s, fervent, or,
as in Michelangelo and Signorelli, alive with superhuman energy. But
when looking at pictures of the Venetian School we unconsciously use
quite another sort of language; epithets like "dark" and "rich" come
most freely to our lips; a golden glow, a slumberous velvety depth,
seem to engulf and absorb all details. We are carried into the land
of romance, and are fascinated and soothed, rather than stimulated
and aroused. So it is with portraits; before the "Mona Lisa" our
intelligence is all awake, but the men and women of Venetian canvases
have a grave, indolent serenity, which accords well with the slumber
of thought.

Up to the beginning of the sixteenth century the painters of Venice
had not differed very materially from those of other schools; they
had gradually worked out or learned the technicalities of drawing,
perspective and anatomy. They had been painting in oils for twenty-five
years, and they betrayed a greater fondness for pageant-pictures than
was felt in other States of Italy. Florence appoints Michelangelo and
Leonardo to decorate her public palace, but no great store is set by
their splendid achievements; their work is not even completed. The
students fall upon the cartoons, which are allowed to perish, instead
of being treasured by the nation. Gentile Bellini and Carpaccio and the
band of State painters are appreciated and well rewarded. These men have
reproduced something of the lucent transparency, the natural colour of
Venice, but it is as if unconsciously; they are not fully aiming at any
special effect. Year after year the Venetian masters assimilate more or
less languidly the influences which reach them from the mainland. They
welcome Guariento and Gentile da Fabriano, they set themselves to learn
from Veronese or Florentine, the Paduans contribute their chiselled
drawing, their learned perspective, their archeological curiosity. Yet
even early in the day the Venetians escape from that hard and learned
art which is so alien to their easy, voluptuous temperament. Jacopo
Bellini cannot conform to it, and his greatest son is ready to follow
feeling and emotion, and in his old age is quick to discover the first
flavour of the new wine. If Venetian art had gone on upon the lines
we have been tracing up to now, there would have been nothing very
distinctive about it, for, however interesting and charming Alvise and
Carpaccio, Cima and the Bellini may be, it is not of them we think when