EDITOR’S NOTE:—The receipt of this article in the offices of Vanity Fair caused a high degree of perturbation and anguish. Why? Because the Editors were nurtured on Italian culture, achievements and ideals. Our first thought, therefore, was that the author of this essay should be reprimanded, not to say chastised. Then there came to us this thought. What if Italy should become efficient? What if automats and five-and-ten-cent-stores and slot machines and Ford Factories and quick lunch counters should definitely succeed the sonnets of Petrarch, the paintings of Mantegna, the learning of Pico della Mirandola, the sculptures of Giovanni Bologna and the large, easy-going, colourful grandeur of the Medicis? Merciful heavens, what weighty pain in that thought! With that direful prospect in mind we saw the need of publishing Mr. Cumming’s article forthwith, *in toto,*with the idea of saving Italy from imminent disaster, from modernity, and from (what is most terrifying of all)—American efficiency.

Once upon a time, when we were incredibly spirited, helpless, and otherwise young, the singing teacher of a New England public school induced our throat to utter the following fraudulent ditty:

“*O, Italia, Italia belov-ed

Land of beauty, of sunlight and song,

When afar from thy bright skies remov-ed

How our fond hearts for thee e’er do long*”

or something like that. We were amazed, at the time, by the asininity of the words and the triteness of the tune. But amazement is temporary. We sang other songs and we grew up and we forgot all about Italia.

Not until full fifteen years later did the land of sunlight, etc., actually loom upon our horizon—when, becoming bored with Paris, we purchased a bicycle and rode all the way to Napoli with a patient friend. This little jaunt (and the reader is strongly advised to consult a map ere attempting the same) taught us altogether too much about Italia. We became so disillusioned, in fact, that when afar from her bright skies remov-ed our very far from fond hearts decidedly did not do any longing.

Yet what is disillusionment to a healthy person? Niente. Only a year or so after the Paris-Napoli venture, we found ourselves getting shoved off all the sidewalks of Roma by enthusiastic cohorts of Black Shirts. A revolution, or something, had just happened. We sought refuge in a stationery shop. Before our eyes reposed a series of coloured post-cards celebrating the recent cataclysm. The first card at which we glanced depicted Mussolini, in the rôle of Christ, raising Italia, in the rôle of Lazarus, from the dead. Shocked to our aesthetic foundations, we left hurriedly both the shop and Italia.

Shocks, however, cannot discourage really inquisitive people. Our third visit to Italia belov-ed has just been completed—and completed successfully, thanks to a hypertranquil disposition plus, at times, a superhuman digestion. All things considered, we feel that we are now entitled to express ourselves publicly re the home of beauty, etc.; therefore (in the limpid language of that notorious nation) “avanti”!

Italia, without any doubt the most overestimated country in this world, consists of a peninsula which is shaped like a leg that has been caught in the act of kicking Sicily. This naughty leg, whose chief industries are ruins, religion and automobiles, is technically a monarchy ruled over by a king (S.M.Il Re) but is actually a pawn in the hands of the onorevole Benito Mussolini. The king nevertheless retains two extremely important functions, which are (a) to be photographed with Mussolini and (b) to pose for postage-stamps.