Waked by the jangling of all the bells in Florence and by the noise of
carriages departing loaded with travelers for Rome and other places in
the south of Italy, I rise, dress myself, and take my place at the
window. I see crowds of men and women from the country, the former in
brown velvet jackets, and the latter in broad-brimmed straw hats,
driving donkeys loaded with panniers or trundling handcarts before
them, heaped with grapes, figs and all the fruits of the orchard, the
garden, and the field. They have hardly passed when large flocks of
sheep and goats make their appearance, attended by shepherds and their
families, driven by the approach of winter from the Apenines, and
seeking the pastures of the Maremma, a rich, but, in the summer, an
unhealthy tract on the coast. The men and boys are drest in
knee-breeches, the women in bodices, and both sexes wear capotes with
pointed hoods, and felt hats with conical crowns; they carry long
staves in their hands, and their arms are loaded with kids and lambs
too young to keep pace with their mothers.
[Footnote 66: From the "Letters of a Traveler," first published in
book form in 1850. The selection here given was written in 1834. It
has been republished by Parke Godwin, Bryant's biographer and editor,
in one of his two volumes devoted to the "Prose Writings."]
After the long procession of sheep and goats and dogs and men and
women and children, come horses loaded with cloths and poles for
tents, kitchen utensils, and the rest of the younglings of the flock.
A little after sunrise I see well-fed donkeys, in coverings of red
cloth, driven over the bridge to be milked for invalids.
Maid-servants, bareheaded, with huge, high-carved combs in their hair,
waiters of coffee-houses carrying the morning cup of coffee or
chocolate to their customers, bakers' boys with a dozen loaves on a
board balanced on their heads, milkmen with rush baskets filled with
flasks of milk are crossing the streets in all directions. A little
later the bell of the small chapel opposite to my window rings
furiously for a quarter of an hour, and then I hear mass chanted in a
deep strong nasal tone. As the day advances, the English, in white
hats and white pantaloons, come out of their lodgings, accompanied
sometimes by their hale and square-built spouses, and saunter stiffly
along the Arno, or take their way to the public galleries and museums.
Their massive, clean, and brightly polished carriages also begin to
rattle through the streets, setting out on excursions to some part of
the environs of Florence--to Fiesole, to the Pratolino, to the Bello
Sguardo, to the Poggio Imperiale.
Sights of a different kind now present themselves. Sometimes it is a
troop of stout Franciscan friars, in sandals and brown robes, each
carrying his staff and wearing a brown, broad-brimmed hat with a
hemispherical crown. Sometimes it is a band of young theological
students, in purple cassocks with red collars and cuffs, let out on a
holiday, attended by their clerical instructors, to ramble in the
Cascine. There is a priest coming over the bridge, a man of venerable
age and great reputation for sanctity. The common people crowd around
him to kiss his hand, and obtain a kind word from him as he passes.
But what is that procession of men in black gowns, black gaiters, and
black masks moving swiftly along, and bearing on their shoulders a
litter covered with black cloth? These are the Brethren of Mercy, who
have assembled at the sound of the cathedral bell, and are conveying
some sick or wounded person to the hospital.
As the day begins to decline, the number of carriages in the streets,
filled with gaily drest people attended by servants in livery,
increases. The Grand Duke's equipage, an elegant carriage drawn by six
horses, with coachmen, footmen, and outriders in drab-colored livery,
comes from the Pitti Palace, and crosses the Arno, either by the
bridge close to my lodgings, or by that called Alla Santa Trinita,
which is in full sight from the windows. The Florentine nobility, with
their families, and the English residents now throng to the Cascine,
to drive at a slow pace through its thickly planted walks of elms,
oaks and ilexes. As the sun is sinking I perceive the quay on the
other side of the Arno filled with a moving crowd of well-drest people
walking to and fro and enjoying the beauty of the evening.
Travelers now arrive from all quarters, in cabriolets, in calashes, in
the shabby vettura, and in the elegant private carriage drawn by
post-horses, and driven by postilions in the tightest possible
deerskin breeches, the smallest red coats, and the hugest jack-boots.
The streets about the doors of the hotels resound with the crackling
of whips and the stamping of horses, and are encumbered with
carriages, heaps of baggage, porters, postilions, couriers, and
travelers. Night at length arrives--the time of spectacles and
funerals. The carriages rattle toward the opera-houses. Trains of
people, sometimes in white robes and sometimes in black, carrying
blazing torches and a cross elevated on a high pole before a coffin,
pass through the streets chanting the service for the dead. The
Brethren of Mercy may also be seen engaged in their office. The
rapidity of their pace, the flare of their torches, the gleam of their
eyes through their masks, and their sable garb, give them a kind of
supernatural appearance. I return to bed and fall asleep amidst the
shouts of people returning from the opera, singing as they go snatches
of the music with which they had been entertained during the evening.