and magnificence of its public buildings, particularly the cathedral, whose grandeur filled me with astonishment.  The palaces, squares, fountains, statues, bridges, do not only carry an aspect full of elegance and greatness, but discover a taste quite different, in kind, from that which reigns in the public edifices in other countries.  The more I see of Italy, the more I am persuaded that the Italians have a style (if I may use that expression) in every thing, which distinguishes them almost essentially from all other Europeans.  Where they have got it,—­whether from natural genius or ancient imitation and inheritance, I shall not examine; but the fact is certain.  I have been but one day in the gallery, that amazing repository of the most precious remains of antiquity, and which alone is sufficient to immortalize the illustrious house of Medicis, by whom it was built, and enriched as we now see it.  I was so impatient to see the famous Venus of Medicis, that I went hastily through six apartments, in order to get a sight of this divine figure; purposing (sic), when I had satisfied this ardent curiosity, to return and view the rest at my leisure.  As I, indeed, passed through the great room which contains the ancient statues, I was stopped short at viewing the Antinous, which they have placed near that of Adrian, to revive the remembrance of their preposterous loves; which, I suppose, the Florentines rather look upon as an object of envy, than of horror and disgust.  This statue, like that of the Venus de Medicis, spurns description:  such figures my eyes never beheld.—­I can now understand that Ovid’s comparing a fine woman to a statue, which I formerly thought a very disobliging similitude, was the nicest and highest piece of flattery.  The Antinous is entirely naked, all its parts are bigger than nature; but the whole, taken together, and the fine attitude of the figure, carry such an expression of ease, elegance and grace, as no words can describe.  When I saw the Venus I was rapt in wonder,—­and I could not help casting a thought back upon Antinous.  They ought to be placed together; they are worthy of each other.—­If marble could see and feel, the separation might be prudent,—­if it could only see, it would certainly lose its coldness, and learn to feel; and, in such a case, the charms of these two figures would produce an effect quite opposite to that of the Gorgon’s head, which turned flesh into stone.  Did I pretend to describe to you the Venus, it would only set your imagination at work to form ideas of her figure; and your ideas would no more resemble that figure, than the Portuguese face of Miss ——­, who has enchanted our knights, resembles the sweet and graceful countenance of lady ——­, his former flame.  The description of a face or figure, is a needless thing, as it never conveys a true idea; it only gratifies the imagination with a fantastic one, until the real one is seen.  So, my dear, if you have a mind to form a true notion of the divine forms and features of the Venus and Antinous, come to Florence.