And from that Italy how often have we had great and beautiful tidings? In 1300 news from Dante; in 1500 news from Americus Vespucius; in 1600 from Galileo. And what are our present tidings from Florence? Apparently, but small. But who knows? Perhaps the results will be immense! It is a discourse of but a few pages, a medical pamphlet, and its very title is more likely to repel than to attract. And, yet, in those few pages there is matter which, duly acted upon, may change the whole destiny of our great, but weak, our often wise, but still more often mistaken Humanity. Opposite to the Title I find two portraits, one a deceased boy, and another dying. The author of the pamphlet is a Doctor, who, very unusual thing! has been so terribly impressed by the fate of his poor unknown and, but for him, uncared for children, that he has been led to write for our instruction, his pain and his regret. The elder of these children, of a fine and high nature, in the bitterness, as it would seem, of a great destiny cut short, has a bouquet upon his pillow. His mother,--poor, poor, mother! has given it to him this morning, having nothing else to give, and the nurses, seeing the quite religious love with which he cared for the poor gift of that poor mother, have allowed him to keep it. The second, still younger, in all the tender grace of his four or five years, is evidently dying; his eyes are fast veiling beneath the death film. Each of these poor boys had shown sympathy for the other. When they could no longer speak their sympathy, they _looked_ it in their tender glances, and the good kind Doctor, (blessings on him for the kindly thought!) had them placed opposite to each other, and his engraving shows them to us (touching sight), just as, dying, they exchanged their sympathizing glances! The whole is truly, and nobly, Italian. In any other country a man would fear to be laughed at in showing himself thus truly tender. Not so in Italy. The Doctor wrote to his Italian public, just as he might soliloquise in the privacy of his own study; and he unreservedly pours out all his feelings with an intensity, with a perfectly feminine sensibility, which will make the worldly man laugh, and the kindly man weep. And it must be confessed that his native language has much to do with his power over our feelings; it is the language of women and children, at once so tender and so striking, beautiful even in its terrible accent of grief and suffering. It is a shower of mingled tears and roses.