strength. The daylight took nothing of this charm from it; for the
castle stands isolated in the midst of the city, as its founder meant
that it should [The castle of Ferrara was begun in 1385 by Niccolò
d'Este to defend himself against the repetition of scenes of tumult,
in which his princely rights were invaded. One of his tax-gatherers,
Tommaso da Tortona, had, a short time before, made himself so
obnoxious to the people by his insolence and severity, that they rose
against him and demanded his life. He took refuge in the palace of
his master, which was immediately assailed. The prince's own life was
threatened, and he was forced to surrender the fugitive to the people,
who tore Tortona limb from limb, and then, after parading the city
with the mutilated remains, quietly returned to their allegiance.
Niccolò, therefore, caused this castle to be built, which he
strengthened with massive walls and towers commanding the whole city,
and rendered inaccessible by surrounding it with a deep and wide canal
from the river Reno.], and modern civilization has not crossed the
castle moat, to undignify its exterior with any visible touch of the
present. To be sure, when you enter it, the magnificent life is gone
out of the old edifice; it is no stately halberdier who stands on
guard at the gate of the drawbridge, but a stumpy Italian soldier in
baggy trousers. The castle is full of public offices, and one sees in
its courts and on its stairways, not brilliant men-at-arms, nor gay
squires and pages, but whistling messengers going from one office to
another with docketed papers, and slipshod serving-men carrying the
clerks their coffee in very dirty little pots. Dreary-looking suitors,
slowly grinding through the mills of law, or passing in the routine of
the offices, are the guests encountered in the corridors; and all that
bright-colored throng of the old days, ladies and lords, is passed
from the scene. The melodrama is over, friends, and now we have a play
of real life, founded on fact and inculcating a moral.