Oct. 22.—­I attended to-day the fall races at the Cascine.  This is a dairy farm of the Grand Duke on the Arno, below the city; part of it, shaded with magnificent trees, has been made into a public promenade and drive, which extends for three miles down the river.  Towards the lower end, on a smooth green lawn, is the race-course.  To-day was the last of the season, for which the best trials had been reserved; on passing out the gate at noon, we found a number of carriages and pedestrians going the same way.  It was the very perfection of autumn temperature, and I do not remember to have ever seen so blue hills, so green meadows, so fresh air and so bright sunshine combined in one scene before.  All that gloom and coldness of which I lately complained has vanished.

Traveling increases very much one’s capacity for admiration.  Every beautiful scene appears as beautiful as if it had been the first; and although I may have seen a hundred times as lovely a combination of sky and landscape, the pleasure which it awakens is never diminished.  This is one of the greatest blessings we enjoy—­the freshness and glory which Nature wears to our eyes forever.  It shows that the soul never grows old—­that the eye of age can take in the impression of beauty with the same enthusiastic joy that leaped through the heart of childhood.

We found the crowd around the race-course but thin; half the people there, and all the horses, 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.