On the way thither one stopped for a day in Olevano, to me the least Italian, the most completely “foreignized” spot in all that country. It has been for so many years the haunt of artists of every nationality that it has none left of its own. Its beauty there is no denying; it laughs in sunshine and prosperity, and for that, in these bad times, one is grateful to it. But it is no more Italian than a fine piece of staging at the Haymarket. The background is perfect, and the inhabitants are healthy and handsome, but the moment they see a traveller coming they throw themselves into paintable attitudes; all naturalness seems gone; everything and everybody is harnessed to the service of picturesque utility. The famous inn, about which Gregorovius and Mr. Hare raved so enthusiastically, resounds with northern tongues and with that ear-splitting affliction known as German Italian. The walls are a visitors’ book of untold price, where almost every notable artist of the last hundred years has left his signature in sketch or portrait. At every turn you are tripped up by easels, wet canvases, and artists’ umbrellas, and in the evening the beer flows freely and the jolly brotherhood talks about itself at the top of its German voice, till Italy—our shy melancholy Italy—fades into the background, and the weary traveller trying to sleep in one of the bedrooms, which all open out of the central dining-room, is led to believe that he has taken the wrong train and been transported unawares to the scene of a “Kneipe” in Munich or Dresden. Talking about “wrong trains” reminds me of an absurd incident that happened in England. A wayfarer who had taken a little more than was good for him wandered into Victoria Station, having quite forgotten the name of the place he wished to make for. But he could remember what it was _not_. Into every train that came along he climbed—and then asked the guard for what point it was bound. None of the answers satisfied him, and he tumbled out on the platform again and again, wailing, “Wrong train! wrong train!” At last, however, he struck the right one, the guard’s answer to his query brought back the memory of his domicile, and, much relieved, he sank down against the cushions and began to smoke. At the first station on the road a clergyman got into the compartment, and the train steamed on. Harder and harder the reverend gentleman stared at his companion, who showed all too plainly the evidences of his spree. Pretty soon, just as they were pulling into another station, the Christian’s conscience bade him admonish his erring brother. “My friend,” he began in solemn tones, “do you know where you are going to?” The overtaken one was all attention at once, and his monitor went on, “You are going _straight to Hell_!” “Oh, Lord!” moaned the sinner on the opposite seat, “wrong train _again_!” And he sprang out of the carriage and stood weeping on the platform while his one chance of getting home sped away from him into the night.