Let me remark, by the way, that a work of art is a sacred thing in the eyes of Italians of all classes, never to be defaced, never to be touched, a thing to be looked at merely.  A statue may stand for ages in a public square, within the reach of any one who passes, and with no sentinel to guard it, and yet it shall not only be safe from mutilation, but the surface of the marble shall never be scratched, or even irreverently scored with a lead pencil.  So general is this reverence for art, that the most perfect confidence is reposed in it.  I remember that in Paris, as I was looking at a colossal plaster cast of Napoleon at the Hotel des Invalides, a fellow armed with a musket who stood by it bolt upright, in the stiff attitude to which the soldier is drilled, gruffly reminded me that I was too near, though I was not within four feet of it.  In Florence it is taken for granted that you will do no mischief, and therefore you are not watched.

Letter IV.

A Day in Florence.

Pisa, December 11, 1834.

It is gratifying to be able to communicate a piece of political intelligence from so quiet a nook of the world as this.  Don Miguel arrived here the other day from Genoa, where you know there was a story that he and the Duchess of Berri, a hopeful couple, were laying their heads together.  He went to pay his respects to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who is now at Pisa, and it was said by the gossips of the place that he was coldly received, and was given to understand that he could not be allowed to remain in the Tuscan territory.  There was probably nothing in all this.  Don Miguel has now departed for Rome, and the talk of to-day is that he will return before the end of the winter.  He is doubtless wandering about to observe in what manner he is received at the petty courts which are influenced by the Austrian policy, and in the mean time lying in wait for some favorable opportunity of renewing his pretensions to the crown of Spain.

Pisa offers a greater contrast to Florence than I had imagined could exist between two Italian cities.  This is the very seat of idleness and slumber; while Florence, from being the residence of the Court, and from the vast number of foreigners who throng to it, presents during several months of the year an appearance of great bustle and animation.  Four thousand English, an American friend tells me, visit Florence every winter, to say nothing of the occasional residents from France, Germany, and Russia.  The number of visitors from the latter country is every year increasing, and the echoes of the Florence gallery have been taught to repeat the strange accents of the Sclavonic.  Let me give you the history of a fine day in October, passed at the window of my lodgings on the Lung’ Arno, close to the bridge Alla Carraja.  Waked by the jangling of all the bells in Florence and by the noise of carriages departing