The sombre gondola writhed its sinuous course and deposited us all forlorn
in the near neighbourhood of the Piazza San Marco. Splashing our way
across, and pushing through the crowd of greedy fat pigeons, we entered
the world-famous church. I know my Ruskin, and I feel that I should be
lost in wonder and admiration--I am not.

The gloom--rich golden gloom if you will--of the interior oppresses me; it
is cavernous. A service is being held in one of the transepts, and the
congregation seems noisier and less devout than I could have believed
possible. My thoughts fly far to where, on its solitary hill, the noble
pile of Chartres soars majestic, its heaven-piercing spires dominating the
wide plain of La Beauce. In fancy I enter by the splendid north door and
find myself in the pillared dimness softly lighted by the great window in
the west. This seems to me to be the greatest achievement of the Christian
architect, noble alike in conception and in execution.

There is no means of procuring a cold more certain than lingering too long
in a cold and vault-like church or picture gallery, so we adjourned to the
Palazzo Daniele, now a mere hotel, where we browsed on the
literature--chiefly cosmopolitan newspapers--until it was time to start
for Trieste.

The journey is not an attractive one, as we seemed to be perpetually
worried by Custom-house authorities and inquisitive ticket-collectors! If
possible, the wary traveller should so time his sojourn at Venice as to
allow him to go to Trieste by steamer. The Hôtel de la Ville at Trieste is
not quite excellent, but 'twill serve, and we were remarkably glad to
reach it, somewhere about midnight, having left Milan soon after seven in
the morning!