society. Never was there a greater air of breeding, a deeper
expression of tranquil superiority. She walks a goddess--as if
she trod without sinking the waves of the Adriatic. It is
impossible to conceive a more perfect expression of the
aristocratic spirit either in its pride or in its benignity. This
magnificent creature is so strong and secure that she is gentle,
and so quiet that in comparison all minor assumptions of
calmness suggest only a vulgar alarm. But for all this there are
depths of possible disorder in her light-coloured eye.

I had meant however to say nothing about her, for it's not right
to speak of Sebastian when one hasn't found room for Carpaccio.
These visions come to one, and one can neither hold them nor
brush them aside. Memories of Carpaccio, the magnificent, the
delightful--it's not for want of such visitations, but only for
want of space, that I haven't said of him what I would. There is
little enough need of it for Carpaccio's sake, his fame being
brighter to-day--thanks to the generous lamp Mr. Ruskin has held
up to it--than it has ever been. Yet there is something
ridiculous in talking of Venice without making him almost the
refrain. He and the Tintoret are the two great realists, and it
is hard to say which is the more human, the more various. The
Tintoret had the mightier temperament, but Carpaccio, who had the
advantage of more newness and more responsibility, sailed nearer
to perfection. Here and there he quite touches it, as in the
enchanting picture, at the Academy, of St. Ursula asleep in her
little white bed, in her high clean room, where the angel visits
her at dawn; or in the noble St. Jerome in his study at S.
Giorgio Schiavoni. This latter work is a pearl of sentiment, and
I may add without being fantastic a ruby of colour. It unites the