ery inch of the picture is
amusing and alive. Crowds of gay people assemble and a ship has run on
the rocks. On the right, the prince meets Ursula, who also has found a
very delectable embarking place. Here are more gay crowds and sumptuous
dresses, of which the King's flowered robe is not the least. Farther
still to the right the young couple kneel before the monarch. I
reproduce this.

The apotheosis of S. Ursula, No. 576, is here interposed, very
inappropriately, for she is not yet dead or a saint, merely a pious
princess.

The story is then resumed--in No. 577--with a scene at Rome, as we know
it to be by the castle of S. Angelo, in which Ursula and her prince are
being blessed by the Pope Cyriacus, while an unending file of virgins
extends into the distance.

In the next picture, reproduced opposite page 120, Ursula, in her nice
great bed, in what is perhaps the best-known bedroom in the world,
dreams of her martyrdom and sees an angel bringing her the rewards of
fortitude. The picture has pretty thoughts but poor colour. Where the
room is meant to be, I am not sure; but it is a very charming one. Note
her little library of big books, her writing desk and hour-glass, her
pen and ink. Carpaccio of course gives her a dog. Her slippers are
beside the bed and her little feet make a tiny hillock in the
bedclothes: Carpaccio was the man to think of that! The windows are
open and she has no mosquito net. Her princess's crown is at the foot of
the bed, or is it perchance her crown of glory?

We next see the shipload of bishops and virgins arriving at Cologne.
There are fewer Carpaccio touches here, but he has characteristically
put a mischievous youth at the end of a boom. There is also a dog on the
landing-stage and a bird in the tree. A comely tower is behind with
flags bearing three crowns. The next picture shows us, on the left, the
horrid massacre of all these nice young women by a brutal German
soldiery. Ursula herself is being shot by Julian, who is not more than
six feet distant; but she meets her fate with a composure as perfect as
if instead of the impending arrow it was a benediction. On the right is
her bier, under a very pretty canopy. Wild flowers spring from the
earth.

Now should come the apotheosis.

Carpaccio was not exactly a great painter, but he was human and
ingratiating beyond any other that Venice can show, and his pictures
here and at S. Giorgio degli Schiavoni make the city a sweeter and m