this cardinal appears to have had some feeling of decency as to what was due to Holy Church. As a churchman he felt bound to stand by his order; although as an Orsini he would have preferred a different state of affairs. Still, the object of the riot had been attained, the Lord Calixtus P.P III had received an object-lesson poignant and pregnant to an ultimate degree, concerning the kind of kakodaimons that He would have to quell, the species of subject that He was called to rule. No doubt these were the arguments used to his brother by the cardinal. It was not the writhing mangled body of the Eel (Anguillara) that the Bear (Orsini) craved. That was the merest subterfuge. But to humiliate the Holiness of the Pope at the very moment of His exaltation from Sedes Stercoraria to Lateran Throne, to terrify Him into malleability, into subjugation to Orsini’s will—that—that had been done, and well done. Surely an aged man, so near His grave as was the Lord Calixtus P.P. III, would wish to purchase peace with any sacrifice, now that once it had been shown to Him what kind of devildom environed His very throne-steps. Don Napoleone Orsini allowed himself to take this view. He withdrew his myrmidons. The riot was over. Presently the Pope was riding on His crimson-caparisoned palfrey towards the Vatican, through a peaceful city kneeling at the roadside for Apostolic Benediction. * * * * * The fashion which foreigners affect in writing of Italy makes one laugh—and weep. They drawl of a dreamland of subtle sweetness and softest light, of delicate fantasy, of neutral hue; peopled by shades from faded frescoes æsthetically tinctured, academic, conventional, conformant to the canons of that unspeakably abominable dilution which the twentieth century calls Art; and mitigated only by a leavening of organ-grinders and fortune-telling paroquets. They must be blind, these foreigners—blind, physically and mentally—blind, as those who will not see. Italy is, and always has been, a land of raw reality, of glittering light, of pure primary colour, of nature naked and not ashamed, of perfectly transparent souls, of rapidest versatility, clearest mystery, ultimate simplicity, steel, and brains, and blood. Else she had made no mark, no singular distinguished mark, in history. Has she made no mark? Ah—what a mark she has made! * * * * *