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A Novel
1875
We are at Lucca. It is the 13th of September, 1870—the anniversary ofthe festival of the Volto Santo—a notable day, both in city, suburb,and province. Lucca dearly loves its festivals—no city more; and ofall the festivals of the year that of the Volto Santo best. Now theVolto Santo (Anglicè, Holy Countenance) is a miraculous crucifix,which hangs, as may be seen, all by itself in a gorgeous chapel—morelike a pagoda than a chapel, and more like a glorified bird-cage thaneither—built expressly for it among the stout Lombard pillars in thenave of the cathedral. The crucifix is of cedar-wood, very black, andvery ugly, and it was carved by Nicodemus; of this fact no orthodoxCatholic entertains a doubt. But on what authority I cannot tell, norwhy, nor how, the Holy Countenance reached the snug little city ofLucca, except by flying through the air like the Loretto house, orspringing out of the earth like the Madonna of Feltri. But here it is,and here it has been for many a long year; and here it will remainas a miraculous relic, bringing with it blessings and immunitiesinnumerable to the grateful city.
What a glorious morning it is! The sun rose without a cloud. Now thereis a golden haze hanging over the plain, and glints as of living flameon the flanks of the mountains. From all sides crowds are pressingtoward Lucca. Before six o'clock every high-road is alive. Down fromthe highest mountain-top of Pizzorna, overlooking Florence and itsvine-garlanded campagna, comes the hermit, brown-draped, in hood andmantle; staff in hand, he trudges along the dusty road.