My dear Bob,--Here we are going it, and in about the very "fastest" place I ever set foot in. In any other city society seems to reserve itself for evening and lamplight; but here, Bob, you make "running from the start," and keep up the pace till you come in. In the morning there 's the club, with plenty of whist; all the gossip of the town,--and such gossip too,--the real article, by Jove!--no shadowy innuendoes, no vague and half-mystified hints of a flaw here or a crack there, but home blows, my boy, with a smashed character or a ruined reputation at every stroke. This is, however, only a breathing canter for what awaits you at the Cascini,--a sort of "promenade," where all the people meet in their carriages, and exchange confidences in scandal and invitations to tea,--the Cascini being to the club what the ballet is to the opera. After this, you have barely time to dress for dinner; which over, the opera begins. There you pay visits from box to box; learn all that is going on for the evening; hear where the prettiest women are going, and where the smartest play will be found. Midnight arrives, and then--but not before--the real life of Florence begins. The dear Contessa, that never showed by daylight, at last appears in her _salon_; the charming Marchesa, whose very head-dress is a study from Titian, and whose dark-fringed eyes you think you recognize from the picture in "the Pitti," at length sails in, to receive the humble homage of--what, think you? a score of devoted worshippers, a band of chivalrous adorers? Nothing of the kind, Bob: a dozen or so of young fellows, in all manner of costumes, and all shapes of beards and moustaches; all smoking cigars or cigarettes, talking, singing, laughing, thumping the piano, shouting choruses, playing tricks with cards,--all manner of tomfoolery, in fact; with a dash of enthusiasm in the nonsense that carries you along in spite of yourself. The conversation--if one can dare to call it such--is a wild chaos of turf-talk, politics, scandal, literature, buffoonery, and the ballet. There is abundance of wit,--plenty of real smartness on every side. The fellows who have just described the cut of a tucker can tell you accurately the contents of a treaty; and they who did not seem to have a thought above the depth of a flounce or the width of a sandal, are thoroughly well versed in the politics of every State of Europe. There is no touch of sarcasm in their gayety,--none of that refined, subtle ridicule that runs through a Frenchman's talk; these fellows are eminently good-natured: the code of morals is not severe, and hence the secret of the merciful judgments you hear pronounced on every one.