LUCRECIA.
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��LUCRECIA.
��FROM THEFEE\< II.
��BY F. W. R.
��CHAPTER I.
��On the way to Florence or Pisa from Lucca, your carriage will pass some fortifications, in good condition, at whose gates you will see soldiers in the Tuscan uniform. This is Pistoja, one of the ancient capitals which divide Italy into states smaller than our French dis- tricts. Pistoja, which formerly had its tyrants, its civil wars, its factions and its revolts, which have made it famous since Dante's time.
It has preserved, unlike all its neigh- bors, a characteristic appearance. While Florence has lost, one by one, its ancient customs, and while Pisa has become almost a cemetery, Pistoja still looks like a capital, with its solid walls, its historic monuments, its streets lined with palaces, its rich churches, its libraries and its aristocratic popula- tion.
Pistoja serves as an asylum for the poor nobility of Tuscany. ' The ancient families whose income will not allow them a palace and a carriage at Flor- ence, and who are tired of Pisa, have established themselves here, as in an intrenched camp, where neither exces- sive luxury nor foreign manners can penetrate. The walls which surround the town serve at the same time as fortifications and as a means of taking toll of all travelers. These walls have kept out the peasants and even the middle classes, who, rather than pay for the right to enter, have settled in the sub- urbs. The town is occupied by the aristocracy, who fill the avenues and enjoy themselves in their own peculiar way. At evening, as night comes on, the gates and doors are closed, and watchmen patrol the streets.
What does peaceful Pistoja fear? No one knows. But here is the sate.
��and the guard cries out ferociously "Passaporto !"
Upon a dark night one would take these sentinels for the soldiers of Cartruccio Cartracani, as they patrol the solitary streets alone and in parties. The palaces, within somber walls, their rough facades, their lower stories de- fended by strong iron bars, seem ready to sustain an assault. Here and there, between the timbers, at the height of a man's head, hang iron rings to which horses may be tied, and at each cor- ner lamps burn before images of the Madonna. Nothing disturbs the soli- tude and the silence of the street. In spite of the shadows which the steep roofs cast, one can see, by the light of the beautiful Italian moon, the strange escutcheon and coats-of-arms of the old families, and one can imagine the procession of saints and bishops pass- ing around the walls of the old mon- astery.
In the morning, when the streets are full of men and women, when carriages and gentlemen on horseback whirl up and down the Place d' Armes, the ideas of the preceding night are dis- pelled, but the air of provincialism still remains.
It is hard to imagine what excite- ment these people have who know neither the scandal of our small towns, or the thirst for conquest and riches of our large cities. In Italy, foreign rule has extinguished ambition, and there is no commerce. They never talk politics, or so little and so quietly that it is not known. However, they must live for something !
Love plays a part in Italy which would be impossible with us. ' It is the pivot around which all interests turn. But love is not for all ages, and there
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