Still, if I am fortunate enough to lead some, through the lure of the legend, to the serious study of the history from which the legend is culled, my labour will have been repaid many times over. In the rush and scurry of to-day, when excitement is mistaken for labour and bustle for speed, scholarship—that is to say, the real and serious study of real and serious subjects—has become, except for the illustrious few, a thing of the past; but those few have gathered together, for our benefit, a precious mass of material, a rich harvest of romance wherewith we can brighten many a heavy hour; so let us wander into the garden, culling as we go, and acknowledging our heartfelt gratitude to those who planted it at the cost of such infinite toil. The Bride of the Sea, seen from the distance, seems to rise like a softly coloured pearl from the misty embrace of the waters, and the effect is one of such awesome charm that, for a while, the mind can hardly carry the suggestions that crowd in upon it. What Venice contains! Is there any city in the world, save only Rome and Jerusalem—the cradle and the House—that can compare with that jewel-case? The home, in one way or another, of Titian, Tintoretto, Giorgione, Veronese, and Barbari—the story of Venice is so illuminated with the glory of her children that its tragedy is almost lost in it, as black rocks emerge with their surroundings in the glint of the mid-day sun. From its meagre beginnings—a few slivers of land, half covered by the sea, where some hundreds of exiles took refuge and sheltered themselves in huts of mud and osier, down through the ages, she comes like an Easter “Gloria”—first a whisper, then a murmur, and then, from note to note, onwards and upwards, to the crashing splendour of her triumph. Venice has grown old now, and she is content to doze in the sun’s warmth and to dream of the golden past. Her gates are open now to inquisitive sightseers, and one can imagine her smile of amusement when, every now and again, some impudent brat digs her in the ribs, Ruskin-like, and bellows his fortnight-formed opinions of her in her ear. “Oh, you were beautiful!” they cry, “but what a shocking condition of ignorance and idolatry you did live in! Of course you could not be expected to be as wise as Manchester or as spiritually enlightened as Piccadilly Circus—still!” “Still?” she answers mildly. “I once held the Crown of Thorns in my hand—did you know that? It was a very long time ago—seven hundred years and more—but I did.”