Now for a stroll through the quaint old streets with curious and suggestive names, and a peep into quiet courtyards of palaces deserted by their noble owners, and given over to modest householders and humble artisans. At the corner of Via Abbi Pazienza and the Via de' Rossi is the great palace of the Rossi family, blazoned with many shields of varied quarterings, and from the corner hangs one of the gruesome black heads of the traitor Filippo Tedici, like that on the façade of the Palazzo Pubblico. Many of the oldest streets of Pistoja lead from the Piazza del Duomo, and their names suggest the life of an earlier day: Via Orafi (jewelers) was once devoted to goldsmiths' shops and studios; the Via Stracceria (rags) was so called because clothing of all sizes, colours, and condition was hung to dry from windows and other "coigns of vantage;" and the Via Can Bianco was named in honour of a faithful white dog, whose barking warned his master of the approach of an enemy. Near the east end of the cathedral we may leave the square by the Via Ripa del Sale, a narrow street over-arched by a gallery connecting the Palazzo Pubblico with the duomo, convenient for the worshipful magistrates when they desired to hear mass. This street leads us, with often a backward glance at the campanile, to the Via Filippo Pacini, a broader thoroughfare following the line of the first city wall, and in two minutes we stand in the little irregular square of the Ospedale del Ceppo and before the famous Della Robbia frieze, an experience which, to one of us at least, seems almost a miracle. So many years Pistoja had been merely a dream city, a name—a curious, unreal name—standing only for this little piazza, this loggia, and the brilliant band of varied colour crossing its façade. Those imperfect guide-books of our youth had merely mentioned as important, this glazed terra-cotta frieze, wrought, it seemed to us, through some magic by the members of one family only, the secret of which vanished from the world forever upon the death, in 1529, of the last true Della Robbia, the author of this frieze. Tradition added that the formula for compounding the Della Robbia glaze was supposed to be hidden behind one of the panels, one of which was afterward found broken, the robber leaving no trace of the precious parchment. The panel, "Giving Drink to the Thirsty," was repaired, but not like the others. We can see for ourselves that it is only painted stucco and of later date. This was a story to stir youthful imagination to the highest pitch: a mystery, a secret, a theft—the very stuff that dreams are made of. Italy is full of traditions; even the origin of this self-same hospital is a pretty story, as told by a worthy canon of the cathedral, and who would wish to question it? "The Church of Santa Maria del Ceppo (meaning a dry root) was built near the little stream Brana about 1277, by the pious Theodore and his wife Bandinella, who dedicated it to the Assumption, and placed therein an alms-box for the benefit of the sick and poor. This chest increased little by little, until it became the present hospital. The chiesetta (little church) was incorporated in the large building." Time and the schools have taught us the meretricious value of traditions, but even stripped of all glamour the Della Robbia frieze is unique as an architectural feature, and peculiarly appropriate to the building it adorns. It consists of seven panels, representing the temporal works of mercy as performed by the good brothers of the hospital; between them are figures representing the Virtues: Faith, Hope, Charity, Prudence, and Justice; below appear medallions of the arms of the city, of the hospital (the sprouting root), and the Medici shield; also the Annunciation, Visitation, and Assumption. Of all the panels, the "Sheltering of the Pilgrims," and the "Healing of the Sick," are considered the finest; the figures of the brothers in both have evidently been studied from life, especially that of the physician. More beautiful, however, than any part of the frieze is Benedetto Buglioni's "Coronation of the Virgin," a lunette over the chapel door of excellent workmanship, and in simple colours, white on blue, with crowns of pale yellow. In its modelling and glaze, its seriousness and grace, it almost rivals Luca della Robbia's masterpiece in Pistoja, "The Visitation," in the Church of St. John the Evangelist. If there is a moment to spare we may well slip round the corner for a peep at the Church and Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie, where a calm-faced sister—one of the good Bandinella's descendants, wearing the pretty wimpled cap of white muslin, designed, it is said, by some tasteful lady of the Medici family—will show us their perfect little Renaissance church and its great treasure, the Lorenzo di Credi Madonna, and also insist gently upon a visit to the Miraculous Bed where once the Madonna reposed. They will further offer to exhibit their store of fine vestments and robes, well worth looking at; but if once we begin looking at churches and vestments there will be no getting back to Florence for a week. But at least we must take leave of our hosts, those stately shades of forceful men belonging to Renaissance Pistoja, who worked and wrought in these streets, whose prowess and policy, wit and learning, are so vivid in men's minds to-day. Pistoja entered with characteristic zest into the spirit of the Renaissance in all its varied aspects; she espoused the new learning, her libraries were filled with Greek and Latin manuscripts; she was famed for her able jurists and historians, her singers and poets were welcome at the proudest courts of Italy. We read that Antonio da Pistoja was invited by Lodovico il Moro to Milan, "in hope of refining and polishing the rude Lombard diction," and that the charming and learned Isabella d'Este, Marchesa of Mantua, wrote to her envoy: "Find out Messer Tebaldeo (of Pistoja), and beg him to send twenty or twenty-five sonnets, as well as two or three capitoli, which would give us the greatest possible pleasure."

No more typical family can be found, perhaps, than the Forteguerri of Siena and Pistoja, which was noted for its brave and learned sons and daughters, and beloved and honoured for devotion to their country, for their benevolence, learning, and poetic genius. As early as 1179 we find a Forteguerra as consul of Pistoja; in the fifteenth century Cardinal Forteguerra was not only conspicuous in the Church, but a constant friend and benefactor to his native city, founding and endowing a college and library. His grateful city erected a monument to his memory in the Piazza del Duomo, and called Verrocchio to design and carve a fitting tomb in the cathedral; but the work was not concluded by the master's hand, nor in accordance with his clay model, which we see to-day in the South Kensington Museum; and looking at the tomb, evidently the work of many diverse hands, one can but wish that the good Cardinal might have at Pistoja at least a replica of the one, by Mino da Fiesole, in the Church of St. Cecilia, Rome. Besides Cardinal Niccolò, there was more than one bishop, many jurists and historians in the Forteguerri family, and no less than six poets. The fifteenth Forteguerra, of the Pistoja branch, was another Niccolò (1674-1735), a well-known and cultured church-man at the court of Pope Clement XI, and author of a long, satirical poem, "The Ricciardetto," besides verses called "capitoli," and various translations from the Latin. This Niccolò was evidently conversant with Roman society, and a close observer of men and politics; he shows himself, also, at the age of fifty, a good lover, not only singing his lady's praise in verse, but sending her frequent vivacious and friendly letters, half in jest, but often dangerously near earnest affection; and the name of some Arcadian maiden of his muse, some Daphne or Phyllis, thinly conceals the identity of the noble young Roman lady, Marianna Cenci Bolognetti. It appears that the women of the family Forteguerri were also brave and talented; at least, we have a record of one of the Siena branch, when in 1554 the city was besieged by the Spaniards and almost spent with famine; when the best men of Siena were losing courage, "women of gentle birth, leaders of society, worked at the defences, side by side with artisans and common soldiers. All the Sienese ladies divided themselves into three companies; the first was led by Signorina Forteguerra, who wore a violet uniform, as did those who followed her; ... these three squadrons were composed of 3,000 ladies of the upper and middle classes. They bore pikes and spades, panniers and hurdles; as they went to their work on the fortifications, these brave women sang a song composed by one of that numerous choir of poetesses who sang the swan song of their own country." This Signorina Forteguerra is the one whom the English diarist, Hoby, mentions. "Most of the women of Siena," he says, "are well learned and write excellentlie well in prose and verse: among whom Laodomia Forteguerra and Virginia Salvi did excell for good wittes."

Pistoja is called the "City of Cino" because of her famous lawyer-poet, Guittoncino (always called by the fond diminutive "Cino"), of the noble house of Sinibuldi, which had given Pistoja one bishop and many gonfaloniers. Though belonging to the thirteenth century, his noble character, his ability as a jurist, the pure and graceful style of his "Comments on the Codices," his faultless letters and verse—above all, his friendships and love story—have kept his memory fresh. He enjoys even to-day a certain fame in Italy, and all the world is supposed to know his charming sonnets, addressed to his friends, among whom were Dante and Petrarch, and to the lady Selvaggia dei Vergiolesi. His monument in the cathedral, erected by the Commune, is by Cellino di Nese, and is the first of the "monuments of the professors," a class of work characteristic of the coming period; it shows Cino lecturing on law to his pupils, among whom are Baldus, commentator on Civil Law, and the "idle Petrarch;" there appears also a draped female figure, which may personify poetry, or Roman Law, or, as some will have it, the fair lady of Cino's devotion, Selvaggia dei Vergiolesi; unsentimental critics, however, are inclined to think that the figure is that of the Madonna, and was once a part of a relief of the Annunciation. Selvaggia's family was Ghibelline, and, banished from Pistoja in 1305, retired to their strong castle, where the beautiful Selvaggia died at the age of twenty, after which Cino became a wanderer in foreign lands: he crossed the Alps and took up his abode in Paris, where he pursued his studies for some time. Cino's letters to Selvaggia and to his other friends, in which he sang his love and suffering, are exquisite in their purity and elegance of diction, and place him among the great makers of the Italian language. To Dante he wrote an ode condoling with him upon the death of Beatrice in tender and musical lines. He died in his native city of Pistoja at the age of sixty-six, upon which Petrarch composed his celebrated lament, beginning:

A SUNDAY AMONG THE HILLS
OF BRANCOLI

A SUNDAY AMONG THE HILLS OF BRANCOLI

ON St. Patrick's Day in the morning we left Florence, had a full day's sight-seeing in Pistoja, Groppoli, and Serravalle, and pushed on to Lucca the same evening, arriving about seven o'clock.

Acting on sound British advices, we drove at once to the Albergo dell'Universo, a comfortable little inn occupying the first floor of the old Palazzo Arnolfo, where we had our belated dinner, took our ease before a cheerful open fire, and congratulated ourselves that at last we were in Lucca—a hope long deferred.

The morrow is crisp and brilliant; and, forgetful of our guide-book's express advice, to crown and finish our Lucca visit with a walk on the ramparts, we turn our backs on churches and priceless works of art and hasten at once to the old city walls. How faithfully those mediæval bricklayers did their work! Their walls, well preserved, still surround the town, no longer bristling with engines of war, but planted thick with shade-trees—elms, acacias, and limes—affording one of the most beautiful promenades in Italy. Lifted well above the city streets, they command extensive views on every side: here the broad, fertile plain, stretching to the Arno; yonder, at the north, the chain of rugged Apuans, two sharp peaks of which are now capped with glistening snow; southward rise the heights of Monte Pisani, noted in Roman days, and since, for its hot-springs. From thence comes the pure drinking-water for Lucca, conveyed by an aqueduct built by the Duchess Marie Louise, for which her grateful people erected a monument in her honour. As it crosses the sunlit plain on its four hundred and fifty-nine grey stone arches, we are reminded of the Roman Campagna, and remember that Lucca, in the day of her greatest splendour, was a favorite summer residence for the Romans, and that many traces still exist of their occupation, particularly the massive arcades of an amphitheatre in the present market-place. Standing on the old ramparts, on a rare spring morning, ten chances to one you forget all the sights awaiting you down there, in the "city of the Magnificent People and Commune of Lucca"—its palaces, towers, and picture-galleries, its chapels and churches, of which there are no less than seventy "to satisfy the wants of 22,000 souls." The fame of San Frediano's seventh century church, with its magnificent tower, its sculptured font and Madonna, has reached us over sea. For years we have yearned to look on Jacopo della Quercia's marble of that fair lady, Ilaria del Carretto, resting in the transept of St. Martin's cathedral. We know there are paintings by Fra Bartolommeo, palaces and libraries; but the fresh mountain air has driven all these things from our desire; we only long for those mountains delectable, those chestnut-crowned hills and distant grey towers. We begin to ask why we should study the churches of Lucca, and who is Matteo Civitali that he should keep us within the city walls? We consult time-tables and guide-books; there's a tram, they tell us, leading out of Porta Santa Maria in ten minutes, and if we catch it we may ride six miles, and then ... perhaps a carriage may be found, though it is early in the season. "But," importunes the handsome driver of the cab waiting to take us to the tram, and who in some way has divined our wants, "the tramvia will not take the signore to the hills, and surely there is no carriage at Ponte Moriano so early in the year. Ecco, this buon cavallo and your devoted Pepino, who will take you all the way so comfortably!" Off comes the shabby hat with inimitable native grace, and the bold, brown eyes are convincingly eloquent. You can no more resist Pepino's reasoning than that rush of mountain air on the ramparts. All preconceived plans are fast taking flight; but Prudence keeps her head and demands with thrifty caution, "How much, inclusive, there and back?" Then Pepino: "Oh, a mere bagatelle, my illustrissime signore, only twelve lire." Prudence, scouting this declaration with lofty scorn inspired by a profound knowledge of tariffs and coachmen from Paris to Palermo, exclaims: "Preposterous! Ten francs it shall be, and not a centesimo more." "Ah, signorina, the roads are very steep and it will take my whole morning," returns Pepino, beseechingly; but in vain he seeks for a sign of relenting. His struggle is brief, and, with a deprecating flourish of his small, shapely hands, he mounts the box, and the air with which he says, "as you will have it, signorina," is that of a gracious conqueror dictating terms to the vanquished; he cherishes no resentment, he has no interest but ours. We never for a moment regret the tram. Pepino knows every villa and grey tower, every path through the hills, every bridge over the torrenti; he never intrudes his knowledge, and, above all, he is kind to his horse.

"Yonder cross on the round, bare hill," he says, "is Brancoli," and Brancoli is the hill of our desire. Our good road at first runs over the plain following the east bank of the Serchio, principal river of the province; it rises in a northernly valley among the Apuans and fed by many a mountain stream or torrente, maintains a southeasterly course almost to Lucca, which it avoids by a broad loop westward, and then makes its way to the Mediterranean almost parallel with the Arno. We pass clusters of farm-houses, well-cultivated fields and vineyards, until in less than an hour we reach Ponte Moriano, which is little more than a busy street of shops and dwellings, but has a good stone church founded by San Frediano in five hundred and something. Its rather tall, square tower, of good proportions and crenellated battlements, is characteristic of all the church towers in this region. Here is the terminus of the tramvia, and Pepino was right, there is no appearance of a carriage; but his Italian for "I told you so," was kept under his breath with true Lucchese courtesy.

A mile farther on is the little hamlet of San Giusto, situated at a point where the Lima joins the Serchio. Here we leave the main road, turn sharply to the right, and follow the windings of the little river, which is crossed by the picturesque stone bridge of Vinchiana. An old mill, half hidden by white birches, turns its moss-covered wheel close under the steep river banks, overhung with a tangle of vines and flowery shrubs. The road becoming rather steep, we now leave the carriage and proceed on foot. What an entrancing walk it is! Always ascending, we follow the turnings of the stream, now far below, and glancing like a silver thread along the valley. We round the grey shoulders of jutting cliffs, where clumps of white heather are in full bloom and the "maidenly birches" are touched with the first tender green; the air is intoxicating in its freshness, and the sky never so blue. "Ecco!" calls Pepino. "Ecco! San Ilario!" How has the fellow guessed that we ought to study churches rather than maunder about posies! The little church of cut stone, flanked by its good tower, stands hard by the roadside, convenient and inviting to tired feet and aching hearts, as many a pilgrim in the old days knew full well. Its doors stand open wide, admitting floods of sunshine and spring fragrance. We enter unbidden, to find the little temple quiet and empty, all its pictures and sacred emblems covered, and all as clean and fresh as if waiting in reverent silence the miracle of Easter morning. We proudly boast the stern old Puritan blood running cool and inviolate in our veins, but there's a silent appeal in these modest temples and shrines of the elder faith that "must give us pause," and silence the voice of criticism. Taking the road again, we still ascend from one fold of the hill to another, whence we overlook the Serchio pursuing its lazy course far below, the views becoming more and more beautiful, until in half an hour we come upon the little stone church of San Lorenzo, close by the road. Small as it is, San Lorenzo is as complete in all its attributes, and as true to its architecture, as a full-fledged duomo, even to the little apse. The sturdy tower, square and shapely, small, round-arched windows and sides of warm, grey stone, the red-tiled roof, flecked with patches of green moss, make a charming picture, found in no country but Italy. This time the church is closed, but there are keys hanging in the north door, perhaps entering the sacristy, and we make bold to peep. It is a clean and cold room, entirely separated from the church proper, and evidently serving at present for a store-room, as a slender stock of various commodities and a few bottles of wine attest. Meantime Pepino has made our wants known at the near farm-house, and is returning, accompanied by a handsome young girl with the keys to the proper church door, which she opens, saluting us with respectful dignity, and, without questioning, draws the curtain from the Della Robbia over the altar; for well she knows that the forestieri only come to see our "beautiful white San Lorenzo." The statue is small and perfect, like everything about this woodland chiesetta. The head is exquisitely modelled, all in white, with the finish and the ivory-tinted glaze which belongs to Andrea Della Robbia's best work, though the wise in such matters ascribe it to one of his pupils.

Saying our buon giorno, and pressing a small fee into the reluctant hand of the handsome contadina, we now turn from the carriage road and begin a short but rather difficult climb up the steep hillside by a roughly paved path, which leads us through chestnut woods to the crest of the hill and the parish church of Santa Maria e San Giorgio, belonging to the eighth century. We have seen it all the way from the plain, perched on a commanding height, surrounded by its sombre guard of stately cypresses. The tower is especially fine in its proportions and built quite apart from the church, though only a foot or so from its walls. Unusually tall, it has four orders of arched windows, and is crowned with bifurcated, or "swallow-tail," battlements, indicative of Ghibelline influence. The exterior of the church, built of squared blocks of travertine, has a plain façade, broken only by shallow pilasters and a round-headed doorway, with a bit of rude carving on the cornice, perhaps representing the vine. The south side has two rows of irregular windows, with remains of ornament, and an arched doorway, over which is a singularly grotesque figure. Both doors are wide open, the noonday sun lighting up vaulted aisles and the ancient timber roof of the nave. We enter without let or hindrance and possess the church for a good hour, uninterrupted even by a footstep on the road hard by. The interior, which gives an impression of space and dignity, is divided into nave and aisles by columns and piers with interesting sculptured capitals. The choir is raised by four steps well above the nave, the high altar, still higher, fills the apse, and over all is a good timber roof, richly coloured by time. Near the west end in the south aisle is a quaint and seemingly very ancient holy-water stoup, carved with rude but expressive figures of men and animals attacked by serpents. On the crown surmounting the principal head is inscribed "Raitus me fecit," but having no date. Many of the capitals of the pillars bear sculptures of rude symbolic figures, indicating early Lombardic work. The fine hexagonal baptismal font is attributed to the thirteenth century, but the carved heads and vine suggest an earlier date. The same period is accorded to the very beautiful marble pulpit standing at the entrance to the choir. It is square in shape, supported by four columns, two of which rest on the backs of grotesque Lombard lions struggling with savage beasts, symbolic of Divine power overcoming evil; the capitals are boldly sculptured in foliage and animal forms. On the front is a serious crowned figure holding the Book, above it the eagle serving as lectern. On the corner toward the altar a sculptured figure bends to support another reading-desk. Altogether this pulpit may be reckoned among the most interesting ones of Tuscany.

Finally, added to its many attractions, the church contains a fine and unusual piece of Della Robbia terra-cotta, the work of Andrea and his son Giovanni. Miss Cruttwell writes: "This romantic scene—I had almost said painting, 'St. George Slaying the Dragon'—is one of the best pictorial works." It is probably the only instance of an attempt by Andrea to represent a horse, and it is undeniably stiff and indifferently modelled. The princess in the background also is rather heavy, but the grace and action of the youthful rider and the beauty and radiance of his expression are remarkable. The frame, probably the work of Giovanni, consists of garlands upheld by winged cherubs, with graceful candelabra and medallions characteristic of the artist.

We left the church of Santa Maria e San Giorgio with regret, but with a sense of complete satisfaction with our day among the hills and temples of Brancoli.

BARGA AND THE VALLEY OF
GARFAGNANA

BARGA AND THE VALLEY OF
GARFAGNANA

BRANCOLI'S HILL commands a view of the Serchio River and its extensive valley, called the Garfagnana, which lies between the Apennines, defining the northern boundary of Tuscany, and the Alpi Apuane range, which follows the direction of the coast, and contains several lofty peaks, the highest rising over six thousand feet.

The principal town and capital of the Garfagnana region is Barga, situated thirteen hundred feet above the sea, and containing, we had learned, an interesting church and several pieces of the Della Robbia terra-cotta. As the crow flies it is but a trifling distance over the valley to Barga, but we were obliged to return the way we came and take the main road at San Giusto; a small matter, for in twenty minutes we had dropped down into the valley, passed again the pretty bridge of Vinchiana, also crossed the one over the Serchio, and were speeding along the river bank near the railroad which runs to Bagni di Lucca.

At Borgo a Mozzano we see the old bridge, Ponte della Maddalena, oftener called the Devil's Bridge, because traditionally it was built (1328) in one night by Castruccio Castracane, the "greatest war captain of his time." It is a singular structure, very high and narrow, not allowing a carriage of present date to cross, and supported on heavy piers and five arches of irregular height, one of which carries the bridge up, like a camel's hump, rendering it most curious and picturesque. At Ponte a Serraglio is a distant view of Bagni di Lucca, lying in the valley of the Lima.

By this time we have crossed the river, and taken a narrower but equally good highway, though belonging to the second class of carriage roads, every turn of which brings to view new wooded valleys and hilltops crowned with grey villages. In the distance, which is greater than it seems in the clear, luminous atmosphere, we see Ghivizziano's lofty towers, with her train of ruddy roofs and grey walls sharply outlined against the sky. At Fornaci we part company with the Serchio again, strike northward through one of the interesting mountain valleys, and pass close to the ancient parish church of Loppia, weather-beaten and neglected, but none the less a striking landmark and noble monument of mediæval power. Loppia was the capital of the Garfagnana until 1390, when, having been desolated by war and its inhabitants reduced to fifty, its jurisdiction and the title of its parish church were given to Barga, and even its one good picture transferred to the new capital.