PISA AND FLORENCE These two cities have always appeared to me to bear a strong family likeness to each other, the same river running through the principal streets, although the buildings on the quays are very different. They are like two sisters: Pisa, the elder, the more sedate, the graver of the two, while Florence, the younger, is all smiles and gladness. But in one respect we were very fortunate, for we saw Pisa under a most cheerful aspect. There is, or was (for I do not know if it continues), a triennial festival in honour of her patron saint, St Ranieri, on which occasion the whole town is illuminated, not, after the fashion of an English illumination, with crowns and stars and badges and devices, but by the marking out of the architecture of palaces, churches, and bridges with lines of light, so that the city bears the appearance of being built in fire. Beautiful as this effect would be in almost all cities, it is doubly so in Pisa, more especially on account of that noble group of buildings, the Cathedral, the Baptistery, and the Leaning Tower. The last edifice, in particular, presents a most singular and beautiful aspect with the spiral lines of light, which define so vividly the peculiar and fantastic form of the erection. We walked about the streets during the greater part of the night, amid the most amiable and good-humoured crowd with which it was ever my lot to mingle. I cannot help recording here a curious story which was told me by an English lady at Pisa. A countrywoman of hers, a young girl, said to her one day when they were standing together in the Baptistery, admiring the celebrated pulpit, which is supported on the backs of four lions: “That reminds me of such a curious dream I had last night. I thought I was standing here where we are now, and that I put my hand into the lion’s open mouth, when he bit it off.” Suiting the action to the word, the girl thrust her hand into the marble creature’s jaws, uttered a cry of agony, and pulled it out hurriedly. The lion’s mouth contained a nest of scorpions, one of which had stung her so severely as to necessitate immediate measures to ensure the safety of her injured hand. [Sidenote: ACTORS AND ACTRESSES] Our winter season[35] at Florence was as brilliant as that at Rome, and, to me, more delightful in one respect, as I obtained a theatrical engagement. On the walls of Florence stood a large and commodious house (I know not if it still exists). It then belonged to Mr Rowland Standish, and was called by his name; it had a large garden and a very pretty theatre. The mistress—the lessee, the manageress, the friend of all who came near her, whether professionally or socially—was Lady Lucy Standish,[36] beneath whose auspices the little theatre became the resort of a happy company, both before and behind the curtain. Footnote 35: The winter season of the early months of 1834; see subsequent notes. Footnote 36: