THE FESTIVAL OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST, AT FLORENCE-BY AN ENGLISHI TURFITE IN ITALY, illustrated by H. ALKEN ON THE LAW OF SPORTING FOR RABBITS, WOODCOCKS, SNIPES, &c. Illustrations. RACING AT FLORENCE, BY E. RADCLIFFE, AFTER ALKEN CATCHING A TARTAR BY ALKEN, AFTER WILDRAKE TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. We are obliged to "A CONSTANT READER" for his attention,-but we make it a rule to insert exclusive information alone. We have received a letter signed "Retrac," an angry man is seldom a wise one. We can give no decision in the matter of the Greyhound picture without seeing, or having a clear description of it--if a good picture, as well as a correct portrait, it will" suit our purposes"-will our correspondent (Durham) communicate further with us on this subject. B. B. and a " DAY AT DYCERS," are under consideration. THE FESTIVAL OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST AT FLORENCE. BY AN ENGLISH TURFITE IN ITALY. GREAT are the honours lavished on the memory of St. John the Baptist; and his festival at Florence is ushered in by fêtes, thanksgivings, and revellings, of splendour unequalled by the tributes or ceremonies ordained to any other Saint of Christendom. Morning dawns bright, sunny, and radiant on the Queen of Arno's golden vale, as the bells of the Duomo, of San Lorenzo, of Santa Croce, and a score of other temples combine to ring a merry peal of welcome to the day of days which celebrates the advent of their Patron Saint. From every window streamers of silk are waving; banners of velvet float from every balcony; every terrace is adorned with hangings of most curiously wrought tapestry, brought forth from repositories in which they have been treasured up for centuries. Gorgeous processions wind through the streets; the venerable priests swing their silver censers to and fro, perfuming the air with fragrant incense, and accompanied by files of white-robed youths, who, bearing blazing tapers in their hands, chaunt forth the "Gloria in Excelsis." All the shops are closed on this bright day; no toil nor labour is known in the land. Attired in holiday garments, peasants from the Campagna, Contadini with their wives and dark-eyed daughters hanging on their arms, the dwellers in cities, the inhabitants of Arezzo and Siena eclipsing in their far-famed loveliness the maidens of Florence, all and each urge their way through the crowded streets, or cluster in the Piazza di Duomo with expectation upon every brow, smiles of delight on every lip, and pleasure dancing in their dark and melting eyes. It is a day of universal jubilee, shared equally by prince and peasant. Three hours have chimed since the dial testified that the sun had attained his meridian. Reposing in our carriage we pass at a foot's pace through busy streets, blocked up by a host of equipages. From the Sovereign of Tuscany in his gilded coach, to the poor contadino's humble carricello, drawn by a rough uncurried pony of the Maremma, all, in, and around Florence, assist to swell the rolling train. Now the carriages sweeping through the piazzas of the Santa Croce, and the Duomo, roll down the Via de Benchi, and pour into the Piazza della Santa Maria Novella, where having deposited their various freights of wealth and beauty, and titled nobility, at one or other of the houses which encircle the Piazza, they are compelled by the military to retire from the scene into the adjacent bye-streets. The spacious Piazza had been metamorphosed into an amphitheatre, by ranges of stands and piles of galleries run up outside the houses, and forming an unbroken belt to the arena; and not only was every gallery and stand crowded, but every window and balcony, as well as the roofs of the houses, presented a dense mass of impatient spectators, and the very chimneys and parapets were covered with infantine aspirants to future honours, yet although the crowd was enormous, not only the entire population of Florence, but also the strangers who hurried there in thousands, all managed to find ample accommodation, so extensive were the preparations for their reception. It was, indeed, a glorious and goodly sight to gaze around that vast amphitheatre, in which no scenic effect that art could devise, or wealth command, was wanting to complete the illusion that the days of the Cæsars had not yet passed away from off the face of the earth! There was the pavilion of royalty, filled with all that could be deemed most noble, proud, and fair, in Florence! the martial array and glittering arms of horsemen on every side. An ocean of spectators glowing with impatience for the Chariot-race. "Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The portal opes, and expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls." Four chariots rush into the arena; in form, in size, in shape, in decorations, even to the minutest particular, exactly resembling the famed Bigæ of the ancients, whose prowess and skill these, their degenerate descendants, would vainly strive to emulate. In either Biga stands a charioteer, arrayed in robes of different colours, loose, flowing, and rich; one clad in vestments such as were worn by imperial Nero, when he urged his flying steeds around the Hippodrome at Elis, and bore away triumphantly that most coveted of the Olympian prizes, the chaplet of wild olive, from his competitors. A second appears as an Auriga-a third, as the Roman knight Septimius--and the fourth, in the prætexta, or long white robe with purple borders, sacred to the " patres conscripti." Attached to each chariot by the quadruple yoke, are four fiery steeds, loaded with trappings of velvet and fantastic decorations of gold, with plumes waving on their heads, and panther's hides cast over their loins; and, in truth, they bear more affinity to grotesque looking birds, than horses, such is the profusion of feathers, trappings, and ornaments, which disguise their forms, and disfigure their beauty. The signal is given! hushed is the din of voices ! The trumpet sounds! Away they bound, swifter than the flash of heaven's forked lightning, away, away, all together! The aurige are at first confused and stupiñed by the terrific velocity with which they are borne onwards by their impetuous steeds, impatient of controul, and disdaining alike the bit and the reins, but soon, animated by the shouts and cheers of their fellow-citizens, they are inspired with their enthusiasm, and abandoning themselves, heart and soul, to the intoxicating excitement of the contest, they stimulate their coursers to extraordinary exertions, and urge them to the utmost of their speed, with their voices and the lash! Away they dash around the arena, and whirl with fearful recklessness of limb and life, around the marble obelisks, which, standing at either extremity of the Stadium, serve as metæ or goals. The shouts and acclamations of the assembled multitudes rend the heavens, and excite the aurige to phrenzy. Fiercer, faster, and heavier falls the lash on the flanks of the flying steeds; they bound-they spring forward-they leap onwards, they cleave the gale in their headlong career. Doubtful is the contest, severe the strife! But now an aurige, like his prototype, the Imperial Nero, dashes past all competitors outstrips alike them and the wanton breeze in speed, and whirls round the obelisk more than three chariot-lengths before his antagonists. He is proclaimed victor! he is crowned with the triumphant olive! and a universal burst of applause, and the enthusiastic acclamations of the spectators, swell the proud pean of his triumph!!! "The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb, And glowing into day." A day of festivity; a day of blythesome rejoicing; a day of revelry and thanksgiving. Again gorgeous processions stalk through the streets. Again a brilliant display of pomp and luxury excites our wonderment, and exacts our admiration, as the gay and superb corso of equipages roll proudly on in costly state through the crowded streets. It is the fourth hour after noon! near to the Porto Prato, the gate that leads unto the Cascino, stands a noble palace, the property of the Marquis Lajatico, Governor of Leghorn, a man of excellence and worth, rich in mental as in worldly endowments, of unblemished reputation and spotless fame, and rejoicing in the possession of a cup of domestic happiness, crowned to the brim. I stood in a balcony of his proud palace, wherein were assembled together all the nobles and princes of Florence, to witness the celebrated Corso dei Barberi, or the Race of Horses without Riders. The populace who on yester's eve filled the vast Piazza della Santa Maria Novella to overflowing, had crushed into the long sweep of |