I said: "Let us see these wonderful things." So we proceeded up the Grand Canal; afterwards we went down the Grand Canal. Since Lord Byron's time I believe there is a slight difference of opinion as to which is up or down in this canal. We got into Sambo's _sandalo_, and Sambo took me to one of the great lace houses, where I had to expose all my ignorance of lace, and yet try to appear to be a specialist in this commodity; then, to a place where what I understand is called Venetian glass was sold; then to other places. During none of our calls did I make a purchase, much to the disgust of the attending clerks, but fully within the agreement with Sambo that I should not buy that which I did not want or did not have money enough to buy. I noticed that Sambo received either a brass check or a small amount in Italian currency on each call. Eventually this pilgrimage to places of Venetian commercialism was finished. I said to Sambo: "What in the world is the meaning of all this?" He said: "Why, _signor_, did you not observe? We have been friendly together, have we not?" I said: "Certainly, Sambo, but it strikes me as funny that you should take me to places where you know I have no idea of buying anything." "Ah, _signor_, you do not understand the situation here in Venice. You see, these glass people, these lace people--and other people--give us gondoliers a commission. When we get so many brass checks, we go over and cash them in, and get a certain percentage for such business as we may have brought to the business houses. When we get money, of course that comes in the shape of tips such as you have seen, and we put that direct in our pockets. "I want to say to you, _signor_, that although my story may offend you, and you may think I had no right to take you on the ride, which, as you will remember, I suggested should be on me, I have succeeded in accumulating nine _lire_. Signor, please do not take offense. I knew the game. Will you not come as my guest to-night at one of our gondolier's restaurants, where I will spend every one of those nine _lire_ on a good dinner?" I suppose that Sambo is still inviting other innocent people like myself to pilgrimages to the lace and glass houses of Venice. Of Rome, which I visited after my experiences in Venice, there is also much that I should like to say literarily, if I felt that I could do it. Most writers dwell heavily on the ancient sadness of Rome. There was nothing in the ancient sadness of Rome, during the month that I spent in that city, in the spring of 1895, which compared with the sadness which came over me on going to the English cemetery and reading the names of certain great men known to all the world, and of certain young men known personally to me, Englishmen and Americans, who are buried in that picturesque but unwaveringly sad spot.