when we were within two hours drive of florence, the capitol of tuscany and as it is also called the “italian capitol of fine arts,” we stopped at a hotel to dine and feed horses. the landlord having ascertained that we might probably feel like paying something for what he called dinner, came into the sitting room with a live chicken by the neck and wished to know if i would order something to eat; i answered in the affirmative, when he gave his arm a twist and off went the chicken from his head, fluttering into nonentity. i informed mine host that the stage would hardly wait so long as was necessary to prepare the fowl, and he said he knew more about that than i did. a few moments after this he returned with the crawling flesh of the chicken, some wine and bread, as if he had done something really worth mentioning, and said, “now sir, here is some as fresh chicken as you ever eat, i am not like those town hotels that allow every thing to rot and stink before they sell it.” a beautiful italian girl that was a passenger in the dilligence with me, was waiting to get something, and she said to me “you sir, seem to be the lucky one.” i thought it proper to give some one a small piece of the fresh chicken, but if she had not been so pretty she might have been the “unlucky one.” up over the door of this man’s house was written, these german words, gasthof zum new york. it not taking as much time to dine in the gosthof as in the stable, we took a walk to see the extraordinary phenomena of a muddy place that one can set a blazing with a match. having arrived at florence and hoteled myself i ascertained where the races were, and was told they would commence in thirty minutes and that my hotel window was as good a seat at the races as i could get. i looked out of the window and saw the streets clean as a floor of a log cabin, and written upon the corner “course.” that was the name of the street. a few minutes after the heralds proclaimed “that this course must be cleared” as round at the stand the horses were on the track. this street is circular, and the horses run round, till they come to where they start from, when the race is awarded to the first that comes. no riders are allowed, but the people which makes a paling round the track, hurry each horse on. the horses don’t seem to know they are running a race, because the shouts of the populace at every window, corner and alley is so frightening they are trying all the time to get out of the track.

before the races commence, a carriage with four greys is conveying an old man and wife up a street that comes to the course and branches off, and after the race, himself and lady is the first to ride on the street called “la course;” and after his carriage every other person has a right to enter the promenade of this man and wife, the grand duke, of tuscany. in the next carriage to his was a tall lady with a beaux by her side, who, i learned, was the princess, his daughter. next to her carriage, was a mr. bullion from california, trying to pass himself off for a real american gentleman. these are the times when men who make money in the eldorado, come home to the states to show off. he certainly had more money than brains. he had a liveried carriage. the smoke curled up in little clouds behind him, his feet were on the fore cushion of the open calashe, and a profusion of beard adorned all the lower extremity of his face. his beard reminded me of col. may’s the captor of la vega. the duke halted a moment causing all in the train to halt also, when mr. b. rose up in his carriage and looked round the dukes carriage and told his driver to drive on. he was informed that he could not, and he looked up very wise as if he would like to know why. a few minutes after the train moved, and he said to his driver “wait a little, i don’t want them to think i want to follow them.” the driver stopped and got himself in trouble, for the vehicle behind him told him to drive on or get out of their way. here the police interfeared and ordered mr. consequence bullion esq., of the el dorado to get out of the way of gentlemen and ladies. he tried to pursuade the officers to bear in mind he was talking to an american citizen; but there was as much difference as space between the torrid and frigid zone. the officer gave him to understand that he might be a florentine, but he must get out of the way of other people. mr. b. spit a mouthful of juice in the carriage, threw his feet on the front cushion and told the driver to go on. at first my national pride was somewhat lowered, but on second thought, i gloried in knowing that americans are not responsible for every upstart that goes abroad and violates the rules and regulations of other communities because they were not made to suit his taste, for which no body ever cared but himself. the good people of europe know full well that there is always thistles among roses and not all good among themselves.

american people are not as selfish as italians. italians will hate a man for ever for a paul or bioca. i got acquainted with an italian at the work shop of hiram powers, and this young man volunteered to show me florence, which would of course save me the expense of a lacquey; and my old lacquey told me he wished this man was dead, as he had deprived him of a ducat. an english writer, tells a tale on fontenelle thus: “he once ordered some asparagus cooked in oil for his dinner, for he was passionately fond of it; in five minutes afterwards, an abbey came to see him on some church politics, and as it is usual in france to ask ones friend how he wishes his dinner cooked and name what you have, fontenelles told the old man what he had, and the old man said he would have half of the asparagus cooked in butter. fontenelles thought it a great sacrafice, but said nothing. thirty minutes afterward the abbey’s valet came down in the parlor and exclaimed in great sorrow that while the abbey was washing he was taken with an apilepic fit and was dead. fontenelles struck the youth on the shoulders and said, “run to the kitchen and tell the cook, to cook all the asparagus in oil.” ” now this was indeed a selfish man. sam slick asked a country beaux “why it was that such a fine looking gentleman as himself was not married where so many pretty ladies were?” his answer was “when i offer my hand to a lady, she will be a lady!” this is another selfish man. an irishman once drinking his neighbors wine was too selfish to testify his approbation of its merrits, by drinking a toast of such good wine to his neighbor. at last he was compelled to drink one, and he said, “here is to my wifes husband.” the french is celebrated for eating, the yankee for his pride, and irishmen for their toddies.

“the lads and lasses blightly bent,

to mind both soul and body,

set round the table weel content

and steer about the toddy.”

but i have never found even wit, to justify an italian’s selfishness, only sublimity of meanness is an italian’s selfishness.