PART I.



CHAPTER I.

LUCCA.


We are at Lucca. It is the 13th of September, 1870--the anniversary of
the festival of the Volto Santo--a notable day, both in city, suburb,
and province. Lucca dearly loves its festivals--no city more; and of
all the festivals of the year that of the Volto Santo best. Now the
Volto Santo (_Anglicè_, Holy Countenance) is a miraculous crucifix,
which hangs, as may be seen, all by itself in a gorgeous chapel--more
like a pagoda than a chapel, and more like a glorified bird-cage than
either--built expressly for it among the stout Lombard pillars in the
nave of the cathedral. The crucifix is of cedar-wood, very black, and
very ugly, and it was carved by Nicodemus; of this fact no orthodox
Catholic entertains a doubt. But on what authority I cannot tell, nor
why, nor how, the Holy Countenance reached the snug little city of
Lucca, except by flying through the air like the Loretto house, or
springing out of the earth like the Madonna of Feltri. But here it is,
and here it has been for many a long year; and here it will remain
as a miraculous relic, bringing with it blessings and immunities
innumerable to the grateful city.

What a glorious morning it is! The sun rose without a cloud. Now there