not go to such a one,” says one young man to another, “he is a terrible bore, and asks questions without end; go to another,” and he mentions some confessor who has the reputation of a more easy disposition: “and mind, go to his left side, not to his right.” “But why?” demands his companion. “Oh because he is deaf on the left side, and will not hear half of what you say. But do not go yet, never go till about noon.” “Why so?” again demands the other, “because,” continues his more cunning adviser, “they always get tired, and perhaps hungry about that time, and wanting to get away, are not half so particular.” He gave us a great deal more of these representations, with the excuses of people of different sexes and situations, and all with a great deal of spirit and humour. It had, to be sure, something of the effect of a comedy, and made every body laugh, and yet I think it would be remembered. My companions settled that he was _troppo buffo_, but on talking farther with them, it seemed to me that they condemned him, because they felt the sting. After some hymns had been sung, another preacher followed, with a large crucifix planted by him, to which however he did not address himself, as is frequently done in Italy. He preached very well, and gave us a very good sermon, rather commonplace perhaps, about mortal sins; and by keeping quite in generals, gave every body an opportunity of admiring him, because nobody applied it to himself. My travelling companions wondered how I could doubt about the holy house, as so many miracles had been wrought by it, particularly a well-authenticated story of a man who had stolen a candlestick, but having sat down with it on the road, could not get up again. I suggested that these miracles only took place against petty robbers, and that when the whole was plundered on a late occasion, the Virgin or her image was quiet. One of the party seemed very much surprised at the difficulty I made about miracles: “Why,” says he, “all history is full of miracles.” He began to cite a number from Livy; and I found that he believed them, just as firmly as those of his own church. These Italians are brought up among miracles; their mind, or their fancy, is filled with them from their childhood, and they would sooner reject all the moral and doctrinal truths of the Christian religion, than give up their belief in the miraculous interposition of our Lady of the seven sorrows, or of St. Antony of Padua. Nor is this much to be wondered at; the gospel is taken for granted, but the particular merits of a favourite saint require full exposition, and frequent repetition; the priest dwells on these, and the multitude forgets that there is anything of more importance. In England, instead of contending who has the greatest and most miracle-working saint, we split upon doctrinal points, and sects are formed, but the process is very similar. The attention is directed to peculiar and