If Pisa be the seventh wonder of the world in right of its Tower，it may claim to be，at least，the second or third in right of its beggars. They waylay the unhappy visitor at every turn，escort him to every door he enters at，and lie in wait for him，with strong reinforcements，at every door by which they know he must come out. The grating of the portal on its hinges is the signal for a general shout，and the moment he appears，he is hemmed in，and fallen on，by heaps of rags and personal distortions.The beggars seem to embody all the trade and enterprise of Pisa.
Nothing else is stirring，but warm air. Going through the streets，the fronts of the sleepy houses look like backs. They are all so still and quiet，and unlike houses with people in them，that the greater part of the city has the appearance of a city at daybreak，or during a general siesta of the population. Or it is yet more like those backgrounds of houses in common prints，or old engravings，where windows and doors are squarely indicated，and one figure （a beggar of course） is seen walking off by itself into illimitable perspective.