She was not offended. She shook her head, a bit regretfully I like to think, and smiled most charmingly. “Venice has gone to your head. To-morrow you’ll forget me!” And there my adventure ended! It is a year, as I write, since I last saw the flaxen-haired Maria, and I find she remains quite as firmly fixed in my memory as Venice itself, which is perhaps as it should be. * * * * * But the five or six days I spent in Venice--how they linger. How shall one ever paint water and light and air in words. I had wild thoughts as I went about of a splendid panegyric on Venice--a poem, no less--but finally gave it up, contenting myself with humble notes made on the spot which at some time I hoped to weave into something better. Here they are--a portion of them--the task unfinished. What a city! To think that man driven by the hand of circumstance--the dread of destruction--should have sought out these mucky sea islands and eventually reared as splendid a thing as this. “The Veneti driven by the Lombards,” reads my Baedeker, “sought the marshy islands of the sea.” Even so. Then came hard toil, fishing, trading, the wonders of the wealth of the East. Then came the Doges, the cathedral, these splendid semi-Byzantine palaces. Then came the painters, religion, romance, history. To-day here it stands, a splendid shell, reminiscent of its former glory. Oh, Venice! Venice! * * * * * The Grand Canal under a glittering moon. The clocks striking twelve. A horde of black gondolas. Lovely cries. The rest is silence. Moon picking out the ripples in silver and black. Think of these old stone steps, white marble stained green, laved by the waters of the sea these hundreds of years. A long, narrow street of water. A silent boat passing. And this is a city of a hundred and sixty thousand! * * * * * Wonderful painted arch doorways and windows. Trefoil and quadrifoil decorations. An old iron gate with some statues behind it. A balcony with flowers. The Bridge of Sighs! Nothing could be so perfect as a city of water. * * * * * The Lagoon at midnight under a full moon. Now I think I know what Venice is at its best. Distant lights, distant voices. Some one singing. There are pianos in this sea-isle city, playing at midnight. Just now a man silhouetted blackly, under a dark arch. Our gondola takes us into the very hallway of the Royal-Danieli. * * * * *