The _refugee Carlists_ are celebrating to-day, in the church of Santa Maria Novella, the anniversary of the death of _Louis XVI_. The bishop of Strasbourg is here, and is performing high mass for the soul of the "_martyr_," as they term him. Italy is full of the more aristocratic families of France, and it has become _mauvais ton_ in society to advocate the present government of France, or even its principles. They detest Louis Philippe with the virulence of a deadly private enmity, and declare universally, that they will exile themselves till they can return to overthrow him. Among the refugees are great numbers of young men, who are sent away from home with a chivalrous devotion to the cause of the Duchess of Berri, which they avow so constantly in the circles of Italian society, that she seems the exclusive heroine of the day. There was nothing seen of the French exquisites in Florence for a week after she was taken. They were in mourning for the misfortune of their mistress.
All Florence is ringing with _the miracle_. The city fountains have for some days been dry, and the whole country was suffering for rain. _The day before the moon changed_, the procession began, and the day after, when the sky was full of clouds, the holy picture in the church of the Annunciata, "painted by St. Luke himself," was solemnly uncovered. The result was the present miracle of _rain_, and the priests are preaching upon it from every pulpit. The _padrone_ of my lodgings came in this morning, and told me the circumstances with the most serious astonishment.
I joined the crowd this morning, who are still thronging up the _via de Servi_ to the church of the Annunciata at all hours of the day. The square in front of the church was like a fair--every nook occupied with the little booths of the sellers of rosaries, saints books, and pictures. We were assailed by a troop of pedlars at the door, holding leaden medals and crucifixes, and crying, at the top of their voices, for _fidele Christiani_ to spend a crazie for the love of God.
After crowding up the long cloister with a hundred or two of wretches, steaming from the rain, and fresh from every filthy occupation in the city, we were pushed under the suspended leather door, and reached the nave of the church. In the slow progress we made toward the altar, I had full opportunity to study the fretted-gold ceiling above me, the masterly pictures in the side chapels, the statuary, carving, and general architecture. Description can give you no idea of the waste of splendor in these places.