riages, filled with officers in uniform, passing through crowded
streets festooned with flowers, dressed out with banners--everywhere, the
one figure of a plain, rough Soldier-king, bowing stiffly and slowly from
time to time--everywhere, a surging, heaving, shouting crowd. Such is
the one subject of my picture-gallery.

I am in the Duomo of Florence. Around and about me there is a great
crowd. Every niche and cornice where foot can stand is occupied. A deep
gloom hangs around the darkened church, and from out the lofty vaulted
roof thousands of lamps hang glimmering like stars upon a moonless sky.
Ever and anon the organ peals forth triumphantly, and the clouds of
incense rise fitfully; and as the bell rings, and the host is raised on
high, you see above the bowed heads of the swaying crowd the figure of
the excommunicated King, kneeling on the altar-steps. Then, when the
service is over, and the royal procession passes down the nave, through
the double line of soldiers, who keep the passage clear, I am carried
onwards to the front of the grand cathedral, which for centuries has
stood bare and unfinished, and which is to date its completion from the
time when the city of Dante and Michael Angelo is to date her freedom,
too long delayed.

The next scene present to my memory is a dark gloomy night. I am at
Pisa, in the city of the Campo Santo, where hang the chains of the
ancient port which the Genoese carried off in triumph centuries ago, in
the days of the old Republic, and have brought back to day, in honour of
the new brotherhood. The great festival of the Luminara is to be held to-
night, in the presence of the King. I have come from Florence through
the pleasant Arno valley, shining in the glory of an Italian sunset, and
the night has come on, and dark, rain-laden clouds are rolling up from
the sea; but neither wind nor rain are heeded now. Through narrow
streets, which a year ago were silent and deserted, I follow a great
multitude pressing towards the river-side. A sudden turn brings me to
the quay, and an illuminated city rises before me across the Arno. The
glare is so strong that at first I can scarcely distinguish anything save
the one grand blaze of light. Then, by degrees, I see that every house
and palace-front along those mile-long quays is lit up by rows on rows of
lamps, scattered everywhere. Arches and parapets and bridges are all
marked out against the dark back-ground of the sky by the l