exceeding his expenditure. To be sure, the Tower of Famine,
with which we chiefly associate the name of Pisa, has been long razed
to the ground, and built piecemeal into the neighboring palaces, but
you may still visit the dead wall which hides from view the place
where it stood; and you may thence drive on, as we did, to the great
Piazza where stands the unrivaledest group of architecture in
the world, after that of St. Mark's Place in Venice. There is the
wonderful Leaning Tower, there is the old and beautiful Duomo,
there is the noble Baptistery, there is the lovely Campo-Santo, and
there--somewhere lurking in portal or behind pillar, and keeping
out an eagle-eye for the marveling stranger--is the much-experienced
cicerone who shows you through the edifices. Yours is the
fourteen-thousandth American family to which he has had the honor of
acting as guide, and he makes you feel an illogical satisfaction in
thus becoming a contribution to statistics.

We entered the Duomo, in our new friend's custody, and we saw the
things which it was well to see. There was mass, or some other
ceremony, transacting; but as usual it was made as little obtrusive as
possible, and there was not much to weaken the sense of proprietorship
with which travellers view objects of interest. Then we ascended the
Leaning Tower, skillfully preserving its equilibrium as we went by
an inclination of our persons in a direction opposed to the tower's
inclination, but perhaps not receiving a full justification of the
Campanile's appearance in pictures, till we stood at its base, and saw
its vast bulk and height as it seemed to sway and threaten in the
blue sky above our heads. There the sensation was too terrible for
endurance,--even the architectural beauty of the tower could not save
it from being monstrous to us,--and we were glad to hurry away from it
to the serenity and solemn loveliness of the Campo Santo.

Here are the frescos painted five hundred years ago to be ruinous and
ready against the time of your arrival in 1864, and you feel that you
are the first to enjoy the joke of the Vergognosa, that cunning jade
who peers through her fingers at the shameful condition of deboshed
father Noah, and seems to wink one eye of wicked amusement at you.
Turning afterward to any book written about Italy during the time
specified, you find your impression of exclusive possession of the
frescos erroneous, and your muse naturally despairs, where so many
mus