beautiful portrait of Richard Southwell, by Holbein, with the peacock-green background that we know so well and always rejoice to see; a typical candle-light Schalcken, No. 800; several golden Poelenburghs; an anonymous portrait of Virgilius von Hytta of Zuicham, No. 784; a clever smiling lady by Sustermans, No. 709; the Signora Puliciani and her husband, No. 699; a rather crudely coloured Rubens—­“Venus and Adonis”—­No. 812; the same artist’s “Three Graces,” in monochrome, very naked; and some quaint portraits by Lucas Cranach.

But no doubt to many persons the most enchaining picture here is the Medusa’s head, which used to be called a Leonardo and quite satisfied Ruskin of its genuineness, but is now attributed to the Flemish school.  The head, at any rate, would seem to be very similar to that of which Vasari speaks, painted by Leonardo for a peasant, but retained by his father.  Time has dealt hardly with the paint, and one has to study minutely before Medusa’s horrors are visible.  Whether Leonardo’s or not, it is not uninteresting to read how the picture affected Shelley when he saw it here in 1819:—­

...  Its Horror and its Beauty are divine.  Upon its lips and eyelids seem to lie Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine, Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath, The agonies of anguish and of death.

The little room leading from this one should be neglected by no one interested in Medicean history, for most of the family is here, in miniature, by Bronzino’s hand.  Here also are miniatures by other great painters, such as Pourbus, Guido Reni, Bassano, Clouet, Holbein.  Look particularly at No. 3382, a woman with brown hair, in purple—­a most fascinating little picture.  The Ignota in No. 3348 might easily be Henrietta Maria, wife of Charles I of England.  The other exhibits are copies in miniature of famous pictures, notable among them a Raphael—­No. 3386—­and a Breughel—­No. 3445—­while No. 3341, the robing of a monk, is worth attention.

We come now to the last pictures of the collection—­in three little rooms at the end, near the bronze sleeping Cupid.  Those in the first room were being rearranged when I was last here; the others contain Dutch works notable for a few masterpieces.  There are too many Poelenburghs, but the taste shown as a whole is good.  Perhaps to the English enthusiast for painting the fine landscape by Hercules Seghers will, in view of the recent agitation over Lord Lansdowne’s Rembrandt, “The Mill,”—­ascribed in some quarters to Seghers—­be the most interesting picture of all.  It is a sombre, powerful scene of rugged coast which any artist would have been proud to sign; but it in no way recalls “The Mill’s” serene strength.  Among the best of its companions are a very good Terburg, a very good Metsu, and an extremely beautiful Ruysdael.

And so we are at the end of the pictures—­but only to return again and again—­and are not unwilling to fall into the trap of the official who sits here, and allow him to unlock the door behind the Laocoeon group and enjoy what he recommends as a “bella vista” from the open space, which turns out to be the roof of the Loggia de’ Lanzi.  From this high point one may see much of Florence and its mountains, while, on looking down, over the coping, one finds the busy Piazza della Signoria below, with all its cabs and wayfarers.