It was a happy thing for me that there happened to be a soldier there that knew even as much as he did; for they say that the policy of the government is to change the soldiery from one place to another constantly and from country to city, so that they can not become acquainted with the people and grow lax in their duties and enter into plots and conspiracies with friends.  My experiences of Florence were chiefly unpleasant.  I will change the subject.

At Pisa we climbed up to the top of the strangest structure the world has any knowledge of—­the Leaning Tower.  As every one knows, it is in the neighborhood of one hundred and eighty feet high—­and I beg to observe that one hundred and eighty feet reach to about the hight of four ordinary three-story buildings piled one on top of the other, and is a very considerable altitude for a tower of uniform thickness to aspire to, even when it stands upright—­yet this one leans more than thirteen feet out of the perpendicular.  It is seven hundred years old, but neither history or tradition say whether it was built as it is, purposely, or whether one of its sides has settled.  There is no record that it ever stood straight up.  It is built of marble.  It is an airy and a beautiful structure, and each of its eight stories is encircled by fluted columns, some of marble and some of granite, with Corinthian capitals that were handsome when they were new.  It is a bell tower, and in its top hangs a chime of ancient bells.  The winding staircase within is dark, but one always knows which side of the tower he is on because of his naturally gravitating from one side to the other of the staircase with the rise or dip of the tower.  Some of the stone steps are foot-worn only on one end; others only on the other end; others only in the middle.  To look down into the tower from the top is like looking down into a tilted well.  A rope that hangs from the centre of the top touches the wall before it reaches the bottom.  Standing on the summit, one does not feel altogether comfortable when he looks down from the high side; but to crawl on your breast to the verge on the lower side and try to stretch your neck out far enough to see the base of the tower, makes your flesh creep, and convinces you for a single moment in spite of all your philosophy, that the building is falling.  You handle yourself very carefully, all the time, under the silly impression that if it is not falling, your trifling weight will start it unless you are particular not to “bear down” on it.

The Duomo, close at hand, is one of the finest cathedrals in Europe.  It is eight hundred years old.  Its grandeur has outlived the high commercial prosperity and the political importance that made it a necessity, or rather a possibility.  Surrounded by poverty, decay and ruin, it conveys to us a more tangible impression of the former greatness of Pisa than books could give us.