mosaics of the twelfth century and the patchwork of precious
fragments in the pavement not inferior to that of St. Mark's. But
the terribly distinct Apostles are ranged against their dead gold
backgrounds as stiffly as grenadiers presenting arms--intensely
personal sentinels of a personal Deity. Their stony stare seems
to wait for ever vainly for some visible revival of primitive
orthodoxy, and one may well wonder whether it finds much
beguilement in idly-gazing troops of Western heretics--
passionless even in their heresy.

I had been curious to see whether in the galleries and temples of
Venice I should be disposed to transpose my old estimates--to
burn what I had adored and adore what I had burned. It is a sad
truth that one can stand in the Ducal Palace for the first time
but once, with the deliciously ponderous sense of that particular
half-hour's being an era in one's mental history; but I had the
satisfaction of finding at least--a great comfort in a short
stay--that none of my early memories were likely to change places
and that I could take up my admirations where I had left them. I
still found Carpaccio delightful, Veronese magnificent, Titian
supremely beautiful and Tintoret scarce to be appraised. I
repaired immediately to the little church of San Cassano, which
contains the smaller of Tintoret's two great Crucifixions; and
when I had looked at it a while I drew a long breath and felt I
could now face any other picture in Venice with proper self-
possession. It seemed to me I had advanced to the uttermost limit
of painting; that beyond this another art--inspired poetry--
begins, and that Bellini, Veronese, Giorgione, and Titian, all
joining hands and straining every muscle of their genius, reach
forward not so far but that they leave a visible space in which