To get to the beautiful island of S. Giorgio it is almost necessary to take a gondola; for although there is the Giudecca steamer every half hour, it is an erratic boat, and you may be left stranded too long waiting to return.  The island is military, save for the church, and that is chiefly a show-place to-day.  It is large and light, but it has no charm, for that was not Palladio’s gift.  That he was a great man, every visitor to Vicenza knows; but it is both easy and permissible to dislike the architecture to which he gives his name.  Not that any fault can be found with S. Giorgio Maggiore as a detail in the landscape:  to me it will always be the perfect disposition of buildings in the perfect place; but then, on the other hand, the campanile was not Palladio’s, nor was the facade, while the principal attraction of his dome is its green copper.  The church of the Redentore, on the Giudecca, is much more thoroughly Palladian.

Andrea Palladio was born in Vicenza in 1518.  In Venice he built S. Giorgio Maggiore (all but the facade), the facade of S. Francesco della Vigna, the Redentore, Le Zitelle and S. Lucia.  Such was Palladio’s influence that for centuries he practically governed European architecture.  Our own St. Paul’s would be very different but for him.  He died in 1580 and was buried at Vicenza.  By the merest chance, but very fortunately, he was prevented from bedevilling the Ducal Palace after the fire in 1576.  He had the plans all ready, but a wiser than he, one Da Ponte, undertook to make the structure good without rebuilding, and carried out his word.  Terrible to think of what the Vicenza classicist would have done with that gentle, gay, and human facade!

[Illustration:  TRAGHETTO OF S. ZOBENIGO, GRAND CANAL]

S. Giorgio has a few pictures, chief of which are the two great Tintorettos in the choir.  These are, however, very difficult to see.  My own efforts once led me myself to open the gates and enter, so that I might be nearer and in better light:  a proceeding which turned the sacristan from a servant of God into an ugly brawler.  A gift of money, however, returned him to his rightful status; but he is a churlish fellow.  I mention the circumstance because it is isolated in my Venetian wanderings.  No other sacristan ever suggested that the whole church was not equally free or resented any unaccompanied exploration.

The Tintorettos belong to his most spacious and dramatic style.  One, “The Last Supper,” is a busy scene of conviviality.  The company is all at one side of the table and the two ends, except the wretched foredoomed Judas.  There is plenty to eat.  Attendants bustle about bringing more food.  A girl, superbly drawn and painted, washes plates, with a cat beside her.  A dog steals a bone.  The disciples seem restless and the air is filled with angels.  Compared with the intensity and single-mindedness of Leonardo, this is a commonplace rendering; but as an illustration to the Venetian