to Europe to stay his three thousand dollars,
and yet miss none of the true lions."

The ex-Fellow of Magdalen faithfully kept his
word, and acted as a skilful and zealous guide,
while I found it a great comfort to be conducted
through the wondrous old city by a scholar and
an Englishman, instead of the snuff-taking old
Mentor whom he had supplanted, and who
referred all buildings to Nero, and all pictures to
Raffaelli. Very kind and attentive my former
chum certainly proved himself; but there was
something in his manner that perplexed me, for
it suggested that, for unknown reasons, he was
acting a part. And yet I was angry with myself
for the meanness of the suspicion, and drove it
from my thoughts as an intruder. Why, after
all, should Crooke take the trouble to pioneer
my steps through church and temple, arena and
Vatican, as he did, save from pure kindness and
recollection of our old friendship. Why, indeed?

Imprimis, there was nothing to be got out of
me. My former fellow-student was the reverse
of a parasite, and declined all invitations to dine
with me at my hotel, nor would he even permit
me to pay more than half the hire of carriages
or boats on the Tiber. As for the idea of Crooke's
borrowing my money, that was absurd. I had
none to spare, as he very well knew, and, moreover,
he belonged to a wealthy family enough,
and had private means, which were quite
sufficient for a person of his careful and unostentatious
habits. Nor did he appear to be possessed
by any peculiar proselytising fervour. I stood
on my guard at first, prepared to do battle, and
expecting to be battered with the heavy artillery
of Jerome and Augustine, and sapped by the
subtler casuistry of Pascal and Fénelon; but I
was agreeably disappointed. Crooke showed
not the slightest desire to make a convert of
the third classical master of St. Winnipeg's.
Indeed, beyond a hurried assurance, in answer to
some timid question of my own, that he had
"found peace" in his present belief, he was
almost silent on the subject of his own faith and
calling.

But he talked freely and amusingly enough
on mundane topics, and displayed great
knowledge of Italian politics and statesmen, having
endless anecdotes to relate. His view of affairs
in the peninsula naturally differed from mine,
but he spoke without bitterness, though in
terms of gentle blame, of the king and Cavour,
and with admiring regret of Garibaldi. The ex-
King of Naples he described as a rash and
generous youth, while admitting that there really
were great faults, coupled with great qualities,
inherent in the Bourbon stock. But he drew a
most masterly and touching picture of the bleeding
and torn kingdom of Naples, the priests
persecuted, the bishops insulted, the nobles exiled
or captive, the simple peasantry hunted and
harried by cruel soldiers, ground to the earth
by taxation, harassed by harsh martinets, civil
and military, from the pedantic regions of Piedmont.

Now, I had no especial sympathy with brigands
and plotters, lay or cleric, but it was difficult to
refuse entire credence to my friend's statements,
highly coloured, no doubt, but still supported
by legions of facts, real or imaginary, and by all
manner of circumstantial evidence, drawn not
only from newspapers but from private letters,
of which Crooke translated sundry passages for
my behoof, and of which he seemed to possess a
never- failing supply. At first I was incredulous,
then staggered, and at last I was brought to own
that very likely there had been instances of
unnecessary severity or caprice, and that it might
go hard with an ignorant and helpless population,
squeezed as in a vice between Chiavone on
the one hand, and La Marmora on the other.

And then the cloven foot peeped out. Crooke
very cautiously asked, in a circuitous fashion, if
I would—if, in a word, I would do him the
service of smuggling a few letters over the
frontier of the new reprobate kingdom of Italy.
He did not ask me to take any peculiar trouble
in delivering these letters, which would be made
up into one thick packet, and which I could
easily conceal about my person, while I could
simply leave them at a certain house in the
suburbs of Naples. It was wonderful what
good the safe arrival of those letters would
effect. They would heal dissensions, comfort
those who were ready to perish, restore liope to
the afflicted, stop bloodshed, and, in a word,
benefit everybody without hurting anybody. But
such was the hard and jealous tyranny of the sub-
alpine government, that these letters, with all
their attendant blessings, would be intercepted,
unless secretly conveyed by an Englishman,
who could hardly be suspected, would——

"Stay, my dear fellow," I broke in; and I
felt the blood rush up to my face, and set my
very ears tingling, as I thus interrupted my old
friend, for the idea of seeming churlish and
ungracious was one that I flinched from, resolute
as I was not to be beguiled into doing what was
wrong. " Stay, Crooke, and don't tell me any
more secrets of state, for it is impossible that
we should think alike upon the point in question.
You are a far cleverer fellow than I—
always were—and I remember what capital
speeches you used to make at our old debates
at the Union at Oxford. You have spoken very
well now, and I do you the justice to believe
that you believe every word you have uttered,
but, you see, I am a plain Englishman, and I
can't go with you. I cannot believe the
Piedmontese to be detested usurpers, the monks
and brigands suffering saints, King Bomba an
exiled martyr, and United Italy a myth. And
sooner than carry a single letter, however well
intentioned, that should tend to plunge back
those poor Neapolitans into the slough of
degraded servitude they had wallowed in so long,
I tell you frankly that I would abandon the
pleasure of my journey altogether."

I began this speech, an unusually long one for
me, in a diffident and stammering way, but I
spoke warmly and earnestly after the first words
were out. Stranger as I was in the land, and
few as had been my opportunities of intercourse
with the natives, I had seen and heard enough