shrouded in darkness; and Milton, doomed to lose his sight, which seemed to have been only granted to him long enough to have filled his glorious mind with images whose brightness never escaped from it, but embued his works with unfading light long after he himself had ceased to enjoy all physical seuse of it. I love to think of this meeting, when my eyes dwell on the sunny Fesolé, and people its summit with two such spirits.

I love, too, to turn to the spot where Boccaccio led his companions, to escape the ravages of the plague and beguiled the hours by relating the Decameron; although I wonder how, flying from a pestilence that had torn from them dear and fond ties, they could still enjoy existence, and indulge in a levity so ill suited to the time and circumstance. Mysterious and inexplicable human nature! in which selfishness is so deeply rooted as to teach us a lesson that love deems to be impracticable-forgetfulness.

25th. Saw the cathedral to-day, founded by Sapo, in 1298, and which boasts the magnificent cupola of Brunelleschi. The architecture of this church is different from that of all the others at Florence, and is neither Greek nor Gothic. Connoisseurs affirm it to be Roman, and to them will I leave the task of demonstration, confining myself to the simple fact, that of whatever order the architecture may be, the effect is imposing. Two portraits in this cathedral attracted my attention; and one of them possessed a peculiarly strong interest for me—I refer to that of Dante, the Shakspeare of Italy, by Orcagno. This portrait, although but a posthumous one, cannot be viewed without strong feelings of interest; and these are increased by reflecting, that the same people who banished the original, were afterwards proud to possess this likeness of him. The ill treatment experienced by poets from their country, would form no bad subject for a work in the hands of D'Israeli, whose contemplative and philosophical mind is so well calculated to render justice to it. How much of this ill treatment, from the days of Dante down to those of Byron, might, if analysed, be attributed to the baleful passion of envy?

But to return to the cathedral; the other portrait is that of an Englishman, John Agesto, who fought, Condot tiero-like, in the service of those who best paid, and served with the Pisans. I tried in vain to imagine some English name resembling in sound to Agesto; but the Italians render some of our barbarous ones so much more so, that I cannot guess at his real cognomen.

Dante is as enthusiastically talked of, and more universally read in his own country, than Shakspeare is with us. We have, it is true, many who read our divine bard with the zest which so inimitable a genius merits; but we have also still more who talk of, than who can appreciate his works; and these are precisely the persons who are the loudest in their injudicious praise. But, in Italy, every one with any pretension to literary acquirements, reads Dante con amore; and are honest in their enthusiastic commendations of him.

The cathedral contains the ashes of Brunelleschi, and of Giotti; and near to it is the Campanile, an exquisite specimen of lightness and beauty. The Baptistery, whose bronze gates were said, by no less an authority than Michael Angelo, to be worthy of being the portals to Paradise, stands close to the two former buildings; and is well worthy of observation, being enriched by sculpture from the chisels of the most eminent artists of the time of its completion. I should have given more time to the study of the Baptistery, and contemplated its beautiful gates with more pleasure, had my eyes not been attracted by an iron chain which hangs from its wall; a trophy of the victory of the Florentines over the Pisans. Close to this ungenerous memorial of defeat stand two columns of porphyry, presented by the Pisans to the Florentines, two centuries prior to the conquest of which the chain of the port of Pisa is the record; and they seem to rise reproachfully in front of this disgraceful badge of the victory achieved over their country.

26th. All the world, that is to say, the fashionable world, have left Florence for the pretty villas in its vicinity; and for Monte Nero, near Leghorn, the baths VOL. II.-8

of Lucca and Pisa, which are generally resorted to in summer. I like the solitary appearance which the town has assumed during the last few days-it seems more in harmony with its character.

I this day visited the church of Santa Maria Novella, the spot where Boccaccio formed the party of the actors of the Decameron-tales whose licentiousness not even their merit as literary compositions can redeem. Yet even the licentiousness may not have been without its advantages, for, by exposing the vices which were then so openly practised in Italy, he may have contributed more to cor rect the demoralisation he painted, than the most serious homily in them could have effected.

The uninterrupted friendship between Boccaccio and Petrarch, is one of the rare examples of the duration of that sentiment between literary men, and was honorable to both. They seem to have been more exempt from the irritability peculiar to genius, than are the literati of our times. This difference, perhaps, may be accounted for by the want of critical reviews, those powerful engines for exciting passions destructive to friendship between contemporaries.

27th. Spent several hours in the Palazzo Pitti. Its collection of pictures is magnificent. I turned from the beautiful face of the Madonna della Seggiola, to gaze on the stern countenance of Luther, whose occupation (playing on the spinet) has not softened the severity of its character. His wife, who listens to him, bears no trace of her monastic profession, and her portrait offers no personal attraction to excuse his having induced her to abandon it.

The Three Fates, by Michael Angelo, is a powerful picture. He has represented them stern, and immutable as imagination could portray them; with a force in their hard, dry, sinews and muscles, that indicate their indestructibility. Raphael's portrait of Pope Giulio II, and of Cardinal Bibbiena, are chefs-d'œuvre; so is Titian's picture of Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici. On looking at Titian's works, I have been struck by the resemblance

A

to some of them, which those of Sir Thomas Lawrence bear. I do not, of course, mean to institute a comparison between them; for, with all my admiration of our best portrait-painter, I see the immeasurable distance between his works and those of Titian. Nevertheless, it is evident, that of all the ancient masters, Titian is the one with whose pictures Lawrence has the most deeply imbued his mind, however he may have hitherto fallen short in approaching his model.

The Pitti Palace contains some of Salvator Rosa's best works; among which is a battle, full of force, life, and energy. Salvator Rosa's genius led him to paint only the terrible or the sublime. There is no landscape of his that does not exemplify this fact;, for even in his representations of inanimate nature, some stupendous rock, yawning abyss, or blasted tree, produces this effect, even when the banditti, which he loved to introduce in them, are omitted. This propensity to paint the terrible or sublime, may be traced to have had its origin in the haunts he frequented in his youth, where Nature wore her wildest aspect, and where banditti were not unseldom seen; adding a fearful though a picturesque effect to the composition. It would be a curious and not. uninteresting speculation, to trace the peculiarities, observable in the works of the old masters, to the habits and associations of their junevile days; which influenced their productions as much as they invariably, though unconsciously, do the writings of authors. I love to pause before a fine picture or in the perusal of some favorite writer, and endeavored to identify what I behold with the life of the artist. I sometimes trace, or fancy I can trace, a refinement given to subjects that appertained not to them, but to the mind of the painter; as in a book I find opinions, often previously treated by other writers, assuming a new aspect, from the peculiarity of the individual through whose mind they have passed. I like a picture or a book that awakens a fresh train of ideas, and compels reflection; but for those works that satisfy only the eye or the reason, without exciting the imagination, I feel little in

terest.

Rubens' fine picture, the Four Philosophers, may justly be considered one of the most perfect of his works. It is rich in coloring, faultless in drawing, and full of vigor and expression. Andrea del Sarto's St. John in the Wilderness, and Fra Bartolomeo's St. Mark, are admirable works; but among the magnificent collection of the Pitti Palace, Vandyke loses none of his attractions→→ witness his superb portrait of the Cardinal Bentivoglio. Vandyke seemed to be, of all the artists of his own time, or since, the peintre, par excellence, of lords and ladies, and rarely failed to convey to his canvas an air of dignity, and an expression of proud decorum, indicative of high birth and station. Bronzino's pictures please one. There is a transparency in the coloring of his flesh, that is very beautiful; but there is much more of animal than of intellectual beauty in his women. They look as if fed on milk and the richest fruits of the earth, and as if they had never been exposed to a rude breeze. In short, they are the personifications of youth and healthful comeliness, without a care, and nearly without a thought.

28th. Again to the Pitti Palace. Canova's Venus does not please me. How immeasurably inferior it is to

the Venus de' Medici! I never see a female statue of his without being reminded of his first attempt having been executed in butter; for there is an appearance of softness about them-strange as it may be to attribute the semblance of such a quality to so hard a substance as marble, that makes them look as if modelled by the hand in some malleable substance, rather than chiseled in marble. There is something affected and meretricious, too, in the air and attitude of his female statues, which conveys the notion that his models have been taken from the opera house, ere they had lost their roundness of contour by excess of dancing. They look languishing and coquettish; and seem conscious of their nudity and their charms, rather than really modest. Yet Canova works marble as no other sculptor of modern times has done. The very appearance of softness on which I have remarked, is a proof of his rare excellence in his art;