On approaching Leghorn from the sea, I have always been inclined to recognise in it, Triturrita, with the ancient port of Pisa. It is true that the modern town does not wholly correspond with the description given by Rutilius.

It has now more than a mere bank of sea-weed to protect it from the violence of the waves ; it embraces an ample harbour within its arms of stone ; but it lies on a naturally open shore; it has an artificial peninsula, on which the Villa Triturrita may have stood ; and, by a singular coincidence, there are still three prominent towers to suggest the identity.

NO traveller, now-a-days, omits to make a trip hence to Pisa. Like the Itinerant Gaul, he leaves his vessel in the port, and hurries away to lionise that city. He now needs no friendly loan of a carriage, or of saddle-horses ; but, thanks to the railroad, he may run to Pisa and back, while the steamer is taking in coals; for presuming on his privilege as “roba di vapore,” he may set custom-house officers, and all the usual stumbling-blocks of travellers, at defiance.