The awful reverence for death which would
have impelled an Englishman of almost any social position to feel
indignation and instantly put a stop to what he would consider a
profanation, was absolutely unknown to all those engaged in that
perfunctory rite. A certain amount of trouble and disturbance would
have been caused by dislodging the culprit, and each man there felt
only this; that it didn't matter a straw, and that there was no reason
for _him_ to take the trouble of noticing it. As far as I could
observe, the amusement the little wretch derived from his performance
was entirely unsocial, and confined to his own breast; for I could not
see that any of the _gamin_ fraternity noticed it, or cared about it,
any more than their seniors.
I remember another somewhat analogous adventure of mine, equally
illustrative of the Florentine habits of those days. I saw a man
suddenly stagger and fall in the street. It was in the afternoon, and
there were many persons in the street, some of them nearer to the
fallen man than I was, but nobody, attempted to help him. I stepped
forward to do so, and was about to take hold of him and try to raise
him, when one of the by-standers eagerly caught me by the arm, saying,
"He is dying, he is dying!" "Let us try to raise him," said I, still
pressing forward. "You mustn't, you mustn't! It is not permitted," he
added, as he perceived that he was speaking to a foreigner, and then
went on to explain to me that what must be done was to call the
Misericordia, for which purpose one must run and ring a certain bell
attached to the chapel of that brotherhood in the Piazza del Duomo.
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