We have stood in the dim religious light of these hoary sanctuaries, in the midst of long ranks of dusty monuments and effigies of the great dead of Venice, until we seemed drifting back, back, back, into the solemn past, and looking upon the scenes and mingling with the peoples of a remote antiquity.

We have been in a half-waking sort of dream all the time.

I do not know how else to describe the feeling.

A part of our being has remained still in the nineteenth century, while another part of it has seemed in some unaccountable way walking among the phantoms of the tenth.
We have seen famous pictures until our eyes are weary with looking at them and refuse to find interest in them any longer.

And what wonder, when there are twelve hundred pictures by Palma the Younger in Venice and fifteen hundred by Tintoretto?
And behold there are Titians and the works of other artists in proportion.