the
end."

When will our Protestantism, or Rationalism, or whatever it may be, sit
as lightly upon ourselves?

Another time I had the following dialogue with an old Piedmontese priest
who lived in a castle which I asked permission to go over:--

"Vous etes Anglais, monsieur?" said he in French.

"Oui, monsieur."

"Vous etes Catholique?"

"Monsieur, je suis de la religion de mes ancetres."

"Pardon, monsieur, vos ancetres etaient Catholiques jusqu'au temps de
Henri Huit."

"Mais il y a trois cents ans depuis le temps de Henri Huit."

"Eh bien; chacun a ses convictions; vous ne parlez pas contre la
religion?"

"Jamais, jamais, monsieur, j'ai un respect enorme pour l'eglise
Catholique."

"Monsieur, faites comme chez vous; allez ou vous voulez; vous trouverez
toutes les portes ouvertes. Amusez vous bien."

CONSIDERATIONS ON THE DECLINE OF ITALIAN ART. (FROM CHAPTER XIII. OF
ALPS AND SANCTUARIES.)

Those who know the Italians will see no sign of decay about them. They
are the quickest-witted people in the world, and at the same time have
much more of the old Roman steadiness than they are generally credited
with. Not only is there no sign of degeneration, but, as regards
practical matters, there is every sign of health and vigorous
development. The North Italians are more like Englishmen, both in body,
and mind, than any other people whom I know; I am continually meeting
Italians whom I should take for Englishmen if I did not know their
nationality. They have all our strong points, but they have more grace
and elasticity of mind than we have.

Priggishness is the sin which doth most easily beset middle-class, and so-
called educated Englishmen; we call it purity and culture, but it does
not much matter what we call it. It is the almost inevitable outcome of
a university education, and will last as long as Oxford and Cambridge do,
but not much longer.

Lord Beaconsfield sent Lothair to Oxford; it is with great pleasure that
I see he did not send Endymion. My friend Jones called my attention to
this, and we noted that the growth observable throughout Lord
Beaconsfield's life was continued to the end. He was one of those who,
no matter how long he lived, would have been always growing: this is what
makes his later novels so much better than those of Thackeray or Dickens.
There was something of the child about him to the last. Earnestness was
his greatest danger, but if he did not quite over