world more than the world was likely to repay. Indeed before
every picture of Tintoret you may remember this tremendous
portrait with profit. On one side the power, the passion, the
illusion of his art; on the other the mortal fatigue of his
spirit. The world's knowledge of him is so small that the
portrait throws a doubly precious light on his personality; and
when we wonder vainly what manner of man he was, and what were
his purpose, his faith and his method, we may find forcible
assurance there that they were at any rate his life--one of the
most intellectually passionate ever led.

Verona, which was my last Italian stopping-place, is in any
conditions a delightfully interesting city; but the kindness of
my own memory of it is deepened by a subsequent ten days'
experience of Germany. I rose one morning at Verona, and went to
bed at night at Botzen! The statement needs no comment, and the
two places, though but fifty miles apart, are as painfully
dissimilar as their names. I had prepared myself for your
delectation with a copious tirade on German manners, German
scenery, German art and the German stage--on the lights and
shadows of Innsbrueck, Munich, Nueremberg and Heidelberg; but just
as I was about to put pen to paper I glanced into a little volume
on these very topics lately published by that famous novelist and
moralist, M. Ernest Feydeau, the fruit of a summer's observation
at Homburg. This work produced a reaction; and if I chose to
follow M. Feydeau's own example when he wishes to qualify his
approbation I might call his treatise by any vile name known to
the speech of man. But I content myself with pronouncing it
superficial. I then reflect that my own opportunities for seeing
and judging were extremely limited, and I suppress my tirade,