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 long 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.
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