It was on an occasion of this sort, that the narrow street called Por’ Santa Maria, which runs up from the Ponte Vecchio to the Piazza, was thickly crowded with people.  A young lieutenant had been sent to that part of the town with a small detachment of cavalry to clear the streets.  Judging from the aspect of the people, as his men, coming down the Lung’ Arno, turned into the narrow street, he did not half like the job before him.  He thought there certainly would be bloodshed.  And just as his men were turning the corner and beginning to push their horses into the crowd, one of them slipped sideways on the flagstones, with which, most distressingly to horses not used to them, the streets of Florence are paved, and came down with his rider partly under him.

The officer thought, “Now for trouble!  That man will be killed to a certainty!” The crowd—­who were filling the air with shouts of “Morte!” “Abbasso l’Austria!” “Morte agli Austriaci!"[1]—­crowded round the fallen trooper, while the officer tried to push forward towards the spot.  But when he got within earshot, and could see also what was taking place, he saw the people immediately round the fallen man busily disengaging him from his horse! “O poverino!  Ti sei fatto male?  Orsu!  Non sara niente!  Su!  A cavallo, eh?"[2] And having helped the man to remount, they returned to their amusement of roaring “Morte agli Austriaci!” The young officer perceived that he had a very different sort of populace to deal with from an angry crowd on the other side of the Alps, or indeed on the other side of the Apennines.

[Footnote 1:  “Death!  Down with Austria!  Death to the Austrians!”]

[Footnote 2:  “Oh!  Poor fellow!  Have you hurt yourself?  Up with you!  It will be nothing!  Up again on your horse, eh?”]

I remember another circumstance which occurred a few years previously to that just mentioned, and which was in its way equally characteristic.  In one of the principal cafes of Florence, situated on the Piazza del Duomo—­the cathedral yard—­a murder was committed.  The deed was done in full daylight, when the cafe was full of people.  Such crimes, and indeed violent crimes of any sort, were exceedingly rare in Florence.  That in question was committed by stabbing, and the motive of the criminal who had come to Florence for the express purpose of killing his enemy was vengeance for a great wrong.  Having accomplished his purpose he quietly walked out of the cafe and went away.  I happened to be on the spot shortly afterwards, and inquired, with some surprise at the escape of the murderer, why he had not been arrested red-handed.  “He had a sword in his hand!” said the person to whom I had addressed myself, in a tone which implied that that quite settled the matter—­that of course it was absolutely out of the question to attempt to interfere with a man who had a sword in his hand!