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 the facts of the case go farther than one would wish to believe toward bearing out the severe critic's judgment. Assuredly, the arts if not fast asleep, are but beginning to arouse themselves from a very long and lethargic nap in their classic cradle-land. But I think that signs are not wanting that they _are_ beginning to shake off their slumber, and that when they shall have effectually done so, it will once again become evident to the world that this Italian race is very specially endowed with those gifts and qualities which go to make up the artistic temperament and to fit eye and head for artistic creation. A recent visit to an Italian country-town, one of the secondary centres of population in the Peninsula, has done much to confirm the correctness of these views, and has at the same time introduced me to some circumstances and scenes so interesting, and lying so far out of the path of the experiences and ideas of our ordinary nineteenth-century world, that I cannot but think some account of them will be acceptable to the general reader, and especially worthy of the attention of lovers of art. The town in question is Perugia, where I spent a week in the early part of last February, and which boasts the best inn in all Central Italy, ruled by a clever and notable English landlady, who has entirely un-Italian notions of a good fire and warm rooms. Let travelers, whether in winter or in summer, ask for the "Hotel Brufani," disregarding the fact that, being recently established, it is not mentioned in some of the guidebooks, and they will, I am very sure, thank me for the recommendation.