ong lines of
light, and in the depths of the dull stream that rolls at my feet a
second inverted city sparkles brightly. Along either quay a great,
countless multitude keeps moving to and fro, casting a dark hem of shadow
at the foot of the houses which line the river. Then of a sudden the
low, ceaseless hum of ten thousand voices is exchanged for a loud cheer,
and the bands begin to play, and the royal carriages, escorted by a
running crowd, pass along the quays; and wherever the throng is thickest,
you can tell that Victor Emmanuel is to be found, with Ricasoli by his
side. Then, as the King and his party pass out of sight, the storm comes
on in its fury, and the gusts of wind blow out the lamps, as if after
doing honour to the King their work was ended.

Another scene which I remember well was on a long day's journey through
the Val di Chiana, a day's journey by fertile fields and smiling
villages, and on pleasant country roads. The King was coming in the
course of the day along the same route. At every corner, at every bridge
and roadside house, there were groups of peasants standing waiting to see
_Il padrone nuovo_, the new sovereign and master. The children had flags
in their little hands, and the cottagers had hung out their coloured bed-
quilts, and the roadside crosses were decked out with flowers. The
church-bells were ringing, country bands were playing lustily, and the
national guard of every little town I passed stood under arms, to the
admiration of all beholders. It was a holiday everywhere; the fields
were left untilled, the carts were taken up to carry whole peasant
families to the market-town of Arezzo, where the King was to spend the
night. Man, woman, and child wore the national colours in some part of
their Sunday dress; and about everything and everybody there was a look
of happiness, hard indeed to describe, but one not often seen nor easily
forgotten.

Let us turn northwards. The old streets of Bologna, with their endless
rows of colonnades, are filled with people. The dead Papal city is alive
again. The priests have disappeared; friars, monks, Jesuits, and nuns
have vanished from their old haunts. St Patrick did not clear the land
of Erin more thoroughly and more suddenly of the genus reptile than the
presence of Victor Emmanuel has cleared Bologna of the genus priest. It
is whispered that out of top windows, and from behind blinds and
shutters, priests are peeping out at the str