es, appeared to be English. It was a good place
to observe the beauty of Florence, which however, may be done in a
short time, as there is not much of it. There is beauty in Italy,
undoubtedly, but it is either among the peasants or the higher class of
nobility. I will tell our American women confidentially, for I know they
have too much sense to be vain of it, that they surpass the rest of the
world as much in beauty as they do in intelligence and virtue. I saw in
one of the carriages the wife of Alexander Dumas, the French author. She
is a large, fair complexioned woman, and is now, from what cause I know
not, living apart from her husband.

The jockeys paced up and down the fields, preparing their beautiful
animals for the approaching heat, and as the hour drew nigh the mounted
dragoons busied themselves in clearing the space. It was a one-mile
course, to the end of the lawn and back. At last the bugle sounded, and
off went three steeds like arrows let fly. They passed us, their light
limbs bounding over the turf, a beautiful dark-brown taking the lead. We
leaned over the railing and watched them eagerly. The bell rang--they
reached the other end--we saw them turn and come dashing back, nearer,
nearer; the crowd began to shout, and in a few seconds the brown one had
won it by four or five lengths. The fortunate horse was led around in
triumph, and I saw an English lady, remarkable for her betting
propensities, come out from the crowd and kiss it in apparent delight.

After an interval, three others took the field--all graceful, spirited
creatures. This was a more exciting race than the first; they flew past
us nearly abreast, and the crowd looked after them in anxiety. They
cleared the course like wild deer, and in a minute or two came back, the
racer of an English nobleman a short distance ahead. The jockey threw up
his hand in token of triumph as he approached the goal, and the people
cheered him. It was a beautiful sight to see those noble animals
stretching to the utmost of their speed, as they dashed down the grassy
lawn. The lucky one always showed by his proud and erect carriage, his
consciousness of success.

Florence is fast becoming modernized. The introduction of gas, and the
construction of the railroad to Pisa, which is nearly completed, will
make sad havoc with the air of poetry which still lingers in its silent
streets. There is scarcely a bridge, a tower, or a street, which is not
connected with som