the straw-plat had of late considerably fallen in value, and could not find purchasers!”
Young, well-born Italian women were sitting the whole evening at the card-table. I wondered whether they had any idea of the condition of the straw-platting women in their neighborhood.
Another day we drove to Belles-Guardo, one of the high hills which surround the valley. How beautifully shone the red roses by the way against the blue sky back-ground; and what a splendid view on the ascent and on the summit! Florence shone out, in the setting sun, like a flaming, golden rose, set in the fertile valley of the Arno. And the river wound, like a silver scarf around its walls.
One evening we heard, at Verdi's opera Trovatore, fine voices and not bad music; but, alas! what execution! Hard, without light and shadow; without feeling, unmusical. Has the genius of music fled from Italy to the North? It is preferable to go to the theatres of Alfieri and Goldoni than to the opera in Florence.
Not one of the least enjoyments here in the city, is wandering along its streets, squares, and bridges, and watching the life of the people; devoid, it is true, of any marked peculiarity, but full of life and movement. There is a crowd, but you easily make your way; and you hear no coarse language, although the exterior of the working people is often ill-conditioned. Begging is strictly forbidden; but many things besides are here also forbidden, and there are many beggars, but not pertinacious like those of Pisa. Fruits and flowers abound at every street corner. There are
