from the Diaries of Francis Parkman, 1843

At ten in the evening we left Parma. At five in the morning we were at Piacenza. Here we stopped an hour or two. Here again the striking difference between the towns of northern and southern Italy was manifested. The people looked as grave and solemn as the brick fronts of the palaces and churches. The town was just bestirring itself. Well-dressed men were thronging to the cafés for breakfast — the shops were being opened, and the market people coming in with their produce. Tall contadini were driving flocks of goats about the street, stopping and milking one into a little tin measure, whenever some housekeeper or the servant of some café came out to demand 'latte fresco.' There was an amusing concourse of market people in the public piazza, before the lofty front of the old government palace. Cheeses, meat, butter, eggs, and piles of live hens, tied neck and heels as you see them in Canada, were spread in every direction over the pavement, surrounded by sellers and purchasers, both apparently half asleep. At a little distance were two long lines of women and men, each with a basket of eggs in hand, standing immovable with an expression of patient resignation, waiting for a purchaser. The men were little shrivelled farmers, in breeches and broad hats, with staffs in their hands, and dickeys standing up erect, like diminutive Englishmen. High above this motley swarm of helpless humanity rose the statue of some great lord of the Farnese family, seated on horse- back, holding his truncheon of command, as if at the head of an army, and looking as if one act of his single will, or one movement of his armed hand, would be enough to annihilate the whole swarm of poor devils below him.