There are few spots in Europe of superior interest to this corner of Pisa; and yet there is a little chapel on the quay, called _Santa Maria della Spina_, that is worthy to be here, the tradition running that it is the repository of a thorn from the crown of the Saviour. It is a miniature edifice of marble, and one of the most grotesque little things I have ever seen, in its way; quite equal to the celebrated town-house of Louvain. The style is termed here _il Gotico Moresco_, to distinguish it from _il Tedesco_, or what is here called the German Gothic. There is a good deal of Moorish architecture in Tuscany, or that which approaches it, if not quite pure, the court of the Medici palace at Florence being in this oriental style. I think it singularly beautiful in its place, especially for cloisters and courts. The chapel in question is of black and white marble,--a taste that suits its general quaintness, but which impairs the majesty of severer architecture. After passing the night in Pisa, we galloped across the wide plain to Leghorn. The sea-air was grateful, even in winter, and I snuffed the odour of this delightful sea with a delight that was “redolent of joy and youth.” We got into a very good inn kept by a Scotchman, and soon exhausted the wonders of the place. It is not easy for one who has not been in Europe, to appreciate the difference that exists between its capitals and its commercial towns. Leghorn is rather an interesting town, and has even a few respectable points of poetic interest; but it had an atmosphere of trade, that struck us forcibly on entering it. It has canals within the walls, is fortified, and has some very good streets. We ordered dinner, and hurried off to the port. Here we feasted our eyes on the different picturesque rigs and peculiar barks of this poetical sea. Long years had gone by since I had seen the felucca, the polacre, the xebec and the sparranara, and all the other quaint-looking craft of the Mediterranean: for, whatever may be said of the utilitarian qualities of our own vessels, poetry has had no more to do with them than it has had to do with any thing else in the land. I do not believe we are without poetic feeling as a people; but we are sadly deficient in the ordinary appliances of the art. As we strolled along the mole and quays, we met several men from the Levant; and an Algerine Rais was calmly smoking his _chibouque_ on the deck of his polacre.