They come! they come! these Tuscan peasants, a trifle too fond of holiday-keeping, like their betters—­but what would you have?  The land is fertile, and corn and wine and oil and rosy flowering almonds grow almost as of themselves.  They come—­tens and tens of miles away, from out the deep shadows of primeval chestnut-woods, clothing the flanks of rugged Apennines with emerald draperies.  They come—­through parting rocks, bordering nameless streams—­cool, delicious waters, over which bend fig, peach, and plum, delicate ferns and unknown flowers.  They come—­from hamlets and little burghs, gathered beside lush pastures, where tiny rivulets trickle over fresh turf and 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.