for persecution, suffers neither willingly nor in silence). Begging
friars, tanned like red Indians, glide by, hot and grimy (thank
Heaven! not many now, for "New Italy" has sacked most of the convent
rookeries and dispersed the rooks), with wallets on their shoulders,
to carry back such plunder as can be secured, to far-off convents and
lonely churches, folded up tightly in forest fastnesses.

All are hurrying onward with what haste they may, to reach the city
of Lucca, while broad shadows from the tall mountains on either hand
still fall athwart the roads, and cool morning air breathes up from
the rushing Serchio.

The Serchio--a noble river, yet willful as a mountain-torrent--flows
round the embattled walls of Lucca, and falls into the Mediterranean
below Pisa. It is calm now, on this day of the great festival,
sweeping serenely by rocky capes, and rounding into fragrant bays,
where overarching boughs droop and feather. But there is a sullen
look about its current, that tells how wicked it can be, this Serchio,
lashed into madness by winter storms, and the overflowing of the
water-gates above, among the high Apennines--at the Abbetone at San
Marcello, or at windy, ice-bound Pracchia.

How fair are thy banks, O mountain-bordered Serchio! How verdant
with near wood and neighboring forest! How gay with cottage
groups--open-galleried and garlanded with bunches of golden maize and
vine-branches--all laughing in the sun! The wine-shops, too, along the
road, how tempting, with snowy table-cloths spread upon dressers under
shady arbors of lemon--trees; pleasant odors from the fry cooking in
the stove, mixing with the perfume of the waxy flowers! Dear to
the nostrils of the passers-by are these odors. They snuff them