The return of the Venetian to his native city was attended by incidents which have not occurred among us. Bronzed by long residence under the sun of the East, wearing the dress of a Tartar, and speaking his native language with difficulty, it was some time before his friends could be persuaded of his identity. Happily there is no question on the identity of our returned fellow-citizen; and surely it cannot be said that he speaks his native language with difficulty. A dinner was spread at Venice as here at Boston, and now, after the lapse of nearly six hundred years, the Venetian dinner still lives in glowing description. Marco Polo, with his companions, appeared first in long robes of crimson satin reaching to the floor, which, when the guests had washed their hands, were changed for other robes of crimson damask, and then again, after the first course, for other robes of crimson velvet, and at the conclusion of the banquet, for the ordinary dress worn by the rest of the company. Meanwhile the other costly garments were distributed among the attendants at the table. In all your magnificence to-night, Mr. Mayor, I have seen no such largess. Then were brought forward the coarse threadbare garments in which they had travelled, when, on ripping the lining and patches with a knife, costly jewels, in sparkling showers, leaped forth before the eyes of the company, who for a time were motionless with wonder. Then at last, says the Italian chronicler, every doubt was banished, and all were satisfied that these were the valiant and honorable gentlemen of the house of Polo. I do not relate this history to suggest any such operation on the dress of our returned fellow-citizen. No such evidence is needed to assure us of his identity.