ite of its modern
decorations, and is full of coolness and quiet. It was afternoon when I
left S. Romano and caught sight of Castelfranco far away to the north,
and presently crossed Evola at Pontevola, and already sunset when I saw
the beautiful cypresses of Villa Sonnino and the tower of S. Miniato
came in sight. Slowly in front of me as I left Pinocchio a great ox
wagon toiled up the hill winding at last under a splendid Piazza fronted
with flowers; and it was with surprise and joy that, just as the angelus
rang from the Duomo, I came into a beautiful city that, like some
forgotten citadel of the Middle Age, lay on the hills curved like the
letter S, smiling in the silence while the sun set to the sound of her
bells.

And indeed you may go far in Tuscany, covered as it is to-day by the
trail of the tourist, before you will find anything so fair as S.
Miniato. Some distance from the railway, five miles from Empoli,
half-way between Pisa and Florence, it alone seems to have escaped
altogether the curiosity of the traveller, for even the few who so
wisely rest at Empoli come not so far into the country places.

Lying on the hills under the old tower of the Rocca, of which nothing
else remains, S. Miniato is itself, as it were, a weather-beaten
fortress, that was, perhaps, never so beautiful as now, when no one
keeps watch or ward. You may wander into the Duomo and out again into
the cloistered, narrow streets, and climbing uphill, pass down into the
great gaunt church like a fortress, S. Domenico, with its scrupulous
frescoes, and though you will see many wonderful and some delightful
things, it will be always with new joy you will return to S. Miniato
herself, who seems to await you like some virgin of the centuries of
faith, that age has not been able to wither, fresh and rosy as when she
first stood on her beautiful hills. Yet unspoiled as she is, Otto I has
dwelt with her, she was a stronghold of the Emperors, the fortress of
the Germans; Federigo Barbarossa knew her well, and Federigo II has
loved her and hated her, for here he spoke with poets and made a few
songs, and here he blinded and imprisoned Messer Piero della Vigna, that
famous poet and wise man, accusing him of treason.[84] Was it that he
envied him his verses or feared his wisdom, or did he indeed think he
plotted with the Pope? Piero della Vigna was from Capua, in the Kingdom;
very eloquent, full of the knowledge of law, the Emperor made him his
chan