Pisa, placid Pisa, only awakened at half-past eleven by the rushing tourist who traverses your sleepy streets. By the half-past two train he starts afresh, and leaves you to doze as peacefully as before. My train arrives with amazing punctuality, and I reach the hotel earlier than was ever known; 11.35 A.M., and apparently nobody up yet. The vetturino loudly cracks his whip, but, to no purpose. Suddenly I notice some electric bell-pushes. Ring one. Ring another. Finally, ring them all. Then at last rushes out an elegant gentleman, probably the manager, who excitedly endeavours to speak, and to apologise, in four languages at once. Reduce him to calmness, and to two languages, with a few words from a third thrown in occasionally, and demand dÉjeuner. Another delay. The elegant gentleman does not explain; but evidently the cook is still asleep, and the waiters only just up. But at last I am served, and excellently too, and go off to see the sights.

Unfortunately am seized with an insane wish to ascend the Leaning Tower, when I might have remained comfortably on the beautiful turf at the foot of it. Rouse the official at the door. He says I cannot go up alone. Remember that sort of trick, so tell him he may accompany me. He says he must stay below. Remember also that sort of trick, and offer him a lira. He is still unconvinced! Do not remember any trick of that sort. An extraordinary custode! What will convince him? Am just asking where I can find a companion, when a small, quiet man strolls up. For fifty centesimi he will accompany me. That's cheap enough, so follow him at once. The steps lean first one way and then the other as one goes round the tower. It is like climbing the companion way, as I think one should call it—say the staircase, in plain English—of a steamer in a storm. Begin to dislike the sensation, when my guide suddenly stops. He suggests that the tower is very high and fifty centesimi very low. Tell him I don't mind sixty or seventy, and on we go, round and round. Begin to feel almost giddy—imagine a circular staircase in a steamer in a storm!—when he stops again. Notice in the dim light that he is broad-shouldered and muscular, though short. Pleasant sort of place for a fight with a reckless ruffian! Perhaps he has weapons! He says I ought to pay him a lira. Agree to this at once.

Up again, round and round. Think of all the mysterious murders one reads of, and wish I had never come. Look up at him. He is certainly bigger than I am. And what is that long straight thing which makes his pocket stick out? Oh, horror! It must be a knife, or a dagger in a sheath! Just then he stops, and says he would like a cup of coffee when we get down again. How I wish we were down again! Agree at once. Up a few more steps, and then he stops again and says it is very hot, and he would like a bottle of wine as well. Agree to this also at once. Up again, round and round and round, and at last reach an outside gallery. Peep out through the doorway. Refuse to trust myself beyond. There is only a single iron rail, and that not all round. Guide says I might as well give him five lire, to include the wine and coffee. Agree to this also, and feebly suggest that I have seen enough. But he is inexorable, and on we go again.

A First Impressionist.