Florence's Bois de Boulogne--Shelley--The races--The game of Pallone--SS. Ognissanti--Botticelli and Ghirlandaio--Amerigo Vespucci--The Platonic Academy's garden--Alberti's Palazzo Rucellai--Melancholy decay--Two smiling boys--The Corsini palace--The Trinità bridge--The Borgo San Jacopo from the back--Home fishing--SS. Apostoli--A sensitive river--The Ponte Vecchio--The goldsmiths--S. Stefano. The Cascine is the "Bois" of Florence; but it does not compare with the Parisian expanse either in size or attraction. Here the wealthy Florentines drive, the middle classes saunter and ride bicycles, the poor enjoy picnics, and the English take country walks. The further one goes the better it is, and the better also the river, which at the very end of the woods becomes such a stream as the pleinairistes love, with pollarded trees on either side. Among the trees of one of these woods nearly a hundred years ago, a walking Englishman named Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote his "Ode to the West Wind". The Cascine is a Bois also in having a race-course in it--a small course with everything about it on a little scale, grandstand, betting boxes, and all. And why not?--for after all Florence is quite small in size, however remarkable in character. Here funny little race-meetings are held, beginning on Easter Monday and continuing at intervals until the weather gets too hot. The Florentines pour out in their hundreds and lie about in the long grass among the wild flowers, and in their fives and tens back their fancies. The system is the pari-mutuel, and here one seems to be more at its mercy even than in France. The odds keep distressingly low; but no one seems to be either elated or depressed, whatever happens. To be at the races is the thing--to walk about and watch the people and enjoy the air. It is the most orderly frugal scene, and the baleful and mysterious power of the racehorse to poison life and landscape, as in England, does not exist here.