The reality, I fear, would have been a
sore disappointment to him, particularly in relation to Venice, concerning
which his notions were vaguely suggestive of an earthly floating paradise.
[Illustration]
"Ah, Philip," he said, as we cast anchor one night in a little inlet near
Milford, Connecticut, "I shall never forget Venice. This," he added,
waving his hand over the silvery surface of the moonlit water--"this
reminds me of it. All is so still, so romantic, so beautiful. I arrived
late at night, and my first sensations were those of a man who has entered
a city of the dead. The bustle, the noise and clatter, of a great city
were absent; nothing was there but the massive buildings rising up out of
the still, peaceful waters like gigantic tombs, and as my gondolier guided
the sombre black craft to which I had confided my safety and that of my
valise, gliding in and out along those dark unlit streams, a great wave of
melancholy swept over me, and then, passing from the minor streets into
the Grand Canal, the melancholy was dispelled by the brilliant scene that
met my eyes--great floods of light coming from everywhere, the brilliance
of each ray re-enforced by its reflection in the silent river over which I
was speeding.
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