Civil officers loll on chairs in the shade, perhaps with an awning over
their heads. Where the sun falls aslantwise under the arch a sentinel,
with musket and bayonet, paces to and fro in the entrance, and other
soldiers lounge close by. The life of the city seems to be compressed
and made more intense by this barrier; and on passing within it you do
not breathe quite so freely, yet are sensible of an enjoyment in the
close elbowing throng, the clamor of high voices from side to side of the
street, and the million of petty sights, actions, traffics, and
personalities, all so squeezed together as to become a great whole.
The street by which I entered led me to the Carraja Bridge; crossing
which, I kept straight onward till I came to the Church of Santa Maria
Novella. Doubtless, it looks just the same as when Boccaccio's party
stood in a cluster on its broad steps arranging their excursion to the
villa. Thence I went to the Church of St. Lorenzo, which I entered by
the side door, and found the organ sounding and a religious ceremony
going forward.
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