father. The first structure probably dates
from the seventh century; the present is fifteenth century, and beneath
it is the ancient crypt adjoining the chapel of S. Tarasio, where in the
twelfth century a hundred nuns seeking refuge from a fire were
suffocated. In the chapel are ecclesiastical paintings, but no proper
provision is made for seeing them. Eight Doges lie in S. Zaccaria.

Outside I found a great crowd to see the embarcation of the corpse for
its last home, the Campo Santo. This, I may say, was rather a late
funeral. Most of them are at eight or even earlier.

It is best now to return to the Riva by the calle which comes out beside
Danieli's and then walk Lido-wards over two bridges and take the first
calle after them. This brings us to S. Giovanni in Bragora, S. John's
own church, built according to his instructions to Bishop Magnus, and it
has one of the keenest little sacristans in Venice. From altar to altar
he bustles, fixing you in the best positions for light. The great
picture here is the Cima behind the high altar, of which I give a
reproduction opposite page 136. A little perch has been made, the better
to see it. It represents "The Baptism of Christ," and must in its heyday
have been very beautiful. Christ stands at the edge of the water and the
Baptist holds a little bowl--very different scene from that mosaic
version in S. Mark's where Christ is half submerged. It has a sky full
of cherubs, delectable mountains and towns in the distance, and all
Cima's sweetness; and when the picture cleaning millionaire, of whom I
speak elsewhere, has done his work it will be a joy. There is also a
fine Bartolommeo Vivarini here, and the sacristan insists on your
admiring a very ornate font which he says is by Sansovino.

As you leave, ask him the way to S. Giorgio degli Schiavoni, which is
close by, and prepare to be very happy.

I have said something about the most beautiful spacious places in
Venice--S. Mark's, the Doges' Palace, the Scuola di S. Rocco, and so
forth; we now come to what is, without question, the most fascinating
small room in Venice. It is no bigger than a billiard-room and unhappily
very dark, with a wooden ceiling done in brown, gold, and blue; an altar
with a blue and gold canopy; rich panels on the walls; and as a frieze a
number of paintings by Vittore Carpaccio, which, in my opinion,
transcend in interest the S. Ursula series at the Accademia.

The story of the little precious roo