is found in its quiet air, its contemplative spirit, in the imaginative character of the amusements, in the calm impulse by which, under such circumstances, the current of existence is urged along. The pervading musical spirit of the Florentines seemed to break out anew as the genial season advanced, and no time were the opera airs chanted by persons of almost every class as they walk the streets at night, heard more frequently..

The Florentines, and indeed the Tuscans, generally are, as far as my observation extended, the happiest Italians: more liberally governed they certainly are. But the number of paupers and improvidents, even here, must strike an American visitor; and blindness or affections of the eyes are remarkably common. Yet the peculiar toll of the bell which calls out the Misericordia is comparatively seldom heard. This is an ancient institution, the members of which, at a certain summons, array themselves in sackcloth dominos, and hasten to execute whatever charitable office the occasion demands. The brethren are buried by the society, whose dark forms, bearing a body, sometimes glide fearfully upon the sight, their torches flickering in the noon-day light, and their measured tread echoing among the busy streets quite solemnly.

Although my early and favourable impressions of this city were confirmed, yet, in one respect, many are liable to disappointment. With the imaginative expectancy natural to the inexperienced, we may

have pictured an inland Italian city as a quiet spot, whose very air is redolent with the mellowness of age, and whose every object, from the lowly dwelling to the magnificent church, is rich in the interest of antiquity. Here, on the contrary, there is much which resembles what may be called the natural language of a modern metropolis. The constant cry of the venders, the hurrying to and fro of busy feet, the restlessness of trade, and the gaudy bustle of pleasure all are here, and they break in too rudely upon the quiet beauty of the scene, antiquated as are some of its features, to permit of more than the occasional indulgence of that romantic illusion with which we are fain to tint the sterner outlines of reality. Yet there are times and aspects which carry the meditative into the region where they most delight to expatiate-the region of imaginative thought. The pleasure of a morning's lounge in the gallery of the Pitti, or the Tribune, of a retrospective hour in the holy precincts of St. Croce, above the dust which makes them holier,' of a sunset view from the beautiful bridge of Santa Trinita, of an evening's walk along the Arno, of listening and gazing within the chaste walls of the Pergolaall this would seem tame in description, but in reality it is entrancing. It is, too, morally exciting, when the moon is careering high in the heavens, to walk around the spacious square of the Duomo, and look up at the Cathedral and beautiful greco-arabic campanile beside it, illuminated by a light so in

unison with their own dusky, yet rich hues, so revealing to the mammoth proportions of the one, and the towering but simple elegance of the other. When the wide space around reflects no sound but the faint echo of a solitary pedestrian, standing in full view of such a grand and time-hallowed result of human art, and remembering how oft the same lonely orb has bathed in silver radiance the old dome and pinnacles-more faithful in the still tenderness of her nightly greetings than the evanescent and inconstant sentiment of man, the idea of Italy and her intellectual nobleness comes home like a realized dream to the heart.

"Naples! thou Heart of men which ever pantest Naked beneath the lidless eye of heaven! Elysian City, which to calm enchantest

The mutinous air and sea! they round thee, even As sleep round Love, are driven!"

"I stood within the city disinterr'd;

And heard the autumnal leaves, like light foot-falls Of spirits passing through the streets; and heard The mountain's slumbering voice at intervals Thrill through those roofless halls."

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