But the most distinctive and interesting study in this Basilica is that of its mosaics. So numerous are they that much devoted attention must be given by one who would fully comprehend their order and meaning. Nothing less than Mr. Ruskin's exhaustive treatise on them is worthy to be offered to an intelligent student of symbolism in art; and although one derives great pleasure from the more superficial knowledge of these works, Mr. Ruskin speaks truly when he says that an understanding of the mosaics changes the whole impression and atmosphere of the Basilica. Having shown that the mosaics give an historical epitome of Christ's teaching, he says:—
"And this thought may dispose the reader to look with some change of temper upon the gorgeous building and wild blazonry of that shrine of S. Mark's. He now perceives that it was in the hearts of the old Venetian people far more than a place of worship. It was at once a type of the Redeemed Church of God and a scroll for the written word of God. It was to them both an image of the Bride, all glorious within, her clothing of wrought gold, and the actual Table of the Law and the Testimony, written within and without. And whether honored as the Church or as the Bible, was it not fitting that neither the gold nor the crystal should be spared in the adornment of it; that, as the symbol of the Bride, the building of the wall thereof should be of jasper, and the foundations of it garnished with all manner of precious stones; and that, as the channel of the Word, the triumphant utterance of the Psalmist should be true of it, 'I have rejoiced in the way of thy testimonies, as much as in all riches'?"
Torre dell' Orologio; Clock Tower.
In spite of the lavishness of gold, of red, and all the varied tones of marbles, bronzes, and mosaics with which San Marco abounds, there are few churches so severe and profoundly impressive. The mystical half-light which pervades it converts what might be a tawdry blaze into harmonious poesy of color, full of the sentiment of impassioned religion. All of spiritual emotion and aspiration is here expressed. One forgets the detail and remembers the whole, loses the actual in the ideal, and thanks God that in this modern, bustling, materialistic nineteenth century there still exist "an assemblage of saints, an infinite history, an entire legendary Paradise," like those of San Marco.
Again in the Piazza, and in the midst of its present life. If it be early morning, it is almost deserted, save for the softly cooing and carefully stepping pigeons. At ten or eleven o'clock it is full of practical life. The shops are brilliant with jewels, glassware, beads, laces, and innumerable objects of use and uselessness. There are many sellers and buyers of all sorts of ambulating merchandise,—from turtles and other shell fish, vegetables and fruits, hardware and matches, to the lovely nosegays and toothsome caramel. Gentlemen are persecuted by persistent shoeblacks and men who mysteriously whisper of Havana cigars, while the tourists, with red guide-books in hand, impatiently wave off both these intruders, and the guides who offer their services, and rush on to the Basilica or Palace, as if they feared that these wonders would disappear before their eyes. Oh, this wearisome hurry! At noon the energy of the venders is somewhat subdued, and they are glad to seek the shade of the arcades; and in the early afternoon, when all the world is taking its luncheon or its siesta, when the pavement is burning beneath the sun, the Piazza is again almost deserted.
But with the evening, from all parts of the city, come those who wish to see the world, to hear the music of the military bands, to dine at the cafés, and meet the friends they are likely to find there. And soon the Piazza is like an immense salon, brilliantly lighted, full of guests of many sorts, from the elegantly dressed ladies with their attendant cavaliers, to the plainly dressed traveller and the unobtrusive Venetians, who come to gaze at all who throng their dear Piazza. The flower-girls, in pretty costumes, offer their nosegays with a deprecating air, which is irresistible. When the band stops playing, strolling musicians sing, or play the violin and harp. The brilliant cafés are thronged, and hundreds of men and women, who surround the little tables in the square, leisurely enjoy their sorbets, sip the delicious coffee, and smoke the Oriental tobacco. It will be midnight, perhaps some hours after that, when the Piazza is again silent, "when a bright sleep is on each storied pile," when the only sounds are the soft lapping of the water at the end of the Piazzetta and the distant music of some belated gondolier who sings, as ever,—