So it is; and it is the fine irony of her present
renovation that those who were for ever belauding her pictures, and
her saints, and her architecture, as we praise things dead, they are
the most angered by her appearance on this modern field all armed,
just as she was, with works and art and songs, sometimes superlative,
often vulgar. Note you, she is still careless of art or songs, as she
has always been. She lays her foundations in something other, which
something other our moderns hate. Yet out of that something other came
the art and song of the Middle Ages. And what art or songs have you?
She is Europe and all our past. She is returning. _Andiamo._
LECTOR. But Mr _(deleted by the Censor)_ does not think so?
AUCTOR. I last saw him supping at the Savoy. _Andiamo._
We went up the hill together over a burnt land, but shaded with trees.
It was very hot. I could scarcely continue, so fast did my companion
go, and so much did the heat oppress me.