The Italians | Page 2

fragrant herbs,
lulling the ear with softest echoes.
They come--dark-eyed mothers and smiling daughters, decked with
gold pins, flapping Leghorn hats, lace veils or snowy handkerchiefs
gathered about their heads, coral beads, and golden crosses as big as
shields, upon their necks--escorted by lover, husband, or father--a
flower behind his ear, a slouch hat on his head, a jacket thrown over
one arm, every man shouldering a red umbrella, although to doubt the
weather to-day is absolute sacrilege!
Carts clatter by every moment, drawn by swift Maremma nags, gay
with brass harness, tinkling bells, and tassels of crimson on reins and
frontlet.
The carts are laden with peasants (nine, perhaps, ranged three
abreast)--treason to the gallant animal that, tossing its little head,
bravely struggles with the cruel load. A priest is stuck in bodkin among
his flock--a priest who leers and jests between pinches of snuff, and
who, save for his seedy black coat, knee-breeches, worsted stockings,
shoe-buckles, clerical hat, and smoothly-shaven chin, is rougher than a
peasant himself.
Riders on Elba ponies, with heavy cloaks (for the early morning, spite
of its glories, is chill), spur by, adding to the dust raised by the carts.
Genteel flies and hired carriages with two horses, and hood and
foot-board--pass, repass, and out-race each other. These flies and
carriages are crammed with bailiffs from the neighboring villas,
shopkeepers, farmers, and small proprietors. Donkeys, too, there are in
plenty, carrying men bigger than themselves (under protest, be it
observed, for here, as in all countries, your donkey, though marked for
persecution, suffers neither willingly nor in silence). Begging friars,
tanned like red Indians, glide by, hot and grimy (thank Heaven! not
many now, for "New Italy" has sacked most of the convent rookeries
and dispersed the rooks), with wallets on their shoulders, to carry back

such plunder as can be secured, to far-off convents and lonely churches,
folded up tightly in forest fastnesses.
All are hurrying onward with what haste they may, to reach the city of
Lucca, while broad shadows from the tall mountains on either hand still
fall athwart the roads, and cool morning air breathes up from the
rushing Serchio.
The Serchio--a noble river, yet willful as a mountain-torrent--flows
round the embattled walls of Lucca, and falls into the Mediterranean
below Pisa. It is calm now, on this day of the great festival, sweeping
serenely by rocky capes, and rounding into fragrant bays, where
overarching boughs droop and feather. But there is a sullen look about
its current, that tells how wicked it can be, this Serchio, lashed into
madness by winter storms, and the overflowing of the water-gates
above, among the high Apennines--at the Abbetone at San Marcello, or
at windy, ice-bound Pracchia.
How fair are thy banks, O mountain-bordered Serchio! How verdant
with near wood and neighboring forest! How gay with cottage
groups--open-galleried and garlanded with bunches of golden maize
and vine-branches--all laughing in the sun! The wine-shops, too, along
the road, how tempting, with snowy table-cloths spread upon dressers
under shady arbors of lemon--trees; pleasant odors from the fry
cooking in the stove, mixing with the perfume of the waxy flowers!
Dear to the nostrils of the passers-by are these odors. They snuff them
up--onions, fat, and macaroni, with delight. They can scarcely resist
stopping once for all here, instead of waiting for their journey's end to
eat at Lucca.
But the butterflies--and they are many--are wiser in their generation.
The butterflies have a festival of their own to-day. They do not wait for
any city. They are fixed to no spot. They can hold their festival
anywhere under the blue sky, in the broad sunshine.
See how they dance among the flowers! Be it spikes of wild-lavender,
or yellow down within the Canterbury bell, or horn of purple
cyclamens, or calyx of snowy myrtle, the soft bosom of tall lilies or

glowing petals of red cloves--nothing comes amiss to the butterflies.
They are citizens of the world, and can feast wherever fancy leads
them.
Meanwhile, on comes the crowd, nearer and nearer to the city of their
pilgrimage, laughing, singing, talking, smoking. Your Italian peasant
must sleep or smoke, excepting when he plays at morra (one, two,
three, and away!). Then he puts his pipe into his pocket. The women
are conversing in deep voices, in the patois of the various villages. The
men, more silent, search out who is fairest--to lead her on the way, to
kneel beside her at the shrine, and, most prized of all, to conduct her
home. Each village has its belle, each belle her circle of admirers.
Belles and beaux all have their own particular plan of diversion for the
day. For is it not a great day? And is it not stipulated in many of the
marriage contracts among the mountain