val of the Holy See, his most ardent patrons, those
who delighted most in his robust, uncompromising worldliness, were to be
found in the religious houses. Then, when he went to rest in the summer
heats in some villa on the Brenta, he left delightful souvenirs here and
there. It was on such an occasion, for the Pisani, that he painted the
"Family of Darius," which was sold to England by a member of the house
in 1857. The royal captives, who are throwing themselves at the feet of
the conqueror, are, with Paolo's usual frank naivete and disregard of
anachronisms, dressed in full Venetian costume--all the chief personages
are portraits of the Pisani family. The freedom and rapidity of
execution, the completeness and finish, the charm of colour, the
beauty of the figures (especially the princely ones of Alexander and
Hephaestion), and its extraordinary energy, make this one of the finest
of all his works. The critic, Charles Blanc, says of it, "It is absurd
and dazzling."

In the "Rape of Europa," he recurred again to one of those legends of
fabled beings who have outlasted dynasties and are still fresh and
living. Veronese was surrounded by men like Aretino and Bembo, well
versed in mythology, and with his usual zest he makes the tale an excuse
for painting lovely, blooming women, rich toilets, and a delightful
landscape. The wild flowers spring, and the little Loves fly to and fro
against a cloud-flecked sky of the wonderful Veronese turquoise. It is
the work of a man who is a true poet of colour and for whom colour
represents all the emotions of joy and pleasure.

Veronese died comparatively young, of chill and fever, and all his
family survived him. He lies buried in San Sebastiano. From contemporary
memoirs we know that he lived and dressed splendidly. He kept immense
stores of gorgeous stuffs to paint from in his studio, and drew
everything from life,--the negroes covered with jewels, the bright-eyed
pages, the models who, robed in velvets, brocades and satins, became
queens or courtesans or saints. The pearls which bedecked them were from
his own caskets. Though we know little of his private life, his work is
so alive that he seems personified in it. He is saved from what might
have been a prosaic or a sordid style by the delicious, ever-changing
colour in which he revels; his silks and satins are less modelled by
shadows than tinted by broken reflections, his embroidered and striped
and arabesqued tissues are so ha