s, 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 numbers 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 out-riders 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 calashers, 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
re