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 some stirring association.  In the Via San Felice, Raphael used to paint when a boy; near the Ponte Santa Trinita stands Michael Angelo’s house, with his pictures, clothes, and painting implements, just as he left it three centuries ago; on the south side of the Arno is the house of Galileo, and that of Machiavelli stands in an avenue near the Ducal Palace.  While threading my way through some dark, crooked streets in an unfrequented part of the city, I noticed an old, untenanted house, bearing a marble tablet above the door.  I drew near and read:—­“In this house of the Alighieri was born the Divine Poet!” It was the birth-place of Dante!

Nov. 1.—­Yesterday morning we were apprised of the safe arrival of a new scion of the royal family in the world by the ringing of the city bells.  To-day, to celebrate the event, the shops were closed, and the people made a holiday of it.  Merry chimes pealed out from every tower, and discharges of cannon thundered up from the fortress.  In the evening the dome of the Cathedral was illuminated, and the lines of cupola, lantern, and cross were traced in flame on the dark sky, like a crown of burning stars dropped from Heaven on the holy pile.  I went in and walked down the aisle, listening for awhile to the grand choral, while the clustered tapers under the dome quivered and trembled, as if shaken by the waves of music which burst continually within its lofty concave.

A few days ago Prince Corsini, Prime Minister of Tuscany, died at an advanced age.  I saw his body brought in solemn procession by night, with torches and tapers, to the church of Santa Trinita.  Soldiers followed with reversed arms and muffled drums, the band playing a funeral march.  I forced myself through the crowd into the church, which was hung with black and gold, and listened to the long drawn chanting of the priests around the bier.