In the morning up early and out. Immediately fall against a statue of a fat man in a frock coat and trousers. Can this be MICHAEL ANGELO'S _David_? No, no! It is _Manin_ by NONO. Turn hastily aside and discover a quay. Below is a waste of mud, through which meander a few inches of thick brown water. The Arno! Heavens, what associations! Raise my eyes and perceive on the opposite bank a gasometer. Stand horror-stricken in the roadway, and am nearly run over by a frantic bicyclist. Save myself by a great effort and cling for support to a gaslamp until I can recover from the shock. Resolve then to seek out the medieval loveliness. Start along the quay. Ha, there is a statue! Doubtless by MICHAEL ANGELO. Hardly; the face seems familiar. Of course, it is GARIBALDI! Turn and fly up a narrow street. Here at last is something old, here at last are the buildings on which DANTE may have looked, in which FRA ANGELICO may have painted, here at last----. Why, what's this? It's an omnibus. It fills the street. Wedge myself in a doorway, and when it has passed within three inches of my toes, hurry down a side street, a still narrower one. Here, perhaps, BENVENUTO CELLINI devised some glorious metal work. Ha, there is a silversmith's even to this day! Look! what are those things in the window, above the inscription "English Spoken"? They are teapots from Birmingham! Resolve to avoid small streets, and hurry on to large open piazza. Now for some architecture by GIOTTO, some sculpture by DONATELLO! Yes, there is an equestrian statue. Doubtless one of the MEDICI. At last! No, it's not. It's VICTOR EMANUEL. At least, the inscription says so, though the likeness, not being a speaking one, gives no information. Turn sadly aside and contemplate some melancholy modern copies of the regular architecture of rectangular Turin.