
are lost for both. Knowledge is, at best, the pilgrim's burden
or the soldier's panoply, often a weariness to them both ; and
the Renaissance knowledge is like the Eenaissance armour of
plate, binding and cramping the human form ; while all good
knowledge is like the crusader's chain mail, which throws itself
into folds with the body, yet it is rarely so forged as that the
clasps and rivets do not gall us. All men feel this, though
they do not think of it, nor reason out its consequences. They
look back to the days of childhood as of greatest happiness,
because those were the days of greatest wonder, greatest sim-
plicity, and most vigorous imagination. And the whole dif-
ference between a man of genius and other men, it has been
said a thousand times, and most truly, is that the first remains
in great part a child, seeing with the large eyes of children, in
perpetual wonder, not conscious of much knowledge, — conscious,
rather, of infinite ignorance, and yet infinite power; a foun-
tain of eternal admiration, delight, and creative force within

I. PRiBE OF BCixNCB. 11. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 53

him, meeting the ocean of visible and governable things around
him.

That is what we have to make men, so far as we may. All
are to be men of genius in their degree, — rivulets or rivers, it
does not matter, so that the souls be clear and pure ; not dead
walls encompassing dead heaps of things known and numbered,
but running waters in the sweet wilderness of things unnum-
bered and unknown, conscious only of the living banks, on
which they partly refresh and partly reflect the flowers, and so
pass on.

§ XXIX. Let each man answer for himself how far his
knowledge has made him this, or how far it is loaded upon
him as the pyramid is upon the tomb. Let him consider, also,
how much of it has cost him labour and time that might have
been spent in healthy, happy action, beneficial to all mankind ;
how many living souls may have been left uncomforted and
unhelped by him,, while his own eyes were failing by the
midnight lamp ; how many warm sympathies have died within
him as he measured lines or counted letters; how many
draughts of ocean air, and steps on mountain turf, and openinga
of the highest heaven he has lost for his knowledge ; how
much of that knowledge, so dearly bought, is now forgotten or
despised, leaving only the capacity of wonder less within him,
and, as it happens in a thousand instances, perhaps even also
the capacity of devotion. And let him, — ^if, after thus dealing
with his own heart, he can say that his knowledge has indeed
been fruitful to him, — ^yet consider how many there are who
have been forced by the inevitable laws of modem education
into toil utterly repugnant to their natures, and that in the
extreme, until the whole strength of the young soul was sapped
away ; and then pronounce with fearfulness how far, and in
how many senses, it may indeed be true that the wisdom of
this world is foolishness with God.

§ XXX. Now all this possibility of evil, observe, attaches to
knowledge pursued for the noblest ends, if it be pursued im-
prudently. I have assumed, in speaking of its efiect both on

54 THIRD PERIOD. i. pbidx ov soiehck.

men generally and on the artist especially, that it was sought
in the true love of it, and with all honesty and directness of
purpose. But this is granting far too much in its favour. Of
knowledge in general, and without qualification, it is said by
the Apostle that '^ it pu£feth up ; " and the father of all modem
science, writing directly in its praise, yet asserts this danger
even in more absolute terms, calling it a '^ venomousness " in
the very nature of knowledge itself.

§ xxxL There is, indeed, much diiference in this respect be-
tween the tendencies of di£ferent branches of knowledge ; it being
a sure rule that exactly in proportion as they are inferior, nuga-
tory, or limited in scope, their power of feeding pride is greater.
Thus philology, logic, rhetoric, and the other sciences of the
schools, being for the most part ridiculous and trifling, have so
pestilent an effect upon those who are devoted to them, that their
students cannot conceive of any higher sciences than these, but
fancy that all education ends in the knowledge of words : but the
true and great sciences, more especially natural history, make men
gentle and modest in proportion to the largeness of their appre-
hension, and just perception of the infiniteness of the things they
can never know. And this, it seems to me, is the principal lesson
we are intended to be taught by the book of Job ; for there God
has thrown open to us the heart of a man most just and holy, and
apparently perfect in all things possible to human nature except
humility. For this he is tried : and we are shown that no suffer-
ing, no self-examination, however honest, however stem, no search-
ing out of the heart by its own bitterness, is enough to con-
vince man of his nothingness before God ; but that the sight of
God's creation will do it For, when the Deity himself has willed
to end the temptation, and to accomplish in Job that for which it
was sent. He does not vouchsafe to reason with him, still less
does He overwhelm him with terror, or confound him by kying
open before his eyes the book of his iniquities. He opens before
hL only tie «L of a.e d.y.prtog, L tt, fo^i of the
deep ; and amidst the covert of the reeds, and on the heaving

J

I. PEiDB OF sciENoi. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 55

waves, He bids him watch the kings of the children of pride, —
" Behold now Behemoth, which I made with thee : " And the
work is done.

§ XXXII. Thus, if, I repeat, there is any one lesson in the whole
book which stands forth more definitely than another, it is this
of the holy and humbling influence of natural science on the
human heart. And yet, even here, it is not the science, but
the perception, to which the good is owing; and the natural
sciences may become as harmful as any others, when they lose
themselves in classification and catalogue-making. Still, the
principal danger is with the sciences of words and methods ; and
it was exactly into those sciences that the whole energy of men
during the Renaiasance period waa thrown. They discovered
suddenly that the world for ten centuries had been living in
an ungrammatical manner, and they made it forthwith the end of
human existence to be grammatical. And it mattered thenceforth
nothing what was said, or what was done, so only that it was
said with scholarship, and done with system. Falsehood in a
Ciceroni^ dMcct hL no opposes; tru* in ^U,i. no l^^.
A Boman phrase was thought worth any number of Gothic facts.
The sciences ceased at once to be anything more than different
kinds of grammars,— grammar of language, grammar * of logic,
grammar of ethics, grammar of art; and the tongue, wit, and
invention of the human race were supposed to have found their
utmost and most divine mission in syntax and syllogism, per-
spective and five orders.

Of such knowledge as this, nothing but pride could come ;
and, therefore, I have called the first mental characteristic of the
Benaissance schools the ^' pride " of science. If they had reached
any science worthy the name, they might have loved it ; but of
the paltry knowledge they possessed they could only be proud.
There was not anything in it capable of being loved. Anatomy,
indeed, then first made a subject of accurate study, is a true
science, but not so attractive as to enlist the affections strongly
on its side : and therefore, like its meaner sisters, it became

56 THIRD PERIOD. i* pridk of bcxekce.

merely a ground of pride ; and the one main purpose of the
Renaissance artists^ in all their work, was to show how much
they knew.

§ XXXIII. There were, of course, noble exceptions ; but chiefly
belonging to the earliest periods of the Eenaissance, when its
teaching had not yet produced its full eflfect. Raphael, Leonardo,
and Michael Angelo were all trained in the old school ; they all
had masters who knew the true ends of art, and had reached
them; masters nearly as great as they were themselves, but
imbued with the old religious and earnest spirit, which their
disciples receiving from them, and drinking at the same time
deeply from aU the fountains of knowledge opened in their day,
became the world's wonders. Then the dull wondering world
believed that their greatness rose out of their new knowledge,
instead of out of that ancient religious root, in which to abide
was life, from which to be severed was annihilation. And from
that day to this, they have tried to produce Michael Angelos
and Leonardos by teaching the barren sciences, and still have
mourned and marvelled that no more Michael Angelos came;
not perceiving that those great Fathers were only able to re-
ceive such nourishment because they were rooted on the rock of
all ages, and that our scientific teaching, nowadays, is nothing
more nor less than the assiduous watering of trees whose stems
are cut through. Nay, I have even granted too much in saying
that those great men were able to receive pure nourishment from
the sciences ; for my own conviction is, and I know it to be
shared by most of those who love Raphael truly, — ^that he
painted best when he knew least. Michael Angelo was betrayed,
again and again, into such vain and offensive exhibition of his
anatomical knowledge as, to this day, renders his higher powers
indiscernible by the greater part of men ; and Leonardo fretted
his life away in engineering, so that there is hardly a picture left
to bear his name. But, with respect to all who followed, there
can be no question that the science they possessed was utterly
harmfrd; serving merely to draw away the hearts at once from
the purposes of art and the power of nature, and to make, out

I. FBIDR OF 80ISN0K. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 57

of the canvas and marble, nothing more than materials for the
exhibition of petty dexterity and useless knowledge.

§ xxxrv. It is sometimes amusing to watch the naive and
childish way in which this vanity is shown. For instance, when
perspective was first invented, the world thought it a mighty
discovery, and the greatest men it had in it were as proud of
knowing that retiring lines converge, as if all thje wisdom of
Solomon had been compressed into a vanishing point. And,
accordingly, it became nearly impossible for any one to paint a
Nativity, but he must turn the stable and manger into a Cor-
inthian arcade, in order to show his knowledge of perspective;
and half the best architecture of the time, instead of being
adorned with historical sculpture, as of old, was set forth with
bas-relief of minor corridors and galleries, thrown into perspective.

Now that perspective can be taught to any schoolboy in a
week, we can smile at this vanity. But the fact is, that all pride
in knowledge is precisely as ridiculous, whatever its kind, or
whatever its degree. There is, indeed, nothing of which man has
any right to be proud ; but the very last thing of which, with
any shadow of reason, he can make his boast is his knowledge,
except only that infinitely small portion of it which he has dis-
covered for himself. For what is there to be more proud of in
receiving a piece of knowledge from another person, than in re-
ceiving a piece of money ? Beggars should not be proud, whatever
kind of alms they receive. Knowledge is like current coin. A
man may have some right to be proud of possessing it, if he
has worked for the gold of it, and assayed it, and stamped it, so
that it may be received of all men as true ; or earned it fairly
being already assayed : but if he has done none of these things,
but only had it thrown in his face by a passer-by, what cause
has he to be proud ? And though, in this mendicant fashion, he
had heaped together the wealth of Croesus, would pride any more,
for this, become him, as, in some sort, it becomes the man who
has laboured for his fortune, however small ? So, if a man tells
me the sun is larger than the earth, have I any cause for pride
in knowing it ? or, if any multitude of men teU me any number

58 THIRD PERIOD. i. pbidk of soibicb.

of things, heaping all their wealth of knowledge upon me, have
I any reason to feel proud under the heap ? And is not nearly
all the knowledge of which we boast in these days cast upon us
in this dishonourable way; worked for by other men, proved
by them, and then forced upon us, even against our wills, and
beaten into us in our youth, before we have the wit even to know
if it be good, or not ? (Mark the distinction between knowledge
and thought) Truly a noble possession to be proud of I Be
assured, there is no part of the furniture of a man's mind which
he has a right to exult in, but that which he has hewn and
fashioned for himself. He who has built himself a hut on a
desert heath, and carved his bed, and table, and chair out of the
nearest forest, may have some right to take pride in the appli-
ances of his narrow chamber, as assuredly he will have joy in
them. But the man who has had a palace built, and adorned,
and furnished for him, may, indeed, have many advantages above
the other, but he has no reason to be proud of his upholsterer's
skill ; and it is ten to one if he has half the joy in his couches
of ivory that the other will have in his pallet of pine.

§ XXXV. And observe how we feel this, in the kind of respect
we pay to such knowledge as we are indeed capable of estimating
the value of. When it is our own, and new to us, we cannot
judge of it ; but let it be another's also, and long familiar to us,
and see what value we set on it. Consider how we regard a
schoolboy fresh from his term's labour. If he begin to display
his newly acquired small knowledge to us, and plume himself
thereupon, how soon do we silence him with contempt I But it is
not BO if the schoolboy begins to feel or see an3rthing. In the
strivings of his soul within him he is our equal ; in his power of
sight and thought he stands separate from us, and may be a
greater than we. We are ready to hear him forthwith. ** You
saw that? you felt that? No matter for your being a child;

let us hear."

§ XXXVI. Consider that every generation of men stands in this
relation to its successors. It is as the schoolboy : the knowledge
of which it is proudest will be as the alphabet to those who

II. PRiDB OF STATS. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 59

follow. It had better make no noise about its knowledge ; a time
will come when its utmost, in that kind, will be food for scorn.
Poor fools 1 was that all they knew ? and behold how proud they
were I But what we see and feel will never be mocked at. All
men will be thankful to us for telling them that. " Indeed ! '"
they will say, " they felt that in their day ? saw that ? Would
6od we may be like them, before we go to the home where sight
and thought are not I "

This unhappy and chUdish pride.in knowledge, then, was ihe
first constituent element of the Renaissance mind, and it was
enough, of itself, to have cast it into swift decline : but it was
aided by another form of pride, which was above caQed the Pride
of State ; and which we have next to examine.

§ xxxvn. 11. Pride of State. It was noticed, in the second
volume of "Modem Painters," p. 117., that the principle which
had most power in retarding the modem school of portraiture was
i., eon, JTexp^^ion of ifdividual ™u,y ..d pL. And .ho
reader cannot fail to have observed that one of the readiest and
commonest ways in which the painter ministers to this vanity is by
introducing the pedestal or shaft of a column, or some fragment,
however simple, of Renaissance architecture, in the background of
the portrait. And this is not merely because such architecture is
bolder or grander than, in general, that of the apartments of a
private house. No other architecture would produce the same
effect in the same degree. The richest Gothic, the most massive
Norman, would not produce the same sense of exaltation as the
simple and meagre lines of the Renaissance.

§ xxxviii. And if we think over this matter a little, we shall
soon feel that in those meagre lines there is indeed an expres-
sion of aristocracy in its worst characters ; coldness, perfectness
of training, incapability of emotion, want of sympathy with the
weakness of lower men, blank, hopeless, haughty self-sufficiency.
All these characters are written in the Renaissance architecture
as plainly as if they were graven on it in words. For, observe,
all other architectures have something in them that common men
can enjoy ; some concession to the simplicities of humanity, some

60 THIRD PERIOD. ii. pridb or state.

daily bread for the hunger of the multitude. Quaint fancy, rich
ornament, bright colour, something that shows a sympathy
with men of ordinary minds and hearts ; and this wrought out, at
least in the Gothic, with a rudeness showing that the workman
did not mind exposing hia own ignorance if he could please
others. But the Renaissance is exactly the contrary of all this.
It is rigid, cold, inhuman; incapable of glowingTo^ stooping, of
conceding for an instant. Whatever excellence it has is refined,
high-trained, and deeply erudite ; a kind which the architect
well knows no common mind can taste. He proclaims it to us
aloud. " You cannot feel my work unless you study Vitnlviua
I will give you no gay colour, no pleasant sculpture, nothing to
make you happy ; for I am a learned man. All the pleasure you
can have in anything I do is in its proud breeding, its rigid
formalism, its perfect finish, its cold tranquillity. I do not work
for the vulgar, only for the men of the academy and the court.'*

§ XXXIX. And the instinct of the world felt this in a moment.
In the new precision and accurate law of the classical forms,
they perceived something peculiarly adapted to the setting forth
of state in an appalling manner: princes delighted in it, and
courtiers. The Gothic was good for God*s worship, but this was
good for man's worship." The Gothic had fellowship with all
hearts, and was universal, like nature: it could &ame a temple
for the prayer of nations, or shrink into the poor man's winding
stair. But here was an architecture that would not shrink, that
had in it no submission, no mercy. The proud princes and lords
rejoiced in it It was full of insult to the poor in its every line.
It would not be built of the materials at the poor man's hand;
it would not roof itself with thatch or shingle and black oak
beams; it would not wall itself with rough stone or brick; it
would not pierce itself with small windows where they were
needed ; it would not niche itself, wherever there was room for it,
in the street corners. It would be of hewn stone ; it would have
its windows and its doors, and its stairs and its piUars, in lordly
order and of stately size ; it would have its wings and its
corridors, and its halls and its gardens, as if all the earth were

J

u. PRiDB OF STATE. n. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 61

its own. And the rugged cottages of the mountaineers, and the
fantastic streets of the labouring burgher, were to be thrust out of
its way, as of a lower species.

§ XL. It is to be noted, also, that it ministered as much to
luxury as to pride. Not to luxury of the eye ; that is a holy
luxury : Nature ministers to that in her painted meadows, and
sculptured forests, and gilded heavens ; the Gothic builder minis-
tered to that in his twisted traceries, and deep-wrought foliage,
and burning casements. The dead Renaissance drew back into its
earthliness, out of all that was warm and heavenly ; back into its
pride, out of all that was simple and kind ; back into its stateliness,
out of all that was impulsive, reverent, and gay. But it under-
stood the luxury of the body; the terraced and scented and
grottoed garden, with its trickling fountains and slumbrous
shades ; the spacious hall and lengthened corridor for the summer
heat ; the well-closed windows, and perfect fittings and furniture,
for defence against the cold : and the soft picture, and frescoed
wall and roof, covered with the last lasciviousness of Paganism ; —
this it understood and possessed to the full, and still possesses.
This is the kind of domestic architecture on which we pride
ourselves, even to this day, as an infinite and honourable advance
from the rough habits of our ancestors ; from the time when the
king's floor was strewn with rushes, and the tapestries swayed
before the searching wind in the baron's hall.

§ XLI. Let us hear two stories of those rougher times.

At the debate of King Edwin with his courtiers and priests,
whether he ought to receive • the Gospel preached to him by
Paulinus, one of his nobles spoke as follows :

" The present Ufe, king 1 weighed with the time that is
unknown, seems to me like this : When you are sitting at a feast
with your earls and thanes in winter time, and the fire is lighted,
and the hall is warmed, and it rains and snows, and the storm
is loud without, there comes a sparrow, and flies through the
house. It comes in at one door, and goes out at the other. While
it is within, it is not touched by the winter's storm ; but it is
but for the twinkling of an eye, for from winter it comes and to

62 THIRD PERIOD. n. pridi of btats.

winter it returns. So also this life of man endureth for a little
space ; what goes before, or what follows after, we know not.
Wherefore, if this new lore bring anything more certain, it is
fit that we should follow it."*

That could not have happened in a Renaissance building.
The bird could not have dashed in from the cold into the heat,
and from the heat back again into the storm. It would have
had to come up a flight of marble stairs, and through seven or
eight antechambers ; and so, if it had ever made its way into
the presence-chamber, out again through loggias and corridors
innumerable. And the truth which the bird brought with it,
fresh from heaven, has, in like manner, to make its way to the
Renaissance mind through many antechambers, hardly, and as
a despised thing, if at aU.

§ XLii. Hear another story of those early times.

The king of Jerusalem, Godfrey of Bouillon, at the siege of
Asshur, or Arsur, gave audience to some emirs from Samaria and
Naplous. They found him seated on the ground on a sack of
straw. They expressing surprise, Godfrey answered them : "May
not the earth, out of which we came, and which is to be our
dwelling after death, serve us for a seat during life ? "

It is long since such a throne has been set in the reception-
chambers of Christendom, or such an answer heard from the lips
of a king.

Thus the Renaissance spirit became base both in its abstinence
and its indulgence. Base in its abstinence ; curtailing the bright
and playful wealth of form and thought which filled the archi-
tecture of the earlier ages with sources of delight for their hardy
spirit, pure, simple, and yet rich as the fretwork of flowers and
moss watered by some strong and stainless mountain stream :
and base in its indulgence ; as it granted to the body what it
withdrew from the heart, and exhausted, in smoothing the pave-
ment for the painless feet, and softening the pillow for the sluggish
brain, the powers of art which once had hewn rough ladders into

• Churton's " Early EnglLsh Chuich.'' London, 1840.

IL PMDE Of OTATB. II. ROMAK RENAISSANCE. 63

the douds of heaven, and set up the stones by which they rested
for houses of God*

§ XLiii. And just in proportion as this courtly sensuality low-
eri the r«a noblen«s of L men whom birth or fortune r«eed
above their fellows, rose their estimate of their own dignity, to-
gether with the insolence and unkindness of its expression, and
the grossness of the flattery with which it was fed. Pride is
indeed the first and last among the sins of men, and there is no
age of the world in which it has not been unveiled in the power
and prosperity of the wicked. But there was never in any form
of slavery, or of feudal supremacy, a forgetfulness so total of the
common majesty of the human soul, and of the brotherly kind-
ness due from man to man, as in the aristocratic follies of the
Benaissance. I have not space to follow out this most interesting
and extensive subject; but here is a single and very curious
example of the kind of flattery with which architectural teaching
was mingled, when addressed to the men of rank of the day.

§ XLiv. In St. Mark's library there is. a very curious Latin
manuscript of the twenty-five books of Averulinus, a Florentine
architect, upon the principles of his art. The book was written
in or about 1460, and translated into Latin, and richly illuminated
for Corvinus, King of Hungary, about 1483. 1 extract from the
third book the following passage on the nature of stones : — " As
there are three genera of men, — ^that is to say, nobles, men of the
middle classes, and rustics, — so it appears that there are of stones.
For the marbles and common stones of which we have spoken
above set forth the rustics. The porphyries and alabasters, and
the other harder stones of mingled quality, represent the middle
classes, if we are to deal in comparisons ; and by means of these
the ancients adorned their temples with incrustations and orna-
ments in a .magnificent manner. And after these come the chal-
cedonies and sardonyxes, &c., which are so transparent that no
spot, can exist in them without its being seen. Thus let men
endowed with nobility lead a life in which no spot can be found."*

* The advice is good, but illogical ; for the spots of marbles are, when frequent

64 THIRD PERIOD. n. pride of statb.

Canute or Coeur de Lion (I name not Godfrey or St. Louis)
would have dashed their sceptres against the lips of a man who
should have dared to utter to them flattery such as this. But
in the fifteenth century it was rendered and accepted as a matter
of course, and the tempers which delighted in it necessarily took
pleasure also in every vulgar or false means of marking worldly
superiority. And among such false means, largeness of scale in the
dwelling-house was of course one of the easiest and most direct
All persons, however senseless or dull, could appreciate size ; it
required some exertion of intelligence to enter into the spirit of the
quaint carving of the Gothic times, but none to perceive that one
heap of stones was higher than another.* And therefore, while in
the execution and manner of work the Renaissance builders zeal-
ously vindicated for themselves the attribute of cold and superior
learning, they appealed for such apiHX)bation as they needed from
the multitude to the lowest possible standard of taste : and while
the older workman lavished his labour on the minute niche and
narrow casement, on the doorways no higher than the head, and
the contracted angles of the turreted chamber, the Renaissance
builder spared such cost and toil in his detail, that he might
spend it in bringing larger stones from a distance ; and restricted
himself to rustication and five orders, that he might load the
ground with colossal piers, and raise an ambitious barrenness of
architecture, as inanimate as it was gigantic, above the feasts and
follies of the powerful or the rich. The Titanic insanity extended
itself also into ecclesiastical design : the principal church in
Italy was built with little idea of any other admirableness than
that which was to result from its being huge ; and the religious
impressions of those who enter it are to this day supposed to
be dependent, in a great degree, on their discovering that they

enough, thought decorative. How often has it happened that men of rank have thought
sin also decorative, if only bold and frequent 1

* Observe, however, that the magnitude spoken of here and in the following pas-
sages, is the finished and polished magnitude sought for the sake of pomp : not the
rough magnitude sought for the sake of sublimity : respecting which see the ** Seven
Lamps," chap. iii. |§ 5, 6, and 8.

n. PBTOE OF STATK. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 65

cannot span the thumbs of the statues which sustain the vessels
for holy water'

§ XLV, It is easy to understand how an architecture which
thus appealed not less to the lowest instincts of dulness than
to the subtlest pride of learning, rapidly found acceptance
with a large body of mankind; and how. the spacious pomp
of the new manner of design came to be eagerly adopted by
the luxurious aristocracies, not only of Venice, but of the other
countries of Christendom, now gradually gathering themselves
into that insolent and festering isolation, against which the cry
of the poor sounded hourly in more ominous unison, bursting
at last into thunder (mark where, — first among the planted
walks and plashing fountains of the palace wherein the Re-
naissance luxury attained its utmost height in Europe, Ver-
sailles) ; that cry, mingling so much piteousness with its wrath
and indignation, " Our soul is filled with the scornful reproof
of the wealthy, and with the despitefulness of the proud."

§ XLVi. But of all the evidence bearing upon this subject
presented by the various art of the fifteenth century, none is
so interesting or so conclusive as that deduced from its tombs.
For, exactly in proportion as the pride of life became more
insolent, the fear of death became more servile ; and the dif-
ference in the maimer in which the men of early and later
days adorned the sepulchre, confesses a still greater difierence
in their manner of regarding death. To those he came as
the comforter and the friend, rest in his right hand, hope
in his left ; to these as the humiliator, the spoiler, and the
avenger. And, therefore, we find the early tombs at once
simple and lovely in adornment, severe and solemn in their
expression ; confessing the power, and accepting the peace, of
death, openly and joyfully ; and in all their symbols marking
that the hope of resurrection lay only in Christ's righteousness ;
signed always with this simple utterance of the dead, "I will
lay me down in peace, and take my rest ; for it is thou, Lord,
only that makest me dwell in safety." But the tombs of the
later ages are a ghastly struggle of mean pride and miserable

VOL. III. F

66 THIRD PERIOD.

II. PBIDl OF BTATE.

terror : the one mustering the statues of the Virtues about
the tomb, disguising the sarcophagus with delicate sculpture,
polishing the false periods of the elaborate epitaph, and filling
with strained animation the features of the portrait statue ;
and the other summoning underneath, out of the niche or
from behind the curtain, the frowning skull, or scythed skeleton,
or some other more terrible image of the enemy in whose
defiance the whiteness of the sepulchre had been set to shine
above the whiteness of the ashes.

§ XLVU. This change in the feeling with which sepulchral
monuments were designed, from the eleventh to the eighteenth
centuries, has been common to the whole of Europe, i But,
as Venice is in other respects the centre of the Renaissance
system, so also she exhibits this change in the manner of the
sepulchral monument under circumstances peculiarly calculated
to teach us its true character. For the severe guard which,
in earlier times, she put upon every tendency to personal pomp
and ambition, renders the tombs of her ancient monarchs as
remarkable for modesty and simplicity as for their religious
feeling ; so that, in this respect, they are separated by a con-
siderable interval from the more costly monuments erected at
the same periods to the kings or nobles of other European
states. In later times, on the other hand, as the piety of the
Venetians diminished, their pride overleaped all limits, and the
tombs which, in recent epochs, were erected for men who had
lived only to impoverish or disgrace the state, were as much
more magnificent than those contemporaneously erected for the
nobles of Europe, as the monuments of the great Doges had
been humbler. When, in addition to this, we reflect that the
art of sculpture, considered as expressive of emotion, was at a
low ebb in Venice in the twelfth century, and that in the seven-
teenth she took the lead in Italy in luxurious work, we shall
at once see that the chain of examples through which the change
of feeling is expressed, must present more remarkable extremes
here than it can in any other city; extremes so startling that
their impressiveness cannot be diminished, while their intelli-

n. PBiDB or (STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 67

gibility is greatly increased, by the large number of intermediate
types which have fortunately been preserved.

It would^ however, too much weary the gei;ieral reader if,
without illustrations, I were to endeavour to lead him step by
step through the aisles of St. John and Paul ; and I shall
therefore confine myself to a slight notice of those features in
sepulchral architecture generally which are especially illustrative
of the matter at present in hand, and point out the order in
which, if possible, the traveller should visit the tombs in Venice,
so as to be most deeply impressed with the true character of the
lessons they convey.

§ XLVHL I have not such an acquaintance with the modes
of entombment or memorial in the earliest ages of Christianity
as would justify me in making any general statement respecting
them : but it seems to me that the perfect type of a Christian
tomb was not developed until towards the thirteenth century,
sooner or later according to the civilization of each coimtry;
that perfect type consisting in the raised and perfectly visible
sarcophagus of stone, bearing upon it a recumbent figure, and
the whole covered by a canopy. Before that type was entirely
developed, and in the more ordinary tombs contemporary with
it, we find the simple sarcophagus, often with only a rough
block of stone for its lid, sometimes with a low-gabled lid like
a cottage roof, derived from Egyptian forms, and bearing, either
on the sides or the lid, at least a sculpture of the cross, and
sometimes the name of the deceased, and date of erection of
the tomb. In more elaborate examples rich figure-sculpture is
gradually introduced ; and in the perfect period the sarcophagus,
even when it does not bear any recumbent figure, has generally
a rich sculpture on its sides representing an angel presenting
the dead, in person and dress as he lived, to Christ or to the
Madonna, with lateral figures, sometimes of saints, sometimes —
as in the tombs of the Dukes of Burgundy at Dijon — of
mourners ; but in Venice almost always representing the Annun-
ciation, the angel being placed at one angle of the sarcophagus
and the Madonna at the other. The canopy, in a very simple

68 THIRD PERIOD. u. pbids or state.

four-square form, or as an arch over a recess, is added above the
sarcophagus, long before the life-size recumbent figure appears
resting upon it By the time that the sculptors had acquired
skill enough to give much expression to this figure, the canopy
attains an exquisite symmetry and richness ; and, in the most
elaborate examples, is surmounted by a statue, generally small,
representing the dead person in the full strength and pride of
life, while the recumbent figure shows him as he lay in death.
And, at this point, the perfect type of the Gk)thic tomb is
reached,

§ XLix. Of the simple sarcophagus tomb there are many
exquisite examples both at Venice and Verona ; the most inter-
esting in Venice are those which istre set in the recesses of the
rude brick front of the Church of St. John and Paul, ornamented
only, for the most part, with two crosses set in circles, and the
legend with the name of the dead and an "Orate pro anima"
in another circle in the centre. And in this we may note one
great proof of superiority in Italian over English tombs : the
latter being often enriched with quatrefoils, small shafts, and
arches, and other ordinary architectural decorations, which de-
stroy their seriousness and solemnity, render them little more
than ornamental, and have no religious meaning whatever;
while the Italian sarcophagi are kept massive, smooth, and
gloomy, — heavy-lidded dungeons of stone, like rock tombs, — but
bearing on their surface, sculptured with tender and narrow
lines, the emblem of the cross, not presumptuously nor proudly,
but dimly graven upon their granite, like the hope which the
human heart holds, but hardly perceives, in its heaviness.

§ L. Among the tombs in front of the Church of St. John
and Paul there is one which is peculiarly illustrative of the
simplicity of these earlier ages. It is on the left of the
entrance, a maasy sarcophagus with low horns as of an altar,
placed in a rude recess of the outside wall, shattered and worn,
and here and there entangled among wild grass and weeds.
Yet it is the tomb of two Doges, Jacopo and Lorenzo Tiepolo,
by one of whom nearly the whole ground was given for the

II. PBiDi OF 8TATB. n. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 69

erection of the noble church in front of which his unprotected
tomb is wasting away. The sarcophagus bears an inscription
in the centre, describing the acts of the Doges, of which the
letters show that it was added a considerable period after the
erection of the tomb : the original legend is still left in other
letters on its base, to this effect,

• «

'^ Lord James, died 1251. Lord Laurence, died 1288."

At the . two comers of the sarcophagus are two angels bearing
censers; and on its lid two birds, with crosses like crests upon
their heads. For the sake of the traveller in Venice the reader

• • • • « •

will, I think, pardon me the momentary irrelevancy of telling
the meaning of these symbols.

§ LI. The foundation of the Church of St. John and Paul was
laid by the Dominicans about 1234, under the immediate pro-
tection of the Senate and the Doge Giacomo Tiepolo, accorded to
them in consequence of a miraculous vision appearing to the
Doge; of which the following account is given in popular
tradition:

"In the year 1226, the Doge Giacomo Tiepolo dreamed a
dream ; and in his dream he saw the little oratory of the Domini-
cans, and, behold, the ground all around it (now occupied by the
church) was' covered with roses of the colour of vermilion, and
the air was filled with their fragrance. And in the midst of the
roses, there were seen flying to and fro a crowd of white doves,
with golden crosses upon their heads. And while the Doge
looked, and wondered, behold, two angels descended from heaven
with golden censers, and passing through the oratory, and forth
among the flowers, they filled the place with the smoke of their
incense. Then the Doge heard suddenly a clear and loud voice
which proclaimed, * This is the place that I have chosen for my
preachers ; ' and having heard it, straightway he awoke, and went
to the Senate, and declared to them the vision. Then the Senate
decreed that forty paces of ground should be given to enlarge
the monastery ; and the Doge Tiepolo himself made a still larger
grant afterwards."

■ • t • » * • I

70 THIED PERIOD. u. pbidi of statjb.

There is nothing miraculous in the occurrence of such a dream
as this to the devout Doge ; and the fact, of which there is no
doubt, that the greater part of the land on which the church
stands was given by him, is partly a confirmation of the story.
But whether the sculptures on the tomb were records of the
vision, or the vision a monkish invention from the sculptures on
the tomb, the reader will not, I believe, look upon its doves and
crosses, or rudely carved angels, any more with disdain ; knowing
how, in one way or another, they were connected with a point of
deep religious belief,

§ Lii. Towards the beginning of the fourteenth century, in

Venice, the recumbent figure begins to appear on the sarcophagus,

•

the first dated example being also one of the most beautiful ; the
statue of the prophet Simeon, sculptured upon the tomb which was
to receive his reUcs in the church dedicated to him under the
name of San Simeone Grande. So soon as the figure appears, the
sarcophagus becomes much more richly sculptured, but always
with definite religious purpose. It is usually divided into two
panels, which are filled with small bas-reliefs of the acts or
martyrdom of the patron saints of the deceased : between them,
in the centre, Christ, or the Virgin and Child, are richly en-
throned, under a curtained canopy ; and the two figures repre-
senting the Annunciation are almost always at the angles ; the
promise of the Birth of Christ being taken as at once the ground
and the tjrpe of the promise of eternal life to all men,

§ un. These figures are always in Venice most rudely chis-»
elled ; the progress of figure-sculpture being there comparatively
tardy. At Verona, where the great Pisan school had strong
influence, the monumental sculpture is immeasurably finer; and
so early as about the year 1335,* the consmnmate form of the
Gothic tomb occurs in the monument of Can Grande della Scala
at Verona. It is set over the portal of the chapel anciently
belonging to the family. The sarcophagus is sculptured with

* Can Gnuide died in 1320 : we can hardly aUow more than five years for the
erection of his tomb.

II. PRiDK OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 7 1

shallow bas-reliefe, representing (which is rare in the tombs with
which I am acquainted in Italy^ unless they are those of saints)
the principal achievements of the warrior's life, especially the
siege of Vicenza and battle of Placenza ; these sculptures, however,
form little more than a chased and roughened groundwork for the
fiiUy relieved statues representing the Annunciation, projecting
boldly from the front of the sarcophagus. Above, the Lord of
Verona is laid in his long robe of civil dignity, wearing the
simple bonnet, consisting merely of a fillet bound round the
brow, knotted and falling on the shoulder. He is laid as asleep ;
his arms crossed upon his body, and his sword by his side.
Above him, a bold arched canopy is sustained by two projecting
shafts, and on the pinnacle of its roof is the statue of the knight
on his war-horse; his helmet, dragon-winged and crested with
the dog's head, tossed back behind his shoulders, and the broad
and blazoned drapery floating back from his horse's breast, —
so truly drawn by the old workman from the life, that it seems
to wave isx the wind, and the knight's spear to shake, and his
marble horse to be evermore quickening its pace, and starting
into heavier and hastier charge, as the silver clouds float past
behind it in the sky,

§ Liv. Now observe, in this tomb, as much concession is
made to the pride of man as may ever consist with honour,
discretion, or dignity. I do not enter into any question re-
specting the character of Can Grande, though there can be little
doubt that he was one of the best among the nobles of his
time ; but that is not to our purpose. It is not the ques-
tion whether his wars were just, or his greatness honourably
achieved ; but whether, supposing them to have been so, these
facts are well and gracefully told upon his tomb. And I believe
there can be no hesitation in the admission of its perfect feeling
and truth. Though beautiful, the tomb is so little conspicuous
or intrusive, that it serves only to decorate the portal of the
little chapel, and is hardly regarded by the traveller as he, enters.
When it is examined, the history of the acts of the dead is found
subdued into dim and minute ornament upon his coffin ; and the

72 THIRD PERIOD. n. pRide of statk.

principal aim of the monument is to direct the thoughts to his
image as he lies in death, and to the expression of his hope of
resurrection ; while, seen as by the memory, far away, dimi-
nished in the brightness of the sky, there is set the likeness of
his armed youth, stately, as it stood of old in the front of battle,
and meet to be thus recorded for us, that we may now be able
to remember the dignity of the frame, of which those who once
looked upon it hardly remembered that it was dust. •

§ LV. This, I repeat, is as much as may ever be granted,
but this ought always to be granted, to the honour and the
affection of men; The tomb which stands beside that of Can
Grande, nearest it in the little field of sleep, already shows the
traces of erring ambition. It is the tomb of Mastino the Second,
in whose reign began the decline of his family. It is altogether
exquisite as a work of art ; and the evidence of a less wise or
noble feeling in ite design is found only in this, that the image
of a virtue, Fortitude, as belonging to the dead, is placed on the
extremity of the sarcophagus, opposite to the Crucifixion. But
for this slight circumstance, of which the significance will only
be appreciated as we examine the series of later monuments,
the composition of this moniunent of Can Mastino would have
been as perfect as its decoration is refined. It consists^ like that
of Can Grande, of the raised sarcophagus, bearing the recum-
bent statue, protected by a noble four-square canopy, sculptured
with ancient Scripture history. On one side' of the sarcophagus
is Christ enthroned, with Can Mastino kneeling before Him ; on
the other, Christ is represented in* the mystical form, half-rising
from the tomb, meant, I believe, to' be istt once typical of His
passion and resurrection.' The lateral panels are occupied by
statues of saints. At one extremity of the sarcophagus is the
Crucifixion ; at the other, a noble statue of Fortitude, with a
lion's skin thrown over her shoulders, its head forming a shield
upon her breast, her flowing hair ' bound with a narrow fillet,
and a three-edged sword in her gauntleted right hand, drawn
back sternly behind her thigh, while, in her leiFfc, she bears high
the shield of the Scalas.

11. PBTOE OF STATK. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 73

§ LVi. Close to this monument is another, the stateliest and
most sumptuous of the three; it first arrests the eye of the
stranger, and long detains it, — ^a many-pinnacled pile, sur-
rounded by niches with statues of the warrior saints.

It is beautiful, for it still belongs to the noble time, the
latter part of the fourteenth century ; but its work is coarser
than that of the other, and its pride may well prepare
us to learn that it was built for himself, in his own life-
time, by the man whose statue crowns it. Can Signorio della
Scala. Now observe, for this is infinitely significant Can
Mastino II. was feeble and wicked, and began the ruin of his
house ; his sarcophagus is the first which bejis upon it the
image of a Virtue, but he lays claim only to Fortitude. Can
Signorio was twice a fratricide, the last time wHen he lay upon
his death-bed : his tomb bears upon its gables the images of
six Virtues, — Faith, Hope, Charity, Prudence, and (I believe)
Justice and , Fortitude. ^ '

§ LVii, Let us now return to Venice, where, in the second
chapel counting from right to left, at the west end of the
Church of the Frari, there is a very early fourteenth, or per-
haps late thirteenth, century tomb, another exquisite example
of the perfect Gothic form. - It is a knight's ; but there is no
inscription upon it, and his name is unknown. It consists of a
sarcophagus, supported on bold brackets against the chapel wall,
bearing the recumbent figure, protected by a simple canopy in
the form of a pointed arch, ' pinnacled .by the knight's crest;
beneath which the shadowy space is painted dark blue, and
strewi with stars'. The' statue itseK is rudely caived; but its
lines; as seeii from the intended distance, axe both' tender and
masterly. The knight is laid in his mail, only the hands and
face being bare. - The hauberk and helmet are of chain-mail, the
armour for the limbs of jointed steel ; a tunic, fitting close to
the breast, and marking the noble swell of it by two narrow em-
broidered lines, is worn over the mail ; his dagger is at his right
side; his long cross-belted sword, not seen by, the spectator
from below, at his left. His feet rest on a hound (the hound

v-r

7^4 XHIBD PERIOD. n. pbidb op btatk.

being his crest), which looks up towards its master. In general,
in tombs of this kind, the face of the statue is slightly turned
towards the spectator ; in this monument, on the contrary, it
is turned away from him, towards the depth of the arch:
for there, just above the warrior's breast, is carved a small
image of St. Joseph bearing the infant Christ, who looks down
upon the resting figure; and to this image its countenance is
turned. The appearance of the entire tomb is as if the warrior
had seen the vision of Christ in his dying momenta, and had
fallen back peacefully upon his pillow, with his eyes still turned
to it, and his hands clasped in prayer.

§ LViiL On the opposite side of this chapel is another very
lovely tomb, to Duccio degli Albert!, a Florentine ambassador at
Venice ; noticeable chiefly as being the first in Venice on which
any images of the Virtues appear. We shall return to it pre-
sently, but some account must first be given of the more im-
portant among the other tombs in Venice belonging to the
perfect period. Of these, by far the most interesting, though
not the most elaborate, is that of the great Doge Francesco
Dandolo, whose ashes, it might have been thought, were
honourable enough to have been permitted to rest undisturbed
in the chapter-house of the Fran, where they were first
laid. But, as if there were not room enough, nor waste houses
enough, in the desolate city to receive a few convent papers, the
monks, wanting an ^'archivio," have separated the tomb into
three pieces : the canopy, a simple arch sustained on brackets,
still remains on the blank walls of the desecrated chamber ; the
sarcophagus has been transported to a kind of museum of anti-
quities, established in what was once the cloister of Santa Maria
della Salute ; and the painting which filled the lunette behind it
is hung far out of sight, at one end of the sacristy of the same
church. The sarcophagus is completely charged with bas-reliefs :
at its two extremities are the types of St. Mark and St. John ; in
front, a noble sculpture of the death of the Virgin ; at the angles,
angels holding vases. The whole space is occupied by the sculp-
ture; there are no spiral shafts or panelled divisions; only a

II. PRIDE OF BTATB. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 75

basic plinth below, and crowning plinth above, the sculpture
being rais.ed from a deep concave field between the two, but, in
order to give piquancy and picturesqueness to the mass of figures,
two small trees are introduced at the head and foot of the Ma-
donna's couch, an oak and a stone pine.

§ ux. It was said above,* in speaking of the frequent dis-
putes of the Venetians with the Pontifical power, which in their
early days they had so strenuously supported, that " the humi-
liation of Francesco Dandolo blotted out the sharpie of Barbarossa."
It is inde^ weU that the two events should be remembered
together. By the help of the Venetians, Alexander III. was
enabled, in the twelfth century, to put his foot upon the neck of
the emperor Barbarossa^ quoting the words of the Psalm, " Thou
shalt tread upon the lion and the adder." A himdred and fifty
years later, the Venetian ambassador, Francesco Dandolo, unable
to obtain even an audience firom the Pope, Clement V., to whom
he had been sent to pray for a removal of the sentence of
excommunication pronounced against the republic, concealed
himself (according to the conunon tradition) beneath the Pon-
tiff's dining-table ; and thence coming out as he sat down to
meat, embraced his feet, and obtained, by tearful entreaties, the
removal of the terrible sentence.

I say, " according to the common tradition ; " for there are
some doubts cast upon the story by its supplement. Most of
the Venetian historians assert that Francesco Dandolo's surname
of " Dog " was given him first on this occasion, in insult, by the
cardinals ; and that the Venetians, in remembrance of the grace
which his humiliation had won for them, made it a title of
honour to him and to his race. It has, however, been proved f
that the surname was borne by the ancestors of Francesco
Dandolo long before ; and the falsity of this seal of the legend
renders also its circumstances doubtful But the main fact of
grievous humiliation having been undergone, admits of no
dispute ; the existence of such a tradition at all is in itself a

* VoL I. Chap. I. t Sansovino, lib. xiiL

76 THIRD PERIOD. n. pridb of stats.

proof of its truth ; it was not one likely to be either invented or
received without foundation : and it will be well, therefore, that
the reader should remember, in connexion with the treatment of
Barbarossa at the door of the Church of St. Mark's, that in the
Vatican, one hundred and fifty years later, a Venetian noble,
a future Doge, submitted to a degradation, of which the current
report among his people was, that he had crept on his hands and
knees from beneath the Pontiff's table to his feet, and had been
spumed as a " dog " by the cardinals present '

§ LX. There are two principal conclusions to be drawn from
this: the obvious one respecting the insolence of the Papal
dominion in the thirteenth century ; the second, that there were
probably most deep piety and humility in the character of the
man who could submit to this insolence for the sake of a benefit
to his country. Probably no motive would have been strong
enough to obtain such a sacrifice from most men, however un-
selfish ; but it was, without doubt, made easier to Dandolo by
his profound reverence for the Pontifical office ; a reverence
which, however we may now esteem those who claimed it, could
not but have been felt by nearly all good and faithful men at
the time of which we. are speaking. : This is the main point
which I wish the reader to remember as we look at his tomb,
this, and the result of it, — that, some years afterwards, when he
was seated on the throne. which his piety had saved, "there
were sixty -princes' ambassadors in Venice at the same time,
requesting the judgment of the Senate on matters of various
concernment, so great was the fame of the uncoiTiipted justice
of the Fathers:'"^

Observe, there are no Virtues on this tomb. Nothing but
religious history or symbols; '.the Death of the Virgin in front,
and the types of St. Mark and St. John at the extremities.

§ LXi. Of the tomb of the Doge Andrea Dajidolo, in St.
Mark's, I have spoken before. It is one of the first in Venice
which presents, in the canopy; the Pisan idea of angels with-

« Tentori, vi. 142., L 157.

i

/,.•.'..-«•'*• •" • ". -'.i.-i ^,. T^k—.

II. PBiDB OF STATE. jl. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 77

drawing curtains, as of a couch, to look down upon the dead.
The sarcophagus is richly decorated with flower- work ; the usual
figures of the Annunciation are at the sides; an enthroned
Madonna in the centre; and two bas-relie£3, one of the mar-
t3Tdom of the Doge's patron saint, St. Andrew, occupy the
intermediate spaces. All these tombs have been richly coloured ;
the hair of the angels has here been gilded, their wings bedropped
with silver, and their garments covered with the most exqui-
site arabesques. This tomb, and that of St. Isidore in another
chapel of St. Mark's, which was begun by this very Doge,
Andrea Dandolo, and completed after his death in 1354, are
both nearly alike in their treatment, and are, on the whole, the
best existing examples of Venetian monumental sculpture.

§ LXii. Of much ruder workmanship, though stiU most pre-
cious, and singularly interesting from its quaintness, is a sar-
cophagus in the northernmost chapel, beside the choir of St.
John and Paul, charged with two bas-reliefs and many figures,
but which bears no inscription. It has, however, a shield with
three dolphins on its brackets ; and, as at the feet of the Ma-
donna in its centre there is a small kneeling figure of a Doge,
we know it to be the tomb of the Doge Giovanni Dolfino, who
came to the throne in 1356.

He was chosen Doge while, as provveditore, he was in Tre-
viso, defending the city against the King of Hungary. The
Venetians sent to the besiegers, praying that their newly
elected Doge might be permitted to pass the Hungarian lines.
Their request was refused, the Hungarians exulting that they
held the Doge of Venice prisoner in Treviso. But Dolfino,
with a body of two hundred horse, cut his way through their
lines by night, and reached Mestre (Malghera) in safety, where
he was met by the Senate. His bravery could not avert the
misfortunes which were accumulating on the republic. The
Hungarian war .was ignominiously terminated by the surrender
of Dalmatia ; the Doge's heart was broken, his eyesight failed him,
and he died of the plague four years after he had ascended
the throne.

78 THIRD PERIOD. iL pbide o» state.

§ Lxiii. It is perhaps on this account^ perhaps in consequence
of later injuries^ that the tomb has neither efl&gy nor inscrip-
tion : that it has been subjected to some yiolence is evident from
the dentil which once crowned its leaf-cornice being now broken
away, showing the whole front. But, fortunately, the sculpture
of the sarcophagus itself is Uttle injured.

There are two saints, male and female, at its angles, each
in a Utile niche; a Christ, enthroned in the centre, the Doge
and Dogaressa kneeling at His feet; in the two intermediate
panels, on one side the Epiphany, on the other the Death of
the Virgin; the whole supported, as well as crowned, by an
elaborate leaf-plinth. The figures under the niches are rudely
cut, and of little interest. Not so the central group. Instead of
a niche, the Christ is seated under a square tent, or tabernacle,
formed by curtains running on rods ; the idea, of course, as usual,
borrowed from the Pisan one, but here ingeniously applied. The
curtains are opened in front, -showing those at the back of the
tent, behind the seated figure ; the perspective of the two retiring
sides being very tolerably suggested. Two angels, of half the
size of the seated figure, thrust back the near curtains^ and
look up reverently to the Christ; while again, at their feet,
about one third of tlieir size, and half-sheltered, as it seems,
by their garments, are the two kneeling figures of the Doge
and Dogaressa, though so small and carefully cut, full of
life. The Christ raising one hand as to bless, and holding a
book upright and open on the knees, does not look either
towards them or to the angels, but forward; and there is a
very noticeable effort to represent Divine abstraction in the
countenance: the idea of the three magnitudes of spiritual
being, — ^^the God, the Angel, and the Man, — is also to be ob-
served, aided as it is by the complete subjection of the angelic
power to the Divine ; for the angels are in attitudes of the most
lowly watchfulness of the face of Christ, and appear uncon-
scious of the presence of the human beings who are nestled
in the folds of their garments.

§ Lxiv. With this interesting but modest tomb of one of the

II. PMDE OF STATE. H. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 79

kings of Venice, it is desirable to compare that of one of her
senators, of exactly the same date, which is raised against the
western wall of the Frari, at the end of the north aisle. It bears
the following remarkable inscription :

''Asmo MCCCLX. prima die Juui Sepultura . Domini . Simon .

DaNDOLO . AMADOB • DE . JUBTISIA . B . DX8IB0B0 . DE . ACBESE . EL .
BEN . OHOMUM."

The "Amador de Justisia'' has perhaps some reference to Si-
mon Dandolo's having been one of the Giimta who condemned
the Doge Faliero. The sarcophagus is decorated merely by the
Annunciation group, and an enthroned Madoima with a curtain
behind her throne, sustained by four tiny angels, who look over
it as they hold it up ; but the workmanship of the figures is
more than usually beautiful.

§ Lxv. Seven years later, a very noble monument was placed
on the north side of the choir of St. John and Paul, to the Doge
Marco Comaro, chiefly, with respect to our present subject,
noticeable for the absence of religious imagery from the sarco-
phagus, which is decorated with roses only ; three very beautiful
statues of the Madonna and two saints are, however, set in the
canopy abo^ne. Opposite this tomb, though about fifteen years
later in date, is the richest monument of the Gothic period
in Venice ; that of the Doge Michele Morosini, who died in
1382. It consists of a highly florid canopy, — ^an arch crowned
by a gable, with pinnacles at the flanks, boldly crocketed, and
with a huge finial at the top representing St. Michael, — a me-
dallion of Christ set in the gable; under the arch, a mosaic,
representing the Madoima presenting the Doge to Christ upon
the cross ; beneath, as usual, the sarcophagus, with a most noble
recumbent figure of the Doge, his face meagre and severe, and
sharp in its lines, but exquisite in the form of its small and
princely features. The sarcophagus is adorned with elaborate
wrinkled leafage, projecting in front of it into seven brackets,
from which the statues are broken away; but by which — for
there can be no doubt that these last statues represented the

80 THIRD PERIOD.

II. PBIDX OF BTATB.

theological and cardinal Virtues — we must for a moment
pause.

§ Lxvi. It was noticed above, that the tomb of the Florentine
ambassador, Duccio, was the first in Venice which presented
images of the Virtues. Its small lateral statues of Justice and
Temperance are exquisitely beautiful, and were, I have no doubt,
executed by a Florentine sculptor ; the whole range of artistical
power and religious feeling being in Florence full half a century
in advance of that of Venice. But this is the first truly Venetian
tomb which has the Virtues ; and it becomes of importance,
therefore, to know what was the character of MorosinL

The reader must recoUect that I dated the commencement of
the fall of Venice from the death of Carlo Zeno, considering
that no state could be held as in decline which numbered such a
man amongst its citizens. Carlo Zeno was a candidate for the
Ducal bonnet together with Michael Morosini ; and Morosini was
chosen. It might be anticipated, therefore, that there was some-
thing more than usually admirable or illustrious in his character.
Yet it is difficult to arrive at a just estimate of it, as the reader
will at once understand by comparing the following statements :

§ LXVII. 1. ''To him (Andrea Contarini) succeeded Morofiini, at the age of
Beventy-four years ; a most learned and prudent man, who also reformed several
laws." — Sansovino^ Vite de' Principi.

2. ''It waa generaUy believed that, if his reign had been longer, he would
have dignified the state by many noble laws and institutes ; but by so much as his
reign was full of hope, by as much was it short in duration, for he died^when he had
been at the head of the republic but four months.** — Sahellioo, lib. viiL

3. " He was allowed but a short time to enjoy this high dignity, which he had so
well deserved by his rare virtues, for God called him to Himself on the 15th of
October." — Muratori, Annali d' Italia.

4. " Two candidates presented themselves ; one was Zeno, the other that Michael
Morosini who, during the war, had tripled his fortune by his speculations. The
suffrages of the electors fell upon him, and he was proclaimed Doge on the 10th of
June." — DcMTUy Histoire de Venise, lib. z.

5. "The choice of the electors was directed to Michaele Morosini, a noble
of illustrious birth, derived from a stock which, coeval with the republic itself,
had produced the conqueror of Tjrre, given a queen to Hungary, and more than
one Doge to Venice. The brilliancy of this descent was tarnished in the present
chief representative of the family by the most base and grovelling avarice ; for
at that moment, in the recent war, at which all other Venetians were devoting
their whole fortunes to the service of the state, Morosini sought in the diistresses

u. PKiDK OP STATE. n. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 8 1

of bis country an opening for his own private enrichment, and employed his
ducats, not in the assistance of the national wants, but in speculating upon
houses which were brought to market at a price far beneath their real value,
and which, upon the return of peace, insured the purchaser a fourfold profit
'What matters the fall of Venice to me, so as I fall not together with herl'
was his selfish and sordid reply to some one who expressed surprise at the trans-
action," — Sketches of Venetian History, Murray, 1831.

§ Lxviii. The writer of the unpretending little history from
which the last quotation is taken has not given his authority
for this statement, and I could not find it, but believed, from the
general accuracy of the book, that some authority might exist
better than Daru's. Under these circumstances, wishing if
possible to ascertain the truth, and to clear the character of
this great Doge from the accusation, if it proved^ groundless, I
wrote to the Count Carlo Morosini, his descendant, and one of
the few remaining representatives of the ancient noblesse of
Venice ; one, also, by whom his great ancestral name is revered*
and in whom it is exalted. His answer appears to me altogether
conclusive as to the utter fallacy of the reports of Daru and
the English history. I have placed his letter in the close of
this volume (Appendix 6.), in order that the reader may
himself be the judge upon this point ; and I should not have
alluded to Daru's report, except for the purpose of contradicting
it, but that it still appears to me impossible that any modem
historian should have gratuitously invented the whole story,
and that, therefore, there must have been a trace, in the docu-
ments which Daru himself possessed, of some scandal of this
kind raised by Morosini's enemies, perhaps at the very time of
the disputed election with Carlo Zeno. The occurrence of the
Virtues upon his tomb, for the first time in Venetian monu-
mental work, and so richly and conspicuously placed, may
partly have been in public contradiction of such a floating
rumour. But the face of the statue is a more explicit con-
tradiction still ; it is resolute, thoughtful, serene, and full of
beauty; and we must, therefore, for once, allow the somewhat
boastful introduction of the Virtues to have been perfectly just :
though the whole tomb is most notable, as furnishing not only

VOL. III. G

82 THIBD PERIOD. iL pbids of btatk.

the exactly intermediate condition in style between the pure
Gothic and its final Eenaissance corruption, but, at the same
time, the exactly intermediate condition of /eding between the
pure calmness of early Christianity, and the boastful pomp
of the Benaissance faithlessness ; for here we have still the reli-
gious humility remaining in the mosaic of the canopy, which
shows the Doge kneeling before the cross, while yet this ten-
dency to self-trust is shown in the suirounding of the coffin
by the Virtues.

§ LXix The next tomb by the side of which they appear is
that of Jacopo Cavalli, in the same chapel of St. John and Paul
which contains the tomb of the Doge Delfin. It is peculiarly
rich in religious imagery, adorned by boldly cut types of the four
Evangelists, and of two saints, while, on projecting brackets in
front of it, stood three statues of Faith, Hope, and Charity, now
lost, but drawn in Zanotto's work. It is all rich in detail, and its
sculptor has been proud of it, thus recording his name below the
epitaph :

'' qst opera dnstaiiqio s fatto in pixba,
Unyenigian lafx chanomb Polo,
Nato di Jaohomxl chataiapieba."

This work of ■cnlpture is done in stone ;
A Venetian did it, named Paul,
Son of Jachomel the stone-cutter.

Jacopo Cavalli died in 1384. He was a bold and active Vero^

nese soldier, did the state much service, was therefore ennobled

by it, and became the founder of the house of the Cavalli ; but I

find no especial reason for the images of the Virtues, especially

that of Charity, appearing at his tomb, unless it be this : that at

the siege of Feltre, in the war against Leopold of Austria, he

refused to assault the city because the Senate would not grant

his soldiers the pillage of the town. The feet of the recumbent

figure, which is in fuU armour, rest on a dog, and its head on

two lions ; and these animals (neither of which form any part

of the knight's bearings) are said by 2ianotto to be intended to

S3rmbolize his bravery and fidelity. If, however, the lions are

u. PBiDS OF BTATK H. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 83

meant to set forth courage, it is a pity they should have been
represented as howling.

§ Lxx. We must next pause for an instant beside the tomb
of Michael Steno, now in the northern aisle of St. John and
Paul, having been removed there from the destroyed church
of the Servi : first, to note its remarkable return to the early
simplicity, the sarcophagus being decorated only with two
crosses in quatrefoils, though it is of the fifteenth century, Steno
dying in 1413; and, in the second place, to observe the pecu-
liarity of the epitaph, which eulogizes Steno as having been
"amator justitie, pacis, et ubertatis," — "A lover of justice,
peace, and plenty." In the epitaphs of this period, the virtues
which are made most account of in public men are those which
were most useful to their country. We have already seen one
example in the epitaph on Simon Dandolo ; and similar expres-
sions occur constantly in laudatory mentions of their later Doges
by the Venetian writers. Thus Sansovino of Marco Comaro,
" Era savio huomo, eloquente, e amava molto la pace e? abbon-
danza della citta;" and of Tomaso Mocenigo, "Huomo oltre
modo desideroso deUa pace."

Of the tomb of this last-named Doge mention has before been
made. Here, as in Morosini's, . the images of the Virtues have
no ironical power, although their great conspicuousness marks
the increase of the boastful feeling in the treatment of monu-
ments. For the rest, this tomb is the last in Venice which
can be considered as belonging to the Gothic period Its
mouldings are already rudely classical, and it has meaningless
figures in Boman armour at the angles; but its tabernacle
above is still Gothic, and the recumbent figure is very beauti-
ful. It was carved by two Florentine sculptors in 1423.

§ Lxxi. Tomaso Mocenigo was succeeded by the renowned
Doge, Francesco Foscari, under whom, it will be remembered,
the last additions were made to the Gothic Ducal Palace ; addi-
tions which in form only, not in spirit, corresponded to the older
portions ; since, during his reign, the transition took place which
permits us no longer to consider the Venetian architecture as

84 THIED PERIOD. «• pmdb or state.

Gothic at all. He died in 1457, and his tomb is the first im-
portant example of Benaissance art.

Not, however, a good characteristic example. It is remarkable
chiefly as introducing all the faults of the Benaissance at an
early period, when its merits, such as they are, were yet \m-
developed. Its claim to be rated as a classical composition is
altogether destroyed by the remnants of Gothic feeling which
cling to it here and there in their last forms of degradation ;
and of which, now that we find them thus corrupted, the
sooner we are rid the better. Thus the sarcophagus is sup-
ported by a species of trefoiled arches; the bases of the shafts
have still their spurs; and the whole tomb is covered by a
pediment, with crockets and a pinnacle. We shall find that
the perfect Benaissance is at least pure in its insipidity, and
subtle in its vice ; but this monument is remarkable as showing
the refuse of one style encumbering the embryo of another, and
all principles of life entangled either in the swaddling clothes
or the shroud.

§ Lxxii. With respect to our present purpose, however, it is a
monument of enormous importance. We have to trace, be it re-
membered, the pride of state in its gradual intrusion upon the
sepulchre ; and the consequent and correlative vanishing of the
expressions of religious feeling and heavenly hope, together with
the more and more arrogant settiag forth of the virtues of the
dead. Now this tomb is the largest and most costly we have yet
seen ; but its means of religious expression are limited to a single
statue of Christ, small, and used merely as a pinnacle at the
top. The rest of the composition is as curious as it is vulgar.
The conceit, so often noticed as having been borrowed from the
Pisan school, of angels withdrawing the curtains of the couch
to look down upon the dead, was brought forward with in-
creasing prominence by every succeeding sculptor; but, as we
draw nearer to the Benaissance period, we find that the angels
become of less importance, and the curtains of more. With the
Pisans, the curtains are introduced as a motive for the angels;
with the Benaissance sculptors, the angels are introduced merely

11. PKiDK OP STATE. n. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 85

as a motive for the curtains, which become every day more huge
and elaborate. In the monument of Mocenigo, they have already
expanded into a tent, with a pole in the centre of it : and in
that of Foscari, for the first time, the angels are absent alto-
gether; while the curtains are arranged in the form of an
enormous French tent-bed, and are sustained at the flanks by
two diminutive figures in Roman armour; substituted for the
angels, merely that the sculptor might show his knowledge of
classical costume. And now observe how often a fault in feeling
induces also a fault in style. In the old tombs, the angels used
to stand on or by the side of the sarcophagus ; but their places
are here to be occupied by the Virtues, and therefore, to sustain
the diminutive Eoman figures at the necessary height, each has
a whole Corinthian pillar to himself, a pillar whose shaft is
eleven feet high, and some three or four feet round : and because
this was not high enough, it is put on a pedestal four feet and a
half high; and has a spurred base besides of its own, a tall
capital, then a huge bracket above the capital, and then another
pedestal above the bracket, and on the top of aU the diminutive
figure who has charge of the curtains.

^ § Lxxiii. Under the canopy, thus arranged, is placed the
sarcophagus with its recumbent figure. The statues of the
Virgin and the saints have disappeared fi-om it. In their stead,
its panels are filled with half-length figures of Faith, Hope, and
Charity ; while Temperance and Fortitude are at the Doge's feet.
Justice and Prudence at his head, figures now the size of life,
yet nevertheless recognizable only by their attributes : for, except
that Hope raises her eyes, there is no difference in the character
or expression of any of their faces,— ^they are nothing more than
handsome Venetian women, in rather fall and courtly dresses,
and tolerably well thrown into postures for effect from below.
Fortitude could not of course be placed in a graceful one without
some sacrifice of her character, but that was of no consequence
in the eyes of the sculptors of this period, so she leans back
languidly, and nearly overthrows her own column ; while Tem-
perance, and Justice opposite to her, as neither the left hand of

86 THIRD PEEIOD. n. pbidi of state.

the one nor the right hand of the other could be seen from
below, have been hfi with one hand each.

§ Lxxiv. Still, these figures, coarse and feelingless as they
are, have been worked with care, because the principal effect of
the tomb depends on them. But the eflSgy of the Doge, of which
nothing but the sign is visible, has been utterly neglected ; and
the ingenuity of the sculptor is not so great, at the best, as that
he can afford to be slovenly. There is, indeed, nothing in the
history of Foscari which would lead tis to expect anjrthing
particularly noble in his flEU^e ; but I trust, nevertheless, it has
been misrepresented by this despicable carver ; for no words
are strong enough to express the baseness of the portraiture.
A huge, gross, bony clown's face, with the peculiar sodden
and sensual cunning in it which is seen so often in the counte-
nances of the worst Eomanist priests ; a face part of iron and
part of day, with the immobility of the one, and the foulness of
the other, double-chinned, blunt-mouthed, bony-cheeked, with its
brows drawn down into meagre lines and wrinkles over the
eyelid; the face of a man incapable either of joy or sorrow,
xmless such as may be caused by the indulgence of passion
or the mortification of pride. Even had he been such a one,
a noble workman would not have written it so legibly on his
tomb ; and I believe it to be the image of the carver's own
mind that is there hewn in the marble, not that of the Doge
Foscari. For the saune mind is visible enough throughout,
the traces of it mingled with those of the evil taste of the
whole time and people. There is not anything so small but
it is shown in some portion of its treatment; for instance,
in the placing of the shields at the back of the great curtain.
In earlier times, the shield, as we have seen, was represented
aa merely suspended against the tomb by a thong, or if sus-
tained in any other manner, still its form was simple and un-
disguised. Men in those days used their shields in war, and
therefore there was no need to add dignity to their form by
external ornament. That which, through day after day of mortal
danger, had borne back from them the waves of battle, could

n. PRiDB OF STATK. H, ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 87

neither be degraded by simplicity, nor exalted by decoration.
By its rude leathern thong it seemed to be fastened to their
tombs, and the shield of the mighty was not cast away, though
capable of defending its master no more.

§ Lxxv. It was otherwise in the fifteenth and sixteenth cen-
turies. The changed system of warfare was rapidly doing away
with the practical service of the shield ; and the chiefs who di-
rected the battle from a distance, or who passed the greater part
of their lives in the council chamber, soon came to regard the
shield as nothing more than a field for their armorial bearings. It
then became a principal object of their Pride of State to increase
the conspicuousness of these marks of family distinction by sur«
rounding them with various and fantastic ornament, generally
BcroU or flower work, which of course deprived the shield of all
appearance of being intended for a soldier's use. Thus the shield
of the FoBcari is introduced in two way& On the sarcophagus,
the bearings are three times repeated, enclosed in circular disks,
which are sustained each by a couple of naked infants. Above
the canopy, two shields of the usual form are set in the centre of
circles filled by a radiating ornament of shell flutings, which give
them the effect of ventilators ; and their circumference is farther
adorned by gilt rays, undulating to represent a glory.

§ Lxxvi. We now approach that period of the early Eenais-
sance which was noticed in the preceding chapter as being at
first a very visible improvement on the corrupted Gothic. The
tombs executed during the period of the Byzantine Eenaissance
exhibit, in the first place, a consummate skill in handling the
chisel, perfect science of drawing and anatomy, high appreciation
of good classical models, and a grace of composition and delicacy
of ornament derived, I believe, principally from the great Floren-
tine sculptors. But, together with this science, they exhibit also,
for a short time, some return to the early religious feeling, form-
ing a school of sculpture which corresponds to that of the school
of the Bellini in painting ; and the only wonder is that there
should not have been more workmen in the fifteenth century
doing in marble what Perugino, Francia, and Bellini did on

88 THIRD PERIOD. n. prids op statk.

canvas. There are, indeed, some few, as I have just said, in
whom the good and pure temper shows itself : but the sculptor
was necessarily led sooner than the painter to an exclusive study
of classical models, utterly adverse to the Christian imagination ;
and he was also deprived of the great purifying and sacred ele-
ment of colour, besides having much more of merely mechanical
and therefore degrading labour to go through in the realization
of his thought. Hence I do not know any example of sculpture
at this period, at least in Venice, which has not conspicuous
faults (not faults of imperfection, as in early sculpture, but of
purpose and sentiment), staining such beauties as it may possess ;
and the whole school soon falls away, and merges into vain pomp
ajid meagre metaphor.

§ Lxxvii. The most celebrated monument of this period is
that to the Doge Andrea Vendramin, in the Church of St. John
and Paul, sculptured about 1480, and before alluded to in the
first chapter of the first volume. It has attracted public admira-
tion, partly by its costliness, partly by the delicacy and precision
of its chiselling; being otherwise a very base and unworthy
example of the school, and showing neither invention nor feeling.
It has the Virtues, as usual, dressed like heathen goddesses, and
totally devoid of expression, though graceful and well studied
merely as female figures. The rest of its sculpture is all of the
same kind ; perfect in workmanship, and devoid of thought. Its
dragons are covered with marvellous scales, but have no terror
nor sting in them ; its birds are perfect in plumage, but have no
song in them ; its children lovely of limb, but have no childish-
ness in themu'

§ Lxxvin. Of far other workmanship are the tombs of Pietro
and Giovanni Mocenigo, in St. John and Paul, and of Pietro
Bernardo in the Frari; in all which the details are as full of
exquisite fancy as they are perfect in execution : and in the two
former, and several others of similar feeling, the old religious
symbols return ; the Madonna is again seen enthroned under the
canopy, and the sarcophagus is decorated with legends of the
saints. But the fatal errors of sentiment are, nevertheless, always

11. PRIDE OP STATE. u. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 89

traceable. In the first place, the sculptor is always seen to be
intent upon the exhibition of his skill, more than on producing
any effect on the spectator's mind ; elaborate backgrounds of
landscape, with tricks of perspective, imitations of trees, clouds,
and water, and various other xumecessary adjuncts, merely to
show how marble could be subdued ; together with useless under-
cutting, and over-finish in subordinate parts, continually exhibit-
ing the same cold vanity and unexcited precision of mechanism.
In the second place, the figures have all the peculiar tendency to
posture-making, which, exhibiting itself first painfully in Peru-
gino, rapidly destroyed the veracity of composition in all art.
By posture-making I mean, in general, that action of figures
which results fi-om the painter's considering, in the first place, not
how, under the circumstances, they would actually have walked,
or stood, or looked, but how they may most gracefully and
harmoniously walk or stand. In the hands of a great man,
posture, like everything else, becomes noble, even when over-
studied, as with Michael Angelo, who was, perhaps, more than
any other, the cause of the mischief; but, with inferior men,
this habit of composing attitudes ends necessarily in utter life-
lessness and abortion. Giotto was, perhaps, of all painters, the
most fi:ee from the infection of the poison, always conceiving
an incident naturally, and drawing it unaffectedly ; and the ab-
sence of posture-making in the works of the Pre-Kaphaelit€S, as
opposed to the Attitudinarianism of the modem school, has been
both one of their principal virtues, and of the principal causes
of outcry against them.

§ Lxxix. But the most significant change in the treatment
of these tombs, with respect to our immediate object, is in the
form of the sarcophagus. It was above noted, that, exactly in
proportion to the degree of the pride of life expressed in any
monument, would be also the fear of death ; and therefore, as
these tombs increase in splendour, in size, and beauty of work-
manship, we perceive a gradual desire to take mvay from the
definite character of the sarcophagus. In the earliest times, as
we have seen, it was a gloomy mass of stone ; gradually it

>

90 THIRD PERIOD. n.* pbidb of statb.

became charged with religious sculpture; but never with the
slightest desire to disguise its form, until towards the middle of
} the fifteenth century. It then becomes enriched with flower-work

' and hidden by the Virtues; and, finally, losing its four-square

» form, it is modelled on graceful types of ancient vases, made

; as little like a coffin as possible, and refined away in various ele-

^ gancies, till it becomes, at laeit, a mere pedestal or stage for the

portrait statue. This statue, in the meantime, has been gradually
coining back to life, through a curious series of transitions. The
Vendramin monument is one of the last which shows, or pre-
tends to show, the recumbent figure laid in death. A few years
later, this idea became disagreeable to polite minds ; and, lo I the
^ figtrrGb/'wHcK before had been laid at rest upon the tomb pillow,
.^.^ raised themselves on their elbows, and began to look round them.

The soul of the sixteenth century dared not contemplate its body
in death.

§ Lxxx. The reader cannot but remember many instances
of this form of monument, England being peculiarly rich in
examples of them ; although, with her, tomb sculpture, after the
fourteenth century, is altogether imitative, and in no degree
indicative of the temper of the people. It was from Italy that
the authority for the change was derived ; and in Italy only,
therefore, that it is truly correspondent to the change in the
national mind. There are many monuments in Venice of this
semi-animate type, most of them carefully sculptured, and some
very admirable as portraits, and for the casting of the drapery,
especially those in the Church of San Salvador: but I shall
only direct the reader to one, that of Jacopo Pesaro, Bishop
of Paphos, in the Church of the Prari; notable not only as
a very skilful piece of sculpture, but for the epitaph, singularly
characteristic of the period, and confirmatory of all that I have
alleged against it :

'^ James Pesaro, Bishop of Paphos, who conquered the Turks in war, himself
in peace, transported from a noble family among the Venetians to a nobler
among the angels, laid here, expects the noblest crown, which the just

t

n. PBiDB OF OTAm II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 9 1

Judge shall gire to liim in that day. He lived the yean of Plato. He died
24th Maich, 1647.*

The mingled claasiciBm and carnal pride of this epitaph surely
need no comment. The crown is expected as a right £rom the
justice of the Judge, and the nobility of the Venetian family is
only a little lower than that of the angels. The quaint childish-
ness of the " Vixit annos Platonicos " is also very notable.

§ Lxxxi. The statue, however, did not long remain in this
partially recumbent attitude. Even the expression of peace
became painful to the frivolous and thoughtless Italians, and
they required the portraiture to be rendered in a manner that
should induce no memory of death. The statue rose up, and
presented itself in front of the tomb, like an actor upon a stage,
surrounded now not merely, or not at all, by the Virtues, but
by allegorical figures of Fame and Victory, by genii and muses,
by personifications of humbled kingdoms and adorii^ nations,
and by every circumfltance of pomp, and symbol of adulation,
that flattery could suggest, or insolence could claim.

§ TiXXXTi. As of the intermediate monumental type, so also of
this, the last and most gross, there are unfortunately many
examples in our own country; but the most wonderful, by far,
are still at Venice. I shall, however, particularize only two ;
the first, that of the Doge John Pesaro, in the Prari. It is to
be observed that we have passed over a considerable interval of
time ; we are now in the latter half of the seventeenth century ;
the progress of corruption has in the meantime been incessant,
and sculpture has here lost its taste and learning as well as
its feeling. The monument is a huge accumulation of theatrical
scenery in marble : four colossal negro caryatides, grinning and
liorrible, with faces of black marble and white eyes, sustain the
first story of it ; above this, two monsters, long-necked, half dog

* ^^ Jacobus Piaaorins Paphi EpiscopuB, qui Toicos bello, se ipBUxn pace
vincebat, ex nobili inter Venetiu, ad nobiliorem inter Angeloe fAmiliAm delatus,
nobiliBsimam in ilia die Coronam jnsto Judice leddente, hie sitas expectat.
Vxit annos Platonicos. Obijt MDXLVII. IX. Kal. Aprilis."

t
^

92 THIRD PERIOD.

n. PHIDE OP STATU

and half dragon^ sustain an ornamental sarcophagus^ on the
top of which the full length statue of the Doge in robes of
state stands forward with its arms expanded, like an actor
courting applause, under a huge canopy of metal, like the roof
of a bed, painted crimson and gold; on each side of him are
sitting figures of genii, and unintelligible personifications ges-
ticulating in Roman armour ; below, between the negro carya-
tides, are two ghastly figures in bronze, half corpse, half skeleton,
carrying tablets on which is written the eulogium : but in
large letters, graven in gold, the following words are the first
and last that strike the eye ; the first two phrases, one on each
side, on tablets in the lower story, the last under the portrait
statue above :

VixiT ANNOS LXX. DEVixrr anno MDCLIX.

« HiC RKVIXIT ANNO MDCLXIX."

We have here, at last, the horrible images of death in violent
contrast wilJi the defiant monument, which pretends to bring
the resurrection down to earth, "Hie revixit;" and it seems
impossible for false taste and base feeling to sink lower. Yet
even this monument is surpassed by one in St. John and Paul.

§ Lxxxiii. But before we pass to this, the last with which I
shall burden the reader's attention, let us for a moment, and
that we may feel the contrast more forcibly, return to a tomb
of the early times.

In a dark niche in the outer wall of the outer corridor of
St. Mark's, — ^not even in the church, observe, but in the atrium
or porch of it, and on the north side of the church, — is a solid
sarcophagus of white marble, raised only about two feet from
the ground on four stunted square pillars. Its lid is a mere
slab of stone ; on its extremities are sculptured two crosses ; in
front of it are two rows of rude figures, the uppermost repre-
senting Christ with the Apostles : the lower row is of six figures
only, alternately male and female, holding up their hands in
the usual attitude of benediction ; the sixth is smaller than the
rest, and the inidmost of the other five has a glory round

u. PUDE OF STATE. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 93

its head. I cannot tell the meaning of these figures, but be-
tween them are suspended censers attached to crosses ; a most
beautiful symbolic expression of Christ's mediatorial function.
The whole is surrounded by a rude wreath of vine leaves, pro-
ceeding out of the foot of a cross.

On the bar of marble which separates the two rows of figures
are inscribed these words :

<' Here lies the Lord Marin Morosini, Duke."

It is the tomb of the Doge Marino Morosini, who reigned
from 1249 to 1252.

§ Lxxxiv. From before this rude and solemn sepulchre let
us pass to the southern aisle of the church of St. John and
Paul; and there, towering from the pavement to the vaulting
of the church, behold a mass of marble, sixty or seventy feet
in height, of mingled yellow and white, the yellow carved into
the form of an enormous curtain, with ropes, fringes, and
tassels, sustained by cherubs; in front of which, in the now
usual stage attitudes, advance the statues of the Doge Bertuccio
Valier, his son the Doge Silvester Falier, and his son's wife,
Elisabeth. The statues of the Doges, though mean and Polonius-
like, are partly redeemed by the Ducal robes; but that of the
Dogaressa is a consummation of grossness, vanity, and ugliness,
— the figure of a large and wrinkjed woman, with elaborate
curls in stiff" projection round her face, covered from her
shoulders to her feet with ruffs, furs, lace, jewels, and em-
broidery. Beneath and around are scattered Virtues, Vic-
tories, Fames, genii, — the entire company of the monumental
stage assembled, as before a drop scene, — executed by various
sculptors, and deserving attentive study as exhibiting every
condition of false taste and feeble conception. The Victory in
the centre is peculiarly interesting ; the lion by which she is
accompanied, springing on a dragon, has been intended to look
terrible, but the incapable sculptor could not conceive any form
of dreadfulness, could not even make the lion look angry. It
looks only lachrymose ; and its lifted forepaws, there being no

,«'

d4 THIBD PERIOD. ii. pride of state.

spring nor motion in its body, give it the appeaxance • of a dog
begging. The inscriptions under the two principal statues are
as follows :

*' Bertucius Yalier, Duke,

Great in wisdom and eloquence,

Greater in his Hellespontic victory.

Greatest in the Prince his son,

Died in the year IGSa"

** Elisabeth Quirina,

The wife of Silvester,

Distinguished by Roman virtue,

By Venetian piety,

And by the Ducal crown.

Died 170a"

The writers of this age were generally anxious to make the
world aware that they understood the degrees of comparison, and
a large number of epitaphs are principally constructed with
this object (compare, in the Latin, that of the Bishop of
Paphos, given above) : but the latter of these epitaphs is also
interesting from its mention, in an age now altogether given
up to the pursuit of worldly honour, of that " Venetian piety "
which once truly distinguished the city from all others ; and of
which some form and shadow, remaining still, served to point
an epitaph, and to feed more cunningly and speciously the
pride which could not be satiated with the sumptuousness of the
sepulchre.

§ Lxxxv. Thus far, then, of the second element of the Re-
naissance spirit, the Pride of State ; nor need we go farther to
learn the reason of the fall of Venice. She was already likened
in her thoughts, and was therefore to be likened in her ruin, to
the Virgin of Babylon. The Pride of State and the Pride of
Knowledge were no new passions ; the sentence against them had
gone forth from everlasting. " Thou saidst, I shall be a lady for
ever ; so that thou didst not lay these things to thine heart. • •
Thy wisdom and thy knowledge, it hath perverted thee ; and thou
hast said in thine heart, I am, and none else beside me. There-
fore shall evil come upon thee . . . ; thy merchants from thy

lu. riUDK OF SYSTKH. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 9;..

youth, they shall wander every one to his quarter; none shall
save thee." *

§ Lxxxvi. IIL Pride of System. I might have illustrated
these evil principles feom a thousand other sources, but I
have not time to pursue the subject farther, and must pass
to the third element above named, the Pride of System. It
need not detain us so long as either of the others, for it is at
once more palpable and less dangerous. The manner in which
the pride of the fifteenth century corrupted the sources of know-
ledge, and diminished the majesty, while it multiplied the trap-
pings, of state, is in general little observed; but the reader is
probably already well and sufficiently aware of the curious
tendency to formulization and system which, under the name of
philosophy, encumbered the minds of the Renaissance schoolmen.
As it was above stated, grammar became the first of sciences ;
and whatever subject had to be treated, the first aim of the
philosopher was to subject its principles to a code of laws, in the
observation of which the merit of the speaker, thinker, or worker,
in or on that subject, was thereafter to consist; so that the
whole mind of the world was occupied by the exclusive study of
Restraints. The sound of the forging of fetters was heard from
sea to sea. The doctors of all the arts and sciences set them-
selves daily to the invention of new varieties of cages and
manacles ; they themselves wore, instead of gowns, a chain mail,
whose purpose was not so much to avert the weapon of the
adversary as to restrain the motions of the wearer ; and all the
acts, thoughts, and workings of mankind, — poetry, painting, archi-
tecture, and philosophy, — were reduced by them merely to so
many different forms of fetter-dance.

§ Lxxxvn. Now, I am very sure that no reader who has given
any attention to the former portions of this work, or the tendency
of what else I have written, more especially the last chapter of
the " Seven Lamps," will suppose me to underrate the impor-
tance, or dispute the authority, of law. It has been necessary

* Isaiah, xlvii 7. 10. 11. 15.

y

/

/

36 THIRD F£III0D. m. pride of ststeu.

*

/ for me to allege these again and again, nor can they ever be too
often or too energetically alleged, against the vast masses of men
who now disturb or retard the advance of civilization; heady
and high-minded despisers of discipline, and refusers of cor-
rection. But law, so fax as it can be reduced to form and
system, and is not written upon the heart, — ^as it is, in a Divine
loyalty, upon the hearts of the great hierarchies who serve and
wait about the throne of the Eternal Lawgiver, — this lower and
formally expressible law has, I say, two objects. It is either
for the definition and restraint of sin, or the guidance of sim-
plicity ; it either explains, forbids, and punishes wickedness, or
it guides the movements and actions both of lifeless things
and of the more simple and untaught among responsible
agents. And so long, therefore, as sin and foolishness are in
the world, so long it will be necessary for men to submit
themselves painfully to this lower law, in proportion to their
need of being corrected, and to the degree of childishness or
simplicity by which they approach more nearly to the condition
of the unthinking and inanimate things which are governed by
law altogether ; yet yielding, in the manner of their submission
to it, a singular lesson to the pride of man, — being obedient
more perfectly in proportion to their greatness.* But, so far as
men become good and wise, and rise above the state of children,
so far they become emancipated from this written law,, and in-
vested with the perfect freedom which consists in the fulness and
joyfulness of compliance with a higher and unwritten law; a
law so universal, so subtle, so glorious, that nothing but the heart
can keep it.

§ Lxxxviii. Now pride opposes itself to the observance of this
Divine law in two opposite ways : either by brute resistance,
which is the way of the rabble and its leaders, denying or
defying law altogether ; or by formal compliance, which is the
way of the Pharisee, exalting himself while he pretends to
obedience, and making void the infinite and spiritual command-

* Compare " Seven Lampe," chap. vii. § 3.

m. PBiDE OP SYSTEM. n. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 97

ment by the finite and lettered commandment. And it is easy
to know which law we are obeying: for any law which we
magnify and keep through pride, is always the law of the letter ;
but that which we love and keep through humility, is the law
of the Spirit : and the letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life.

§ LXXXTX. In the appliance of this universal principle to
what we have at present in hand, it is to be noted, that all
written or writable law respecting the arts is for the childish
and ignorant : that in the beginning of teaching, it is possible
to say that this or that must or must not be done ; and laws of
colour and shade may be taught, as laws of harmony are to the
young scholar in music. But the moment a man begins to be
LyLg d.»rvmg the name of <m arti,t, aU to tealue law
ta iJme . m.L of oo»m with inm.^ if, henceforth, he
boast himseK anywise in the law, or pretend that he lives and
works by it, it is a sure sign that he is merely tithing cummin,
and that there is no true art nor religion in him. For the true
artist has that inspiration in him which is above all law, or rather,
which is continually working out such magnificent and perfect
obedience to supreme law, as can in nowise be rendered by line
and rule. There are more laws perceived and fulfilled in the
single stroke of a great workman, than could be written in a
volume. His science is inexpressibly subtle, directly taught
him by his Maker, not in anywise communicable or imitable.*
Neither can any written or definitely observable laws enable
us to do any great thing. It is possible, by measuring and
administering quantities of colour, to paint a room wall so that
it shall not hurt the eye; but there are no laws by observing
which we can become Titians. It is possible so to measure
and administer syllables as to construct harmonious verse; but
there are no laws by which we can write Iliads. Out of the
poem or the picture, once produced, men may elicit laws by
the volume, and study them with advantage, to the better
understanding of the existing poem or picture; but no more

* See the farther remarks on Inspiration in the fourth chapter.
VOL. nL H

98 THIRD PERIOD. ^^ pmd» ^^ btstim.

write or paint another, than by discovering laws of vegetation
they can make a tree to grow. And therefore, wheresoever
we find the system and formality of rules much dwelt upon,
and spoken of as anything else than a help for children, there
we may be sure that noble art is not even understood, far less
reached. And thus it was with all the common and public mind
in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The greater men,
indeed, broke through the thorn hedges ; and though much time
was lost by the learned among them in writing Latin verses and
anagrams, and arranging the framework of quaint sonnets and
dexterous syllogisms, still they tore their way through the
sapless thicket by force of intellect or of piety ; for it was not
possible that, either in literature or in painting, rules could be
received by any strong mind, so as materially to interfere with
its originality : and the crabbed discipline and exact scholarship
became an advantage to the men who could pass through and
despise them ; so that in spite of the rules of the drama we had
Shakespeare, and in spite of the rules of art we had Tintoret, —
both of them, to this day, doing perpetual violence to the vulgar
scholarship and dim-eyed proprieties of the multitude.

§ xc. But in architecture it was not so ; ftfr that was
the art of the multitude, and was afiected by all their errors;
and the great men who entered its field, like Michael Angelo,
found expression for all the best part of their minds in sculpture,
and made the architecture merely its shell. So the simpletons
and sophists had their way with it: and the reader can have
no conception of the inanities and puerilities of the writers,
who, with the help of Vitruvius, re-established its " five orders,"
determined the proportions of each, and gave the various recipes
for sublimity and beauty, which have been thenceforward followed
to this day, but which may, I believe, in this age of perfect
machinery, be followed out still farther. If, indeed, there are
only five perfect forms of columns and architraves, and there be
a fixed proportion to each, it is certainly possible, with a little
ingenuity, so to regulate a stone-cutting machine as that it
shall furnish pillars and fiiezes, to the size ordered, of any of

m. PBroB OF STSTmc. n. KOMAN RENAISSANCE. 99

the five orders, on the most perfect Greek models, in any
quantity ; an epitome, also, of Vitruvius may be made so simple
as to enable any bricklayer to set them up at their proper dis-
tances, and we may dispense with our architects altogether.

§ XCL But if this be not so, and there be any truth in the faint
persuasion which still lurks in men's minds that architecture is
an art, and that it requires some gleam of intellect to practise it,
then let the whole system of the orders and their proportions be
cast out and trampled down as the most vain, barbarous, and
paltry deception that was ever stamped on human prejudice ; and
let us understand this plain truth, common to all work of man,
that, if it be good work, it is not a copy, nor anything done by
rule, but a freshly and divinely imagined thing. Five orders I
There is not a side chapel in any Gothic cathedral but it has fifty
orders, the worst of them better than the best of the Greek ones,
and all new ; and a single inventive human soul could create a
thousand orders in an hour.* And this would have been discovered
even in the worst times, but that, aa I said, the greatest men of
the age found expression for their invention in the other arts, and
the best of those who devoted themselves to architecture were in
great part occupied in adapting the construction of buildings to
new necessities, such as those developed by the invention of gun-
powder (introducing a totally new and most interesting science
of fortification, which directed the ingenuity of Sanmicheli and
many others from its proper channel), and found interest of a
meaner kind in the difficulties of reconciling the obsolete archi-
tectural laws they had consented to revive, and the forms of
Roman architecture which they agreed to copy, with the re-
quirements of the daily life of the sixteenth century.

§ Xdi. These, then, were the three principal directions in which
the Benaissance pride manifested itself, and its impulses were

* That is to say, orders separated by such distinctions as the old Qreek ones :
considered with reference to the bearing power of the capital, all orders may be
referred to two, as long ago stated r jiMt as trees may be referred to the two
great classes, monocotyledonous and dicotyledonous.

100 THIRD PERIOD. xv. iottoelitt.

rendered still more fetal by the entrance of another element,
inevitably associated with pride. For, as it is written, "He
that trusteth in his own heart is a fool," so also it is written,
"The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God;" and the
self-adulation which influenced not less the learning of the age
than its luxury, led gradually to the forgetfulness of all things
but self, and to an infidelity only the more fatal because it still
retained the form and language of faith.

§ xoin. IV. Infidelity. In noticing the more prominent forms
in which this faithlessness manifested itself, it is necessary to dis-
tinguish justly between that which was the consequence of respect
for Paganism, and that which followed from the corruption of
Catholicism. For as the Roman architecture is not to be made
answerable for the primal corruption of the Gothic, so neither is
the Roman philosophy to be made answerable for the primal cor-
ruption of Christianity. Year after year, as the history of the life
of Christ sank back into the depth of time, and became obscured
by the misty atmosphere of the history of the world, — ^as inter-
mediate actions and incidents multiplied in number, and countless
changes in men's modes of life, and tones of thought rendered it
more difficult for them to imagine the facts of distant time, — it
became daily, almost hourly, a greater efibrt for the faithful
heart to apprehend the entire veracity and vitality of the story of
its Redeemer ; and more easy for the thoughtless and remiss to
deceive themselves as to the true character of the belief they had
been taught to profess. And this must have been the case, had
the pastors of the Church never failed in their watchfulness, and
th? Church itself never erred in its practice or doctrine. But
when every year that removed the truths of the Gospel into
deeper distance, added to them also some false or foolish tra-
dition ; when wilful distortion was added to natural obscurity,
and the dimness of memory was disguised by the fruitfulness of
fiction ; when, moreover, the enormous temporal power granted
to the clergy attracted into their ranks multitudes of men who,
but for such temptation, would not have pretended to the Chris-
tian name, so that grievous wolves entered in among them, not

IV. urFiDELTTY. n. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 101

sparing the flock ; and when, by the machinations of such men,
and the remissness of otheis, the form and administration of
Church doctrine and discipline had become little more than a
means of aggrandising the power of the priesthood, it was im-
possible any longer for men of thoughtfulness or piety to remain
in an unquestioning serenity of faith. The Church had become
so mingled with the world that its witness could no longer be
received ; and the professing members of it, who were placed in
circumstances such as to enable them to become aware of its cor-
ruptions, and whom their interest or their simplicity did not
bribe or beguile into silence, gradually separated themselves into
two vast multitudes of adverse energy, one tending to Keforma-
tion, and the other to Infidelity.

§ xcrv. Of these, the last stood, as it were, apart, to watch
the course of the struggle between Eomanism and Protes-
tantism; a struggle which, however necessary, was attended
with infinite calamity to the Church. For, in the first place,
the Protestant movement was, in reality, not TeformcUion but
leammaiion. It poured new life into the Church, but it did
not form or define her anew. In some sort it rather broke
down her hedges, so that all they who passed by might pluck
off her grapes. The reformers speedily found that the enemy
was never far behind the sower of good seed ; that an evil
spirit might enter the ranks of reformation as well as those of
resistance : and that though the deadly blight might be checked
amidst the wheat, there was no hope of ever ridding the wheat
itself firom the tares. New temptations were invented by Satan
wherewith to oppose the revived strength of Christianity :
as the Bomanist, confiding in his human teachers, had ceased
to try whether they were teachers sent firom God, so the Pro:
testant, confiding in the teaching of the Spirit, believed every
spirit, and did not try the spirits whether they were of God.
And a thousand enthusiasms and heresies speedily obscured the
faith and divided the force of the Keformation.

§ xcv. But the main evils rose out of the antagonism of the

102 THIRD PERIOD. ^' nrmELOJ.

two great parties ; primarily, in the mere fact of the existence
of an antagonism. To the eyes of the unbeliever the Church
of Christ, for the first time since its foundation, bore the
aspect of a house divided against itself. Not that many forms
of schism had not before arisen in it; but either they had
been obscure and silent, hidden among the shadows of the
Alps and the marshes of the Khine ; or they had been outbreaks
of visible and unmistakeable error, cast oflF by the Church,
rootless, and speedily withering away, while, with much that
was erring and criminal, she still retained within her the pillar
and ground of the truth. But here was at last a schism in
which truth and authority were at issue. The body that was
cast oflF withered away no longer. It stretched out its boughs
to the sea and its branches to .the river, and it was the ancient
trunk that gave signs of decrepitude. On one side stood the
reanimated faith, in its right hand the Book open, and its left
hand lifted up to heaven, appealing for its proof to the Word
of the Testimony and the power of the Holy Ghost. On the
other stood, or seemed to stand, all beloved custom and
believed tradition ; all that for fifteen hundred years had been
closest to the hearts of men, or most precious for their help.
Long-trusted legend ; long-reverenced power ; long-practised
discipline ; faiths that had ruled the destiny, and sealed the
departure, of souls that could not be told nor numbered for
multitude ; prayers, that from the lips of the fathers to those
of the children had distilled like sweet waterfalls, sounding
through the silence of ages, breaking themselves into heavenly
dew to return upon the pastures of the wilderness ; hopes, that
had set the face as a flint in the torture, and the sword as a
flame in the battle, that had pointed the purposes and minis-
tered the strength of life, brightened the last glances and shaped
the last syllables of death; charities, that had boimd together
the brotherhoods of the mountain and the desert, and had woven
chains of pitying or aspiring communion between this world
and the unfathomable beneath and above ; and, more than
these, the spirits of all the iimumerable, undoubting, dead.

IV. i»FiDBLiTT. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 103

beckoning to the one way by which they had been content to
follow the things that belonged unto their peace ; — these all
stood on the other side : and the choice must have been a bitter
one, even at the best ; but it was rendered tenfold more bitter
by the natural, but most sinful, animosity of the two divisions
of the Church against each other.

§ xcvi. On one side this animosity was, of course, inevit-
able. The Bomanist party, though still including many Chris-
tian men, necessarily included, also, all the worst of those who
called themselves Christians. In the fact of its refusing cor-
rection, it stood confessed as the Church of the unholy; and,
while it still counted among its adherents many of the simple
and believing, — men unacquainted with the corruption of the
body to which they belonged, or incapable of accepting any
form of doctrine but . that which they had been taught from
their youth, — ^it gathered together with them whatever was
carnal and sensual in priesthood or in people, all the lovers of
power in the one, and of ease in the other. And the rage of
these men was, of course, unlimited against those who either dis-
puted their authority, reprehended their manner of life, or cast
suspicion upon the popular methods of lulling the conscience in
the lifetime, or purchasing salvation on the death-bed.

§ xoviL Besides this, the reassertion and defence of various
tenets which before had been little more than floating errors in
the popular mind, but which, definitely attacked by Protestan-
tism, it became necessary to fasten down with a band of iron
and brass, gave a form at once more rigid and less rational to
the whole body of Bomanist Divinity. Multitudes of minds
which in other ages might have brought honour and strength to
the Church, preaching the more vital truths which it still
retained, were now occupied in pleading for arraigned falsehoods,
or magnifying disused frivolities : and it can hardly be doubted
by any candid observer, that the nascent or latent errors which
God pardoned in times of ignorance, became unpardonable when
they were formally defined and defended ; that fallacies which

104 THIRD PERIOD. iv. inftdblitt.

were forgiven to the enthusiasm of a multitude, were avenged
upon the stubbornness of a Council ; that, above all, the great
invention of the age, which rendered God's word accessible to
every man, left aU sins against its light incapable of excuse
or expiation ; and that from the moment when Rome set herself
in direct opposition to the Bible, the judgment was pronounced
upon her which made her the scorn and the prey of her own
children, and cast her down from the throne where she had
magnified herself against heaven, so low, that at last the un-
imaginable scene of the Bethlehem humiliation was mocked in
the temples of Christianity. Judea had seen her God laid in
the manger of the beast of burden; it was for Christendom to
stable the beast of burden by the altar of her God.

§ xoviii. Nor, on the other hand, was the opposition of Pro-
testantism to the Papacy less injurious to itself. That opposition
was, for the most part, intemperate, undistinguishing, and in-
cautious. It could indeed hardly be otherwise. Piresh bleeding
from the sword of Rome, and still trembling at her anathema,
the reformed churches were little likely to remember, any of
her benefits, or to regard any of her teaching Forced by the
Romanist contumely into habits of irreverence, by the Romanist
fallacies into habits of disbelief, the self -trusting, rashly-reason-
ing spirit gained ground among them daily. Sect branched out
of sect, presumption rose over presumption; the miracles of
the early Church were denied and its martjrrs forgotten, though
their power aud palm were claimed by the members of every
persecuted sect ; pride, malice, wrath, love of change, masked
themselves under the thirst for truth, and miqgled with the just
resentment of deception, so that it became iaipossible even for
the best and truest men to know the plague of their own hearts ;
while avarice and impiety openly transformed reformation into
robbery, and reproof into sacrilege. Ignorance could as easily
lead the foes of the Church, as lull her slumbe: ; men who would
once have been the unquestioning recipiente, were now the
shameless inventors of absurd or perilous supentitions ; they who
were of the temper that walketh in darkness, gained little by

IV. mFiDBUTY. II. KOMAN RENAISSANCE. 105

having discovered their guides to be blind ; and the simplicity of
the faith, ill understood and contumaciously alleged, became an
excuse for the rejection of the highest arts and most tried wisdom
of mankind : while the learned infidel, standing aloof, drew his
own conclusions, both from the rancour of the antagonists, and
from their errors ; believed each in all that he alleged against
the other ; and smiled with superior humanity, as he watched the
winds of the Alps drift the ashes of Jerome, and the dust of
England drink the blood of King Charles.

§ xcix. Now all this evil was, of course, entirely independent
of the renewal of the study of Pagan writers. But that renewal
found the faith of Christendom ahready weakened and divided ;
and therefore it was itself productive of an effect tenfold greater
than could have been apprehended from it at another time. It
acted first, as before noticed, in leading the attention of all men
to words instead of things ; for it was discovered that the lan-
guage of the middle ages had been corrupt, and the primal object
of every scholar became now to purify his style. To this study
of words, that of forms being added, both as of matters of the
first importance, half the intellect of the age was at once absorbed
in the base sciences of grammar, logic, and rhetoric; studies
utterly unworthy of the serious labour of men, and necessarily
rendering those employed upon them incapable of high thoughts
or noble emotion. Of the debasing tendency of philology, no
proof is needed beyond once reading a grammarian's notes on a
great poet : logic is unnecessary for men who can reason ; and
about as useful to those who cannot as a machine for forcing one
foot in due succession before the other would be to a man who
could not walk: while the study of rhetoric is exclusively one
for men who desire to deceive or be deceived ; he who has the
truth at his heart need never fear the want of persuasion on his
tongue, or, if he fear it, it is because the base rhetoric of dis-
honesty keeps the truth from being heard.

§ c. The study of these sciences, therefore, naturally made
men shallow and dishonest in general ; but it had a peculiarly
fatal effect with respect to religion, in the view which men took of

106 THIRD P£RIOD. iv. infidilitt.

the Bible. Christ's teaching was discovered not to be rhetorical^
St Paul's preaching not to be logical, and the Greek of the New
Testament not to be grammatical. The stem truth, the pro-
found pathos, the impatient period, leaping &om point to point
and leaving the intervals for the hearer to fill, the comparatively
Hebraized and unelaborate idiom, had little in them of attraction
for the studente of phrase and syUo^m ; and the chief know-
ledge of the age became one of the chief stumbling-blocks to its
religion.

§ CI. But it was not the grammarian and logician alone who
was thus retarded or perverted; in them there had been small
loss. The men who could truly appreciate the higher excellen-
cies of the classics were carried away by a current of enthusiasm
which withdrew them from every other study. Christianity was
still professed as a matter of form, but neither the Bible nor the
writings of the Fathers had time left for their perusal, still less
heart left for their acceptance. The human mind is not capable
of more than a certain amount of admiration or reverence, and
that which was given to Horace was withdrawn from David.
KeUgion is, of all subjects, that which will least endure a second
place in the heart or thoughts, and a languid and occasional
study of it was sure to lead to error or infidelity. On the other
hand, what was heartily admired and unceasingly contemplated
was soon brought nigh to being believed ; and the systems of
Pagan mjrthology began gradually to assume the places in the
human mind from which the unwatched Christianity was
wasting. Men did not indeed openly sacrifice to Jupiter, or
build silver shrines for Diana, but tTie ideas of Paganism never-
theless became thoroughly vital and present with them at all
times ; and it did not matter in the least, as far as respected the
power of true religion, whether the Pagan image was believed
in or not, so long as it entirely occupied the thoughts. The
scholar of the sixteenth century, if he saw the lightning shining
from the east unto the west, thought forthwith of Jupiter, not
of the coming of the Son of Man ; if he saw the moon walking in
brightness, he thought of Diana, not of the throne which was to

IV. iHMDKLiTr. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 107

be established for ever as a faithful witness in heaven ; and
though his heart was but secretly enticed, yet thus he denied
the God that is above.*

And, indeed, this double creed, of Christianity confessed and
Paganism beloved, was worse than Paganism itself, inasmuch as it
refused eflFective and practical belief altogether. It would have
been better to have worshipped Diana and Jupiter at once, than
to have gone on through the whole of life naming one God,
imagining another, and dreading none. Better, a thousandfold, to
Jiave been **a Pagan suckled in some creed outworn," than to
have stood by the great sea of Eternity, and seen no God walking
on its waves, no heavenly world on its hori:ion.

§ on. This fatal result of an enthusiasm for classical literature
was haatened and heightened by the misdirection of the powers of
art. The imagination of the age was actively set to realise these
objects of Pagan belief; and all the most exalted faculties of
Jo, which. 4 to that period, h^ beea e«,plo,ed in the service
of Faith, were now transferred to the service of Fiction. The
invention which had formerly been both sanctified and strength-
ened by laboming under the command of settled intention, and
on the ground of assured belief, had now the reins laid upon its
neck by passion, and all ground of fact cut from beneath its feet ;
and the imagination which formerly had helped men to appre-
hend the truth, now tempted them to believe a falsehood. The
faculties themselves wasted away in their own treason; one
by one they fell in the potter s field ; and the Raphael who seemed
sent and inspired &om heaven that he might paint Apostles and
Prophets, sank at once into powerlessness at the feet of Apollo
and the Muses.

§ cm. But this was not all. The habit of using the greatest
gifts of imagination upon fictitious subjects, of course destroyed
the honour and value of the same imagination used in the cause
of trutL Exactly in the proportion m which Jupiters and
Mercuries were embodied and believed, in that proportion Virgins

* Job, zxxL 26-28 ; Psalm Ixxxix. 37.

108 THIKD PERIOD. iv. iKimBUTT.

and Angels were disembodied and disbelieved. The images sum«
moned by art began gradually to assume one average value in
the spectator's mind ; and incidents &om the Iliad and &om the
Exodus to come within the same degrees of credibility. And,
farther, while the powers of the imagination were becoming
daily more and more languid, because unsupported by faith, the
manual skill and science of the artist were continually on the
increase. When these had reached a certain point, they began
to be the principal things considered in the picture, and its story
or scene to be thought of only aA a theme for their manifest-
ation. Observe the difference. In old times, men used their
powers of painting t9 show the objects of faith ; in later times,
they used the objects of faith that they might show their powers
of painting. The distinction is enormous, the difference incal-
culable as irreconcilable. And thus, the more skilful the artist,
the less his subject was regarded; and the hearts of men
hardened as their handling softened, until they reached a point
when sacred, profane, or sensual subjects were employed, with
absolute indifference, for the display of colour and execution;
and gradually the mind of Europe congealed into that state
of utter apathy, — ^inconceivable, unless it had been witnessed,
and unpardonable, unless by us, who have been infected by it,
— which permits us to place the Madonna and the Aphrodite
side by side in our galleries, and to pass, with the same unmoved
inquiry into the manner of their handling, from a Bacchanal to
a Nativity.

Now all this evil, observe, would have been merely the neces-
sary and natural operation of an enthusiasm for the classics, and
of a delight in the mere science of the artist, on the most virtuous
mind. But this operation took place upon minds enervated by
luxury, and which were tempted, at the very same period,
to forgetfulness or denial of all religious principle by their
own basest instincts. The faith which had been undermined
by the genius of Pagans, was overthrown by the crimes of
Christians ; and the ruin which was begun by scholarship, was
completed by sensuality. The characters of the heathen di-

IV. iKPiDEUTT. II. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. 109

vinities were aa suitable to the manners of the time as their
forms were agreeable to its taste; and Paganism again be-
came, in eflfect, the religion of Europe. That is to say, the
civilised world is at this moment, collectively, just as Pagan
as it was in the second century ; a small body of believers being
now, as they were then, representative of the Church of Christ
in the midst of the faithless : but there is just this diflFerence,
and this very fatal one, between the second and nineteenth
centuries, that the Pagans axe nominally and fashionably Chris-
tians, and that there is every conceivable variety and shade of
belief between the two ; so that not only is it most difficult theo-
retically to mark the point where hesitating trust and failing prac-
tice change into definite infidelity, but it has become a point of
politeness not to inquire too deeply into our neighbour's reUgious
opinions; and, so that no one be offended by violent breach
of external forms, to waive any close examination into the tenets
of faith. The fact is, we distrust each other and ourselves ' so
much, that we dare not press this matter ; we know that if, on
any occasion of general intercourse, we turn to our next neigh-
bour, and put to him some searching or testing question, we shall,
in nine cases out of ten, discover him to be only a Christian in
his own way, and as far as he thinks proper, and that he doubts
of many things which we ourselves do not believe strongly
enough to hear doubted without danger. What is in reality
cowardice and faithlessness, we call charity ; and consider it
the part of benevolence sometimes to forgive men's evil prac-
tice for the sake of their acctu*ate faith, and sometimes to forgive
their confessed heresy for the sake of their admirable practice.
And under this shelter of charity, humility, and faintheartedness,
the world,- unquestioned by others or by itself, mingles with and
overwhelms the small body of Christians, legislates for them,
moralises for them, reasons for them ; and, though itself of course
greatly and beneficently influenced by the association, and held
much in check by its pretence to Christianity, yet undermines,
in nearly the same degree, the sincerity and practical power of
Christianity itself, until at last, in the very institutions of which

110 THIRD PERIOD. nr. iwfidklitt.

the administration may be considered as the principal test of the
genuineness of national religion — ^those devoted to education —
the Pagan system is completely triumphant ; and the entire body
of the so-called Christian world has established a system of in-
struction for its youth, wherein neither the history of Christ's
Church, nor the language of God's law, is considered a study
of the smallest importance ; wherein, of all subjects of human in-
quiry, his own religion is the one in which a youth's ignorance
is most easily forgiven ; * and in which it is held a light matter
that he should be daily guilty of lying, of debauchery, or of
blasphemy, so only that he write Latin verses accurately, and
with speed.

I believe that in a few years more we shall wake from all
these errors in astonishment, as from evil dreams ; having been
preserved, in the midst of their madness, by those hidden roots
of active and earnest Christianity which God's grace has bound
in the English nation with iron and brass. But in the Venetian
those roots themselves had withered ; and, from the palace of their
ancient religion, their pride cast them forth hopelessly to the
pasture of the brute. From pride to infideUty, from infideUty
to the unscrupulous and insatiable pursuit of pleasure, and from
this to irremediable degradation, the transitions were swift, like
the falling of a star. The great palaces of the haughtiest nobles
of Venice were stayed, before they had risen far above their
foundations, by the blast of a penal poverty ; and the wild grass,
on the unfinished fragmente of their mighty shafts, waves at the
tide-mark where the power of the godless people first heard the
" Hitherto shalt thou come." And the regeneration in which
they had so vainly trusted, — the new birth and clear dawning,
as they thought it, of all art, all knowledge, and all hope, — ^became

* I shall not forget the impression made upon me at Oxford, when, going up
for my degree, and mentioning to one of the authorities that I had not had
time enough to read the Epistles properly, I was told, that "the Epistles were
separate sciences, and I need not trouble myself about them."

The reader wiU find some farther notes on this subject in Appendix 7., "Mo-
dem Education."

IV. INFIDELITY. n. ROMAN RENAISSANCE. Ill

to them as that dawn which Ezekiel saw on the hills of Israel :
" Behold the Day ; behold, it is come. The rod hath blossomed,
pride hath budded, violence is risen up into a rod of wickedness.
None of them shall remain, nor of their multitude ; let not the
buyer rejoice, nor the seller mourn, for wrath is upon all the
multitude thereof."

112 THIRD PERIOD.

CHAPTEE III.

GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE.

§ I. In the close of the last chapter it was noted that the phases
of transition in the moral temper of the falling Venetians, during
their fall, were from pride to infidelity, and from infidelity to the
unscrupulous pursuit of plectsure. During the last years of the
existence of the state, the minds both of the nobility and the
people seem to have been set simply upon the attainment of the
means of self-indulgence. There was not strength enough in
them to be proud, nor forethought enough to be ambitious.
One by one the possessions of the state were abandoned to its
enemies ; one by one the channels of its trade were forsaken by
its own languor, or occupied and closed against it by its more
energetic rivals ; and the time, the resources, and the thoughts of
the nation were exclusively occupied in the invention of such
fantastic and costly pleasures as might best amuse their apathy,
lull their remorse, or disguise their r^n.

§ II. The architecture raised at Venice during this period is
among the worst and basest ever built by the hands of men,
being especially distinguished by a spirit of brutal mockery and
insolent jest, which, exhausting itself in deformed and monstrous
sculpture, can sometimes be hardly otherwise defined than as the
perpetuation in stone of the ribaldries of drunkenness. On such
a period, and on such work, it is painful to dwell, and I had not
originally intended to do so ; but I found that the entire spirit
of the Renaissance could not be comprehended unless it was
followed to its consummation; and that there were many most
interesting questions arising out of the study of this particidar
spirit of jesting, with reference to which I have called it the
Grotesque Renaissance. For it is not this period alone which is

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 113

distinguished by such a spirit. There is jest — perpetual, care-
less, and not unfrequently obscene — in the most noble work
of the Gothic periods ; and it becomes, therefore, of the greatest
possible importance to examine into the nature and essence of
the Grotesque itself, and to ascertain in what respect it is that
the lesting of art in its highest flight diflfers from its jesting
in iti utmL degHuJaaon. . ^ «

§ ni. The place where we may best commence our inquiry is
one renowned in the history of Venice, the space of ground
before the Church of Santa Maria Formosa ; a spot which, after
the Eialto and St. Mark^s Place, ought to possess a peculiar
interest in the mind of the traveller, in consequence of its con-
nexion with the most touching and true legend of the Brides of
Venice. That legend is related at length in every Venetian
history, and, finally, has been told by the poet Rogers, in a way
which renders it impossible for any one to tell it after him.
I have only, therefore, to remind the reader that the capture of
the brides took place in the cathedral church, St. Pietro di
Castello ; and that this of Santa Maria Formosa is connected with
the tale, only because it was yearly visited with prayers by the
Venetian maidens, on the anniversary of their ancestors' deliver-
ance. For that deliverance, their thanks were to be rendered
to the Virgin; and there was no church then dedicated to the
Virgin in Venice except this.*

Neither of the cathedral church, nor of this dedicated to
St. Mary the Beautiful, is one stone left upon another. But,
from that which has been raised on the site of the latter, we
may receive a most important lesson, introductory to our im-
mediate subject, if first we glance back to tiie traditional history
of the church which has been destroyed.

§ IV. No more honourable epithet than " traditional '' can be
attached to what is recorded concerning it, yet I should grieve
to lose the legend of its first erection. The Bishop of Uderzo,

* MutineUi, Annali Urbani, lib. i. p. 24. ; and the Chronicle of 1738, quoted by
Galliciolli : " Attrovandosi allora la giesia de Sta. Maria Foimofia sola gieaia del nome
della glorioBa Yergine Maria.''

VOL. in. 1

114 THIRD PERIOD.

driven by the Lombards from his bishopric, as he was praying
beheld in a vision the Virgin Mother, who ordered him to found
a church in her honour, in the place where he should see a white
cloud rest. And when he went out, the white cloud went before
him ; and on the place where it rested he built a church, and it
was called the Church of St. Mary the Beautiful, from the love-
Hness of the form in which she had appeared in the vision.*

This first church stood only for about two centuries. It was
rebuilt in 864, and enriched with various relics some fifty years
later ; relics belonging principally to St. Nicodemus, and much
lamented when they and the church were together destroyed
by fire in 1105.

It was then rebuilt in "magnifica forma," much resembling,
according to Ck)mer, the architecture of the chancel of St. Mark ; t
but the information which I find in various writers, as to the
period at which it was reduced to its present condition, is both
sparing and contradictory.

§ V. Thus, by Comer, we are told that this church, resembling
St. Mark's, "remained untouched for more than four centuries,"
until, in 1689, it was thrown down by an earthquake, and restored
by the piety of a rich merchant, Turrin Toroni, " in omatissima
forma ; " and that, for the greater beauty of the renewed church,
it had added to it two fa9ades of marble. With this information
that of the Padre dell' Oratorio agrees, only he gives the date of
the earlier rebuilding of the church in 1175, and ascribes it to an
architect of the name of Barbetta. But Quadri, in his usually
accurate little guide, tells us that this Barbetta rebuilt the church
in the fourteenth century ; and that of the two facades, so much
admired by Comer, one is of the sixteenth century, and its archi-

* Or from the brightnesfl of the cloxtd, according to the Padre who arranged the
" Memorie deUe Chiese di Venezia," vol. iii p. 7. Compare Comer, p. 42. This
first church was built in 639.

t Perhaps both Comer and the Padre founded their diluted information on
the short sentence of Sansovino : "Finalmente, V anno 1075, fu ridotta a per-
fezione da Paolo Barbetta, sul modello del corpo di mezzo della chiesa di S.
Marco.'* Sansovino, however, gives 842, instead of 864, as the date of the first
rebuilding.

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 115

tect UBknown ; and the rest of the church is of the seventeenth,
" in the style of Sansovino."

§ VI. There is no occasion to examine, or endeavour to recon-
cile, these conflicting accounts. All that it is necessary for the
reader to know is, that every vestige of the church in which the
ceremony took place was destroyed at least as early as 1689 J
and that the ceremony itself, having been abolished in the close of
the fourteenth century, is only to be conceived as taking place in
that more ancient church, resembling St. Mark's, which, even
according to Quadri, existed until that period. I would, there-
fore, endeavour to fix the reader's mind, for a moment, on the
contrast between the former and latter aspect of this plot of
ground ; the former, when it had its Byzantine church, and its
yearly procession of the Doge and the Brides; and the latter,
when it has its Renaissance church "in the style of Sansovino,"
and its yearly honouring is done away.

§ vii. And, first, let us consider for a little the significance
and nobleness of that early custom of the Venetians, which
brought about the attack and the rescue of the year 943 ; that
there should be but one marriage day for the nobles of the
whole nation,* so that aU might rejoice together; and that the
sympathy might be full not only of the families who that year
beheld the alliance of their children, and prayed for them in
one crowd, weeping before the altar, but of all the families
of the state, who saw, in the day which brought happiness to
others, the anniversary of their own. Imagine the strong bond
of brotherhood thus sanctified among them, and consider also
the effect on the minds of the youth of the state; the greater
deliberation and openness necessarily given to the contempla-
tion of marriage, to which all the people were solemnly to bear
testimony ; the more lofty and unselfish tone which it would
give to all their thoughts. It was the exact contrary of stolen
marriage. It was marriage to which God and man were taken

* Or at least for its principal families. Vide Appendix 8. : " Early Venetian
Marriages."

116 THIRD PERIOD.

for witnesses, and every eye was invoked for its glance, and every
tongue for its prayers/

§ VIII. Later historians have delighted themselves in dwelling
on the pageantry of the marriage day itself, but I do not find
that they have authority for the splendour of their descriptions.
I cannot find a word in the older Chronicles about the jewels
or dress of the brides, and I believe the ceremony to have been
more quiet and homely than is usually supposed. The only
sentence which gives colour to the usual accounts of it is one
of Sansovino's, in which he says that the magnificent dress of
the brides in his day was founded "on ancient custom." t
However this may have been, the circumstances of the rite were
otherwise very simple. Each maiden brought her dowry with
her in a small "cassetta," or chest; they went first to the
cathedral, and waited for the youths, who having come, they
heard mass together, and the bishop preached to them and
blessed them; and so each bridegroom took his bride and her
dowry, and bore her home.

§ IX. It seems that the alarm given by the attack of the
pirates put an end to the custom of fixing one day for all
marriages : but the main objects of the institution were still
attained by the perfect publicity given to the marriages of all

* '< Nazionale quasi la ceremonia, perciocche per essa nuovi difensori ad acquistar
andava la patria, sostegni nnovi le leggi, la liberty." — Mutinelli,

t '* Vestita, per antico uso, di bianco, e con chiome sparse giii per le spalle, con-

teste con fila d' oro." "Dressed according to ancient usage in white, and with

her hair thrown down upon her shoulders, interwoTen with threads of gold."

This was when she was first brought out of her chamber to be seen by the

guests invited to the espousals. ''And when the form of the espousal has been

gone through, she is led, to the sound of pipes and trumpets, and other musical

instruments, round the room, dandnff serenely all the time, and bowing henelf

before the gueate (''ballando placidamente, e facendo inchini ai conTitati") ; and

so she returns to her chamber : and when other guests have arrived, she again

comes forth, and makes the circuit of the chamber. And this is repeated for an

hour or somewhat more ; and then, accompanied by many ladies who wait for

her, she enters a gondola without its felze (canopy), and seated on a somewhat

raised seat covered with carpets, with a great number of gondolas following

her, she goes to visit the monasteries and convents, wheresoever she has any

iclations.

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 117

the noble famiKes; the bridegroom standing in the court of
the Ducal Palace to receive congratulations on his betrothal,
and the whole body of the nobility attending the nuptials, and
rejoicing, "as at some personal good fortune; since, by the
constitution of the state, they are for ever incorporated toge-
ther, as if of one and the same family."* But the festival of
the 2nd of February, after the year 943, seems to have been

observed only in memory of the deliverance of the brides, and

«

no longer set apart for public nuptials.

§ X. There is much difficulty in reconciling the various
accounts, or distinguishing the inaccurate ones, of the maimer
of keeping this memorable festival. I shall first give Sanso-
vino's, which is the popular one, and then note the points of
importance in the counter-statements. Sansovino says that the
success of the pursuit of the pirates was owing to the ready
help and hard fighting of the men of the district of Sta. Maria
Formosa, for the most part trunkmakers ; and that they, having
been presented after the victory to the Doge and the Senate,
were told to ask some favour for their reward. * "The good
men then said that they desired the Prince, with his wife and
the Signory, to visit every year the church of their district,
on the day of its feast. And the Prince asking them, 'Suppose
it should rain?' they answered, *We will give you hats to
cover you ; and if you ^ thto^. wo wiU g.>o y,^ to driuk.'
Whence it is that the Vicar, in the name of the people, presents
to the Doge, on his visit, two flasks of malvoisiet and two
oranges ; and presents to him two gilded hats, bearing the arms
of the Pope, of the Prince, and of the Vicar. And thus was
instituted the Feast of the Maries, which was called noble and
famous because the people from all round came together to
behold it. And it was celebrated in this manner : . . •" The

* SansoYino.

t English, <' Malmsey.*' The reader will find a most amusing account of the
n^tiations between the English and Venetians, touching the supply of London
with this wine, in Mr. Brown's translation of the Qiustiniani papers. See
Appendix IX.

118 THIRD PERIOD.

account which follows is somewhat prolix ; but its substance is,
briefly, that twelve maidens were elected, two for each division
of the city; and that it was decided by lot which contrade,
or quarters of the town, should provide them with dresses.
This was done at enormous expense, one contrada contending
with another, and even the jewels of the treasury of St. Mark
being lent for the occasion to the " Maries," aa the twelve
damsels were called. They, being thus dressed with gold, and
silver, and jewels, went in their galley to St. Mark's for the
Doge, who joined them with the Signory, and went first to
San Pietro di Castello to hear mass on St. Mark's Day, the
31st of January, and to Santa Maria Formosa on. the 2nd of
February, the intermediate day being spent in passing in
procession through the streets of the city ; " and sometimes
there arose quarrels about the places they should pass through,
for every one wanted them to pass by his house."

§ XL Nearly the same account is given by Comer, who,
however, does not say anything about the hats or the malvoisie.
These, however, we find again in the Matricola de' Casseleri,
which, of course, sets the services of the trunkmakers and the
privileges obtained by them in the most brilliant light. The
quaintness of the old Venetian is hardly to be rendered into
English. "And you must know that the said trunkmakers
were the men who were the cause of such victory, and of
taking the galley, and of cutting all the Triestines to pieces,
because, at that time, they were valiant men and well in order.
The which victory was on the 2nd February, on the day of the
Madonna of candles. And at the request and entreaties of the
said trunkmakers, it was decreed that the Doge, every year,
as long as Venice should endure, should go on the eve of the
said feast to vespers in the said church, with the Signory.
And be it noted, that the Vicar is obliged to give to the Doge
two flasks of malvoisie, with two oranges besides. And so
it is observed, and will be observed always." The reader
must observe the continual confusion between St. Mark's Day
the 31st of January, and Candlemas the 2nd of February.

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 119

The fact appears to be, that the marriage day in the old
republic was St. Mark's Day, and the recovery of the brides
was the same day at evening; so that, as we are told by
Sansovino, the commemorative festival began on that day, but
it was continued to the day of the Purification, that especial
thanks might be rendered to the Virgin ; anS the visit to
Sta. Maria Formosa being the most important ceremony of the
whole festival, the old chroniclers, and even Sansovino, got con-
fused, and asserted the victory itself to have taken place on the
day appointed for that pilgrimage.

§ XII. I doubt not that the reader who is acquainted with the
beautiful lines of Sogers is as much grieved as I am at this inter-
ference of the " casket-makers " with the achievement which the
poet ascribes to the bridegrooms alone ; an interference quite as
inopportune as that of old Le Balafr^ with the victory of his
nephew, in the unsatisfactory conclusion of "Quentin Durward."
I am afraid I cannot get the casket-makers quite out of the way ;
but it may gratify some of my readers to know that a chronicle
of the year 1378, quoted by GallicioUi, denies the agency of the
people of Sta. Maria Formosa altogether, in these terms : " Some
say that the people of Sta. M. Formosa were those who recovered
the spoU^' ("preda ; *' I may notice, in passing, that most of the
old chroniclers appear to consider the recovery of the caskets rather
more a subject of congratulation than that of the brides), ^' and
that, for their reward, they asked the Doge and Signory to visit
Sta. M. Formosa ; but this is false. The going to Sta. M. Formosa
was because the thing had succeeded on that day, and because
this was then the only church in Venice in honour of the
Virgin." But here is again the mistake about the day itself; and
besides, if we get rid altogether of the trunkmakers, how are we
to account for the ceremony of the oranges and hats, of which
the accounts seem authentic ? If, however, the reader likes to
substitute ** carpenters " or "house-builders" for casket-makers,
he may do so with great reason (vide Gallicolli, lib. li. § 1758.) ;
but I fear that one or the other body of tradesmen must be
allowed to have had no small share in the honour of the victory.

120 THIRD PERIOD.

§ XIII. But whatever doubt attaches to the particular circum-
stances of its origin, there is none respecting the splendour of the
festival itself, as it was celebrated for four centuries afterwards.
We find that each contrada spent from 800 to 1000 zecchins in
the dress of the " Maries " entrusted to it ; but I cannot find
among how many contradas the twelve Maries were divided ; it
is also to be supposed that most of the accounts given refer to
the later periods of the celebration of the festival. In the begin-
ning of the eleventh century, the good Doge Pietro Orseolo 11.
left in his will the third of his entire fortune " per la festa della
Marie ; " and, in the fourteenth century, so many people came
from the rest of Italy to see it, that special police regulations were
made for it, and the Council of Ten were twice summoned before
it took place.* The expense lavished upon it seems to have
increased tiU the year 1379, when all the resources of the
republic were required for the terrible war of Chiozza, and all
festivity was for that time put an end to. The issue of the
war left the Venetians with neither the power nor the disposition
to restore the festival on its ancient scale, and they seem to
have been ashamed to exhibit it in reduced splendour. It was
entirely abolished.

§ xrv. As if to do away even with its memory, every feature
of the surrounding scene which was associated with that festival
has been in succeeding ages destroyed. With one solitary
exception, t there is not a house left in the whole Piazza of
Santa Maria Formosa from whose windows the festa of the
Maries has ever been seen : of the church in which they wor-
shipped, not a stone is left, even the form of the ground and
direction of the neighbouring canals are changed : and there i^
now but one landmark to guide the steps of the traveller to the
place where the white cloud rested, and the shrine was built to
St. Mary the Beautiful. Yet the spot is still worth his pilgrim-
age, for he may receive a lesson upon it, though a painful one.

* "XV, diebufl et octo diebus ante festum Manarum omni anno.'' — OaUiciolli,
The same precautions were taken before the Feast of the Ascension,
t Casa Vittura.

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 121

Let him first fill his mind with the fair images of the ancient
festival, and then seek that landmark, the tower of the modem
church, built uppn the place where the daughters of Venice knelt
yearly with her noblest lords; and let him look at the head
that is carved on the base of the tower,* still dedicated to
St. Mary the Beautiful.

§ XV. A head, — huge, inhuman, and monstrous, — fleering in
bestial degradation, too foul to be either pictured or described, or
to be beheld for more than an instant : yet let it be endured for
that instant ; for in that head is embodied the type of the evil
spirit to which Venice was abandoned in the fourth period of
her decline ; and it is well that we should see and feel the fiill
horror of it on this spot, and know what pestilence it was that
came and breathed upon her beauty, until it melted away like
the white cloud from the ancient fields of Santa Maria Formosa.

§ XVI. This head is one of many hundreds which disgrace
the latest buildings of the city, all more or less agreeing in
their expression of sneering mockery, in most cases enhanced
by thrusting out the tongue. Most of them occur upon the
bridges, which were among the very last works undertaken by
the republic, several, for instance, upon the Bridge of Sighs;
and they are evidences of a delight in the contemplation of
bestial vice, and the expression of low sarcasm, which is, I
believe, the most hopeless state into which the human mind
can falL This spirit of idiotic mockery is, as I have said, the
most striking characteristic of the last period of the Renaissance,
which, in consequence of the character thus imparted to its
sculpture, I have called grotesque ; but it must be our immediate
task, and it will be a most interesting one, to distinguish between
this base grotesqueness, and that magnificent condition of
fantastic imagination, which was above noticed as one of the
chief elements of the Northern Gothic mind. . Nor is this a
question of interesting speculation merely: for the distinction
between the true and false grotesque is one which the present

* The keystone of the aich on its western side facing the canal.

122 THIKD PERIOD.

■

tendencies of the English mind have rendered it practically
important to ascertain; and that in a degree which^ until he
has made some progress in the consideration of. the subject, the
reader wiU hardly anticipate.

§ XVII. But, first, I have to note one peculiarity in the late
architecture of Venice, which will materially assist us in un-
derstanding the true nature of the spirit which is to be the
subject of our inquiry; and this peculiarity, singularly enough,
is first exemplified in the very fa9ade of Santa Maria Formosa,
which is flanked by the grotesque head to which our attention
has just been directed. This fa9ade, whose architect is un-
known, consists of a pediment, sustained on four Corinthian
pilasters, and is, I believe, the earliest in Venice which appears
entirely destitute of every religious symbol, sculpture, or inscrip-
tion; unless the cardinal's hat upon the shield in the> centre
of the pediment be considered a religious symbol. The entire
fa9ade is nothing else than a monument to the Admiral
Vincenzo Cappello. Two tablets, one between each pair of
flanking pillars, record his acts and honours ; and, on the cor-
responding spaces upon the base of the church, are two cir-
cular trophies, composed of halberts, arrows, flags, tridents,
helmets, and lances : sculptures which are just as valueless
in a military aa in an ecclesiastical point of view; for, being
aU copied from the fonns of Roman axms and axmour, they
cannot even be referred to for information respecting the
costume of the period. Over the door, as the chief ornament
of the fa9ade, exactly in the spot which in the "barbarous"
St; Mark's is occupied by the figure of Christ, is the statue of
Vincenzo CappeUo, in Eoman armour. He died in 1542 ; and
we have, therefore, the latter part of the sixteenth century fixed
as the period when, in Venice, churches were first buUt to the
glory of man, instead of the glory of God.

§ XVIII. Throughout the whole of Scripture history, nothing
is more remarkable than the dose connexion of punishment with
the sin of vainglory. Every other sin is occasionally permitted
to remain, for lengthened periods, without definite chastisement ;
but the forgetfulness of God, and the claim of honour by man,

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 123

as belonging to himself, are visited at once, whether in Hezekiah,
Nebuchadnezzar, or Herod, with the most tremendous punishment.
We have already seen that the first reason for the fall of Venice
was the manifestation of such a spirit; and it is most singular to
observe the definiteness with which it is here marked,^ — as if so
appointed, that it might be impossible for future ages to miss the
lesson. For, in the long inscriptions which record the acts of
Vincenzo Cappello, it might at least have been anticipated that
some expressions would occur indicative of remaining pretence to
religious feeling, or formal acknowledgment of Divine power.
But there are none whatever. The name of God does not once
occur ; that of St. Mark is found only in the statement that
Cappello was a procurator of the church : there is no word
touching either on the faith or hope of the deceased ; and the
only sentence which alludes to supernatural powers at all, alludes
to them under the heathen name of faieSy in its explanation of
what the Admiral Cappello w<mld have accomplished, " nisi fata
Christianis adversa vetuissent. " *

* The inscriptions are as foUows :
To the left of the reader —

*' VIKCENTinS CAPELLUS MARITIMARUM

RERUK PERITISSIMI7S BT ANTIQUORUM

LAUDIBUS PAR, TRIREMIUH ONEHARIA

RUM PRiEPECTUS, AB HENRICO VIT. BRI

TANNLE REOB INSIGNB DONATUS OLAS

SIS LEGATUS Y. IMP. DESIG. TER CLAS

BEM DEDUXIT, COLLAPSAM KAYALEM DIS

CIPLINAM RE8TITUIT, AD ZACXINTHUM

AURIiB CJBSARIS LEGATO PRI8CAM

YENETAM YIRTUTEM OSTENDIT."

To the right of the reader —

^' IN AMBRAOIO SINU BARBARUSSUM OTTHO

MANICJB CLASBIS DUCEM INCLUSIT

POSTRIDIE AD INTERNITIONEM DELETU

RUS NISI FATA CHRISTIANIS ADYERSA

VETUISSENT. IN RTZONICO BINU CASTRO NOVO

EXPUGNATO DIYI MARCI PEOCUR

UNIYERSO REIP CONSENSU CREATUS

IN PATRIA MORITUR T0TIU8 CIYITATIS

MOBRORB, ANNO iBTATIS LXXIY. MDCXLII. XIV. KAL. SEPT."

124 THIRD PERIOD.

§ XIX. Having taken sufficient note of all the baseness of
mind which these facts indicate in the people^ we shall not be
surprised to find immediate signs of dotage in the conception of
their architecture. The churches raised throughout this period
are so grossly debased^ that even the Italian critics of the pre-
sent day, who are partially awakened to the true state of art
in Italy, though blind, as yet, to its true cause, exhaust their
terms of reproach upon these last eflForts of the Renaissance
builders. The two churches of San Mois^ and Santa Maria
Zobenigo, which are among the most remarkable in Venice for
their manifestation of insolent atheism, are characterLsed by
Lazari, the one as **culmine d' ogni foUia architettonica," the
other as "orrido ammasso di pietra d' Istria," with added ex-
pressions of contempt, as just as it is unmitigated.

§ XX. Now both these churches, which I should like the
reader to visit in succession, if possible, after that of Sta. Ma-
ria Formosa, agree with that church, and with each other, in
being totally destitute of religious symbols, and entirely dedi-
cated to the honour of two Venetian families. In San Mois§,
a bust of Vincenzo Fini is set on a tall narrow pyramid above
the central door, with this marvellous inscription :

" OHNB FASTIGIVH
TIRTVTE nCPLET
VINCBKinVS PINI."

It is very difficult to translate this ; for " fastigium," besides its
general sense, has a particular one in architecture, and refers
to the part of the building occupied by the bust ; but the main
meaning of it is that " Vincenzo Fini fills all height with -his
virtue." The inscription goes on into farther praise, but this
example is enough. Over the two lateral doors are two other
laudatory inscriptions of younger members of the Fini family,
the dates of death of the three heroes being 1660, 1685, and
1726, marking thus the period of consummate degradation.

§ XXI. In like maimer, the Church of Santa Maria Zobenigo
is entirely dedicated to the Barbaro family ; the only religious

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'.h

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/

\

I

♦

I

III. GJEIOTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 125

symbols with which it is invested being statues of angels
blowing brazen trumpets, intended to express the spreading of
the fame of the Barbaro family in heaven. At the top of the
church is Venice crowned, between Justice and Temperance,
Justice holding a pair of grocer's scales, of iron, swinging
in the wind. There is a two-necked stone eagle (the Barbaro
crest), with a copper crown, in the centre of the pediment.
A huge statue of a Barbaro in armour, with a fantastic head-
dress, over the central door; and four Barbaros in niches, two
on each side of it, strutting statues, in the common stage pos-
tures of the period, — Jo. Maria Barbaro, sapiens ordinum;
Marinus Barbaro, Senator (reading a speech in a Ciceronian
attitude) ; Franc. Barbaro, legatus in classe (in armour, with
high-heeled boots, and looking resolutely fierce) ; and Carolus
Barbaro, sapiens ordinum : the decorations of the facade being
completed by two trophies, consisting of drums, trumpets, flags
and cannon ; and six plans, sculptured in relief, of the towns
of Zara, Candia, Padua, Kome, Corfu, and Spalatro.

§ XXII. When the traveller has sufficiently considered the
meaning of this fa9ade, he ought to visit the Church of St.
Eustachio, remarkable for the dramatic eflfect of the group of
sculpture on its fajade, and then the Church of the Ospeda-
letto (see Index, under head Ospedaletto), noticing, on his way,
the heads on the foundations of the Palazzo Corner della Re-
gina, and the Palazzo Pesaro, and any other heads carved on
the modem bridges, closing with those on the Bridge of Sighs.

He will then have obtained a perfect idea of the style and
feeling of the Grotesque Renaissance. I cannot pollute this
volume by any illustration of its worst forms, but the head
turned to the front, on the right-hand in the opposite Plate, will
give the general reader an idea of its most graceful and refined
developements. The figure set beside it, on the left, is a piece
of noble grotesque, from fourteenth century Gothic; and it
must be our present task to ascertain the nature of the dif-
ference which exists between the two, by an accurate inquiry
into the true essence of the grotesque spirit itself. \

126 THIRD PERIOD.

§ XXIII. First, then, it seems to me that the grotesque is, in
almost all cases, composed of two elements, one ludicrous, the
^ other fearful; that, as one or other of these elements prevails,
\ the grotesque falls into two branches, sportive grotesque and
-^ terrible grotesque ; but that we cannot legitimately consider it
imder these two aspects, because there are hardly any exam-
ples which do not in some degree combine both elements : there
are few grotesques so utterly playful as to be overcast with
no shade of fearfulness, and few so fearful as absolutely to
exclude all ideas of jest. But although we cannot separate the
grotesque itself into two branches, we may easily examine
separately the two conditions of mind which it seems to com-
bine ; and consider successively what are the kinds of jest, and
what the kinds of fearfulness, which may be legitimately ex-
pressed in the various walks of art, and how their expressions
actually occur in the Gothic and Renaissance schools.

First, then, what are the conditions of playfulness which we
may fitly express in noble art, or which (for this is the same
thing) are consistent with nobleness in humanity? In other
words, what is the proper function of play, with respect not
to youth merely, but to all mankind ?

§ XXIV. It is a much more serious question than may be
at first supposed ; for a healthy manner of play is necessary
in order to a healthy manner of work : and because the choice
of our recreation is, in most cases, left to ourselves, while the
nature of our work is as generally fixed by necessity or
authority, it may well be doubted whether more distressful
consequences may not have resulted from mistaken choice in
play than from mistaken direction in labour.

§ XXV. Observe, however, that we are only concerned here
with that kind of play which causes laughter or implies re-
creation, not with that which consists in the excitement of the
energies whether of body or mind. Muscular exertion is, indeed,
in youth, one of the conditions of recreation ; " but neither the
violent bodily labour which children of all ages agree to call
play,'' nor the grave excitement of the mental faculties in games
of skill or chance, are in anywise connected with the state of

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 127

feeling we have here to investigate, namely, that sportiveness
which man possesses in common with many inferior creatures,
but to which his higher faculties give nobler expression in the
various manifestations of wit, humour, and fancy.

With respect to the manner in which this instinct of playful-
ness is indulged or repressed, mankind are broadly distinguish-
able into four classes : the men who play wisely ; who play
necessarily ; who play inordinately ; and who play not at all.

§ XXVI. First, Those who play wisely. It is evident that
the idea of any kind of play can only be associated with the idea
of an imperfect, childish, and fatigable nature. As far as men
can raise that nature, so that it shall no longer be interested by
trifles, or exhausted by toils, they raise it above play ; he whose
heart is at once fixed upon heaven, and open to the earth, so
as to apprehend the importance of heavenly doctrines, and the
compass of human sorrow, will have little disposition for jest ;
and exactly in proportion to the breadth and depth of his cha-
racter and intellect will be, in •general, the incapability of
surprise or exuberant and sudden emotion, which must render
play impossible. It is, however, evidently not intended that
many men should even reach, far less pass their lives in, that
solemn state of thoughtfiilness, which brings them into the
nearest brotherhood with their Divine Master ; and the highest
and healthiest state which is competent to ordinary humanity
appears to be that which, accepting the necessity of recreation,
and yielding to the impulses of natural delight springing out of
health and innocence, does, indeed, condescend often to playful-
ness, but never without such deep love of God, of truth, and of
humanity, as shall make even its lightest words reverent, its
idlest fancies profitable, and its keenest satire indulgent. Words-
worth and Plato furnish us with perhaps the finest and highest
examples of this playfulness : in the one case, unmixed with
satire, the perfectly simple efiusion of that spirit

" Which gives to aU the selfHsame bent,
Whose life is wise and innocent : "

— in Plato, and, by the by, in a very wise book of our own times.

128 THIRD PERIOD.

not unworthy of being named in such companionship, " Friends
in Council," mingled with an exquisitely tender and loving
satire.

§ xxvii. Secondly, The men who play necessarily. That
highest species of playfulness, which we have just been con-
sidering, is evidently the condition of a mind, not only highly
cultivated, but so habitually trained to intellectual labour that
it can bring a considerable force of accurate thought into its
moments even of recreation. This is not possible, unless so
much repose of mind and heart are enjoyed, even at the periods
of greatest exertion, that the rest required by the system is
diffused over the whole life^ To the majority of mankind, such
a state is evidently unattainable. They must^ perforce, pass a
large part of their lives in employments both irksome and toil-
some, demanding an expenditure of energy which exhausts the
system, and yet consuming that energy upon subjects incapable
of interesting the nobler faculties. When such employments are
intermitted, those noble instincts, fancy, imagination, and curi-
osity, are aU hungry for the food which the labour of the day
has denied to them, while yet the weariness of the body, in a
great degree, forbids their application to any serious subject.
They therefore exert themselves without any determined pur-
pose, and under no vigorous restraint, but gather, as best they
may, such various nourishment, and put themselves to such
fantastic exercise, as may soonest indemnify them for their past
imprisonment, and prepare them to endure its recurrence. This
stretching of the mental limbs as their fetters fall away, — this
leaping and dancing of the heart and intellect, when they are
restored to the fresh air of heaven, yet half paralyzed by their
captivity, and unable to turn themselves to any earnest pur-
pose, — I call necessary play. It is impossible to exaggerate
its importance, whether in polity, or in art.

§ xxviii. Thirdly, The men who play inordinately. The most
perfect state of society which, consistently with due understanding
of man's nature, it may be permitted us to conceive, would be
one in which the whole himian race were divided, more or less

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 129

distinctly, into workers and thinkers ; that is to say, into the
two classes who only play wisely or play necessarily. But the
number and the toil of the working class are enormously
increased, probably more than doubled, by the vices of the men
who neither play wisely nor necessarily, but are enabled by
circumstances, and permitted by their want of principle, to make
amusement the object of their existence. There is not any
moment of the lives of such men which is not injurious to others ;
both because they leave the work undone which was appointed
for them, and because they necessarily think wrongly, whenever
it becomes compulsory upon them to think at all. Tha greater
portion of the misery of this world arises from the false opinions
of men whose idleness has physically incapacitated them from
forming true ones. Every duty which we omit obscures some
truth which we should have known ; and the guilt of a life spent
in the pursuit of pleasure is twofold, partly consisting in the
perversion of action, and partly in the dissemination of false-
hood.

§ XXIX. There is, however, a less criminal, though hardly
less dangerous, condition of mind ; which, though not failing in
its more urgent duties, fails in the finer conscientiousness which
regulates the degree, and directs the choice, of amusement, at
those times when amusement is allowable. The most frequent
error in this respect is the want of reverence in approaching
subjects of importance or sacredness, and of caution in the
expression of thoughts which may encourage like irreverence
in others : and these faults are apt to gain upon the mind until
it becomes habitually more sensible to what is ludicrous and
accidental, than to what is grave and essential, in any subject
that is brought before it; or even, at last, desires to perceive
or to know nothing but what may end in jest. Very generally
minds of this character are active and able ; and many of them
are so far conscientious, that they believe their jesting forwards
their work. But it is difficult to calculate the harm they do
by destroying the reverence which is our best guide into all
truth; for weakness and evil are easily visible, but greatness

VOL. III. K

130 THIRD PERIOD.

and goodness are often latent ; and we do infinite mischief by
exposing weakness to eyes which cannot comprehend greatness.
This error, however, is more connected with abuses of the
satirical than of the playful instinct ; and I shall have more to
say of it presently.

§ XXX. Lastly, The men who do not play at all : those who
are so dull or so morose as to be incapable of inventing or
enjoying jest, and in whom care, guilt, or pride represses all
healthy exhilaration of the fancy; or else men utterly op-
pressed with labour, and driven too hard by the necessities of
the world to be capable of any species of happy relaxation.

§ XXXI. We have now to consider the way in which the pre-
sence or absence of joyfulness, in these several classes, is expressed
in art.

1. Wise play. The first and noblest class hardly ever speak
through art, except seriously ; they feel its nobleness too pro-
foundly, and value the time necessary for its production too
highly, to employ it in the rendering of trivial thoughts. The
playful fancy of a moment may innocently be expressed by the
passing word j but he can hardly have learned the preciousness
of life who passes days in the elaboration of a jest. And as
to what regards the delineation of human character, the nature
of all noble art is to epitomize and embrace so much at once,
that its subject can never be altogether ludicrous ; it must
possess all the solemnities of the whole, not the brightness of
the partial, truth. For all truth that makes us smile is partial.
The novelist amuses us by his relation of a particular incident ;
but the painter cannot set any one of his characters before us
without giving some glimpse of its whole career. That of
which the historian informs us in successive pages, it is the
task of the painter to inform us of at once, writing upon
the countenance not merely the expression of the moment,
but the history of the life : and the history of a life can
never be a jest.

Whatever part, therefore, of the sportive energy of these
men of the highest class would be expressed in verbal wit

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 131

or humour finds small utterance through their art, and will
assuredly be confined, if it occur there at all, to scattered and
trivial incidents. But so far as their minds can recreate
themselves by the imagination of strange, yet not laughable,
forms, which, either in costume, in landscape, or in any other
accessories, may be combined with those necessary for their
more earnest purposes, we find them delighting in such in-
ventions, and a species of grotesqueness thence arising in all
their work, which is indeed one of its most valuable charac-
teristics, but which is so intimately connected with the sublime
or terrible form of the grotesque, that it will be better to
notice it under that head.

§ XXXII. 2. Necessary play. I have dwelt much, in a former
portion of this work, on the justice and desirableness of em-
ploying the minds of inferior workmen, and of the lower
orders in general, in the production of objects of art of one
kind or another. So far as men of this class are compelled
to hard manual labour for their daily bread, so far forth their
artistical efforts must be rough and ignorant, and their ar-
tistical perceptions comparatively dull. Now it is not possible,
with blunt perceptions and rude hands, to produce works
which shall be pleasing by their beauty; but it is perfectly
possible to produce such as shaU be interesting by their cha-
racter or amusing by their satire. For one hard-working man
who possesses the finer instincts which decide on perfection of
lines and harmonies of colour, twenty possess dry humour or
quaint fancy; not because these facidties were originally given
to the human race, or to any section of it, in greater degree
than the sense of beauty, but because these are exercised in
our daily intercourse with each other, and developed by the
interest which we take in the affairs of life, while the others
are not. And because, therefore, a certain degree of success
will probably attend the effort to express this humour or fancy,
while comparative failure wiU assuredly result from an ignorant
struggle to reach the forms of solemn beauty, the working man

132 THIRD PERIOD.

who turns his attention partially to art will probably, and
wisely, choose to do that which he can do best, and indulge the
pride of an effective satire rather than subject himself to
assured mortification in the pursuit of beauty ; and this the
more, because we have seen that his application to art is to
be playful and recreative, and it is not in recreation that the
conditions of perfection can be fulfilled.

§ XXXIII. Now all the forms of art which result from the
comparatively recreative exertion of minds more or less blunted
or encumbered by other cares and toils, the art which we may
caU generaUy art of the wayside, as opposed to that which is
the business of men^s Hves, is, in the best sense of the word,
Grotesque. And it is noble or inferior, first, according to the
tone of the minds which have produced it, and in proportion
to their knowledge, wit, love of truth, and kindness ; secondly,
according to the degree of strength they have been able to give
forth ; but yet, however much we may find in it needing to
be forgiven, always delightful so long as it is the work of
good and ordinarily intelligent men. And its delightfulness
ought mainly to consist in those very imperfections which mark
it for work done in times of rest. It is not its own merit so
much as the enjoyment of him who produced it, which is to
be the source of the spectator's pleasure ; it is to the strength
of his sympathy, not to the accuracy of his criticism, that it
makes appeal ; and no man can indeed be a lover of what is
best in the higher walks of art who has not feeling and charity
enough to rejoice with the rude sportiveness of hearts that have
escaped out of prison, and to be thankful for the flowers which
men have laid their burdens down to sow by the wayside.

§ XXXIV. And consider what a vast amount of human work
this right understanding of its meaning will make fruitful and
admirable to us, which otherwise we could only have passed
by with contempt. There is very little architecture in the
world which is, in the full sense of the words, good and noble.
A few pieces of Italian Gothic and Romanesque, a few scat-

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 133

tered fragments of Gothic cathedrals, and perhaps two or three
of Greek temples, are all that we possess approaching to an
ideal of perfection. All the rest — ^Egyptian, Norman, Arabian,
and most Gothic, and, which is very noticeable, for the most
part all the strongest and mightiest — depend for their power
on some developement of the grotesque spirit ; but much more
the inferior domestic architecture of the middle ages, and what
similar conditions remain to this day in countries from which
the life of art has not yet been banished by its laws. The fan-
tastic gables, built up in scroll-work and steps, of the Flemish
street ; the pinnacled roofs set with their small humourist double
windows, as if with so many ears and eyes, of Northern France ;
the blackened timbers, crossed and carved into every conceivable
waywardness of imagination, of Normandy and old England;
the rude hewing of the pine timbers of the Swiss cottage ; the
projecting turrets and bracketed oriels of the German street;
these, and a thousand other forms, not in themselves reaching
any high degree of excellence, are yet admirable, and most
precious, as the fruits of a rejoicing energy in uncultivated
minds. It is easier to take away the energy than to add
the cultivation; and the only effect of the better knowledge
which civilized nations now possess has been, as we have seen
in a former chapter, to forbid their being happy, without en-
abling them to be great.

§ XXXV. It is very necessary, however, with respect to this
provincial or rustic architecture, that we should carefully dis-
tinguish its truly grotesque from its picturesque elements. In
the "Seven Lamps" I defined the picturesque to be "parasi-
tical sublimity," or sublimity belonging to the external or acci-
dental characters of a thing, not to the thing itself. For
instance, when a highland cottage roof is covered with frag-
ments of shale instead of slates, it becomes picturesque, because
the irregularity and rude fractures of the rocks, and their grey
and gloomy colour, give to it something of the savageness, and
much of the general aspect, of the slope of a mountain side.

134 THIRD PERIOD,

But as a mere cottage roof, it cannot be sublime, and whatever
sublimity it derives from the wildness or stemness which the
mountains have given it in its covering, is, so fax forth, pa-
rasitical. The mountain itself would have been grand, which
is much more than picturesque ; but the cottage cannot be grand
as such, and the parasitical grandeur which it may possess by
accidental qualities, is the character for which men hare long
agreed to use the inaccurate word " Picturesque."

§ XXXVI. On the other hand, beauty cannot be parasitical.
There is nothing so small or so contemptible, but it may be
beautiful in its own right. The cottage may be beautiful, and
the smallest moss that grows on its roof, and the minutest
fibre of that moss which the microscope can raise into visible
form, and all of them in their own right, not less than the
mountains and the sky; so that we use no peculiar term to
express their beauty, however diminutive, but only when the
sublime element enters, without sufficient worthiness in the
nature of the thing to which it is attached.

§ XXXVII. Now this picturesque element, which is always
given, if by nothing else, merely by ruggedness, adds usually
very largely to the pleasurableness of grotesque work, especially
to that of its inferior kinds ; but it is not for this reason to be
confounded with the grotesqueness itself. The knots and rents
of the timbers, the irregular lying of the shingles on the roofs,
the vigorous light and shadow, the fractures and weather-stains
of the old stones, which were so deeply loved and so admirably
rendered by our lost Prout, are the picturesque elements of
architecture : the grotesque ones are those which are not
produced by the working of nature and of time, but exclusively
by the fancy of man; and, as also for the most part by his
indolent and uncultivated fancy, they are always, in some
degree, wanting in grandeur, unless the picturesque element be
united with them.

§ XXXVIII. 3, Inordinate play. The reader will have some diffi-
culty, I fear, in keeping clearly in his mind the various divisions
of our subject ; but, when he has once read the chapter through.

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 135

he will see their places and coherence. We have next to
consider the expression throughout of the minds of men who
indulge themselves in unnecessary play. It is evident that a
large number of these men will be more refined and more
highly educated than those who only play necessarily; their
power of pleasure-seeking implies, in general, fortunate circum-
stances of life. It is evident also that their play will not be
so hearty, so simple, or so joyful; and this deficiency of
brightness will affect it in proportion to its unnecessary and
unlawful continuance, until at last it becomes a restless and
dissatisfied indulgence in excitement, or a painful delving after
exhausted springs of pleasure.

The art through which this temper is expressed will, in aU
probability, be refined and sensual, — therefore, also, assuredly
feeble; and because, in the failure of the joyful energy of the
mind, t^ere will fail, also, its perceptions and its sympathies, it
will be entirely deficient in expression of character and acute-
ness of thought, but will be peculiarly restless, manifesting its
desire for excitement in idle changes of subject and purpose.
Incapable of true imagination, it will seek to supply its place
by esfaggerations, incoherencies, and monstrosities ; and the form
of the grotesque to which it gives rise wiU be an incongruous
chain of hackneyed graces, idly thrown together, — prettinesses
or sublimities, not of its own invention, associated in forms
which will be absurd without being fantastic, and monstrous
without being terrible. And because, in the continual pursuit
of pleasure, men lose both cheerfulness and charity, there will
be small hilarity, but much tnalice, in this grotesque; yet a
weak malice, incapable of expressing its own bitterness, not
having grasp enough of truth to become forcible, and exhaust-
ing itself in impotent or disgusting caricature.

§ xxxix. Of course, there are infinite ranks and kinds of
this grotesque, according to the natural power of the minds
which originate it, and to the degree in which they have lost
themselves. Its highest condition is that which first developed
itself among the enervated Romans, and which was brought

136 THIRD PERIOD.

to the highest perfection of which it was capable by Ra-
phael in the arabesques of the Vatican. It may be generally
described as an elaborate and luscious form of nonsense. Its
lower conditions are found in the common upholstery and
decorations which, over the whole of civilised Europe, have
sprung from this poisonous root; an artistical pottage, com-
posed of nymphs, cupids, and satyrs, with shreddings of heads
and paws of meek wild beasts, and nondescript vegetables.
And the lowest of all are those which have not even graceful
models to recommend them, but arise out of the corruption
of the higher schools, nmigled with clownish or bestial satire,
as is the case in the later Renaissance of Venice, which we
were above examining. It is ahnost impossible to believe the
depth to which the human mind can be debased in following this
species of grotesque. In a recent Italian garden, the favourite
ornaments frequently consist of stucco images, representing, in
dwarfish caricature, the most disgusting types of manhood and
womanhood which can be foimd amidst the dissipation of the
modern drawingroom; yet without either veracity or humour,
and dependent, for whatever interest they possess, upon simple
grossness of expression and absurdity of costume. Orossness,
of one kind or another, is, indeed, an unfailing characteristic of
the style ; either latent, as in the refined sensuality of the more
graceful arabesques, or, in the worst examples, manifested in
every species of obscene conception and abominable detail. In
the head, described in the opening of this chapter, at Santa
Maria Formosa, the teeth are represented as decayed.

§ XL. 4. The minds of the fourth class of men, who do
not play at all, are little likely to find expression in any
trivial form of art, except in bitterness of mockery; and this
character at once stamps the work in which it appears as belong-
ing to the class of terrible, rather than of playful, grotesque.
We have, therefore, now to examine the state of mind which
gave rise to this second and more interesting branch of imagi-
native work.

§ XLi. Two great and principal passions are evidently appointed

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 137

by the Deity to rule the life of man ; namely, the love of God,
and the fear of sin, and of its companion — ^Death. How many
motives we have for Love, how much there is in the universe to
kindle our admiration and to claim our gratitude, there are, hap-
pily, multitudes among us who both feel and teach. But it has
not, I think, been sufficiently considered how evident, throughout
the system of creation, is \he purpose of God that we should often
be afTected by Fear ; not the sudden, selfish, and contemptible fear
of immediate danger, but the fear which arises out of the con-
templation of great powers in destructive operation, and generally
from the perception of the presence of death. Nothing appears
to me more remarkable than the array of scenic macmficence
by wUoh the taction is .ppdied/in n.^ rf Sices.
when the actual danger is comparatively small ; so that the utmost
possible impression of awe shall be produced upon the minds of
all, though direct suffering is inflicted upon few. Consider, for
instance, the moral effect of a single thunderstorm. Perhaps
two or three persons may be struck dead within a space of a
hundred square miles ; and their deaths, unaccompanied by the
scenery of the storm, would produce little more than a momen-
tary sadness in the busy hearts of Uving men. But the prepara-
tion for the judgment, by all that mighty gathering of the clouds ;
by the questioning of the forest leaves, in their terrified stillness,
which way the winds shall go forth ; by the murmuring to each
other, deep in the distance, of the destroying angels before they
draw forth their swords of fire ; by the march of the funeral
darkness in the midst of the noonday, and the rattling of the dome
of heaven beneath the chariot-wheels of death ; — on how many
minds do not these produce an impression almost as great as the
actual witnessing of the fatal issue I and how strangely are the
expressions of the threatening elements fitted to the apprehension
of the Jiuman soul I The lurid colour, the long, irregular, con-
vulsive sound, the ghastly shapes of flaming and heaving cloud,
are all as true and faithful in their appeal to our instinct of
danger, as the moaning or waUing of the human voice itself is to
our instinct of pity. It is not a reasonable calculating terror

\

138 THIRD PERIOD.

which they awake in us ; it is no matter that we count distance
by seconds, and measure probability by averages. That shadow
of the thunder-cloud wiU still do ita work upon our hearts, and
we shall watch its passing away as if we stood upon the thresh-
ing-floor of Ajpaunah.

§ XLii. And this is equally the case with respect to all the
other destructive phenomena of the universe. From the
mightiest of them to the gentlest, &om the earthquake to the
summer shower, it will be found that they are attended by
certain aspects of threatening, which strike terror into the
hearts of multitudes more numerous a thousandfold than those
who actually suffer from the ministries of judgment; and
that, besides the fearfulness of these immediately dangerous
phenomena, there is an occult and subtle horror belonging to
many aspects of the creation around us, calculated often to
fill us with serious thought, even in our times of quietness
and peace. I understand not the most dangerous, because
most attractive form of modern infidelity, which, pretending
to exalt the beneficence of the Deity, degrades it into, a
reckless infinitude of mercy, and blind obliteration of the
work of sin: and which does this chiefly by dwelling on the
manifold appearances of God's kindness on the face of creation.
Such kindness is indeed everywhere and always visible ; but not
alone. Wrath and threatening are invariably mingled with the
love ; and in the utmost solitudes of nature, the eidstence of Hell
seems to me as legibly declared by a thousand spiritual utter-
ances, as that of Heaven. It is well for us to dwell with thank-
fulness on the unfolding of the flower, and the falling of the dew,
and the sleep of the green fields in the sunshine ; but the blasted
trunk, the barren rock, the moaning of the bleak winds, the roar
of the black, perilous, merciless whirlpools of the mountain
streams, the solemn solitudes of moors and seas, the conti-
nual fading of all beauty into darkness, and of all strength into
dust, have these no language for us ? We may seek to escape
their teaching by reasonings touching the good which is wrought
out of all evil ; but it is vain sophistry. The good succeeds to

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE, 139

the evil as day succeeds the night, but so also the evil to the
good. Gerizim and Ebal, birth and death, light and dark-
ness, heaven and hell, divide the existence of man, and his
Futurity.*

§ XLiii. And because the thoughts of the choice we have
to make between these two ought to rule us continually, not
so much in our own actions (for these should, for the most
part, be governed by settled habit and principle) as in our
manner of regarding the lives of other men, and our own
responsibilities with respect to them; therefore, it seems to
me that the healthiest state into which the human mind
can be brought is that which is capable of the greatest love
and the greatest awe : and this we are taught even in our
times of rest ; for when our minds are rightly in tone, the
merely pleasurable excitement which they seek with most avidity
is that which rises out of the contemplation of beauty or of
terribleness. We thirst for both, and, according to the height
and tone of our feeling, desire to see them in noble or inferior
forms. Thus there is a Divine beauty, and a terribleness or
sublimity coequal with it in rank, which are the subjects of the
highest art ; and there is an inferior or ornamental beauty, and
an inferior terribleness coequal with it in rank, which are the
subjects of grotesque art. And the state of mind in which
the terrible form of the grotesque is developed is that which,
in some irregular manner, dwells upon certain conditions of
te^ibleness, into the complete depth of which it does not enter
for the time.

§ xxrv. Now the things which are the proper subjects of
human fear are twofold : those which have the power of Death,
and those which have the nature of Sin. Of which there are
many ranks, greater or less in power and vice, from the evil

* The Love of God is, however, alwaiys ahown by the predominance, or greater
simi, of good in the end ; but never hj the annihilation of eviL The modem
doubts of eternal punishment are not so much the consequence of benevolence as
of feeble powers of reasoning. Every one admits that Grod brings finite good out
of finite evil. Why not, therefore, infinite good out of infinite evil ?

140 THIRD PERIOD.

angels themselves down to the serpent which is their tjrpe, and
which, though of a low and contemptible class, appears to unite
the deathful and sinful natures in the most clearly visible and
intelligible form ; for there is nothing else which we know of so
small strength and occupying so unimportant a place in the
economy of creation, which yet is so mortal and so malignant.
It is, then, on these two classes of objects that the mind fixes
for its excitement, in that mood which gives rise to the terrible
grotesque : and its subject will be found always to unite some
expression of vice and danger, but regarded in a peculiar tem-
per ; sometimes (a) of predetermined or involuntary apathy,
sometimes (b) of mockery, sometimes (c) of diseased and
ungoverned imaginativeness.

§ XLV. For observe, the difl&culty which, as I above stated,
exists in distinguishing the playful firom the terrible grotesque
arises out of this cause : that the mind, imder certain phases of
excitement, plays with terror, and summons images which, if it
were in another temper, would be awful, but of which, either
in weariness or in irony, it refrains for the time to acknowledge
the true terribleness. And the mode in which this refusal takes
place distinguishes the noble from the ignoble grotesque. For
the master of the noble grotesque knows the depth of all at
which he seems to mock, and would feel it at another time, or
feels it in a certain undercurrent of thought even while he
jests with it ; but the workman of the ignoble grotesque can
feel and understand nothing, and mocks at all things with the
laughter of the idiot and the cretin.

To work out this distinction completely is the chief difficulty
in our present inquiry ; and, in order to do so, let us consider
the above-named three conditions of mind in succession, with
relation to objects of terror.

§ XLVi. (a.) Involuntary or predetermined apathy. We
saw above that the grotesque was produced, chiefly in sub-
ordinate or ornamental art, by rude, and in some degree
uneducated men, and in their times of rest. At such times,
and in such subordinate work, it is impossible that they should

III. OEOTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 141

represent any solemn or terrible subject with a fuU and serious
entrance into its feeling. It is not in the languor of a leisure
hour that a man will set his whole soul to conceive the means
of representing some important truth, nor to the projecting
angle of a timber bracket that he would trust its representation,
if conceived. And yet, in this languor, and in this trivial
work, he must find some expression of the serious part of his
soul, of what there is within him capable of awe, as well as of
love. The more noble the man is, the more impossible it will
be for him to confine his thoughts to mere loveliness, and that
of a low order. Were his powers and his time unlimited, so
that, like Fr^ Angelico, he could paint the Seraphim, in that
order of beauty he could find contentment, bringing down heaven
to earth. But by the conditions of his being, by his hard-
worked life, by his feeble powers of execution, by the meanness
of his employment and the languor of his heart, he is bound
down to earth. It is the world's work that he is doing, and
world's work is not to be done without fear. And whatever
there is of deep and eternal consciousness within him, thrilling
his mind with the sense of the presence of sin and death around
him, must be expressed in that slight work, and feeble way,
come of it what wilL He cannot forget it, among all that he sees
of beautiful in nature ; he may not bury himself among the
leaves of the violet on the rocks, and-of the lily in the glen, and
twine out of them garlands of perpetual gladness. He sees more
in the earth than these, — ^misery and wrath, and discordance
and danger, and all the work of the dragon and his angels ; this
he sees with too deep feeling ever to forget. And though, when
he returns to his idle work, — it may be to gild the letters upon
the page, or to carve the timbers of the chamber, or the stones
of the pinnacle, — he cannot give his strength of thought any
more to the woe or to the danger, there is a shadow of them
still present with him : and as the bright colours mingle beneath
his touch, and the fair leaves and flowers grow at his bidding,
strange horrors and phantasms rise by their side ; grisly beasts
and venomous serpents, and spectral fiends and nameless incon-

142 THIRD PERIOD.

sistencies of ghastly life^ rising out of things most beautiful^
and fading back into them again^ as the harm and the horror
of life do out of its happiness. He has seen these things ; he
wars with them daily ; he cannot but give them their part in his
work, though in a state of comparative apathy to them at the
time. He is but carving and gilding, and must not turn aside to
weep ; but he knows that heU is burning on, for all that, and the
smoke of it withers his oak-leaves.

§ XLVIL Now, the feelings which give rise to the false or
ignoble grotesque, are exactly the reverse of this. In the true
grotesque, a man of naturally strong feeling is accidentally or
resolutely apathetic; in the false grotesque, a man naturally
apathetic is forcing himself into temporary excitement. The
horror which is expressed by the one comes upon him whether
he will or not ; that which is expressed by the other is sought
out by him, and elaborated by his art. And therefore, also,
because the fear of the one is true, and of true things, however
fantastic its expression may be, there will be reality in it, and
force. It is not a manufactured terribleness, whose author,
when he had finished it, knew not if it would terrify any one
else or not : but it is a terribleness taken from the life ; a
spectre which the workman indeed saw, and which, as it appalled
him, will appal us also. But the other workman never felt any
Divine fear; he never shuddered when he heard the cry from
tho burning towers of the earth,

« Yenga Medusa ; A lo farem di smalto.'*

He is stone already, and needs no gentle hand laid upon his
eyes to save him.

§ XLViii. I do not mean what I say in this place to apply to
the creations of the imagination. It is not as the creating, but as
the seeing man, that we are here contemplating the master of
the true grotesque. It is because the dreadfulness of the uni-
verse around him weighs upon his heart that his work is wild ;
and therefore through the whole of it we shall find the evidence
of deep insight into nature. His beasts and birds, however

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 143

monstrous, will have profound relations with the true. He may
be an ignorant man, and little acquainted with the laws of
nature ; he is certainly a busy man, and has not much time to
watch nature; but he never saw a serpent cross his path, nor
a bird flit across the sky, nor a lizard bask upon a stone, without
learning so much of the sublimity and inner nature of each
as will not suffer him thenceforth to conceive them coldly. He
may not be able to carve plumes or scales well ; but his creatures
will bite and fly, for all that. The ignoble workman is the very
reverse of this. He never felt, never looked at nature ; and if
he endeavour to imitate the work of the other, aU his touches
will be made at random, and all his extravagances will be
ineffective ; he may knit brows, and twist lips, and lengthen
beaks, and sharpen teeth, but it will all be in vain. He may
make his creatures disgusting, but never fearful.

§ XLix. There is, however, often another cause of difference
than this. The true grotesque being the expression of the repose
or play of a serious mind, there is a false grotesque opposed to
it, which is the result of the full exertion of a frivolous one.
There is much grotesque which is wrought out with exquisite
care and pains, and as much labour given to it as if it were of
the noblest subject ; so that the workman is evidently no longer
apathetic, and has no excuse for unconnectedness of thought,
or sudden unreasonable fear. If he awakens horror now, it
ought to be in some truly sublime form. His strength is in his
work ; and he must not give way to sudden humour, and fits of
erratic fancy. If he does so, it must be because his mind is
naturally frivolous, or is for the time degraded into the delibe-
rate pursuit of frivolity. And herein lies the real distinction
between the base grotesque of Raphael and the Renaissance,
above alluded to, and the true Gothic grotesque. Those gro-
tesques or arabesques of the Vatican, and other such work,
which have become the patterns of ornamentation in modem
times, are the fruit of great minds degraded to base objects.
The care, skill, and science, applied to the distribution of the
leaves, and the drawing of the figures, are intense, admirable.

1

I

144 THIRD PERIOD.

and accurate; therefore, they ought to have produced a grand
and serious work, not a tissue of nonsense. If we can draw
the human head perfectly, and are masters of its expression and
its beauty, we have no business to cut it oflF, and hang it up by
the hair at the end of a garland. If we can draw the human
body in the perfection of its grace and movement, we have no
business to take away its limbs, and terminate it with a bunch of
leaves. Or rather, our doing so will imply that there is something
wrong with us ; that, if we can consent to use our best powers
for such base and vain trifling, there must be something wanting
in the powers themselves ; and that, however skilful we may be,
or however learned, we are wanting both in the earnestness
which can apprehend a noble truth, and in the thoughtfiilness
which can feel a noble fear. No Divine terror will ever be found
in the work of the man who wastes a colossal strength in elabo-
rating toys ; for the first lesson which that terror is sent to teach
us is the value of the human soul and the shortness of mortal
time.

§ L. And are we never, then, it will be asked, to possess a
refined or perfect ornamentation ? Must all decoration be the
work of the ignorant and the rude ? Not so ; but exactly in pro-
portion as the ignorance and rudeness diminish, must the oma-
mentation become rational and the grotesqueness disappear.
The noblest lessons may be taught in ornamentation, the most
solemn truths compressed into it. The Book of Genesis, in all
the fulness of its incidents, in all the depth of its meaning, is
bound within the leaf-borders of the gates of Ghiberti. But
BaphaePs arabesque is mere elaborate idleness. It has neither
meaning nor heart in it ; it is an unnatural and monstrous
abortion.

§ LI. Now, this passing of the grotesque into higher art, as
the mind of the workman becomes informed with better know-
ledge, and capable of more earnest exertion, takes place in two
ways. Either, as his power increases, he devotes himself more
and more to the beauty which he now feels himself able to
express, and so the grotesque expands, and softens into the

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 145

beautiful, as in the above-named instance of the gates of Ghiberti ;
or else, if the mind of the workman be naturally inclined to
gloomy contemplation, the imperfection or apathy of his work
rises into nobler terribleness, until we reach the point of the
grotesque of Albert Durer, where, every now and then, the
playfulness or apathy of the painter passes into perfect sublime.
Take the Adam and Eve, for instance. When he gave Adam a
bough to hold, with a parrot on it, and a tablet hung to it, with
" Albertus Durer Noricus faciebat, 1504,'* thereupon, his mind was
not in Paradise. He was half in play, half apathetic with respect
to his subject, thinking how to do his work well, as a wise master-
graver, and how to receive his just reward of fame. But he
rose into the true sublime in the head of Adam, and in the pro-
found truthfulness of every creature that fills the forest. So again,
in that magnificent coat of arms, with the lady and the satyr,
as he cast the fluttering drapery hither and thither around the
helmet, and wove the delicate crown upon the woman's forehead,
he was in a kind of play ; but there is none in the dreadful
skull upon the shield. And in the "Knight and Death," and
in the dragons of the illustrations to the Apocalypse, there is
neither play nor apathy ; but their grotesque is of the ghastly
kind which best illustrates the nature of death and sin. And
this leads us to the consideration of the second state of mind
out of which the noble grotesque is developed ; that is to say, the
temper of mockery.

§ Lii. (b.) Mockery, or satire. In the former part of this
chapter, when I spoke of the kinds of art which were produced
in the recreation of the lower orders, I only spoke of forms
of ornament, not of the expression of satire or humour. But
it seems probable that nothing is so refreshing to the vulgar
mind as some exercise of this faculty, more especially on the
failings of their superiors ; and that, wherever the lower orders
are allowed to express themselves freely, we shall find humour,
more or less caustic, becoming a principal feature in their work.
The classical and Benaissance manufactures of modem times

VOL. III. L

146 THIRD PERIOD.

having silenced the independent language of the operative, his
humour and satire pass away in the word-wit which has of
late become the especial study of the group of authors headed
by Charles Dickens ; aU this power was formerly thrown into
noble art, and became permanently expressed in the sculptures
of the cathedral. It was never thought that there was any-
thing discordant or improper in such a position : for the
builders evidently felt very deeply a truth of which, in modem
times, we are less cognizant ; that folly and sin are, to a certain
extent, synonymous, and that it would be well for mankind in
general if all could be made to feel that wickedness is as
contemptible as it is hateful. So that the vices were permitted
to be represented under the most ridiculous forms, and all the
coarsest wit of the workman to be exhausted in completing the
degradation of the creatures supposed to be subjected to them.

§ Liii. Nor were even the supernatural powers of evil exempt
from this species of satire. For with whatever hatred or horror
the evil angels were regarded, it was one of the conditions of
Christianity that they should also be looked upon as vanquished ;
and this not merely in their great combat with the King of
Saints, but in daily and hourly combats with the weakest of His
servante. In proportion to tiie narrowness of Ae powers of
abstract conception in the workman, the nobleness of the idea
of spiritual nature diminished, and the traditions of the en-
counters of men with fiends in daily temptations were imagined
with less terrific circumstances, until the agencies which in such
warfare were almost always represented as vanquished with
disgrace, became, at last, as much the objects of contempt as
of terror.

The superstitions which represented the devil as assuming
various contemptible forms or disguises in order to accomplish
his purposes aided this gradual degradation of conception, and
directed the study of the workman to the most strange and ugly
conditions of animal form, until at last, even in the most serious
subjects, the fiends are oftener ludicrous than terrible. Nor,
indeed, is this altogether avoidable, for it is not possible to

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 147

express intense wickedness without some condition of degra-
dation. Malice, subtlety, and pride, in their extreme, cannot be
written upon noble forms ; and I am aware of no effort to repre-
sent the Satanic mind in the angelic form which has succeeded
in painting. Milton succeeds only because he separately de-
scribes the movements of the mind, and therefore leaves himself
at liberty to make the form heroic ; but that form is never dis-
tinct enough to be painted. Dante, who will not leave even
external forms obscure, degrades them before he can feel them to
be demoniacal ; so also John Bunyan : both of them, I think,
having firmer faith than Milton's in their own creations, and
deeper insight into the nature of sin. Milton makes his fiends
too noble, and misses the foulness, inconstancy, and fury of
wickedness. His Satan possesses some virtues, not the less
virtues for being applied to evil purpose. Courage, resolution,
patience, deliberation in counsel, this latter being eminently
a wise and hbly character, as opposed to the ^^Insania" of
excessive sin : and all this, if not a shallow and false, is a
smoothed and artistical, conception. On the other hand, I have
always felt that there was a peculiar grandeur in the inde-
scribable ungovernable fury of Dante's fiends, ever shortening
its own powers, and disappointing its own purposes; the deaf,
blind, speechless, unspeakable rage, fierce as the lightning, but
erring from its mark or turning senselessly against itself, and
still further debased by foulness of form and action. Some-
thing is indeed to be allowed for the rude feelings of the
time, but I believe all such men as Dante are sent into the
world at the time when they can do their work best ; and that,
it being appointed for him to give to mankind the most vigor-
ous realization possible both of Hell and Heaven, he was bdm
both in the country and at the time which furnished the most
stem opposition of Horror and Beauty, and permitted it to
be written in the clearest terms. And, therefore, though there
are passages in the " Inferno " which it would be impossible
for any poet now to write, I look upon it as all the more

148 THIRD PERIOD.

perfect for them. For there can be no q^uestion but that one
characteristic of excessive vice is indecency, a general base-
ness in its thoughts and acts concerning the body,* and that
the fuQ portraiture of it cannot be given without marking, and
that in the strongest lines, this tendency to corporeal degra-
dation ; which, in the time of Dante, could be done frankly, but
cannot now. And, therefore, I think the twenty-first and twenty-
second books of the " Inferno " the most perfect portraitures of
fiendish nature which we possess ; and, at the same time, in their
mingling of the extreme of horror (for it seems to me that the
silent swiftness of the first demon, " con V ali aperte e sovra i pie
leggiero," cannot be surpassed in dreadfulness) with ludicrous
actions and images, they present the most perfect instances with
which I am acquainted of the terrible grotesque. But the
whole of the " Inferno " is full of this grotesque, as well as the
" Faerie Queen ; '* and these two poems, together with the works
of Albert Durer, will enable the reader to study it in its noblest
forms, without reference to (Jothic cathedrals.

§ Liv. Now, just as there are base and noble conditions of the
apathetic grotesque, so also are there of this satirical grotesque.
The condition which might be mistaken for it is that above
described as resulting from the malice of men given to pleasure,
and in which the grossness and foulness are in the workman as
much as in his subject, so that he chooses to represent vice
and disease rather than virtue and beauty, having his chief
delight in contemplating them ; though he still mocks at them
with such dull wit as may be in him, because, as Young has said
most truly,

'* Tifl not in folly not to scorn a fool."

§ LV. Now it is easy to distinguish this grotesque from
its noble counterpart, by merely observing whether any forms
of beauty or dignity are mingled with it or not ; for, of course,
the noble grotesque is only employed by its master for good

* Let the reader examine, with especial reference to this subject, the general
character of the language of lago.

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 149

purposes, and to contrast with beauty; but the base workman
cannot conceive anything but what is base ; and there will be no
loveliness in any part of his work, or, at the best, a loveliness
measured by line and rule, and dependent on legal shapes of
feature. But, without resorting to this test, and merely by
examining the ugly grotesque itself, it will be found that, if it
belongs to the base school, there will be, first, no Horror in it ;
secondly, no Nature in it ; and, thirdly, no Mercy in it.

§ LVi. I say, first, no Horror. For the base soul has no fear
of sin, and no hatred of it : and however it may strive to make
its work terrible, there will be no genuineness in the fear ; the
utmost it can do will be to make its work disgusting.

Secondly, There will be no Nature in it. It appears to be one
of the ends proposed by Providence in the appointment of the
forms of the brute creation, that the various vices to which
mankind are liable should be severally expressed in them so
distinctly and clearly as that men could not but understand the
lesson ; while yet these conditions of vice might, in the inferior
animal, be observed without the disgust and hatred which the same
vices would excite, if seen in men, and might be associated with
features, of interest which would otherwise attract and reward
contemplation. Thus, ferocity, cunning, sloth, discontent, glut-
tony, uncleanness, and cruelty are seen, each in its extreme, in
various animals ; and are so vigorously expressed, that, when men
desire to indicate the same vices in connexion with human forms,
they can do it no better than by borrowing here and there the
features of animals. And when the workman is thus led to the
contemplation of the animal kingdom, finding therein the ex-
pressions of vice which he needs, associated with power, and
nobleness, and freedom from disease, if his mind be of right
tone he becomes interested in this new study; and all noble
grotesque is, therefore, full of the most admirable rendering of
animal character. But the ignoble workman is capable of no
interest of this kind ; and, being too dull to appreciate, and too
idle to execute, the subtle and wonderful lines on which the
expression of the lower animal* depends, he contents himself

150 THIRD PERIOD.

with vulgar exaggeration, and leaves his work as false as it
is monstrous, a mass of blunt malice and obscene ignorance.

§ LVIL Lastly, there will be no Mercy in it. Wherever the
satire of the noble grotesque fixes upon human nature, it does so
with much sorrow mingled amidst its indignation : in its highest
forms there is an infinite tenderness, like that of the fool in Lear ;
and even in its more heedless or bitter sarcasm, it never loses
sight altogether of the better nature of what it attacks, nor
refuses to acknowledge its redeeming or pardonable features.
But the ignoble grotesque has no pity : it rejoices in iniquity,
and exists only to slander.

§ LViii. I have not space to follow out the various forms
of transition which exist between the two extremes of great
and base in the satirical grotesque. The reader must always
remember, that although there is an infinite distance between
the best and worst, in this kind the interval is filled by endless
«,nditi0B. more or te indintog to the evfl or the ^: im-
purity and malice stealing graduaUy into the nobler forms, and
invention and wit elevating the lower, according to the countless
ininglings of the elements of the human souL

§ Lix. (c.) Ungovemableness of the imagination. The reader
is always to keep in mind that if the objects of horror in which
the terrible grotesque finds its •materials were contemplated in
their true light, and with the entire energy of the soul, they
would cease to be grotesque, and become altogether sublime;
and that therefore it is some shortening of the power, or the
will, of contemplation, and. some consequent distortion of the
terrible image in which the grotesqueness consists. Now this
distortion takes place, it was above asserted, in three ways :
either through apathy, satire, or ungovemableness of imagination.
It is this last cause of the grotesque which we have finally to
consider ; namely, the error and wHdness of the mental impres-
sions, caused by fear operating upon strong powers of ima-
gination, or by the failure of the human faculties in the
endeavour to grasp the highest truths.

§ LX. The grotesque which comes to all men in a disturbed

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 151

dream is the most intelligible example of this kind, but also the
most ignoble; the imagination, in this instance, being entirely
deprived of all aid from reason, and incapable of self-govem-
ment. I believe, however, that the noblest forms of imaginative
power are also in some sort ungovernable, and have in them
something of the character of dreams; so that the vision^ of
whatever kind, comes uncalled, and will not submit itself to the
seer, but conquers him, and forces him to speak as a prophet,
having no power over his words or thoughts.* Only, if the

* This oppoeition of art to iuBpiration is long and gracefully dwelt upon by
Plato in his ''Pluddros ;" using, in the course of his argument, almost the words
of Stb Paul : mCXXcor ftAprvpoOaa^ ol toXomI luofUur trw^poaihnff r^r ix OmO. rift wop*
d^Optivw ytywofUpfft : ** It is the testimony of the ancients, that th& madness whith is
of Qod is a nobler thing than ike wisdom which is of nun ; " and again, '* He
who sets himself to any work with which the Muses haye to do" (ie., to any
of the fine arts) ''without madness, thinlring that by art alone he can do his
work sufficiently, will be found Tain and incapable, and the work of temperance
and rationalism will be thrust aside and obscured by that of inspiration." The
passages to the same effect, relating especially to poetry, are innumerable in nearly
all ancient writers ; but in this of Plato^ the entire compass of the fine arts is
intended to be embraced.

No one acquainted with other parts of my writings will suppose me to be an
advocate of idle trust in the imagination. But it is in these days just as necessary
to allege the supremacy of genius as the necessity of labour ; for there never
was, perhaps, a period in which the peculiar gift of the painter was so little
diBcemed, in which so many and so vain efforts have been made to replace it
by study and toil This has been peculiarly the case with the Qerman school;
and there are few exhibitions of human error more pitiable than the manner
in which the inferior members of it, men originally and for ever destitute of
the painting faculty, force themselves into an unnatural, encumbered, learned
fructification of tasteless fruit, and pass laborious lives in setting obscurely and
weakly upon canvas the philosophy, if such it ' be, which ten minutes' work
of a strong man would have put into healthy practice or plain words. I know
not anything more melancholy than the sight of the huge German cartoon,
with its objective side, and subjective side ; and mythological division, and
symbolical division, and human and Divine division ; its all^orical sense, and
literal sense ; and ideal point of view, and intellectual point of view ; its
heroism of weU-made armour and knitted brows ; its heroiniam of graceful attitude
and braided hair ; its inwoven web of sentimenl^ and piety, and philosophy, and
anatomy, and history, all profound : and twenty innocent dashes of the hand of
one Qod-made painter, poor old Bassan or Bonifario, were worth it all^ and worth
it ten thousand times over.

Not that the sentiment or the philosophy ia base in itself. They will make
a good man, but they will not make a good painter, — ^no, nor the millionth

152 THIRD PERIOD.

whole man be trained perfectly^ and his mind cakn, consistent,
and powerful, the vision which comes to him is seen as in a
perfect mirror, serenely, and in consistence with the rational
powers ; but if the mind be imperfect and ill trained, the vision
is'seen as in a broken mirror, with strange distortions and dis-
crepancies, aU the passions of the heart breathing upon it in
cross ripples, till hardly a trace of it remains unbroken. So
that, strictly speaking, the imagination is never governed ; it is
always the ruling and Divine power : and the rest of the man
is to it only as an instrument which it sounds, or a tablet on
which it writes ; clearly and sublimely if the wax be smooth and
the strings true, grotesquely and wildly if they are stained and
broken. And thus the "lUad," the ^'Inferno," the *' Pilgrim's
Progress," the " Faerie Queen," are all of them true dreams ; only
the sleep of the men to whom they came was the deep, living
sleep which God sends, with a sacredness in it as of death, the
revealer of secrets.

§ LXi. Now, observe in this matter, carefully, the diflference
between a dim mirror and a distorted one ; and do not blame me
for pressing the analogy too far, for it will enable me to explain
my meaning every way more clearly. Most men's minds are
dim mirrors, in which aU truth is seen, as St. Paul tells us,
darkly : this is the fault most common and most fatal ; dulness

part of a paintcfr. They wonld have been good in the work and words of
daily life ; but they are good for nothing in the cartoon, if they are there
alone. And the worst result of the system is the intense conceit into which
it cultivates a weak mind. Nothing is so hopeless, so intolerable, as the pride
of a foolish man who has passed through a process of thinking, so as actually
to have found something out. He believes there is nothing else to be found
out in the univene. Whereas the truly great man, on whom the Bevela-*
tions rain till they bear him to the earth with their weight, lays his head in
the dust, .and speaks thence — often in broken syllables. Vanity is indeed a very
equally divided inheritance among mankind ; but I think that among the first
persons, no emphasis is altogether so strong as that on the Qerman Ich, 1 was
once introduced to a Qerman philosopher-painter before Tintorefs " Massacre
of the Innocents." He looked at it superciliously, and said it '^ wanted to
be restored." He had been himself several years employed in painting a
''Faust" in a red jerkin and blue fire; which made Tintoret appear somewhat
dull to him.

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 153

of the heart and mistiness of sight, increasing to utter hardness
and blindness ; Satan breathing upon the glass, so that if we do
not sweep the mist laboriously away, it will take no image. But,
even so far as we are able to do this, we have still the distortion
to fear, yet not to the same extent, for we can in some sort allow
for the distortion of an image, if only we can see it clearly. And
the fallen human soul, at its best, must be as a diminishing
glass, and that a broken one, to the mighty truths of the universe
round it ; and the wider the scope of its glance, and the vaster
the truths into which it obtains an insight, the more fantastic
their distortion is likely to be, a^ the winds aoid vapours trouble
the field of the telescope most when it reaches farthest.

§ LXii. Now, so far as the truth is seen by the imagination*
in its wholeness and quietness, the vision is sublime ; but so fax as
it is narrowed and broken by the inconsistencies of the human
capacity, it becomes grotesque: and it would seem to be rare
that any very exalted truth should be impressed on the imagi-
nation without some grotesqueness in its aspect, proportioned to
the degree of dimirmtion of breadth in the grasp which is given
of it. Nearly all the dreams recorded in the Bible, — Jacob's,
Joseph's; Pharaoh's, Nebuchadnezzar's, — are grotesques; and
nearly the whole of the accessory scenery in the books of
Ezekiel and the Apocalypse. Thus, Jacob's dream revealed
to him the ministry of angels ; but because this ministry could
not be seen or understood by him in its fulness, it was nar-
rowed to him into a ladder between heaven and earth, which
was a grotesque. Joseph's two dreams were evidently intended
to be signs of the steadfastness of the Divine purpose towards
him, by possessing the clearness of special prophecy ; yet were
couched in such imagery, as not to inform him prematurely
of his destiny, and only to be understood after their fulfil-
ment. The sun, and moon, and stars were at the period, and
are indeed throughout the Bible, the symbols of high au-
thority. It was not revealed to Joseph that he should be

* I have before stated (** Modem Painters," voL iL pp. 181. 182.) that the first
function of the imagination is the apprehension of ultimate truth.

k

L

154 THIRD PERIOD.

lord over all Egypt; but the representation of hia family by
symbols of the most magnificent dominion, and yet as subject
to him, must have been afterwards felt by him as a distinctly
prophetic indication of his own supreme power. It was not
revealed to him that the occasion of his brethren's special
humiliation before him should be their coming to buy com;
but when the event took place, must he not have felt that there
was prophetic purpose in the form of the sheaves of wheat which
first imaged forth their subjection to him? And these two
images of the sun doing obeisance, and the sheaves bowing
down,— narrowed and imperfect intimations of great truth which
yet could not be otherwise conveyed, — are both grotesques. The
kine of Pharaoh eating each other, the gold and clay of Nebu-
chadnezzar's image, the four beasts full of eyes, and other
imagery of Ezekiel and the Apocalypse, are grotesques of the
same kind, on which I need not farther insist.

§ Lxm. Such forms, however, ought perhaps to have been ar-
ranged under a separate head, as Symbolical Grotesque ; but the
element of awe enters into them so strongly, as to justify, for all
our present purposes, their being classed with the other varieties
of terrible grotesque. For even if the symbolic vision itself be
not terrible, the sense of what may be veiled behind it becomes
all the more awful in proportion to the insignificance or strange-
ness of the sign itself ; and, I believe, this thrill of mingled doubt,
fear, and curiosity lies at the very root of the delight which man-
kind take in symbolism. It was not an accidental necessity for
the conveyance of truth by pictures instead of words, which led
to its universal adoption wherever art was on the advance ; but
the Divine fear which necessarily follows on the understanding
that a thing is other and greater than it seems ; and which, it
appears probable, has been rendered peculiarly attractive to the
human heart, because God would have us understand that this is
true not of invented symbols merely, but of all things amidst
which we live ; that there is a deeper meaning within them than
eye hath seen, or ear hath heard ; and that the whole visible crea-
tion is a mere perishable symbol of things eternal and true. It

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 155

cannot but have been sometimes a subject of wonder with thought-
ful men, how fondly, age after age, the Church has cherished the
belief that the four living creatures which surrounded the Apoca-
lyptic throne were symbols of the four Evangelists, and rejoiced
to use those fprms in its picture-teaching ; that a calf, a lion,
an eagle, and a beast with a man's face, should in all ages have
been preferred by the Christian world, as expressive of Evange-
listic power and inspiration, to the majesty of human form ; and
that quaint grotesques, awkward and often ludicrous caricatures
even of the animals represented, should have been regarded by
all men, not only with contentment, but with awe, and have su-
perseded all endeavours to represent the characters and persons of
the Evangelistic writers themselves (except in a few instances,
confined principally to works undertaken without a definite reli-
gious purpose) ; — this, I say, might appear more than strange to
us, were it not that we ourselves share the awe, and are still
satisfied with the symbol, and that justly. For, whether we are
conscious of it or not, there is in our hearts, as we gaze upon
the brutal forms that have so holy a signification, an acknow-
ledgment that it was not Matthew, nor Mark, nor Luke, nor
John, in whom the Gospel of Christ was unsealed ; but that the
invisible things of Him from the beginning of the creation are
clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made;
that the whole world, and all that is therein, be it low or high,
great or small, is a continual Gospel; and that as the heathen,
in their alienation from God, changed His glory into an image
made like tmto corruptible man, and to birds, and four-footed
beasts, the Christian, in his approach to God, is to undo this
work, and to chaiige the corruptible things into the image of
His glory; believing that there is nothing so base in creation,
but that our faith may give it wings which shall raise us into
companionship with heaven ; and that, on the other hand, there
is nothing so great or so goodly in creation, but that it is a
mean symbol of the Gospel of Christ, and of the things He has
prepared for them thit love Him.

§ Lxrv. And it is easy to understand, if we follow out this

156 THIRD PERIOD.

thought, how, when once the sjnnboKc language was familiarized
to the mind, and its solemnity felt in all its fulness, there was
no likelihood of oflfence being taken at any repulsive or
feeble characters in execution or conception. There was no
form so mean, no incident so commonplace, but, if regarded in
this light, it might become sublime ; the more vigorous the
fancy and the more faithftd the enthusiasm, the greater would
be the likelihood of their delighting in the contemplation of
symbols whose mystery was enhanced by apparent insignifi-
cance, or in which the sanctity and majesty of meaning were
contrasted with the utmost uncouthness of external form : nor
with uncouthness merely, but even with every appearance of
malignity or baseness ; the beholder not being revolted even by
this, but comprehending that, as the seeming e^al in the frame-
work of creation did not invalidate its Divine authorship, so
neither did the evil or imperfection in the symbol invalidate
its Divine message. And thus, sometimes, the designer at last
became wanton in his appeal to the piety of his interpreter,
and recklessly poured out the impurity and the savageness of
his own heart, for the mere pleasure of seeing them overlaid
with the fine gold of the sanctuary by the religion of their
beholder.

§ Lxv. It is not, however, in every symbolical subject that
the fearful grotesque becomes embodied to the full. The
element of distortion which aflfects the intellect when dealing
with subjects above its proper capacity, is as nothing compared
with that which it sustains from the direct impressions of
terror. It is the trembling of the human soul in the presence
of death which most of all disturbs the images on the intel-
lectual mirror, and invests them with the fitfulness and ghast-
liness of dreams. And from the contemplation of death, and
of the pangs which follow his footsteps, arise in men's hearts
the troop of strange and irresistible superstitions which, more
or less melancholy or majestic according to the dignity of the
mind they impress, are yet never without a certain grotesquenesa,
following on the paralysis of the reason and over-excitement

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 157

of the fancy. I do not mean to deny the actual existence of
spiritual manifestations ; I have never weighed the evidence
upon the subject ; but with these, if such exist, we are not here
concerned. The grotesque which we are examining arises out
of that condition of mind which appears to follow naturally
upon the contemplation of death, and in which the fancy is
brought into morbid action by terror, accompanied by the
belief in spiritual presence, and in, the possibility of spiritual
apparition. Hence are developed its most sublime, because its
least voluntary, creations, aided by the fearfulness of the phe-
nomena of nature which are in anywise the ministers of death,
and primarily directed by the peculiar ghastliness of expression
in the skeleton, itself a species of terrible grotesque in its
relation to the perfect human frame.

§ Lxvi. Thus, first bom from the dusty and dreadful white-
ness of the charnel-house, but softened in their forms by the
holiest of human affections, went forth the troop of wild and
wonderful images, seen through tears, that had the mastery
over our Northern hearts for so many ages. The powers of
sudden destruction lurking in the woods and waters, in the
rocks and clouds ; — ^kelpie and gnome, Lurlei and Hartz spirits ;
the wraith and foreboding phantom ; the spectra of second
sight ; the various conceptions of avenging or tormented ghost,
haunting the perpetrator of crime, or expiating its commission ;
and the half fictitious and contemplative, half visionary and
believed images of the presence of death itself, doing its daily
work in the chambers of sickness and sin, and waiting for its
hour in the fortalices of strength and the high places of pleasure ;
— these, partly degrading us by the instinctive and paralyzing
terror with which they are attended, and partly ennobling us
by leading our thoughts to dwell in the eternal world, fill the
last and the most important circle in that great kingdom of
dark and distorted power, of which we all must be in some sort
the subjects until mortality shall be swallowed up of life;
until the waters of the last fordless river cease to roll their
untransparent volume between us and the light of heaven, and

I

I

158 THIRD PERIOD.

neither death stand between us and our brethren, nor symbols
between us and our God.

§ Lxvii. We have now, I believe, obtained a view approaching
to completeness of the various branches of human feeling which
are concerned in the developement of this peculiar form of art.
It remains for us only to note, as briefly as possible, what facts
in the actual history of the grotesque bear upon our immediate
j^ubject.

Prom what we have seen to be its nature, we must, I think,
be led to one most important conclusion ; that wherever the
human mind is healthy and vigorous in all its proportions,
great in imagination and emotion no less than in intellect, and
not overborne by an xmdue or hardened pre-eminence of the mere
reasoning facidties, there the grotesque will exist in full energy.
And, accordingly, I believe that there is no test of greatness in
periods, nations, or men, more sure than the developement, among
them or in them, of a noble grotesque ; and no test of comparative
smallness or limitation, of one kind or another, more sure than
the absence of grotesque invention, or incapability of under-
standing it. I think that the central man of all the world, as
representing in perfect balance the imaginative, moral, and
intellectual £a,culties, all at their highest, is Dante ; and in him
the grotesque reaches at once the most distinct and the most
noble developement to which it was ever brought in the human
mind. The two other greatest men whom Italy has produced,
Michael Angelo and Tintoret, show the same element in no less
original strength, but oppressed in the one by his science, and in
both by the spirit of the age in which they lived ; never, how-
ever, absent even in Michael Angelo, but stealing forth con-
tinually in a strange and spectral way, lurking in folds of
raiment and knots of wild hair, and mountainous confusions of
crabby limb and cloudy drapery; and, in Tintoret, ruling the
entire conceptions of his greatest works to such a degree that
they are an enigma or an offence, even to this day, to all the
petty disciples of a formal criticism. Of the grotesque in our own
Shakespeare I need hardly speak, nor of its intolerableness to

III. GROTESQUE REyAISSANCE. 159

his French critics ; nor of that of iEschylus and Homer, as
opposed to the lower Greek writers ; and so I believe it will be
found, at all periods^ in all minds of the first order.

§ Lxvni. As an index of the greatness of nations, it is a less
certain test, or, rather, we are not so well agreed on the meaning
of the term '^ greatness " respecting them. A nation may produce
a great eflfect, and take up a high place in the world's history, by
the temporary enthusiasm or fury of its multitudes, without being
truly great ; or, on the other hand, the discipline of morality and
common sense may extend its physical power or exalt its well-
being, while yet its creative and imaginative powers axe continu-
aUy diminishing. And again : a people may take so definite a
lead over all the rest of the world, in one direction, as to obtain a
respect whioh is not justly due to them if judged on universal
grounds. Thus the Greeks perfected the sculpture of the
human body; threw their Uterature into a disciplined form,
which has given it a peculiar power over certain conditions of
modem mind ; and were the most carefcdly educated race that the
world has seen; but a few years hence, I believe, we shall no
longer think them a greater people than either the Egyptians or
Assyrians.

g LXix. If, then, ridding ourselves as far as possible of pre-
judices owing merely to the school-teaching which remains from
the system of the Renaissance, we set ourselves to discover in
what races the human soul, taken all in all, reached its highest
magnificence, we shall find, I believe, two great families of men,
one of the East and South, the other of the West and North :
the one including the Egyptians, Jews, Arabians, Assyrians, and
Persians; the other, I know not whence derived, but seeming
to flow forth from Scandinavia, and filling the whole of Europe
with it/S Norman and Grothic energy. And in both these families,
wherever they are seen in their utmost nobleness, there the gro-
tesque is developed in its utmost energy; and I hardly know
whether most to admire the winged bulls of Nineveh, or the
winged dragons of Verona.

§ Lxx. The reader who has not before turned his attention

160 THIRD PERIOD.

to this subject may, however, at first have some difiiculty in
distinguishing between the noble grotesque of these great nations,
and the barbarous grotesque of mere savageness, as seen in the
work of the Hindoo and other Indian nations ; or, more grossly
still, in that of the complete savage of the Pacific islands ; or if,
as is to be hoped, he instinctively feel the difference, he may
yet find difficulty in determining wherein that difference consists.
But he will discover, on consideration, that the noble grotesque
involves the true appreciation of beauty y though the mind may
wilfully turn to other images, or the hand resolutely stop short
of the perfection which it must fail, if it endeavoured, to reach ;
while the grotesque of the Sandwich islander involves no percep-
tion or imagination of anything above itself. He will find that
•in the exact proportion in which the grotesque results from an
incapability of perceiving beauty, it becomes savage or barba-
rous ; and that there are many stages of progress to be found
in it even in its best times, much truly savage grotesque
occurring in the fine Gothic periods, mingled with the other
forms of the ignoble grotesque resulting from vicious inclina-
tions or base sportiveness. Nothing is more mysterious in the
history of the human mind than the manner in which gross
and ludicrous images are mingled with the most solemn subjects
in the work of the middle ages, whether of sculpture or illu-
mination; and although, in great part, such incongruities are
to be accounted for on the various principles which I have above
endeavoured to define, in many instances they are clearly the
result of vice and sensuality. The general greatness or serious-
ness of an age does not effect the restoration of human nature ;
and it would be strange, if, in the midst of the art even of the
best periods, when that art was entrusted to myriads of workmen,
we found no manifestations of impiety, folly, or impurity.

§ Lxxi. It needs only to be added, that in the noble gro-
tesque, as it is partly the result of a morbid state of the imagi-
native power, that power itself will be always seen in a high
degree ; and that therefore our power of judging of the rank
of a grotesque work will depend on the degree in which we are

\

\

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 161

in general sensible of the presence of invention. The reader
may partly test this power in himself by referring to the Plate
given in the opening of this chapter, in which, on the left, is
a piece of noble and inventive grotesque, a head of the lion-
symbol of St. Mark, from the Veronese Gothic ; the other is a
head introduced as a boss on the foundation of the Palazzo
Comer della Regina at Venice, utterly devoid of invention,
made merely monstrous by exaggerations of the eyeballs and
cheeks, and generally characteristic of that late Renaissance gro-
tesque of Venice with which we are at present more immediately
concerned.*

§ Lxxii. The developement of that grotesque took place
under diflFerent laws from those which regulate it in any other
European city. For, great as we have seen the Byzantine
mind show itself to be in other directions, it was marked as
that of a declining nation by the absence of the grotesque ele-
ment ; and, owing to its influence, the early Venetian Gothic
remained inferior to all other schools in this particular character.
Nothing can well be more wonderful than its instant failure in
any attempt at the representation of ludicrous or fearful images,
more especially when it is compared with the magnificent gro-
tesque of the neighbouring city of Verona, in which the Lombard
influence had full sway. Nor was it until the last links of
connexion with Constantinople had been dissolved, that the
strength of the Venetian mind could manifest itself in this
direction. But it had then a new enemy to encounter. The
Renaissance laws altogether checked its imagination in archi-
tecture ; and it could only obtain permission to express itself by

* Note especiaUy, in connexion with what was advanced in Vol. 11. p. 162. § xiii.,
respecting our English neatness of execution, how the base workman has cut the
lines of the architecture neatly and precisely round the abominable head : but the
noble workman has used his chisel like a painter's pencil, and sketched the glory
with a few irregular lines, anything rather than circular ; and struck out the whole
head in the same frank and fearless way, leaving the sharp edges of the stone as they
first broke, and flinging back the crest of hair from the forehead with half a dozen
hammer-strokes, while the poor wretch who did the other was half a day in smoothing
its vapid and vermicular curls.

VOL. III. M

162 THIRD PERIOD.

starting forth in the work of the Venetian painters, j&Uing them
with monkeys and dwarfs, even amidst the most serious sub-
jects, and leading Veronese and Tintoret to the most imexpected
and wild fantasies of form and colour.

§ Lxxiii. We may be deeply thankful for this peculiar reserve
of the Gothic grotesque character to the last days of Venice.
AU over the rest of Europe it had been strongest in the days
of imperfect art ; magnificently powerful throughout the whole
of the thirteenth century, tamed gradually in the fourteenth
and fifteenth, and expiring in the sixteenth amidst anatomy
and laws of art. But at Venice, it had not been received when
it was elsewhere in triumph, and it fled to the lagoons for shelter
when elsewhere it was oppressed. And it was arrayed by the
Venetian painters in robes of state, and advanced by them to
such honour as it had never received in its days of widest
dominion ; while, in return, it bestowed upon their pictures that
fulness, piquancy, decision of parts, and mosaic-like inter-
mingling of fancies, alternately brilliant and sublime, which were
exactly what was most needed for the developement of their
unapproachable colour-power.

§ Lxxiv. Yet, observe, it by no means follows that because
the grotesque does not appear in the art of a nation, the sense
of it does not exist in the national mind. Except in the form
of caricature, it is hardly traceable in the English work of the
present day; but the minds of our workmen are full of it, if
we would only allow them to give it shape. They express it
daily in gesture and gibe, but are not allowed to do so where
it would be useful. In like manner, though the Byzantine
influence repressed it m the early Venetian architecture, it was
always present in the Venetian mind, and showed itself in
various forms of national custom and festival ; dcted grotesques,
full of wit, feeling, and good-humour. The ceremony of the
hat and the orange, described in the beginning of this chapter,
is one instance out of multitudes. Another, more rude, and ex-
ceedingly characteristic, was that instituted in the twelfth
century in memorial of the submission of Woldaric, the patri-

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 163

arch of Aquileia, who, having taken up arms against the patriarch
of Grado, and being defeated. and taken prisoner by the Venetians,
was sentenced, not to death, but to send every year on "Fat
Thursday " sixty-two large loaves, twelve fat pigs, and a bull, to
the Doge ; the bull being understood to represent the patriarch,
and the twelve pigs his clergy : and the ceremonies of the day
consisting in the decapitation of these representatives, and a
distribution of their joints among the senators ; together with a
symbolic record of the attack upon Aquileia, by the erection of
a wooden castle in the rooms of the Ducal Palace, which the
Doge and the Senate attacked and demolished with clubs. As
long as the Doge and the Senate were truly kingly and noble,
they were content to let this ceremony be continued ; but when
they became proud and selfish, and were destroying both them-
selves and the state by their luxury, they found it inconsistent
with their dignity, and it was abolished, as far as the Senate
was concerned, in 1549.*

§ Lxxv. By these and other similar manifestations, the gro-
tesque spirit is traceable through all the strength of the Venetian
people. But again : it is necessary tiiat we should carefully distin-
guish between it and the spirit of mere levity. I said, in the fifth
chapter, that the Venetians were distinctively a serious people ;
serious, that is to say, in the sense in which the English are a
more serious people than the French ; though the habitual inter-
course of our lower classes in London has a tone of humour in it
which I believe is untraceable in that of the Parisian populace. It
is one thing to indulge in playful rest, and another to be devoted
to the pursuit of pleasure : and gaiety of heart during the reaction
after hard labour, and quickened by satisfaction in the accomplished
duty or perfected result, is altogether compatible with, nay, even
in some sort arises naturally out of, a deep internal seriousness of
disposition ; this latter being exactly the condition of mind which ^
as we have seen, leads to the richest developements of the playful
grotesque ; while, on the contrary, the continual pursuit of plea-
sure deprives the soul of all alacrity and elasticity, and leaves it

• The decree is quoted by Mutinelli, lib. I p. 46.

164 THIRD PERIOD.

incapable of happy jesting, capable only of that which is bitter,
base, and foolish. Thus, throughout the whole of the early career
of the Venetians, though there is much jesting, there is no levity ;
on the contrary, there is an intense earnestness both in their pur-
suit of commercial and political successes, and in their devotion
to religion,* which led gradually to the formation of that highly
wrought mingling of immovable resolution with secret thought-
fulness, which so strangely, sometimes so darkly, distinguishes the
Venetian character at the time of their highest power, when the
seriousness was left, but the conscientiousness destroyed. And
if there be any one sign by which the Venetian countenance, as
it is recorded for us, to the very life, by a school of portraiture
which has never been equalled (chiefly because no portraiture
ever had subjects so noble),— I say, if there be one thing more
notable than another in the Venetian features, it is this deep
pensiveness and solemnity. In other districts of Italy, the dig-
nity of the heads which occur in the most celebrated compositions
is clearly owing to the feeling of the painter. He has visibly
raised or idealized his models, and appears always to be veiling
the faults or failings of the human nature around him, so that the
best of his work is that which has most perfectly taken the colour
of his own mind ; and the least impressive, if not the least valu-
able, that which appears to have been unaffected and unmodified
portraiture. But at Venice, all is exactly the reverse of this.
The tone of mind in the painter appears often in some degree
frivolous or sensual ; delighting in costume, in domestic and gro-
tesque incident, and in studies of the naked form. But the
moment he gives himself definitely to portraiture, all is noble and
grave ; the more literally true his work, the more majestic ; and
the same artist who will produce little beyond what is common-
place in painting a Madonna or an apostle, will rise into unap-
proachable sublimity when his subject is a member of the Forty,
or a Master of the Mint.

Such, then, were the general tone and progress of the Venetian
mind, up to the close of the seventeenth century. First, serious,

♦ See Appendix 9.

III. GROTESQUE RENAISSANCE. 165

religious, and sincere ; then, though serious still, comparatively
deprived of conscientiousness, and apt to decline into stem and
subtle policy : in the first case, the spirit of the noble gro-
tesque not showing itself in art at all, but only in speech and
action ; in the second case, developing itself in painting, through
accessories and vivacities of composition, while perfect dignity
waa always presented in portraiture. A third phaae rapidly
developed itself.

§ Lxxvi. Once more, and for the last time, let me refer the
reader to the important epoch of the death of the Doge Tomaso
Mocenigo in 1423, long ago indicated as the commencement
of the decline of the Venetian power. That commencement is
marked, not merely by the words of the dying Prince, but by
a great and clearly legible sign. It is recorded, that on the
accession of his successor, Foscari, to the throne, " Si festeggio
DALLA ciTTA UNO ANNO INTERO : " ** The city kept festival for a
whole year." Venice had in her childhood sown, in tears, the
harvest she was to reap in rejoicing. She now sowed in laugh-
ter the seeds of death.

Thenceforward, year after year, the nation drank with deeper
thirst from the fountains of forbidden pleasure, and dug for
springs, hitherto unknown, in the dark places of the earth. In
the ingenuity of indulgence, in the varieties of vanity, Venice
surpassed the cities of Christendom, as of old she had surpassed
them in fortitude and devotion; and as once the powers of
Europe stood before her judgment-seat, to receive the decisions
of her justice, so ik)w the youth of Europe assembled in the
halls of her luxury, to learn from her the arts of delight.

It is as needless as it is painful to trace the steps of her final
ruin. That ancient curse was upon her, the curse of the Cities
of the Plain, "Pride, fulness of bread, and abundance of idleness."
By the inner burning of her own passions, as fatal as the fiery
rain of Gomorrah, she was consumed from her place among the
nations ; and her ashes are choking the channels of the dead,
salt sea.

166 THIRD PERIOD.

CHAPTER IV.

CONCLUSION.

§ I. I FEAR this chapter will be a rambling one, for it must be
a kind of supplement to the preceding pages, and a general
recapitidation of the things I have too imperfectly and feebly
said.

The grotesques of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,
the nature of which we examined in the last chapter, close the
career of the architecture of Europe. They were the last* evi-
dences of any feeling consistent with itself, and capable of direct-
ing the eflforts of the builder to the formation of anything
worthy the name of a style or school. From that time to this,
no resuscitation of energy has taken place, nor does any for
the present appear possible. How long this impossibility may
last, and in what direction with regard to art in general, as well
as to our lifeless architecture, our immediate efforts may most
profitably be directed, are the questions I would endeavour
briefly to consider in the present chapter.

§ II. That modern science, with all its additions to the com-
forts of life, and to the fields of rational contemplation, has
placed the existing races of mankind on a higher platform than
any that preceded them, none can doubt for an instant; and I
believe the position in which we find ourselves is somewhat
analogous to that of thoughtful and laborious youth succeeding
a restless and heedless infancy. Not long ago, it was said to
me by one of the masters of modern science: "When men in-
vented the locomotive, the child was learning to go ; when they
invented the telegraph, it was learning to speak." He looked
forward to the manhood of mankind, as assuredly the nobler in
proportion to the slowness of its developement. What might not

IV. CONCLUSION. 167

be expected from the prime and middle strength of the order of
existence whose infancy had lasted six thousand years? And
indeed, I think this the truest, as well as the most cheering,
view that we can take of the world's history. Little progress
has been made as yet. Base war, lying policy, thoughtless
cruelty, senseless improvidence, — all things which, in nations, are
analogous to the petulance, cunning, impatience, and careless-
ness of infancy, — ^have been, up to this hour, as characteristic of
mankind as they were in the earliest periods ; so that we must
either be driven to doubt of human progress at all, or look
upon it as in its very earliest stage. Whether the opportunity
is to be permitted us to redeem the hours that we have lost;
whether He, in whose sight a thousand years are as one day,
has appointed us to be tried by the continued possession of the
strange powers with which He has lately endowed us ; or whether
the periods of childhood and of probation are to cease together,
and the youth of mankind is to be one which shall prevail over
death, and bloom for ever in the midst of a new heaven and a
new earth, are questions with which we have no concern. It is in-
deed right that we should look for, and hasten, so far as in us lies,
the coining of the Day of God ; but not that we should check
any human efforts by anticipations of its approach. We shall
hasten it best by endeavouring to work out the tasks that are
appointed for us here ; and, therefore, reasoning as if the world
were to continue under its existing dispensation, and the powers
which have just been granted to us were to be continued through
myriada'of future ages.

§ III. . It seems to me, then, that the whole human race, so far
as their own reason can be trusted, may at present be regarded
as just emergent from childhood ; and beginning for the first
time to feel their strength, to stretch their limbs, and explore
the creation around them. If we consider that, till within the
last fifty years, the nature of the ground we tread on, of the air
we breathe, and of the light by which we see, were not so much as
conjecturally conceived by us ; that the duration of the globe,
and the races of animal life by which it was inhabited, are just

168 THIRD PERIOD.

beginning to be apprehended ; and that the scope of the mag-
nificent science which has revealed them is as yet so little re-
ceived by the public mind, that presumption and ignorance are
stiU permitted to raise their voices against it unrebuked ; that
perfect veracity in the representation of general nature by art
has never been attempted until the present day, and has in the
present day been resisted with all the energy of the popular
voice;* that the simplest problems of social science are yet so
little understood, as that doctrines of liberty and equality can
be openly preached, and so successfully as to affect the whole
body of the civilized world with apparently incurable disease;
that the first principles of commerce were acknowledged by
the English Parliament only a few months ago, in its free trade
measures, and are stiU so little understood by the million, that
no nation dares to abolish its custom-houses ; t that the sim-
plest principles of policy are still not so much as stated, far
less received, and that civilized nations persist in the belief that
the subtlety and dishonesty which they know to be ruinous in
dealings between man and man, are serviceable in dealings
between multitude and multitude ; finally, that the scope of
the Christian religion, which we have been taught for two
thousand years, is still so little conceived by us, that we sup-
pose the laws of charity and of self-sacrifice bear upon indivi-
duals in all their social relations, and yet do not bear upon
nations in any of their political relations ; — ^when, I say, we thus
review the depth of simplicity in which the human r^ice are

* In the works of Turner and the Pre-Raphaelites.

t Observe, I speak of these various principles as self-evident, only under the
present circumstances of the world, not as if they had always been so ; and I call
them now self-evident, not merely because they seem so to myself, but because
they are felt to be so likewise by all the men in whom I place most trust. But
granting that they are not so, then their very disputability proves the state of
infancy above alleged, as characteristic of the world. For I do not suppose that
any Christian reader will doubt the first great truth, that whatever facts or laws
are important to mankind, God has made ascertainable by mankind ; and that as
the decision of all these questions ib of vital importance to the race, that deci-
sion must have been long ago arrived at, unless they were still in a state of
childhood.

IV. CONCLUSION. 169

still plunged with respect to all that it most profoundly concerns
them to know, and which might, by them, with most ease have
been ascertained, we can hardly determine how far back on
the narrow path of human progress we ought to place the
generation to which we belong, how far the swaddling clothes
are unwound from us, and childish things beginning to be put
away.

On the other hand, a power of obtaining veracity in the
representation of material and tangible things, which, within
certain limits and conditions, is unimpeachable, has now been
placed in the hands of all men,* almost without labour.
The foundation of every natural science is now at last firmly
laid, not a day passing without some addition of buttress and
pinnacle to their already magnificent fabric. Social theorems,
if fiercely agitated, are therefore the more likely to be at last
determined, so that they never can be matters of question more.
Human life has been in some sense prolonged by the increased
powers of locomotion, and an almost limitless power of converse.
Finally, there is hardly any serious mind in Europe but is
occupied, more or less, in the investigation of the questions which
have so long paralyzed the strength of religious feeling, and
shortened the dominion of religious faith. And we may there-
fore at least look upon ourselves as so far in a definite state of
progress, as to justify our caution in guarding against the dan-
gers incident to every period of change, and especially to that from
childhood into youth.

§ IV. Those dangers appear, in the main, to be twofold ; con-
sisting partly in the pride of vain knowledge, partly in the pursuit
of vain pleasure. A few points are still to be noticed with respect
to each of these heads.

* I intended to have given a sketch in this place (above referred to) of the pro-
bable results of the daguerreotype and calotype within the next few years, in modifying
the application of the engraver's art, but I have not had time to complete the
experiments necessary to enable me to speak with certainty. Of one thing, however,
I have little doubt, that an infinite service will soon be done to a large body of
OUT engravers ; namely, the making them draughtsmen (in black and white) on paper
instead of steeL

170 THIRD PERIOD.

Enough, it might be thought, had been said already touching
the pride of knowledge ; but I have not yet applied the prin-
ciples at which we arrived in the third chapter to the practical
questions of modem art And I think those principles, together
with what were deduced from the consideration of the nature
of Gothic in the second volume, so necessary and vital, not
only with respect to the progress of art, but even to the happi-
ness of society, that I will rather run the risk of tediousness
than of deficiency in their illustration and enforcement.

In examining the nature of Gothic, we concluded that one of
the chief elements of power in that, and in aU good architec-
ture, was the acceptance of uncultivated and rude energy in the
workman. In examining the nature of Renaissance, we con-
cluded that its chief element of weakness was that pride of
knowledge which not only prevented all rudeness in expression,
but gradually quenched aU energy which could only be rudely
expressed ; nor only so, but, for the motive and matter of the
work itself, preferred science to emotion, and experience to
perception.

§ V. The modem mind diifers from the Renaissance mind in
that its learning is more substantial and extended, and its temper
more humble ; but its errors, with respect to the cultivation of
art, are precisely the same, — nay, as far . as regards execution,
even more aggravated. We require, at present, from our general
workmen, more perfect finish than was demanded in the most
skilful Renaissance periods, except in their very finest produc-
tions ; and our leading principles in teaching, and in the
patronage which necessarily gives tone to teaching, are, that
the goodness of work consists primarily in firmness of handling
and accuracy of science, that is to say, in hand-work and
head-work ; whereas heart-work, which is the one work we want,
is not only independent of both, but often, in great degree,
inconsistent with either.

§ VI. Here, therefore, let me finally and firmly enunciate the
great principle to which aU that has hitherto been stated is
subservient : — that art is valuable or otherwise, only as it

IV. CONCLUSION. 171

expresses the personality, activity, and living perception of a
good and great human soul; that it may express and contain
this with little help from execution, and less from science ; and
that if it have not this, if it show not the vigour, perception, and
invention of a mighty human spirit, it is worthless. Worthless,
I mean, as art ; it may be precious in some other way, but, as art,
it is nugatory. Once let this be well understood among us, and
magnificent consequences will soon follow. Let me repeat it in
other terms, so that I may not be misunderstood. All art is great,
and good, and true, only so far as it is distinctively the work of
manhood in its entire and highest sense ; that is to say, not the
work of limbs and fingers, but of the soul, aided, according to
her necessities, by the inferior powers ; and therefore distinguished
in essence from all products of those inferior powers unhelped
by the soul. For as a photograph is not a work of art, though it
requires certain delicate manipulations of paper and acid, and
subtle calculations of time, in order to bring out a good result ;
so, neither would a drawing like a photograph, made directly from
nature, be a work of art, although it would imply many delicate
manipulations of the pencil and subtle calculations of effects of
colour and shade. It is no more art * to manipulate a camel's-hair
pencil, than to manipulate a china tray and a glass vial. It is no
more art to lay on colour delicately, than to lay on acid delicately.
It is no more art to use the cornea and retina for the reception of
an image, than to use a lens and a piece of sUvered paper. But
the moment that inner part of the man, or rather that entire and
only being of the man, of which cornea and retina, fingers and
hands, pencils and colours, are all the mere servants and instru-
ments ;t that manhood which has light in itself, though the

* I mean art in its highest sense. AU that men do ingeniously is art, in
one sense. In fact, we want a definition of the word *'art" much more accu-
rate than any in our minds at present For, strictly speaking, there is no such
thing as " fine ** or *' high '* art. All ar< is a low and common thing, and what
we indeed respect is not art at all, but instinct or ingpiration expressed by the
help of art.

t " Socrates. This, then, was what I asked you ; whether that which puts any-

172 THIRD PERIOD.

eyeball be sightless^ and can gain in strength when the hand and
the foot are hewn off and cast into the fire ; the moment this part
of the man stands forth with its solemn " Behold, it is I," then the
work becomes art indeed, perfect in honour, priceless in value,
boundless in power.

§ VII. Yet observe, I do not mean to speak of the body and
soul as separable. The man is niade up of both: they are to
be raised and glorified together, and all art is an expression
of the one by and through the other. All that I would insist
upon is, the necessity of the whole man being in his work ; the
body must be in it Hands and habits must be in it, whether
we will or not ; but the nobler part of the man may often not
be in it. And that nobler part acts principally in love, reverence,
and admiration, together with those conditions of thought which
arise out of them. For we usually faU into much error by con-
sidering the intellectual powers as having dignity in themselves,
and separable from the heart; whereas the truth is, that the
intellect becomes noble or ignoble according to the food we give
it, and the kind of subjects with which it is conversant. It is
not the reasoning power which, of itself, is noble, but the rea-

thing else to service, and the thing which is put to service by it, are always two
different things 1

Alcibiades, I think so.

Socrates. What shaU we then say of the leather-cutter ? Does he cut his leather
with his instroments only, or with his hands also ?

Akibiadea. With his hands also.

Socrates, Does he not use his eyes as weU as his hands ?

Alcibiades, Yes.

Socrates- And we agreed that the thing which uses and the thing which is used
were different things ?

Aktbiades. Yes.

Socrates. Then the leatherK^utter is not the same thing as his eyes or hands ?

Alcibiades, So it appears.

Socrates, Does not, then, man make use of his whole body ?

Alcibiades, Assuredly.

Soeraies. Then the man is not the same thing as his body ?

Alcibiades, It seems so.

Socrates, What, then, is the man ?

Alcibiades, I know not."

Plato, Alcibiades I.

IV. CONCLUSION. 173

soning power occupied with its proper objects. Half of the mis-
takes of metaphysicians have arisen from their not observing this ;
namely, that the intellect, going through the same processes, is
yet mean or noble according to the matter it deals with, and
wastes itself away in mere rotatory motion, if it be set to grind
straws and dust. If we reason only respecting words, or lines,
or any trifling and finite things, the reason becomes a contemp-
tible faculty ; but reason employed on holy and infinite things,
becomes herself holy and infinite. So that, by work of the soul,
I mean the reader always to understand the work of the entire
immortal creature, proceeding from a quick, perceptive, and eager
heart, perfected by the intellect, and finally dealt with by the
hands, under the direct guidance of these higher powers.

§ VIII, And now observe, the first important consequence of our
fully understanding this pre-eminence of the soul, will be the due
understanding of that subordination of knowledge respecting which
so much has akeady been said. For it must be felt at once, that
the increase of knowledge, merely as such, does not make the soul
larger or smaller ; that, in the sight of God, all the knowledge
man can gain is as nothing : but that the soul, for which the great
scheme of redemption was laid, be it ignorant or be it wise, is
all in all ; and in the activity, strength, health, and well-being of
this soul, lies the main difference, in His sight, between one man
and another. And that which is all in all in God's estimate
is also,, be assured, all in all in man's labour ; and to have the
heart open, and the eyes clear, and the emotions and thoughts
warm and quick, and not the knowing of this or the other fact, is
the state needed for aU mighty doing in this world. And therefore,
finally, for this, the weightiest of all reasons, let us take no pride
in our knowledge. We may, in a certain sense, be proud of being
immortal ; we may be proud of being God's children ; we may
be proud of loving, thinking, seeing, and of all that we are by no
human teaching : but not of what we have been taught by rote ;
not of the ballast and freight of the ship of the spirit, but only of
its pilotage, without which all the freight will only sink it faster,
and strew the sea more richly with its ruin. There is not at this

I •

174 THIRD PERIOD.

moment a youth of twenty, having received what we modems
ridiculously call education, but he knows more of everything,
except the soul, than Plato or St. Paul did ; but he is not for that
reason a greater man, or fitter for his work, or more fit to be heard
by others, than Plato or St. Paul. There is not at this moment a
junior student in our schools of painting, who does not know fifty
times as much about the art as Giotto did ; but he is not for that
reason greater than Giotto ; no, nor his work better, nor fitter for
our beholding. Let him go on to know all that the human intel-
lect can discover and contain in the term of a long life, and he
will not be one inch, one line, nearer to Giotto's feet. But let
him leave his academy benches, and, innocently, as one knowing
nothing, go out into the highways and hedges, and there rejoice
with them that rejoice, and weep with them that weep ; and in
the next world, among the companies of the great and good,
Giotto will give his hand to him, and lead him into their white
circle, and say, " This is our brother."

§ IX. And the second important consequence of our feeling
the soul's pre-eminence will be our understanding the soul's
language, however broken, or low, or feeble, or obscure in its
words ; and chiefly that great symbolic language of past ages,
which has now so long been unspoken. It is strange that the
same cold and formal spirit which the Kenaissance teaching has
raised amongst us, should be equally dead to the languages of
imitation and of symbolism ; and should at once disdain the
faithful rendering of real nature by the modem school of the
Pre-Raphaelites, and the symbolic rendering of imagined nature
in the work of the thirteenth century. But so it is ; and we
find the same body of modern artists rejecting Pre-Raphaelitism
because it is not ideal ! and thirteenth century work, because it
is not real 1 — their own practice being at once false and un-ideal,
and therefore equally opposed to both.

§ X. It is therefore, at this juncture, of much importance to
mark for the reader the exact relation of healthy symbolism
and of healthy imitation ; and, in order to do so, let us return
to one of our Venetian examples of symbolic art, to the central

IV. CONCLUSION. 175

cupola of St Mark's. On that cupola, as has been already
stated, there is a mosaic representing the apostles on the Mount
of Olives, with an olive-tree separating each from the other ; and
we shall easily arrive at our purpose, by comparing the means
which would have been adopted by a modem artist bred in the
Renaissance schools, — that is to say, imder the influence of Claude
and Poussin, and of the comm6n teaching of the present day,—
Avith those adopted by the Byzantine mosaicist to express the
nature of these trees.

§ XI. The reader is doubtless aware that the olive is one of
the most characteristic and beautiful features of all Southern
scenery. On the slopes of the northern Apennines, olives are
the usual forest timber ; the whole of the Val d' Amo is wooded
with them, every one of its gardens is filled with them, and they
grow in orchard-like ranks out of its fields of maize, or com,
or vine ; so that it is physically impossible, in most parts of the
neighbourhood of Florence, Pistoja, Lucca, or Pisa, to choose
any site of landscape which shall not owe its leading character
to the foliage of these trees. What the elm and oak are to
England, the olive is to Italy ; nay, more than this, its presence
is so constant, that, in the case of at least four fifths of the
drawings made by any artist in North Italy, he must have been
somewhat impeded by branches of olive coming between him
and the landscape. Its classical associations double its importance
in Greece ; and in the Holy Land the remembrances connected
with it are of course more touching than can ever belong to any-
other tree of the field. Now, for many years back, at least
one third out of all the landscapes painted by English artists
have been chosen from Italian scenery ; sketches in Greece and
in the Holy Land have become as common as sketches on Hamp-
stead Heath ; our galleries also are full of sacred subjects, in
which, if any backgroimd be introduced at all, the foliage of
the olive ought to have been a prominent feature.

And here I challenge the untravelled English reader to tell
me what an olive-tree is like ?

§ XII. I know he cannot answer my challenge. He has no

\

\

176 THIRD PERIOD.

more idea of an olive-tree than if olives grew only in the fixed
stars. Let him meditate a little on this one fact, and consider
its strangeness, and what a wilful and constant closing of the
eyes to the most important truths it indicates on the part of the
modern artist. Observe, a want of perception, not of science. I
do not want painters to tell me any scientific facts about olive-
trees. But it had been well for them to have felt and seen the
olive-tree ; to have loved it for Christ's sake, partly also for the
helmed Wisdom's sake which was to the heathen in some sort as
that nobler Wisdom which stood at God's right hand, when He
founded the earth and established the heavens. To have love4
it, even to the hoary dimness of its delicate foliage, subdued and
faint of hue, as if the ashes of the Gethsemane agony had been
cast upon it for ever ; and to have traced, line by line, the gnarled
writhing of its intricate branches, and the pointed fretwork of its
light and narrow leaves, inlaid on the blue field of the sky, and
the small rosy-white stars of its spring blossoming, and the beads
of sable fruit scattered by autumn along its topmost boughs
— the right, in Israel, of the stranger, the fatherless, and the
widow, — and, more than all, the softness of the mantle, silver
grey, and tender like the down on a bird's breast, with which, far
away, it veils the undulation of the mountains; — these it had
been well for them to have seen and drawn, whatever they had
left unstudied in the gallery.

§ XIII. And if the reader would know the reason why this
has not been done (it is one instance only out of the myriads
which might be given of sightlessness in modem art), and will
ask the artists themselves, he wUl be informed of another of the
marvellous contradictions and inconsistencies in the base Eenais-
sance art ; for it will be answered him, that it is not right, nor
according to law, to draw trees so that one should be known
from another, but that trees ought to be generalized into a
universal idea of a tree : that is to say, that the very school
which carries its science in the representation of man down to
the dissection of the most minute muscle, refuses so much science
to the drawing of a tree as shall distinguish one species from

IV. CONCLUSION. 177

another; and also, while it attends to logic, and rhetoric, and
perspective, and atmosphere, and every other circumstance which
is trivial, verbal, external, or accidental, in what it either says
or sees, it will not attend to what is essential and substantial, —
being intensely solicitous, for instance, if it draws two trees, one
behind the other, that the farthest off shall be as much smaller
as mathematics show that it should be, but totally unsolicitous
to show, what to the spectator is a far more important matter,
whether it is an apple or an orange-tree.

§ xrv. This, however, is not to our immediate purpose. Let it
be granted that an idea of an olive-tree is indeed to be given us in
a special manner ; how, and by what language, this idea is to be
conveyed, are questions on which we shall find the world of artists
again divided ; and it was this division which I wished especially
to illustrate by reference to the mosaics of St. Mark's.

Now the main characteristics of an olive-tree are these : It has
sharp and slender leaves of a greyish green, nearly grey on the
under surface, and resembling, but somewhat smaller than, those
of our common wiUow. Its fruit, when ripe, is black and lustrous ;
but of course so small, that, unless in great quantity, it is not
conspicuous upon the tree. Its trunk and branches are peculiarly
fantastic in their twisting, showing their fibres at every turn ; and
the trunk is often hollow, and even rent into many divisions like
separate steins, but the extremities are exquisitely graceful, espe-
cially in the setting on of the leaves ; and the notable and charac-
teristic effect of the tree in the distance is of a rounded and soft
mass or ball of downy foliage.

§ XV. Supposing a modem artist to address himself to the
rendering of this tree with his best skiU : he will probably draw
accurately the twisting of the branches, but yet this will hardly
distinguish the tree from an oak : he will also render the colour
and intricacy of the foliage, but this will only confuse the idea of
an oak with that of a willow. The fruit, and the peculiar grace
of the leaves at the extremities, and the fibrous structure of the
stems, will all be too minute to be rendered consistently with his
artistical feeling of breadth, or with the amount of labour which

VOL. m. N

178 THIRD PERIOD.

he considers it dexterous and legitimate to bestow upon the work :
but^ above all, the rounded and monotonous form of the head of
the tree will be at variance with his ideas of " composition ; " he
will assuredly disguise or break it, and the main points of the
olive-tree will all at last remain untold.

§ XVI. Now observe, the old Byzantine mosaicist begins his
work at enormous disadvantage. It is to be some one himdred
and fifty feet above the eye, in a dark cupola ; executed not with
free touches of the pencil, biit with square pieces of glass ; not by
his own hand, but by various workmen under his superintendence ;
finally, not with a principal purpose of drawing olive-trees, but
mainly as a decoration of the cupola. There is to be an olive-tree
beside each apostle, and their steins are to be the chief lines
which divide the dome. He therefore at once gives up the irregu-
lar twisting of the boughs hither and thither, but he will not give
up their fibres. Other trees have irregular and fantastic branches,
but the knitted cordage of fibres is the olive's own. Again, were
he to draw the leaves of their natural size, they would be so small
that their forms would be invisible in the darkness ; and were he to
draw them so large as that their shape might be seen, they would
look like laurel instead of olive. So he arranges them in small
clusters of five each, nearly of the shape which the Byzantines
give to the petals of the lily, but elongated so as to give the idea
of leafage upon a spray ; and these clusters, — ^his object always, be
it remembered, being decoration not less than representation, — ^he
arranges symmetrically on each side of his branches, laying the
whole on a dark ground most truly suggestive of the heavy
rounded mass of the tree, which, in its turn, is relieved against the
gold of the cupola. Lastly, comes the question respecting the
fruit The whole power and honour of the olive is in its fruit ;
and, unless that be represented, nothing is represented. But if the
berries were coloured black or green, they would be totally invi-
sible ; if of any other colour, utterly unnatural, and violence would
be done to the whole conception. There is but one conceivable
means of showing them, namely, to represent them as golden. For
the idea of golden fruit of various kinds was abready familiar to

h

71 rT' ),J:

Mosiii.'s .>(■ (mv.-li Mii.l I'U.

IV. CONCLUSION, 179

the mind^ as in the apples of the Hesperides, without any violence
to the distinctive conception of the fruit itself.* So the mosaicist
introduced small round golden berries into the dark ground be-
tween each leaf^ and his work was done.

§ XVII. On the opposite plate, the uppermost figure on the
left is a tolerably faithful representation of the general effect of
one of these decorative olive-trees ; the figure on the right is the
head of the tree alone, showing the leaf clusters, berries, and
interlacing of the boughs as they leave the stem. Each bough
is connected with a separate line of fibre in the trunk, and the
junctions of the arms and stem are indicated, down to the
very root of the tree, with a truth in structure which may
well put to shame the tree anatomy of modem times.

§ xvni. The white branching figures upon the serpentine
band below are two of the clusters of flowers which form the
foreground of a mosaic in the atriunu I have printed the whole
plate in blue, because that colour approaches more nearly than
black to the distant effect of the mosaics, of which the darker
portions are generally composed of blue, in greater quantity
than any other colour. But the waved backgroimd, in this in-
stance, is of various shades of blue and green alternately, with
one narrow black band to give it force ; the whole being intended
to represent the distant effect and colour of deep grass, and
the wavy line to express its bending motion, just as the same
symbol is used to represent the waves of water. Then the two
white clusters axe representative of the distinctly visible herbage
close to the spectator, having buds and flowers of two kinds,
springing in one case out of the midst of twisted grass, and in
the other out of their own proper leaves ; the clusters being kept
each so distinctly symmetrical, as to form, when set side by side,

* Thus the grapes preesed by Excease are partly golden (Spenser, book iL

cant. 12.) :

« Wbich did themselves amongst the leaves enfold.
As larking from the vew of covetous guest,
That the weake boughes, with so rich load opprest^
Did bow adowne as overbuidened."

180 THIRD PERIOD.

an ornamental border of perfect architectural severity ; and yet
each cluster different from the next, and every flower, and bud,
and knot of grass, varied in form and thought. The way the
mosaic tesserae are arranged, so as to give the writhing of the
grass blades round the stalks of the flowers, is exceedingly fine.

The three circles below are examples of still more severely
conventional forms, adopted, on principle, when the decoration
is to be in white and gold, instead of colour; these ornaments
being cut in white marble on the outside of the church, and the
ground laid in with gold, though necessarily here represented, like
the rest of the plate, in blue. And it is exceedingly interesting to
see how the noble workman, the moment he is restricted to more
conventional materials, retires into more conventional forms, and
reduces his various leafage into symmetry, now nearly perfect ;
yet observe, in the central figure, where the symbolic meaning of
the vegetation beside the cross required it to be more distinctly
indicated, he has given it life and growth by throwing it into
unequal curves on the opposite sides.

§ "xix. I believe the reader will now see, that in these mosaics,
which the careless traveller is in the habit of passing by with
contempt, there is a depth of feeling and of meaning greater
than in most of the best sketches from nature of modem
times ; and, without entering into any question whether these
conventional representations are as good as, under the required
limitations, it was possible to render them, they are at all events
good enough completely to illustrate that mode of symbolical
expression which appeals altogether to thought, and in nowise
trusts to realization. And little as, in the present state of our
schools, such an assertion is likely to be believed, the fact
is that this kind of expression is the only one allowable in
noble art.

§ XX. I pray the reader to have patience with me for a few
moments. I do not mean that no art is noble but Byzantine
mosaic ; but that no art is noble which in anywise depends
upon direct imitation for its effect upon the mind. This was
asserted in the opening chapters of '* Modem Painters," but

IV. CONCLUSION. 181

not upon the highest grounds ; the results at which we have
now arrived in our investigation of early art will enable me to
place it on a loftier and firmer foundation.

§ XXI. We have just seen that all great art is the work of
the whole living creature, body and soul, and chiefly of the
souL But it is not only the work of the whole creature, it like-
wise addresses the whole creature. That in which the perfect
being speaks must also have the perfect being to Ksten. I am
not to spend my utmost spirit, and give all my strength and
life to my work, while you, spectator or hearer, will give me
only the attention of half your soul. You must be all mine,
as I am all yours ; it is the only condition on which we can
meet each other. All your faculties, all that is in you of
greatest and best, must be awake in you, or I have no reward.
TW. painter i. not to c^t the entire trLore of hi, h»n«n natoe
into his labour merely to please a part of the beholder : not
merely to delight his senses, not merely to amuse his fancy,
not merely to beguile him into emotion, not merely to lead him
into thought ; but to do oZ? this. Senses, fancy, feeling, reason,
the whole of the beholding spirit, must be stiUed in attention
or stirred with delight; else the labouring spirit has not done
its work well. For observe, it is not merely its right to be thus
met, face to face, heart to heart; but it is its duty to evoke
this answering of the other soul : its trumpet call must be so
clear, that though the challenge may by dulness or indolence
be unanswered, there shall be no error as to the meaning of the
appeal ; there must be a summons in the work, which it shaU
be our own fault if we do not obey. We require this of it, we
beseech this of it. Most men do not know what is in them till
they receive this summons from their fellows : their hearts
die within them, sleep settles upon them, the lethargy of the
world's miasmata ; there is nothing for which they are so thank-
ful as that cry, " Awake, thou that sleepest." And this
cry must be most loudly uttered to their noblest faculties ; first
of all, to the imagination, for that is the most tender, and the
soonest struck into numbness by the poisoned air: so that one

182 THIRD PERIOD.

of the main functions of art, in its service to man, is to rouse
the imagination from its palsy, like the angel troubling the
Bethesda pool; and the art which does not do this is false
to its duty, and degraded in its nature. It is not enough
that it be well imagined, it must task the beholder also to
imagine weU ; and this so imperatively, that if he does not
choose to rouse himself to meet the work, he shall not taste it,
nor enjoy it in anywise. Once that he is weU awake, the
guidance which the artist gives him should be full and autho-
ritative : the beholder's imagination should not be suffered to take
its own way, or wander hither and thither ; but neither must it
be left at rest ; and the right point of realization, for any given
work of art, is that which will enable the spectator to complete
it for himself, in the exact way the artist would have him, but
not that which will save him the trouble of effecting the com-
pletion. So soon as the idea is entirely conveyed, the artist's
labour should cease ; and every touch which he adds beyond the
point when, with the help of the beholder's imagination, the
story ought to have been told, is a degradation to his work.
So that the art is wrong which either realizes its subject com-
pletely, or fails in giving such definite aid as shall enable it to
be realized by the beholding imagination.

§ XXII. It follows, therefore, that the quantity of finish or
detail which may rightly be bestowed upon any work, depends
on the number and kind of ideas which the artist wishes to
convey, much more than on the amount of realization necessary to
enable the imagination to grasp them. It is true that the differ-
ences of judgment formed by one or another observer are in great
degree dependent on their imequal imaginative powers, as well
as their unequal efforts in following the artist's intention ; and it
constantly happens that the drawing which appears clear to the
painter in whose mind the thought is formed, is slightly inadequate
to suggest it to the spectator. These causes of false judgment
or imperfect achievement must always exist, but they are of no
importance. For, in nearly every mind, the imagiuative power,
however unable to act independently, is so easily helped and so

IV. CONCLUSION, 183

brightly animated by the most obscure suggestion, that there is
no form of artistical language which will not readily be seized
by it, if once it set itself intelligently to the task ; and even
without such effort there are few hieroglyphics of which, once
understanding that it is to take them as hieroglyphics, it cannot
make itself a pleasant picture.

§ XXIII. Thus, in the case of all sketches, etchings, un-
finished engravings, &c., no one ever supposes them to be
imitations. Black outlines on white paper cannot produce a
deceptive resemblance of anything; and the mind, understand-
ing at once that it is to depend on its own powers for great
part of its pleasure, sets itself so actively to the task that it
can completely enjoy the rudest outline in which meaning ex-
ists. Now, when it is once in this temper, the artist is
infinitely to be blamed who insults it by putting anything
into his work which is not suggestive: having summoned the
imaginative power, he must turn it to account and keep it
employed, or it will turn against him in indignation. What-
ever he does merely to realize and substantiate an idea is
impertinent; he is like a dull storyteller, dwelling on points
which the hearer anticipates or disregards. The imagination
will say to him : " I knew all that before ; I don't want to be told
that. Go on ; or be silent, and let me go on in my own way.
I can tell the story better than you."

Observe, then, whenever finish is given for the sake of
realization, it is wrong ; whenever it is given for the sake of
adding ideas, it is right. All true finish consists in the addition
of ideas, that is to say, in giving the imagination more food;
for once well awaked, it is ravenous for food : but the painter
who finishes in order to substantiate takes the food out of its
mouth, and it will turn and rend him.

§ XXIV. Let us go back, for instance, to our olive grove,
— or, lest the reader should be tired of olives, let it be an oak
copse, — and consider the difierence between the substantiating
and the imaginative methods of finish in such a subject. A
few strokes of the pencil, or dashes of colour, will be enough to

184 THIRD PERIOD.

enable the imaginatioD to conceive a tree ; and in those dashes
of colour Sir Joshua Reynolds would have rested, and would
have suflFered the imagination to paint what more it liked for
itself, and grow oaks, or olives, or apples, out of the few dashes
of colour at its leisure. On the other hand, Hobbima, one of
the worst of the realists, smites the imagination on the mouth,
and bids it be silent, while he sets to work to paint his oak of
the right green, and fill up its foliage laboriously with jagged
touches, and furrow the bark all over its branches, so as, if
possible, to deceive us into supposing that we are looking at a
real oak ; which, indeed, we had much better do at once, without
giving any one the trouble to deceive us in the matter.

§ XXV. Now, the truly great artist neither leaves the imagi-
nation to itself, like Sir Joshua, nor insults it by realization,
like Hobbima, but fiijds it continual employment of the happiest
kind. Having summoned it by his vigorous first touches, he
says to it : " Here is a tree for you, and it is to be an oak.
Now I know that you can make it green and intricate for
yourself, but that is not enough : an oak is not only green and
intricate, but its leaves have most beautiful and fantastic forms,
which I am very sure you are not quite able to complete with-
out help ; so I will draw a cluster or two perfectly for you,
and then you can go on and do all the other clusters. So far so
good : but the leaves are not enough ; the oak is to be full of
acorns, and you may not be quite able to imagine the way they
grow, nor the pretty contrast of their glossy almond-shaped
nuts with the chasing of their cups ; so I will draw a bunch
or two of acorns for you, and you can fill up the oak with
others like them. Good : but that is not enough ; it is to be
a bright day in summer, and all the outside leaves are to be
glittering in the sunshine as if their edges were of gold : I
cannot paint this, but you can ; so I will really gild some of the
edges nearest you,* and you can turn the gold into sunshine,

* The leader must not suppose that the use of gold, in this manner, is con-
fined to early art. Tintoret, the greatest master of pictorial effect that ever
existed, has gilded the rihs of the fig-leaves in his "Resurrection," in the Scuola
di San Rocco.

IV. CONCLUSION. 185

and cover the tree with it. Well done : but stiU this is not
enough ; the tree is so full foliaged and so old that the wood birds
come in crowds to build there ; they are singing, two or three
under the shadow of every bough. I cannot show you them
all ; but here is a large one on the outside spray, and you can
fancy the others inside.''

§ XXVI. In this way the calls upon the imagination are multi-
plied as a great painter finishes ; and from these larger incidents
he may proceed into the most minute particulars, and lead the
companion imagination to the veins in the leaves and the mosses
on the trunk, and the shadows of the dead leaves upon the grass,
but always multiplying thoughts, or subjects of thought, never
working for the sake of realization ; the amount of realization
actually reached depending on his space, his materials, and the
nature of the thoughts he wishes to suggest. In the sculpture
of an oak-tree, introduced above an Adoration of the Magi on
the tomb of the Doge Marco Dolfino (fourteenth century), the
sculptor has been content with a few leaves, a single acorn, and
a bird ; while, on the other hand, Millais' willow-tree with the
robin, in the background of his "Ophelia," or the foreground
of Hunt's "Two Gentlemen of Verona," carries the appeal to
the imagination into particulars so multiplied and minute, that
the work nearly reaches realization. But it does not matter
how near realization the work may approach in its fulness, or
how far off it may remain in its slightness, so long as realization
is not the end proposed, but the informing one spirit of the
thoughts of another. And in this greatness and simplicity of
purpose all noble art is alike, however slight its means, or how-
ever perfect, from the rudest mosaics of St. Mark's to the most
tender finishing of the "Huguenot" or the "Ophelia."

§ XXVII. Only observe, in this matter, that a greater degree of
realization is often allowed for the sake of colour than would be
right without it For there is not any distinction between the
artists of the inferior ancl the nobler schools more definite than
this ; that the first cohur for the sake of realtzation, and the
second realize for the sake of colour. I hope that, in the fifth

186 THIRD PERIOD.

chapter, enough has been said to show the nobility of colour,
though it is a subject on which I would fain enlarge whenever
I approach it : for there is none that needs more to be insisted
upon, chiefly on account of the opposition of the persons who
have no eye for colour, and who, being therefore unable to
understand that it is just as divine and distinct in its power as
music (only infinitely more varied in its harmonies), talk of
it as if it were inferior and servile with respect to the other
powers of art;* whereas it is so far from being this, that
wherever it enters it must take the mastery, and, whatever else
is sacrificed for its sake, ity at least, must be right. This is partly
the case even with music : it is at our choice whether we will
accompany a poem with music or not ; but, if we do, the musie
must be right, and neither discordant nor inexpressive. The good-
ness and sweetness of the poem cannot save it, if the music be
harsh or false ; but, if the music be right, the poem may be in-
sipid or inharmonious, and still saved by the notes to which it is
wedded. But this is far more true of colour. If that be wrong,
all is wrong. No amount of expression or invention can redeem
an ill-coloured picture ; while, on the other hand, if the colour be
right, there is nothing it will not raise or redeem; and, there-
fore, wherever colour enters at all, anything may be sacrificed
to it, and, rather than it should be false or feeble, everything
must be sacrificed to it : so that, when an artist touches colour,
it is the same thing as when a poet takes up a musical instru-

* Nothing Ia more wonderful to me than to hear the pleasure of the eye, in
colour, spoken of with disdain as '< sensual," while people exalt that of the ear
in music. Do they reaUy suppose the eye is a less noble bodily oigan than the
ear, — that the organ by which nearly all our knowledge of the external univeiBe
is communicated to us, and through which we learn to wonder and to love, can
be less exalted in its own peculiar delight than the ear, which is only for the
communication of the ideas which owe to the eye their veiy existence 1 I do
not mean to depreciate music : let it be loved and reverenced as is just ; only let
the delight of the eye be reverenced more. The great power of music over the*
multitude is owing, not to its being less but more sensual than colour ; it is so
distinctly and so richly sensual, that it can be idly enjoyed ; it is exactly at
tlie point where the lower and higher pleasures of the senses and imagination
are balanced ; so that pure and great minds love it for its invention and emotion,
and lower minds for its sensual power.

IV. CONCIiUSION. 187

men!;; he implies, in so doing, that he is a master, up to a
certain point, of that instrument, and can produce sweet sound
from it, and is able to fit the course and measure of his words
to its tones, which, if he be not able to do, he had better not
have touched it. In like manner, to add colour to a drawing
is to undertake for the perfection of a visible music, which,
if it be false, will utterly and assuredly mar the whole work;
if true, proportionately elevate it, according to its power and
sweetness. But, in no case ought the colour to be added in
order to increase the realization. The drawing or engraving is
all that the imagination needs. To " paint " the subject merely
to make it more real, is only to insult the imaginative power,
and to vulgarize the whole. Hence the common, though little
understood feeling, among men of ordinary cultivation, that an
inferior sketch is always better than a bad painting ; although,
in the latter, there may verily be more skill than in the former.
For the painter who has presumed to touch colour without
perfectly understanding it, not for the colour^s sake, nor because
he loves it, but for the sake of completion merely, has committed
two sins against us; he has'duUed the imagination by not
trusting it far enough, and then, in this languid state, he oppresses
it with base and false colour ; for all colour that is not lovely
is discordant; there is no mediate condition. So, therefore,
when it is permitted to enter at all, it must be with the pre-
determination that, cost what it will, the colour shall be right
and lovely : and I only wish that, in general, it were better un-
derstood that a painter^ 8 business is- to painty primarily ; and that
aUexpression, and grouping, and conceiving, and what else goes
to constitute design, are of less importance than colour, in a
coloured work. And so they were always considered in the
noble periods ; and sometimes all resemblance to nature what-
ever (as in painted windows, illuminated manuscripts, and such
other work) is sacrificed to the brilliancy of colour; sometimes
distinctness of form to its richness, as by Titian, Turner, and
Reynolds ; and, which is the point on which we are at present
insisting, sometimes, in the pursuit of its utmost refinements

188 THIRD PERIOD.

on the surfaces of objects, an amount of realization becomes
consistent with noble art, which would otherwise be altogether
inadmissible, that is to say, which no great mind could other-
wise have either produced or enjoyed. The extreme finish given
by the Pre-Raphaelites is rendered noble chiefly by their love
of colour.

§ XXVIII. So then, whatever may be the means, or whatever
the more immediate end of any kind of art, all of it that is
good agrees in this, that it is the expression of one soul talking
to another, and is precious according to the greatness of the
soul that utters it. And consider what mighty consequences
follow from our acceptance of this truth 1 what a key we have
herein given us for the interpretation of the art of all time I
For, as long as we held art to consist in any high manual
skill, or successful imitation of natural objects, or any scientific
and legalized manner of performance whatever, it was necessary
for us to limit our admiration to narrow periods and to few
men. According to our own knowledge and sympathies, the
period chosen might be different, and our rest might be in
Greek statues, or Dutch landscapes, or Italian Madonnas ; but,
whatever our choice, we were therein captive, barred from
all reverence but of our favourite masters, and habitually using
the language of contempt towards the whole of the human race
to whom it had not pleased Heaven to reveal the arcana of the
particular craftsmanship we admired, and who, it might be, had
lived their term of seventy years upon the earth, and fitted
themselves therein for the eternal world, without any clear
understanding, sometimes even with an insolent disregard, of the
laws of perspective and chiaroscuro.

But let us once comprehend the holier nature of the art of
man, and begin to look for the meaning of the spirit, however
syllabled, and the scene is changed ; and we are changed also.
Those small and dexterous creatures whom once we worshipped,
those fur-capped divinities with sceptres of camel's hair, peering
and pori,^ in their one-windowei chamber, over th^ minute
preciousness of the laboured canvas ; how are they swept away

IV. CONCLUSION. 189

and crashed into nnnoticeable darkness 1 And in their stead,
as the walls of the dismal rooms that enclosed them, and us, are
struck by the four winds of Heaven, and rent away, and as the
world opens to our sight, lol far back into all the depths of
time, and forth from all the fields that have been sown with
human life, how the harvest of the dragon's teeth is springing I
how the companies of the gods are ascending out of the earth t
The dark stones that have so long been the sepulchres of the
thoughts of nations, and the forgotten ruins wherein their faith
lay chamelled, give up the 'dead that were in them ; and beneath
the Egyptian ranks of sultry and silent rock, and amidst the dim
golden lights of the Byzantine dome, and out of the confused and
cold shadows of the Northern cloister, behold, the multitudinous
souls come forth with singing, gazing on us with the soft eyes
of newly comprehended sympathy, and stretching their white
arms to us across the grave, in the solemn gladness of ever-
lasting brotherhood.

§ XXIX. The other danger to which, it was above said, we were
primarily exposed under our present circumstances of life, is the
pursuit of vain pleasure, that is to say, false pleasure ; delight,
which is not indeed delight ; as knowledge vainly accumulated is
not indeed knowledge. And this we are exposed to chiefly in
the fact of our ceasing to be children. For the child does not
seek false pleasure; its pleasures are true, simple, and instinc-
tive : but the youth is apt to abandon his early and true de-
light for vanities, — seeking to be like men, and sacrificing his
natural and pure enjoyments to his pride. In like manner, it
seems to me that modem civilization sacrifices much pure and
true pleasure to various forms of ostentation from which it can
receive no fruit. Consider, for a moment, what kind of pleasures
are open to human nature, undiseased. Passing by the considera-
tion of the pleasures of the higher affections, which lie at the root
of everything, and considering the definite and practical plea-
sures of daily life, there is, first, the pleasure of doing good;
the greatest of all, only apt to be despised from not being often
enough tasted : and then, I know not in what order to put

190 THIRD PERIOD.

them, nor does it matter, — ^the pleasure of gaining knowledge ;
the pleasure of the excitement of imagination and emotion (or
poetiy and passion) ; and, lastly, the gratification of the senses,
first of the eye, then of the ear, and then of the others in their

order.

§ XXX. All these we are apt to make subservient to the desire
of praise; nor unwisely, when the praise sought is Gods and
the conscience's : but if the sacrifice is made for man's admiration,
and knowledge is only sought for praise, passion repressed or
affected for praise, and the arts practised for praise, we are feed-
ing on the bitterest apples of Sodom, suffering always ten
mortifications for one delight. And it seems to me, that in the
modem civilized world we make such sacrifice doubly: first,
by labouring for merely ambitious purposes ; and secondly, which
is the main point in question, by being ashamed of simple plea-
sures, more especially . of the pleasure in sweet colour and form,
a' pleasure evidently so necessary to man's perfectness and
virtue, that the beauty of colour and form has been given lavishly
throughout the whole of creation, so that it may become the food
of all, and with such intricacy and subtlety that it may deeply
employ the thoughts of all. If we refuse to accept the na-
tural delight which the Deity has thus provided for us, we
must either become ascetics, or we must seek for some base
and guilty pleasures to replace those of Paradise, which we have
denied ourselves.

Some years ago, in passing through some of the cells of the
Grande Chartreuse, noticing that the window of each apart-
ment looked across the little garden of its inhabitant to the wall
of the cell opposite, and commanded no other view, I asked the
monk beside me why the window was not rather made on the
side of the cell whence it would open to the solemn fields of the
Alpine valley. " We do not come here," he replied, " to look at
the mountains."

§ XXXI. The same answ^ is given, practically, by the men
of this century, to every such question; only the walls with
which they enclose themselves are those of Pride, not of Prayer.

IV. CONCLUSION. 191

Bat in the middle ages it was otherwise. Not, indeed, in land-
scape itself, but in the art which can take the place of it, in the
noble colour and form with which they illumined, and into
which they wrought, every object around them that was in any-
wise subjected to their power, they obeyed the laws of their
inner nature, and found its proper food. The splendour and
fantasy even of dress, which in these days we pretend to despise,
or in which, if we even indulge, it is only for the sake of vanity,
and therefore to our infinite haom, were in those early days
studied for love of their true beauty and honourableness, and
became one of the main helps to dignity of. character and courtesy
of bearing. Look back to what we have been told of the dress
of the early Venetians, that it was so invented '^ that in clothing
themselves with it, they mifi^ht clothe themselves also with
u^^ ^ bono; .■•/co:jd« .Ut noblen^. of «pre«ion
there is in the dress of any of the portrait figures of the great
times : nay, what perfect beauty, and more than beauty, there
is in liie folding ofthe robe roLd the imagined fonn even of
the saint or of the angel ; and then consider whether the grace
of vesture be indeed a thing to be despised. We cannot despise it
if we would ; and in all our highest poetry and happiest thought
wc di.g to U.e -nag^eenoTwhi A lay life « diaregL.
The essence of modem romance is simply the return of the heart*
and fancy to the things in which they naturally take pleasure ;
and half the influence of the best romances, of Ivanhoe, or
Marmion, or the Crusaders, or the Lady of the Lake, is com-
pletely dependent upon the accessories of armour and costume.
Nay, more than this, deprive the " Iliad " itself of its costume,
and consider how much of its power would be lost. And that
delight and reverence which we feel in, and by means of, the mere
imagination of these accessories, the middle ages had in the
vision of them ; the nobleness of dress exercising, as I have said,
a perpetual influence upon character, tending in a thousand
ways to increase dignity and self-respect, and, together with grace
of gesture, to induce serenity of thought.

* Vol, 11. Appendix 7.

192 THIRD PERIOD.

§ XXXII. I do not mean merely in its magnificence ; the most
splendid time was not the best time. It was still in the thirteenth
century, — when, as we have seen, simplicity and gorgeousness
were justly mingled, and the "leathern girdle and the clasp of
bone " were worn, as well as the embroidered mantle, — that the
manner of dress seems to have been noblest. The chain mail
of the knight, flowing and falling over his form in lapping waves
of gloomy strength, was worn under full robes of one colour
in the ground, his crest quaii;ered on them, and their borders
enriched with subtle iUumination. The women wore first a dress
close to the form in like manner, and then long and flowing
robes, veiling them up to the neck, and delicately embroidered
around the liem, the sleeves, and the girdle. The use of plate
armour gradually introduced more fantastic types ; the nobleness
of the form was lost beneath the steel ; the gradually increasing
luxury and vanity of the age strove for continual excitement in
more quaint and extravagant devices; and in the fifteenth
century, dress reached its point of utmost splendour and fancy,
being in many cases still exquisitely graceful, but now, in its
morbid magnificence, devoid of all wholesome influence on
manners. From this point, like architecture, it was rapidly
degraded ; and sank through the bufl* coat, and lace collar, and
jack boot, to the bag- wig, tailed coat, and high-heeled shoe ; and
so to what it is now.

§ XXXIII. Precisely analogous to this destruction of beauty
in dress has been that of beauty in architecture ; its colour, and
grace, and fancy, being gradually sacrificed to the base forms
of the Renaissance, exactly as the splendour of chivalry has
faded into the paltriness of fashion. And observe the form in
which the necessary reaction has taken place ; necessary, for it
was not possible that one of the strongest instincts of the human
race could be deprived altogether of its natural food. Exactly
in the degree that the architect withdrew fi'om his buildings
the sources of delight which in early days they had so richly
possessed, demanding, in accordance with the new principles
of taste, the banishment of all happy colour and healthy inven-

IV. CONCLUSION. 193

tion, in that degree the minds of men began to turn to land-
scape as their only resource. The picturesque school of art
rose up to address those capacities of enjoyment for which, in
sculpture, architecture, or the higher walks of painting, there
was employment no more ; and the shadows of Kembrandt, and
savageness of Salvator, arrested the admiration which was no
longer permitted to be rendered to the gloom or the grotesqueness
of the Gothic aisle. And thus the English school of landscape,
culminating in Turner, is in reality nothing else than a healthy
effort to fill the void which the destruction of Gothic architec-
ture has left.

§ XXXIV. But the void cannot thus be completely filled ; no,
nor filled in any considerable degree. The art of landscape-
painting wiU never become thoroughly interesting or sufficfng
to the minds of men engaged in active life, or concerned prin-
cipally with practical subjects. The sentiment and imagination
necessary to enter fully into the romantic forms of art are
chiefly the characteristics of youth; so that nearly all men as
they advance in years, and some even from their childhood
upwards, must be appealed to, if at all, by a direct and sub-
stantial art^ brought before their daily observation and connected
with their daily interests. No form of art answers these con-
ditions so weU as architecture, which, as it can receive help from
every character of mind in the workman, can address every
character of mind in the spectator; forcing itself into notice
even in his most languid moments, and possessing this chief
and peculiar advantage, that it is the property of all men.
Pictures and statues may be jealously withdrawn by their
possessors from the public gaze, and to a certain degree their
safety requires them to be so withdrawn ; but the outsides of our
houses belong not so much to us as to the passer-by, and
whatever cost and pains we bestow upon them, though too
often arising out of ostentation, have at least the effect of
benevolence.

§ XXXV. If, then, considering these things, any of my readers
should determine, according to their means, to set themselves to

VOL. III. o

194 THIRD PERIOD.

the revival of a healthy school of architecture in England^ and
wish to know in few words how this may be done, the answer is
clear and simple. First, let us cast out utterly whatever is
connected with the Greek, Boman, or Eenaissance architecture,
in principle or in form. We have seen above, that the whole
mass of the architecture, founded on Greek and Boman models,
which we have been in the habit of building for the last three
centuries, is utterly devoid of all life, virtue, honourableness, or
power of doing good. It is base, unnatural, unfruitful, unen-
joyable, and impious. • Pagan in its origin, proud and unholy in
its revival, paralyzed in its old age, yet making prey in its dotage
of aU the good and Uving things that were springing around it
in their youth, as the dying and desperate king, who had long
fenced himself so strongly with the towers of it, is said to have
filled his failing veins with the blood of children ; * an architec-
ture invented, as it seems, to make plagiarists of its architects,
slaves of its workmen, and sybarites of its inhabitants ; an
architecture in which intellect is idle, invention impossible, but in
which all luxury is gratified, and all insolence fortified ; — ^the first
thing we have to do is to cast it out, and shake the dust of it from
our feet for ever. Whatever has any connection with the five
orders, or with any one of the orders, — whatever is Doric, or Ionic,
or Tuscan, or Corinthian, or Composite, or in anywise Grecized
or Romanized ; whatever betrays the smallest respect for Vitru-
vian laws, or conformity with Palladian work, — ^that we are to
endure no more. To cleanse ourselves of these " cast clouts and
rotten rags " is the first thing to be done in the court of our
prison.

§ XXXVI. Then, to turn our prison into a palace is an easy

* Looifl the Eleventh. '' In the month of March, 1481, Louis was seized with
a fit of apoplexy at St BinoU^ck^lcuHniort, near Chinon. He remained speechless
and bereft of reason three days ; and then, but very imperfectly restored, he lan-
guished in a nuserable state. .. . To cure him," says a contemporary historian,
"wonderful and terrible medicines were compounded. It was reported among
the people that his physicians opened the veins of little children, and made him
drink their blood, to correct the poorness of his owiu** — Buuey^s HUUyry of France.
London, 1850.

IV. CONCLUSION. 195

thing. We have seen above, that exactly in the degree in
which Greek and Roman architecture is lifeless, unprofitable,
and unchristian, in that same degree our own ancient Gothic
is animated, serviceable, and faithful. We have seen that it is
flexible to all duty, enduring to all time, instructive to all
hearts, honourable and holy in all oflBces. It is capable alike
of all lowliness and all dignity, fit alike for cottage porch or
castle gateway ; in domestic service familiar, in religious, sub-
lime; simple, and playful, so that childhood may read it, yet
clothed with a power that can awe the mightiest, and exalt
the loftiest of human spirits : an architecture that kindles every
faculty in its workman, and addresses every amotion in its
beholder; which, with every stone that is laid on its solemn
walls, raises some human heart a step nearer heaven, and
which fi-om its birth has been incorporated with the existence,
and in all its form is symbolical of the faith, of Christianity.
In this architecture let us henceforward build alike the church,
the palace, and the cottage ; but chiefly let us use it for
our civil and domestic buildings. These once ennobled, our
ecclesiastical work will be exalted together with them : but
churches are not the proper scenes for experiments in imtried
architecture, nor for exhibitions of unaccustomed beauty. It
is certain that we must often fail before we can again build a
natural and noble Gothic : let not our temples be the scenes
of our failures. It is certain that we must offend many deep-
rooted prejudices, before ancient Christian architecture* can
be again received by all of us : let not religion be the first
source of such offence. We shaU meet with difficulties in
applying Gothic architecture to churches, which would in no-
wise affect the designs of civil buildings, for the most beautiful
forms of Gothic chapels are not those which are best fitted for
Protestant worship. As it was noticed in the second volume,

• Observe, I call Gothic "Christian" architecture, not "ecclesiastical." There
is a wide difference. I believe it is the only architecture which Christian men
should build, but not at all an architecture necessarily connected with the services
of their church.

196 THIRD PERIOD.

when speaking of the Cathedral of Torcello, it seems not unlikely,
that as we study either the science of sound, or the practice of the
early Christians, we may see reason to place the pulpit generally
at the extremity of the apse or chancel; an arrangement en-
tirely destructive of the beauty of a Gothic church, as seen in
existing examples, and requiring modifications of its design in
other parts with which we should be unwise at present to
embarrass ourselves; besides, that the effort to introduce the
style exclusively for ecclesiastical purposes, excites against it the
strong prejudices of many persons who might otherwise be easily
enlisted among its most ardent advocates. I am quite sure, for
instance, that if such noble architecture as has been employed
for the interior of the church just built in Margaret Street * had
been seen in a civil building, it would have decided the question
with many men at once ; whereas, at present, it will be looked
upon with fear and suspicion, as the expression of the ecclesiasti-
cal principles of a particular party. But, whether thus regarded
or not, this church assuredly decides one question conclusively,
that of our present capability of Gothic design. It is the first
piece of architecture I have seen, built in modem days, which is
free from all signs of timidity or incapacity. In general proportion
of parts, in refinement and piquancy of mouldings, above all, in
force, vitality, and grace of floral ornament, worked in a broad
and masculine manner, it challenges fearless comparison with
the noblest work of any time. Having done this, we may do
anjrthing ; there need be no limits to our hope or our confidence ;
and I believe it to be possible for us, not only to equal, but far
to surpass, in some respects, any Gothic yet seen in Northern
countries. In the introduction of figure-sculpture, we must,
indeed, for the present, remain utterly inferior, for we have no

♦ Mr. Hope'8 church, in Margaret Street, Portland Place. I do not altogether
like the arrangements of colour in the brickwork ; but these will hardly attract
the eye, where so much has been already done with precious and beautiful
marble, and is yet to be done in fresco. Much will depend, however, upon the
colouring of this latter portion. I wish that either Holman Hunt or Millais
could be prevailed upon to do at least some of these smaller frescoes.

IV. CONCLUSION. 197

figures to study from. No architectural sculpture was ever good
for anything which did not represent the dress and persons of
the people living at the time ; and our modem dress will not
form decorations for spandrils and niches. But in floral sculp-
ture we may go far beyond what has yet been done, as well as in
refinement of inlaid work and general execution. For, although
the glory of Gothic architecture is to receive the rudest work, it
refuses not the best ; and, when once we have been content to
admit the handling of the simplest workman, we shall soon
be rewarded by finding many of our simple workmen become
cunning ones : and, with the help of modern wealth and science,
we may do things like Giotto's campanile, instead of like our
own rude cathedrals ; but better than Giotto's campanile, inso-
much as we may adopt the pure and perfect forms of the North-
ern Gothic, and work them out with the Italian refinement. It
is hardly possible at present to imagine what may be the splen-
dour of buildings designed in the forms of English and French
thirteenth century surface Gothic, and wrought out with the re-
finement of Italian art in the details, and with a deliberate reso-
lution, since we cannot have figure-sculpture, to display in them
the beauty of every flower and herb of the English fields, each
by each ; doing as much for every tree that roots itself in our
rocks, and every blossom that drinks our summer rains, as our
ancestors did for the oak, the ivy, and the rose. Let this be the
object of our ambition, and let us begin to approach it, not am-
bitiously, but in all humility, accepting help from the feeblest
hands ; and the London of the nineteenth century may yet be-
come as Venice without her despotism, and as Florence without
her dispeace.

APPENDIX.

1. ARCHITECT OP THE DUCAL PALACE.

PoPULAB tradition, and a large number of the chroniclers, ascribe the
building of the Ducal Palace to that Filippo Calendario who suffered
death for his share in the conspiracy of Faliero. He was^ certainly one
of the leading architects of the time, and had for "seyeral years the
superintendence of the works of the Palace ; but it appears, from the
documents collected by the Abb6 Cadorin, that the first designer of the
Palace, the man to whom we owe the adaptation of the Frari traceries to
civil architecture, was Pietro Baseggio, who is spoken of expressly as
" formerly the Chief Master of our New Palace," * in the decree of 1361,
quoted by Cadorin, and who, at his deatb^ left Calendario his executor.
Other documents collected by Zanotto, in his work on " Venezia e le
sue Lagune," show that Calendario was for a long time at sea, under the
commands of the Signory, returning to Venice only three or four years
before his death ; and that therefore the entire management of the works
of the Palace, in the most important period, must have been entrusted to
Baseggio.

It is quite impossible,- however, in the present state of the Palace, to
distinguish one architect's work from another in the older parts ; and I
have not in the text embarrassed the reader by any attempt at close
definition of epochs before the great junction of the Piazzetta Fa9ade with
the older palace in the fifteenth century. .Here, however, it is necessary
that I should briefly state the observations I was able to make on the
relative dates of the earlier portions.

In the description of the Fig-tree angle, given in the eighth chapter of
Vol. n., I said that it seemed to mo somewhat earlier than that of the Vine,
and the reader might be surprised at the apparent opposition of this state-
ment to my supposition that the Palace was built gradually round from the

• i(

Olim maguiri prothi p«latu nostri noyf —Cadorin, p. 127.

200 APPENDIX, 1.

Rio Facade to the Piazzetta. But in the two great open arcades there
is no succession of work traceable ; from the Vine angle to the junction
with the fifteenth century work, above and below, all seems nearly of the
same date, the only question being of the accidental precedence of work-
manship of one capital or another ; and I think, from its style, that the
Fig-tree angle must have been first completed. But in the upper stories of
the Palace there are enormous differences of style. On the Rio Facade, in
the upper story, are several series of massive windows of the third order,
corresponding exactly in mouldings and manner of workmanship to those
of the chapter-house of the Frari, and consequently carrying us back to a
very early date in the fourteenth century : several of the capitals of these
windows, and two richly sculptured string-courses in the wall below,
are of Byzantine workmanship, and in all probability fragments of the
Ziani Palace, The traceried windows on the Rio Facade, and the two
eastern windows on the Sea Facade, are all of the finest early fourteenth
century work, masculine and noble in their capitals and bases to the
highest degree, and evidently contemporary with the very earliest portions
of the lower arcades. But the moment we come to the windows of the
Oreat Council Chamber the style is debased. The mouldings are the
same, but they are coarsely worked, and the heads set amidst the leafage
of the capitals quite valueless and vile.

I have not the least doubt that these window-jambs and traceries were
restored after the great fire; * and various other restorations have taken
place since, beginning with the removal of the traceries from all the win-
dows except the northern one of the Sala del Scrutinio, behind the Porta
della Carta, where they are still left I made out four periods of resto-
ration among these windows, each baser than the preceding. It is not
worth troubling the reader about them, but the traveller who is interested
in the subject may compare two of them in the same window ; the one
nearer the sea of the two belonging to the little room at the top of the
Palace on the Piazzetta Facade, between the Sala del Gran Consiglio and
that of the Scrutinio. The seaward jamb of that window is of the first,
and the opposite jamb of the second, period of these restorations. These
are all the points of separation in date which I could discover by in-
ternal evidence. But much more might be made out by any Venetian
antiquary whose time permitted him thoroughly to examine any existing
documents which allude to or describe the parts of the Palace spoken of

*A print, dated 1585, barbarously inaccurate, a£ all prints were at that time, but still
in some respects to be depended upon, represents aU the windows on the facade full of
traceriee^ and the circles above^ between them, occupied bj quatrefoils.

APPENDIX, 1. 201

in the important decrees of 1340, 1342, and 1344 ; for the first of these
decrees speaks of certain ^^ columns looking towards the Canal '' * or sea,
as then existing, and I presume these columns to have been part of the
Ziani Palace, corresponding to the part of that palace on the Piazzetta
where were the " red columns '* between which Calendario was executed ;
and a great deal more might be determined by anj one who would
thoroughly unravel the obscure language of those decrees.

Meantime, in order to complete the evidence respecting the main dates
stated in the text, I have collected here such notices of the building of
the Ducal Palace as appeared to me of most importance in the various
chronicles I examined. I could not give them all in the text, as they
repeat each other, and would have been tedious ; but they will be in-
teresting to the antiquary, and it is to be especially noted in all of them
how the Palazzo Vecchio is invariably distinguished, either directly or by
implication, from the Palazzo Nuovo. I shall first translate the piece
of the Zancarol Chronicle given by Cadorin, which has chiefly misled the
Venetian antiquaries. I wish I could put the rich old Italian into old
English, but must be content to lose its raciness, as it is necessary that
the reader should be fully acquainted with its facts.

^' It was decreed that none should dare to propose to the Signory of
Venice to ruin the old palace and rebuild it new and more richly, and
there was a penalty of one thousand ducats against any one who should
break it Then the Doge, wishing to set forward the public good, said
to the Signory, . . . that they ought to rebuild the facades of the
old palace, and that it ought to be restored, to do honour to the nation :
and so soon as he had done speaking, the Avogadori demanded the
penalty from the Doge, for having disobeyed the law ; and the Doge with
ready mind paid it, remaining in his opinion that the said fabric ought
to be built. And so, in the year 1422, on the 20th day of September, it
' was passed in the Council of the Pregadi that the said new palace should
be begun, and the expense should be borne by the Signori del Sal ; and
so, on the 24th day of March, 1424, it was begun to throw down the old
palace, and to build it anew.'' — Cadorin^ p. 129.

The day of the month, and the council in which the decree was passed,
are erroneously given by this Chronicle. Cadorin has printed the words
of the decree itself, which passed in the Great Council on the 27th Sep-
tember : and these words are, fortunately, much to our present purpose.

* *^ Lata tantOy quantum est ambulum exiflteuB super columnis versus canale re-
spicientibus."

202 APPENDIX, 1.

For, as more than one facade is spoken of in the above extract, the
Marchese Selvatico was induced to believe that both the front to the sea
and that to the Piazzetta had been destroyed; whereas, the ^^ facades "
spoken of are evidently those of the Ziani Palace. For the words of the de-
cree (which are much more trustworthy than those of the Chronicle, even if
there were any inconsistency between them) run thus : ^[ Palatium nostrum
fabricetur et fiat in forma decora et convenienti, quod respondeat solem-
nissimo principio pHlatii nostri novC^ Thus the new council chamber
and fa^e to the sea are called the ^^ most venerable be^nning of our
riew Palace ; " and the rest was ordered to be designed in accordance with
these, as was actually the case as far as the Porta della Carta. But the
Benaissance architects who thenceforward proceeded with the fabric, broke
through the design, and built everything else according to their own
humours.

The question may be considered as set at rest by thepe words of the
decree, even without any internal or any farther documentary evidence.
But rather for the sake of impressing the facts thoroughly on the reader's
mind, than of any additional proof, I shall quote a few more of the best
accredited Chronicles.

The passage given by Bettio, from the Sivos Chronicle, is a very im-
portant parallel with that from the Zancarol above :

^^ Essendo molto vecchio, e quasi rovinoso el Palazzo sopra la piazza, fo
deliberato di far quella parte tutta da novo, et continuarla com' d quella
della Sala grande, et oosi il Lunedi 27 Marzo 1424 fu dato principio a
ruinare detto Palazzo vecchio dalla parte, ch' d verso panateria, ciod della
Giustizia, ch' d nelli occhi di sopra le colonne fino alia Chiesa, et fo fatto
anco la porta grande, com' i al presente, con la sala che si addimanda la
Libraria."*

We have here all the foots told us in so many words : the ^^ old palace "
is definitely stated to have been ^^ on the piazza," and it is to be rebuilt*
^^ like the part of the great saloon." The very point from which the
newer buildings commenced is told us; but here the chronicler has
carried his attempt at accuracy too far. The point of junction is, as stated
above, at the third pillar beyond the medallion of Venice ; and I am much
at a loss to understand what could have been the disposition of these three
pillars where they joined the Ziani Palace, and how they were connected
with the arcade of the inner cortile. But with these difficulties, as they
do not bear on the immediate question, it is of no use to trouble the reader.

* Bettio, p. 28.

APPENDIX, 1. 203

The next passage I shall give is from a Chronicle in the Marcian Library,
bearing title, ^^ Snpposta di Zancaruol ; '^ but in which I could not find
the passage given by Cadorin from, I believe, a manuscript of this
Chronicle at Vienna. There occurs instead of it the following, thus headed :

^^ Come la parte nova del Palazzo fuo hedificata novamente,

^^ El Palazzo novo de Yenesia quella parte che xe verso la Chiesia de
S. Marcho fuo prexo chel se fesse del 1422 e fosse pagado la spexa per li
officiali del sal.. E fuo fatto per sovrastante G. Nicolo Barberigo cum
provision de ducati X doro al mexe e fuo fabricado e fatto nobelissimo.
Come fin ancho di el sta e fuo grande honor a la Signori a de Yenesia e a
la sua Citta."

This entry, which itself bears no date, but comes between others dated
22nd July and 27th December, is interesting, because it shows the
first transition of the idea of newness^ from the Grand Council Chamber
to the part built under Foscari. For when Mocenigo's wishes had been
fulfilled, and the old palace of Ziani had been destroyed, and another
built in its stead, the Great Council Chamber, which was ^^ the new
palace " compared with Ziani's, became ^^ the old palace " compared with
Foscari's ; and thus we have, in the body of the above extract, the whole
building called " the new palace of Yenice ; " but in the heading of it,
we have ^* the new part of the palace '^ applied to the part built by
Foscari, in contradistinction to the Council Chamber.

The next entry I give is important, because the writing of the MS.
in which it occurs^ No. 53. in the Correr Museum, shows it to be pro-
bably not later than the end of the fifteenth century :

'^ El palazo nuovo de Yenixia zoe quella parte che se sora la piazza
verso la giesia di Miss. San Marcho del 1422 fo principiado, el qual fo
fato e finite molto belo, chome al presente se vede nobilissimo, et a la
fabricha de quelle fo deputado Miss. Nicolo Barberigo, soprastante con
ducati dieci doro al mexe."

We have here the part built by Foscari distinctly called the Palazzo
Nuovo, as opposed to the Great Council Chamber, which had now
completely taken the position of the Palazzo Yecchio, and is actually so
called by Sansovino. In the copy of the Chronicle of Paolo Morosini, and
in the MSS. numbered respectively 67. 59. 74. and 76. in the Correr
Museum, the passage above given from No. 53. is variously repeated
with slight modifications and curtailments ; the entry in the Morosini
Chronicle being headed, ^^ Come fu principiato il palazo che guarda sopra
la piaza grande di S. Marco," and proceeding in the words, ^^ El Palazo

204 APPENDIX, 2.

Nuovo di Venetia, cioe quella partechee sopra la piaza," Ac. ; the writers
being cautious, in all these instances, to limit their statement to the part
facing the Piazza, that no reader might suppose the Council Chamber to
have been built or begun at the same time ; though, as long as to the end
of the sixteenth century, we find the Council Chamber still included in
the expression " Palazzo Nuovo." Thus, in the MS. No. 75. in the
Correr Museum, which is about that date, we have ^^ Del 1422, a di 20,
Settembre fu preso nel consegio grando de dover campir el Palazo Novo
e dovesen fare la spessaliofficiallidel Sal (61. M. 2. B.)." And so long
as this is the case, the ^^ Palazzo Yecchio" always means the Ziani Palace.
Thus, in the next page of this same MS. we have ^^ a di 27 Marzo
(1424 by context) fo pncipia a butar zosso, el Palazzo Vecchio per
refarlo da novo, e poi se he " (and so it is done) ; and in the MS. No.
81., " Del 1424, fo gittado zoso ^Palazzo Vecchio per refarlo de nuovo,-
a di 27th Marzo." But in the time of Sansovino the Ziani Palace
was quite forgotten ; the Council Chamber was then the old palace, and
Foscari's part was the new. His account of the ^^ Palazzo Publico " will
now be perfectly intelligible ; but, as the work itself is easily accessible,
I shall not burden the reader with any farther extracts, only noticing
that the chequering of the fa9ade with red and white marbles, which
he ascribes to Foscari, may or may not be of so late a date, as there is
nothing in the style of the work which can be produced as evidence.

2. THEOLOGY OF SPENSER.

The following analysis of the first book of the " Faerie Queen" may be
interesting to readers who have been in the habit of reading the noble
poem too hastily to connect its parts completely together, and may
perhaps induce them to more careful study of the rest of the poem.

The Redcrosse Knight is Holiness, — ^the " Pietas " of St Mark's, the
" Devotio " of Orcagna, — ^meaning, I think, in general, B^verence and
Godly Fear.

This Virtue, in the opening of the book, has Truth (or Una) at its
side, but presently enters the Wandering Wood, and encounters the
serpent Error ; that is to say. Error in her universal form, the first
enemy of Beverenceand Holiness; and more especially- Error as founded
on learning ; for when Holiness strangles her,

* * Her Tomit full of hoohei and papert wen,
With loathly frogs and toadee, which eyes did lacke."

Having vanquished this first open and palpable form of Error, as

APPENDIX, 2. 205

Reverence and Religion muBt always vanqnish it, the Knight encounters
Hypocrisy, or Archimagus: Holiness cannot detect Hypocrisy, but
believes him, and goes home with him ; whereupon, Hypocrisy succeeds
in separating Holiness from Truth ; and the Knight (Holiness) and Lady
(Truth) go forth separately from the house of Archimagus.

Now observe : the moment Godly Fear, or Holiness, is separated from
Truth, he meets Infidelity, or the Knight Sans Foy ; Infidelity having
Falsehood, or Duessa, riding behind him. The instant the Redcrosse
Knight is aware of the attack of Infidelity, he

" Gan fairly couch his speare^ and towarda ride/'

He vanquishes and slays Infidelity ; but is deceived by his compa-
nion. Falsehood, and takes her for his lady : thus showing the condition
of Religion, when, after being attacked by Doubt, and remaining vic-
torious, it is nevertheless seduced, by any form of Falsehood, to pay
reverence where it ought not. This, then, is the first fortune of Godly
Fear separated from Truth. The poet then returns to Truth, separated
from Godly Fear. She is immediately attended by a lion, or Violence,
which makes her dreaded wherever she comes ; and when she enters the
mart of superstition, this Lion tears Kirkrapine in pieces : showing
how Truth, separated from Godliness, doe's indeed put an end to the
abuses of superstition, but does so violently and desperately. She then
meets again with Hypocrisy, whom she mistakes for her own lord, or Godly
Fear, and travels a little way under his guardianship (Hypocrisy thus
not unfrequently appearing to defend the Truth), until they are both met
by Lawlessness, or the Knight Sans Loy, whom Hypocrisy cannot resist.
Lawlessness overthrows Hypocrisy, and seizes upon Truth, first slaying
her lion attendant : showing that the first aim of licence is to destroy
the force and authority of Truth. Sans Loy then takes Truth captive,
and bears her away. Now this Lawlessness is the " unrighteousness," or
" adikia," of St. Paul ; and his bearing Truth away captive is a type of
those " who hold the truth in unrighteousness," — that is to say, generally,
of men who, knowing what is true, make the truth give way to their own
purposes, or use it only to forward them, as is the case with so many of
the popular leaders of the present day. Una is then delivered from Sans
Loy by the satyrs, to show that Nature, in the end, must work out the
deliverance of the truth, although, where it has been captive to Lawless-
ness, that deliverance can only be obtained through Savageness, and a
return to barbarism. Una is then taken from among the satyrs by
Satyrane, the son of a satyr and a " lady myld, fair Thyamis " (typify-
ing the early steps of renewed civilization, and its rough and hardy

206 APPENDIX, 2.

character^ ^^ nousled np in life and manners wilde"), who, meeting again
with Sans Loy, enters instantly into rongh and prolonged combat with
him : showing how the early organization of a hardy nation must be
wrought ont throngh much discouragement from Lawlessness. This con-
test the poet leaving for the time undecided, returns to trace the adven-
tures of the Bedcrosse Enight, or Otodlj Fear, who, having vanquished
Infidelity, presently is led by Falsehood to the house of Pride : thus
showing how religion, separated from truth, is first tempted by doubts of
God, and then by the pride of life. The description of this house of
Pride is one of the most elaborate and noble pieces in the poem; and here
we begin to get at the proposed system of Virtues and Vices. For Pride,
as Queen, has six other vices yoked in her chariot ; namely, first. Idle-
ness, then Gluttony, Lust, Avarice, Envy, and Anger, all driven on by
^^ Sathan, with a smarting whip in hand.'' From these lower vices and
their company. Godly Fear, though lodging in the house of Pride, holds
aloof; but he is challenged, and has a hard battle to fight with Sans Joy,
the brother of Sans Foy : showing, that though he has conquered
Infidelity, and does not give himself up to the allurements of Pride, he is
yet exposed, so long as he dwells in her house, to distress of mind and
loss of his accustomed rejoicing before God. He, however, having partly
conquered Despondency, or Sans Joy, Falsehood goes down to Hades, in
order to obtain drugs to maintain the power or life of Despondency; but,
meantime, the Knight leaves the house of Pride : Falsehood pursues and
overtakes him, and finds him by a fountain side, of which the waters are

" Dull and slow,
And all that drinke thereof do faint and feeble grow."

Of which the meaning is, that Godly Fear, after passing through the house
of Pride, is exposed to drowsiness and feebleness of watch; as, after Peter ^s
boast, came Peter's sleeping, from weakness of the flesh, and then, last
of all, Peter's fall. And so it follows : for the Redcrosse Knight, being
overcome with faintness by drinking of the fountain, is thereupon attacked
by the giant Orgoglio, overcome, and thrown by him into a dungeon.
This Orgoglio is Orgueil, or Carnal Pride ; not the pride^of life, spiritual
and subtle, but the common and vulgar pride in the power of this world :
and his throwing the Redcrosse Knight into a dungeon is a type of the
captivity of true religion under the temporal power of corrupt churches,
more especially of the Church of Rome ; and of its gradually wasting
away in unknown places, while Carnal Pride has the pre-eminence over
all things. That Spenser means especially the pride of the Papacy, is

APPENDIX, 3. 207

shown by the 16th stanza of the book ; for there the giant Orgoglio is
said to have taken Duessa, or Falsehood, for his ^^ deare/' and to have
set npon her head a triple crown, and endowed her with royal majesty,
and made her to ride npon a seven-headed beast

In the meantime, the dwarf, the attendant of the Bedcrosse Knight,
takes his arms, and finding Una, tells her of the captivity of her lord.
Una, in the midst of her monrning, meets Prince Arthur, in whom, as
Spenser himself tells ns, is set forth generally Magnificence ; but who, as
is shown by the choice of the heroes name, is more especially the magni-
ficence, or literally, " great doing," of the kingdom of England. This
powerof England, going forth with Truth, attacks Orgoglio, or the Pride
of Papacy, slays him ; strips Duessa, or Falsehood, naked ; and liberates
the Bedcrosse Knight. The magnificent and well known description of
Despair follows, by whom the Bedcrosse Knight is hard bested, on ac-
count of his past errors and captivity, and is only saved by Truth, who,
perceiving him to be still feeble, brings him to the house of Ccelia, called,
in the argument of the canto, Holiness, but properly, Heavenly Grace,
the mother of the Virtues. Her " three daughters, well upbrought," are
Faith, Hope, and Charity. Her porter is Humility ; because Humility
opens the door of Heavenly Grace. Zeal and Beverence are her
chamberlains, introducing the new-comers to her presence ; her groom,
or servant, is Obedience ; and her physician, Patience. Under the com-
mands of Charity, the matron Mercy rules over her hospital, under whose
care the Knight is healed of his sickness ; and it is to be especially
noticed how much importance Spencer, though never ceasing to chastise
all hypocrisies and mere observances of form, attaches to true and faith-
ful penance in effecting this cure. Having his strength restored to him,
the Knight is trusted to the guidance of Mercy, who, leading him forth
by a narrow and thorny way, first instructs him in the seven works of
Mercy, and then leads him to the hill of Heavenly Contemplation ;
whence, having a sight of the New Jerusalem, as Christian of the De-
lectable Mountains, he goes forth to the final victory over Satan, the old
serpent, with which the book closes.

3. AUSTRIAN GOVERNMENT IN ITALY.

I cannot close these volumes without expressing my astonishment and
regret at the facility with which the English allow themselves to be
misled by any representations, however openly groundless or ridiculous,

208 APPENDIX, 3.

proceeding from the Italian Liberal party, respecting the present adminis-
tration of the Austrian Government I do not choose here to enter into
any political discussion, or express any political opinion; but it is due to
justice to state the simple facts which came under my notice during my
residence in Italy. I was living at Venice through two entire winters,
and in the habit of familiar association both with Italians and Austrians,
my own antiquarian vocations rendering such association possible without
exciting the distrust of either party. During this whole period, I never
once was able to ascertain, from any liberal Italian, that he had a single
definite ground of complaint against the Government. There was much
general grumbling and vague discontent : but I never was able to bring
one of them to the point, or to discover what it was that they wanted,
or in what way they felt themselves injured ; nor did I ever myself witness
an instance of oppression on the part pf the Government, though several
of much kindness and consideration. The indignation of those of my
own countrymen and countrywomen whom I happened to see during their
sojourn in Venice was always vivid, but by no means large in its grounds.
English ladies on their first arrival invariably began the conversation
with the same remark : " What a dreadful thing it was to be ground under
the iron heel of despotism I " Upon closer inquiries it always appeared
that being " ground under the heel of despotism " was a poetical expres-
sion for being asked for one's passport at San Juliano, and required to
fetch it from San Lorenzo, full a mile and a quarter distant. In like
manner, travellers, after two or three days' residence in the city, used to
return with pitiful lamentations over " the misery of the Italian people."
Upon inquiring what instances they had met with of this misery, it in-
variably turned out that their gondoliers, after being paid three times
their proper fare, had asked for something to drink, and had attributed
the fact of their being thirsty to the Austrian Government, The misery
of the Italians consists in having three festa days a week, and doing in
their days of exertion about one fourth as much work as an English
labourer.

There is, indeed, much true distress occasioned by the measures which
the Government is sometimes compelled to take in order to repress
sedition ; but the blame of this lies with those whose occupation is the
excitement of seditian. So also there is much grievous harm done to
works of art by the occupation of the country by so large an army ; but
for the mode in which that army is quartered, the Italian municipalities
are answerable, not the Austrians. Whenever I was shocked by finding^
as above-mentioned at Milan, a cloister, or a palace, occupied by soldiery,

APPENDIX, 4. 209

I always discovered, on investigation, that the place had been given by
the municipality ; and that, beyond requiring that lodging for a certain
number of men should be found in such and such a quarter of the town,
the Austrians had nothing to do with the matter. This does not, how-
ever, make the mischief less : and it is strange, if we think of it, to see
Italy, with all her precious works of art, made a continual battle-field ;
as if no other place for settling their disputes could be found by the
European powers, than where every random shot may destroy what a
king's ransom cannot restore.* It is exactly as if the tumults in Paris
could be settled no otherwise than by fighting them out in the Gallery of
the Louvre.

4. DATE OP THE PALACES OF THE BYZANTINE RENAISSANCE.

In the sixth article of the Appendix to the first volume, the question
of the date of the Casa Dario and Casa Trevisan was deferred until
I could obtain from my friend Mr. Rawdon Brown, to whom the former
palace once belonged, some more distinct data respecting this subject
than I possessed myself.

Speaking first of the Casa Dario, he says : ^^ Fontana dates it from
about the year 1450, and considers it the earliest specimen of the
architecture founded by Pietro Lombardo, and followed by his sons,
TuUio and Antonio. In a Sanuto autograph miscellany, purchased by
me long ago, and which I gave to St. Mark's Library, are two
letters from Giovanni Dario, dated 10th and 11th July, 1485, in the
neighbourhood of Adrianople; where the Turkish camp found itself,
and Bajazet II. received presents from the Soldan of Eg^pt, from
the Schah of the Indies (query Grand Mogul), and from the King of
Hungary : of these matters, Dario's letters give many curious details.
Then, in the printed Malipierb Annals, page 136. (which err, I think,
by a year), the Secretary Dario's negotiations at the Porte are alluded
to ; and in date of 1484 he is stated to have returned to Venice, having
quarrelled with the Venetian bailiff at Constantinople : the annalist
adds, that ^ Giovanni Dario was a native of Gandia, and that the Republic

* In the bombardment of Venice in 1848, hardly a single palace escaped without
three or four balls through its roof : three came into the Scuola di San Rocco, tearing
their way through the pictures of Tintoret, of which the ragged fragments were still
hanging from the ceiling in 1851 ; and the shells had reached to within a hundred yards
of St. Mark's Church itself, at the time of the capitulation.

VOL. III. P

210 APPENDIX, 5.

was BO well satisfied with him for having concladed peace with Bajazet,
that he received, as a gift from his country, an estate at Noventa, in
the Paduan territory, worth 1500 ducats, and 600 ducats in cash for
the dower of one of his daughters.' These largesses probably enabled
him to build his house about the year 1486, and are doubtless hinted
at in the inscription, which I restored a.d. 1837 ; it had no daUj
and ran thus, ubbis . genio • joannes . darivs. In the Venetian history
of Paolo Morosini, page 594., it is also mentioned that Giovanni Dario
was, moreover, the Secretary who concluded the peace between Mahomet,
the conqueror of Constantinople, and Venice, a.d. 1478 : but, unless
he built his house by proxy, that date has nothing to do with it ; and,
in my mind, the fact of the present, and the inscription, warrant one's
dating it 1486, and not 1450.

" ThQ Trevisan-Cappello House, in Canonica, was once the property
(A.D. 1578) of a Venetian dame fond of cray-fish, according to a
letter of hers in the archives, whereby she thanks one of her lovers
for some which he had sent her from Treviso to Florence, of which she
was then Grand Duchess. Her name has perhaps found its way into
the English annuals. Did you ever hear of Bianca Cappello ? She
bought that house of the Trevisana family, by whom Selva (in Cicognara)
and Fontana (following Selva) say it was ordered of the Lombardi, at
the commencement of the sixteenth century : but the inscription on its
fa<^de, thus,

SOLI
DEO

HONOR. ET
GLORIA.

reminding one both of the Dario House, and of the words non nobis
DOMINE inscribed on the fa<;ade of the Loredano Vendramin Palace at
S. Marcuola (now the property of the Duchess of Berri), of which Selva
found proof in the Vendramin archives that it was commenced by Sante
Lombardo, a.d. 1481, is in favour of its being classed among the works
of the fifteenth century."

5. RENAISSANCE SIDE OF DUCAL PALACE.

In passing along the Bio del Palazzo the traveller ought especially
to observe the base of the Benaissance building, formed by alternately
depressed and raised pyramids, the depressed portions being casts oi
the projecting ones, which are truncated on the summits. The work
cannot be called rustication, for it is cut as sharply and delicately

APPENDIX, 6. 211

as a piece of ivory, but it thoroughly answers the end which rus-
tication proposes, and misses : it gives the base of the building a look
of crystalline hardness, actually resembling, and that very closely, the
appearance presented by the fracture of a piece of cap quartz ; while
yet the light and shade of its alternate recesses and projections are so
varied as to produce the utmost possible degree of delight to the eye
attainable by a geometrical pattern so simple. Yet, with all this high
merjt, it is not a base which could be brought into general use. Its
brilliancy and piquancy are here set off with exquisite skill by its op-
position to mouldings, in the upper part of the building, of an almost
effeminate delicacy, and its complexity is rendered delightful by its
contrast with the ruder bases of the other buildings of the city ; but it
would look meagre if it were employed to sustain bolder masses above,
and would become wearisome if the eye were once thoroughly familiarized
with it by repetition.

6. CHARACTER OP THE DOGE MICHELE MOROSINI.

The following extracts from the letter of Count Charles Morosini,
above mentioned, appear to set the question at rest.

"It is our unhappy destiny that, during the glory of the Venetian
republic, no one took the care to leave us a faithful and conscientious
history : but I hardly know whether this misfortune should be laid to
the charge of the historians themselves, or of those commentators who
have destroyed their trustworthiness by new accounts of things, invented
by themselves. As for the poor Morosini, we may perhaps save his
honour by assembling a conclave of our historians, in order to receive
their united sentence; for, in this case, he would have the absolute
majority on his side, nearly all the authors bearing testimony to his love
for his country and to the magnanimity of his heart. I must tell you
that the history of Daru is not looked upon with esteem by well-
informed men ; and it is said that he seems to have no other object in
view than to obscure the glory of all actions. I know not on what
authority the English writer depends ; but he has, perhaps, merely copied

the statement of Daru I have consulted an ancient and

authentic MS. belonging to the Venieri family, a MS. well known, and
certainly better worthy of confidence than Darn's History, and it says
nothing of M. Morosini but that he was elected Doge to the delight and
joy of all men. Neither do the Savina or Dolfin Chronicles say a word

212 APPENDIX, 7.

of the shameful speculation ; and our best-informed men say that the
reproach cast by some historians against the Doge perhaps arose from a
mistaken interpretation of the words pronounced by him, and reported
by Marin Sanuto, that ^ the speculation would sooner or later have been
advantageous to the country.' But this single consideration is enough
to induce us to forma favourable conclusion respecting the honour of this
man, namely, that he was not elected Doge until after he had been
entrusted with many honourable embassies to the Genoese and Carra-
rese, as well as to the King of Hungary and Amadeus of Savoy ; and
if in these embassies he had not shown himself a true lover of his
country, the Republic not only would not again have entrusted him
with offices so honourable, but would never have rewarded him with
the dignity of Doge, therein to succeed such a man as Andrea Con-
tarini ; and the war of Chioggia, during which it is said that he tripled
his fortune by speculations, took place during the reign of Contarini,
1379, 1380, while Morosini was absent ou foreign embassies/'

7. MODERN EDUCATION.

The following fragmentary notes on this subject have been set down at
different times. I have been accidentally prevented from arranging them
properly for publication, but there are one or two truths in them which it
is better to express insufficiently than not at all.

By a large body of the people of England and of Europe a man is called
educated if he can write Latin verses and construe a Greek chorus. By
some few more enlightened persons it is confessed that the construction of
hexameters is not in itself an important end of human existence; but they
say, that the general discipline which a course of classical reading gives to
the intellectual powers is the final object of our scholastical institutions.

But it seems to me there is no small error even in this last and more
philosophical theory. I believe that what it is most honourable to know,
it is also most profitable to learn ; and that the science which it is the
highest power to possess, it is also the best exercise to acquire.

And if this be so, the question as to what should be the materiel of
education, becomes singularly simplified. It might be matter of dispute
what processes have the greatest effect in developing the intellect; but it
can hardly be disputed what facts it is most advisable that a man entering
into life should accurately know.

I believe, in brief, that he ought to know three things :

APPENDIX, 7. 213

First, Where lie is.

Secondly, Where he is going.

Thirdly, What he had best do under those circumstances.

First, Where he is. — That is to say, what sort of a world he has got
into ; how large it is ; what kind of creatures live in it, and how ; what it
is made of, and what may be made of it.

Secondly, Where he is going. — That is to say, what chances or re-
ports there are of any other world besides this ; what seems to be the
nature of that other world ; and whether, for information respecting it, he
had better consult the Bible, Koran, or Council of Trent.

Thirdly, What he had best do under those circumstances. — That is to
say, what kind of faculties he possesses ; what are the present state and
wants of mankind ; what is his place in society ; and what are the readiest
means in his power of attaining happiness and diffusing it. The man who
knows these things, and who has had his will so subdued in the learning
them, that he is ready to do what he knows he ought, I should call
educated; and the man who knows them not, — uneducated, though
he could talk all the tongues of Babel.

Our present European system of so-called education ignores, or de-
spises, not one, nor the other, but all the three, of these great branches of
human knowledge.

First, It despises Natural History. — Until within the last year or
two, the instruction in the physical sciences given at Oxford con-
sisted of a course of twelve or fourteen lectures on the Elements of
Mechanics or Pneumatics, and permission to ride out to Shotover with the
Professor of Geology. I do not know the specialties of the system pur-
sued in the academies of the Continent ; but their practical result is, that
unless a man's natural instincts urge him to the pursuit of th^ physical
sciences too strongly to be resisted, he enters into life utterly ignorant of
them. I cannot, within my present limits, even so much as count the
various directions in which this ignorance does evil. But the main mis-
chief of it is, that it leaves the greater number of men without the natural
food which Qt)d intended for their intellects. For one man who is fitted
for the study of words, fifty are fitted for the study of things, and were in-
tended to have a perpetual, simple, and religious delight in watching the
processes, or admiring the creatures, of the natural universe. Deprived of
this source of pleasure, nothing is left to them but ambition or dissipation ;
and the vices of the upper classes of Europe are, I believe, chiefly to be
attributed to this single cause.

Secondly, It despises Religion. — I do not say it despises "Theology,"

214 APPENDIX, 7.

that is to say, Talk about Grod. But it despises " Religion; " that is to say,
the "binding" or training to God's service. There is much talk and much
teaching in all our academies, of which the effect is not to bind, but to
loosen, the elements of religious faith. Of the ten or twelve young men
who, at Oxford, weremy especial friends, who sat with me under the same
lectures on Divinity, or were punished with me for missing lecture by
being sent to evening prayers,* four are now zealous Romanists, — a large
average out of twelve ; and while thus our own universities profess to
teach Protestantism, and do not, the universities on the Continent pro-
fess to teach Romanism, and do not, — ^sending forth only rebels and
infidels. During long residence on the Continent, I do not remember
meeting with above two or three young men who either believed in
revelation, or had the grace to hesitate in the assertion of their infidelity.
Whence, it seems to me, we may gather one of two things : either
that there is nothing in any European form of religion so reasonable or
ascertained, as that it can be taught securely to our youth, or fastened in
their minds by any rivets of proof which they shall not be able to loosen
the moment they begin to think ; or else, that no means are taken to
train them in such demonstrable creeds.

It seems to me the duty of a rational nation to ascertain (and to be
at some pains in the matter) which of these suppositions is true ; and, if
indeed no proof can be given of any supernatural fact, or Divine doc-
trine, stronger than a youth just out of his teens can overthrow in the
first stirrings of serious thought, to confess this boldly ; to get rid of
the expense of an Establishment, and the hypocrisy of a Liturgy ; to
exhibit its cathedrals as curious memorials of a bygone superstition,
and, abandoning all thoughts of the next world, to set itself to make
the best it can of this.

But if, on the other hand, there does exist any evidence by which the
probability of certain religious facts may be shown, as clearly, even, as the
probabilities of things not absolutely ascertained in astronomical or geo-
logical science, let this evidence be set before all our youth so distinctly,
and the facts for which it appears inculcated upon them so steadily,
that although it may be possible for the evil conduct of after life to efface,
or for its earnest and protracted meditation to modify, the impressions
of early years, it may not be possible for our young men, the instant
they emerge from their academies, to scatter themselves like a fiock of

* A MohaiMiMdan youth is punished, I believe, for such miBdemeanours, by being kept
• away from prayers.

APPENDIX, 7. .215

wildfowl risen out of a marsh, and drift away on every irregular wind of
heresy and apostasy.

Lastly, Our system of European education despises Politics. — That is
to say, the science of the relations and duties of men to each other. One
would imagine, indeed, by a glance at the state of the world, that there was
no such science. And, indeed, it is one still in its infancy.

It implies, in its full sense, the knowledge of the operations of the
virtues and vices of men upon themselves and society ; the understanding of
the ranks and ofiSces of their intellectual and bodily powers in their various
adaptations to art, science, and industry; the understanding of the proper
offices of art, science, and labour themselves, as well as of the foundations
of jurisprudence, and broad principles of commerce; all this being coupled
with practical knowledge of the present state and wants of mankind.

What, it will be said, and is all this to be taught to schoolboys ? No ;
but the first elements of it, all that are necessary to be known by an indi-
vidual in order to his acting wisely in any station of life, might be taught,
not only to every schoolboy, but to every peasant. The impossibility of
equality among men ; the good which arises from their inequality ; the
compensating circumstances in different states and fortunes ; the honour-
ableness of every man who is worthily filling his appointed place in society,
however humble ; the proper relations of poor and rich, governor and
governed ; the nature of wealth, and mode of its circulation ; the dif-
ference between productive and unproductive labour; the relation of the
products of the mind and hand ; the true value of works of the higher
arts, and the possible amount of their production; the meaning of
'^ Civilization," its advantages and dangers ; the meaning of the term
^^ Refinement ; '* the possibilities of possessing refinement in a low station,
and of losing it in a high one ; and, above all, the significance of almost
every act of a man's daily life, in its ultimate operation upon himself
and others ; — all this might be, and ought to be, taught to every boy in
the kingdom, so completely, that it should be just as impossible to intro-
duce an absurd or licentious doctrine among our adult population, as a
new version of the multiplication table. Nor am I altogether without
hope that some day it may enter into the heads of the tutors of our
schools to try whether it is not as easy to make an Eton boy's mind as
sensitive to falseness in policy, as his ear is at present to falseness in
prosody.

I know that this is much to hope. That English ministers of religion
should ever come to desire rather to make a youth acquainted with the
powers of Nature and of Gk)d, than with the powers of Greek particles ;

216 APPENDIX, 7.

that they should ever think it more useful to show him how the^great
universe rolls upon its course in heaven, than how the syllables are fitted
in a tragic metre ; that they should hold it more advisable for him to be
fixed in the principles of religion than in those of syntax ; or, finally, that
they should ever come to apprehend that a youth likely to go straight out
of college into parliament, might not unadvisably know as much of the
Peninsular as of the Peloponnesian "War, and be as well acquainted with
the state of modern Italy as of old Etruria ; — all this, however unreason-
ably, I do hope, and mean to work for. For though I have not yet
abandoned all expectation of a better world than this, I believe this in
which we live is not so good as it might be. I know there are many
people who suppose French revolutions, Italian insurrections, Caffre wars,
and such other scenic efiects of modern policy, to be among the normal
conditions of humanity. I know there are many who think the atmosphere
of rapine, rebellion, and misery which wraps the lower orders of Europe
more closely every day, is as natural a phenomenon as a hot summer. But
God forbid I There are ills which flesh is heir to, and troubles to which
man is born ; but the troubles which he is bom to are as sparks which
fly uprmrd^ not as flames burning to the nethermost HelL The Poor we
must have with us always, and sorrow is inseparable from any hour of
life ; but we may make their poverty such as shall inherit the earth, and
the sorrow such as shall be hallowed by the hand of the Comforter with
everlasting comfort We can^ if we will but shake oS this lethargy and
dreaming that is upon us, and take the pains to think and act like men,
we can, I say, make kingdoms to be like well-governed households, in
which, indeed, while no care or kindness can prevent occasional heart-
burnings, nor any foresight or piety anticipate all the vicissitudes of for-
tune, or avert every stroke of calamity, yet the unity of their affection
and fellowship remains unbroken, and their distress is neither embittered
by division, prolonged by imprudence, nor darkened by dishonour.

The great leading error of modern times is the mistaking erudition for
education. I call it the leading error, for I believe that, with little diffi-
culty, nearly every other might be shown to have root in it; and, most
assuredly, the worst that are fallen into on the subject of art

Education then, briefly, is the leading human souls to what is best, and
making what is best out of them ; and these two objects are always
attainable together, and by the same means ; the training which makes
men happiest in themselves also makes them most serviceable to others.
True education, then, has respect, first to the ends which are proposable to

APPENDIX, 7. 217

the man, or attainable by him ; and, secondly, to the material of which
the man is made. So far as it is able, it chooses the end according to the
material : but it cannot always choose the end, for the position of many
persons in life is fixed by necessity ; still less can it choose the material ;
and, therefore, all it can do is to fit the one to the other as wisely as
may be.

Bat the first point to be understood is that the material is as various as
the ends ; that not only one man is unlike another, but every man is essen-
tially different from eoery other, so that no training, no forming, nor
informing, will ever make two persons alike in thought or in power.
Among all men, whether of the upper or lower orders, the differences
are eternal and irreconcilable, between one individual and another, born
under absolutely the same circumstances. One man is made of agate,
another of oak ; one of slate, another of clay. The education of the
first is polishing; of the second, seasoning; of the third, rending; of
the fourth, moulding. It is of no use to season the agate ; it is vain to
try to polish the slate; but both are fitted, by the qualities they possess,
for services in which they may be honoured.

Now the cry for the education of the lower classes, which is heard every
day more widely and loudly, is a wise and a sacred cry, provided it be
extended into one for the education of all classes, with definite respect to
the work each man has to do, and the substance of which he is made. But
it is a foolish and vain cry, if it be understood, as in the plurality of
cases it is meant to be, for the expression of mere craving after know-
ledge, irrespective of the simple purposes of the life that now is, and
blessings of that which is to come.

One great fallacy into which men are apt to fall when they are reason-
ing on this subject is : that light, as such, is always good ; and darkness,
as such, always evil. Far from it. Light untempered would be annihi-
lation. It is good to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of
death ; but, to those that faint in the wilderness, so also is the shadow of
the great rock in a weary land. If the sunshine is good, so also the cloud
of the latter rain. Light is only beautiful, only available for life, when
it is tempered with shadow ; pure light is fearful, and unendurable by
humanity. And it is not less ridiculous to say that the light, as such, is
good in itself, than to say that the darkness is good in itself. Both are
rendered safe, healthy, and useful by the other ; the night by the day, the
day by the night ; and we could just as easily live without the dawn as
without the sunset, so long as we are human. Of the celestial city we
are told there shall be ^^ no night there," and then we shall know even as

218 APPENDIX, 7.

also we are known : but the night and the mystery have both their service
here ; and our business is not to strive to turn the night into day, but to
be sure that we are as they that watch for the morning.

Therefore, in the education either of lower or upper classes, it matters
not the least how much or how little they know, provided they know
just what will fit them to do their work, and to be happy in it. What
the sum or the nature of their knowledge ought to be at a given time
or in a given case, is a totally different question : the main thing to be
understood is, that a man is not educated, in any sense whatsoever, because
he can read Latin, or write English, or can behave well in a drawing-room;
but that he is only educated if he is happy, busy, beneficent, and effective
in the world ; that millions of peasants are therefore at this moment
better educated than most of those who call themselves gentlemen ; and
that the means taken to ^^educate" thelower classes in any other sense may
very often be productive of a precisely opposite result.

Observe, I do not say, nor do I believe, that the lower classes ought
not to be better educated, in millions of ways, than they are. I believe
every man in a Christian kingdom ought to be equally well educated. But
I would have it education to purpose; stern, practical, irresistible,
in moral habits, in bodily strength and beauty, in all faculties of mind
capable of being developed under the circumstances of the individual,
and especially in the technical knowledge of his own business ; but yet,
infinitely various in its effort, directed to make one youth humble, and
another confident; to tranquillize this mind, to put some spark of ambition
into that ; now to urge, and now to restrain : and in the doing of all this,
considering knowledge as one only out of myriads of means in its hands,
or myriads of gifts at its disposal ; and giving it or withholding it as a
good husbandman waters his garden, giving the full shower only to the
thirsty plants, and at times when they are thirsty ; whereas at present we
pour it upon the heads of our youth as the snow falls on the Alps, on one
and another alike, till they can bear no more, and then take honour to
ourselves because here and there a river descends from their crests into
the valleys, not observing that we have made the loaded hills themselves
barren for ever.

Finally, I hold it for indisputable, that the first duty of a state is to
see that every child born therein shall be well housed, clothed, fed, and
educated, till it attain years of discretion. But in order to the effecting
this, the government must have an authority over the people of which we
now do not so much as dream ; $ind I cannot in this place pursue the
subject farther.

APPENDIX, 8. 9. 219

8. EARLY VENETIAN MARRIAGES.

Galliciolli, lib. ii. § 1757., insinuates a (ioubt of the general custom,
saying, ** It would be more reasonable to suppose that only twelve maidens
were married in public on St. Mark's Day ; " and Sandi also speaks of
twelve only. All evidence, however, is clearly in favour of the popular
tradition; the most curious fact connected with the subject being the
mention, by Herodotus, of the mode of marriage practised among the
lUyrian " Veneti " of his time, who presented their maidens for marriiige
on one day in each year; and, with the price paid for those who were
beautiful, gave dowries to those who had no personal attractions.

It is very curious to find the traces of this custom existing, though in
a softened form, in Christian times. Still, I admit that there is little
confidence to be placed in the mere concurrence of the Venetian Chroni-
clers, who, for the most part, copied from each other : but the best and
most complete account I have read is that quoted by Galliciolli from
the " Matricola de' Casseleri," written in 1449 ; and, in that account, the
words are quite unmistakable. « It was anciently the custom of Venice,
that all the brides (novizze) of Venice, when they married, should be
married by the bishop, in the Church of S. Pietro di Castello, on St.
Mark's Day, which is the 31st of January." Rogers quotes Navagiero to
the same eflfect; and Sansovino is more explicit still. "It was the
custom to contract marriages openly ; and when the deliberations were
completed, the damsels assembled themselves in St. Pietro di Castello, for
the feast of St. Mary, in February."

9. CHARACTER OF THE VENETIAN ARISTOCRACY.

The following noble answer of a Venetian ambassador, Giustiniani, on
the occasion of an insult offered him at the court of Henry the Eighth,
is as illustrative of the dignity which there yet remained in the character
and thoughts of the Venetian noble, as descriptive, in few words, of the
early faith and deeds of his nation. He writes thus to the Doge, from
London, on the 15th of April, 1516:

" By my last, in date of the 30th ult., I informed you that the counte-
nances of some of these lords evinced neither friendship nor good- will, and
that much language had been used to me of a nature bordering not merely
on arrogance, but even on outrage ; and not having specified this in the
foregoing letters, I think fit now to mention it in detail. Finding myself
at the court, and talking familiarly about other matters, two lay lords,

220 APPENDIX, 9.

great personages in this kingdom, inquired of me * whence it came that
your Excellency was of such slippery faith, now favouring one party and
then the other ? ' Although these words ought to have irritated me,
I answered them with all discretion, ' that you did keep, and ever had kept,
your faith ; thje maintenance of which has placed you in great trouble, and
subjected you to wars of longer duration than you would otherwise have
experienced ; descending to particulars in justification of your Sublimity.'
Whereupon one of them replied, ^Isti Veneti sunt piscdtores,^^ Marvellous
was the command I then had over myself in not giving vent to expressions
which might have proved injurious to your Signory ; and with extreme
moderation I rejoined, ^ that had he been at Venice, and seen our Senate,
and the Venetian nobility, he perhaps would not speak thus ; and more-
over, were he well read in our history, both concerning the origin of our
city, and the grandeur of your Excellency's feats, neither the one nor the
other would seem to him those of fishermen ; yet,' said I, ^ did fishermen
found the Christian faith, and we have been those fishermen who defended
it against the forces of the Infidel, our fishing-boats being galleys and
ships, our hooks the treasure of St Mark, and our bait the life-blood of
our citizens, who died for the Christian faith.' "

I take this most interesting passage from a volume of despatches ad-
dressed from London to the Signory of Venice, by the ambassador
Giustiniani, during the years 1516 — 1519; despatches not only full of
matters of historical interest, but of the nK>Bt delightful everyday descrip-
tion of all that went on at the English court. They were translated by
Mr. Brown from the original letters, and will, I believe, soon be published,
and I hope also, read and enjoyed : for I cannot close these volumes with-
out expressing a conviction, which has long been forcing itself upon my
mind, that r^^^^rf history is of little more value than restored painting or
architecture ; that the only history worth reading is that written at the
time of which it treats, the history of what was done and seen, heard out
of the mouths of the men who did and saw. One fresh draught of such
history is worth more than a thousand volumes of abstracts, and reason-
ings, and suppositions, and theories ; and I believe that, as we get wiser,
we shall take little trouble about the history of nations who have left no
distinct records of themselves, but spend our time only in the examination
of the faithful documents which, in any period of the world, have been
left, either in the form of art or literature, portraying the scenes, or re-
cording the events, which in those days were actually passing before the
eyes of men.

* ^ Those Venetiaos are fiflhermen."

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I. BASES. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 221

10. FINAL APPENDIX.

The statements respecting the dates of Venetian buildings, made
throughout the preceding pages, are founded, as above stated, on care-
ful and personal examination of all the mouldings, or other features
available as evidence, of every palace of importance in the city. Three
parts, at least, of the time occupied in the completion of the work have
been necessarily devoted to the collection of these evidences, of which it
would be quite useless to lay the mass before the reader; but of which the
leading points must be succinctly stated, in order to show the nature of
my authority for any of the conclusions expressed in the text.

I have therefore collected in the plates which illustrate this article of
the Appendix, for the examination of any reader who may be interested
by them, as many examples of the evidence-bearing details as are suffi-
cient for the proof required, especially including all the exceptional
forms; so that the reader may rest assured that if I had been able to
lay before him all the evidence in my possession, it would have been
still more conclusive than the portion now submitted to him.

We must examine in succession the Bases, Doorways and Jambs,
Capitals, Archivolts, Cornices, and Tracery Bars, of Venetian archi-
tecture.

I. Bases.

The principal points we have to notice are the similarity and simplicity
of the Byzantine bases in general, and the distinction between those of
Torcello and Murano, and of St. Mark's, as tending to prove the earlier
dates attributed in the text to the island churches. I have sufficiently
illustrated the forms of the Gothic bases in Plates X. XI. and XIII. of
the first volume, so that I here note chiefly the Byzantine or Roman-
esque ones, adding two Gothic forms for the sake of comparison.

The most characteristic examples, then, are collected in Plate V. oppo-
site ; namely :

1, 2, 3, 4. In the upper gallery of apse of Murano.

5. Lower shafts of apse. Murano.

6. Casa Falier.

7. Small shafts of panels. Casa Farsetti.

8. Great shafts and plinth. Casa Farsetti.
Plate V. ^^ ^^^^^ j^^^^ ^^^^ Fondaco de* Turchi.

Vol. III. ^Q j)xic&\ Palace, upper arcade.

11. General late Gothic form.

12. Tomb of Dogaressa Vital Michele, in St. Mark's atrium.

222 10. FINAL APPENDIX. leases.

13. Upper arcade of Madonnetta House.

14. Rio Foscari House.

15. Upper arcade. Terraced House.

16. 17, 18. Nave. Torcello.

V 1 ITT ^®> ^^' Transepts. St Mark's.
• • 21. Nave. St Mark's.

22. External pillars of northern portico. St Mark's.

23, 24. Clustered pillars of northern portico. St Mark's.
25, 26. Clustered pillars of southern portico. St. Mark's.

Now, observe, first, the enormous diflPerence in style between the bases
1. to 5., and the rest in the upper row, that is to say, between the bases
of Mnrano and the twelfth and thirteenth century bases of Venice ; and,
secondly, the difference between the bases 1 6. to 20. and the rest in the
lower row, that is to say, between the bases of Torcello (with those of
St Mark's which belong to the nave, and which may therefore be
supposed to be part of the earlier church) and the later ones of the St
Mark's facade.

Secondly, Note the fellowship between 5. and 6., one of the evidences
of the early date of the Casft Falier.

Thirdly, Observe the slurring of the upper roll into the cavetto, in
13. 14. and 15., and the consequent relationship established between three
most important buildings, the Rio Foscari House, Terraced House, and
Madonnetta House.

Fourthly, Byzantine bases, if they have an incision between the
upper roll and cavetto, are very apt to approach the form of fig. 23., in
which the upper roll is cut out of the flat block, and the ledge beneath
it is sloping. Compare Nos. 7. 8. 9. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. On the
other hand, the later Gothic base, 11., has always its upper roll well de-
veloped, and, generally, the fillet between it and the cavetto vertical.
The sloping fillet is indeed found down to late periods ; and the vertical
fillet, as in No. 12., in Byzantine ones; but still, when a base has such
a sloping fillet and peculiarly graceful sweeping cavetto as those of No.
10., looking as if they would run into one line with each other, it is strong
presumptive evidence of its belonging to an early, rather than a late
period.

The base 12. is the boldest example I could find of the exceptional
form in early times ; but observe in this, that the upper roll is larger than
the lower. This is never the case in late Gothic, where the proportion is
always as in fig. 11. Observe that in Nos. 8. and 9. the upper rolls are

II. DOOBWATO. 10. PINAL APPENDIX. ' 223

at least as large as ttie lower, au important evideDce of the dates of the
Casa Farsetti and Fondaco de' Turcbi.

Lastly, Note the peculiarly steep profile of No, 22., with reference to
what is said of this base in Vol. II. Appendix 9.

II. Doorways and Jambs.

The entrances to St. Mark's consist, as above mentioned, of great cir-
calar or ogee porches ; underneath whicb the real open entrances, in
which the valves of the bronze doors play, are square-headed.

The mouldings of the jambs of these doors are highly curious, and
the most characteristic are therefore repre-

224 10. FINAL APPENDIX.

II. DOORWAYS.

I wish the reader especially to note the arbitrary character of the curves
and incisions; all evidently being drawn by hand, none being segments of
circles, none like another, none influenced by any visible law. I do not
give these mouldings as beautiful ; they are, for the most part, very poor in
eflect, but they are singularly characteristic of the free work of the time.
The kind of door to which these mouldings belong, is shown, with the
other groups of doors, in Plate XIV. Vol. 11. fig. 6 a. Then 6 i, 6 tf,
6 d represent the groups of doors in which the Byzantine influence re-
mained energetic, admitting slowly the forms of the pointed Gothic; 7 a,
with the gable above, is the intermediate group between the Byzantine
and Gothic schools ; 7 i, 7 #, 7 rf, 7 e are the advanced guards of the
Gothic and Lombardic invasions, representative of a large number of
thirteenth century arcades and doors. Observe that 6 rf is shown to be of
a late school by its finial, and 6 ^ of the latest school by its finial, complete
ogee arch (instead of round or pointed), and abandonment of the lintel.
These examples,, with the exception of 6 a, which is a general form,
are all actually existing doors ; namely :

6 h. In the Fondamenta Venier, near St. Maria della Salute.

6 c. In the Oalle delle Botteri, between the Bialto and San Cassan.

6 d. Main door of San Gregorio.

6 e. Door of a palace in Bio San Paternian.

7 a. Uoor of a small courtyard near house of Marco Polo.
7 h. Arcade in narrow canal, at the side of Oasa Barbaro.

7 c. At the turn of the canal, close to the Ponte dell' Angelo.

7 d. In Bio San Paternian (a ruinous house).

7 e. At the turn of the canal on which the Sotto Portico della Stua
opens, near San Zaccaria.
If the reader will take a magnifying glass to the figure 6 d^ he will see
that its square ornaments, of which, in the real door, each contains a
rose, diminish to the apex of the arch ; a very interestingand characteristic
circumstance, showing the subtle feeling of the Gothic builders. They
must needs diminish the ornamentation, in order to sympathize with the
delicacy of the point of the arch. The magnifying glass will also show
the Bondumieri shield in No. 7 rf, and the Leze shield in No. 7 ^, both
introduced on the keystones in the grand early manner. The mouldings
of these various doors will be noticed under the head ^* Archivolt."

Now, throughout the city we find a number of doors resembling the
square doors of St. Mark, and occurring with rare exceptions either in
buildings of the Byzantine period, or imbedded in restored houses; never
in a single instance forming a connected portion of any late building ;

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n. DOOBWATB. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 225

and they therefore ftirnkh a most important piece of evidence, where-
evep they are part of the original structure of a Gothic building, that
such building is one of the advanced guards of the Gothic school, and
belongs to its earliest period.

On Plate VL, opposite, are assembled all the important examples I
conld find in Venice of these mouldings. The reader will see at a
glance their peculiar character, and unmistakable likeness to each other.
The following are the references :

1. Door in Calle Mocenigo.

2. Angle of tomb of Dogaressa Vital Michele.

3. Door in Sotto Portico, St. ApoUonia (near Ponte di

Oanonica).

4. Door in Calle della Verona (another like it is. close by).

5. Angle of tomb of Doge Marino Morosini.

6. 7. Door in Calle Mocenigol

8. Door in Campo S. Margherita.
p yj 9. Door at Traghetto San Samuele, on south side of Grand

Vol. Ill' ^*°^-

10. Door at Ponte St. Toma.

1 1 . Great door of Church of Ser vi.

12. In Calle della Chiesa, Campo San Filippo e Giacomo.

13. Door of house in Calle di Bimedio (page 254. Vol. II.).

14. Door in Fondaco de' TurchL

15. Door in Fondamenta Malcanton, near Campo S. Mar-

gherita.

16. Door in south side of Canna Beggio.

17. 18. Doors in Sotto Portico dei Squellini.

The principal points to be noted in these mouldings are their curious
differences of level, as marked by the dotted lines, more especially in
14. 15. 16., and the systematic projection of the outer or lower mould-
ings in 16. 17. 18. Then, as points of evidence, observe that 1. is the
jamb and 6. the archivolt (7. the angle on a larger scale) of the brick
door given in n)y folio work from Bamo di rimpetto Mocenigo, one of
the evidences of the early date of that door ; 8. is the jamb of the door
in Campo Santa Margherita (also given in my folio work), fixing the
early date of that also ; 10. is from a Gothic door opening off the Ponte
St. Toma; and 11. is also from a Gk)thic building. All the rest are
from Byzantine work, or from ruins. The angle of the tomb of Marino
Morosini (5.) is given for comparison only.

The doors with the mouldings 17. 18. are from the two ends of a
small dark passage, called the Sotto Portico dei Squellini, opening near

VOL. III. Q

226 10. FINAL APPENDIX. il doobwatb.

Ponte Cappello, on the Bio Marin : 14. is the outside one, arranged aa
nsnal, and at Uy in the rough stone, are places for the staples of the door
valve ; 15., at the other end of the passage, opening into the little Corte
dei Squellini, is set with the part a outwards^ it also having places for
hinges ; but it is curious that the rich moulding should be set in towards
the dark passage, though natural that the doors should both open one way.
The next plate, Y IL , will show the principal characters of the Grothic
jambs, and the total difference between them and the Byzantine ones.
Two more Byzantine forms, 1. and 2., are given here for the sake of
comparison ; then 3. 4. and 5. are the common profiles of simple jambs
of doors in the Grothic period; 6. is one of the jambs of the Frari
windows, continuous into the arehivolt, and meeting the traceries, where
the line is set upon it at the extremity of its main slope ; 7. and 8. are
jambs of the Ducal Palace windows, in which the great semicircle is the
half shaft which sustains the traceries, and the rest of the profile is con-
tinuous in the arehivolt; 17. 18. and 19. are the principal piers of the
Ducal Palace ; and 20., from St Fermo of Verona, is put with them in
order to show the step of transition from the Byzantine form 2. to the
Gothic chamfer, which is hardly represented at Venice. The other pro-
files on the plate are all late Gothic, given to show the gradual increase
of complexity without any gain of power. The open lines in 12. 14. 16.,
&c., are the parts of the profile cut into flowers or cable mouldings ;
and so much incised as to show the constant outline of the cavetto or
curve beneath them. The following are the references :

1. Door in house of Marco Polo.

2. Old door in a restored church of St. Cassan.

3. 4, 5. Common jambs of Gothic doors.

6. Frari windows.

7, 8. Ducal Palace windows.
9. Casa Priuli, great entrance.

p^ VIT ^^' ^^^ Stefano, great door.
V 1 TIT * ^^' ^^^ Gregorio, door opening to the water.

12. Lateral door, Frari.

13. Door of Campo San Zaccaria.

14. Madonna dell' Orto.

15. San Gregorio, door in the fa<jade.

16. Great lateral door, Frari.

17. Pilaster at Vine angle, Ducal Palace.

18. Pier, inner cortile. Ducal Palace.

19. Pier, under the medallion of Venice, on the Piazzetta

facade of the Ducal Palace.

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in. CAPITALS. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 227

III. Capitals.

I shall here notice the various facts I have omitted in the text of the
work.

First, with respect to the Byzantine capitals represented in Plate VII.
Vol. IL (p. 131.), I omitted to notice that figs. 6. and 7. represent two
sides of the same capital at Murano (though one is necessarily drawn on
a smaller scale than the other). Fig. 7. is the side turned to the light,
and fig. 6. to the shade, the inner part, which is quite concealed, not
being touched at all.

We have here a conclusive proof that these capitals were cut for their
place in the apse ; therefore I have always considered them as tests of
Venetian workmanship, and, on the strength of that proof, have occa-
sionally spoken of capitals as of true Venetian work, which M. Lazari
supposes to be of the Lower Empire. No. 11., from St Mark's, was not
above noticed. The way in which the cross is gradually left in deeper
relief as the sides slope inwards, and away from it, is highly picturesque
and curious.

No. 9. has been reduced from a larger drawing, and some of the
life and character of the curves lost in consequence. It is chiefly given
to show the irregular and fearless freedom of the Byzantine designers,
no two parts of the foliage being correspondent ; in the original it is
of white marble, the ground being coloured blue.

Plate X. Vol. II. (p. 137.) represents the four principal ofders of
Venetian capitals in their greatest simplicity, and the profiles of the
most interesting examples of each. The figures 1. and 4. are^the two
great concave and convex groups ; and 2. and 3. the transitional. Above
each type of form I have put also an example of the group of flowers
which represent it in nature : fig. 1. has a lily; fig. 2. a variety of the
Tulipa sylvestris; figs. 3. and 4. forms of the magnolia. I prepared
this plate in the early spring, when I could not get any other examples,*
or I would rather have had two different species for figs. 3. and 4. ; but
the half-open magnolia will answer the purpose, showing the beauty of
the triple curvature in the sides.

I do not say that the forms of the capitals are actually taken from

* I am afraid that tlie kind friend, Lady Trevelyan, who helped me to finish tliifl plate,
will not like to be thanked here'; bnt I cannot let her send into DeTonshire for magnolias,
and draw them for me vithoiU thanking her.

228 10. PINAL APPENDIX. ni. capitals.

flowers, thongb assuredly so in some instances, and partially so in the
decoration of nearly all. But they were designed by men of pure and
natural feeling for beauty, who therefore instinctively adopted the forms
represented, which are afterwards proved to be beautiftil by their frequent
occurrence in common flowers.

The convex forms, 3. and 4., are put lowest in the plate only because
they are heaviest ; they are the earliest in date, and have already been
enough examined.

I have added a plate to this volume (Plate XII.), which should have
appeared in illustration of the fifth chapter of Vol. XL, but was not
finished in time. It represents the central capital and two of the lateral
ones of the Fondaco de' Turchi, the central one drawn very large in order
to show the excessive simplicity of its chiselling, together with the care
and sharpness of it, each leaf being expressed by a series of sharp furrows
and ridges. Some slight errors in the large tracings from which the
engraving was made have, however, occasioned a loss of spring in the
curves, and the little fig. 4. of Plate X. VoL II. gives a truer idea of
the distant effect of the capital.

The profiles given in Plate X. Vol. II. are the following :

1. a. Main capitals, upper arcade, Madonnetta House.

b. Main capitals, upper arcade, Casa Falier.

c. Lateral capitals, upper arcade, Fondaco de' Turchi.
cL Small pillars of St. Mark's pulpit.

e. Casa Farsetti.

f. Inner capitals of arcade of Ducal Palace.

g. Plinth of the house* at Apostoli.
k. Main capitals of house at Apostoli.

u Main capitals, upper arcade, Fondaco de' Turchi.

2. a. Lower arcade, Fondaco de' Turchi.

d. c. Lower pillars, house at Apostoli.

d. San Simeon Grande.

e. Restored house on Grand Canal. Three of the old

arches left.

f. Upper arcade, Ducal Palace.

g. Windows of third order, central shaft. Ducal Palace.
h. Windows of third order, lateral shaft. Ducal Palace.
i. Ducal Palace, main shafts.

k^ Piazzetta shafts.

* That IB, the house in the pitruh of the Apostoli, on the Grand Cabal, noticed in page
258. Vol. II. ; and see also Venetian Index, under head *' Apostoli/'

Plate X,
Vol II.

m. CAPITALS. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 229

3. a. St Mark's nave.

hy c. Lily capitals, St Mark's.

4. a. Fondaco de' Torchi, central shaft, upper arcade.

b. Murano, tipper arcade.

c. Murano, lower arcade.

d. Tomb of St Isidore.

e. General late Gothic profile.

The last two sections are convex in effect, though not in reality ; the
bulging lines being carved into bold flower- work.

The capitals belonging to the groups 1. and 2., in the Byzantine times,
have already been illustrated in Plate VIII. Vol. 11. ; we have yet to trace
their succession in the Gothic times. This is done in Plate II. of this
volume, which we will now examine carefully. The following are the
capitals represented in that plate :

1. Small shafts of St Mark's pulpit

2. From the transitional house in the Oalle di Bdmedio

(conf. p. 259. Vol. II.).

3. General simplest form of the middle Gothic capital.

4. Nave of San Giacomo de Lorio.

5. Casa Falier.

p TT ^* ^*^^y Grothic house in Campo Sta. M** Mater Domini

y , jjj 7. House at the Apostoli.

8. Piazzetta shafts.

9. Ducal Palace, upper arcade.

10. Palace of Marco QuerinL

11. Fondaco de* Turchi.

12. Gothic palaces in Campo San Polo.

13. Windows of fourth order, Plate XVL Vol. II.

14. Nave of Church of San Stefano.

15. Late Gothic palace at the MiracolL

The two lateral columns form a consecutive series : the central column
is a group of exceptional character, running parallel with both. We will
take the lateral ones first 1. Capital of pulpit of St Mark's (represen-
tative of the simplest concave forms of the Byzantine period). Look back
to Plate VIII. Vol. IL, and observe that while all the forms in that
plate are contemporaneous, we are now going to follow a series consecutive
in time, which begins from figure 1., either in that plate or in this; that
is to say, with the simplest possible condition to be found at the time ;

230 10. FINAL APPENDIX. m. capitaia

and which proceeds to develope itself into gradually increasing richness,
while the already rich capitals of the old school die at its side. In the
forms 14. and 15. (Plate VIII.) the Byzantine school expired ; but from
the Byzantine simple capital (1. Plate II. above) which was co-existent
with them, sprang another hardy race of capitals, whose succession we
have now to trace.

The form 1. Plate II. is evidently the simplest conceivable condition of
the truncated capital, long ago represented generally at p. 105. Vol. L,
being only rounded a little on its side to fit it to the shaft The next
step was to place a leaf beneath each of the truncations (fig. 4. Plate 11.
San Giacomo de Lorio), the end of the leaf curling over at the top in a
somewhat formal spiral, partly connected with the traditional volute of
the Corinthian capital. The sides are then enriched by the addition of
some ornament, as a shield (fig. 7.) or rose (fig. 10.), and we have the
formed capital of the early Gothic. Fig. 1 0. , being from the palace of Marco
Querini, is certainly not later than the middle of the thirteenth century
(see Vol. IL p. 256.), and fig. 7. is, I believe, of the same date ; it is one
of the bearing capitals of the lower story of the palace at the Apostoli,
and is remarkably fine in the treatment of its angle leaves, which are not
deeply under-cut, but show their magnificent sweeping under surface all
the way down, not as a leaf surface, but treated like the gorget of a helmet,
with a curved line across it like that where the gorget meets the mail. I
never saw anything finer in simple design. Fig. 10. is given chiefly as a
certification of date, and to show the treatment of the capitals of this school
on a small scale. Observe the more expansive head in proportion to the
diameter of the shaft, the leaves being drawn from the angles, as if gathered
in the hand, till their edges meet ; and compare the rule given in Vol. I.
Chap. IX. § XIV. The capitals of the remarkable house, of which a
portion is represented in Fig. XXXI. p. 256. Vol. II., are most curious
and pure examples of this condition ; with experimental trefoils, roses,
and leaves introduced between their volutes. When compared with those
of the Querini Palace, they form one of the most important evidences
of the date of the building.

Fig. 13. One of the bearing capitals, already drawn on a small scale in
the windows represented in Plate XVI. Vol. IL

Now, observe, the capital of the form of fig. 10. appeared sufficient
to the Venetians for all ordinary purposes ; and they used it in common
windows to the latest Gothic periods, but yet with certain diflferences
which at once show the lateness of work. In the first place, the rose,
which at first was flat and quatrefoiled, becomes, after some experi-

m. CAPITALS. • 10, FINAL APPENDIX. 231

mentSy a round ball dividing into three leaves, closely resembling onr
English ball-flower, and probably derived from it ; and, in other cases
forming a bold projecting bad in various degrees of contraction or ex-
pansion. In the second place, the extremities of the angle leaves are
wrought into rich flowing lobes, and bent back so as to lap against their
own breasts ; showing lateness of date in exact proportion to the looseness
of curvature. Fig. 3. represents the general aspect of these later capitals,
which may be conveniently called the rose capitals of Venice ; two are
seen on service, in Plate VIIL Vol. I., showing comparatively early date
by the experimental form of the six-foiled rose. But for elaborate edific^es
this form was not sufficiently rich ; and there was felt to be something
awkward in the junction of the leaves at the bottom. Therefore, four other
shorter leaves were added at the sides, as in fig. 13. Plate IL, and as
generally represented in Plate X. Vol. IL fig. 1. This was a good and
noble step, taken very early in the thirteenth century ; and all the best
Venetian capitals were thenceforth of this form. Those which followed,
and rested in the common rose type, were languid and unfortunate : I do
not know a single good example of them after the first half of the
thirteenth century.

But the form reached in fig. 1 3. was quickly felt to be of great value
and power. One would have thought it might have been taken straight
from the Corinthian type ; but it is clearly the work of men who were
making experiments for themselves. For instance, in the central capital
of Fig. XXXI. p. 256. Vol. II. , there is a trial condition of it, with the
intermediate leaf set behind those at the angles (the reader had better
take a magnifying glass -to this woodcut ; it will show the character of
the capitals better). Two other experimental forms occur in the Gasa
Cicogna (p. 265. Vol. II.), and supply one of the evidences which fix the
date of that palace. But the form soon was determined as in fig. 13.,
and then means were sought of recommending it by farther decoration.

The leaves which are used in fig. 13., it will be observed, have lost the
Corinthian volute, and are now pure and plain leaves, such as were used in
the Lombardic Gothic of the early thirteenth century all over Italy. Now
in a round-arched gateway at Verona, certainly not later than 1300, the
pointed leaves of this pure form are used in one portion of the mould-
ings, and in another are enriched by having their surfaces carved each into
a beautiful ribbed and pointed leaf. The capital, fig. 6. Plate IL , is nothing
more than fig. 13. so enriched; and the two conditions are quitQ con-
temporary, fig. 13. being from a beautiful series of fourth order windows
in Campo Sta. Ma. Mater Domini, already drawn in my folio work.

232 10. FINAL APPENDIX. ' m. camtam.

Fig. 13. is representative of the richest conditions of Gothic capital
which existed at the close of the thirteenth centnry. The bnilder of the
Dacal Palace amplified them into the form of fig. 9., but varying the leaf-
age in disposition and division of lobes in every capital ; and the workmen
trained under him executed many noble capitals for the Gothic palaces
of the early fourteenth century^ of which fig. 1 2. from a palace in the
Campo St. F0I09 is one of the most beautiful examples. In figs. 9. and
] 2. the reader sees the Venetian Gothic capital in its noblest developement.
The next step was to such forms as fig. 15., which is generally characteristic
of the late fourteenth and early fifteenth century Gothic, and of which I
hope the reader will at once perceive the exaggeration and corruption.

This capital is from a palace near the Miracoli, and is remarkable for
the delicate, though corrupt, ornament on its abacus, which is precisely the
same as that on the pillars of the screen of St Mark's. That screen is a
monument of very great value, for it shows the entire corruption of the
Gothic power, and the style of the later palaces accurately and completely
defined in all its parts, and is dated 1380 ; thus at once furnishing us with
a limited date, which throws all the noble work of the early Ducal Palace,
and all that is like it in Venice, thoroughly back into the middle of the
fourteenth century at the latest

Fig. 2. is the simplest condition of the capital universally employed in
the windows of the second order, noticed above. Vol. II. pp. 253. 254., as
belonging to a style of great importance in the transitional architecture of
Venice. Observe, that in all the capitals given in the lateral columns in
Plate IL , the points of the leaves turn aver. But in this central group
they liQ Jlat against the angle of the capital, and form a peculiarly light
and lovely succession of forms, occurring only in their purity in the win-
dows of the second order, and in some important monuments connected
with them.

In fig. 2. the leaf at the angle is cut, exactly in the manner of an
Egyptian bas-relief, into the stone, with a raised edge round it, and a
raised rib up the centre ; and this mode of execution, seen also in figs. 4.
and 7., is one of the collateral evidences of early date. But in figs. 5.
and 6., where more elaborate effect was required, the leaf is thrown out
boldly with an even edge from the surface of the capital, and enriched on
its own surface : and as the treatment of fig. 2. corresponds with that of
fig. 4., so that of fig. 5. corresponds with that of fig. 6. ; 2. and 5. having
the upright leaf, 4. and 6. the bending leaves ; but all contemporary.

Fig. 5. is the central capital of the windows of Casa Falier, drawn in
Plate XV. Vol. IL ; and one of the leaves set on its angles is drawn larger

in. CAPITALS. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 233

at fig. 7. Plate XX. Vol. II. It has no rib, but a sharp raised ridge
down its centre ; and its lobes, of which the reader will observe the cnri-
oQs form, — around in the middle one, truncated in the sides, — are wrought
with a precision and care which I have hardly ever seen equalled : but
of this more presently.

The next figure (8. Plate II.) is the most important capital of the whole
transitional period, that employed on the two columns of the Piazzetta.
These pillars are said to have been raised in the close of the twelfth cen-
tury, but I cannot find even the most meagre account of their bases,
capitals, or, which seems to me most wonderful, of that noble winged
lion, one of the grandest things produced by mediaBval art, which all men
admire, and none can draw. I have never yet seen a faithful represen-
tation of his firm, fierce, and fiery strength. I believe that both he and
the capital which bears him are late thirteenth century work. I have not
been up to the lion, and cannot answer for it ; but if it be not thirteenth
century work, it is as good ; and respecting the capitals, there can be small
question. They are of exactly the date of the oldest tombs, bearing
crosses, outside of St. John and Paul; and are associated with all the other
work of the transitional period, from 1250 to 1300 (the bases of these
pillars, representing the trades of Venice, ought, by the by, to have been
mentioned as among the best early efforts of Venetian grotesque) ; and,
besides, their abaci are formed by four reduplications of the dentilled
mouldings of St Mark's, which never occur after the year 1300.

Nothing can be more beautiful or original than the adaptation of these
broad bearing abaci ; but as they have nothing to do with the capital
itself, and could not easily be brought into the space, they are omitted in
Plate IL, where fig. 8. shows the bell of the capital only. Its profile is
curiously subtle, — apparently concave everywhere, but in reality concave
(all the way down) only on the angles, and slightly convex at the sides
(the profile through the side being 2 A, Plate X. Vol. II.); in this
subtlety of curvature, as well as in the simple cross, showing the influ-
ence of early times.

The leaf on the angle, of which more presently, is fig. 5. Plate XX.
Vol. II.

Connected with this school of transitional capitals we find a form
in the later Qothic, such as fig. 14., from the Church of San Stefano;
but which appears in part derived from an old and rich Byzantine type,
of which fig. 11., from the Fondaco de' Turchi, is a characteristic example.

I must now take the reader one step farther, and ask him to examine,
finally, the treatment of the leaves, down to the cutting of their most

236 10. FINAL APPENDIX. ul capitaia

tremities of the leaves, which, instead of merely nodding over, now curl
completely round into a kind of ball. This occurs early, and in tHe finest
Gothic wrok, especially in cornices and other running mouldings : but it
is a fatal symptom, a beginning of the intemperance of the later Gothic,
and it was followed out with singular avidity ; the ball of coiled leafage
increasing in size and complexity, and at last becoming the principal
feature of the work ; the light striking on its vigorous projection, as in
fig. 14. Nearly all the Benaissance Gothic of Venice depends upon these
balls for effect, a late capital being generally composed merely of an
upper and lower range of leaves terminating in this manner*

It is very singular and notable how, in this loss of temperance^ there is
loss of life. For truly healthy and living leaves do not bind themselves
into knots at the extremities. They bend, and wave, and nod, but never
curl. It is in disease or in death, by blight, or frost, or poison only, that
leaves in general assume this ingathered form. It is the flame of autumn
that has shrivelled them, or the web of the caterpillar that has bound
them : and thus the last forms of the Venetian leafage set forth the fate
of the Venetian pride; and, in their utmost luxuriance and abandonment,
perish as if eaten of worms.

And now, by glancing back to Plate X. Vol. IL, the reader will see
in a moment the kind of evidence which is found of the date of capitals
in their profiles merely. Observe, we have seen that the treatment of
the leaves in the Madonnetta House seemed ^^ indicative of a tendency to
transition." Note their profile, 1 a, and its close correspondence with
1 hy which is actually of a transitional capital from the upper arcade of
second order windows in the Apostoli Palace ; yet both shown to be very
close to the Byzantine period, if not belonging to it, by their fellowship
with the profile e, from the Fondaco de' Turchi. Then note the close
correspondence of all the other profiles in that line, which belong to the
concave capitals or plinths of the Byzantine palaces, and note their compo-
sition, the abacus being, in idea, merely an echo or reduplication of the
capital itself; as seen in perfect simplicity in the profile/, which is a roll
under a tM concave curve forming the bell of the capital, with a roll and
^hxyrt concave curve for its abacus. This peculiar abacus is an unfailing
test of early date; and our finding this simple profile used for the Ducal
Palace (/), is -strongly confirmatory of all our former conclusions.

Then the next row, 2, are the Byzantine and early Gothic semi-^convex
curves, in their pure forms, having no roll below ; but often with a roll
added, as at/, and in certain early Gothic conditions curiously fused into
it, with a cavetto between, as d, c^ d. But the more archaic form is as aty

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IV. AKOHivoLTS. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 237

and k; and as these two profiles are from the Ducal Palace and Piazzetta
shafts, they join again with the rest of the evidence of their early date.
The profiles i and k are both most beautiful ; i is that of the great
capitals of the Dacal Palace, and the small profiles between it and k are
the varieties used on the fillet at its base. The profile i should have had
leaves springing from it, as 1 ^ has, only more boldly, but there was no
room for them.

The reader cannot fail to discern at a glance the fellowship of the
whole series of profiles, 2 a to A, nor can he but with equal ease observe
a marked difference in 4 d and 4 e from any others in the plate ; the
bulging oijtlines of leafage being indicative of the luxuriant and flowing
masses, no longer expressible with a simple line, but to be considered
only as confined within it, of the later GK>thic. Now e/ is a dated pro-
file from the tomb of St. Isidore, 1355, which by its dog-tooth abacus
and heavy leafage distinguishes itself from all the other profiles, and
therefore throws them back into the first half of the century. But,
observe, it still retains the noble swelling root. This character soon after
vanishes ; and, in 1380, the profile ^, at once heavy, feeble, and ungrace-
ful, with a meagre and valueless abacus hardly discernible, is character-
istic of all the capitals of Venice.

Note, finally, this contraction of the abacus. Compare 4 ^, which is
the earliest form in the plate, from Murano, with 4 ^, which is the latest.
The other profiles show the gradual process of change ; only observe, in
3 a the abacus is not drawn ; it is so bold that it would not come into
the plate without reducing the bell curve to too small a scale.

So much for the evidence derivable from the capitals ; we have next
to examine that of the archivolts or arch mouldings.

IV. Abchivolts.

In Plate VIII., opposite, are arranged in one view all the conditions of
Byzantine archivolt employed in Venice, on a large scale. It will be
seen in an instant that there can be no mistaking the manner of their
masonry. The soffit of the arch is the horizontal line at the bottom of
all these profiles, and each of them (except 13. 14.) is composed of two
slabs of marble, one for the soffit, another for the face of the arch ;
the one on the soffit is worked on the edge into a roll (fig. 10.) or dentil
(fig. 9.), and the one on the face is bordered on the other side by
another piece let edgeways into the wall, and also worked into a roll or
dentil : in the richer archivolts a cornice is added to this roll, as in figs. 1.

238 10. FINAL APPENDIX. nr. archivoltb.

and 4., or takes its place, as in figs. 1. 3. 5. and 6. ; and in snch richer
examples the facestone, and often the soffit, are sculptured, the sculpture
being cut into their surfaces, as indicated in fig. 1 L The concavities cut
in the facestones of 1. 2. 4. 5. 6. are all indicative of sculpture in effect
like that of Fig. XXVI. p. 251. Vol. II., of which archivolt fig. 5. here
is the actual profile. The following are the references to the whole :

1. Bio Foscari House.

2. Terraced House, entrance door.

3. Small porticos of St. Mark's, external arches.

4. Arch on the canal at Ponte St Toma.

5. Arch of Corte del Remer.

6. Great outermost archivolt of central door, St Mark's.

7. Inner archivolt of southern porch of St Mark's fa^e-

8. Inner archivolt of central entrance, St. Mark's.

9. Fondaco de' Turchi, main arcade.

1 0. Byzantine restored house on Grand Canal, lower arcade.

11. Terraced House, upper arcade.

12. Inner archivolt of northern porch of fa^jade, St Mark's.

13. and 14. Transitional forms.

• There is little to he noted respecting these forms, except that, in fig. 1.,
the two lower rolls, with the angular projections between, represent the
fall of the mouldings of two proximate arches on the abacus of the bear-
ing shaft ; their two cornices meeting each other, and being gradually
narrowed into the little angular intermediate piece, their sculptures
being slurred into the contracted space, a curious proof of the earliness of
the work. The real archivolt moulding is the same as fig. 4. e c,
including only the midmost of the three rolls in fig. 1.

It will be noticed that 2. 5. 6. and 8. are sculptured on the soffits as
well as the faces ; 9. is the common profile of arches decorated only with
coloured marble, the facestone being coloured, the soffit white. The
effect of such a moulding is seen in the small windows at the right hand
of Fig. XXVI. p. 251. Vol. 11.

The reader will now see that there is but little difficulty in identifying
Byzantine work, the archivolt mouldings being so similar among them-
selves, and so unlike any others. We have next to examine the Gothic
forms.

Figs. 13. and 14. in Plate VIIL represent the first brick mouldings of
the transitional period, occurring in such instances as Fig. XXIII. or Fig.
XXXIIL Vol. IL (the soffit stone of the Byzantine mouldings being
taken away), and this profile, translated into solid stone, forms the
almost universal moulding of the windows of the second order. These

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IV. ARCHivoLTB. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 239

two brick moaldings are repeated, for the sake of compariBOD, at the top
of Plate IX. opposite ; and the upper range of mouldings which they
commence, in that plate, are the brick mouldings of Venice in the early
Gothic period. All the forms below are in stone; and the moulding 2.,
translated into stone, forms the universal archivolt of the early pointed
arches of Venice, and windows of second and third orders. The mould-
ing 1. is much rarer, and used for the most part in doors only.

The reader will see at once the resemblance of character in the various
flat brick mouldings, 3. to 11. They belong to such arches as 1. and 2.
in Plate XVII. Vol. II. ; or 6 *, 6 c, in Plate XIV. Vol. IL, 7. and 8.
being actually the mouldings of those two doors ; the whole group
being perfectly defined, and separate from all the other Gothic work in
Venice, and clearly the result of an effort to imitate, in brickwork, the
effect of the flat sculptured archivolts of the Byzantine times. (See Vol.
IL Chap. VIL § XXXVII.)

Then comes the group 14. to 18. in stone, derived from the mouldings
1. and 2. ; first by truncation, 14. ; then by beading the truncated angle,
15. 16. The occurrence of the profile 16. in the three beautiful windows
represented in the uppermost figure of Plate XVIII. Vol. L renders
that group of peculiar interest, and is strong evidence of its antiquity.
Then a cavetto is added, 17. ; first shallow and then deeper, 18., which
is the common archivolt moulding of the central Gothic door and window;
but, in the windows of the early fourth order, this moulding is com-
plicated by various additions of dog-tooth mouldings under the dentil,
as in 20. ; or the gcMed dentU (see fig. 20. Plate IX. p. 260. Vol. I.),
as fig. 21. ; or boCb, as figs. 23. 24. All these varieties expire in the
advanced period, and the established moulding for windows is 29. The
intermediate group, 25. to 28., I found only in the high windows of the
third order in the Ducal Palace, or in the Chapter-house of the Frari, or
in the arcades of the Ducal Palace ; the great outside lower arcade of the
Ducal Palace has the profile 31., the left-hand side being the innermost.

Now observe, all these archivolts, without exception, assume that the
spectator looks from the outside only: none are complete on both sides;
they are essentially window mouldings, and have no resemblance to those
of our perfect Gothic arches prepared for traceries. If they were all
completely drawn in the plate, they should be as fig. 25., having a great
depth of wall behind the mouldings, but it was useless to represent this
in every case. The Ducal Palace begins to show mouldings on both
sides, 28. 31. ; and 35. is a complete arch moulding from the apse of the
FrarL That moulding, though so perfectly developed, is earlier than the
Ducal Palace, and, with other features of the building, indicates the

240 10. FINAL APPENDIX. iv. abchivolts.

completeness of the Gothic system, which made the architect of the
Ducal Palace found his work principally upon that church.

The other examples in this plate show the various modes of combina-
tion employed in richer archivolts. The triple change of slope in B8. is
very curious. The references are as follows :

1. Transitional to the second order.

2. Common second order.

3. Brick, at Corte del Forno, round arch.

4. Door at San Giovanni Grisostomo.

5. Door at Sotto Portico della Stua.

6. Door in Campo St Luca, of rich brickwork.

7. Bound door at Fondamenta Yenier.

8. Pointed door. Fig 6 c, Plate XIV. Vol. II.

9. Great pointed arch, Salizzada San Lio.

10. Bound door near Fondaco de' Turchi.

11. Door with Lion, at Ponte della Corona.

12. San Gregorio, facade.

^ ,^ 13. St. John and Paul, nave.

' 14. Bare early fourth order, at San Cassan.

15. General early Gothic archivolt.

16. Same, from door in Bio San G. Grisostomo.

17. Casa Vittura.

18. Casa Sagredo, unique thirds. Page 257. Vol. 11.

19. Murano Palace, unique fourths.*

20. Pointed door of Four-Evangelist House, t

21. Keystone door in Campo St M. Formosa.

22. Bare fourths, at St Pantaleou.

23. Bare fourths, Casa Papadopoli.

24. Bare fourths. Chess house, t

25. Thirds of Frari Cloister.

26. Great pointed arch of Frari Cloister.

27. Unique thirds. Ducal Palace.

28. Inner cortile, pointed arches. Ducal Palace.

29. Common fourth and fifth order archivolt.

♦ Cloae ,'to the bridge over the main channel through Murano is a massive four-square
Qothic palace, containing some curious traceries, and many unique tranaitional forms of
window, among which these windows of the fourth order occnr, with a roU within their
dentU band.

t Thus, for the sake of convenience, we may generally call the palace with the emblems
of the Evangelists on its spandrils, p. 265. Vol. II.

t The house with chequers like a chess-board on its spandrils, given in my folio work.

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V. OOBKICE0.

10. PINAL APPENDIX. 241

30. Uniqae thirds, Ducal Palace.

31. Dacal Palace, lower arcade.

32. Casa Priuli, arches in the inner court

33. Circle above the central window, Ducal Palace.
p j^ 34. Murano apse.

V 1 TTT ' ^^' -^cute-pointed arch, Frari

36. Door of Accademia delle belle Arti.

37. Door in Calle Tiossi, near Four^Evangelist House.

38. Door in Campo San Polo.

39. Door of palace at Ponte Marcello.

40. Door of a palace close to the Church of the Miracoli.

V. Cornices.

Plate X. represents, in one view, the cornices or string-courses of
Venice, and the abaci of its capitals, early and late ; these two features
being inseparably connected, as explained at p. 113. Vol. I.

The evidence given by these mouldings i^r exceedingly clear. The two
upper lines in the Plate, 1 — 11., 12 — 24., are all plinths from Byzantine
buildings. The reader will at once observe their unmistakable resem-
blances. The row 41. to 50. are contemporary abaci of capitals ; 52. 53.
54. 56. are examples of late Gothic abaci ; and observe, especially, these
are all rounded at the top of the cavetto, but the Byzantine abaci are
rounded, if at all, at the bottom of the cavetto (see 7. 8. 9. 10. 20. 28. 46.).
Consider what a valuable test of date this is, in any disputable building.

Again, compare 28. 29., one from St Mark's, the other from the
Ducal Palace, and observe the close resemblance, giving further evidence
of early date in the palace.

25. and 50. are drawn to the same scale. The former is the wall-coroice,
the latter the abacus of the great shafts, in the Casa Loredan ; the one
passing into the other, as seen in Fig. XXVIII. p. 113. Vol. I. It is
curious to watch the change in proportion, while the moulding, all but
the lower roll, remains the same.

The following are the references :

1. Common plinth of St. Mark's.

_ 2. Plinth above lily capitals, St. Mark's.
Plate X */ r ?

3, 4. Plinths in early surface Gothic.

Vol. III. ^ Plinth of door in Campo St. Luca.

6. Plinth of treasury door, St Mark's.
VOL. III. R

242 10. PINAL APPENDIX. v. oobviobb.

7. Archivolts of nave, St Mark's.

8. Archivolts of treasury door, St. Mark's.

9. Moulding of circular window in St John and Paul.

10. Chief decorated narrow plinth, St Mark's.

11. Plinth of door, Campo St Margherita.

12. Plinth of tomb of Doge Vital Falier.

13. Lower plinth, Fondaoo de' Torchi, and Terraced House.

14. Running plinth of Corte del Reiner.

15. Highest plinth at top of Fondaco de' Turchi.

16. Common Byzantine plinth.

1 7. Running plinth of Casa Falier.

18. Plinth of arch at Ponte St Toma.

19. 20, 21. Plinths of tomb of Doge Vital Falier.

22. Plinth of window in Calle del Pistor.

23. Plinth of tomb of Dogaressa Vital Michele.

24. Archivolt in the Frari.

25. Running plinth, Casa Loredan.

26. Running plinth, under pointed arch, in Salizzada San Lio.

p y 27. Running plinth, Casa Erizzo.

\T 1 TTT 28. Circles in portico of St Mark's.
Vol. 111. ^^ ,^ , ^ , . ,

29. Ducal Palace cornice, lower arcade.

80. Ducal Palace cornice, upper arcade.

31. Central Gothic plinth.

32. Late Gothic plinth.

33. Late Gk)thic plinth, Casa degli Ambasciatori.

34. Late Gothic plinth, palace near the Jesuiti.

35. 36. Central balcony cornice.

37. Plinth of St Mark's balustrade.

38. Cornice of the Frari, in brick, cabled.

39. Central balcony plinth.

40. Uppermost cornice, Ducal Palace.

41. Abacus of lily capitals, St. Mark's.

42. Abacus, Fondaco de' Turchi.

43. Abacus, large capital of Terraced House.

44. Abacus, Fondaco de' Turchi,

45. Abacus, Ducal Palace, upper arcade.

46. Abacus, Corte del Remer.

47. Abacus, small pillars, St Mark's pulpit

48. Abacus, Murano and Torcello.

VL TKACRRIES. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 243

49. Abacus, Casa FarBetti.

50. Abacas, Casa Loredan, lower story.

51. Abacus, Capitals of FrarL

p ^ 52. Abacus, Casa Cavalli (plain).
' 53. Abacus, Casa Priuli (flowered).

54. Abacus, Casa Foscari (plain).

55. Abacus, Casa Priuli (flowered).

56. Abacus, Plate 11. fig. 15.

57. Abacus, St. John and Paul.

58. Abacus, St. Stefauo.

It is only farther to be noted, that these mouldings are used, in various
proportions, for all kinds of purposes : sometimes for true cornices ;
sometimes for window-sills ; sometimes, 3. and 4. (in the Gothic time)
especially, for dripstones of gables : 11. and such others form little
plinths or abaci at the spring of arches, such as those shown at a^ Fig.
XXIIL p. 241, Vol. 11. Finally, a large number of superb Byzantine
cornices occur, of the form shown at the top of the arch in Plate V.
Vol. 11. , having a profile like 16. or 19. here; with nodding leaves of
acanthus thrown out from it, being, in fact, merely one range of the leaves
of a Byzantine capital unwrapped, and formed into a continuous line. I
had prepared a large mass of materials for the illustration of these
cornices, and the Gothic ones connected with them ; but found the
subject would take up another volume, and was forced, for the present, to
abandon it. The lower series of profiles, 7. to 12. in Plate XV. Vol. I.,
shows how the leaf-ornament is laid on the simple early cornices.

*

VI. Tracekies.

We have only one subject more to examine, the character of the early
and late tracery bars.

The reader may perhaps have been surprised at the small attention
given to traceries in the course of the preceding volumes : but the
reason is, that there are no complicated traceries at Venice belonging to
the good Gothic time, with the single exception of those of the Casa
Cicogna \ and the magnificent arcades of the Ducal Palace Gk)thic are so
simple as to require little explanation.

There are, however, two curious circumstances in the later traceries ;
the first, that they are universally considered by the builder (as the old
Byzantines considered sculptured surfaces of stone) as material out of

244 10. FINAL APPENDIX. vi. tbaobrms.

which a certain portion is to be cuty to fill his window. A fine Northern
Gothic tracery is a complete and systematic arrangement of arches and
foliation, cu^usted to the form of the window ; bnt a Venetian tracery is
a piece of a larger composition, cut to the shape of the window. In the
Porta della Carta, in the Church of the Madonna dell' Orto, in the Casa
Bernardo on the Grand Canal, in the old Church of the Misericordia, and
wherever else there are rich traceries in Venice, it will always be found
that a certain arrangement of quatrefoils and other figures has been
planned as if it were to extend indefinitely into miles of arcade ; and
out of this colossal piece of marble lace, a piece in the shape of a window
is cut, mercilessly and fearlessly : whatever fragments and odd shapes
of interstice, remnants of this or that figure of the divided foliation,
may occur at. the edge of the window, it matters not ; all are cut across,
and shut in by the great outer archivolt.

It is very curious to find the Venetians treating what in other countries
became of so great individual importance, merely as a kind of diaper
ground, like that of their chequered colours on the walls. There is great
grandeur in the idea, though the system of their traceries was spoilt by
it: but they always treated their buildings as masses of colour rather than
of line ; and the great traceries of the Ducal Palace itself are not spared
any more than those of the minor palaces. They are cut off at the fianks
in the middle of their quatrefoils, and the terminal mouldings take up
part of the breadth of the poor half of a quatrefoil at the extremity.

One other circumstance is notable also. In good Northern Gothic the
tracery bars are of a constant profile, the same on both sides ; and if the
plan of the tracery leaves any interstices so small that there is not room
for the ftill profile of the tracery bar all round them, those interstices are
entirely closed, the tracery bars being supposed to have met each other.
But in Venice, if an interstice becomes anywhere inconveniently small,
the tracery bar is sacrificed, cut away, or in some way altered in profile,
in order to afford more room for the light, especially in the early traceries,
so that one side of a tracery bar is often quite different from the other.
For instance, in the bars 1. and 2., Plate XL, from the Frari and St John
and Paul, the uppermost side is towards a great opening, and there was
room for the bevel or slope to the cusp ; but in the other side the opening
was too small, and the bar falls vertically to the cusp. In 5. the upper-
most side is to the narrow aperture, and the lower to the small one; and
in fig, 9., from the Casa Cicogna, the uppermost side is to the apertures
of the tracery, the lowermost to the arches beneath, the great roll foUowiDg

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VI. TRiCKRiKS. 10. FINAL APPENDIX. 245

the design of the tracery ; while 13. and 14. are left without the roll
at the base of their cayettos on the uppermost sides, which are turned to
narrow apertures. The earliness of the Casa Cicogna tracery is seen in
a moment by its being moulded on the face only. It is in fact nothing
more than a series of quatrefoiled apertures in the solid wall of the
house, with mouldings on their faces, and magnificent arches of pure
pointed fifth order sustaining them below.

The following are the references to the figures in the plate :

1. Frari.

2. Apse, St. John and Paul.

3. Frari.

4. Ducal Palace, inner court, upper window.

5. Madonna dell' Orto.

6. St. John and Paul*

7. Casa Bernardo.

8. Casa Contarini Fasan.

9. Casa Cicogna.
10, 11. Frari

12. Murano Palace (see note, p. 240.).

13. Misericordia.

14. Palace of the younger Foscari.*
Platk XL 15. Casa d' Oro; great single windows.

Vol. III. 16. Hotel DanielL

17. Ducal Palace.

18. Casa Erizzo, on Grand Canal.

19. Main story, Casa Cavalli.

20. Younger Foscari.

21. Ducal Palace, traceried windows.

22. Porta della Carta.

23. Casa d* Oro.

24. Casa d' Oro, upper story.

25. Casa Facanon.

26. Casa Cavalli, near Post-Office.

It will be seen at a glance that, except in the very early fillet traceries
of the Frari and St. John and Paul, Venetian work consists of roll
traceries of one general pattern. It will be seen also, that 10. and 11.

• The palace next the Casa PoBcari, on the Grand Canal, sometimes sai^ to have
belonged to the son of the Doge.

246

10. FINAL APPENDIX.

TL TRACSBnS.

Fig. II.

a

from the Frari, furnish the first examples of the fonn afterwards com-
pletely developed in 17., the tracery bar of the Dacal Palace ; but that
this bar differs from them in greater strength and squareness, and in
addipg a recess between its smaller roll and the cusp. Observe, that
this is done for strength chiefly ; as in the contemporary tracery (21.)
of the upper windows, no such additional thickness is used

Figure 1 7. is slightly inaccurate. The little curved recesses behind
the smaller roll are not equal on each side ; that next the cusp is small-
est, being about f of an inch, while that next the cavetto is about i ; to
such an extent of subtlety did the old builders carry their love of change.
The return of the cavetto in 21. 23. and 26. is comparatively rare,
and is generally a sign of later date.

The reader must observe that the great sturdiness of the form of the
bars, 5. 9. 17. 24. 25., is a consequence of the peculiar office of Venetian
traceries in supporting the mass of the building above, already noticed
at p. 239. of Vol. IL ; and indeed the forms of the Venetian Gothic are,

in many other ways, influenced by the dif-
ficulty of obtaining stability on sandy founda-
tions. One thing is especially noticeable in
all their arrangements of traceries ; namely, the
endeavour to obtain equal and horizontal pres-
sure along the whole breadth of the build-
ing, not the divided and local pressures of
- Northern Gothic. This object is considerably
aided by the structure of the balconies, which
are of great service in knitting the shafts to-
" gether, forming complete tie-beams of marble,
as well as a kind of rivets, at their bases. For
instance, at by Fig. II. , is represented the
masonry of the base of the upper arcade of
the Ducal Palace, showing the root of one
of its main shafts, with the binding balconies.
The solid stones which form the foundation
are much broader than the balcony shafts, so
that the socketed arrangement is not seen : it
is shown as it would appear in a longitudinal
section. The balconies are not let into the
circular shafts, but fitted to their circular
curves, so as to grasp them, and riveted with metal ; and the bars of

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CUSPS.

10. FINAL APPENDIX.

247

stone which form the tops of the balconies axe of great strength and
depth, the small trefoiled arches being cut ont of them as in Fig. III., so

Fig. III.

as hardly to diminish their binding
power. In the lighter independent
balconies they are often cut deeper;
but in all cases the bar of stone
is nearly independent of the small
shafts placed beneath it, and would
stand firm though these were re-
moved, as at a. Fig. II., supported
either by the main shafts of the traceries, or by its own small pilasters
with semi-shafts at their sides, of the plan d, Fig. II., in a continuous
balcony, and e at the angle of one.

There is one more very curious circumstance illustrative of the Ve-
netian desire to obtain horizontal pressure. In >all the Qothic stair-
cases with which I am acquainted, out of Venice, in which vertical shafts
are used to support an inclined line, those shafts are connected by
arches rising each above the other, with a little bracket above the capitals,
on the side where it is necessary to raise the arch ; or else, though less
gracefully, with a longer curve to the lowest side of the arch.

But the Venetians seem to have had a morbid horror of arches which
were not on a level. They could not endure the appearance of the roof
of one arch bearing against the side of another ; and rather than intro-
duce the idea of obliquity into bearing curves, they abandoned the
arch principle altogether : so that even in their richest Gothic stair-
cases, where trefoiled arches, exquisitely decorated, are used on the
landings, they ran the shafts on the sloping stair simply into the bar of
stone above them, and used the excessively ugly and valueless arrange-
ment Cy Fig. II., rather than sacrifice the sacred horizontaliiy of their
arch system.

It will be noted, in Plate XI., that the form and character of the
tracery bars themselves are independent of the position or projection of
the cusps on their flat sides. In this respect, also, Venetian traceries are
peculiar, the example 22. of the Porta della Carta being the only one
in the plate which is subordinated according to the Northern system. In
every other case the form of the aperture is determined, either by a flat
and solid cusp as in 6., or by a pierced cusp as in 4. The effect of the
pierced cusp is seen in the uppermost figure, Plate XVIIL Vol. II. ; and
its derivation from the solid cusp will be understood, at once, from the wood-

248 10. FINAL APPENDIX.

cot below, Fig. IV., which reptesents a fleriee of the flanking stones of
any im:h of the fifth order, such as/ in Plate IIL Vol. L

The first on the left shows the condition of cosp in a perfectly simple
and early Gothic arch, 2. and 3. are those of common arches of the fifth

Fig. IV.

order, 4. is the condition in more studied examples of the Gothic ad-
vanced guard, and 5, connects them all with the sj^tem of traceries.
Introducing the common archivolt mouldings on the projecting edge of
2. and 8., we obtain the bold and deep fifth order window, nsed down
to the close of the fourteenth century or even later, and always grand
in its depth of cusp, and consequently of
*^& V shadow ; hnt the narrow cnsp 4. occurs also

in very early work, and is piquant when set
beneath a bold flat archivolt, as in Fig. Y.,
from the Corte del Forno at Santa Marina.
The pierced cusp gives a peculiar lightness
and brilliancy to the window, but is not so
sublime. In the richer buildings the surface
of the fiat and solid cunp is decorated with a
shallow trefoil (see Plate VIH Vol. I), or,
when the cusp is small, with a triangntar in-
cision only, as seen in figs, 7. and 8. Plate XI.
The recesses on the sides of the other cnsps indicate their single or
double lines of foliation. The cusp of the Ducal Palace has a fillet only
round its edge, and a hall of red marble on its truncated point, and is
perfect in its grand simplicity ; but in general the cusps of Venice are
far inferior to those of Verona and of the other cities of Italy, chiefly
because there was always some confusion in the mind of the designer
between true cusps and the mere bending inwards of the arch of the

CUSPS.

10. PINAL APPENDIX. 249

fourth order. The two series, 4 a to 4 e, and 5 a to 5 «, in Plate XIV.
Vol. 11. , are arranged so as to show this connection, as well as the varie-
fi^B of curvature in the trefoiled arches of the fourth and fifth orders,
which, though apparently slight on so small a scale, are of enormous
importance in distant effect ; a house in which the joints of the cusps
project as much as in 5 ^, being quite piquant and grotesque when com-
pared with one in which the cusps are subdued to the form 5 b. Ad and
4 6 are Veronese forms, wonderfully effective and spirited; the latter
occurs at Verona only, but the former at Venice also. 5 d occurs in
Venice, but is very rare ; and 5 el found only once, on the narrow canal
close to the entrance door of the Hotel Danieli. It was partly walled
up, but I obtained leave to take down the brickwork and lay open one
side of the arch, which may still be seen.

The above particulars are enough to enable the reader to judge of
the distinctness of evidence which the details of Venetian architecture
bear to its dates. Farther explanation of the plates would be vainly
tedious : but the architect who uses these volumes in Venice will find
them of value, in enabling him instantly to class the mouldings which
may interest him ; and for this reason I have given a larger number of
examples than would otherwise have been sufficient for my purpose.

INDICES

INDICES.

I. PERSONAL INDEX. | III. TOPICAL INDEX.
IL LOCAL INDEX. IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

The first of the following Indices contains the names of persons ; the
second those of places (not in Venice) alluded to in the body of the
work. The third Index consists of references to the subjects touched
upon. In the fourth, called the Venetian Index, I have named every
building of importance in the city of Venice itself, or near it ; supply-
ing, for the convenience of the traveller, short notices of those to which
I had no occasion to allude in the text of the work; and making the whole
as complete a guide as I could, with such added directions as I should
have given to any private friend visiting the city. As, however, in many
cases, the opinions I have expressed differ widely from those usually
received ; and, in other instances, subjects which maybe of much interest
to the traveller have not come within the scope of my inquiry ; the
reader had better take Lazari's small Guide in his^ hand also, as he will
find in it both the information I have been unable to furnish, and the
expression of most of the received opinions upon any subject of art.

Various inconsistencies will be noticed in the manner of indicating the
buildings, some being named in Italian, some in English, and some
half in one, and half in the other. But these inconsistencies are per-
mitted in order to save trouble, and make the Index more practically

254 EXPLANATORY NOTE.

useful. For instance, I believe the traveller will generally look for
" Mark," rather than for "Marco," when he wishes to find the reference
to St Mark's Church ; but I think he will look for Bocco, rather than
for Boch, when he is seeking for the account of the Scuola di San Bocoo.
So also I have altered the character in which the titles of the plates are
printed, from the black letter in the first volume, to the plain Soman in
the second and third ; finding experimentally that the former character
was not easily legible, and conceiving that the book would be none the
worse for this practical illustration of its own principles, in a daring
sacrifice of symmetry to convenience.

These alphabetical Indices will, however, be of little use, unless another,
and a very different kind of Index, be arranged in the mind of the reader ;
an Index explanatory of the principal purposes and contents of the various
parts of this essay. It is difficult to analyze the nature of the reluctance
with which either a writer or painter takes it upon him to explain the
meaning of his own work, even in cases where, without such explanation,
it must in a measure remain always disputable : but I am persuaded that
this reluctance is, in most instances, carried too far ; and that, wherever
there really is a serious purpose in a book or a picture, the author does
wrong who, either in modesty or vanity (both feelings have their share in
producing the dislike of personal interpretation), trusts entirely to the pa-
tience and intelligence of the readers or spectators to penetrate into their
significance. At all events, I will, as far as possible, spare such trouble
with respect to these volumes, by stating here, finally and clearly, both
what they intend, and what they contain ; and this the rather because I
have lately noticed, with some surprise, certain reviewers announcing as
a discovery, what I thought had lain palpably on the surface of the book,
namely, that " if Mr. Ruskin be right, all the architects, and all the
architectural teaching of the last three hundred years, must have been
wrong." That is indeed precisely the fact ; and the very thing I meant
to say, which indeed I thought I had said over and over again. I
believe the architects of the last three centuries to have been wrong ;
wrong without exception ; wrong totally, and from the foundation. This
is exactly the point I have been endeavouring to prove, from the begin-
ning of this work to the end of it. But as it seems not yet to have
been stated clearly enough, I will here try to put my entire theorem into
an 'Unmistakable form.

' The various nations who attained eminence in the arts before the time
of Christ, each of them, produced forms of architecture which in their

EXPLANATOEY NOTE. 255

varioiiB degrees of merit were almost exactly indicatiye of the degrees of
intellectual and moral energy of the nations which originated them ; and
each reached its greatest perfection at the time when the true energy
and prosperity of the people who had invented it were at their culmi-
nating point. Many of these varioos styles of architecture were good,
considered in relation to the times and races which gave birth to them ;
but none were absolutely good or perfect, or fitted for the practice of all
future time.

The advent of Christianity for the first time rendered possible the full
developement of the soul of man, and therefore the full developement of
the arts of man.

Christianity gave birth to a new architecture, not only immeasurably
superior to all that had preceded it, but demonstrably the best architec-
ture that can exist ; perfect in construction and decoration, and fit for
the practice of all time.

This architecture, commonly called ^^ Gk>thic,'' though in conception
perfect, like the theory of a Christian character, never reached an actual
perfection, having been retarded and corrupted by various adverse influ-
ences ; but it reached its highest perfection, hitherto manifested, about
the close of the thirteenth century, being then indicative of a peculiar
energy in the Christian mind of Europe.

In the course of the fifteenth century, owing to various causes which
I have endeavoured to trace in the preceding pages, the Christianity of
Europe was undermined ; and a Pagan architecture was introduced, in
imitation of that of the Greeks and Romans.

The architecture of the Greeks and Romans themselves was not good,
but it was natural, and, as I said before, good in some respects, and for a
particular time.

But the imitative architecture introduced first in the fifleenth cen-
tury, and practised ever since, was neither good nor natural. It was
good in no respect, and for no time. All the architects who have
built in that style have built what was worthless; and therefore the
greater part of the architecture which has been built for the last three
hundred years, and which we are now building, is worthless. We
must give up this style totally, despise it and forget it, and build
henceforward only in that perfect and Christian style hitherto called
Gothic, which is everlastingly the best.

This is the theorem of these volumes.

In support of this theorem, the first volume contains, in its first

256 EXPLANATORY NOTE.

chapter, a sketch of the actual history of Christian architecture, np to
the period of the Reformation; and, in the subsequent chapters, an
analysis of the entire system of the laws of architectural construction
and decoration, deducing from those laws positive conclusions as to the
best forms and manners of building for all time.
, The second volume contains, in its first five chapters, an account of

' one of the most important and least known forms of Christian archi-

tecture, as exhibited in Venice, together with an analysis of its nature
in the fourth chapter; and, which is a peculiarly important part of
this section, an account of the power of colour over the human mind.

The sixth chapter of the second volume contains an analysis of the
nature of Qothic architecture, properly so called, and shows that in
its external form it complies precisely with the abstract laws of struc-
ture and beauty, investigated in the first volume. The seventh and
eighth chapters of the second volume illustrate the nature of GU)thic
architecture by various Venetian examples. The third volume inves-
tigates, in its first chapter, the causes and manner of the corruption of
Gothic architecture ; in its second chapter, defines the nature of the
Pagan architecture which superseded it; in the third chapter, shows
the connection of that Pagan architecture with the various characters
of mind which brought about the destruction of the Venetian nation ;
and, in the fourth chapter, points out the dangerous tendencies in the
modern mind which the practice of such an architecture indicates.

Such is the intention of the preceding pages, which I hope will no
more be doubted or mistaken. As far as regards the manner of its
fulfilment, though I hope, in the course of other inquiries, to add much
to the elucidation of the points in dispute, I cannot feel it necessary
to apologise for the imperfect handling of a subject which the labour
of a long life, had I been able to bestow it, must still have left imper-
fectly treated.

257

I.

PERSONAL INDEX.

A.

Albebti, Duccio degli, his tomb, III. 74. 80.

Alexander III., his defence by Venetians, I. 7.

Ambrose, St, his verbal subtleties, IL 320.

Angelico^ Fr&, artistical power of, L 385. ; his influence on Protestants,

II. 104. ; his colouring, IL 145.
Aristotle, his evil influence on the modern mind, II. 319.
Averulinus, his book on architecture, III. 63.

B.

Barbaro, monuments of the family, UI. 125.

Barbarossa, Emperor, L 7. 9.

Baseggio, Pietro, III. 199.

Bellini, John, I. 11. ; his kindness to Albert Durer, I. 370. ; general

power of, see Venetian Index under head ^^ Giovanni Grisostomo;''

Gentile, his brother, IIL 21.
Berti, Bellincion, IL 263.
Browning, Elizabeth B., her poetry, IL 206.

Bunsen, Chevalier, his work on Romanesque churches, IL 379. 380.
Bunyan, John, his portraiture of Constancy, IL 333. ; of Patience, II.

334. ; of Vanity, IL 346 ; of Sin, IIL 147.

C.

Calendario, Filippo, IIL 199.

Canaletto, I. 23. ; and see Venetian Index under head ^^ Carit&."
VOL. Til. s

258 I. PERSONAL IKDEX.

Ganovay I. 211. ; and see Venetian Index under head ^^ Frari/'

Cappello, Yincenzo, his tomb, IIL 122.,

Caracci, school of the, L 23.

Gary, his translation of Dante, II. 264.

Gavalli, Jacopo, his tomb, IIL 82.

Cicero, influence of his philosophy, II. 316. 317.

Claude Lorraine, I. 23. 24.

Comnenus, Manuel, II. 263.

Comaro, Marco, his tomb, IIL 79.

Correggio, IL 192.

Crabbe, naturalism in his poetry, IL 195.

D.

Dandolo, Andrea, tomb of, IL 68. ; Francesco, tomb of, IIL 74. ; character

of, IIL 76. ; Simon, tomb of, IIL 79.
Dante, his central position, IL 342., IIL 158. ; his system of virtue, IL

324. ; his portraiture of Sin, IIL 147.
Daru, his character as a historian, IIL 211.
Dolci, Carlo, IL 104.
Dolfino, Giovanni, tomb of, IIL 77.
Durer, Albert, his rank as a landscape painter, I. 369. ; his power in

grotesque, IIL 145.

E.
Edwin, King, his conversion, III. 61.

F.

Faliero, Bertuccio, his tomb, IIL 93. ; Marino, his house, IL 254. ;

Yitale, miracle in his time, IL 59.
Fergusson, James, his system of beauty, I. 374.
Foscari, Francesco, his reign, I. 4., IIL 165. ; his tomb, IIL 84. ; his

countenance, IIL 86.

G.

Garbett, answer to Mr., I. 386.
Ghiberti, Ms sculpture, L 211.

CANOVA — ^MILTON. 259

Giotto, his BTstem of the virtaes, IL 823. 329. 342. ; his rank as a

painter, II. 188., IIL 174.
Ginlio Romano, L 23.
Giustiniani, Marco, his tomb, I. 306. ; Sebastian, ambassador to England,

HL 219.
Godfrey of Bonillon, his piety. III. 62.
Gozzoli, Benozzo, IL 195.
Gradenigo, Fietro, IL 291.
Grande, Can, della Scala, his tomb, L 307. (the cornice g in Plate XYI.

is taken from it), IIL 71.
Gnariento, his Paradise, II. 296.
Gnercino, IL 104.

Hamilton, Colonel, his paper on the Serapenm, IL 221.
Hobbima, UL 184.

Hant, William, his painting of peasant boys, IL 193. ; of still life, II. 391.
Hnnt, William Holman, relation of his works to modern and ancient art,
m. 186.

K.

Knight, Gaily, his work on architecture, I. 365.

L.

Leonardo da Vinci, II. 171.
Lonis XL, IIL 194.

M.

Martin, John, IL 104.

Mastino, Can, della Scala, his tomb, IL 225. 227., IIL 72.
Maynard, Miss, her poems, IL 393.
Michael Angelo, IL 135. 188., IIL 57. 89. 99. 158.
Millais, John E., relation of his works to older art, III. 185. ; aerial per-
spective in his " Huguenot," IIL 47.
Milton, how inferior to Dante, IIL 147.

260 I. PERSONAL INDEX.

MocenigOy Tomaso, his character, I. 7. ; his speech on rebuilding the

Ducal Palace, II. 299. ; his tomb, I. 25., III. 83.
Morosini, Carlo, Count, note on, Darn's History by. III. 211.
Morosini, Marino, his tomb. III. 92.

Morosini, Michael, his character. III. 211. ; his tomb, IIL 79.
Murillo, his sensualism, IL 193.

N.

Napoleon, his genius in civil administration, I. 383.
Niccolo Pisano, L 209.

0.

Orcagna, his system of the virtues, II. 329.

Qrseolo, Pietro (Doge), IIL 120.

Otho the Great, his vow at Murano, IL 32.

P.

Palladio, L 23. 149. ; and see Venetian Index under head ^^ Giorgio

Maggiore."
Participazio, Angelo, founds the Ducal Palace, IL 287.
PesarOy Giovanni, tomb of, IIL 91. ; Jacopo, tomb of, IIL 90.
Philippe de Commynes, I. 12.

Plato, influence of his philosophy, IL 316. 338. ; his playfulness, IIL 127.
Poussin, Niccolo and Gaspar, I. 23, 24.
Procaccini, Camillo, IL 188.
Prout, Samuel, his style, I. 247., IIL 19. 134.
Pugin, Welby, his rank as an architect, L 371.

Q.

Querini, Marco, his palace, IL 255.

R.

Raffaelle, IL 188., IIL 66. 107. 135.

Reynolds, Sir J., his painting at New College, II. 323. ; his general
manner. III. 184.

MOCENIGO — VEROCCHIO. 26 1

Rogers, Samuel, his works, IT. 195., III. 113.

Rubens, intellectulkl rank of, I. 384. ; coarseness of, II. 145.

S.

Salvator Rosa, I. 23., IL 105. 145. 188.

Scaligeri, tombs of, at Verona ; see " Grande," " Mastino," " Signorio ; "

palace of, IL 258.
Scott, Sir W., his feelings of romance, IIL 191.
Shakespeare, his " Seven Ages,** whence derived, IT. 381.
Sharpe, Edmund, his works, I. 332. 365.
Signorio, Can, della Scala, his tomb, character, I. 260. IIL 73.
Simplicius, St., II. 356.
Spenser, value of his philosophy, II. 327. 338. ; his personifications of

the months, U. 272. ; his system of the virtues, IL 326. ; scheme of the

first book of the " Faerie Queen," IIL 204.
Steno, Michael, IL 296. ; his tomb, IL 383.
Stothard (the painter), his works, IL 188. 195.
Symmachus, St., U. 358.

T.

Teniers, David, IL 188.

Tiepolo, Jacopo and Lorenzo, their tombs. III. 68. ; Bajamonte, II. 255*

Tintoret, L 11. ; his genius and function, IL 149. ; his Paradise, IL 303.

373. ; his rank among the men of Italy, III. 158.
Titian, L 11. ; his function and fall, IL 149. 188.
Turner, his rank as a landscape painter, I. 369., IL 188. 193.

U.

Uguccione, Benedetto, destroys Giotto's facade at Florence, I. 192.

V.

Yendramin, Andrea (Doge), his tomb, I. 26., III. 88.
Yerocchio, Andrea, III. 14. 15.

262 I. PEBSONAL INDEX.

Veronese, Paul, artistical rank of, I. 384. ; his designs of balustrades, IL
248. ; and see in Venetian Index, " Ducal Palace," " Pisani," " Sebas-
tian," " Redentore," " Accademia."

W.

West, Benjamin, n. 104.

Wordsworth, his observation of nature, L 240. (note).

Z.

Zeno, Carlo, L 4., IIL 80.

Ziani, Sebastian (Doge), builds Ducal Palace, II. 289.

263

11.

LOCAL INDEX,

Abbeville, door of church at, 11. 225. ; parapet at, IL 245.

Alexandria, church at, L 368.

Alhambra, ornamentation of, L 409.

Alps, how formed for distant effect, L 239. 240. ; how seen from Venice,

n. 2. 29.
Amiens, pillars of cathedral at, L 99.
Arqna, hills of, how seen from Venice, IL 2.
Assisi, Giotto's paintings at, II. 323.

B.

Beanvais, piers of cathedral at, L 89. ; grandeur of its buttress struc-
ture, L 165.

Bergamo, Duomo at, L 266.

Bologna, Palazzo Pepoli at, I. 266.

Bourges, cathedral at, L 42. 99. 221. 263. 291., 11, 91. 187. ; house of
Jacques Cceur at, L 336.

0.

Chamouni, glacier forms at, L 216.
Oomo, Broletto of, L 136. 329.

D.

Dijon, pillars in Church of Notre Dame at, I. 99. ; tombs of Dukes of
Burgundy, IIL 67.

264 II. LOCAL INDEX.

Edinburgh, college at, I. 201.

F.

Falaise (St Gervais at), piers of, I. 100.
Florence, Cathedral of, L 192., III. 13.

G.

Gloucester, Cathedral of, L 187.

Lombardy, geology of, II. 5.

London, church in Margaret Street, Portland Place, III. 196. ; Temple

Church, L 394. ; capitals in Belgrave and Grosvenor Squares, L 320. ;

Bank of England, base of, I. 274. ; wall of, typical of accounts, I. 287. ;

statue in King William Street, L 210. ; shops in Oxford Street, I. 196. ;

Arthur Club-house, I. 287. ; AtheneBum Club-house, L 152. 275. ; Duke

of York's pillar, I. 275. ; Treasury, L 199. ; Whitehall, 1. 199. ; West-

minster, fall of houses at, II. 269. ; Monument, 1. 80. 275. ; Nelson

pillar, L 209. ; Wellington statue, I. 251.
Lucca, Cathedral of, II. 275. ; San Michele at, I. 363.
Lyons, porch of cathedral at, I. 366.

M.

Matterhorn (Mont Cervin), structure of, I. 57.; lines of, applied to

architecture, L 299. 301. 322.
Mestre, scene in street of, I. 346.
MUan, St. Ambrogio, piers of, L 99. ; capital of, I. 318. ; St Eastachio,

tomb of St. Peter Martyr, I. 212,
Moulins, brickwork at, I. 288.
Murano, general aspect of, IL 29. ; Duomo of, II. 35. ; balustrades of,

II. 247. ; inscriptions at, IL 382.

EDINBURGH — VIENNE. 265

Nineveh, style of its decorations, I. 228. 233., II. 109.

0.

Orange (South France), arch at, I. 243.
Orleans, Cathedral of, L 91.

P.

Padua, Arena chapel at, 11. 323. ; St. Antonio at, I. 1 30. ; St. Sofia at,

L 318. ; Eremitani, Church of, at, I. 131.
Paris, Hotel des Invalides, I. 208. ; Arc de I'Etoile, L 283. ; Colonne

Vendome, I. 206.
Payia, St. Michele at, piers of, I. 99. 327. ; ornaments of, I. 362.
Pisa, Baptistery of, II. 275.
Pistoja, San Pietro at, I. 287.

R.

Ravenna, situation of, IL 7.

Rouen Cathedral, piers of, I. 99. 144.; pinnacles of, II. 213.; St.
Maclou at, sculptures of, II. 197.

S.

Salisbury Cathedral, piers of, I. 99. ; windows at, II. 224.

Sens, Cathedral of, I. 130.

Switzerland, cottage architecture of, L 145. 197., III. 133.

V.

Verona, San Fermo at, I. 131., II. 259.; Sta. Anastasia at, L 137. ;
Duomo of, I. 361. ; St Zeno at, I. 362. ; balconies at, II. 248. ; archi-
volt at, I. 323. ; tombs at, see in Personal Index, ^^ Grande," ^^ Mas-
tino," " Signorio.''

Vevay, architecture of, I. 131.

Vienne (South France), Cathedral of, L 199.

268 III. TOPICAL INDEX.

richnefis of early domestic, IL 99. , IIL 2. ; manner of its debasement
in general, IIL 3.

Archivolts, decoration of, L 323. ; general families of, I. 324. ; of
Mnrano, IL 49. ; of St Mark's, IL 95. ; in London, IL 96. ; Byzan-
tine, IL 138. ; profiles of, IIL 237.

Arts, relative dignity of, L 382. ; how represented in Venetian scnlptnre,
IL 356. ; what relation exists between them and their materials, IL
391. ; art divided into the art of facts, of design, and of both, IL 183. ;
into purist, naturalist, and sensualist, II. 187. ; art opposed to inspira-
tion, IIL 151. ; defined, III. 171. ; distinguished from science, IIL
36. ; how to enjoy that of the ancients, III. 188.

Aspiration not the primal motive of (Gothic work, I. 146.

Astrology, judicial, representation of its doctrines in Venetian sculpture,
IL 362.

Austrian Government in Italy, IIL 207.

Avarice, how represented figuratively, IL 344.

B.

Backgrounds, diapered, IIL 20.

Balconies, of Venice, IL 244. ; general treatment of, IIL 246. ; of iron,
IL 248.

Ballflower, its use in ornamentation, I. 271.

Balustrades. See ^^ Balconies.''

Bases, general account of, IIL 221. ; of walls, I. 51. ; of piers, I. 72. ; of
shafts, I. 75. ; decoration of, I. 273. ; faults of Gothic profiles of, L
277. ; spurs of, I. 278. ; beauty of, in St. Mark's, I. 282. ; Lombardic,
I. 285. ; ought not to be richly decorated, I. 284. ; general effect of,
IL 386.

Battlements, I. 158. ; abuse of, in ornamentation, I. 213.

Beauty and ornament, relation of the terms, L 388.

Bellstones of capitals defined, I. 104.

Birds, use of, in ornamentation, I. 227., IL 141.

Bishops, their ancient authority, II. 25.

Body, its relation to the soul, I. 40. 380.

Brackets, division of, L 156. ; ridiculous forms of, L 157.

Breadth in Byzantine design, IL 134.

Brickwork, ornamental, I. 288. ; in general, IL 242. 259. 260.

ARCHIVOLTS — COLOUR. 269

Brides of Venice, legend of the, III. 113. 116.

Buttresses, general structure of, L 161. ; flying, I. 167. ; supposed

sanctity of, I. 168.
Bull, symbolical use of, in representing rivers, I. 399. 402. 405.
Byzantine style, analysis of, IL 74. ; ecclesiastical fitness of, 11. 97. ;

centralization in, IL 237.; palaces built in, II. 118. ; sculptures in,

IL 138. 140.

0.

Candlemas, ancient symbols of, II. 272.

Capitals, general structure of, I. 101. ; bells of, 1. 104. ; just proportions

of, L 110.; various families of, L 14. 63. 315., IL 129., IIL 229. ;

are necessary to shafts in good architecture, I. 117.; Byzantine,

IL 131., IIL 227. ; Lily, of St. Mark's, IL 137. ; of Solomon's temple,

IL 137.
Care, how symbolized, II. 348. See " Sorrow."
Caryatides, L 294.

Castles, English, entrances of, I. 173.
Cathedrals, English, effect of, IL 62.
Ceilings, old Venetian, IL 280.
Centralization in design, II. 237.
Chalet of Switzerland, its character, I. 197.
Chamfer defined, L 255. ; varieties of, I. 257. 409.
Changefulness, an element of Gothic, II. 172.
Charity, how symbolized, II. 326. 348.
Chartreuse, Grande, morbid life in. III. 190.
Chastity, how symbolized, II. 327.

Cheerfulness, how symbolized, IL 326. 348. ; virtue of, II. 325.
Cherries, cultivation of, at Venice, II. 362.
Christianity, how mingled with worldliness. III. 109. ; how imperfectly

understood, III. 168. ; influence of, in liberating workmen, II. 159., I.

237. ; influence of, on forms, L 96.
Churches, wooden, of the North, I. 367. ; considered as ships, II. 25. ;

decoration of, how far allowable, II. 101.
Civilization, progress of. III. 167. ; twofold danger of. III. 169.
Classical literature, its effect on the modern mind, IIL 12.
Climate, its influence on architecture, I. 144., II. 155. 204.
Colour, its importance in early work, IL 41. 43. 78. 90. ; its spirituality.

270 lU. TOPICAL INDEX.

IL 144. 393. ; its relation to music, III. 186. ; quartering of, IIL 19.;

how excusing realization, IIL 188.
Commerce, how regarded by Venetians, I. 6.
Composition, definition of the term, IL 182.
Constancy, how symbolized, IL 333.
Construction, architectural, how admirable, L 37.
Convenience, how consulted by Gothic architecture, IL 1 79.
Cornices, general divisions of, I. 63., III. 241. ; of walls, L 61. ; of roofs,

L 150. ; ornamentation of, I. 297. ; curvatures of, I. 301, ; military,

L 164. ; Greek, L 152.
Courses in walls, L 59.
Crockets, their use in ^ornamentation, I. 338. ; their abuse at Venice,

in. 9.

Crosses, Byzantine, IL 138.
Crusaders, character of the, IL 263.
Crystals, architectural appliance of, L 219.
Cupid, representation of, in early and later art, IL 342.
Curvature, on what its beauty depends, L 216., IIL 5.
Cusps, definition of, L 129. ; groups of, I. 133. ; relation of, to vegeta-
tion, IL 219. ; general treatment of, IIL 247. ; earliest occurrence of,
. IL 221.

D.

Daguerreotype, probable results of, IIL 169.

Darkness, a character of early churches, II. 18. ; not an abstract evil,
IIL 217.

Death, fear of, in Benaissance times, IIL 65. 89. 92. ; how anciently re-
garded, IIL 139. 140. 157.

Decoration, true nature of, I. 388. ; how to judge of, I. 43. 44. See
« Ornament."

Demons, nature of, how illustrated by Milton and Dante, IIL 147.

Dental, Venetian, defined, L 263. 265.

Design, definition of the term, II. 183. ; its relations to naturalism, IL
184.

Despair, how symbolized, IL 334.

Diaper patterns in brick, I. 288. ; in colour, III. 20. 22.

Discord, how symbolized, IL 333.

Discs, decoration by means of, I. 235. 398., IL 143.

Division of labour, evils of, II. 165.

COMMERCE — ^EVANGELISTS. 271

Doge of Venice, his power, I. 3. 350.

Dogtooth moulding defined, I. 260.

Dolphins, moral disposition of, L 223. ; use of, in symbolic representation

of sea, L 403.
Domestic architecture, richness of, in middle ages, 11. 97.
Doors, general structure of, L 170, 171. ; smallness of in English cathe-*

drals, I. 171. ; ancient Venetian, IL 63. 277., IIL 223.
Doric architecture, L 152. 293. 298. ; Christian Doric, L 299. 306.
Dragon, conquered by St. Donatus, IL 34. ; use of, in ornamentation,

II. 220.
Dreams, how resembled by the highest arts. III. 151, 152. ; prophetic, in

relation to the Grotesque, IIL 153.
Dress, its use in ornamentation, L 207. ; early Venetian, II. 382. ; dig*

nity of, IIL 191. ; changes in modern dress, ILL 192.
Duties of buildings, L 47.

E.

Earthquake of 1511, IL 243.

Eastern races, their power over colour, IL 147.

Eaves, construction of, I. 151.

Ecclesiastical architecture in Venice, I. 21. ; no architecture exclusively
ecclesiastical, IL 98.

Edge decoration, I. 259.

Education, university, I. 377., IIL 110. ; evils of, with respect to archi-
tectural workmen, II. 107. ; how to be successfully undertaken, IL 165.
215.; modern education in general, how mistaken, IIL 110. 212.;
system of, in Plato, 11. 318. ; of Persian kings, II. 318. ; not to be
mistaken for erudition, IIL 216. ; ought to be universal, IIL 218.

Egg and arrow mouldings, I. 305.

Egyptian architecture, I. 96. 233., IL 203.

Elgin marbles, IL 171.

Encrusted architecture, L 263. 264. ; general analysis of, IL 74.

Energy of Northern Gothic, I. 360., IL 16. 205.

English (early) capitals, faults of, L 105. 394. ; English mind, its mis-
taken demands of perfection, IL 160.

Envy, how set forth, IL 346.

Evangelists, types of, how explicable, III. 155.

272 III. TOPICAL INDEX.

F.

" Faerie Queen," Spenser's, value of, theologically, IL 327.

Faith, influence of, on art, II. 105. 106. ; Titian's picture of, L 11. ; how
symbolized, IL 337.

Falsehood, how symbolized, IL 349.

Fatalism, how expressed in Eastern architecture, II. 205.

Fear, effect of, on human life, HI. 137. ; on Grotesque art, IIL 142.

Feudalism, healthy effects of, I. 164.

Fig-tree, sculpture of, on Ducal Palace, II. 308.

Fillet, use of, in ornamentation, L 259.

Finials, their use in ornamentation, I. 338. ; a sign of decline in Vene-
tian architecture. III. 9.

Finish in workmanship, when to be required, IL 167. ; dangers of, IIL
170., IL 162.

Fir, spruce, influence of, on architecture, L 147.

Fire, forms of^ in ornamentation, I. 222.

Fish, use of, in ornamentation, I. 223.

Flamboyant Gothic, L 270., IL 225.

Flattery, common in Renaissance times. III. 63.

Flowers, representation of, how desirable, I. 339. ; how represented in
mosaic. III. 179.

Fluting of columns, a mistake, I. 293.

Foils, definition of, IL 221.

Foliage, how carved in declining periods, IIL 8. 17. See " Vegetation."

Foliation, defined, II. 219. ; essential to Gothic architecture, II. 222.

Folly, how symbolized, IL 324. 348.

Form of Gothic, defined, IL 208.

Fortitude, how symbolized, IL 337.

Fountains, symbolic representations of, I. 406.

French architecture compared with Italian, II. 226.

Frivolity, how exhibited in Grotesque art. III. 143.

Fruit, its use in ornamentation, I. 227.

G.

Gable, general structure of, L 119.; essential to Gothic, IL 210. 217.
Gardens, Italian, III. 136.

FAERIE — HUMILITY. 273

Qeneralization, abases of. III. 176.

Geology of Lombardy, 11. 5.

Glass, its capacities in architectare, I. 392. ; manufactare of, XL 166. ;
true principles of working in, IL 168. 391.

Glnttony, how symbolized, II. 343.

Goldsmiths' work, a high form of art, II. 166.

Gondola, management of, II. 375.

Gothic architecture, analysis of, II. 151. ; not derived from vegetable
structure, I. 116.; convenience of, IL 179.; divisions of, IL 215.;
surface and linear, IL 226. ; Italian and French, II. 226. ; flamboyant,
L 270., IL 226.; perpendicular, L 185., IL 223. 227.; early
English, I. 106. ; how-to judge of it, IL 228. ; how fitted for domestic
purposes, II. 267., III. 195.; how first corrupted, III. 3.; how to
be at present built, III. 197. ; early Venetian, IL 249. ; ecclesiastical
Venetian, I. 21. ; central Venetian, IL 232. ; how adorned by colour
in Venice, IIL 22.

Government of Venice, I. 1., II. 366.

Grammar, results of too great study of it, IIL 55. 105.

Greek architecture, general character of, I. 234., IL 215., IIL 159.

Grief. See " Sorrow."

Griffins, Lombardic, L 285. 373.

Grotesque, analysis of, IIL 126. ; in changes of form, I. 308. ; in
Venetian painting, III. 162. ; symbolical. III. 154. ; its character
in Renaissance work, IIL 112. 121. 135. 142.

Gutters of roofs, L 151.

H.

Heathenism, typified in ornament, L 307. See ^^ Paganism."

Heaven and Hell, proofs of their existence in natural phenomena. III. 139.

History, how to be written and read, III. 220.

Hobbima, IIL 184.

Honesty, how symbolized, IL 349.

Hope, how symbolized, II. 341.

Horseshoe arches, L 124., IL 250. 251.

Humanity, spiritual nature of, I. 41. ; divisions of, with respect to art,

L 379.
Humility, how symbolized, II. 339.
VOL. III. T

274 III. TOPICAL IKDEX.

L

Idleness, how symbolized, IL 345.

Idolatry, proper sense of the term, IL 386. ; is no encourager of art,

IL 109. See « Popery."
Imagination, its relation to art, IIL 181.
Imitation of precions stones, &c., how reprehensible, IIL 26. 31.
Imposts, continuous, L 116.
Infidelity, how symbolized, IL 335. ; an element of the Renaissance

spirit, IIL 100.
Injustice, how symbolized, U. 349.

Inlaid ornamentation^ L 358. ; perfection of, in early Renaissance, IIL 25.
Inscriptions at Murano, U. 47. 54. ; use of, in early times, II. 111.
Insects, use of, in ornamentation, I. 223.
Inspiration, how opposed to art. III. 151. 171.
Instinct, its dignity. III. 171.
Intellect, how variable in dignity, III. 173.
Involution, delightfulness of, in ornament, IL 136.
Iron, its use in architecture, I. 179. 393.
Italians, modern character of. III. 208.
Italy, how ravaged by recent war, IIL 209.

J.

Jambs, Gothic, IIL 126.
Jesting, evils of, IIL 121.

Jesuits, their restricted power in Venice, I. 355.

Jewels, their cutting, a bad employment, IL 1 66,

Judgments, instinctive, I. 383.

Job, book of, its purposes. III. 54.

K.

Keystones, how mismanaged in Renaissance work. See Venetian Index,
under head *^ Libreria."

Knowledge, its evil consequences, IIL 40. ; how to be received, III. 50.,
&c. See " Education."

IDLENESS — MARBLE. 275

Labonr, manual^ ornamental value of^ I. 390. ; evils of its division^ IL

165. ; is not a degradation, 11. 169.
Labyrinth, in Venetian streets, its cine, II. 254.
Lagoons, Venetian, nature of, IL 8. 9.
Landscape, lower schools of, L 23. ; Venetian, II. 160. ; modern love of,

IL 176., IIL 193.
Laws of right in architecture, I. 32. ; laws in general, how permissibly

violated, L 248., IL 210. ; their position with respect to art, III. 95. ;

and to religion, IIL 205.
Leaves, use of, in ornamentation, I. 226. (see ^^ Vegetation "); proportion

of, IL 127.
Liberality, how symbolized, II. 332.
Life, in Byzantine architecture, IL 133.
Lilies, beautiful proportions of, IL 128. ; used for parapet ornaments, IL

242.; lily capitals, IL 137.
Limitation of ornament, L 249.
Lines, abstract use of, in ornament, L 216.
Lintel, its stl'ucture, L 119. 121.
Lion, on Piazzetta shafts, IIL 233.
Load, of arches, L 139.
Logic, a contemptible science, IIL 105.
Lombardic architecture, L 17.
Lotus leaf, its use in architecture, I. 227.
Love, its power over human life, III. 137.
Lusts, their power over human nature, how symbolized by Spenser,

IL 328.
Luxury, how symbolized, IL 341. ; how traceable in ornament, IIL 4. ;

of Benaissance schools, IIL 61.

M,

Madonna, Byzantine representations of, IL 53.
Magnitude, vulgar admiration of. III. 64.
Malmsey, use of, in Feast of the Maries, IIL 117.
Marble, its uses, IIL 27.

276 III. TOPICAL INDEX.

Maries, Feast of the, III. 117.

Mariolatry, ancient and modern, IL 55.

Marriages of Venetians, III. 115.

Masonry, Mont-Cenisian, L 127. ; of walls, L 59. ; of arches, L 128.

Materials, invention of new, how injurions to art. III. 43.

Misery, how symbolized, IL 347.

Modesty, how symbolized, IL 335.

Monotony, its place in art, IL 176.

Months, personifications of, in ancient art, II. 272.

Moroseness, its guilt. III. 130.

Mosaics at Torcello, IL 18. 19. ; at St: Mark's, IL 61. 111.; early cha-
racter of, IL 110., IIL 175. 178.

Music, its relation to colour, IIL 186.

Mythology of Venetian painters, IL 150. ; ancient, how injurious to the
Christian mind, IIL 106.

N.

Natural history, how necessary a study, IIL 54.

Naturalism, general analysis of it with respect to art, IL 181. 191. ; its

advance in Gothic art. III. 7. ; not to be found in the encrusted style,

IL 88. ; its presence in the noble Grotesque, III. 143.
Nature (in the sense of material universe) not improvable by art, I. 340. ;

its relation to architecture, I. 343.
Niches, use of, in Northern Gothic, L 270. ; in Venetian, IL 241. ; in

French and Veronese, IL 226,
Norman hatchet-work, I. 289. ; zigzag, I. 329.
Novelty, its necessity to the human mind, IL 1 76.

O.

Oak-tree, how represented in symbolical art, III. 184,

Obedience, how symbolized, II. 334.

Oligarchical government, its effect on the Venetians, I. 5.

Olive-tree, neglect of, by artists, IIL 175. ; general expression of, III,

176. 177. ; representation of, in mosaic, IIL 178.
Order, uses and disadvantages of, IL 173.

MAEIES — PIAZZETTA. 277

Orders, Doric and Corinthian, 1. 13. ; ridiculous divisions of, L 153. 359.,
IL 173. 249., III. 99.

Ornament, material of, I. 205.; the best, expresses man's delight in
God's work, I. 213.; not in his own, I. 205. ; general treatment of, I.
230. ; is necessarily imperfect, L 231. 236. ; divided into servile,
subordinate, and insubordinate, L 237., II. 158. ; distant effect of, I,
243. ; arborescent, L 245. ; restrained within limits, I. 249. ; cannot
be overcharged if good, I. 390.

Oxford, system of education at, I. 377.

P.

Paganism, revival of its power in modern times, IIL 106. 109. 122.
Painters, their power of perception. III. 38. ; influence of society on, IIL

40. ; what they should know, IIL 41. ; what is their business, IIL 187.
Palace, the Crystal, merits of, I. 392.
Palaces, Byzantine, IL 118. 389. ; Gothic, IL 232.
Papacy. See " Popery."
Parapets, L 157., IL 241.
Parthenon, curves of, IL 127.
Patience, how symbolized, II. 333.
Pavements, IL 52.
Peacocks, sculpture of, I. 235.
Pedestals of shafts, L 79. ; and see Venetian Index under head ^^ Giorgio

Maggiore."
Perception opposed to knowledge, IIL 37.
Perfection, inordinate desire of, destructive of art, I. 231., II. 132. 160.

170.
Perpendicular style, L 185. 246., IL 223. 227.
Personification, evils of, II. 322.
Perspective, aerial, ridiculous exaggerations of. III. 46. ; ancient pride

in. III. 57. ; absence of, in many great works, see in Venetian Index

the notice of Tintoret's picture of the Pool of Bethesda, under head

" Bocco."
Phariseeism and Liberalism, how opposed. III. 96.
Philology, a base science. III. 54.
Piazzetta at Venice, plan of, II. 282. ; shafts of, IL 233.

278 III. TOPICAL INDEX.

Pictures, judgment of, how fonned, IL 371. ; neglect of, in Venice^ 11.
373. ; how far an aid to religion, IL 103. 109.

Pictnresqne, definition of term, IIL 133.

Piers, general stmctare of, L 69. 94. 115.

Pilgrim's Progress. See " Banyan."

Pine of Italy, its effect on architecture, L 147. ; of Alps, effect in distance,
L240. See *^ Fir."

Pinnacles are of little practical service, I. 165. ; their effect on common
roofs, L 337.

Play, its relation to Grotesque art. III. 126.

Pleasure, its kinds and true uses, IIL 190.

Popery, how degraded in contest with Protestantism, I. 34., III. 102. ;
its influence on art, L 23. 33. 34. 371. 411., IL 51. ; typified in orna-
ment, L 307. ; power of Pope in Venice, I. 351. ; arts used in support
of Popery, IL 72.

Porches, I. 190.

Portraiture, power of, in Venice, IIL 164.

Posture-making in Benaissance art, IIL 89.

Prayers, ancient and modem, difference between, II. 315. 387.'

Pre-Baphaelitism, IIL 89; present position of. III. 168. 174. 185.

Pride, how symbolized, IL 343., IIL 206. ; of knowledge, IIL 35. ; of
state, IIL 59. ; of system, III. 95.

Priests, restricted power of, in Venice, L 355.

Proportions, subtlety of, in early work, II. 37. 121. 127.

Protestantism, its influence on art, L 23. ; typified in ornament, I. 307. ;

. influence of, on prosperity of nations, I. 357. ; expenditure in favour of,

L 413. ; is incapable of judging of art, IL 104. ; how expressed in art,

II. 206. ; its errors in opposing Romanism, IIL 101. 102. 104. ; its

shame of religious confession, IL 278.

Prudence, how symbolized, IL 340.

Pulpits, proper structure of, IL 22. 380.

Purism in art, its nature and definition, II. 189.

Purity, how symbolized, III. 20.

Q.

Quadrupeds, use of, in ornamentation, I. 228.
Quantity of ornament, its regulation, I. 23.

PICTUEES — ^SATBLLITIC. 279

E.

BatipnaliBm, its influence on art, L 23.

Realization, how far allowable in noble art, ILL 182. 186.

Becesses, decoration of, I. 269.

Becnmbent statues. III. 70.

Redundance, an element of Q-othic, II. 206.

Religion, its influence on Venetian policy, I. 6. ; how far aided by pictorial
art, IL 103. 109. ; contempt of, in Renaissance times, IIL 122.

Renaissance architecture, nature of. III. 35. ; early. III. 1. ; Byzantine,
III 15.; Roman, IIL 33.; Grotesque, III. 112.; inconsistencies of,
m 42., &c.

Reptiles, how used in ornamentation, I. 223.

Resistance, line of, in arches, I. 122.

Restraint, ornamental, value of, I. 249.

Reverence, how ennobling to humanity, II. 164.

Rhetoric, a base study. III. 105.

Rigidity, an element of Gothic, IL 203.

Rivers, symbolical representation of, I. 405. 406.

Rocks, use of, in ornamentation, L 218. ; organization of, L 240.; curva-
tures of, L 57. 216,

Roll-mouldings, decoration of, I. 268.

Romance, modern errors of, II. 4.; how connected with dress. III. 191.

Romanesque style, I. 14. 19. 140., IL 215. See "Byzantine," and
"Renaissance.** •

Romanism. See " Popery.*'

Roofs, analysis of, L 48. 143., IL 212. 216. ; domed, L 144. ; Swiss,
L 145. 336. ; steepness of, conducive to Gothic character, L 146., IL
210. ; decoration of, L 333.

Rustication, is ugly and foolish, I. 60. ; natural objects of which it pro-
duces a resemblance, L 289.

S.

Salvia, its leaf applied to architecture, L 278. 297.

Sarcophagi, Renaissance treatment of, IIL 89. ; ancient, IIL 68. 92.

Satellitic shafts, L 92.

280 III. TOPICAL INDEX.

Satire in Grotesque art, III. 127. 145.

SavageneBSy the first element of (Gothic, II. 155. ; in Grotesque art,
III. 160.

Science, opposed to art, IIL 36.

Scnlptore, proper treatment of, L 212., &c.

Sea, symbolical representations of, L 341. 402. ; natural waves of,
L 341.

Sensualism in art, its nature and definition, IL 189. ; how redeemed by
colour, IL 145.

Serapeum at Memphis, cusps of, IL 221.

Sermons, proper manner of regarding them, II. 22. ; mode of their deli-
very in Scotch church, II. 381.

Serrar del Consiglio, IL 290.

Shafts, analysis of, I. 81. ; vaulting shafts, I. 140. ; ornamentatidh of,

L 293. ; twisted, by what laws regulated, L 295. ; strength of, L 386. ;

laws by which they are regulated in encrusted style, II. 81.
Shields, use of, on tombs, IL 225., III. 87.
Shipping, use of, in ornamentation, L 209.
Shops in Venice, II. 64.
Sight, how opposed to thoaght, III. 39.
Simplicity of life in thirteenth century, IL 263.
Sin, how symbolized in Grotesque art, IIL 140. 141.
Slavery of Greeks and Egyptians, II. 159. ; of English workmen, IL 161.

162.
Society, unhealthy state of, in modern times, IL 163.
Sorrow, hpw sinful, IL 325. ; how symbolized, IL 348.
Soul, its developement in art. III. 173. 189. ; its connexion with the body,

L 40. 380.
Spandrils, structure of, L 141. ; decoration of, L 290.
Spirals, architectural value of, I. 216., II. 17.
Spurs of bases, I. 76.

Staircases, I. 202. ; of Gothic palaces, IL 279.
Stucco, when admissible, IIL 21.
Subordination of ornament, L 237.
Superimposition of buildings, I. 194., IL 385.
Surface-Gothic, explanation of term, IL 224. 226.
Symbolism, L 399. ; how opposed to personification, II. 322.
System, pride of, how hurtful, IIL 95. 319.

SATIRE — ^VEIL. 281

T.

Temperance, how symbolized, 11. 337. ; temperance in colour and cur-
vature, IIL 5. 20.

Theology, opposed to religion, IIL 214. ; of Spenser, III. 204.

Thirteenth century, its high position with respect to art, IL 263.

Thought, opposed to sight. III. 39.

Tombs at Verona, I. 137. 395. ; at Venice, IL 68. ; early Christian, IIL
67. ; Gothic, IIL 71. ; Renaissance treatment of, IIL 84.

Towers, proper character of, L 199. ; of St. Mark's, L 201.

Traceries, structure of, L 179. 180. ; flamboyant, 1. 184. ; stump, I. 185.;
English perpendicular, I. 185., II. 223. ; general character of, II. 221. ;
strength of, in Venetian Gothic, II. 239., IIL 246.; general forms of
tracery bars, IIL 243.

Treason, how detested by Dante, II. 326.

Trees, use of, in ornamentation, I. 224.

Trefoil, use of, in ornamentation, IL 42.

Triangles, used for ornaments at Murano, IL 42.

Tribune at Torcello, 11. 25.

Triglyphs, ugliness of, I. 42.

Trunkmakers, their share in recovery of Brides of Venice, IIL 118. 119.

Truth, relation of, to religion, in Spenser's " Faerie Queen," IIL 205. ;
typified by stones, IIL 31.

Tympanum, decoration of, I. 291.

U.

Unity of Venetian nobility, I. 10.

V.

Vain-glory, speedy punishment of, IIL 122.

Vanity, how symbolized, II. 346.

Variety in ornamental design, importance of, II. 43. 133. 141. 171.

Vegetation, use of, in ornamentation, L 224. ; peculiar meaning of, in

Gothic, II. 199. ; how connected with cusps, II. 219.
Veil (wall veil), construction of, L 57. ; decoration of, I. 286.

282 III. TOPICAL INDEX.

Vine, Lombardic Bculpture of, I. 363. ; at Torcello, II. 1 5. ; use of, in

ornamentation, IL 141. ; in Bymbolism, IL 144. ; Bculptore of, on

Ducal Palace, IL 308.
Yirtues, how symbolized in sepulchral monuments, III. 81. 85. ; systems

of, in Pagan and Christian philosophy, IL 312. ; cardinal, IL 317. 318.

320. ; of architecture, I. 35. 43.
Youssoirs defined, I. 121. ; contest between them and architraves, L 325.

W.

Walls, general analysis of their structure, I. 47. ; basis of, L 51. 56. ;
cornices of, L 61. ; rustication of, L 60. 328. ; decoration of, L 286. j
courses in, I. 59. 287.

Water, its use in ornamentation, L 220. ; ancient representations of, L 399.

Weaving, importance of associations connected with, IL 136.

Wells, old Venetian, IL 279.

Windows, general forms of, I. 174. ; Arabian, I. 175., IL 135. ; square-
headed, IL 211. 269. ; developement of, in Venice, IL 237. ; orders
of, in Venice, IL 249. ; advisable form of, in modern buildings, II 270.

Winds, how symbolized at Venice, IL 367,

Wooden architecture, L 367.

Womanhood, virtues of, as given by Spenser, IL 326.

Z,

Zigzag, Norman, I. 329.

.as*

283

IV.

VENETIAN INDEX.

I HAYS endeayonred to make, the following index as useful as possible to
the traveller, by indicating only the objects which are really worth his
study. A traveller's interest, stimulated as it is into strange vigour by
the freshness of every impression, and deepened by the sacredness of the
charm of association which long femiliarity with any scene too fatally
wears away,* is too precious a thing to be heedlessly wasted ; and as it is
physically impossible to see and to understand more than a certain quan-
tity of art in a given time, the attention bestowed on second-rate works, in
such a city as Venice, is not merely lost, but actually harmful,— deaden-
ing the interest and confdsing the memory with respect to those which
it is a duty to enjoy, and a disgrace to forget The reader need not
fear being misled by any omissions ; for I have conscientiously pointed
out every characteristic example, even of the styles which I dislike,
and have referred to Lazari in all instances in which my own infor-
mation failed : but if he is in anywise willing to trust me, I should
recommend him to devote his principal attention, if he is fond of paint-
ings, to the works of Tintoret, Paul Veronese, and John Bellini; not of .
course neglecting Titian, yet remembering that Titian can be well and
thoroughly studied in almost any great European gallery, while Tintoret
and Bellini can be judged of only in Venice, and Paul Veronese,
though gloriously represented by the two great pictures in the Louvre,

• << Am I in ItiUy ! Is this the MxociuB ?
Are those the distant tuixets of Verona I
And shall I sup where Juliet at the masque
Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him ?
Such questions hourly do I ask myself ;
And not a stone in a crossway inscribed
< To Mantua,' < To Ferrara,' but excites
Surprise, and doubt, and self -congratulation."

Alas ! after a few short months, spent even in the scenes dearest to history, we can feel thus
no more.

284 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

and manj others tliroaghout Europe, is yet not to be fully estimated
until he is seen at play among the fantastic chequers of the Venetian
ceilings,

I have supplied somewhat copious notices of the pictures of Tintoret,
because they are much injured, difficult to read, and entirely neglected by
other writers on art. I cannot express the astonishment and indignation
I felt on finding, in Kugler's handbook, a paltry cenacolo, painted pro-
bably in a couple of hours for a couple of zecchins, for the monks
of St Trovaso, quoted as characteristic of this master ; just as fooUsh
readers quote separate stanzas of Peter Bell or the Idiot Boy, as charac-
teristic of Wordsworth, Finally, the reader is requested to observe,
that the dates assigned to the various buildings named in the follow-
ing index, are almost without exception conjectural ; that is to say,
founded exclusively on the internal evidence of which a portion has
been given in the Final Appendix. It is likely, therefore, that here and
there, in particular instances, farther inquiry may prove me to have been
deceived ; but such occasional errors are not of the smallest importance
with respect to the general conclusions of the preceding pages, which
will be found to rest on too broad a basis to be disturbed.

A.

AooADEMiA DELLE Belle Abti. Noticc abovc the door the two bas-reliefs
of St. Leonard and St. Christopher, chiefly remarkable for their rade
cutting at so late a date, 1377 ; but the niches under which they stand
are unusual in their bent gables, and in the little crosses within circles
which fill their cusps. The traveller is generally too much struck by
Titian's great picture of the " Assumption," to be able to pay proper
attention to the other works in this gallery. Let him, however, ask
himself candidly, how much of his admiration is dependent merely upon
the picture being larger than any other in the room, and having bright
masses of red and blue in it : let him be assured, that the picture is
in reality not one whit the better for being either large, or gaudy in
colour; and he will then be better disposed to give the pains pecessary
to discover the merit of the more profound and solemn works of Bellini
and Tintoret. One of the most wonderful works in the whole gallery is
Tintoret's " Death of Abel," on the left of the " Assumption ; " the
" Adam and Eve," on the right of it, is hardly inferior ; and both are

ACC ADEMIA — APOSTOLI. 285

more characteristic examples of the master, and in many respects
better pictures, than the much vaunted " Miracle of St Mark." All
the works of Bellini in this room are of great beauty and interest.
In the great room, that which contains Titian*s ^^ Presentation of the
Virgin," the traveller should examine carefully all the pictures by
Yittor Carpaccio and Glentile Bellini, which represent scenes in ancient
Venice ; they are full of interesting architecture and costume. Marco
Basaiti's ^^ Agony in the Garden " is a lovely example of the religious
school. The Tintorets in this room are all second rate, but most of the
Veroneses are good, and the large ones are magnificent.

Aliga. See Giorgio.

Alvise, Ohubch of St. I have never been in this church, but Lazari
dates its interior, with decision, as of the year 1388, and it may be
worth a glance, if the traveller has time.

Andrea, Church of St. Well worth visiting for the sake of the pe-
culiarly sweet and melancholy effect of its little grass-grown campo,
opening to the lagoon and the Alps. The sculpture over the door,
^^ St. Peter Walking on the Water," is a quaint piece of Renaissance
work. Note the distant rocky landscape, and the oar of the existing
gondola floating by St. Andrew's boat. The church is of the later
Gothic period, much defaced, but still picturesque. The lateral win-
dows are bluntly trefoiled, and good of their time.

Anoeli, Church degli, at Murano. The sculpture of the '^ Annuncia-
tion " over the entrance-gate is graceful. In exploring Murano, it is
worth while to row up the great canal thus far for the sake of the*
oj^ening to the lagoon.

Antonino, Church of St. Of no importance.

Afollinare, Church of St. Of no importance.

Apostoli, Church of the. The exterior is nothing. There is said to
be a picture by Veronese in the interior, " The Fall of the Manna."
I have not seen it ; but, if it be of importance, the traveller should
compare it carefully with Tintoret's, in the Scuola di San Bocco, and
in San Giorgio Maggiore.

Apostoli, Palace at, II. 253, on the Grand Canal, near the Bialto,
opposite the fruit-market. A most important transitional palace. Its
sculpture in the first story is peculiarly rich and curious ; I think Vene-
tian, in imitation of Byzantine. The sea story and first floor are of
the first half of the thirteenth century, the rest modern. Observe that
only one wing of the sea story is left, the other half having been

y

286 re. Venetian index.

modernized. The trayeller should land to look at the capital drawn in
Plate IL of Vol. III. fig. 7.
Absbnal. Its gateway is a cnrionsly picturesque example of Renaissance
workmanship, admirably sharp and expressive in its ornamental scnlp-
tore ; it is in many parts like some of the best Byssantine work. The
Greek lions in front of it appear to me to deserve more praise than they
have received ; thoagh they are awkwardly balanced between conven-
tional and imitative representation, having neither the severily proper
to the one, nor the veracity necessary for the other.

B.

Badoeb, Palazzo, in the Campo San Qiovanni in Bragola. A mag-
nificent example of the fourteenth century Gothic, circa 1310 — 1320,
anterior to the Ducal Palace, and showing beautiful ranges of the fifth
order window, with firagments of the original balconies^ and the osq&I
lateral window larger than any of the rest. In the oentre of its arcade
on the first floor is the inlaid ornament drawn in Plate YIIL Vol. I
The fresco painting on the walls is of later date ; and I believe the
heads which form the finials have been inserted afterwards also, the
original windows having been pure fifth order.

The building is now a ruin, inhabited by the lowest orders ; the first
floor, when I was last in Venice, by a laundress.

Baffo, Palazzo, in the Campo St Maurizio. The conmionest late
Renaissance. A few olive-leaves and vestiges of two figures etill
remain upon it, of the frescoes by Paul Veronese with which it waa
once adorned.

Balbi, Palazzo, in Volta di Canal. Of no importance.

Babbabioo, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, next the Casa FisanL
Late Henaiflsance ; noticeable only as a house in which some of the
best pictures of Titian were allowed to be ruined by damp, and oat of
which they were then sold to the Emperor of Russia.

Barbabo, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, next the Palazzo Oavalli'
These two buildings form the principal objects in the foregroundof the
view which almost every artist seizes on hiB first traverse of the
Grand Canal, the Church of the Salute forming a most graceful dis-
tance. Neither is, however, of much value, except in general effect;
but the Barbaro is the best, and the pointed arcade in its side wall)
seen from the narrow canal between it and the Cavalli, is good Gfothic
of the earliest fourteenth century type.

ARSENAL — BERNAKDO. 287

Babnaba^ Church of St. Of no importance.

Babtoloheo, Ch0rch of St. I did not go to look at the works of
Sebastian del Piombo which it contains, folly crediting M. Lazarus
statement, that they have been ^^ Barbaramente sfigurati da mani im-
perite, che pretendeyano ristaurarlL" Otherwise the church is of no
importance.

Ba6S0, Church of St. Of no importance.

Battagia, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. Of no importance.

Beccherie. See Quebinl

Bembo, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, next the Casa Manin. A noble
Gothic pUe, circa 1350 — 1380, which, before it was painted by the
modern Venetians with the two most valuable colours of Tintoret, Bianco
e Nero, by being whitewashed above, and turned into a coal warehouse
below, must have been among the most noble in effect bn the whole
Grand Canal. It still forms a beautiful group with the Bialto, some
large shipping being generally anchored at its quay. Its sea story
and entresol are of earlier date, I believe, than the rest ; the doors of
the former are Byzantine (see above, Final Appendix, under head
'^ Jambs ") ; and above the entresol is a beautiful Byzantine cornice,
built into the wall, and harmonizing well with the Gothic work.

Bembo, Palazzo, in the Calle Magno, at the Campo de' due Pozzi, close
to the Arsenal. Noticed by Lazari and Selvatico as having a very
interesting staircase. It is early Gt)thic, circa 1330, but not a whit
more interesting than many others of similar date and design. See
"Contarini Porta de Ferro," "Morosini," « Sanudo," and "Minelli."

Benedetto, Campo of St. Do not fail to see the superb, though par-
tially ruinous, Gothic palace fronting this little square. It is very late
Gothic, just passing into Eenaissance; unique in Venice, in masculine
character, united with the delicacy of the incipient style. Observe
especially the brackets of the balconies, theTflower-work on the cornices,
and the arabesques on the angles of the balconies themselves.

Benedetto, Chubch of St. Of no importance.

Bebnabdo, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. A very noble pile of
early fifteenth century Gothic, founded on the Ducal Palace. The
traceries in its lateral windows are both rich and unusual.

Bebnabdo, PaiIazzo, at St Polo. A glorious palace, on a narrow canal,
in a part of Venice now inhabited by the lower orders only. It is
rather late central Gk)thic, circa 1380 — 1400, but of the finest kind,
and superb in its effect of colour when seen from the side. A capital

288 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

in the interior coart is mnch praised by Selvatico and Lazari, because
its " foglie d' acanto " (anything, by the by, InU acanthus), " quasi
agitate da vento si attorcigliano d' intorno alia campana, concetto non
indegno della beW epoca greca ! " Does this mean ^^ epoca Bisan-
tina ? " ' The capital is simply a translation into Gtothic sculpture of

the Byzantine ones of St. Mark's and the Fondaco de' Turchi (see

«

Plate YIII. Vol. L fig. 14.), and is far inferior to either. But, taken
as a whole, I think that, after the Ducal Palace, this is the noblest in
effect of all in Venice.

Brsnta, Banks of the, L 344. Villas on the, L 345.

BusiNELLO, Gasa, II. 389.

Btzantike Palaces generally, IL 118.

a

Camerlenghi, Palace of the, beside the Bialto. A graceful work of
the early Renaissance (15^5) passing into Roman Renaissance. Its
details are inferior to most of the work of the school. The ^^ Gamer-
lenghi," properly " Gamerlenghi di Gomune," were the three officers
or ministers who had care of the administration of public expenses.

Gancellabia, IL 292.

Ganciano, Ghurch of St. Of no importance.

Gappbllo, Palazzo, at St. AponaL Of no interest. Some say that
Bianco Gappello fled from it ; but the tradition seems to fluctuate be-
tween the various houses belonging to her family.

GaritX, Ghurch of the. Once an interesting Gothic church of the
fourteenth century, lately defaced, and applied to some of the usual
important purposes of the modern Italians. The effect of its ancient
fagade may partly be guessed at from the pictures of Ganaletto, but
only guessed at ; Ganaletto being less to be trusted for renderings of
details, than the rudest and most ignorant painter of the thirteenth
century.

Garmini, Ghurch of the. A most interesting church, of late thirteenth
century work, but much altered and defaced. Its nave, in which the
early shafts and capitals of the pure truncate form are unaltered, is
very fine in effect ; its lateral porch is quaint and beautiful, decorated
with Byzantine circular sculptures (of which the central one is given
in Vol. IL Plate XL fig. 5.), and supported on two shafts whose
capitals are the most archaic examples of the pure Rose form that I
know in Venice.

BRENTA — CASSANO. 289

There is a glorious Tintoret over the first altar on the right in
entering ; the ^^ Circumcision of Christ." I do not know an aged head
either more beautiful or more picturesque than that of the high priest.
The cloister is full of notable tombs, nearly all dated ; one, of the
fifteenth century, to the left on entering, is interesting from the colour
still left on the leaves and fiowers of its sculptured roses.
CabqajsOj Chubch of St. This church must on no account be missed,
as it contains three Tintorets, of which one, the " Crucifixion," is among
the finest in Europe. There is nothing worth notice in the building
itself, except the jamb of an ancient door (left in the Renaissance
buildings, facing the canal), which has been given among the exam-
ples of Byzantine jambs ; and the traveller may therefore devote his
entire attention to the three pictures in the chancel.

1. The Crucifixion. (On the left of the high altar.) It is refreshing
to find a picture taken care of, and in a bright, though not a good light,
so that such parts of it as are seen at all are seen well. It is also in a
better state than most pictures in galleries, and most remarkable for
its new and strange treatment of the subject It seems to have been
painted more for the artist's own delight, than with any laboured
attempt at composition; the horizon is so low, that the spectator
must fancy himself lying at full length on the grass, or rather among
the brambles and luxuriant weeds, of which the foreground is entirely
composed. Among these, the seamless robe of Christ has fallen at the
foot of the cross ; the rambling briars and wild grasses thrown here
and there over its folds of rich, but pale, crimson. Behind them, and
seen through them, the heads of a troop of Roman soldiers are raised
against the sky; and, above them, their spears and halberds form a thin
forest against the horizontal clouds. The three crosses are put on the
extreme right of the picture, and its centre is occupied by the execu-
tioners, one of whom, standing on a ladder, receives from the other at
once the sponge and the tablet with the letters INRI. The Madonna
and St. John are on the extreme left, superbly painted, like all the
rest, but quite subordinate. In fact, the whole mind of the painter
seems to have been set upon making the principals accessory, and the
accessories principal. We look first at the grass, and then at the
scarlet robe ; and then at the clump of distant spears, and then at
the sky, and last of all at the cross. As a piece of colour, the picture
is notable for its extreme modesty. There is not a single very full or
bright tint in any part, and yet the colour is delighted in throughout ;
VOL. III. U

290 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

not the slightest touch of it but is delicious. It is worth notice also^ and
especially, because this picture beiilg in a fresh state, we are sure of
one fact, that, like nearly all other great colourists, Tintoret was a&aid
of light greens in his vegetation. He often uses dark blue greens in his
shadowed trees, but here where the grass is in full light, it is all
painted with various hues of sober brown, more especially where it
crosses the crimson robe. The handling of the whole is in his noblest
manner ; and I consider the picture generally quite beyond all price. It
was cleaned, I believe, some years ago, but not injured, or at least as
little injured as it is possible for a picture to be which has undergone
any cleaning process whatsoever.

2. The Resurrection. (Over the high altar.) The lower part of this
picture is entirely concealed by a miniature temple, about five feet
high, on the top of the altar ; certainly an insult little expected bj
Tintoret, as, by getting on steps, and looking over the said temple,
one may see that the lower figures of the picture are the most labonred.
It is strange that the painter never seemed able to conceive this subject
with any power, and in the present work he is marvellously hampered
by various types and conventionalities. It is not a painting of the
Resurrection, but of Roman Catholic saints, thinking about the Besnr-
rection. On one side of the tomb is a bishop in full robes, on the
other a female saint, I know not who ; beneath it, an angel playing
on an organ, and a cherub blowing it ; and other cherubs flying about
the sky, with flowers ; the whole conception being a mass of Renais-
sance absurdities. It is, moreover, heavily painted, over-done, and
over-finished ; and the forms of the cherubs utterly heavy and vulgaL
I cannot help fancying the picture has been restored in some way or
another, but there is still great power in parts of it If it be a really
untouched Tintoreti it is a highly curious example of failure from
over-labour on a subject into which his mind was not thrown ; the
colour is hot and harsh, and felt to be so more painfully, from its
opposition to the grand -coolness and chastity of the ^' Crucifixion.^'
The face of the angel playing the organ is highly elaborated ; so, also,
the flying cherubs.

3. The Descent into Hades. (On the right-hand side of the high
altar.) Much injured and little to be regretted. I never was more
puzzled by any picture, the painting being throughout careless, and in
some places utterly bad, and yet not like modern work ; the principal
figure, however, of Eve, has either been re-done, oris scholar's work

CASSANO — CONTARINI. 29 1

altogether, as, I suspect, most of the rest of the piotare. It looks as
if Tintoret had sketched it when he was ill, left it to a bad scholar to
work on with, and then finished it in a hurry : but he has assuredly
had something to do with it ; it is not likely that anybody else would
have refused all aid from the usual spectral company with which com-
mon painters fill the scene. Bronzino, for instance, covers his canvas
with every form of monster that his sluggish imagination could coin.
Tintoret admits only a somewhat haggard Adam, a graceful Eve, two
or three Venetians in court dress, seen amongst the smoke, and a Satan
represented as a handsome youth, recognizable only by the claws on his
feet. The picture is dark and spoiled, but I am pretty sure there are
no demons or spectres in it. This is quite in accordance with the
master's caprice, but it considerably diminishes the interest of a work
in other ways unsatisfactory. There may once have been something
impressive in the shooting in of the rays at the top of the cavern, as
well as in the strange grass that grows in the bottom, whose infernal
character is indicated by its all being knotted together ; but so little of
these parts can be seen, that it is not worth spending time on a work
certainly unworthy of the master, and in great part probably never
seen by him.

Cattabina, Church of St., said to contain a chef-d^cemre of Paul
Veronese, the " Marriage of St. Catherine." I have not seen it

Cavalli, Palazzo, opposite the Academy of Arts. An imposing pile,
on the Grand Canal, of Renaissance Gothic, but of little merit in
the details ; and the effect of its traceries has been of late destroyed
by the fittings of modem external blinds. Its balconies are good, of
the later Gothic type. See " Barbaro."

Cavalli, Palazzo, next the Casa Grimani (or Post-Office), but on
the other side of the narrow canal. Good Gothic, founded on the
Ducal Palace, circa 1380. The capitals of the first story are remark-
ably rich in the deep fillets at the necks. The crests, heads of sea-
horses, inserted between the windows, appear to be later, but are
very fine of their kind.

CicoGNA, Palazzo, at San Sebastiano, II. 265.

Clsmekte, Chuboh of St. On an island to the south of Venice, from
which the view of the city is peculiarly beautiful. See " Soalzi."

CoNTARiNi, Porta di Fsrro, Palazzo, near the Church of St. John and
Paul, so called from the beautiful ironwork on a door, which was
some time ago taken down by the proprietor and sold. Mr Rawdon

292 IV. \T1NETIAN IXDEX.

Brown rescued some of the ornaments from the hands of the black-
smith who had bought them tor old iron. The head of the door is a
very interesting stone arch of the early thirteenth century, already
drawn in my folio work. In the interior court is a beautiful remnant
of staircase, with a piece of balcony at the top, circa 1350, and one
of the most richly and carefully wrought in Venice. The palace,
judging by these remnants (all that are now left of it, except a
single traceried window of the same date at the turn of the stair),
must once have been among the most magnificent in Venice,

CoKTABiNi (delle Figube), Palazzo, ou the Grand Canal, III. 17.

OoNTARiKi DAI ScRiGNi, Palazzo, OU the Grand Canal. A Gothic
building, founded on the Ducal Palace. Two Renaissance statues in
niches at the sides give it its name.

CoKTABiNi Pasan, Palazzo, OU the Grand Canal, IL 245. The
richest work of the fifteenth century domestic Gothic in Venice, but
notable more for riches than excellence of design. In one respect,
however, it deserves to be regarded with attention, as showing how
much beauty and dignity may be bestowed on a very small and un-
important dwelling-house by Gothic sculpture. Foolish criticismB
upon it have appeared in English accounts of foreign buildings, object-
ing to it on the ground of its being " ill-proportioned ; " the simple fact
being, that there was no room in this part of the canal for a wider house,
and that its builder made its rooms as comfortable as he could, and
its windows and balconies of a convenient size for those who were to
see through them, and stand on them, and left the " proportions " out-
side to take care of themselves ; which indeed they have very sufficiently
done ; for though the house thus honestly confesses its diminntive-
ness, it is nevertheless one of the principal ornaments of the veiy
noblest reach of the Grand Canal, and would be nearly as great a
loss, if it were destroyed, as the Church of La Salute itself.

CoNTARTNi, Palazzo, at St Luca. Of no importance.

CoRNBB DBLLA Ca' GRANDE, Palazzo, OU the Grand Canal. One of
the worst and coldest buildings of the central Renaissance. It is on
a grand scale, and is a conspicuous object, rising over the roofs of
the neighbouring houses in the various aspects of the entrance of the
Grand Canal, and in the general view of Venice from San Clemente.

Corner delta Regina, Palazzo. A late Renaissance building of no
merit or interest.

Corner Mocenigo, Palazzo, at St. Polo. Of no interest

CONTARINI — d'oRO. 293

■

Corner Spinellt, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. A graceful and

interesting example of the early Renaissance, remarkable for its pretty

circular balconies.
CoRRBB, Baccolta. I must refer the reader to M. Lazari's Guide for

an account of this collection, which, however, ought only to be visited

if the traveller is not pressed for time.

D.

Danbolo, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. Between the Casa Loredan and
Casa Bembo is a range of modern buildings, some of which occupy,
I believe, the site of the palace once inhabited by the Doge Henry
Dandolo. Fragments of early architecture of the Byzantine school may
still be traced in many places among their foundations, and two doors
in the foundation of the Casa Bembo itself belong to the same group.
There is only one existing palace, however, of any value, on this spot,
a very small but rich Gothic one of about 1300, with two groups of
fourth order windows in its second and third stories, and some Byzan-
tine circular mouldings built into it above. This is still reported to
have belonged to the family of Dandolo, and ought to be carefully
preserved, as it is one of the most interesting and ancient Gothic
palaces which yet remain.

Danieli, Albergo. See Nanl

Da Ponte, Palazzo. Of no interest.

Dario, Palazzo, I. 13. (Plate I.) III. 358.

DoGANA Di Mare, at the separation of the Grand Canal from the
Giudecca. A barbarous building of the time of the Grotesque Renais-
sance (1676), rendered interesting only by its position. The statue of
Fortune forming the weathercock, standing on the world, is alike cha-
racteristic of the conceits of the time, and of the hopes and principles
of the last days of Venice.

DoNATO, Church of St., at Murano, II. 31.

Dona', Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. I believe the palace described
nnder this name as of the twelfth century, by M. Lazari, is that which
I have called the Braided. House, II. 132. 389.

D' Org, Casa. A noble pile of very quaint Gothic, once superb in
general eflTect, but now destroyed by restorations. I saw the beautiful
slabs of red marble, which formed the bases of its balconies, and were
carved into noble spiral mouldings of strange sections, half a foot deep,

294 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

dashed to pieces when I was last in Venice ; its glorious interior stair-
case, by far the most interesting Gothic monument of the kind in
Venice, had been carried away, piece by piece, and sold for waste
marble, two years before. Of what remains, the most beautiful por-
tions are, or were, when I last saw them, the capitals of the windows
in the upper story, most glorious sculpture of the fourteenth century.
The fantastic window traceries are, I think, later ; but the rest of the
architecture of this palace is anomalous, and I cannot venture to give
any decided opinion respecting it Parts of its mouldings are qnite
Byzantine in character, but look somewhat like imitations.
DtJCAL Palace, I. 29. ; history of, II. 281., Ac, in. 200. ; plan and
section of, II. 282. 283. ; description of, II. 306., i&c. ; series of its
capitals, II. 329., Ac. ; spandrils of, I. 290. 397. ; shafts of, L 396. ;
traceries of, derived from those of the Frari, II. 234. ; angles of, II.
240. ; main balcony of, IL 246. ; base of, III. 210. ; Rio Facade of,
III. 25« ; paintings in, II. 374. The multitude of works by various
masters which cover the walls of this palace is so great that the traveller
is in general merely wearied and confused by them. He had better
refuse all attention except to the following works :

1. Paradise J by Tintoret; at the extremity of the Great Council-
chamber. I found it impossible to count the number of figures in -this
picture, of which the grouping is so intricate, that at the upper pari
it is not easy to distinguish one figure from another ; but I counted
150 important figures in one half of it alone; so that, as there are
nearly as many in subordinate positions, the total number cannot be
under 500. I believe this is, on the whole, Tintoret's chef-d^ceuvre;
though it is so vast that no one takes the trouble to read it, and
therefore less wonderful pictures are preferred to it. I have not
myself been able to study except a few fragments of it, all executed
in his finest manner ; but it may assist a hurried observer to point
out to him that the whole composition is divided into concentric
zones, represented one above another like the stories of a cupola,
round the figures of Christ and the Madonna, at the central and
highest point : both these figures are exceedingly dignified and beaa-
tiful. Between e€^oh zone or belt of the nearer figures, the white
distances of heaven are seen filled with floating spirits. The picture
is on the whole wonderfully preserved, and the most preciotls thing
that Venice possesses. She will not possess it long ; for the Venetian
academicians, finding it exceedingly unlike their own works, declare

DUCAL PALACE. 295

it to want harmony, and are going to retouch it to their own ideas
of perfection.

2. Siege of Zara ; the first picture on the right on entering the
Sala del Scrutinio. It is a mere battle piece, in which the figures, like
the arrows, are put in by the score. There are high merits in the thing,
and so much invention that it is possible Tintoret may have made the
sketch for it ; but, if executed by him at all, he has done it merely in
the temper in which a sign-painter meets the wishes of an ambitious
landlord. He seems to have been ordered to represent all the events
of the battle at once ; and to have felt that, provided he gave men,
arrows, and ships enough, his employers would be perfectly satisfied.
The picture is a vast one, some thirty feet by fifteen.

Various other pictures will be pointed out by the custode, in these
two rooms, as worthy of attention, but they are only historically, not
artistically, interesting. . The works of Paul Veronese on the ceiling
have been repainted ; and the rest of the pictures on the walls are by
second-rate men. The traveller must, once for all, be warned against
mistaking the works of Domenico Bobusti (Domenico Tintoretto), a
very miserable painter, for those of his illustrious father, Jacopo.

3. Th$ Doge Orimani kneeling before Faitky by Titian ; in the Sala
delle quattra Porte. To be observed with care, as one of the most
striking examples of Titian^s want of feeling and coarseness of concep-
tion. (See above, Vol. I. p. 11.) As a work of mere art, it is, how-
ever, of great value. The traveller who has been accustomed to deride
Turner's indistinctness of touch, ought to examine carefully the mode
of painting the Venice in the distance at the bottom of this picture.

4. Frescoes on the roof of the Sala delle quattro Forte, by Tintoret.
Once magnificent beyond description, now mere wrecks (the plaster
crumbling away in large flakes), but yet deserving of the most earnest
study.

5. Christ taken donm from the Cross, by Tintoret ; at the upper
end of the Sala dei Pregadi. One of the most interesting mythic
pictures of Venice, two Doges being represented beside the body of
Christy and a most noble painting; executed, however, for distant
effect, and seen best from the end of the room.

6. Venice, Queen of the Sea, by Tintoret Central compartment
of the ceiling, in the Sala dei Pregadi. Notable for the sweep of
its vast green surges, and for the daring character of its entire con-
ception, though it is wild and careless, and in many respects unworthy

296 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

of the master. Note the way in which he has used the fantastic forms
of the sea-weeds, with respect to what was above stated (IIL 158.),
as to his love of the grotesque.

7. The Doge Loredano in prayer to the Virgin^ by Tintoret; in the
same room. Sickly and pale in colour, yet a grand work ; to be
studied, however, more for the sake of seeing what a great man does
" to order," when he is wearied of what is required from him, than for
its own merit.

8. St. George and the Princess. There are, besides the " Paradipe,"
only six pictures in the Ducal Palace, as far as I know, wbich
Tintoret painted carefully, and those are all exceedingly fine : the
most finished of these are in the Anti-CoUegio ; but those that
are most majestic and characteristic of the master are two obloDg
ones, made to fill the panels of the walls in the Anti-Chiesetta ;
these two, each, I suppose, about eight feet by six, are in his luost
quiet and noble manner. There is excessively little colour in ^hem,
their prevalent tone being a greyish brown opposed with grey,
black, and a very warm russet. They are thinly painted, perfect in
tone, and quite untouched. The first of them is " St George and
the Dragon,'* the subject being treated in a new and curious way.
The principal figure is the princess, who sits astride on the dragon's
neck, holding him by a bridle of silken riband ; St. (George stands
above and behind her, holding his hands over her head as if to bbss
her, or to keep the dragon quiet by heavenly power ; and a monk stands
by on the right, looking gravely on. There is no expression or life
in the dragon, though the white flashes in its eye are very ghastly : but
the whole thing is entirely typical ; and the princess is not so much re-
presented riding on the dragon, as supposed to be placed by St George
in an attitude of perfect victory over her chief enemy. She has a foU
rich dress of dull red, but her figure is somewhat ungraceful St. (George
is in grey armour and grey drapery, and has a beautiful face ; his
figure entirely dark against the distant sky. There is a study for
this picture in the Manfrini Palace.

9. St. Andrew and St. Jerome. This, the companion picture, has
even less colour than its opposite. It is nearly all brown and grey ;
the fig-leaves and olive-leaves brown, the faces brown, the dresses
brown, and St Andrew holding a great brown cross. There is nothing
that can be called colour, except the grey of the sky, which approaches
in some places a little to blue, and a single piece of dirty brick-red in

DUCAL PALACE. 297

St Jerome's dress ; and yet Tintoret's greatness hardly ever shows
more than in the management of such sober tints. I would rather have
these two small brown pictures, and two others in the Academy per-
fectly brown also in their general tone — the " Cain and Abel " and the
" Adam and Eve," — ^than all the other small pictures in Venice put to-
gether which he painted in bright colours for altar pieces ; but I never
saw two pictures which so nearly approached grisailles as these, and
yet were delicious pieces of colour. I do not know if I am right in
calling one of the saints St. Andrew. He stands holding a great up-
right wooden cross against the sky. St. Jerome reclines at his feet,
against a rock over which some glorious fig-leaves and oliVe branches
are shooting ; every line of them studied with the most exquisite care,
and yet cast with perfect freedom.

10. Bacchus and Ariadne. The most beautiful of the four careful
pictures by Tintoret, which occupy the angles of the Anti-Collegio.
Once one of the noblest pictures in the world, but now miserably
faded, the sun being allowed to fall on it all day long. The design of
the forms of the leafage round the head of the Bacchus, and the
floating grace of the female figure above, will, however, always give
interest to this picture, unless it be repainted.

The other three Tintorets in this room are careful and fine, but far
inferior to the " Bacchus ; " and the "Vulcan and the Cyclops " is a
singularly meagre and vulgar study of conmion models.

11. Europaj by Paul Veronese ; in the same room. One of the
very few pictures which both possess, and deserve, a high reputation.

12. Venice enthroned^ by Paul Veronese; on the roof of the
same room. One of the grandest pieces of frank colour in the
Ducal Palace.

13. Venice^ and the Doge Sebastian Venier ; at the upper end of
the Sala del CoUegio. Aji unrivalled Paul Veronese, far finer even
than the "Europa."

14. Marriage of St. Catherine^ by Tintoret ; in the same room.
An inferior picture, but the figure of St. Catherine is quite exquisite.
Note how her veil falls over her form, showing the sky through it,
as an alpine cascade falls over a marble rock.

There are three other Tintorets on the walls of this room, but all
inferior, though full of power. Note especially the painting of the
lion's wings, and of the coloured carpet, in the one nearest the throne,
the Doge Alvise Mocenigo adoring the Redeemer.

298 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

The roof is entirely by Paul Veronese, and the traveller who really
loves painting onght to get leave to come to this room whenever he
chooses ; and shonld pass the snnny snmmer momingB there again
and again, wandering now and then into the Anti-Collegio and Sala
dei Pregadi, and coming back to rest under the wings of the couched
lion at the feet of the ^^ Mocenigo.'* He will no otherwise enter so
deeply into the heart of Venice.

E.

Emo, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. Of no interest.

Erizzo, Palazzo, near the Arsenal, IL 262.

Erizzo, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, nearly opposite the Fondaco

de' TurchL A Gothic palace, with a single range of windows founded

on the Ducal traceries, and bold capitals. It has been above referred

to in the notice of tracery bars.
EuFBHiA, Church of St. A small and defaced, but very carious, early

Gtothic church on the Giudecca. Not worth visiting, unless the

traveller is seriously interested in architecture.
EuROPA Alberoo all'. Once a Giustiniani palace. Gh>od Gothic,

circa 1400, but much altered.

EVANGELIBTI, CaSA DEQLI, II. 265.

P.

Facanon, Palazzo (alla Fava). A fair example of the fifleenth
century Gothic, founded on Ducal Palace.

Falier, Palazzo, at the Apostoli. Above, II. 254.

Fantino, Church of St. Said to contain a John Bellini, otherwise of
no importance.

Farsetti, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, II. 124. 390,

Fava, Church of St. Of no importance.

Fblice, Church of St. Said to contain a Tintoret, which, if un-
touched, I should conjecture, from Lazari's statement of its subject,
St. Demetrius armed, with one of the Ghisi family in prayer, must be
very fine. Otherwise the church is of no importance.

Fbrro, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. Fifteenth century Gothic, very
hard and bad.

Flangini, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. Of no importance.

XII,

Capitals of Fondaco de Ttirclii

EMO — FRAEL 299

FoNDACo db' Turchi, I. 319. ; II. 119. 121. 237. The opposite plate,
representing three of its capitals^ has been several times referred to.

FoKDACo db' Tedesohi. a hnge and ugly building near the Bialto,
rendered, however, peculiarly interesting by remnants of the frescoes by
Giorgione with which it was once covered. See Vol. II. 79., and III. 23.

FoBHOSA, Church of Santa Maria, IIL 113. 122.

FosoA, Church of St. Notable for its exceedingly picturesque cam-
panile, of late Qothic, but uninjured by restorations, and peculiarly
Venetian in being crowned by the cupola instead of the pyramid, which
would have been employed at the same period in any other Italian city.

FoscARi, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. The noblest example in Venice
of the fifteenth century Gt>thic, founded on the Ducal Palace, but
lately restored and spoiled, all but the stonework of the main
windows. The restoration was necessary, however : for, when I was in
Venice in 1845, this palace was a foul ruin ; its great hall a mass of
mud, used as the back receptacle of a stone-mason's yard ; and its
rooms white-washed, and scribbled over with indecent caricatures. It
has since been partially strengthened and put in order ; but as the
Venetian municipality have now given it to the Austrians to be used
as barracks, it will probably soon be reduced to its former condition.
The lower palaces at the side of this building are said by some to have
belonged to the younger Foscari. See " GiuSTiNiABn."

Francesco della Vigna, Church of St. Base Benaissance, but must
be visited in order to see the John Bellini in the Cappella Santa.
The late sculpture, in the Cappella Giustiniani, appears from Lazari^s
statement to be deserving of careful study. This church is said also
to contain two pictures by Paul Veronese.

Frari, Church of the. Founded in 1250, and continued at various
subsequent periods. The apse and adjoining chapels are the earliest
portions, and their traceries have been above noticed (II. 234.) as the
origin of those of the Ducal Palace. The best view of the apse, which
is a very noble example of Italian Gothic, is from the door of the
Scuola di San Bocco. The doors of the church are all later than any
other portion of it, very elaborate Benaissance Gothic. The interior
is good Gothic, but not interesting, except in its monuments. Of
these, the following are noticed in the text of this volume :

That of Duccio degli Alberti, at pages 74. 80. ; of the unknown
knight, opposite that of Duccio, IIL 73. ; of Francesco Foscari, III.
84. ; of Giovanni Pesaro, 91. ; of Jacopo Pesaro, 90.

Besides these tombs, the traveller ought to notice carefully that of

300 IV. VENETIAN INDEX,

Pietro Bernardo, a first-rate example of BenaiBsance work*; nothiDg
can be more detestable or mindless in general design, or more beantifnl
in execution. Examine especially the griifins, fixed in admiration of
bonquets at the bottom. The fruit and flowers which arrest the atten-
tion of the griffins may well arrest the traveller's also ; nothing can
be finer of their kind. The tomb of Canova, hy Canova, cannot be
missed ; consummate in science, intolerable in affectation, ridiculous
in conception, null and void to the uttermost in invention and feeling.
The equestrian statue of Paolo Savelli is spirited ; the monument of the
Beato Pacifico, a curious example of Benaissance Gothic with wild
crockets (all in terra cotta). There are several good Yivarinis in the
church, but its chief pictorial treasure is the John Bellini in the ?;^'
ristj, the most finished and delicate example of the master in Venice.

G.

Gbrkmia, Church of St. Of no importance.

Gesuati, Church of the. Of no importance.

GiACOMO DE LoRio, Church OF St. A most interesting church, of the
early thirteenth century, but grievously restored. Its capitals have
been already noticed as characteristic of the earliest Gothic ; and it is
said to contain four works of Paul Veronese, but I have not examined
them. The pulpit is admired by the Italians, but is utterly worthless.
The verd-antique pillar in the south transept is a very noble example
of the " Jewel Shaft." See the note at p. 82. Vol. II.

GiACOMO Di RiALTO, Church OF St. A picturcsquc little church, on
the Piazza di Hialto. It has been grievously restored, bat the pillars
and capitals of its nave are certainly of the eleventh century ; those of
its portico are of good central Gk)thic ; and it will surely not be left
unvisited, on this ground, if on no other, that it stands on the site,
and still retains the name, of the first church ever built on that
Bialto which formed the nucleus of future Venice, and became after-
wards the mart of her merchants.

GiOBBE, Church of St., near the Canna Beggio. Its principal en-
trance is a very fine example of early Benaissance sculpture. ^<!l^
in it, especially, its beautiful use of the flower of the convolvulus.
There are said to be still more beautiful examples of the same ^\(^^
in the interior. The cloister, though much defaced, is of the (Gothic
period, and worth a glance.

GEREMIA — GIORGIO MAGGIORE. 301

Giorgio dk' Grbci, Church op St. The Greek Church. It contains
no valuable objects of art, but its service is worth attending by those
who have never seen the Greek ritual.

GiOBGio dk' Schiavoni, Church of St. Said to contain a very pre-
cious series of paintings by Vittor Carpaccio. Otherwise of no interest.

Giorgio in Alga (St George in the seaweed), Church of St. Unimpor-
tant in itself, but the most beautiful view of Venice at sunset is from
' a point at about two thirds of the distance from the city to the island.

Giorgio Maggiorb, Church of St. A building which owes its inte-
resting effect chiefly to its isolated position, being seen over a great
space of lagoon. The traveller should especially notice in its facade the
manner in which the central Renaissance architects (of whose style this
church is a renowned example) endeavoured to fit the laws they had
established to the requirements of their age. Churches were required
with aisles and clerestories, that is to say, with a high central nave and
lower wings; and the question was, how to face this form with pillars of
one proportion. The noble Romanesque architects built story above
story, as at Pisa and Lucca ; but the base Palladian architects dared
not do this. They must needs retain some image of the Greek temple,
but the Greek temple was all of one height, a low gable roof being
borne on ranges of equal pillars. So the Palladian builders raised first
a Greek temple with pilasters for shafts ; and, through the middle ofita
roofy or horizontal heam^ that is to say, of the cornice which externally
represented this beam, they lifted another temple on pedestals, adding
these barbarous appendages to the shafts, which otherwise would not
have been high enough ; firagments of the divided cornice or tie-beam
being left between the shafts, and the great door of the church thrust
in between the pedestals. It is impossible to conceive a design more
gross, more barbarous, more childish in conception, more servile in
plagiarism, more insipid in result, more contemptible under every point
of rational regard.

Observe, also, that when Palladio had got his pediment at the top of
the church, he did not know what to do with it : he had no idea of
decorating it except by a round hole in the middle. (The traveller
should compare, both in construction and decoration, the Church of the
Redentore with this of San Giorgio.) Now, a dark penetration is often
a most precious assistance to a building dependent upon colour for its
effect ; for a cavity is the only means in the architect's power of ob-
taining certain and vigorous shadow ; and for this purpose, a circular

302 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

penetratioDySaTToanded by a deep russet marble mouldingyis beantifnllj
used in the centre of the white field on the side of the Portico of Si
Mark's. But Palladio had given up colour, and pierced his pediment
with a circular cayitj, merely because he had not wit enough to fill it
with sculpture. The interior of the church is like a large assembly
room, and would have been undeserving of a mementos attention, but
that it contains some most precious pictures, namely :

1. Gathering the Manna. (On the left hand of the high altar.)
One of Tintoret's most remarkable landscapes. A brook flowing throagb
a mountainous country, studded with thickets and palm-trees : the con-
gregation have been long in the Wilderness, and are employed in various
manufactures much more than in gathering the manna. One group is
forging, another grinding manna in a mill, another making shoes, one
woman making a piece of dress, some washing ; the main purpose of
Tintoret being evidently to indicate the continuity of the supply of
heavenly food. Another painter would have made the congregation
hurrying to gather it, and wondering at it; Tintoret at once makes us
remember that they have been fed with it '^ by the space of forty years."
It is a large picture, full of interest and power, but scattered in effect,
and not striking except from its elaborate landscape.

2. The Last Supper. (Opposite the former.) These two pictures
have been painted for their places, the subjects being illustrative of the
sacrifice of the mass. This latter is remarkable for its entire homeliness
in the general treatment of the subject ; the entertainment being repre-
sented like any large supper in a second-rate Italian inn, the figures
being all comparatively uninteresting ; but we are reminded that the
subject is a sacred one, not only by the strong light shining from the
head of Christ, but because the smoke of the lamp which hangs oyer
the table turns, as it rises, into a multitude of angels, all painted
in grey, the colour of the smoke ; and so writhed and twisted together
that the eye hardly at first distinguishes them from the vapour cut of
which they are formed, ghosts of countenances and filmy wings filling
up the intervals between the completed heads. The idea is highly
characteristic of the master. The picture has been grievously injured,
but still shows miracles of skill in the expression of candlelight mixed
with twilight ; variously reflected rays, and half tones of the dimly
lighted chamber, mingled with the beams of the lantern and those from
the head of Christ, flashing along the metal and glass upon the table, and
under it along the floor, and dying away into the recesses of the room.

GIORGIO MAQGIORE. 303

3. Martyrdom of various Saints. (Altar piece of the third altar in
the south aisle.) A moderately sized pictare, and now a very disagree-
able one, owing to the violent red into which the colour that formed
the glory of the angel at the top is changed. It has been hastily
painted, and only shows the artist's power in the energy of the figure
of an executioner drawing a bow, and in the magnificent ease with
which the other figures are thrown together in all manner of wild
groups and defiances of probability. Stones and arrows are flying about
in the air at random.

4. Coronation of the Virgin. (Fourth altar in the same aisle.)
Fainted more for the sake of the portraits at the bottom, than of the
Virgin at the top. A good picture, but somewhat tame for Tintoret,
and much injured. The principal figure, in black, is still, however, very
fine.

5. Resurrection of Christ. (At the end of the north aisle, in the
chapel beside the choir.) Another picture painted chiefly for the sake
of the included portraits, and remarkably cold in general conception ;
its colour has, however, been gay and delicate, lilac, yellow, and blue
being largely used in it. The flag which our Saviour bears in His
hand has been once as bright as the sail of a Venetian fishing-boat,
but the colours are now all chilled, and the picture is rather crude than
brilliant; a mere wreck of what it was, and all covered with droppings
of wax at the bottom.

6. Martyrdom of St. Stephen. (Altar piece in the north transept.)
The saint is in a rich*prelate's dress, looking as if he had just been
sajring mass, kneeling in the foreground, and perfectly serene. The
stones are flying about him like hail, and the ground is covered with
them as thickly as if it were a river bed. But in the midst of them, at
the saint's right hand, there is a book lying, crushed, but open, two or
three stones which have torn one of its leaves lying upon it. The
freedom and ease with which the leaf is crumpled is just as oharac-
teristic of the master as any of the grander features ; no one but
Tintoret could have so crushed a leaf ; but the idea is still more cha-
racferistic of him, for the book is evidently meant for the Mosaic
History which Stephen had just been expounding, and its being crushed
by the stones shows how the blind rage of the Jews was violating their
own law in the murder of Stephen. In the upper part of the picture
are three flgures, — Christ, the Father, and St. Michael. Christ of
course at the right hand of the Father, as Stephen saw Him standing;

304 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

but there is little dignity in this part of the conception. In the middle
of the picture, which is also the middle distance, are three or foar
men throwing stones, with Tintoret's usual vigour of gesture, and
behind them an immense and confused crowd ; so that, at first, we
wonder where St Paul is ; but presently we observe that, in the front
of this crowd, and almost exactly in the centre of the picture j there is
a figure seated on the ground, very noble and quiet, and with some
loose garments thrown across its knees. It is dressed in vigorous
black and red. The figure of the Father in the sky above is dressed
in black and red also, and these two figures are the centres of colour
to the whole design. It is almost impossible to praise too highlj
the refinement of conception which withdrew the unconverted St Paul
into the distance, so as entirely to separate him from the immediate
interest of the scene, and yet marked the dignity to which he was
afterwards to be raised, by investing him with the colours which occurred
nowhere else in the picture except in the dress which veils the form of
the Godhead. It is also to be noted as an interesting example of the
value which the painter put upon colour only; another composer would
have thought it necessary to exalt the future apostle by some peculiar
dignity of action or expression. The posture of the figure is indeed
grand, but inconspicuous; Tintoret does not depend upon it, and
thinks that the figure is quite ennobled enough by being made a key-
note of colour.

It is also worth observing how boldly imaginative is the treatment
which covers the ground with piles of stones, and yet leaves the martyr
apparently unwounded. Another painter would have covered him with
blood, and elaborated the expression of pain upon his countenance.
Tintoret leaves us under no doubt as to what manner of death he is
dying; he makes the air hurtle with the stones, but he does not choose
to make his picture disgusting, or even painful. The face of the martyr
is serene, and exulting; and we leave the picture, remembering only
how "he fell asleep."

GiovAKELLi, Palazzo, at the Ponte di Noale. A fine example of
fifteenth century Gothic, founded on the Ducal Palace.

Giovanni e Paolo, Chukch op St.* Foundation of. III. 69. A^
impressive church, though none of its Gothic is comparable with that

* I hftTo always caUed this church, m the text, simply <<St. John and Paul," not
Sts. John and Paul; just as the Venetians say San Qiovanni e Paolo, and not ^^
G., Ac.

GIOVANELLI — GIOVANNI B PAOLO. 305

of the North, or with that of Verona. The western door is interesting
as one of the last conditions of Gothic design passing into Renaissance,
very rich and beautiful of its kind, especially the wreath of fruit and
flowers which forms its principal moulding. The statue of Bartolomeo
CoUeone, in the little square beside the church, is certainly one of
the noblest works in Italy. I have never seen anything approaching it
in animation, in vigour of portraiture, or nobleness of line. The reader
will need Lazari*s Guide in making the circuit of the church, which is
full of interesting monuments : but I wish especially to direct his at-
tention to two pictures, besides the celebrated Peter Martyr : namely,
1. The Crucifixion^ by Tintoret ; on the wall of the left-hand aisle,
just before turning into the transept. A picture fifteen feet long by
eleven or twelve high. I do not believe that either the " Miracle of St.
Mark," or the great " Crucifixion '* in the Scuola di San Bocco, cost
Tintoret more pains than this comparatively small work, which is now
utterly neglected, covered with filth and cobwebs, and fearfully injured.
As a piece of colour, and light and shade, it is altogether marvellous.
Of all the fifty figures which the picture contains, there is not one which
in any way injures or contends with another ; nay, there is not a single
fold of garment or touch of the pencil which could be spared ; every
virtue of Tintoret, as a painter, is there in its highest degree, — colour
at once the most intense and the most delicate, the utmost decision in
the arrangement of masses of light, and yet halftones and modulations
of endless variety ; and all executed with a magnificence of handling
which no words are energetic enough to describe. I have hardly ever
seen a picture in which there was so much decision, and so little impetu-
osity, and in which so little was conceded to haste, to accident, or to
weakness. It is too infinite a work to be describable ; but among
its minor passages of extreme beauty, should especially be noticed the
manner in which the accumulated forms of the human body, which fill
the picture from end to end, are prevented from being felt heavy, by
the grace and elasticity of two or three sprays of leafage which spring
from a broken root in the foreground, and rise conspicuous in shadow
against an interstice filled by the pale blue, grey, and golden light in
which the distant crowd is invested, the office of this foliage being, in
an artistical point of view, correspondent to that of the trees set by
the sculptors of the Ducal Palace on its angles. But they have a far
more important meaning in the picture than any artistical one. If the
spectator will look carefully at the root which I have called broken, he

VOL. III. X

806 IV. VENETIAN INDEX*

will find that/ in reality, it is not broken, but cut ; the other branches of
the yoxmg tree having lately been cut away. When we remember
that one of the principal incidents in the great San Bocco Omcifixion
is the ass feeding on withered palm-leaves, we shall be at no loss to un-
derstand the great painter*s purpose in lifting the branch of this muti-
lated olive against the dim light of the distant sky ; whUe, close beside
it, St Joseph of Arimathea drags along the dnst a white gannent,
— observe, the principal light of the picture, — stained with the blood
of that King before whom, five days before, his cmcifiers had strewn
their own garments in the way.

2. Our Lady mtk the CamerlenghL (In the centre chapel of tbe
three on the right of the choir.) A remarkable instance of the theo-
retical manner of representing scriptural facts, which, at this time, as
noted in the second chapter of this volume, was undermining the belief
of the fiBbcts themselves. Three Venetian chamberlains desired to have
their portraits painted, and at the same time to express their devotion
to the Madonna ; to that end they are painted kneeling before her, and
in order to account for their all three being together, and togi^ea
thread or clue to the story of the picture, they are represented as the
Three Magi ; but lest the spectator should think it strange that the Hagi
should be in the dress of Venetian chamberlains, the scene is marked as
a mere ideality, by surrounding the person of the Virgin with saints who
lived five hundred years after her. She has for Attendants St Theodore,
St Sebastian, and St Carlo (query St Joseph). One hardly knows
whether most to regret the spirit whidi was losing sight of the verities
of religious history in imaginative abstractions, or to praise the modesty
and piety which desired rather to be represented as kneeling before the
Virgin than in the discharge or among the insignia of important offices
of state.

As an " Adoration of the Magi," the picture is, of course, suffi-
ciently absurd : the St. Sebastian leans back in the comer to be ont of
the way ; the three Magi kneel, without the slightest appearance of
emotion, to a Madonna^ seated in a Venetian loggia of the fifteei^^
century, and three Venetian servants behind bear their offerings in a
very homely sack, tied up at the mouth. As a piece of portraiture
and artistical composition, the work is altogether perfect, perhaps the
best piece of Tintoret's portrait-painting in existence. It is very c^'
fully and steadily wrought, and arranged with consummate skill on a
dilEcult plan. The canvas is a long oblong, I think about eighteen or
twenty feet long, by about seven high ; one might almost fancy the

GIOVANNI. 307

painter had been puzzled to bring the piece into use, the figures being
all thrown into positions which a little diminish their height The
nearest chamberlain is kneeling, the two behind him bowing themselves
slightly, the attendants behind bowing lower, the Madonna sitting, the
St. Theodore sitting still lower on the steps at her feet, and the St Sebas-
tian leaning back, so that all the lines of the picture incline more or less
from right to left as they ascend. This slope, which gives unity to
the detatched groups, is carefolly exhibited by what a mathematician
would call co-ordinates, — the upright pillars of the loggia and the
horizontal clouds of the beautiful sky. The colour is very quiet, but
rich and deep, the local tones being brought out with intense force,
and the cast shadows subdued, the manner being much more that of
Titian than of Tintoret The sky appears full of light, though it is as
dark as the flesh of the faces ; and the forms of its floating clouds, as
well as of the hills over which they rise, are drawn with a deep re-
membrance of reality. There are hundreds of pictures of Tintoret's
more amazing than this, but I hardly know one that I more love.

Tie reader ought especially to study the sculpture round the altar
of the Cappella del Bosario, as an example of the abuse of the sculptor's
art; every accessory being laboured out with much ingenuity and
intense effort to turn sculpture into painting, the grass, trees, and
landscape being as far realized as possible, and in alto-relievo. , These
bas-reliefs are by various artists, and therefore exhibit the folly of the
age, not the error of an individual.

The following. alphabetical list of the tombs in this church which
are alluded to as described in the text, with references to the pages
where they are mentioned, will save some trouble :

Cavalli, Jacopo, IIL 82.
Cornaro, Marco, IIL 10.
Dolfin, Giovanni, IIL 77.
Giustiniani, Marco, I. 306.
Mocenigo, Giovanni, IIL 88.

Mocenigo, Pietro, III. 88.
Mocenigo, Tomaso, I. 7. 25., III. 83.
Morosini, Michele, III. 80.
Steno, Michele, III. 83.
Vendramin, Andrea, 1. 26., III. 88.

Giovanni Grisostomo, Church op St. One of the most important in
Venice. It is early Benaissaince, containing some good sculpture, but
chiefly notable as containing a noble Sebastian del Piombo, and a John
Bellini, which a few years hence, unless it be " restored," will be
esteemed one of the most precious pictures in Italy, and among the
most perfect in the world, John Bellini is the only artist who appears

308 IV. VENETIAlf INDEX.

to me to have united, in equal and magnificent measures, justness of
drawing, nobleness of colouring, and perfect manliness of treatment,
with the purest religious feeling. He did, as far as it is possible to do
it, instiuctivelj and unaffectedly, what the Caracci onlj pretended to do.
Titian colours better, but has not his piety, Leonardo draws better,
but has not his colour. Angelico is more heavenly, but has not his
manliness, far less his powers of art.

Giovanni Elsmosinario, Chubch of St. Said to contain a Titian and
a Bonifazio. Of no other interest.

Giovanni in Braoola, Church of St. A Gothic church of the
fourteenth century, small, but interesting, and said to contain some
precious works by Cima da Conegliano, and one by John Bellini

Giovanni Novo, Church of St. Of no importance.

Giovanni, S., Scuola di. A fine example of the Byzantine Renaissance,
mixed with remnants of good late Gothic. The little exterior cortile
is sweet in feeling, and Lazari praises highly the work of the interior
staircase.

GiUDEOCA. The crescent-shaped island (or series of islands) which foimB
the most northern extremity of the city of Venice, though separated by
a broad channel from the main city. Commonly said to derive its name
from the number of Jews who lived upon it ; but Lazari derives it
from the word " judicato," in Venetian dialect " Zudegi," it having
been in old time ^^ adjudged " as a kind of prison territory to the
more dangerous and turbulent citizens. It is now inhabited only by
the poor, and covered by desolate groups of miserable dwellings, divided
by stagnant canals.

Its two principal churches, the Bedentore and St. Eufemia, are
named in their alphabetical order.

GiULiANO, Church of St. Of no importance.

Giuseppe di Castillo, Church of St. Said to contain a Paul Vero-
nese : otherwise of no importance.

Giustina, Church of St. Of no importance.

Giustiniani, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, now Albergo all* Europai
Good late fourteenth century Gothic, but much altered.

Giustiniani, Palazzo, next the Casa Foscari, on the Grand Canal.
Lazari, I know not on what authority, says that this palace was built
by the Giustiniani family before 1428. It is one of those founded
directly on the Ducal Palace, together with the Casa Foscari at its
side: and there could have been no doubt of their date on this gronnd'*
but it would be interesting, after what we have seen of the progress of

GIOVANNI — LAZZARO. 309

the Ducal Palace, to ascertain the exact year of the erection of any
of these imitations.

This palace contains some unusually rich detached windows, full
of tracery, of which the profiles are given in the Appendix, under
the title of the Palace of the Younger Foscari, it being popularly re-
ported to have belonged to the son of the Doge.

GiusTiNiAN LouN, Palazzo, ou the Grand Canal. Of no importance.

Grassi, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, now Albergo all' Lnperator
d' Austria. Of no importance.

Gbeoobio, Chuboh of St., on the Grand Canal. An important
church of the fourteenth century, now desecrated, but still interesting.
Its apse is on the little canal crossing from the Grand Canal to the
Giudecca, beside the Church of the Salute, and is very characteristic
of the rude ecclesiastical Gothic contemporary with the Ducal Palace.
The entrance to its cloisters, from the Grand Canal, is somewhat
later ; a noble square door, with two windows on each side of it, the
grandest examples in Venice of the late window of the fourth order.

The cloister, to which this door gives entrance, is exactly contem-
poraiy with the finest work of the Ducal Palace, circa 1350. It is the
loveliest cortile I know in Venice ; its capitals consunmiate in design
and execution ; and the low wall on which they stand showing rem-
nants of sculpture unique, as far as I know, in such application.

Grimani, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, IIL 32.

There are several other palaces in Venice belonging to this family,
but none of any architectural interest.

J.

Jesuiti, ChurOh of the. The basest Renaissance; but worth a visit
in order to examine the imitations of curtains in white marble in-
laid with green.

It contains a Tintoret, ^^ The Assumption,** which I have not ex-
amined; and a Titian, ^^ The Martyrdom of St. Lawrence,*' originally,
it seems to me, of little value, and now, having been restored, of none.

L.

Labia, Palazzo, on the Canna Beggio. Of no importance.
Lazzabo de' Mekdicanti, Chubch of St. Of no importance.

310 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

LiBREBU VscoHiA* A graceful bailding of the central Benaissance, de-
signed by Sansovino, 1536, and mach admired by all architects of the
school. It was continued by Scamozzi, down the whole side of St.
Mark's Place^ adding another story above it, which modern critics blame
as destroying the ^^ eurithmia ; '' never considering that had the two low
stories of the Library been continued along the entire length of the
Piazza, they would have looked so low that the entire dignity of the
square would have been lost As it is, the Library is left in its originallj
good proportions, and the larger mass of the Procuratie Nuove forms
a more majestic, though less graceful, side for the great square.

But the real faults of the building are not in its number of stories,
but in the design of the parts. .It is one of the grossest exomplefi of
the base Benaissance habit of turning keystones into brctcketSy throwing
them out in bold projection (not less than a foot and a half) beyoDd
the mouldings of the arch ; a practice utterly barbarous, inasmuch as
it evidently tends to dislocate the entire arch, if any real weight were
laid on the extremity of the keystone ; and it is also a very character-
istic example of the vulgar and painful mode of filling spandrils b/
naked figures in alto-relievo, leaning against the arch on each side,
and appearing as if they were continually in danger of slipping off.
Many of these figures have, however, some merit in themselves ; and
the whole building is graceful and effective of its kind. The con-
tinuation of the Procuratie Nuove, at the western extremity of StMarVs
Place (together with various apartments in the great line of the
Procuratie Nuove), forms the " Boyal Palace," the residence of the
Emperor when at Venice. This building is entirely modern, built
in 1810, in imitation of the Procuratie Nuove, and on the site of San-
sovino's Church of San Geminiano.

In this range of buildings, including the Boyal Palace, the Pro-
curatie Nuove, the old Library, and the "Zecca'* which is con-
nected with them (the latter being an ugly building of very modern
date, not worth notice architecturally), there are many most valuable
pictures, among which I would especially direct attention, first to those
in the Zecca, namely, a beautiful and strange Madonna, by Benedetto
Diana ; two noble Bonifazios ; and two groups, by Tintoret, of the
Proweditori della Zecca, by no means to be missed, whatever may be
sacrificed to see them, on account of the quietness and veracity of
their unaffected portraiture, and the absolute freedom from all vanity
either in the painter or in his subjects.

LIBREBIA — LUCIA. 311

Next, in the " Antisala'* of the old Library, observe the " Sapienza*'
of Titian, in the centre of the ceiling ; a most interesting work in the
light brilliancy of its colour, and the resemblance to Paul Veronese.
Then, in the great hall of the old Library, examine the two large
Tintorets, ^^ St. Mark saving a Saracen from Drowning," and the
^^ Stealing his Body from Constantinople," both rude, but great (note
in the latter the dashing of the rain on the pavement, and running
of the water about the feet of the figures) : then, in the narrow spaces
between the windows^ there are some magnificent single figures by
Tintoret, among the finest things of the kind in Italy, or in Europe.
Finally, in the gallery of pictures in the Palazzo Beale, among other
good works of various kinds, are two of the most interesting Bonifazios in
Venice, the " Children of Israel in their Journeyings," in one of which,
if I recollect right, the quails axe coming in flights across a sunset sky,
forming one of the earliest instances I know of a thoroughly natural
and Tuineresque effect being felt and rendered by the old masters.
The pictxire struck me chiefly from this circumstance ; but, the note-
book in which I had described it and its companion having been lost
on my way home, I cannot now give a more special account of them,
except that they are long, full of crowded figures, and peculiarly light
in colour and handling as compared with Bonifazio's work in general.

Lie, Church of St. Of no importance, but said to contain a spoiled
Titian.

Lie, Salizzada di St., windows in, II. 253. 257.

LoRXDAN, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal near the Bialto, IL 123.
390. Another palace of this name, on the Campo St Stefano, is of
no importance.

Lorenzo, Church of St. Of no importance.

LuoA, Church of St. Its campanile is of very interesting and quaint
early Gothic, and it is said to contain a Paul Veronese, ^^ St. Luke and
the Virgin.'* In the little Campiello St. Luca, close by, is a very
precious Gothic door, rich in brickwork of the thirteenth century; and
in the foundations of the houses on the same side of the square, but
at the other end of it are traceable some shafts and arches closely re-
sembling the work of the Cathedral of Murano, and evidently having
once belonged to some most interesting building.

Lucia, Church of St. Of no importance.

312 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

M.

Maddalena^ Chtjbch of Sta. Maria. Of no importance.

Malipiero, Palazzo, on the Campo St. M. Formosa, facing the canal
at its extremity. A very beautifal example of the Byzantine Benais-
sance. Note the management of colour in its inlaid balconies.

Manfriki, Palazzo. The architecture is of no interest ; and as it is in
contemplation to allow the collection of pictures to be sold, I shall take
no note of them. But, even if they should remain, there are few of
the churches in Venice where the traveller had not better spend his
time than in this gallery ; as, with the exception of Titian's ^^ Entoiab-
ment," one or two Giorgiones, and the little John Bellini (St Jerome),
the pictures are all of a kind which may be seen elsewhere.

Manoiu Yalmarana, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. Of no impor-
tance.

Makin, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. Of no importance.

Manzoki, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, near the Church of the
Carit^ A perfect and very rich example of Byzantine B^naissance :
its warm yellow marbles are magnificent.

Marcilian, Church of St. Said to contain a Titian, << Tobit and the
Angel : " otherwise of no importance.

Maria, Churches of Sta. See Formosa, Mater Domuyi, Mira-
coLi, Orto, Salute, and Zorenigo.

Marco, Souola di San, III. 16.

Mark, Church of St., history of, 11. 56. ; approach to, IL 70. ; general
teaching of , IL 111. 115. ; measures of facade of, II. 126. ; balustrades
of, IL 244. 247. ; cornices of, I. 302. ; horseshoe arches of, IL 250. ;
entrances of, IL 271., IIL 223. ; shafts of, IL 383. ; base in baptistery
of, L 282 ; mosaics in atrium of, IL 111. ; mosaics in cupola of, II-
114., IIL 175. ; lily capitals of, IL 137. ; Plates illustrative of (Vol. II),
VL VIL figs. 9. 10. 11., VIIL figs. 8. 9. 12. 13. 15., IX XI fig. L,
and Plate IIL Vol. IIL

Mare, Square of St. (Piazza di San Marco), anciently a garden, 11.
57. ; general effect of, IL 66. 116. ; plan of, IL 282.

Martino, Church of St. Of no importance.

Mater Domini, Church of Sta. Maria. It contains two important
pictures : one over the second altar on the right, " St Christina," by
Vincenzo Catena, a very lovely example of the Venetian religious
school; and, over the north transept door, the "Finding of the Cross/^by

MABDALENA — MICHELE. 313

Tintoret, a careftiUy painted and attractive picture, bat by no means a
good specimen of tbe master, as f&r as regards power of conception. He
does not seem to bave entered into bis subject. Tbere is no wonder, no
rapture, no entire devotion in any of tbe figures. Tbey are only interested
and pleased in a mild way ; and tbe kneeling woman wbo bands tbe nails
to a man stooping forward to receive tbem on tbe rigbt band, does so
witb tbe air of a person saying, ^^ You bad better take care of tbem ;
tbey may be wanted anotber time." Tbis general coldness in expres-
sion is mucb increased by tbe presence of several figures on tbe rigbt and
left, introduced for tbe sake of portraiture merely ; and tbe reality, as
well as tbe feeling, of tbe scene is destroyed by our seeing one of tbe
youngest and weakest of tbe women witb a buge cross lying across ber
knees, tbe wbole weigbt of it resting upon ber. As migbt bave been
expected, wbere tbe conception is so languid, tbe execution is little
deligbted in : it is tbrougbout steady and powerful, but in no place
affectionate, and in no place impetuous. If Tintoret bad always painted
in tbis way, be would bave sunk into a mere mecbanist It is, bow-
ever, a genuine and tolerably well preserved specimen, and its female
figures are exceedingly graceful; tbat of St. Helena very queenly,
tbougb by no means agreeable in feature. Among tbe male portraits
on tbe left tbere is one different from tbe usual types wbicb occur
eitber in Venetian paintings or Venetian populace ; it is carefully
painted, and more like a Scotcb Presbyterian minister tban a Greek.
Tbe background is cbiefiy composed of arcbitecture, wbite, remark-
ably uninteresting in colour, and still more so in form. Tbis is to
be noticed as one of tbe unfortunate results of tbe Kenaissance teacbing
at tbis period. Had Tintoret backed bis Empress Helena witb Byzan-
tine arcbitecture, tbe picture migbt bave been one of the most gorgeous
he ever painted.

Matsb Domini, Cahpo di Sta. Mabia, II. 261. A most interesting
little piazza, surrounded by early Qotbic bouses, once of singular
beauty ; tbe arcade at its extremity, of fourth order windows, drawn in
my folio work, is one of the earliest and loveliest of its kind in Venice ;
and in the houses at tbe side is a group of second order windows witb
their intermediate crosses, all complete, and well worth careful ex-
amination.

MiOHELE IN IsoLA, Chubch OF St. On the island between Venice and
Murano. The little Cappella Emiliana at tbe side of it has been much
admired, but it would be difficult to find a building more feelingless or
ridiculous. It is more like a German summer-house, or angle turret,

314 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

than a chapel, and maj be briefly described as a bee-hive set on a low
hexagonal tower, with dashes of stonework about its windows like the
flourishes of an idle penman.

The cloister of this church is pretty ; and the attached oemetery is
worth entering, for the sake of feeling the strangeness of the quiet
sleeping ground in the midst of the sea.

MicHDBL DAUiB CoLONMi, Palazzo. Of uo importance.

MnnBLLi, Pajlazzo. In the Corte del Maltese, at St Paternian. It
has a spiral external staircase, very picturesque, but of the fifteenth
century, and without merit.

MiBACOU, Chubch of Sta. Maria del The most interesting and
finished example in Venice of the Byzantine Benaissanoe, and one of
the most important in Italy of the cinque-cento style. All its sculp-
tures should be examined with great care, as the best possible examples
of a bad style. Observe, for instance, that in spite of the beautiful
work on the square pillars which support the gallery at the west end^
they have no more architectural effect than two wooden posts. The
same kind of failure in boldness of purpose exists throughout ; and the
building is, in fact, rather a small museum of unmeaning, though refined
sculpture, than a piece of architecture.

Its grotesques are admirable examples of the base Baphaelesque
design examined above, IIL 135. Note especially the children's
heads tied up by the hair, in the lateral sculptures at the top of
the altar steps. A rude workman, who could hardly have carved the
head at all, might have been allowed this or any other mode of express-
ing discontent with his own doings ; but the man who oould caive a
child's head so perfectly must have been wanting in all human feeling,
to cut it off, and tie it by the hair to a vine leaf. Observe, in the
Ducal Palace, though far ruder in skill, the heads always emerge from
the leaves, they are never tied to them.

MissBicoRDiA, Chuboh OF. The church itself is nothing, and contains
nothing worth the traveller's time ; but the Albergo de' Confratelli della
Misericordia at its side is a very interesting and beautiful relic of the
Gbthic Renaissance. Lazari says, <^ del secolo xiv. ; " but I believe
it to be later. Its traceries are very curious and rich, and the sculpture
of its capitals very fine for the late time. Close to it, on the right-hand
side of the canal, which is crossed by the wooden bridge, is one of the
richest Gothic doors in Venice, remarkable for the appearance of an-
tiquity in the general design and stiffness of its figures, though it bears
its date, 1505. Its extravagant crockets are almost the only features

MICHIBIi — MOISk 315

which, but for this written date, would at first have confessed its
lateness ; but, on examination, the figures will be found as bad and
spiritless as they are apparently archaic, and completely exhibiting
the Renaissance palsy of imagination.

The general effect is, however, excellent, the whole arrangement
having been borrowed from earlier work.

The action of the statue of the Madonnik, who extends her robe to
shelter a group of diminutive figures, representative of the Society for
whose house the sculpture was executed, may be also seen in most of
the later Venetian figures of the Virgin which occupy similar situa*
tions. The image of Christ is placed in a niedallion on her breast,
thus fully, though conventionally, expressing the idea of self-support
which is so often partially indicated by the great religious painters in
their representations of the infant Jesus.
Mois)), Church of St., III. 124. Notable as one of the basest
examples of the basest school of the Benaissance. It contains one
important picture, namely, " Christ Washing the Disciples' Feet," by
Tintoret ; on the left side of the^ chapel, north of the choir. This
picture has been originally dark, is now much faded, — ^in parts, I
believe, altogether destroyed, — ^and is hung in the worst light of a
chapel, where, on a sunny day at noon, one could not easily read
without a candle. I cannot, therefore, give much information re-
specting it ; but it is certainly- one of the least successful of the
painter's works, and both careless and unsatisfactory in its composition
as well as its colour. One circumstance is noticeable, as in a con-
siderable degree detracting from the interest of most of Tintoret's
representations of our Saviour with His disciples. He never loses
sight of the fact that all were poor, and the latter ignorant ; and
while he never paints a senator or a saint, once thoroughly canonized,
except as a gentleman, he is very careful to paint the Apostles,
in their living intercourse with the Saviour, in such a manner that
the spectator may see in an instant, as the Pharisee did of old, that
they were unlearned and ignorant men ; and, whenever we find them
in a room, it is always such a one as would be inhabited by the
lower classes. There seems some violation of this practice in the
dais, or fiight of steps, at the top of which the Saviour is placed in
the present picture ; but we are quickly reminded that the guests'
chamber or upper room ready prepared was not likely to have been
in a palace, by the humble furniture upon the floor, consisting of a
tub with a copper saucepan in it, a coffee-pot, and a pair of bellows.

316 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

curionsly associated with a symbolic cup with a wafer, which, however,
is in an injured part of the canvas, and may have been added bj
the priests. I am totally unable to state what the background of
the picture is or has been ; and the only point farther to be noted
about it is the solemnity, which, in spite of the familiar and homely
circumstances above noticed, the painter has given to the scene, by
placing the Saviour, in the act of washing the feet of Peter, at the
top of a circle of steps, on which the other Apostles kneel in adoration
and astonishment

MoBo, Palazzo. See Othsllo.

MoBOSiHi, Palazzo, near the Ponte dell' Ospedaletto, at San Giovanni e
Paolo. Outside it is not interesting, though the gateway shows re-
mains of brickwork of the thirteenth century. Its interior court is
singularly beautiful; the staircase of early fourteenth century Gothic has
originally been superb, and the window in the angle above is the most
perfect that I know in Venice of the kind ; the lightly sculptured
coronet is exquisitely introduced at the top of its spiral shaft.

This palace still belongs to tl;e Morosini family, to whose present
representative, the Count Carlo Morosini, the reader is indebted for
the note on the character of his ancestors, above, p. 211.

MoBOsmi, Palazzo, at St Stefano. Of no importance.

N.

Nani-Mocenioo, Palazzo. (Now Hotel Danieli.) A glorious example
of the central Gothic, nearly contemporary with the finest parts of the
Ducal Palace. Though less impressive in effect than the Casa Foscan
or Casa Bernardo, it is of purer architecture than either ; and quite
unique in the delicacy of the form of the cusps in the central group
of windows, which are shaped like broad scimitars, the upper foil of
the windows being very small. If the traveller will compare these
windows with the neighbouring traceries of the Ducal Palace, he will
easily perceive the peculiarity.

Nicolo del Lmo, Chttroh of St Of no importance.

NoMB Di Gsstr, CflUBCH OF THE. Of uo importance.

0.

Orfani, Chuboh of the. Of no importance.

Orto, Church of Sta. Maria dell'. An interesting example of

MORO — ORTO. 317

Renaissance Gothic, the traceries of the windows being very rich and
qnaint.

It contains four most important Tintorets : ^^ The Last Jadgment/*
" The Worship of the Golden Calf/' " The Presentation of the Virgin,"
and ^^ Martyrdom of St. Agnes/' The first two are among his largest
and mightiest works, but grievously injured by damp and neglect ;
and unless the trayeller is accustomed to decipher the thoughts in a
picture patiently, he need not hope to deriye any pleasure from them.
But no pictures will better reward a resolute study. The following
account of the ^^Last Judgment," given in the second volume of
" Modern Painters," will be useful in enabling the traveller to enter
into the meaning of the picture, but its real power is only to be felt
by patient examination of it.

^^ By Tintoret only has this unimaginable event (the Last Judg-
ment) been grappled with in its Verity ; not typically nor symboli-
cally, but as they may see it who shall not sleep, but be changed.
Only one traditional circumstance he has received, with Dante and
Michael Angelo, the Boat of the Condemned ; but the impetuosity of
his mind bursts out even in the adoption of this image ; he has not
stopped at the scowling ferryman of the one, nor at the sweeping blow
and demon dragging of the other, but, seized Hylas-like by the limbs,
and tearing up the earth in his agony, the victim is dashed into his
destruction ; nor is it the sluggish Lethe, nor the fiery lake, that bears
the cursed vessel, but the oceans of the earth and the waters of the
firmament gathered into one white, ghastly cataract ; the river of the
wrath of God, roaring down into the gulf where the world has melted
with its fervent heat, choked with the ruins of nations, and the limbs
of its corpses tossed out of its whirling, like water-wheels. Bat-like,
out of the holes and caverns and shadows of the earth, the bones gather,
and the clay heaps heave, rattling and adhering into half-kneaded
anatomies, that crawl, and startle, and struggle up among the putrid
weeds, with the clay clinging to their clotted hair, and their heavy
eyes sealed by the earth darkness yet, like his of old who went his way
unseeing to the Siloam Pool ; shaking off one by one the dreams of
the prison-house, hardly hearing the clangour of the trimipets of the
armies of God, blinded yet more, as they awake, by the white light of
the new Heaven, until the great vortex of the four winds bears up their
bodies to the judgment-seat ; the Firmament is all full of them, a very
dust of human souls, that drifts, and floats, and falls into the inter-

318 IV. VENETIAN INDEX,

minable, inevitable light ; the bright clouds are darkened with them
as with thick snow, currents of atom life in the arteries of heaveD,
now soaring np slowly, and higher and higher stilly till the eye and
the thonght can follow no farther, borne np, wingless^ by their inwud
faith and by the angel powers invisible, now hnrled in countless drifts
of horror before the breath of their condemnation."

Note in the opposite picture the way the clouds are wrapped about
the distant Sinai.

The figure of the little Madonna in the '^ Presentation " should be
compared with Titian's in his picture of the same subject in the
Academy. I prefer Tintoret's infinitely : and note how much finer is
the feeling with which Tintoret has relieved the glory round her head
against the pure sky, than that which influenced Titian in encumber-
ing his distance with architecture.

Hie " Martyrdom of St. Agnes " was a lovely picture. It has been
" restored " since I saw it.
Obfbdaletto, Churoh of the. The most monstrous example of the
Grotesque Renaissance which there is in Venice ; the Bculptnres on its
facade representing masses of diseased figures and swollen fruit

It is almost worth devoting an hour to the successive examination
of five buildings, as illustrative of the last degradation of the Benais-
sance. San Moisd is the most clumsy, Santa Maria Zobenigo the
most impious, St. Eustaohio the most ridiculous, the Ospedaletto the
most monstrouS| and the head at Santa Maria Formosa the most fonL
Othello, House of, at the Cabmimi. The researches of Mr. Brown
into the origin of the play of <* Othello " have, I think, determined
that Shakespeare wrote on definite historical grounds ; and that Othello
may be in many points identified with Christopher Moro, the lieutenant
of the republic at Cyprus in 1608, See " Ragguagli su Maria Sanuto,'
i. 226.

His palace was standing till very lately, a Gothic building of the
fourteenth century, of which Mr. Brown possesses a drawing. It is
now destroyed, and a modern square-windowed house built on its site.
A statue, said to be a portrait of Moro, but a most paltry work, is ^^
in a niche in the modem wall.

P.

Pantaleone, Chuech of St. Said to contain a Paul Veronese ; other-
wise of no importance.

OSPEDALETTO — POLO. 319

Paternian, Church of St. Its little leaning tower forms an interest-
ing object, as the traveller sees it from the narrow canal which
passes beneath the Porte San Paternian. The two arched lights of
the belfry appear of very early workmanship, probably of the begin-
ning of the thirteenth centnry.

Pbsabo, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. The most powerful and
impressive in effect of all the palaces of the Grotesque Eenaissance.
The heads upon its foundation are very characteristic of the period,
but there is more genius in them than usual. .Some of the mingled
expressions of faces and grinning casques are very clever.

PiAzzBTTA, pillars of, see Final Appendix, tinder head " Capitals."
The two magnificent blocks of marble brought from St Jean d'Acre,
which form one of the principal ornaments of the Piazzetta, ai:e Greek
sculpture of the sixth century, and will be described in my folio work.

PiETA, Chubch of the. Of HO importance.

PiETRO, Church of St*, at Murano. Its pictures, once valuable, are
now hardly worth examination, having been spoiled by neglect.

PiETBO Di Castxllo, Churgh OF St., L 7. 351. It is said to contain
a Paul Veronese, and I suppose the so-called " Chair of St. Peter"
must be worth examining.

PiSAKi, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. The latest Venetian Gothic,
just passing into Benaissance. The capitals of the first-floor win-
dows are, however, singularly spirited and graceful, very daringly
undercut, and worth careful examination. The Paul Veronese, once
the glory of this palace, is, I believe, not likely to remain in Venice.
The other picture in the same room, the " Death of Darius," is of
no value.

PisANi, Palazzo, at St. Stefano. Late Benaissance, and of no merit,
but grand in its colossal proportions, especially when seen from the
narrow canal at its side, which, terminated by the apse of the Church
of San Stefano, is one of the most picturesque and impressive little
pieces of water scenery in Venice.

Polo, Church of St. Of no importance, except as an example of
the advantages accruing from restoration. M. Lazari says of it,
^^ Before this church was modernized, its principal chapel was adorned
with mosaics, and possessed a pala of silver gilt, of Byzantine work-
manship, which is now lost."

Polo, Square of St. (Campo San Polo.) A large and important
square, rendered interesting chiefly by three palaces on the side of it

/

320 IV. VENETIAN INDEX,

opposite the church, of central Gothic (1360), and fine of their time,
though small. One of their capitals has been given in Plate II of
this Yolome, fig. 12. They are remarkable as being decorated with
sculptures of the Gothic time, in imitation of the Byzantine ones ; the
period being marked by the dog-tooth, and cable being used instead of
the dentil round the circles.

Polo, Palazzo, at San G. Grisostomo (the house of Marco Polo),
IL 139. Its interior court is full of interest, showing fi'agments of
the old building in every direction, cornices, windows, and doors^ of
almost every period, mingled among modern rebuilding and restoiar
tion of all degrees of dignity.

Porta dslla Cabta, II. 302.

Priuli, Palazzo. A most important and beautiful early Qotbic palace,
at San Severe; the main entrance is from the Fondamento San
Severe, but the principal fa<^e is on the other side, towards the
canal. The entrance has been grievously defaced, having had winged
lions filling the spandrils of its pointed arch, of which only feeble traces
are now left ; the facade has very early fourth order windows in the
lower story, and, above, the beautiful range of fifth order windows
drawn at the bottom of Plate XVIIL Vol. II., where the heads of the
fourth order range are also seen (note their inequality, the larger one
at the fiank). This palace has two most interesting traceried angle
windows also, which, however, I believe are later than those on the
facade ; and, finally, a rich and bold interior staircase.

Procuratik Nuovb, see " Lebrkria." Vkoohib : A graceful series of
buildings, of late fifteenth century design, forming the northern side
of St. Mark's Place, but of no particular interest

Q.

QuERiKi, Palazzo, now the Beccherie, IL 265., III. 230.

R

Baffaslle, Chiesa dell' Akgelo. Said to contain a Bonifazio:

otherwise of no importance.
Rbdentorb, Church of the, II. 377. It contains three interesting

John Bellinis, and also, in the sacristy, a most beautiful Paul Yeronese.
Bemer, Corte del, house in, II. 251.
Bezzokico, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. Of the Grotesque Renaifi-

sance time, but less extravagant than usual.
BiALTO, Bridge of the. The best building raised in the time of the

POLO — ROCCO. 321

Grotesque Renaissance ; very noble in its simplicity, in its proportions,
and in its masonry. Note especially the grand way in which the oblique
archstones rest on the hutments of the bridge, safe, palpably both to the
sense and eye : note also the sculpture of the Annunciation on the
southern side of it ; how beautifully arranged, so as to give more light-
ness and grace to the arch — the dove^ flying towards the Madonna^
forming the keystoney — ^and thus the whole action of the figures being
parallel to the curve of the arch, while all the masonry is at right angles
to it. Note, finally, one circumstance which gives peculiar firmness to
the figure of the angel, and associates itself with the general expression
of strength in the whole building; namely, that the sole of the advanced
foot is set perfectly level, as if placed on the ground, instead of being
thrown back behind like a heron's, as in most modern figures of this kind.
The sculptures themselves are not good; but these pieces of feeling in
them are very admirable. The two figures on the other side, St. Mark
and St. Theodore, are inferior, though all by the same sculptor, Girolamo
Campagna.

The bridge was built by Antonio da Ponte, in 1 588. It was anciently
of wood, with a drawbridge in the centre, a representation of which may
be seen in one of Carpaccio's pictures at the Accademia delle Belle Arti :
and the traveller should observe that the interesting effect, both of this
and the Bridge of Sighs, depends in great part on their both being more
than bridges ; the one a covered passage, the other a row of shops, sus-
tained on an arch. No such effect can be produced merely by the
masonry of the roadway itself.

Bio DEL Palazzo, II. 283.

Rooco, Campiello di San, windows in, II. 258.

Bocco, Chubch of St. Notable only for the most interesting pictures
by Tintoret which it contains, namely :

1. San Rocco before the Pope. (On the left of the door as we
enter.) A delightful picture in his best manner, but not much
laboured ; and, like several other pictures in this church, it seems
to me to have been executed at some period of the painter's life when
he was either in ill-health, or else had got into a mechanical way of
painting, from having made too little reference to nature for a long
time. There is something stiff and forced in the white draperies on
both sides, and a general character about the whole which I can feel
better than I can describe ; but which, if I had been the painter's
physician, would have inmiediately caused me to order him to shut up
his painting-room, and take a voyage to the Levant and back again.

VOL. III. Y

322 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

The figure of the Pope is, however, extremely beautiful, and is not un-
worthy, in its jewelled magnificence, here dark against the sky, of
comparison with the figure of the high priest in the ^^ Presentation,"
in the Scuola di San Bocco.

2. Annunciation. (On the other side of door, on entering.) A most
disagreeable and dead picture, having all the faults of the age, and
none of the merits of the painter. It must be a matter of future in-
vestigation to me, what could cause the fall of his mind from a con-
ception 80 great and so fiery as that of the ^^ Annunciation " in &e
Scuola di San Rocco, to this miserable reprint of an idea worn oat
centuries before. One of the most inconceivable things in it, con-
sidered as the work of Tintoret, is that where the angel's robe drifts
away behind his limb : one cannot tell by the character of the outline,
or by the tones of the colour, whether the cloud comes in before the
robe, or whether the robe cuts upon the cloud* The Virgin is uglier than
that of the Scuola, and not half so real ; and the draperies are crompled
in the most commonplace and ignoble folds. It is a picture well worth
study, as an example of the extent to which the greatest mind may be
betrayed by the abuse of its powers, and the neglect of its proper food
in the study of nature.

3. Pool o/BetAeada. (On the right side of the church, in its centre,
the lowest of the two pictures which occupy the wall.) A noble work,
but eminently disagreeable, as must be all pictures of this subject; and
with the same character in it of undefinable want, which I have noticed
in the two preceding works. The main figure in it is the cripple,
who has taken up his bed ; but the whole effect of this action is lost
by his not turning to Christ, but flinging it on his shoulder like a
triumphant porter with a huge load ; and the corrupt Benaissance
architecture, among which the figures are crowded, is both ugly i^
itself, and much too small for them. It is worth noticing, for the bene-
fit of persons who find fault with the perspective of the Pre-Baphael-
ites, that the perspective of the brackets beneath these pillars is
utterly absurd ; and that, in fine, the presence or absence of perspec-
tive has nothing to do with the merits of a great picture : not that the
perspective of the Pre-Baphaelites is false in any case that I have ex-
amined, the objection being just as untenable as it is ridiculous.

4. San Rocco in the Desert. (Above the last-named picture.) A

•

single recumbent figure in a not very interesting landscape, deserving
less attention than a picture of St. Martin just opposite to it, — a noble
and knightly figure on horseback by Pordenone, to which I cannot p«7

ROCCO, CHURCH OP ST. 323

a greater compliment than by saying that I was a considerable time
in doubt whether or not it was another Tintoret.

5. San Rocco in the Hospital. (On the right-hand side of the altar.)
There are four vast pictures by Tintoret in the dark choir of this
church, not only important by their size (each being some twenty-five
feet loDg by ten feet high), but also elaborate compositions ; and re-
markable, one for its extraordinary landscape, and the other as the
most studied picture in which the painter has introduced horses in
violent action. In order to show what waste of human mind there is
in these dark churches of Venice, it is worth recording that, as I was
examining these pictures, there came in a party of eighteen German
tourists, not hurried, nor jesting among themselves, as large parties
often do, but patiently submitting to their cicerone, and evidently
desirous of doing their duty as intelligent travellers. GHiey sat down
for a long time on the benches of the nave, looked a little at
the ^^ Pool of Bethesda," walked up into the choir, and there heard a
lecture of considerable length from their valet^de-place upon some
subject connected with the altar itself, which, being in German, I
did not understand ; they then turned and went slowly out of the
church, not one of the whole eighteen ever giving a single glance to
any of the four Tintorets, and only one of them, as far as I saw, even
raising his eyes to the walls on which they hung, and immediately
withdrawing them, with a jaded and noTicAalant expression, easily
interpre table into " Nothing but old black pictures." The two
Tintorets above noticed, at the end of the church, were passed also
without a glance ; and this neglect is not because the pictures have
nothing in them capable of arresting the popular mind, but simply
because they are totally in the dark, or confused among easier and
more prominent objects of attention. This picture, which I have called
" St. Rocco in the Hospital," shows him, I suppose, in his general
ministrations at such places, and is one of the usual representations of
disgusting subjects from which neither Orcagna nor Tintoret seems ever
to have shrunk. It is a very noble picture, carefully composed and
highly wrought ; but to me gives no pleasure, first, on account of its
subject, secondly, on account of its dull brown tone all over, — it being
impossible, or nearly so, in such a scene, and at all events inconsistent
with its feeling, to introduce vivid colour of any kind. So it is a brown
study of diseased limbs in a close room.

6. Cattle Piece. (Above the picture last described.) I can give no
other name to this picture, whose subject I can neither guess nor

324 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

p

dificover, the picture being in the dark, and the guide-books leaving
< me in the same position. All I can make oat of it is, that there is

a noble landscape, with cattle and figures. It seems to me the kst
landscape of Tintoret's in Venice, except the " Flight into Egypt ; ''
and is even still more interesting from its savage character, the prin-
cipal trees being pines, something like Titian^s in his ^^ St Francis
receiving the Stigmata," and chestnuts on the slopes and in the hollows
of the hills : the animals also seem first-rate. But it is too high, too
much faded, and too much in the dark to be made out. It seems never
to have been rich in colour, rather cool and grey, and very full of light

7. Finding of Body of San Rocco. (On the left-hand side of the
altar.) An elaborate, but somewhat confused picture, with a flying
angel in a blue drapery ; but it seemed to me altogether uninteresting,
or, perhaps, requiring more study than I was able to give it.

8. San Rocco in Campo d^Armaia. So this picture is called by the
sacristan. I could see no San Rocco in it ; nothing but a wUd group of
horses and warriors in the most magnificent confusion of fall and flight
ever painted by man. They seem all dashed different ways as if by a
whirlwind ; and a whirlwind there must be, or a thunderbolt, behind
them, for a huge tree is torn up and hurled into the air beyond the cen-
tral figure, as if it were a shivered lance. Two of the horses meet in the
midst, as if in a tournament ; but in madness of fear, not in hostility : on
the horse to the right is a standard-bearer, who stoops as from somQ foe
behind him, with the lance laid across his saddle-bow, level, and the flag
stretched out behind him as he flies, like the sail of a ship drifting from
its mast ; the central horseman, who meets the shock, of storm, or
enemy, whatever it be, is hurled backwards from his seat, like a stone
from a sling ; and this figure, with the shattered tree trunk behind li^
is the most noble part of the picture. There is another grand horse
on the right, however, also in full action. Two gigantic figures on foot»
on the left, meant to be nearer than the others, would, it seems to me,
have injured the picture, had they been clearly visible ; but time has
reduced them to perfect subordination.

Eocco, ScuoLA Di San, bases of, L 283. 411. ; sofl5t ornaments of, I-
327. An interesting building of the early Renaissance (161 7), passmg
into Roman Renaissance. The wreaths of leafage about its shafts are
wonderfully delicate and fine, though misplaced.

As regards the pictures which it contains, it is one of the three most
precious buildings in Italy ; buildings, I mean, consistently decorate
with a series of paintings at the time of their erection, and still exhi^^^t-

ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 325

ing that series in its original order. I snppose there can be little
question but that the three most important edifices of this kind in Italy
are the Sistine Chapel, the Campo Santo of Pisa, and the Scnola di
San Eocco at Venice: the first painted by Michael Angelo; the second
by Orcagna, Benozzo Gozzoli, Pietro Lanrati, and several other men
whose works are as rare as they are precious ; and the third by Tintoret.

Whatever the traveller may miss in Venice, he should, therefore,
give unembarrassed attention and unbroken time to the Scuola di San
Bocco ; and I shall, accordingly, number the pictures, and note in
them, one by one, what seemed to me most worthy of observation.

They are sixty-two in all, but eight of these are merely of children
or children's heads, and two of unimportant figures. The number of
valuable pictures is fifty-two ; arranged on the walls and ceilings of
three rooms, so badly lighted, in consequence of the admirable arrange-
ments of the Benaissance architect, that it is only in the early morning
that some of the pictures can be seen at all, nor can they ever be
seen but imperfectly. They were all painted, however, for their places in
the dark, and, as compared with Tintoret's other works, are therefore, for
the most part, nothing more than vast sketches, made to produce, under
a certain degree of shadow, the eflfect of finished pictures. Their treat-
ment is thus to be considered as a kind of scene-painting; differing from
ordinary scene-painting only in this, that the effect aimed at is not ihaJt of
a natural scene ^ but of a perfect picture. They differ in this respect from
all other existing works; for there is not, as far as I know, any other
instance in which a great master has consented to work for a room
plunged into almost total obscurity. It is probable that none but
Tintoret would have undertaken the task, and most fortunate that he
was forced to it. For in this magnificent scene-painting we have, of
course, more wonderful examples, both of his handling and knowledge
of effect, than could ever have been exhibited in finished pictures; while
the necessity of doing much with few strokes keeps his mind so
completely on the stretch throughout the work (while yet the velocity
of production prevented his being wearied), that no other series of
his works exhibits powers so exalted. On the other hand, owing to
the velocity and coarseness of the painting, it is more liable to injury
through drought or damp ; and as the walls have been for years con-
tinually running down with rain, and what little sun gets into the place
contrives to fall all day right on one or other of the pictures, they are
nothing but wrecks of what they were ; and the ruins of paintings
originally coarse are not likely ever to be attractive to the public

326

IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

mind. Twenty or thirty years ago they were taken down to be re-
touched ; but the man to whom the task was committed providentially
diedy and only one of them was spoiled. I have found traces of his
work upon another, but not to an extent very seriously destractive.
The rept of the sixty-two, or, at any rate, all that are in the upper
room, appear entirely intact.

Although, as compared with his other works, they are all very scenic
in execution, there are great differences in their degrees of finisli;
and, curiously enough, some on the ceilings and others in the darkest
places in the lower room are very nearly finished pictures, while the
** Agony in the Garden," which is in one of the best lights in the
upper room, appears to have been painted in a couple of hours with a
broom for a brush.

For the traveller's greater convenience I shall give a rude plan of
the arrangement, and list of the subjects, of each group of pictures
before examining them in detail.

First group. On the walls of the room on the ground floor.

A

I

^m I

1. Annunciation.

2. Adoration of Magi.

3. Flight into Egypt

4. Massacre of Innocents.

6. The Magdalen.

6. St. Mary of Egypt

7. Circumcision.

8. Assumption of Virgin.

At the turn of the stairs leading to the upper room :

9. Visitation.

1. The Annunciation. This, which first strikes the eye, is a very
just representative of the whole group, the execution being carried to tbe

ROCOO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 327

utmost limits of boldness consistent with completion. It is a well-known
picture, and need not therefore be specially described, but one or two
points in it require notice. The face of the Virgin is very disagreeable
to the spectator from below, giving the idea of a woman about thirty,
who had never been handsome. If the face is untouched, it is the
only instance I have ever seen of Tintoret's failing in an intended effect,
for, when seen near, the face is comely and youthful, and expresses
only surprise, instead of the pain and fear of which it bears the aspect
in the distance. I could not get near enough to see whether it had
been retouched. It looks like Tintoret's work, though rather hard ;
but, as there are unquestionable marks of the re-touching of this
picture, it is possible that some slight restoration of lines supposed to
be faded, entirely alter the distant expression of the face. One of the
evident pieces of repainting is the scarlet of the Madonna's lap, which is
heavy and lifeless. A far more injurious one is the strip of sky seen
through the doorway by which the angel enters, which has originally
been of the deep golden colour of the distance on the left, and which
the blundering restorer has daubed over with whitish blue, so that it
looks like a bit of the wall ; luckily he has not touched the outlines
of the angel's black wings, on which the whole expression of the picture
depends. This angel and the group of small cherubs above form a
great swinging chain, of which the dove representing the Holy Spirit
forms the bend. The angels in their flight seem to be attached tot his
as the train of fire is to a rocket ; all of them appearing to have swooped
down with the swiftness of a faUing star.

2. Adoration of the Magi. The most finished picture in the Scuola
except the /^ Crucifixion," and perhaps the most delightful of the
whole. It unites every source of pleasure that a picture can possess :
the highest elevation of principal subject, mixed with the lowest detail
of picturesque incident ; the dignity of the highest ranks of men, opposed
to the simplicity of the lowest ; the quietness and serenity of an inci-
dent in cottage life, contrasted with the turbulence of troops of horse-
men and the spiritual power of angels. The placing of the two doves as
principal points of light in the front of the picture, in order to remind
the spectator of the poverty of the mother whose child is receiving the
offerings and adoration of three monarchs, is one of Tintoret's master
touches ; the whole scene, indeed, is conceived in his happiest manner.
Nothing can be at once more humble or more dignified than the bearing
of the kings ; and there is a sweet reality given to the whole incident by

328 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

the Madonna^B stooping forward and lifting her hand in admiration of
the vase of gold which has been set before the Christy though she does
so with such gentleness and quietness that her dignity is not in the least
injured by the simplicity of the action. As if to illustrate the means
by which the Wise Men were brought from the East, the whole picture
is nothing but a large star, of which the Christ is the centre ; all the
figures, even the timbers of the roof, radiate from the small bright
figure on which the countenances of the flying angels are bent, the
star itself, gleaming through the timbers above, being quite subordinate.
The composition would almost be too artificial were it not broken by
the luminous distance where the troop of horsemen are waiting for the
kings. These, with a dog running at fiill speed, at once interrupt
the symmetry of the lines, and form a point of relief from the over-
concentration of all the rest of the action.

3. Flight into Egypt. One of the principal figures here is the
donkey. I have never seen any of the nobler animals — ^lion, ot
leopard, or horse, or dragon — ^made so sublime as this quiet bead
of the domestic ass, chiefly owing to the grand motion in the nostril
and writhing in the ears. The space of the picture is chiefly occupied
by lovely landscape, and the Madonna and St Joseph are pacing

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

4. Massacre of the Innocents. The following account of this
picture, given in " Modern Painters,*' may be useful to the traveller,
and is therefore here repeated. " I have before alluded to the p«^-
fulness of Raffaelle's treatment of the Massacre of the Innocente.

J

ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 329

Fuseli affirms of it^ that, ' in dramatic gradation he disclosed all
the mother through every image of pity and of terror.' If this be
so, I think the philosophical spirit has prevailed over the imagina-
tive. The imagination never errs; it sees all that is, and all the
relations and bearings of it ; but it would not have confused the mor-
tal frenzy of maternal terror with various developement of maternal
character. Fear, rage, and agony, at their utmost pitch, sweep away
all character : humanity itself would be lost in maternity, the woman
would become the mere personification of animal fury or fear. For
this reason all the ordinary representations of this subject are, I think,
Talse and cold : the artist has not heard the shrieks, nor mingled with
the fugitives ; he has sat down in his study to convulse features
methodically, and philosophize over insanity. Not so Tintoret. Know-
ing, or feeling, that the expression of the human face was, in such
circumstances, not to be rendered, and that the effort could only end
in an ugly falsehood, he denies himself all aid from the features, he
feels that if he is to place himself or us in the midst of that maddened
multitude, there can be no time allowed for watching expression.
Still less does he depend on details of murder or ghastliness of death ;
there is no blood, no stabbing or cutting, but there is an awful sub-
stitute for these in the chiaroscuro. The scene is the outer vestibule of
a palace, the slippery marble floor is fearfully barred across by sanguine
shadows, so that our eyes seem to become bloodshot and strained with
strange horror and deadly vision ; a lake of life before them, like the
burning seen of the doomed Moabite on the water that came by the
way of Edom : a huge flight of stairs, without parapet, descends on
the left ; down this rush a crowd of women mixed with<^he murderers ;
the child in the arms of one has been seized by the limbs ; she Aurls
herself over the edge^ and falls head downmost^ dragging the child out
of the grasp by her weight ; — ^she will be dashdd dead in a second : —
close to us is the great struggle ; a heap of the mothers, entangled in
one mortal writhe with each other and the swords ; one of the mur-
derers dashed down and crushed beneath them, the sword of another
caught by the blade and dragged at by a woman's naked hand ; the
youngest and fairest of the women, her child just torn away from a
death grasp, and clasped to her breast with the grip of a steel vice,
falls backwards, helplessly over the heap, right on the sword points ;
all knit together and hurled down in one hopeless, frenzied, furious
abandonment of body and soul in the effort to save. Far back, at the
bottom of the stairs, there is something in the shadow like a heap of

332 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

8. Assumption of the Virgin. On the tablet or panel of stone which
forms the side of the tomb out of which the Madonna rises, is this
inscription, in large letters, REST. ANTONIUS FLORIAN, 1834.
Exactly in proportion to a man's idiocy is always the size of the letters
in which he writes his name on the pictore that he spoils. The old
mosaicists in St. Mark's have not, in a single instance, as far as I
know, signed their names ; but the spectator who wishes to knovwho
destroyed the e£fect of the nave, may see his name inscribed, twice over,
in letters half a foot high, Bartolomso Bozza. I haye nerer seen
Tintoret's name signed, except in the great ^^ Crucifixion ; " but this
Antony Florian, I have no doubt, repainted the whole side of the tomb
that he might put his name on it The picture is, of course, mined
wherever he touched it, that is to say, half over : the circle of cherabs
in the sky is still pure ; and the design of the great painter is palpable
enough yet in the grand flight of the horizontal angel, on whom the
Madonna half leans as she ascends. It has been a noble picture, and
is a grievous loss ; but, happily, there are so many pure ones, that we
need not spend time in gleaning treasures out of the rains of this.

9. VisitaJtion. A small picture, painted in his very best manner;
exquisite in its simplicity, unrivalled in vigour, well preserved, and, as
a piece of painting, certainly one of the most precious in Venice.
Of course, it does not show any of his high inventive powers ; nor can
a picture of four middle-sized figures be made a proper subject of
comparison with large canvases containing forty or fifty ; but it is, for
this very reason, painted with such perfect ease, and yet with bo
slackness either of affection or power, that there is no picture that I
covet so much. It is, besides, altogether free from the Renaissance
taint of dramatic effect The gestures are as simple and natural as
Giotto's, only expressed by grander lines, such as none but Tintoret
ever reached. The draperies are dark, relieved against a light sky, the
horizon being excessively low, and the outlines of the drapery so severe
that the intervals between the figures look like ravines between great
rocks, and have all the sublimity of an alpine valley at tiriligh^
This precious picture is hung about thirty feet above the eye, hut
by looking at it in a strong light, it is discoverable that the St
Elizabeth is dressed in green and crimson, the Virgin in the pecu-
liar red which all great colourists delight in — a sort of glowing
brick colour or brownish scarlet, opposed to a rich golden hrowniBa
black ; and both have white kerchiefs, or drapery, thrown over their

ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN.

333

shoulders. Zacharias leans on his staff behind them in a black dress
with white sleeves. The stroke of brilliant white light, which outlines
the knee of St. Elizabeth, is a curious instance of the habit of the
painter to relieve his dark forms by a sort of halo of more vivid light,
which, until lately, one would have been apt to suppose a somewhat
artificial and unjustifiable means of effect. The daguerreotype has
shown — ^what the naked eye never could — that the instinct of the
great painter was true, and that there is actually such a sudden and
sharp line of light round the edges of dark objects relieved by luminous
space.

Opposite this picture is a most precious Titian, the " Annunciation,"
full of grace and beauty. I think the Madonna one of the sweetest
figures he ever painted. But if the traveller has entered at all into
the spirit of Tintoret, he will immediately feel the comparative feeble-
ness and conventionality of the Titian. Note especially the mean and
petty folds of the angels' drapery, and compare them with the draperies
of the opposite picture. The larger pictures at the sides of the stairs
by Zanchi and Negri are utterly worthless.

Second group. On the walls of the upper room.

10

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10. Adoration of Shepherds.

11. Baptism.

12. ResuTTection.

13. Agony in Qarden.

14. Last Supper.

15. Altar Piece : St. Rocco.

16. Miracle of Loaves.

17. Besorrection of Lazarus.

18. Ascensio]].

19. Pool of Bethesda.

20. Temptation.

21. St Rocco.

22. St Sebastian.

336 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

sentimentalitj, make shepherds and peasants gracefal or sublime, bat
he purposely yulgarizes them, not by making their actions or their faces
boorish or disagreeable, but rather by painting them ill^ and composiDg
their draperies tamely. As far as I recollect at present^ the principle
is uniyersal with him ; exactly in proportion to the dignity of character
is the beauty of the painting. He will not put out his strength upon
any man belonging to the lower classes; and, in order to know what
the painter is, one must see him at work on a king*, a senator, or
a saint. The curious connexion of this with the aristocratic tendencies
of the Venetian nation, when we remember that Tintoret was the
greatest man whom that nation produced, may become very interesting,
if followed out. I forgot to note that, though the peacock is painted
with great regardlessness of colour, there is a feature in it which no
common painter would have observed, — ^the peculiar flatness of the bade,
and undulation of the shoulders : the bird's body is all there, though its
feathers are a good deal neglected ; and the same thing is noticeable in a
cock who is pecking among the straw near the spectator, though in
other respects a shabby cock enough. The fact is, I believe he had
made his shepherds so commonplace that he dared not paint his animals
well, otherwise one would have looked at nothing in the picture bat
the peacock, cock, and cow. I cannot tell what the shepherds are
offering ; they look like milk-bowls, but they are awkwardly held up,
with such twLstings of body as would have certainly spilt the milk.
A woman in front has a basket of eggs ; but this I imagine to be merely
to keep up the rustic character of the scene, and not part of the shep-
herds' offerings.

1 1. Baptism. There is more of the true picture quality in this work
than in the former one, but still very little appearance of enjoyment or
care. The colour is for the most part grey and uninteresting, and the
figures are thin and meagre in form, and slightly painted ; so much
so, that, of the nineteen figures in the distance, about a dozen are
hardly worth calling figures, and the rest are so sketched and flourished
in that one can hardly tell which is which. There is one point
about it very interesting to a landscape painter : the river is seen far
into the distance, with a piece of copse bordering it ; the sky beyond is
dark, but the water nevertheless receives a brilliant reflection from some
unseen rent in the clouds, so brilliant, that when I was first at Venice,
not being accustomed to Tintoret's slight execution, or to see pictures so
much injured, I took this piece of water for a piece of sky. The effect,

.r^5E

— -—-■-'

ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 337

as Tintoret has arranged it, is indeed somewhat unnatural, but it is
valuable as showing his recognition of a principle unknown to half the
historical painters of the present day, — that the reflection seen in water
is totally different from the object seen above it, and that it is very
possible to have a bright light in reflection where there appears nothing
but darkness to be reflected. The clouds in the sky itself are round,
heavy, and lightless, and in a great degree spoil what would otherwise
be a flne landscape distance. Behind the rocks on the right a single
head is seen, with a collar on the shoulders : it seems to be intended
for a portrait of some person connected with the picture.

12. Resurrection. Another of the " effect of light " pictures, ^nd
not a very sfriking one, the best part of it being the two distant figures of
the Maries seen in the dawn of the morning. The conception of the Re-
surrection itself is characteristic of the worst points of Tintoret His
impetuosity is here in the wrong place : Christ bursts out of the rock
like a thunderbolt, and the angels themselves seem likely to be crushed
under the rent stones of the tomb. Had the figure of Christ been
sublime, this conception might have been accepted; but, on the contrary,
it is weak, mean, and painful ; and the whole picture is languidly or
roughly painted, except only the fig-tree at the top of the rock, which, by
a curious caprice, is not only drawn in the painter's best manner, but
has golden ribs to all its leaves, making it look like one of the beautiful
crossed or chequered patterns, of which he is so fond in his dresses ;
the leaves themselves being a dark olive brown.

13. The Ag(my in the Garden. I cannot at present understand the
order of these subjects ; but they may have been misplaced. This, of
all the San Bocco pictures, is the most hastily painted, but it is not,
like those we have been passing, clodly painted ; it seems to have been
executed altogether with a hearth-broom, and in a few hours. It is
another of the ^' effects '' and a very curious one ; the angel who
bears the cup to Christ is surrounded by a red halo ; yet the light which
falls upon the shoulders of the sleeping disciples, and upon the leaves
of the olive-trees, is eool and silvery, while the iroop coming up to seize
Christ are seen by torchlight. Judas, who is the second figure, points
to Christ, but turns his head away as he does so, as unable to look at
him. That is a noble touch ; the foliage is also exceedingly fine, though
what kind of olive-tree bears such leaves I know not, each of them
being about the size of a man's hand. If there be any which bear
such foliage, their olives must be of the size of cocoa-nuts. This,

VOL. III. z

338 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

however, is tnie only of the underwood, which is, perhaps, not meant for
olive. There are some taller trees at the top of the picture, whose leayes
are of a more natural size. On closely examining the fignres of the
troop on the left, I find that the distant ones are concealed, all bat the
limbs, by a sort of arch of dark colour, which is now so injured, that I
cannot teU whether it was foliage or ground : I suppose it to hare
been a mass of close foliage, through which the troop is breaUog its
way ; Judas rather showing them the path, than actually pointing to
Christ, as it is written, *' Judas, who betrayed Him, knew the place.*'
8t Peter, as the most zealous of the three disciples, the only one who
was to endeavour to defend his Master, is represented as wakening
and turning his head towards the troop, while James and John are
buried in profound slumber, laid in magnificent languor among the
leaves. The picture is singularly impressive, when seen far enough off,
as an image of thick forest gloom amidst the rich and tender foliage of
the South ; the leaves, however, tossing as in disturbed night air, and the
flickering of the torches, and ofthe branches, contrasted with theateady

flame which from the angel's presence is spread over the robes of the
disciples. The strangest feature in the whole is that the Christ also
is represented as sleeping. The angel seems to appear to Him in a
dream.

14. The Last Supper. A most unsatisfactory picture ; I think
about the worst I know of Tintoret's, where there is no appearance of
retouching. He always makes the disciples in this scene too vulgar ;
they are here not only vulgar, but diminutive, and Christ is at the end
of the table, the smallest figure of them all. The principal fignres are
two mendicants sitting on steps in front, a kind of supporters, hut I
suppose intended to be waiting for the fragments : a dog, in still mor^
earnest expectation, is watching the movements of the disciples, who are
talking together, Judas having but just gone out Christ is represented
as giving what one at first supposes is the sop to Judas, but as the
disciple who receives it has a glory, and there are only eleven at table,
it is evidently the sacramental bread. The room in which they are
assembled is a sort of large kitchen, and the host is seen employed at a
dresser in the background. This picture has not only been orijfinal^/
poor, but is one of those exposed all day to the sun, and is dried into
mere dusty canvas : where there was once blue, there is now nothing-

15. St. Rocco in Qhry. One of the worst order of Tintorete,
with apparent smoothness and finish, yet languidly painted, as if i°

ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 339

illness or fatigue ; very dark and heavy in tone also ; its figures^ for
the most part, of an awkward middle size, about five feet high, and
very uninteresting. St. Bocco ascends to Heaven^ looking down upon
a crowd of poor and sick persons who are blessing and adoring him.
One of these, kneeling at the bottom, is very nearly a repetition, though
a careless and indolent one, of that of St Stephen, in St. Giorgio
Maggiore, and of the central figure in the ^^ Paradise " of the Ducal
Palace. It is a kind of lay figure, of which he seems to. have been
fond ; its clasped hands are here shockingly painted, — I should think
unfinished* It forms the only important light at the bottom, relieved
on a dark ground ; at the top of the picture, the figure of St. Bocco
is seen in shadow against the light of the sky, and all the rest is
in confused shadow. The commonplaceness of this composition is
curiously connected with the languor of thought and touch throughout
the work.

16. Miracle of the Loaves. Hardly anything but a fine piece of
landscape is here left ; it is more exposed to the sun than any other
picture in the room, and its draperies having been, in great part,
painted in blue, are now mere patches of the colour of starch ; the scene
is also very imperfectly conceived. The twenty-one figures, including
Christ and His disciples, very ill represent a crowd of seven thousand;
still less is the marvel of the miracle expressed by the perfect ease
and rest of the reclining figures in the foreground, who do not so
much as look surprised : considered merely as reclining figures, and
as pieces of effect in half light, they have once been fine. The
landscape, which represents the slope of a woody hill, has a very
grand and far-away look. Behind it is a great space of streaky sky,
almost prismatic in colour, rosy and golden clouds covering up its
blue, and some fine vigorous trees thrown against it; painted in
about ten minutes each, however, by curly touches of the brush, and
looking rather more like sea-weed than foliage.

17. Resurrection of Lazarus. Very strangely, and not impressively,
conceived. Christ is half reclining, half sitting, at the bottom of
the picture, while Lazarus is disencumbered of his grave-clothes at
the top of it ; the scene being the side of a rooky hill, and the mouth
of the tomb probably once visible in the shadow on the left ; but all
that is now discernible is a man having his limbs unbound, as if Christ
were merely ordering a prisoner to be loosed. There appears neither
awe nor agitation, nor even much astonishment, in any of the figures

340 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

of the group ; bnt the picture is more vigorous than any of the three
last mentioned, and the upper part of it is qaite worthy of the
master, especially its noble fig-tree and laurel, which he has painted,
in one of his usual fits of caprice, as carefully as that in the ^' Besurrec-
tion of Christ," opposite. Perhaps he has some meaning in this; he
may have been thinking of the verse, ^^ Behold the fig-tree, and all the
trees ; when they now shoot forth," Ac. In the present instance, the
leaves are dark only, and have no golden veins. The uppermost fignres
also come dark against the sky, and would form a precipitous masS;
like a piece of the rock itself, but that they are broken in upon by
one of the limbs of Lazarus, bandaged and in full light, which, to
my feeling, sadly injures the picture, both as a disagreeable object,
and a light in the wrong place. The grass and weeds are, thronghont,
carefully painted, but the lower figures are of little interest, and
the face of the Christ a grievous failure.

18. The Ascension. I have always admired this picture, thoagh
it is very slight and thin in execution, and cold in colour ; but it is
remarkable for its thorough effect of open air, and for the sense ot
motion and clashing in the wings of the angels which sustain the
Christ : they owe this effect a good deal to the manner in which thej are
set, edge on; all seem like sword-blades cutting the air. It is the most
curious in conception of all the pictures in the Scuola, for it represents,
beneath the Ascension, a kind of epitome of what took place before
the Ascension. In the distance are two apostles walking, meant, I
suppose^ for the two going to Emmaus ; nearer are a group ronnd a
table, to remind us of Christ appearing to them as they sat at meat ;
and in the foreground is a single reclining figure of, I suppose, St.
Peter, because we are told that ^^ He was seen of Cephas, then of the
twelve : " but this interpretation is doubtful ; for why should not the
vision by the Lake of Tiberias be expressed also ? And the strange thing
of all is the scene, for Christ ascended from the Mount of Olives;
but the disciples are walking, and the table is set, in a little marsh/
and grassy valley, like some of the bits near Maison Neuve on the
Jura, with a brook running through it, so capitally expressed, that I
beUeve it is this which makes me so fond of the picture. ^^^
refiections are as scientific in the diminution, in the image, of la^g^
masses of bank above, as any of Turner's, and the marshy and reed/
ground looks as if one would sink into it ; but what all this has to

■a«^HiW^^iK<^.^' _r .

ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 341

do with the Ascension I cannot see. The figure of Christ is not
undignified, but by no means either interesting or sublime.

19. Pool of BetAesda. I have no doubt the principal figures have
been repainted ; but as the colours are faded, and the subject disgusting,
I have not paid this picture sufficient attention to say how far the
injury extends ; nor need any one spend time upon it, unless after
having first examined all the other Tintorets in Venice. All the
great Italian painters appear insensible to the feeling of disgust at
disease ; but this study of the population of an hospital is without any
points of contrast, and I wish Tintoret had not condescended to paint it
This and the six preceding paintings have all been uninteresting, — I
believe chiefly owing to the observance in them of Sir Joshua's rule for
the heroic, ^^ that drapery is to be mere drapery, and not silk, nor
satin, nor brocade." However wise such a rule may be when applied to
works of the purest religious art, it is any thingbut wise as respects works
of colour. Tintoret is never quite himself unless he has fur or velvet,
or rich stuflFof one sort or the other, or jewels, or armour, or something
that he can put play of colour into, among his figures, and not dead folds
of linsey-wolsey ; and I believe that even the best pictures of Baffaelle
and Angelico are not a little helped by their hems of robes, jewelled
crowns, priests' copes, and so on ; and the pictures that have nothing
of this kind in them, as for instance the ^^ Transfiguration," are to my
mind not a little dull.

20. Temptation. This picture singularly illustrates what has just
been observed; it owes great part of its effect to the lustre of the jewels
in the armlet of the evil angel, and to the beautiful colours of his wings.
These are slight accessories apparently, but they enhance the value of
all the rest, and they have evidently been enjoyed by the painter. The
armlet is seen by reflected light, its stones shining by inward lustre ,
this occult fire being the only hint given of the real character of the
Tempter, who is otherways represented in the form of a beautiful angel,
though the face is sensual : we can hardly tell how far it was intended-
to be therefore expressive of evil ; for Tintoret's good angels have not
always the purest features ; but there is n peculiar subtlety in this
telling of the story by so slight a circumstance as the glare of the jewels
in the darkness. It is curious to compare this imagination with that
of the mosaics in St. Mark's, in which Satan is a black monster, with
horns, and head, and tail, complete. The whole of the picture is
powerfully and carefully painted, though very broadly ; it is a strong

342 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

effect of light, and therefore, as usual, subdued iu colour. • ^e painting
of the stones in the foreground I have always thought, and still think,
the best piece of rock drawing before Turner, and the most amazing
instance of Tintoret's perceptiveness afforded by any of his pictures.

21. St Rocco, Three figures occupy the spandrils of the windows
above this and the following picture, painted merely in light and
shade, two larger than life, one rather smaller. I believe these to
be by Tintoret; but as they are quite in the dark, so that the
execution cannot be seen, and very good designs of the kind have
been furnished by other masters, I cannot answer for them. The
figure of St. Bocco, as well as its companion, St Sebastian, is col-
oured ; they occupy the narrow intervals between the windows, and are
of course invisible under ordinary circumstances. By a great deal of
straining of the eyes, and sheltering them with the hand from the light,
some little idea of the design may be obtained. The ^^ St Bocco " is
a fine figure, though rather coarse, but, at all events, worth as much
light as would enable us to see it

22. St. Sebastian. This, the companion figure, is one of the finest
things in the whole room, and assuredly the most majestic St Sebastian
in existence, as far as mere humanity can be migestic, for there is no
effort at any expression of angelic or saintly resignation ; the effort is
simply to realize the fact of the martyrdom, and it seems to me that
this is done to an extent not even attempted by any other painter. I
never saw a man die a violent death, and therefore cannot say whether
this figure be true or not, but it gives the grandest and most intense
impression of truth. The figure is dead, and well it may be, for there is
one arrow through the forehead and another through the heart; but the
eyes are open, though glazed, and the body is rigid in the position in
which it last stood, the left arm raised and the left limb advanced,
something in the attitude of a soldier sustaining an attack under his
shield, while the dead eyes are still turned in the direction from which
the arrows came : but the most characteristic feature is the way these
arrows ^re fixed. In the common martyrdoms of St Sebastian they are
stuck into him here and there like pins, as if they had been shot from a
great distance and had come faltering down, entering the flesh but a
little way, andrather bleeding the saint to death than mortally wounding
him ; but Tintoret had no such ideas about archery. He must hare
seen bows drawn in battle, like that of Jehu when he smote Jehoram
between the harness : all the arrows in the saint's body lie straight in

ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN.

343

the same directioD, broad-feathered and strong-shafted, and sent appa-
rently with the force of thunderbolts ; every one of them has gone
through him like a lance, two through the limbs, one through the arm,
one through the heart, and the last has crashed through the forehead,
nailing the head to the tree behind, as if it had been dashed in by a
sledge-hammer. The face, in spite of its ghastliness, is beautiful, and
has been serene ; and the light which enters first and glistens on the
plumes of the arrows, dies softly away upon the curling hair, and mixes
with the glory upon the forehead. There is not a more remarkable
picture in Venice, and yet I do not suppose that one in a thousand of
the travellers who pass through the Scuola so much as perceive there
is a picture in the place which it occupies.

Third Group. On the roof of the upper room.

M

9t

23. Moses Striking the

Rock.
24 Plague of Setpents.

25. Fall of Manna.

26. JacoVs Dre&ni.

%i

93

%B

27. Ezekiel's Vision.

28. Fall of Man.

29. Elijah.

30. Jonah.

31. Joshua.

J5

32. Sacrifice of Isaac.

33. Elijah at the Brook.
34 Paschal Feast.

35, Elisha Feeding the
People,

23. Mo%e% Strikinff the Rock. We now come to the series of pictures
upon which the painter concentrated the strength he had reserved
for the upper room ; and in some sort wisely, for, though it is not
pleasant to examine pictured on a ceiling, they are at least distinctly
visible without straining the eyes against the light. They are care-
fully conceived, and thoroughly well painted in proportion to their
distance from the eye. This carefulness of thought is apparent
at a glance : the " Moses Striking the Bock " embraces the whole
of the seventeenth chapter of Exodus, and even something more,

344 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

for it is not from that chapter, but from parallel passages that we
gather the facts of the impatience of Moses and the wrath of God
at the waters of Meribah; both which facts are shown by the
leaping of the stream ont of the rock half-a-dozen ways at OQce,
forming a great arch over the head of Moses, and by the partial veil-
ing of the countenance of the Sapreme Being. This latter is the most
painful part of the whole picture, at least as it is seen from below ;
and I believe that in some repairs of the roof this head mast have been
destroyed and repainted. It is one of Tintoret's usual fine tfaonghts
that the lower part of the figure is veiled, not merely by cloods, bat
in a kind of watery sphere, showing the Deity coming to the Israelites
at that particular moment as the Lord of the Rivers and of tAe Fountain
of the Waters. The whole figure, as well as that of Moses, and the
greater number of those in the foreground, is at once dark and warm,
black and red being the prevailing colours, while the distance is bright
gold touched with blue, and seems to open into the picture like a break
of blue sky after rain. How exquisite is this expression, by mere col-
our, of the main force of the fact represented I that is to say, joy and re-
* freshment after sorrow and scorching heat. But, wken we examine of
what this distance consists, we shall find still more cause for admiration.
The blue in it is not the blue of sky, it is obtained by blue stripes
upon white tents glowing in the sunshine ; and in front of these tents
is seen that great battle with Amalek of which the account is given in
the remainder of the chapter, and for which the Israelites received
strength in the streams which ran out of the rock in Horeb. Considered
merely as a picture, the opposition of cool light to warm.shadow is one of
the most remarkable pieces of colour in the Scuola, and the great mass of
foliage which waves over the rocks on the left appears to have been ela-
borated with his highest power and his tnost sublime invention. Bat
this noble passage is much injured, and now hardly visible.

24*. Plagtte of Serpents, The figures in the distance are remark-
ably important in this picture, Moses himself being imong them; in
fact, the whole scene is filled chiefly with middle^^ize figures, in
order to increase the impression of space. It is interesting to observe
the difference in the treatment of this subject by the three great
painters, Michael Angelo, Rubens, and Tintoret The first two,
equal to the latter in energy, had less love of liberty : they were fond
of binding their compositions into knots, Tintoret of scattering his
far and wide : they all alike preserve the unity of composition, but

ROCCO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 345

the unity in the first two is obtained by binding, and that of the last
by springing from one source ; and, together with this feeling, comes his
love of space^ which makes him less regard the rounding and form of
objeots themselves than their relations of light and shade and distance.
Therefore Bubens and Michael Angelo made the fiery serpents huge
boa-constrictors, and knotted the sufferers together with them. Tintoret
does not like to be so bound ; so he makes the serpents little flying
and fluttering monsters, like lampreys with wings ; and the children of
Israel, instead of being thrown into convulsed and writhing groups,
are scattered, fainting in the flelds, far away in the distance. As usual,
Tintoret's conception, while thoroughly characteristic of himself, is also
truer to the words of Scripture. We are told that " the Lord sent
fiery serpents among the people, and they bit the people;" we are not
told that they crushed the people to death. And, while thus the truest,
it is also the most terrific conception. M. Angelo's would be terrific
if one could believe in it : but our instinct teUs us that boa-constrictors
do not come in armies ; and we look upon the picture with as little
emotion as upon the handle of a vase, or any other form worked out of
serpents, where there is no probability of serpents actually occurring.
But there is a probability in Tintoret's conception. We feel that it is
not in^possible that there should come up a swarm of these small winged
reptiles; and their horror is not diminished by their smallness : not that
they have any of the grotesque terribleness of Gterman invention ; they
might have been made infinitely uglier with small pains, but it is their
veritablenesa which makes them awful. They have triangular heads with
sharp beaks or muzzles ; and short, rather thick bodies, with bony
processes down the back like those of sturgeons; and small wings
spotted with orange and black; and round glaring eyes, not very large,
but very ghastly, with an intense delight in biting expressed in them.
(It is observable that the Venetian painter has got his main idea of
them from the sea-horses and small reptiles of the Lagoons.) These
monsters are fluttering and writhingabout everywhere, fixing on whatever
they come near with their sharp venomous heads ; and they are coiling
about on the ground, and all the shadows and thickets are full of them,
so that there is no escape anywhere : and, in order to give the idea of
greater extent to the plague, Tintoret has not been content with one
horizon ; I have before mentioned the excessive strangeness of this com-
position, in having a cavern open in the right of the foreground, through
which is seen another sky and another horizon. At the top of the picture,

348 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

. but have been the consequence : it sbows itself chiefly in reds and other
hot hues, many of the pictures in the Ducal Palace also displaying it
in a painfal degree. This " Ezekiers Vision " is, however, in some
measure worthy of the master, in the wild and horrible energy with
which the skeletons are leaping up about the prophet ; but it might
have been less horrible and more sublime, no attempt being made to
represent the space of the Valley of Dry Bones, and the whole canyas
being occupied only by eight figures, of which five are half skeletons.
It is strange that, in such a subject, the prevailing hues should be red
and brown.

28. FaU of Maiu The two canvases last named are the most con-
siderable in size upon the roof, after the centre pieces. We now come
to the smaller subjects which surround the ^^ Striking the Bock ; " of
these, this ^^ Fall of Man " is the best, and I should think it very fine
anywhere but in the Scuola di San Bocco : there is a grand light on
the body of Eve, and the vegetation is remarkably rich, but the faces
are coarse, and the composition uninteresting. I could not get near
enough to see what the grey object is upon which Eve appears to be
sitting, nor could I see any serpent. It is made prominent in the pic-
ture of the Academy of this same subject, so that I suppose it is hidden
in the darkness, together with much detail which it would be necessary
to discover in order to judge the work justly.

29. Elijah (?). A prophet holding down his face, which is coYered
with his hand. God is talking with him, apparently in rebuke. The
clothes on his breast are rent, and the action of the figures might
suggest the idea of the scene between the Deity and Ely ah at Horeb :
but there is no suggestion of the past magnificent scenery, — of the
wind, the earthquake, or the fire ; «o that the conjecture is good for
very little. The painting is of small interest ; the faces are valgar,
and the draperies have too much vapid historical dignity to be de-
lightful.

30. Jonah. The whale here occupies fully one half of the canvas ;
being correspondent in value with a landscape background. His mouth
is as large as a cavern, and yet, unless the mass of red colour in the fore-
ground be a piece of drapery, his tongue is too large for it He seems
to have lifted Jonah out upon it, and not yet drawn it back, so that it
forms a kind of crimson cushion for him to kneel upon in his submission
to the Deity. The head to which this vast tongue belongs is sketched

ROCCfO, SCUOLA DI SAN. 349

in somewhat loosely, and there is little remarkable about it except its
size, nor much in the figures, though the submissiveness of Jonah is well
given. The great thought of Michael Angelo renders one little charit-
able to any less imaginatiye treatment of this subject.

81. Joshua (?). This is a most interesting picture, and it is a
shame that its subject is not made out, for it is not a common one.
The figure has a sword in its hand, and looks up to a sky full of
fire, out of which the form of the Deity is stooping, represented as
white and colourless. On the other side of the picture there is seen
among the clouds a pillar apparently falling, and there is a crowd
at the feet of the principal figure, carrying spears. Unless this be
Joshua at the fall of Jericho, I cannot tell what it means ; it is
painted with great vigour, and worthy of a better place.

32. Sacrifice of Isaac. In conception, it is one of the least
worthy of the master in the whole room, the three figures being
thrown into violent attitudes, as inexpressive as they are strained
and artificial. It appears to have been vigorously painted, but vul-
garly ; that is to say, the light is concentrated upon the white beard
and upturned countenance of Abraham, as it would have been in
one of the dramatic effects of the French school, the result being
that the head is very bright and very conspicuous, and perhaps, in
some of the late operations upon the roof, recently washed and touched.
In consequence, every one who comes into the room is first invited
to observe the ^^ bella testa di Abramo.'* The only thing characteristic
of Tintoret is the way in which the pieces of ragged wood are tossed
hither and thither in the pUe upon which Isaac is bound, although this
scattering of the wood is inconsistent with the scriptural account of
Abraham's deliberate procedure, for we are told of him that " he set
the wood in order." But Tintoret had probably not noticed this, and
thought the tossing of the timber into the disordered heap more like
the act of the father in his agony.

83. EUjah aJb the Brook Cherith (?). I cannot tell if I have rightly
interpreted the meaning of this picture, which merely represents a noble
figure couched upon the ground, and an angel appearing to him ; but I
think that between the dark tree on the left, and the recumbent figure,
there is some appearance of a running stream; at all events, there is of a
mountainous and stony place. The longer I study this master, the
more I feel the strange likeness between him and Turner, in our never

350 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

knowing what subject it is that will stir him to exertion. We have
lately had him treating Jacob's Dream, Ezekiel's Vision , Abraham's Sac-
rifice, and Jonah's Prayer (all of them subjects on which the greatest
painters have delighted to expend their strength), with coldness, care-
lessness, and evident absence of delight ; and here, on a sudden, in a
subject so indistinct that one cannot be sure of its meaning, and em-
bracing only two figures, a man and an angel, forth he starts in his fall
strength. I believe he must somewhere or another, the day before,
have seen a kingfisher; for this picture seems entirely painted for the
sake of the glorious downy wings of the angel, — ^white clouded with blae,
as the bird's head and wings are with green, — ^the softest and most ela-
borate in plumage that I have seen in any of his works : but observe
also the general sublimity obtained by the mountainous lines of tlie
drapery of the recumbent figure, dependent for its dignity upon these
forms alone, as the face is more than half hidden, and what is seen of
it expressionless.

34. The PascAai Feast. I name this picture by the title given in
the guide-books ; it represents merely five persons watching the in-
crease of a small fire lighted on a table or altar in the midst of them.
It is only because they have all staves in their hands that one may
conjecture this fire to be that kindled to consume the Paschal ofier-
ing. The effect is of course a firelight; and, like all mere firelights
that I have ever seen, totally devoid of interest

35. Eliaha Feeding the People. I again guess at the subject ; the
picture only represents a figure casting down a number of loaves before
a multitude ; but, as Elisha has not elsewhere occurred, I suppose that
these must be the barley-loaves brought from Baal-shalisha. In concep-
tion and manner of painting, this picture and the last, together with
the others above mentioned, in comparison with the ^^ Elijah at CSierith,"
may be generally described as " dregs of Tintoret : " they are tired, dead,
dragged out upon the canvas apparently in the heavy-hearted state
which a man falls into when he is both jaded with toil and sick ot the
work he is employed upon. They are not hastily painted ; on the con-
trary, finished with considerably more care than several of the works
upon the walls ; but those, as, for instance, the ^^ Agony in the Ghur-
den," are hurried sketches with the man's whole heart in them, while
these pictures are exhausted fulfilments of an appointed task. Whether
they were really amongst the last painted, or whether the painter had

J

ROOCO, SCUOLA DI SAN.

351

fallen ill at some intermediate time^ I cannot say ; bnt we shall find
him again in his ntmost strength in the room which we last enter.

Fourth Groap. Inner room on the upper floor.
OR

©F

€t

3GDE

43

S2

3 GD CZ3 ©

69

60

67

On the Rool
36. to 39. Children's Heads. 41. to 44. Childien.

40. St. Rocco in Heaven. 46. to 66. Allegorical Figures.

On the Walls.

67. Figure in Niche. 60. Ecce Homo.

68. Figure in Niche. 61. Christ Bearing His Cross.

69. Christ before Pilate. 62. Crucifixion.

SI

36. to 39. Four ChildrefCs Heada^ which it is much to be regretted
should be thus lost in filling small vacuities of the ceiling.

40. St. Rocco in Heaven, The central picture of the roof, in the
inner room. From the well-known anecdote respecting the production
of this picture, whether in all its details true or not, we may at least
gather that, having been painted in competition with Paul Veronese
and other powerful painters of the day, it was probably Tintoret's
endeavour to make it as popular and showy as possible. It is quite
different from his common works ; bright in all its tints and tones ; the
fieu^es carefully drawn, and of an agreeable type ; the outlines firm.

352 IV. VENETIAN IND£X«

and the ehadowB few ; the whole resembling Correggio more than bdt
Venetian painter. It is, however, an example of the danger, even to
the greatest artist, of leaving his own style ; for it lacks all the great
virtues of Tintoret, without obtaining the lusciousness of Correggio.
One thing, at all events, is remarkable in it, — that, though painted
while the competitors were making their sketches, it shows no sign
of haste or inattention.

41. to 44. Figures of Children^ merely decorative.

45. to 56. Allegorical Figures on the Roof. If these were not
in the same room with the ^^ Crucifixion," they would attract more
public attention than any works in the Scuola, as there are here no
black shadows, nor extravagances of invention, but very beautifiil
figures richly and delicately coloured, a good deal resembling some of
the best works of Andrea del Sarto. There is nothing in them,
however, requiring detailed examination. The two fig^es between
the windows are very slovenly, if they are his at all ; and there are
bits of marbling and fruit filling the cornices, which may or may not
be his : if they are, they are tired work, and of small importance.

59. Christ before Pilate. A most interesting picture, but, which
is unusual, best seen on a dark day, when the white figure of Christ
alone draws the eye, looking almost like a spirit ; the painting of the
rest of the picture being both somewhat thin and imperfect. There
is a certain meagreness about all the minor figures, less grandeur and
largeness in the limbs and draperies, and less solidity, it seems, eyen
in the colour, although its arrangements are richer than in many of
the compositions above described. I hardly know whether it is owing
to this thinness of colour, or on purpose, that the horizontal clouds
shine through the crimson flag in the distance ; though I should think
the latter, for the effect is most beautiful. The passionate action of
the Scribe in lifting his hand to dip the pen into the ink-horn is,
however, affected and over-strained, and the Pilate is very mean;
perhaps intentionally, that no reverence might be withdrawn from the
person of Christ In work of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries,
the figures of Pilate and Herod are always intentionally made con-
temptible.

60. Ecce Homo. As usual, Tintoret's own peculiar view of the
subject Christ is laid fainting on the ground, with a soldier standing
on one side of him ; while Pilate, on the other, withdraws the rohe
from the scourged and wounded body, and points it out to the Jews.

ROCCO — SALUTE. 353

Both this and the picture last mentioned resemble Titian more than
Tintoret in the style of their treatment.

61. Christ Bearing His Cross. Tintoret is here recognizable again
in undiminished strength. He has represented the troops and
attendants climbing Calvary by a winding path of which two turns are
seen, the figures on the uppermost ledge, and Christ in the centre of
them, being relieved against the sky ; but, instead of the usual simple
expedient of the bright horizon to relieve the dark masses, there is here
introduced, on the left, the head of a white horse, which blends itself
with the sky in one broad mass of light The power of the picture is
chiefly in effect, the figure of Christ being too far off to be very
interesting, and only the malefactors being seen on the nearer path ;
but for this very reason it seems to me more impressive, as if one had
been truly present at the scene, though not exactly in the right place
for seeing it.

62. The Crucifixion. I must leave this picture to work its will on
the spectator ; for it is beyond all analysis, and above all praise.

S.

Sagrebo, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal, 11. 257. Much defaced, but
full of interest. Its sea story is restored ; its first floor has a most
interesting arcade of the early thirteenth century third order windows ;
its upper windows are the fijiest fourth and fifth orders of early four-
teenth century ; the group of fourth orders in the centre being brought
into some resemblance to the late Gothic traceries by the subsequent
introduction of the quatrefoils above them.

Salute, Church of Sta. Maria dblla, on the Grand Canal, IL 377.
One of the earliest buildings of the Grotesque Renaissance, rendered
impressive by its position, size, and general proportions. These latter
are exceedingly good ; the grace of the whole building being chiefly
dependent on the inequality of size in its cupolas, and pretty grouping
of the two campaniles behind them. It is to be generally observed
that the proportions of buildings have nothing whatever to do with the
style or general merits of their architecture. An architect trained in
the worst schools, and utterly devoid of all meaning or purpose in his
work, may yet have such a natural gift of massing and grouping as will
render all his structures effective when seen from a distance : such a
gift is very general with the late Italian builders, so that many of the
VOL. III. a a

354 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

most contemptible edifices in the country have good stage effect so long
. as we do not approach them. The Church of the Salute is farther
assisted by the beautiful flight of steps in front of it down to the canal ;
and its fagade is rich and beautiful of its kind, and was chosen by
Turner for the principal object in his well-known view of the Ghand
Canal. The principal faults of the buUding are the meagre windows
in the sides of the cupola, and the ridiculous disguise of the buttresses
under the form of colossal scrolls; the buttresses themselves being
originally a hypocrisy, for the cupola is stated by Lazari to be of
timber, and therefore needs none. The sacristy contains several pre-
cious pictures : the three on its roof by Titian, much vaunted, are
indeed as feeble as they are monstrous ; but the small Titian, ^^ St.
Mark, with Sts. Cosmo and Damian,'' was, when I first saw it, to
my judgment, by far the first work of Titian^s in Venice. It has since
been restored by the Academy, and it seemed to me entirely destroyed,
but I had not time to examine it carefully.

At the end of the larger sacristy is the lunette which once decorated
the tomb of the Doge Francesco Dandolo (see above, page 74.) ; and,
at the side of it, one of the most highly finished Tintorets in Venice,
namely :

The Marriage in Caruu An immense picture, some twenty-five
feet long by fifteen high, and said by Lazari to be one of the few
which Tintoret signed with his name. I am not surprised at his
having done so in this case. Evidently the work has been a
favourite with him, and he has taken as much pains as it was ever
necessary for his colossal strength to take with anything. The subject
is not one which admits of much singularity or energy in composition.
It was always a favourite one with Veronese, because it gave dramatic
interest to figures in gay costumes and of cheerful countenances ; but
one is surprised to find Tintoret, whose tone of mind was always grave,
and who did not like to make a picture out of brocades and diadems, throw-
ing his whole strength into the conception of a marriage feast; but so
it is, and there are assuredly no female heads in any of his pictures in
Venice elaborated so far as those which here form the central light.
Neither is it often that the works of this mighty master conform them-
selves to any of the rules acted upon by ordinary painters ; but in this
instance the popular laws have been observed, and an Academy student
would be delighted to see with what severity the principal light is
arranged in a central mass, which is divided and made more brilliant by

SALUTE, CHURCH OF STA. MARIA BELLA. 355

a vigorous piece of shadow thrust into the midst of it, and which dies
away in lesser fragments and sparkling towards the extremities of the
picture. This mass of light is as interesting by its composition as by
its intensity. The cicerone, who escorts the stranger round the sacristy
in the course of five minutes, and allows him some forty seconds for
the contemplation of a picture which the study of six months would not
entirely fathom, directs his attention very carefully to the " bell' effetto
di prospettivo," the whole merit of the picture being, in the eyes of the
intelligent public, that there is a long table in it, one end of which looks
farther off than the other; but there is more in the "belV effetto di pro-
spettivo " than the observance of the common laws of optics. The table
is set in a spacious chamber, of which the windows at the end let in the
light from the horizon, and those in the side wall the intense blue of
an eastern sky. The spectator looks all along the table, at the farther
end of which are seated Christ and the Madonna, the marriage guests
on each side of it, — on one side men, on the other women ; the men are
set with their backs to the light, which, passing over their heads and
glancing slightly on the tablecloth, falls in full length along the line
of young Venetian women, who thus fill the whole centre of the picture
with one broad sunbeam, made up of fair faces and golden hair. Close
to the spectator a woman has risen in amazement, and stretches across
the table to show the wine in her cup to those opposite ; her dark red
dress intercepts and enhances the mass of gathered light. It is rather
curious, considering the subject of the picture, that one cannot dis-
tinguish either the bride or the bridegroom ; but the fourth figure from
the Madonna in the line of women, who wears a white head-dress of
lace and rich chains of pearls in her hair, may well be accepted for the
former, and I think that between her and the woman on the Madonna's
left hand the unity of the line of women is intercepted by a male figure :
be this as it may, this fourth female face is the most beautiful^ as far
as I recollect, that occurs in the works of the painter, with the excep-
tion only of the Madonna in the '^ Flight into Egypt." It is an ideal
which occurs indeed elsewhere in many of his works, a face at once
dark and delicate, the Italian cast of feature moulded with the softness
and childishness of English beauty some half a century ago ; but I have
never seen the ideal so completely worked out by the master. The
face may best be described as one of the purest and softest of Stothard's
conceptions, executed with all the strength of Tintoret. The other
women are all made inferior to this one, but there are beautiful

356 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

profiles and bendings of breasts and necks along the whole line. The
men are all subordinate, though there are interesting portraits among
them ; perhaps the only fault of the picture being that the faces are a
little too conspicuous, seen like balls of light among the crowd of minor
figures which fill the background of the picture. The tone of the whole
is sober and majestic in the highest degree ; the dresses are all broad
masses of colour, and the only parts of the picture which lay claim to
the expression of wealth or splendour are the head-dresses of the
women. In this respect the conception of the scene differs widely from
that of Yaronese, and approaches more nearly to the probable truth.
Still the marriage is not an unimportant one; an immense crowd, filling
the background, forming superbly rich mosaic of colour against the
distant sky. Taken as a whole, the picture is perhaps the most perfect
example which human art has produced of the utmost possible force
and sharpness of shadow united with richness of local colour. In all the
other works of Tintoret, and much more of other colourists, either the
light and shade or the local colour is predominant ; in the one case
the picture has a tendency to look as if painted by candlelight, in the
other it becomes daringly conventional, and approaches the conditions
of glass-painting. This picture unites colour as rich as Titian's with
light and shade as forcible as Rembrandt's, and far more decisive.

There are one or two other interesting pictures of the early Ve-
netian schools in this sacristy, and several important tombs in the ad-
joining cloister ; among which that of Francesco Dandolo, transported
here from the Church of the Frari, deserves especial attention. See
above, p. 74,
Salvatore, Chubch of St. Base Eenaissance, occupying the place of the
ancient church, under the porch of which the Pope Alexander III is
said to have passed the night M. Lazari states it to have been richly
decorated with mosaics ; now, all is gone.

In the interior of the church are some of the best examples of
Benaissance sculptural monuments in Venice. (See above. Chap. U
§ Lxxx.) It is said to possess an important pala of silver, of the
thirteenth century, one of the objects in Venice which I much regret
having forgotten to examine ; besides two Titians, a Bonifazio, and s
John Bellini. The latter (" The Supper at Enmiaus") must, I think,
have been entirely repainted : it is not only unworthy of the master,
but unlike him ; as far, at least, as I could see from below, for it is
hung high.

SALVATORE — SERVI. 357

Sanudo, Palazzo. At the Miracoli. A noble Gothic palace of the
fourteenth century, with Byzantine fragments and cornices built into
its walls, especially round the interior court, in which the staircase is
very noble. Its door, opening on the quay, is the only one in Venice
entirely uninjured; retaining its wooden valve richly sculptured, its
wicket for examination of the stranger demanding admittance, and its
quaint knocker in the form of a fish,

ScALZi, Chubch of the. It possesses a fine John Bellini, and is re-
nowned through Venice for its precious marbles. I omitted to notice
above, in speaking of the buildings of the Grotesque Benaissance,
that many of them are remarkable for a kind of dishonesty, even in
the use of trtie marbles, resulting not from motives of economy, but
from mere love of juggling and falsehood for their own sake. I hardly
know which condition of mind is meanest, that which has pride in plaster
made to look like marble, or that which takes delight in marble made to
look like silk. Several of the later churches in Venice, more especially
those of the Jesuiti, of San Clemente, and this of the Scaizi, rest their
chief claims to admiration on their having curtains and cushions cut out
of rock. The most ridiculous example is in San Olemente, and the .
most curious and costly are in the Scaizi ; which latter church is a
perfect type of the vulgar abuse of marble in every possible way, by
men who had no eye for colour, and no understanding of any merit
in a work of art but that which arises from costliness of material,
and such powers of imitation as are devoted in England to the manu-
facture of peaches and eggs out of Derbyshire spar.

Sebastian, Church of St. The tomb, and of old the monument, of
Paul Veronese. It is full of his noblest pictures, or of what once were
such ; but they seemed to me for the most .part destroyed by repaint-
ing. I had not time to examine them justly, but I would especially
direct the traveller's attention to the small Madonna over the second
altar on the right of the nave, still a perfect and priceless treasure.

SsRVi, Church of the. Only two of its gates and some ruined walls are
left, in one of the foulest districts of the city. It was one of the most
interesting monuments of the early fourteenth century Gothic ; and
there is much beauty in the fragments yet remaining. How long they
may stand I know not, the whole building having been offered me for
sale, ground and all, or stone by stone, as I chose, by its present pro-
prietor, when I was last in Venice. More real good might at present
be effected by any wealthy person who would devote his resources to

358 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

the preseryation of such monuments wherever they exist, by freehold
purchase of the entire ruin^ and afterwards by taking proper charge of
it, and forming a garden round it, than by any other mode of protecting
or encouraging art There is no school, no lecturer, like a ruin of the
early ages.

Skvbbo, Fondauknta San, palace at, IL 264.

SiLVSSTRO, Ohuroh OF St. Of no importance in itself, but it contains
two very interesting pictures : the first, a ^' St Thomas of Canterbury
with the Baptist and St Francis," by Girolamo Santa Croce, a superb
example of the Venetian religious school ; the second by Tintoret,
namely :

The Baptism of Christ. (Over the first altar on the right of the
nave.) An upright picture, some ten feet wide by fifteen high; the
top of it is arched, representing the Father supported by angels.
It requires little knowledge of Tintoret to see that these fignreB are
not by his hand. By returning to the opposite side of the nave, the
join in the canvas may be plainly seen, the upper part of the picture
having been entirely added on : whether it had this upper part be-

. fore it was repainted, or whether originally square, cannot now be
told, but I believe it had an upper part which has been de-
stroyed. I am not sure if even the dove and the two angels which
are at the top of the older part of the picture are quite genuine.
The rest of it is magnificent, though both the figures of the
Saviour and the Baptist show some concession on the part of the
painter to the imperative requirement of his age, that nothing should
be done except in an attitude; neither are there any of his usual
fantastic imaginations. There is simply the Christ in the water and
the St John on the shore, without attendants, disciples, or witnesses
of any kind ; but the power of the light and shade, and the splendour
of the landscape, which on the whole is well preserved, render it a
most interesting example. The Jordan is represented as a mountain
brook, receiving a tributary stream in a cascade from the rocks, in
which St John stands : there is a rounded stone in the centre of the /

cuirent ; and the parting of the water at this, as well as its rippling
among the roots of some dark trees on the left, are among the
most accurate remembrances of nature to be found in any of the
works of the great masters. I hardly know whether most to wonder
at the power of the man who thus broke through the neglect of
nature which was uniyersal at his time ; or at the evidences, visible

''^gnf^^^^W^ ^ .PM ^ ^i<B

SE VEKO — TOLENTIKI. 359

throughout the whole of the conception, that he was still content to
paint from slight memories of what he had seen in hill countries, instead
of following out to its full depth the fountain which he had opened.
There is not a stream among the hills of Priuli which in any quarter of
a mile of its course would not have suggested to him finer forms of
cascade than those which he has idly painted at Venice.

SiMEONB, Profeta, Church OF St, Very important, though small,
possessing the precious statue of St Simeon, above noticed, II. 309.
The rare early Gothic capitals of the nave are only interesting to the
architect ; but in the little passage by the side of the church, leading
out of the Campo, there is a curious Grothic monument built into
the wall, very beautiful in the placing of the angels in the spandrils,
and rich in the vine-leaf moulding above.

SiMSOi!^, Piccolo, Church of St. One of the ugliest churches in
Venice or elsewhere. Its black dome, like an unusual species of
gasometer, is the admiration of modern Italian architects.

SospiRi, PoNTE de'. The well-known " Bridge of Sighs," a work of
no merit, and of a late period (see Vol. IL p. 304.), owing the in-
terest it possesses chiefly to its pretty name, and to the ignorant
sentimentalism of Byron.

Spirito Santo, Church of the. Of no importance.

Stefano, Church of St. An interesting building of central Gothic,
the best ecclesiastical example of it in Venice. The west entrance
is much later than any of the rest, and is of the richest Benaissance

. Gothic, a little anterior to the Porta della Carta, and first-rate of its
kind. The manner of the introduction of the figure of the angel
at the top of the arch is full of beauty. Note the extravagant
crockets and cusp finials as signs of decline.

Stefano, Church of St., at Murano (pugnacity of its abbot), IL 33.
The church no longer exists.

Strope, Campiello della, house in, II. 266.

T.

Tana, windows at the, IL 260.

TiEPOLO, Palazzo, on the Grand Canal. Of no importance.
ToLENTiNi, Church of the. One of the basest and coldest works of
the late Benaissance. It is said to contain two Bonifazios.

360 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

T0MA9 Chubch of St. Of no importance.

ToMAy PoNTE San. There is an interesting ancient doorway opening
on the canal close to this bridge, probably of the twelfth centary^
and a good early Gothic door, opening upon the bridge itself.

ToRCELLOy general aspect of, II. 11.; Santa Fosca at, I. 113., IL
13.; duomo, IL 14.; mosaics of, II. 197.; measures of, IL 378.;
date of, IL 379.

Trevisan, Palazzo, L 358., IIL 210.

Tron, Palazzo. Of no importance.

Tbovaso, Church of St. Itself of no importance, but containing two
pictures by Tintoret, namely :

1. The Temptation of St. Anthony > (Altar piece in the chapel on
the left of the choir.) A small and very carefully finished picture, but
marvellously temperate and quiet in treatment, especially considering
the subject, which one would have imagined likely to inspire the painter
with one of his most fantastic visions. As if on purpose to disappoint
uSyboth the e£fect and the conception of the figures are perfectly quiet,
and appear the result much more of careful study than of vigorous
imagination. The effect is one of plain daylight ; there are a few
clouds drifting in the distance, but with no wildness in them, nor is
there any energy or heat in the flames which mantle about the waist
of one of the figures. But for the noble workmanship, we might almost
fancy it the production of a modern academy: yet, as we begin to read
the picture, the painter's mind becomes felt. St Anthony is surrounded
by four figures, one of which only has the form of a demon, and he k
in the background, engaged in no more terrific act of violence towards
St. Anthony, than endeavouring to pull off his mantle ; he has, how-
ever, a scourge over his shoulder, but this is probably intended for
St. Anthony's weapon of self-discipline, which the fiend, with a very
Protestant turn of mind, is carrying off. A broken staff, with a bell
hanging to it, at the saint's feet, also expresses his interrupted devotion.
The three other figures beside him are bent on more cunning mischief :
the woman on the left is one of Tintoret's best portraits of a young and
bright-eyed Venetian beauty. It is curious that he has given so attrac-
tive a countenance to a type apparently of the temptation to violate
the vow of poverty, for this woman places one hand in a vase full of
coins, and shakes golden chains with the other. On the opposite side
of the saint, another woman, admirably painted, but of a far less attrac-
tive countenance, is a type of the lusts of the fiesh, yet there is nothing

TOMA — VOLTO SANTO. 361

gross or immodest in her dress or gesture. She appears to have been
baffled, and for the present to have given up addressing the saint : she
lays one hand upon her breast, and might be taken for a very respect-
able person, but that there are flames playing about her loins. A re-
cumbent figure on the ground is of less intelligible character, but may
perhaps be meant for Indolence ; at all events, he has torn the saint's
book to pieces. I forgot to note, that, under the figure representing
Avarice, there is a creature like a pig; whether actual pig or not
is unascertainable, for the church is dark, the little light that comes
on the picture falls on it the wrong way, and one third of the lower
part of it is hidden by a white case, containing a modern daub,
lately painted by way of an altar-piece ; the meaning, as well as the
merit, of the grand old picture being now far beyond the comprehension
both of priests and people.

2. The Last Supper. (On the left-hand side of the Chapel of the
Sacrament.) A picture which has been through the hands of the
Academy, and is therefore now hardly worth notice. Its conception
seems always to have been vulgar, and far below Tintoret's usual
standard. There is singular baseness in the circumstance that one of the
near Apostles, while all the others are, as usual, intent upon Christ's
words, " One of you shall betray me," is going to help himself to
wine out of a bottle which stands behind him. In so doing he stoops
towards the table, the flask being on the floor. If intended for the
action of Judas at this moment, there is the painter's usual originality
in the thought ; but it seems to me rather done to obtain variation
of posture, in bringing the red dress into strong contrast with the table-
cloth. The colour has once been fine, and there are fragments of good
painting still left ; but the light does not permit these to be seen,
and there is too much perfect work of the master's in Venice to permit
us to spend time on retouched remnants. The picture is only worth
mentioning, because it is ignorantly and ridiculously referred to by
Kugler as characteristic of Tintoret.

V.

ViTALi, Church of St. Said to contain a picture by Vittor Carpaccio,
over the high altar : otherwise of no importance.

VoLTO Santo, Church of the. An interesting but desecrated ruin
of the fourteenth century ; fine in style. Its roof retains some fresco
colouring, but, as far as I recollect, of later date than the architecture.

VOL. Ill, BB

362 IV. VENETIAN INDEX.

Z.

ZACCARiAy Church of St. Early Renaissance, and fine of its kind;
a Gothic chapel attached to it is of great beanty. It contains the best
John Bellini in Venice, after that of San tt. Grisostomo, " The Virgin,
with Foar Saints ; '' and is said to contain another John Bellini and
a Tintoret, neither of which I have seen.

ZiTELLE, Chuboh OF THE. Of HO importance.

ZoBENiGo, Church of Santa Maria, IIL 124. It contains one yala-
able Tintoret, namely :

Christ with Sta. Justijia and St Atiffusttn. (Over the third
altar on' the south side of the nave.) A pictore of small size, and
upright, about ten feet by eight Christ appears to be descending out
of the clouds between the two saints, who are both kneeling on the sen-
shore. It is a Venetian sea, breaking on a flat beach, like the Lido,
with a scarlet gallery in the middle distance, of which the chief use is
to unite the two figures by a point of colour. Both the saints are
respectable Venetians of the lower class, in homely dresses and witb
homely faces. The whole picture is quietly painted, and somewhat
slightly ; free from all extravagance, and displaying little power except
in the general truth or harmony of colours so easily laid on. It is
better preserved than usual, and worth dwelling upon as an instance
of the style of the master when at rest.

THE END.

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