the
German. Tell your cousin to ask mamma to dance, and to ask me. I like
him very much: he at least makes you laugh, even if you don't understand
very well what he is talking about. He seems sometimes to be making fun
of you, but that's no matter: he's very nice; and then, too, he holds
you firmly while dancing, so that you feel perfectly comfortable."

* * * * *

Toward two o'clock in the morning, after having looked through M. de
B.'s collection of etchings and played a game of whist, I returned to my
station behind the three girls. Two were bravely drinking a glass of
claret, and the third a cup of chocolate. They were laughing so loud
while leaning back in their chairs, and so talking all together, that I
could scarcely catch what they said, but I saw by their loosened hair
and the brilliancy of their eyes, and their feverish agitation, that
they had not wasted their time. Their mothers, who were quite as
animated, had collected together, and three or four gentlemen had
gathered round them saying a thousand charming bits of nonsense. The
gayety had become so fast and furious in that corner that I despaired of
hearing anything more, so I went back to the ante-chamber.

What charming women my adorable little girls will have become in a few
years!

Pray do not think that the fever of pleasure, that candlelight and love
of waltzing will at all impair the solid treasures which a good
education has stored up in their little hearts. This very night when
they go to bed these three little angels will piously fold their hands
beneath the quilt, so as to keep warm, and will thank Heaven for all
that has been done for them, and will beg that they may not catch a
horrible cold in the head which will prevent their going to the opera
to-morrow. Then, having kissed the little gold medal which protects them
from fire and spraining their ankles, and makes them dance in time, they
will fall fast asleep to the dim murmur of a waltz, like a bird in his
nest.

T. S. PERRY.

A MODERN ART-WORKSHOP IN UMBRIA.

I met with a book on Italy some little time ago by an American author,
whose name was not given--or if it was, I have forgotten it, and beg his
pardon for the negligence--of which this was the first sentence: "Art is
fast asleep in Italy, and that is why Italy is called the cradle of
Art." If the statement be not altogether accurate, it is neatly said
enough. But I am afraid that th