masters;
  Overlaid of course with infinite gauds and gewgaws,
  Innocent, playful follies, the toys and trinkets of childhood,
  Forced on maturer years, as the serious one thing essential,
  By the barbarian will of the rigid and ignorant Spaniard.

  V.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  Luther, they say, was unwise; like a half-taught German, he could not
  See that old follies were passing most tranquilly out of remembrance;
  Leo the Tenth was employing all efforts to clear out abuses;
  Jupiter, Juno, and Venus, Fine Arts, and Fine Letters, the Poets,
  Scholars, and Sculptors, and Painters, were quietly clearing away the
  Martyrs, and Virgins, and Saints, or at any rate Thomas Aquinas. 
  He must forsooth make a fuss and distend his huge Wittenberg lungs, and
  Bring back Theology once yet again in a flood upon Europe: 
  Lo, you, for forty days from the windows of heaven it fell; the
  Waters prevail on the earth yet more for a hundred and fifty;
  Are they abating at last?  The doves that are sent to explore are
  Wearily fain to return, at the best with a leaflet of promise,—­
  Fain to return, as they went, to the wandering wave-tost vessel,—­
  Fain to reenter the roof which covers the clean and the unclean. 
  Luther, they say, was unwise; he didn’t see how things were going;
  Luther was foolish,—­but, O great God! what call you Ignatius? 
  O my tolerant soul, be still! but you talk of barbarians,
  Alaric, Attila, Genseric;—­why, they came, they killed, they
  Ravaged, and went on their way; but these vile, tyrannous Spaniards,
  These are here still,—­how long, O ye Heavens, in the country of Dante? 
  These, that fanaticized Europe, which now can forget them, release not
  This, their choicest of prey, this Italy; here you can see them,—­
  Here, with emasculate pupils and gimcrack churches of Gesu,
  Pseudo-learning and lies, confessional-boxes and postures,—­
  Here, with metallic beliefs and regimental devotions,—­
  Here, overcrusting with shame, perverting, defacing, debasing,
  Michael Angelo’s dome, that had hung the Pantheon in heaven,
  Raphael’s Joys and Graces, and thy clear stars, Galileo!

  VI.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

    Which of three Misses Trevellyn it is that Vernon shall marry
  Is not a thing to be known; for our friend’s is one of those natures
  Which have their perfect delight in the general tender-domestic,
  So that he trifles with Mary’s shawl, ties Susan’s bonnet,
  Dances with all, but at home is most, they say, with Georgina,
  Who is, however, too silly in my apprehension for Vernon. 
  I, as before when I wrote, continue to see them a little;
  Not that I like them so much, or care a bajocco for Vernon,
  But I am slow at Italian, have not many English acquaintance,
  And I am asked, in short, and am not good