of clever nags (six-and-twenty of whom arrived but a few days since from England) are admirably suited to those who opine, and all must opine, with Spenser, "That, chiefly, skill to ride is a science Proper to gentle blood." My sudden and unexpected appearance awakened a burst of surprise; and I was welcomed, yea, and warmly welcomed, with kind words and outstretched hands. For some minutes, questions and answers, and greetings, and compliments, succeeded each other in rapid succession; and then we fell into an animated discussion on the races that were to be held on the morrow. The conversation and the hours rolled on, until the silver voice of the Duomo's bell, chiming the eleventh hour, warned us of the march that old father Time had stolen on 66 our flow of reason." "Adieu, Messieurs, I must to the Macdonnells," exclaimed Lowenberg, springing from his seat. "And I! And I!" said, in a breath, both the Poniatowskis. A fourth rushed off to Fox's: a fifth, " to those slumbers which the truly virtuous alone enjoy!" And, whither went I? To hear marvellous sweet music from one "The brightness of whose cheek would shame the stars, As daylight does a lamp: her eye in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright, FIRST DAY, SEPTEMBER 23RD. At what moment of our existence are we happier than at table? There hatred and animosity are lulled to sleep, and pleasure alone reigns. There the cook, by his skill and attention, anticipates our wishes in the happiest selection of the best dishes and decorations : there our wants are satisfied, our minds and bodies invigorated, and ourselves qualified for the high delights of love, music, poetry, dancing, and other pleasures. Of a verity, O most beneficent philanthropist; of a verity, Gas! well, and supremely well, didst thou embody in practice the realization of that all-glorious and all-sublime theory of the greatest of artists; and we went forth on our way, rejoicing and opining with Le Chevalier de Beaujeu, that "the time passed did belong to our fathers—our ancêtres very well-the time present is to us. They have their pretty tombs, with their memories and armorial, all in brass and marbre-we have the petits plats exquis, and the soupe à Chevalier!!" Soon after breakfast the party dispersed some in carriages, and others on horseback (and I among the latter)-wending their way unto the Cascina. RACE I. The Ombrone Purse of 100 francesconi, for horses bred in Tuscany; three-year-olds, 120 lb.; four, 149 lb.; m. and g. allowed 5 lb.; once round. Signor Ferroni's gr. c. Capriolo, three-years old 12 bolted. Three rips opened the ball, and made their debút before the public. Capriolo, who proved himself the Vestris of the trio, chasséd down, and round, and down the course half-a-dozen lengths, before either of the other ballerini; and wound up the quadrille with a pas seul: so far behind him was Chateau, that he was a nonentity in the dance; and La Gigia never even returned to saluer the numerous and admiring spectators of her performances. Indeed, the last, last glimpse that we had of the lovely nymph, was when she cut the quadrille altogether, croiséz-ing out of the course, as if she were bent on a swim in the Arno, to the vast discomfiture of the infant phenomenon who rode her ; who, instead of blubbering, had he had a soul for poetry, should have drawn a fine comparison between his restive fair one, and the silver river "Which runs, and, as it runs, for ever shall run on!" RACE II. The Arno Purse of 200 francesconi, for three-year-olds, 135 lb.; four, 168 lb.; five, 178 lb.; six and aged, 186 lb.; m. and g. allowed 5 lb.; once round. .. .. 1 2 3 5 6 Baron Lowenberg's b. f. Wimple, by the Colonel, four-years old Baron Lowenberg's br. g. Tom (brother to Rob Roy), aged Prince J. Poniatowski's b. g. Antrim, by Lapwing, four-years old.. Mr. Gangee's ch. c. Reviver, by Recovery, out of Primrose, four-years old 4 Prince Ch. Poniatowski's gr. f. Eliza, by Minos, four-years old Mr. Jackson's b. g. Royal Charley, five-years old This was the most interesting race of the day, and gave birth to much and heavy betting. I, with others, booked Antrim as safe to win, from the recollection of his performances in the spring; and backed him, accordingly, at even against the field. When he came out, however, I had sad misgivings; for the firm crest, the healthful bloom, and the expansion and development of muscle, which characterised him when under John Hawkins's care, were all wanting. It was reported that the horse had been ill, sick even unto death. If so, they were to blame to run him at all; unless, indeed, they calculated on winning,"condition, or no condition," against so notorious a jade as Wimple. After two false starts, Dini launched his fleet in a style that did him infinite credit, and that I never saw surpassed even in England. Eliza and Tom cut out the work at a slashing pace, with all the field well up and handy. Charley was the first to cry "peccavi!" but the other five rattled down the straight-in at their very fastest: Wimple beating her boon, or manger companion, Tom, by a head; Antrim and Reviver were close together; and I was astonished at the latter running even so forward, as he arrived in Florence from England but five days prior to the race. He is a fine, powerful colt; and will, I predict, be a troublesome customer in the spring. RACE III. The Cecina Purse of 100 francesconi, for Tuscan-bred horses; once round. Signor Vincentelli's gr. g. Sargentino, 159 lb. 1 2 3 10 to 1, 20 to 1, or, in fact, any odds on Sinclope, who had carried away triumphantly this very stake at five consecutive meetings; and was booked as so safe to win, that her fame frightened away to many who would otherwise have competed for the prize. To the astonishment of every one, Sargentino won cleverly by a couple of lengths; but Vincentelli should discharge his jock (or, rather, disinherit his first-born, who was the steersman), for a more infamous exhibition of unnecessary flogging and spurring was never witnessed; and had it occurred in England, it would have furnished materials for a motion at St. Stephen's, or been hailed with rapture by the Society for preventing Inhumanity to Animals, as sufficient ground-work for an action and a pamphlet. When half-adozen lengths in front, the juvenile Vincentelli began to flog and spur most unmercifully; and had not Sargentino been the gamest brute (and brute he is in every interpretation of the word) ever foaled in Tuscany, he must have stopped. As it was, he won the race; but his sensations on receiving such unmerited chastisement from the hand that fed him, must have been those of Julius Cæsar, when he exclaimed, "Et tu, Brute!" or of Mark Antony, when he said, "That was the most unkindest cut of all!" Any odds on Tom, who bolted at the end of the first round, and was followed by Antrim. A by-stander attempted to lead the latter back into the course, when the bridle broke off, and the jockey dismounted with the utmost precipitation, and abandoned the contest. Tom went back to the spot from whence he bolted, and ran solus the course that was set before him. Such extraordinary and unprecedented delays had occurred between the different races, that this match was run by moon-light. The horses kept together, at a fair pace, as far as the fatal corner of the Piazzone; whence the number of nags that I have seen bolt is incredible: Elisa was leading, when some sudden freak took the moon's minion, and she sprang from the course; and what became of her afterwards the biographer knoweth not. "How very late you are!" exclaimed the Marquise, as I glided into Poniatowski's banquetting-hall, and took possession of a vacant seat in silence. "Do you generally waste an hour and a half in dressing?" "Pardon, most beautiful Marquise," I replied; " but I have been the victim of three distinct dressings since I escaped from the artillery of those brilliant eyes, which destroy the sighing youth of Tuscany in hecatombs. I first dressed my horse, then dressed myself, and have now been honoured in being dressed by you." "What nonsense you talk! Shall Ferdinando give you any soupe à la tortue? Remember that Corneille says, 'Il y a tant de maîtresses, mais il n'y a qu'un diner.' The party was very brilliant; conversation flowed easily and uninterruptedly gay were the jokes, and light the peals of laughter which floated through the festive hall. Indeed, the flow of reason, and the feast of wit, gave birth to the only clouds that crept over my calm, and holy, and virtuous enjoyment: for when a deity, like Monsieur Jourdain, presides over the orgies of a voluptuous banquet, the imagination should be devoted to deep and profound reasoning, and the senses to speculative meditations on the spiritual essences embodied in the divine conceptions: the mind should be abstracted from all grosser objects; the voice be lulled in silence; and the lips parted only to catch the aroma of the most exquisite mysteries. I was first aroused from a delicious reverie by a mal àpropos question from Poniatowski, about a handicap; and soon afterwards, when some one inquired why Lowenberg was absent? I, wretch that I was, I injudiciously accounted for his absence, on the supposition of his having probably preferred the victorious Wimple's loose box to the festive board: which remark was taken in earnest; and taken up in dudgeon by one present, who was at the trouble of assuring me that Lowenberg's absence was merely occasioned by a severe headach. Whether the Baron had a headach or not, I know not; but I know full well that the mention of his headach gave me the heartach; for, in the distraction of the argument, I devoured two most dainty ortolans, gracefully arrayed (like our first mother in the garden of Eden) in leaves of the vine; and I actually devoured them as if they had been dry thrushes, or base starlings, or any other birds classed by ornithologists under either of those vile heads. I actually devoured them without permitting the yellow fat to melt away imperceptibly and tardily in my mouth, and without afterwards revelling in the glorious remembrance of their exquisite delicateness, as a young lover lingers over and sighs away his soul in the first fragrant kisses stolen from the lips of his betrothed. But human nature (to quote the trite and often-quoted observation of a sage philosopher) is subject to disappointments. All men have their trials; and, of a verity, in that hour I had more than mine portion. But let me not mourn over my deep vexation, and the unappreciated ortolans, but rather eulogize the salmi de becasse of Monsieur Jourdain; the whilk, redolent of spices, and triumphant in a brown rich sauce, would have rendered a gorged epicurean again ravenous; would have made a cannibal forswear his horrible rotis for ever; and have wrested a thousand birthrights, rather than one, from Esau, had Jacob been as sublime an artiste as Monsieur Jourdain : which he undoubtedly was not, or he would never have conceived so terrific a mess as a mess of potage. Faugh! my blood curdles in my veins at the bare mention of so barbarous a compound; and wonder is mingled with pity that Esau preferred not to die like a man, rather than to protract an ignominious existence at such a sacrifice (I speak not of the abdication of his birthright) as that of devouring so atrocious an abomination. But this is foreign to our theme! The salmi de becasse, and the filet de volaille-whiter and fairer, yea, and even more delicious, than the breasts of a virgin (intactæ virginis)—I pronounce to be the two plats d'essai of a finished artiste-of a master in gastronomy; and few of thy craft will vie with thee, O Etienne Jourdain, in either. Prithee tell me, O great enchanter !-for of a truth my senses hast thou oft enchanted-tell me (if thy mysteries are not like those of old Dodona's, inscrutable)-tell me, and I swear to thee, by the gods, to reveal the mighty secret to none of mortal mould-did those beatified becasses revel in an ocean of costly sercial, or in a ruby libation of imperial chambertin ? SECOND DAY, SEPTEMBER 24TH. "Were I not Alexander, I would be Diogenes," are the words put by an historian into the mouth of the all-conquering son of Philip and those very words have often induced me to opine that Alexander the Great was not, in reality, the greatest of men, or his proud spirit would never have stooped so low, nor his soaring thoughts have ever been so debased, as to envy Diogenes his rags, his wretchedness, and that most loathsome of habitations, a tub. Moralizing, this morning, on the subject, I basked in the sunbeams which flooded the broad terrace that runs before my humble habitation, and luxuriated in calm contentment on the eider-down cushions of a voluptuous fauteuil-far preferable, O Signor Diogenes, to thy deal tub, with all its panegyrics to boot. Before me was spread a table, on which the purple grape, and the small black fig, a string of tiny becafice, rolls of dazzling whiteness, and honey that might have been culled by sacred bees on Mount Hymettus, formed a repast, frugal and simple enough even for an anchorite. I ate, and moralized; and drank, and philosophized; and the dainties before me disappeared with marvellous rapidity. The last fig was melting away between my lips, when I remembered that I was bidden unto a feast at noon, by that worthiest of Amphitryons, Joseph Poniatowski. "To the devil with philosophy!" I exclaimed, springing from my seat like one galvanized, and upsetting the contents of the silver urn over mine faithful Sultan-a veritable terra nuova quadruped, whose terrific howls and agonized bounds drove me well nigh distracted, and all agreeable souvenirs of the filthy Diogenes, and the mighty Alexander, most effectually from mine imagination. "What is to be done?" I soliloquized. "I have breakfasted, yea, and breakfasted right well. I could not now discuss a cotelette à la maintenon to redeem my soul from broiling. Shall I remain here and gaze on those tiared mountains, and that purple sky, against whose brilliant gorgeousness those old monasteries and cloistered aisles stand in such magnificent relief? Bah! I am in no mood for poetry, in no vein for a touch of the sublime: I'll e'en exchange ma robe de chambre for a Stultz; and in Casa Poniatowski, play Tantalus (oh! that I had that lucky scoundrel's appetite) to a group of noble revellers. Thither, then, I wended. Encircling a round table were some twenty |