o or three songs rapidly to an audience who regard them
with apathy and converse without ceasing. The only sign of interest
which one observes is the murmur which follows anything a little
off the beaten track--a sound that might equally be encouragement
or disapproval. But a really pretty woman entering a box moves
them. Then they employ every note in the gamut; and curiously enough
the pretty woman in the box is usually as cool under the fusillade
as a professional and hardened sister would be. A strange music hall
this to the English eye, where the orchestra smokes, and no numbers
are put up, and every one talks, and the intervals seem to be hours
long. But the Florentines do not mind, for they have not the English
thirst for entertainment and escape; they carry their entertainment
with them and do not wish to escape--going to such places only because
they are warmer than out of doors.

Sitting here and watching their ironical negligence of the stage and
their interest in each other's company; their animated talk and rapid
decisions as to the merits and charms of a performer; the comfort of
their attitudes and carelessness (although never quite slovenliness)
in dress; one seems to realize the nation better than anywhere. The
old fighting passion may have gone; but much of the quickness, the
shrewdness and the humour remains, together with the determination of
each man to have if possible his own way and, whether possible or not,
his own say.

Seeing them in great numbers one quickly learns and steadily
corroborates the fact that the Florentines are not beautiful. A
pretty woman or a handsome man is a rarity; but a dull-looking man
or woman is equally rare. They are shrewd, philosophic, cynical, and
very ready for laughter. They look contented also: Florence clearly
is the best place to be born in, to live in, and to die in. Let all
the world come to Florence, by all means, and spend its money there;
but don't ask Florence to go to the world. Don't in fact ask Florence
to do anything very much.

Civilization and modern conditions have done the Florentines no
good. Their destiny was to live in a walled city in turbulent
days, when the foe came against it, or tyranny threatened from
within and had to be resisted. They were then Florentines and
everything mattered. To-day they are Italians and nothing matters
very much. Moreover, it must be galling to have somewhere in the
recesses of their consciousness the knowledg