But look in at Pisa one moment, not for the Leaning Tower and the other familiar objects, but for the interior of the Campo Santo, with its holy earth, its innumerable monuments, and the fading frescoes on its walls,—­see! there are the Three Kings of Andrea Orgagna.  And there hang the broken chains that once, centuries ago, crossed the Arno,—­standing off from the wall, so that it seems as if they might clank, if you jarred the stereoscope.  Tread with us the streets of Pompeii for a moment:  there are the ruts made by the chariots of eighteen hundred years ago,—­it is the same thing as stooping down and looking at the pavement itself.  And here is the amphitheatre out of which the Pompeians trooped when the ashes began to fall round them from Vesuvius.  Behold the famous gates of the Baptistery at Florence,—­but do not overlook the exquisite iron gates of the railing outside; think of them as you enter our own Common in Boston from West Street, through those portals which are fit for the gates of—­not paradise.  Look at this sugar-temple,—­no, it is of marble, and is the monument of one of the Scalas at Verona.  What a place for ghosts that vast palazzo behind it!  Shall we stand in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, and then take this stereoscopic gondola and go through it from St. Mark’s to the Arsenal?  Not now.  We will only look at the Cathedral,—­all the pictures under the arches show in our glass stereograph,—­at the Bronze Horses, the Campanile, the Rialto, and that glorious old statue of Bartholomew Colleoni,—­the very image of what a partisan leader should be, the broad-shouldered, slender-waisted, stern-featured old soldier who used to leap into his saddle in full armor, and whose men would never follow another leader when he died.  Well, but there have been soldiers in Italy since his day.  Here are the encampments of Napoleon’s army in the recent campaign.  This is the battle-field of Magenta with its trampled grass and splintered trees, and the fragments of soldiers’ accoutrements lying about.

And here (leaving our own collection for our friend’s before-mentioned) here is the great trench in the cemetery of Melegnano, and the heap of dead lying unburied at its edge.  Look away, young maiden and tender child, for this is what war leaves after it.  Flung together, like sacks of grain, some terribly mutilated, some without mark of injury, all or almost all with a still, calm look on their faces.  The two youths, before referred to, lie in the foreground, so simple-looking, so like boys who had been overworked and were lying down to sleep, that one can hardly see the picture for the tears these two fair striplings bring into the eyes.

The Pope must bless us before we leave Italy.  See, there he stands on the balcony of St. Peter’s, and a vast crowd before him with uncovered heads as he stretches his arms and pronounces his benediction.