nd Ghibelines, Bianchi and Neri,
handed down their bitter quarrels, private and personal animosity
mingling with public or party spirit, and ending in many a dark and
violent deed. These combatants are all sleeping now: the patriot, the
banished citizen, the timid, the cruel--all, all are gone, and have
left us only tales to read, or lessons to learn, if we can but use
them. But we are not skilled to teach a lesson; we would rather tell a
legend of those times, recalled to mind, especially at present,
because it has been chosen as the subject of a fine picture recently
finished by a Florentine artist, Benedetto Servolino.

In the Via dei Bardi stood, probably still stands, the house inhabited
by the chief of the great and noble family from whom it takes its
name--we write of the period of the fiercest struggles between the
Guelfs and Ghibelines; and the Bardi were powerful partisans of the
latter party. In that house dwelt a young girl of uncommon beauty, and
yet more uncommon character. An old writer thus describes her: 'To
look on her was enchantment; her eyes called you to love her; her
smile was like heaven; if you heard her speak, you were conquered. Her
whole person was a miracle of beauty, and her deportment had a certain
maidenly pride, springing from a pure heart and conscious integrity.'

From the troubled scenes she had witnessed, her mind had acquired
composure and courage unusual with her sex, and it was of that high
stamp that is prone to admire with enthusiasm all generous and
self-devoting deeds. Such a being, however apt to inspire love, was
not likely to be easily won; accordingly, the crowd of lovers who at
first surrounded Dianora gradually dropped off, for they gained no
favour. All were received with the same bright and beautiful smile,
and a gay, charming grace, which flattered no man's vanity; so they
carried their homage to other shrines where it might be more prized,
though by an inferior idol. And what felt Dianora when her votaries
left her? We are not told; but not long after, you might see, if you
walked along the street of the Bardi towards evening, a beautiful
woman sitting near a balcony: a frame of embroidery is before her; but
her eyes are oftener turned to the street than to the lilies she is
working. It is Dianora. But surely it is not idle curiosity that bends
her noble brow so often this way, and beams in her bright, speaking
eyes, and sweet, kind smile. On whom is it turned, and