MILD, solemn October-the twilight of the year! | frost, till all day long there is a shower through The winds have not yet forgotten their summer softness, and late asters twinkle like stars through the shade of thickets. But the leaves are falling; morning after morning you can see them dropping thicker and more frequent, loosened by the early VOL. IL-NO. IV. the tall woods. They are dropping around me now, with a sound like soft rain, and the many clasping arches through which I see the sky, are fast losing their tracery of painted arabesques. A clear, broad stream is below me-blue and fathom less-for it holds the autumn heaven; and away, through the light haze, some purple hills rise with a long curve above the horizon. The crystalline brightness of the atmosphere touches them with a clear, glowing purity; and, gazing on their soft outlines, my soul goes back to Italy. Having, therefore, rendered my countenance familiar to the Swiss garzone, I felt perfectly at home at the "Cafe di Minerva." In the mornings, when the bell of the Palazzo Vecchio woke me with its musical chimes, I hastened down to enjoy "Le Siècle" over a cup of coffee; and often, after our jovial dinner in an old palace but a few paces from the birth-place of Dante Alighieri, we returned-a genial company of painters, sculptors, and one humble scribe-to lounge an hour over the marble tables, and talk of our homes beyond the sea. At such times we were sure to be visited by La Fioraja-charming Fioraja-whose vivid Italian beauty we admired even more than her basket of breathing flowers. At least, I always saw the eyes of my friend, the young painter, grow bright with admiration, or it may be, with so much gazing on her own, as she came up to us with a graceful courtesy. He tried hard to catch their color and dewy lustre; but his memory invariably forgot its duty. He would have painted them from the lovely model, but La Fioraja was proud her very glance checked the artist, when he would have proposed this. It is but a thought-a moment of electric fleetness-and I am in Florence. I wander over the Ponte Vecchio, looking through its central arches at the Appenines, or bargaining for luscious figs with the inerry contadini; I stroll for hours through the Royal Gallery, or, in the matchless Tribune, lose myself in enraptured trance before the divine St. John, or the sad beauty of Guercino's sybil. How freshly, after two years' absence, come up again the slightest incidents, the most trifling objects, even the very thoughts of my happy sojourn! There is scarcely a stone in the streets I do not remember. I could paint the laurel avenues, the clumps of fan-like pine, and the spiry shafts of the cypresses in the Boboli Garden, bough for bough, as they looked when I last saw them. Delightful Florence! how often do I climb in thought to the convent of San Miniato, and look down on thy dome and airy belfries, and over that paradise of Val d'Arno! Perhaps I have already said enough to explain Many autumns must pass before I shall see again the melodious title by which we knew her. She the fair valleys of Tuscany-yet to-day I will belonged to a class, which, springing up originally retrace my old wanderings, for Memory needs in Florence, seemed to have been a growth of the neither passport nor conveyance, in her travels. simple and poetic Tuscan character. The foWill you hear a simple, yet, I trust, not entirely reigner is charmed with the beauty of these profitless record of a character, whose remem-flower-girls, who, in their broad straw hats, the brance I cherish with a deep and romantic in- rim of which falls on their shoulders, and their terest ? Opposite my rooms in the Via Vacchereccia, was one of the handsome cafes which abound in Florence spacious, showy establishments, where men of all nations meet, to talk over the gossip of the world, over their coffee, or a flask of the golden vintage of Orvieto. The tourist is always certain of finding there the principal sheets of Paris, Marseilles, Rome, and Genoa, as well as Galignani's universal Messenger," and the equally familiar Augsburg Gazette. Politics, however, are tacitly avoided, at least in the lingua Toscana; for, though the government is disposed to be liberal, other influences are mingled in the affairs of Italy, and the stranger is by no means certain that there is no secret agent of the police within hearing of his words. Social intercourse is less trammelled, and the cafe often proves a convenient neutral ground, from which friendships of the strongest character often date their commencement. Even the Englishman there at times forgets his nationality; the German, who is everywhere at home, and the American, who can make himself so, if he will, have less difficulty in domesticating themselves to cafe life. fragrant baskets on their arms, enter the hotels and cafes, and bestow on the guests these offerings of their genial climate. They ask nothing for their daily gifts; every morning they are brought with a smile, or when the face grows kind and familiar, a few words of cheerful gossip, and it is left to the stranger's generosity to repay this delightful attention by a parting donation. There is something exceedingly poetical in this absence of all bargaining-a recognition of sacredness in the delicate gifts themselves-which invests the custom, and those who follow it, with a character of beauty not always belonging to them. The profession, if such it may be called, is now invaded by less worthy followers, and having been adopted in other cities, is beginning to lose its local characteristics. The flower-girls of the Champs-Elyseés, witty and vivacious as they undoubtedly are, still cannot borrow the charming simplicity of the Tuscan Fioraja. The language spoken by these latter, is that of Petrarca aud Boccaccio, and it loses none of its music on their lips. Although generally of humble extraction, they have a taste and natural refinement of feeling, which at first notice surprises the stranger. But LA FIORAJA. when Florence is more familiar to him-when he strays through its unequalled galleries, and sees the peasant feasting on their treasures of Art, with a less perfect appreciation, doubtless, but with as deep-felt an admiration as the princehe ceases to wonder. Where every street is adorned with some work of an immortal master, which is familiar from childhood to the eyes of the people, the common mind partakes unconsciously of a pure spiritual fount, too often sealed to the rich and prosperous in our own land; and hence it is, that a love for the arts seems to be a natural element in the Italian character. Our Fioraja seemed to have an unerring perception of character and taste, and never failed to bestow her flowers accordingly. It was to me an interesting study to watch her quick choice of bouquets, and its justification, in the countenance of the receiver --and rarely indeed did she seem to make a wrong disposal. Once she laid a few blossoms before an old gentleman who was sitting opposite to me, buried in the perusal of a newspaper, which he had monopolized the whole morning, notwithstanding the polite hints of the waiter, that others had repeatedly desired it. He merely lifted his eyes and looked at her: the hard, cold expression of his countenance was unsoftened by a single gleam of feeling or "speculation," and as he rose to leave, he left the flowers where they had been laid. They were the last she ever offered him. Another time, I observed a young man, apparently a German, whose face was marked deeply by the traces of some settled sorrow. She hesitated but a moment in approaching him, and placed upon the table a cluster of roses. thought her gift inappropriate; but a second glance showed me that the blossoms were white, and bound up with them was a sprig of the mournful cypress. The stranger took them mechanically, and though his face did not change its sad expression, I saw that his eyes grew dim with tears. She had recognised the tone to which his spirit soonest responded. I La Fioraja and I were soon acquaintances-as far as my broken Italian would permit conversation. My room in the tall house opposite was kept continually fragrant by the myrtle, heliotrope and roses she brought me every morning. As the clear, cold days of November came on, and sharp winds, that had been sweeping around the snowy top of Monte Morello, came down into Val d'Arno, some of the more delicate blossoms faded, and at last she had only the hardy geranium and the beautiful Tuscan rose, which blooms along sunshiny terraces the whole winter through. "Fioraja," said I, one cold morning, "why do you not bring us the same sweet flowers as formerly? Your basket is getting much lighter than it used to be." 147 "In America!" she exclaimed; adding, in a lower tone," you are then an American?" "Yes," replied I; "did you never see one before, you seem so surprised?" "I never ask the signori whence they come, but I knew some one once who went to America." "Ah, bella Fioraja, is it some one very dear to you, who has gone to my country?” For an instant there was something like a proud dignity in her countenance: but, resuming her usual playfulness, she auswered with, I thought, some sadness in her voice: "Yes, signor, it was one dear to me-molto, molto caro!"--and it is impossible to describe the melting tenderness which these words have on an Italian tongue. She took up her basket and left me. I respected what I thought an artless avowal of some early attachment; and though she sometimes questioned me with great apparent interest respecting America, I was careful to avoid referring to a subject which I supposed might awaken sorrowful remembrances. Still, I could not help feeling some curiosity as to the domestic relations of La Fioraja. Words escaped her almost unconsciously, at times, that showed her to be possessed of a mind, which, even though it might have been expanded by a limited share of education, must have been naturally superior to those of her class. But there was a quiet dignity in her manner, which repelled the questions I felt tempted to ask. I was convinced that there was serious thought, and perhaps experience, hidden behind her every-day gayety. One evening I was sitting alone in the Cafe di Minerva. There were but few guests present, none of whom were known to me. La Fioraja entered as usual, and, laying aside my paper, I waited her coming up the hall, stopping here and there at the half-deserted tables. But a short distance from me, sat a young Frenchman, whose gay, careless deportment, and air of unabashed selfishness and self-possession, marked him for one of those wandering roués, who often find it convenient to leave Paris for a season, and seek amusement in the intrigues and jealousies of Italian society. As she was in the act of leaving him her accustomed gift, he seized her hand with a bold familiarity. She quietly withdrew it, and was about to proceed, when he made some whispered remark, whose insolent freedom roused all the indignant pride in her nature. Stepping back hastily, she cast upon him a look, whose withering scorn even he could scarcely support. As she turned towards me, her lip had still its disdainful | curve; and the soft lustre of her eyes, which my artist-friend was so enthusiastic in praising, had kindled into lightning. Child-like as she usually seemed, she was now all woman. I could not but mark how suddenly she changed again to the lively flower-girl. There was always an under-current of earnestness, even in her gayety, which prevented the thought of lightness; and I knew she was not one from whose heart the memory of either injury or kindness would easily pass away. "Fioraja," said I, with some share in her own indignation, "in my country, you would find more respectful treatment. You must not think, as many do here in Italy, that we are a nation of savages. We have something of the chivalry which your ancestors once had, and we pay overywhere honor and respect to woman." La Fioraja's heart must have been a proud one, for her glowing look seemed to thank me for my country's sentiment. She paused, as if pondering some sudden thought; she looked at me, in doubt -then, as if something had confirmed into resolution the half-formed design floating in her mind, she bent nearer, and whispered: “Signor, since I knew you came from America, I have wondered whether I might ask a favor of you. But it is a favor which cannot be granted without your learning a secret of my own-a secret known to no one beyond the walls of my dwelling. After what has passed to-night, I think I can trust you; the more especially as you say you have but a few days to spend in Florence. It would be a happiness to my father to see one who comes from Ameriea, and you may, on your return home, be able to do us all a great kindness. I can tell you no more now, for see, the signori are noticing my delay;-will you not meet me, to-morrow evening, at this hour, at the Fountain of Neptune, which you know stands in the square, beside the Palazzo Vecchio?" I assured her earnestly that she might trust in my compliance, and in the faithful keeping of any trust she should deem me worthy of receiving, and parted from her, made completely impatient for another day; for the least trace of romance in one single human history is far more interesting to follow, than the novelist's most elaborate and exciting inventions. Eight was chiming from the tall, turreted tower of the Palazzo, and the rich moonlight came pouring into the square through the arches of the Uffizzi, silvering over the dryads before the palace-door, and the colossal David-the divine work of Michael Angelo-as I stood beside the fountain. Neptune and his bronze Tritons cast up sparkling showers from their twisted shells, and their muscular figures seemed animate in the moonlight. I did not wait long for La Fioraja. She came lightly and quickly across the open square, with an empty basket in her hand.— Thanks, signor!" said she, hurriedly; "let us not delay!" 66 Calzolajo, the Florentine Broadway--crossed the We passed down the brilliantly-lighted Via Cathedral square, with the shining marble belfry towering above us, till the stars seemed but ornaments on the tracery of its needle-like spires. Then we entered one of the long narrow streets which lead in the direction of the Porta della Croce. We said but little; La Fioraja had lost in the issue of my adventure, to question her her sprightliness, and I was too deeply interested prison-like palaces, as old as the days of Cosmo prematurely. We passed between the tall black de Medici, with which this part of the city abounds. Scarcely a single person was to be seen; the iron-barred windows, and huge, massive gate ways had something stern and forbidding in their appearance; and the narrow, crooked streets shut us out from the genial moonlight. Down a narrow alley I caught a glimpse of Santa Croce, and knew that we could not go much further without reaching the city wall, whose square embrasures were already visible. Turning into a street which ran parallel to it and opened upon the Arno, we stopped before an old palace, which, in its palmy days, might have been among the richest in Florence. But its aspect was now dark and deserted. No light came from its grated windows, and no sound was heard within to give token of cheerful existence. "This is the place, signor," said La Fioraja; "knock, and you will be admitted. The rest you will learn within." With these words she entered a small garden-door, and disappeared. I did not hesitate, but knocked at once, and loudly. After a pause, footsteps were heard slowly approaching, and the rusty lock grated with the turn of an unwilling key. The door was at length opened, and an old servant, holding in her hand a tall iron lamp, saluted me. |