n for
his head, he had no reason to fear death, provided he had some
interest with a noble.' Yet the same Matarazzo in another place
finds it in his heart to say:[2] 'Though the city suffered great
pains for these nobles, yet the illustrious house of Baglioni
brought her honour throughout Italy, by reason of the great dignity
and splendour of that house, and of their pomp and name. Wherefore
through them our city was often set above the rest, and notably
above the commonwealths of Florence and Siena.' Pride feels no pain.
The gratified vanity of the Perugian burgher, proud to see his town
preferred before its neighbours, blinds the annalist to all the
violence and villany of the magnificent Casa Baglioni. So strong was
the _esprit de ville_ which through successive centuries and amid
all vicissitudes of politics divided the Italians against
themselves, and proved an insuperable obstacle to unity.

[1] Pp. 102, 103.

[2] P. 139.

After reading the chronicle of Matarazzo at Perugia through one winter
day, I left the inn and walked at sunset to the blood-bedabbled
cathedral square; for still those steps and pavements to my strained
imagination seemed reeking with the outpoured blood of Baglioni; and on
the ragged stonework of San Lorenzo red patches slanted from the dying
day. Then by one of those strange freaks of the brain to which we are
all subject, for a moment I lost sight of untidy Gothic facades and
gaunt unfinished church walls; and as I walked, I was in the Close of
Salisbury on a perfumed summer afternoon. The drowsy scent of
lime-flowers and mignonette, the cawing of elm-cradled rooks, the hum of
bees above, the velvet touch of smooth-shorn grass, and the breathless
shadow of motionless green boughs made up one potent and absorbing mood
of the charmed senses. Far overhead soared the calm grey spire into the
infinite air, and the perfection of accomplished beauty slept beneath in
those long lines of nave and choir and transepts. It was but a momentary
dream, a thought that burned itself upon a fancy overtaxed by passionate
images. Once more the puppet-scene of the brain was shifted; once more I
saw the bleak bare flags of the Perugian piazza, the forlorn front of
the Duomo, the bronze griffin, and Pisano's fountain, with here and
there a flake of that tumultuous fire which the Italian sunset sheds.
Who shall adequately compare the two pictures? Which shall we
prefer--the Close of Salisbury, with its