to smile at the innocent, child-like refections,
the syrup-and-water potations, and the small
luxuries of water-ices, all but maltless beer,
or light-brown coffee, with which Tuscan men
and Tuscan troopers can make merry and
be contented. But let them be assured that
such a crowd as poured down the Via Larga
that evening—steady, quiet, orderly, decent in
manner and in apparel, with hope and well-
grounded enthusiasm legible in their bright,
large southern eyes and intelligent faces—
contrasted very favourably with the bloated looks,
sodden eyes, torn dress, and reeling gait, that too
often have been the most striking characteristics
of similar demonstrations nearer home. The
events of these truly "glorious three days"
manifested in a most luminous manner the
immense advantages enjoyed by a nation, of which
all classes are habitually and universally SOBER.

On came the crowd, soldier and civilian
fraternally arm in arm, in friendly interchange of
ideas, plans for the present, and aspirations for
the future, to that most picturesque and
historique Piazza where so often old Florence, "the
most republican of republics," recovered its
assailed freedom to the rallying cry of "Popolo!
Popolo!" There, separating themselves into
different masses, they filled the neighbouring
narrow streets of the ancient city, and one
band found themselves packed round the well-
known and favourite statue of the "Porcellino."
Porcellino signifies nor more nor less than
"little pig!" But let us have no smile of scorn
for this Florentine little pig. The Porcellino is
nothing less than a magnificent bronze figure of
a wild boar, by the hand of Donatello: a real
chef-d'Å“uvre, which most travellers will remember
in the position it has occupied for some
five hundred years, in front of the colonnade
under which the country men and girls sell
their prepared bundles of Tuscan straw and
plait. This superb bronze has always been a
special favourite with the Florentines—a sort of
Palladium; and the Italian habit of giving a
caressing diminutive to every object of affection,
has bestowed on Donatello's bristling and tusked
monster the sobriquet of "Porcellino."

A compact mass of mingled citizens and soldiers
were gathered round the Porcellino, when an
incident occurred which might have led to ugly
consequences among a less self-governed and
civilised people. The soldiers were thinking
about returning quietly to their barracks, and
the townsmen to their homes, when, who should
present himself to the crowd, advancing with
haughty bearing, but the Austrian general of
the Grand-Ducal army; probably at that moment
the best-hated man in all Tuscany, and the most
notorious enemy to the national cause. No
military hand was raised to offer the wonted
salute. And the general, with small discretion
—unless, indeed, this was a last attempt
on the part of the Government to cause some
disturbance of the peace, which might make a
plausible cause for imploring the assistance of
Austrian soldiers to keep order, many similar
tentatives having already during the last day
or two wholly failed—the general began to
speak threatening words, and a few popular
voices were raised, indicative of the people's
feeling, when a voice was heard above all:
"Silence! silence! or you destroy the labour and
the prudence of ten years!" The excited
multitude obeyed immediately. Every voice was
hushed. Two or three officers pushing forward
through the crowd, selected, among those around,
four soldiers, and bade them accompany the
general to his quarters for protection: And,
so escorted, the great man walked off, having
signally failed to take anything by his motion.
The multitude, civil and military, quietly
dispersed and went home to bed. The Grand-Ducal
ministers remained like the idols we read of in
Egyptian tombs, sitting "en permanence."
But they did nothing else; and the Revolution
had made another important, though perfectly
tranquil step.

                   V.    THE FORTRESS.

THE next morning—the decisive 27th—the
venue of the revolution was changed from the
old square in the heart of the city, to that
new quarter of the city, which has been built
within the last twenty years, and the
handsome new square with its regular sides of
spruce-looking modern houses. It is a very
spacious area, just about large enough for the
Leviathan to stand in, and, up to the morning
of the 27th, was called after the late
Grand-Duchess Maria Antonia. But, during the
effervescence of popular enthusiasm on that
morning, some spontaneous and unauthorised
hand covered the inscription at the corners,
which duly announced the obnoxious name, with
placards bearing the new title of "Piazza dell'
Independenza;" and the public will has since
ratified the appellation. This quarter of the
town is close to the fortress of St. Giovanni,
built by the first Grand-Duke of Florence to
overawe and coerce his unwilling subjects.
There, its ugly range of big-throated cannon
gape, ready to deal general and undiscriminating
slaughter and destruction on the
inhabitants and their dwellings at the bidding of
one tyrant or another. No building in Florence
has so evil a fame as this "Fortezza da Basso,"
or lower fortress, so called in contradistinction
to a higher fort (the Belvidere) on the opposite
side of the town, which also our story will have
to visit. In it are extensive barracks, where
the troops are lodged.

The soldiers were all in the fortress. The
cannon were pointed upon the town; and the
citizens were all outside, thronging rapidly, about
nine o'clock, into the great Maria Antonia-
square, close under the fortress guns. Quite
quiet, rather anxious-looking, yet full of hopeful
excitement, the crowd gradually but rapidly
increased. Specimens of all classes, except soldiers
and priests, were seen in it. Some men were
more or less guiding the movements of the
multitude. But they were, as subsequent inquiry
showed, not previously appointed leaders, but
merely captains of the moment, enabled to
assume a brief leadership easily acquiesced in by