of people, to the introduction of railways into districts whose chief interest is in their scenery; especially where, as in the English Lake district, the scenery is in miniature, easily spoiled by embankments and viaducts, and by the rows of ugly buildings which usually grow up round a station; and where the beauty of the landscape can only be felt in quiet walks or drives through it.  Many years later, after he had said all he had to say on the subject again and again, and was on the brink of one of his illnesses, he wrote in violent language to a correspondent who tried to “draw” him on the subject of another proposed railway to Ambleside.  But his real opinions were simple enough, and consistent with a practicable scheme of life.

In August 1876 he left England for Italy.  He travelled alone, accompanied only by his new servant Baxter, who had lately taken the place vacated by Crawley, Mr. Ruskin’s former valet of twenty years’ service.  He crossed the Simplon to Venice, where he was welcomed by an old friend, Rawdon Brown, and a new friend, Prof.  C.H.  Moore, of Harvard.  He met two Oxford pupils, Mr. J. Reddie Anderson, whom he set to work on Carpaccio; and Mr. Whitehead—­“So much nicer they all are,” he wrote in a private letter, “than I was at their age;”—­also his pupil Mr. Bunney, at work on copies of pictures and records of architecture, the legacy of St. Mark to St. George.  Two young artists were brought into his circle, during that winter—­both Venetians, and both singularly interesting men:  Giacomo Boni, now a celebrated antiquary, then capo d’opera of the Ducal Palace, and doing his best to preserve, instead of “restoring,” the ancient sculptures; and Angelo Alessandri, a painter of more than usual seriousness of aim and sympathy with the fine qualities of the old masters.

Ruskin had been engaged on a manual of drawing for his Oxford schools, which he now meant to complete in two parts:  “The Laws of Fesole”—­teaching the principles of Florentine draughtsmanship; and “The Laws of Rivo Alto”—­about Venetian colour.  Passages for this second part were written.  But he found himself so deeply interested in the evolution of Venetian art, and in tracing the spirit of the people as shown by the mythology illustrated in the pictures and sculptures, that his practical manual became a sketch of art history, “St. Mark’s Rest”—­as a sort of companion to “Mornings in Florence,” which he had been working at during his last visit to Italy.  His intention was to supersede “Stones of Venice” by a smaller book, giving more prominence to the ethical side of history, which should illustrate Carpaccio as the most important figure of the transition period, and do away with the exclusive Protestantism of his earlier work.

He set himself to this task, with Tintoret’s motto—­Sempre si fa il mare maggiore, and worked with feverish energy, recording his progress in letters home.