s now beginning to get light, and I could see his face,
which was unusually handsome and distinguished. He had indeed the air
of a seventeenth-century nobleman, and might, except for the costume,
have stepped out of a canvas of Van Dyck. Presently he spoke in a rich
mellow voice and with a gravity that harmonized with his bearing.

"Let me begin with a confession, perhaps I ought even to say an
apology. To be among you again after so many years is a privilege; but
it is one which brings with it elements of embarrassment. I have lived
so long in a foreign land that I feel myself an alien here. I hear
voices familiar of old, but I have forgotten their language; I see
forms once well known, but the atmosphere in which they move seems
strange. I am fresh from Italy; and England comes upon me with a
shock. Even her physical aspect I see as I never saw it before. I
find it lovely, with a loveliness peculiar and unique. But I miss
something to which I have become accustomed in the south; I miss light,
form, greatness, and breadth. Instead, there is grey or golden haze,
blurred outlines, tender skies, lush luxurious greenery. Italy rings
like metal; England is a muffled drum. The one has the ardour of
Beauty; the other the charm of the Picturesque. I dwell upon this
because I seem to see--perhaps I am fanciful--a kindred distinction
between the north and the south in quality of mind. The Greek
intelligence, and the Italian, is pitiless, searching, white as the
Mediterranean sunshine; the English and German is kindly, discreet,
amiably and tenderly confused. The one blazes naked in a brazen sky;
the other is tempered by vapours of sentiment. The English, in
particular, I think, seldom make a serious attempt to face the truth.
Their prejudices and ideals shut them in, like their green hedges; and
they live, even intellectually, in a country of little fields. I do
not deny that this is soothing and restful; but I feel it--shall I
confess--intolerably cooping. I long for the searching light, the wide
prospect; for the vision of things as they really are. I have
consorted too long with Aristotle and Machiavelli to find myself at
home in the country of the Anglican Church and of Herbert Spencer."
Here he paused, and seemed to hesitate, while we wondered what he could
be leading up to. Then, resuming, "This may seem," he went on, "a long
introduction; but it is not irrelevant; though I feel some hesitation
in apply