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 numbers of carriages in the streets, filled with
gaily-dressed 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-dressed people, walking to and fro, and enjoying the beauty
of the evening. Travellers 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 postillions in the tightest possible
deer-skin breeches, the smallest red coats, and the hugest jack-boots. The
streets about the doors of the hotels resound with the cracking of whips
and the stamping of horses, and are encumbered with carriages, heaps of
baggage, porters, postillions, couriers, and travellers. Night at length
arrives - the time of spectacles and funerals. The carriages rattle towards
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.
Such is a picture of what passes every day at Florence - in Pisa, on the
contrary, all is stagnation and repose - even the presence of the
sovereign, who usually passes a part of the winter here, is incompetent
to give a momentary liveliness to the place. The city is nearly as large
as Florence, with not a third of its population; the number of strangers
is few; most of them are invalids, and the rest are the quietest people in
the world. The rattle of carriages is rarely heard in the streets; in some
of which there prevails a stillness so complete that you might imagine
them deserted of their inhabitants. I have now been here three weeks, and
on one occasion only have I seen the people of the place awakened to
something like animation. It was the feast of the Conception of the
Blessed Virgin; the Lung' Arno was strewn with boughs of laurel and
myrtle, and the Pisan gentry promenaded for an hour under my window.
On my leaving Florence an incident occurred, which will illustrate the
manner of doing public business in this country. I had obtained my
passport from the Police Office, _vised_ for Pisa. It was then Friday, and
I was told that it would answer until ten o'clock on Tuesday morning.
Unluckily I did not present myself at the Leghorn gate of Florence until
eleven o'clock on that day. A young man in a military hat, sword, and blue
uniform, came to the carriage and asked for my passport, which I handed
him. In a short time he appeared again and desired me to get out and go
with him to the apartment in the side of the gate. I went and saw a
middle-aged man dressed in the same manner, sitting at the table with my
passport before him. "I am sorry," said he, "to say that your passport is
not regular, and that my duty compels me to detain you." "What is the
matter with the passport?" "The _vise_ is of more than three days
standing." I exerted all my eloquence to persuade him that an hour was of
no consequence, and that the public welfare would not suffer by letting me
pass, but he remained firm. "The law," he said, "is positive; I am
compelled to execute it. If I were to suffer you to depart, and my
superiors were to know it, I should lose my office and incur the penalty
of five days' imprisonment."
I happened to have a few coins in my pocket, and putting in my hand, I
caused them to jingle a little against each other. "Your case is a hard
one," said the officer, "I suppose you are desirous to get on." "Yes - my
preparations are all made, and it will be a great inconvenience for me to
remain." "What say you," he called out to his companion who stood in the
door looking into the street, "shall we let them pass? They seem to be
decent people." The young man mumbled some sort of answer. "Here," said
the officer, holding out to me my passport, but still keeping it between
his thumb and finger, "I give you back your passport, and consent to your
leaving Florence, but I wish you particularly to consider that in so
doing, I risk the loss of my place and an imprisonment of five days." He
then put the paper into my hand, and I put into his the expected gratuity.
As I went to the carriage, he followed and begged me to say nothing of the
matter to any one.
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