The next scene present to my memory is a dark gloomy night.  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.  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.