Religious processions take place almost daily. We attended several. The first was the Feast of the Madonna

del Carmine. All the city rallied as usual. But the greatest show took place on another day, I forget in honour of what Madonna or Saint, so numerous are they in Florence. The scene was laid in the great avenue leading from the Cascine, or in other words on the race-course; and the same set of decorations answered for both festivals. If possible, the priests drew together a greater concourse of people, than. the Barbary steeds. Amphitheatric seats were again put in requisition. The procession did not move till dark; for the blaze of tapers and the glare of banners, as well as the solemn chant, produce a much finer effect at night. Crosses and crucifixes without number rose in a long line. At length came the grandest part of the spectacle. An image of the Madonna of the day, made of wax, as large as life, dressed in the richest Florentine silks, crowned with a diadem, loaded with a profusion of the most gorgeous ornaments, and seated under a golden canopy, was borne on the shoulders of four men, in as much state, as the Pope rode round the aisles of St. Peter's. As much reverence was also shown to the Virgin as to his Holiness; for the people all knelt and said an Ave Maria, as the pageant passed.

In walking along the Lung'Arno one evening with an Italian friend, we saw a living Saint, or at least he sustains that character in the eyes of the Florentines. He is a monk, who dwells in a convent, near the gate leading to Leghorn. He was going towards his cell, and we pursued him, keeping a few paces in the rear, to elude observation. His march was arrested once in every two or three rods, by persons who darted out from the side-walks, and knelt in the street, to receive his benediction. He blessed them all. A sort of bustle took place in the act of genuflection, and words were muttered in a half whisper, which we could not understand. He often goes abroad on such excursions.

I have described the sacred spectacles of Florence; and let us now for a moment turn to the profane. The latter appeared to me as little calculated to exalt the national character as the former. There are several theatres in the city, two of which only were open at the time of our visit. The Pergola or Opera house is by far the most prominent. It is a large, splendid, and beautiful building, enriched with frescos and other decorations in good taste. The boxes, hung

with crimson curtains, may with propriety be denominated saloons, much better finished and furnished than the best apartments in most Italian palaces. In fact they may be considered as the evening pavilions of the nobility and higher classes of society, who here hold their soirées, instead of receiving their friends at home, By drawing the curtain, coffee, ice-creams, and other refreshments can be served up in as good style, and with as much retirement, as in a private dwelling.

The

On the first night of our attendance at the Pergola, the play was a melo-drama in two acts, entitled "Amazilda and Zamoro." It is a new piece, which was brought out at this theatre the present year, "under the special patronage of Leopold II. Grand Duke of Tuscany." We saw only the first act, and that was quite enough. It is a Persian tale, and the scene is laid in Astracan and its environs. story afforded an opportunity of introducing all the splendour of oriental costumes and parades, which is a great object with those who seek to gratify the eye, rather than the ear, the mind, or the heart. To show that no sort of interest is excited by either the plot or the characters in an Italian play, it is only necessary to state that the action of the drama is interrupted by the intervention of the ballet, or what with us is the after-piece. Now, who would endure such a pause and such a diversion of the mind, in a French or English tragedy or comedy? Yet the Italians hear the first act of an opera, take their coffee and ice-creams, witness an interlude of an hour or two, and then enter upon the second part of a play, with the dramatis personæ of both pieces mingled together in their minds. The truth is, that although they are in the highest degree a musical, theatregoing, spectacle-loving people, they have very little taste or relish for the regular drama.

The ballet at the Pergola was denominated "Genserico in Roma, ballo istorico, tragico, pantomimo, in cinque atti." Its very name is sufficient to prove the absurdity of its character. A historical, tragical, and pantomimical dance! What a solecism in taste-what a monster in the dramatic art! To make the matter worse, the scene is laid in the Roman Capitol and the Roman Senate, the seat of gravity, dignity, and wiscom, associated in the mind with all that is lofty, imperial, and grand. The spectator sees the Conscript Fathers, Military Tribunes, Prætors, Lictors, Roman

matrons, people, and soldiers enter successively, unite in the dumb show, and cut pigeon-wings and pirouettes. Had Signor António Monticini, the author of the piece, been present, I should have inquired of him, which was Cato, Sempronius, Scipio, Pompey, Tully, and Cæsar, in his senatorial group, who handed down their partners with so much grace, and tripped it so nimbly "on the light fantastic toe." Compare the dramatic proprieties of this play with those of Addison's Cato, Julius Cæsar, and Coriolanus, or with the dignity of French tragedy, and you have precisely the difference between the Italian and English stage, as the latter was modelled by Shakspeare and Garrick, or as that of France has since been by Voltaire and Talma. It is true, that Italy has produced a liberal share of histrionic talent; but the dramas of Alfieri, Goldoni, and others are seldom brought upon the boards, while such spectacles as the above are substituted in their places.

At a second visit to the Pergola, we heard the celebrated David sing at a great concert. He is perhaps the first vocalist in Italy; a man of genius, possessing extraordinary natural powers, which he is fast ruining by intemperance. His performances are inimitably and indescribably fine. The boxes on this evening were illuminated by all the beauty, gaiety, and fashion of Florence. Galleries of Grecian fa

ces, polished brows, and dark languishing eyes, softened by the influence of melting music, presented altogether a brilliant scene.

We went several times to the Goldoni, which is constructed precisely in the manner of the old Roman amphitheatres. The spectators sit under the open air, looking alternately at the stars upon the stage, and the still brighter ones which sparkle in an Italian firmament above their heads. On one evening of my attendance, the moon peeped in at the aperture, and the effulgence of her orb attracted quite as much of my attention, as the progress of the play, or a pretty group of warbling actresses, who sang like nightingales to the listening skies. The pieces here performed are of much the same character, as I have already described. It is the most popular theatre in the city, and is open twice a day; once at 5 o'clock in the afternoon, and again in the evening.

Not far from the theatre is the Goldoni Garden, which is open on the evenings of all festivals, for promenades and fetes champetres. It is a cool and delightful retreat. The

grounds are spacious, laid out with walks, and shaded with trees, amidst the foliage of which are suspended coloured lamps. In the centre rises an orchestra, occupied by a numerous band of musicians, and about it is an extensive floor, a step from the ground, which is the arena for dancing. At intervals of five or ten minutes, the music strikes up, and whoever chooses to enter the lists, selects his partner, and waltzes half a dozen times round the circle, while the multitude seated upon the benches about the garden look on and applaud. The walks open into numerous saloons, where refreshments of all kinds are to be had. People of the first rank attend; though the dancers are commonly of the lower orders, and sometimes evince rudeness instead of grace.

Such are some of the resources for public amusement in the Tuscan capital. But there are others of a graver, more elevated, and rational character. The extensive and rich collections of the arts are always open to the gratification of the traveller. We paid an interesting visit to the Royal Academy of Fine Arts, which is a noble institution, worthy of the days of the Medici, though the great men who gave splendour to that age are now wanting, to elicit genius and talent by their patronage. This Academy was founded by Leopold I., who by way of distinction in modern times, may be called the Great. Its various departments comprise schools for design, architecture, statuary, and painting. This institution, as well as the gallery, is furnished with all the appurtenances and conveniences for young artists, who may prosecute their studies free of expense. The productions of such as excel in their profession line the walls.

Soon after our return to Florence, the American Consul introduced us to a large reading-room near the Ponte Santa Trinita. Opposite the door stands a stately granitic column, reared by Cosimo I. in honour of the conquest of Siena. It is surmounted by a statue of Justice, which is emblematic neither of the ruin of the Sienese, nor of the district over which the goddess presides; for according to the jests of the Florentines, she looks down upon some of the greatest knaves in the city. The proprietor of the reading-room, however, is not of the number, but an intelligent clever man. His apartments contain a large circulating library, and are furnished with the Journals of Italy, France, England, and the north of Europe. Italian newspapers are the most barren, dull, and insipid productions that can be imagined.

They are precisely what the French government is now labouring to make the journals of that country, by the restoration of the censorship. Their dimensions are upon the scale of seven by nine, and their contents comprise little else, than notices of ecclesiastical movements, feasts, celebrations, and the multifarious functions of the Pope. One paper only is published in each of the great cities, and that in most instances issues but once or twice a week. In a word, the press is entirely prostrate in Italy, and has been degraded into the most servile instrument of church and state. attempts have been made to revive its freedom; but they have soon been crushed by the despotism of the governments.

Some

LETTER LXXXI.

EXCURSION TO THE BATHS OF LUCCA-PISTOIA-PESCIA-VALE OF THE SERCHIO-ARRIVAL AT THE BATHS--SCORPIONSSKETCH OF SCENERY--HOT SPRINGS-BUONVISI--COUNT DEMIDOFF-THEATRE-BALLS---CASINO-~CORSO PONTE SER

RAGLIO.

August, 1826.-At 6 o'clock on the evening of the 4th, we set out on an excursion to the Baths of Lucca, in company with the American Consul. Passing down the right bank of the Arno, through the Cascine, we were soon in the midst of one of the most fertile and luxuriant regions I ever beheld. The vale is literally and emphatically buried in verdure, forming a mass so thick and tangled, as to appear wholly impervious. Mulberries and other trees, matted with vines, formed the principal growth; and to these were added a thousand accessories, consisting of every species of vegetation. The late copious showers and warm suns had given vigour and a vivid tinge to the foliage. Nothing can surpass the richness of this district; and the beauty, neatness, and industry of the peasantry are in harmony with the charms of the country. We saw numerous groups of them, sitting before the doors of their houses, in the villages along the road, or in some cases, in the open fields, busy at their work of braiding straw. They lead a most laborious life, subsisting on light fare, and toiling hard. The traveller cannot but feel a degree of indignation, that so large a portion