At the Laurentian library we were edified by the sight of some famous old manuscripts, invaluable to classical scholars.  To my unlearned eyes the manuscript of Petrarch, containing portraits of himself and Laura, was more interesting.  Petrarch is hideous—­but I was pleased with the head of Laura, which in spite of the antique dryness and stiffness of the painting, has a soft and delicate expression not unlike one of Carlo Dolce’s Madonnas.  Here we saw Galileo’s forefinger, pointing up to the skies from a white marble pedestal; and exciting more derision than respect.

At the Pietra Dura, notwithstanding the beauty and durability of some of the objects manufactured, the result seemed to me scarce worth the incredible time, patience, and labour required in the work. Par exemple, six months’ hard labour spent upon a butterfly in the lid of a snuff-box seems a most disproportionate waste of time.  Thirty workmen are employed here at the Grand Duke’s expense; for this manufacture, like that of the Gobelins at Paris, is exclusively carried on for the sovereign.

Nov. 20.—­I am struck in this place with grand beginnings and mean endings.  I have not yet seen a finished church, even the Duomo has no facade.

Yesterday we visited the Palazzo Mozzi to see Benvenuto’s picture, “The Night after the Battle of Jena.”  Then several churches—­the Santa Croce, which is hallowed ground:  the Annonciata, celebrated for the frescos of Andrea del Sarto; and the Carmine, which pleased me by the light elegance of its architecture, and its fine alto-relievos in white marble.  In this church is the chapel of the Madonna del Carmele, painted by Masuccio, and the most ancient frescos extant:  they are curious rather than beautiful, and going to decay.

To-day we visited the school of the Fine Arts:  it contains a very fine and ample collection of casts after the antique; and some of the works of modern artists and students are exhibited.  Were I to judge from the specimens I have seen here and elsewhere, I should say that a cold, glaring, hard tea-tray style prevails in painting, and a still worse taste, if possible, in sculpture.  No soul, no grandeur, no simplicity; a meagre insipidity in the conception, a nicety of finish in the detail; affectation instead of grace, distortion instead of power, and prettiness instead of beauty.  Yet the artists who execute these works, and those who buy them, have free access to the marvels of the gallery, and the treasures of the Pitti Palace.  Are they sans eyes, sans souls, sans taste, sans every thing, but money and self-conceit?

Nov. 22.—­Our mornings, however otherwise occupied, are generally concluded by an hour in the gallery or at the Pitti Palace; the evenings are spent in the Mercato Nuovo, in the workshops of artists, or at the Cascina.

To-day at the gallery I examined the Dutch school and the Salle des Portraits, and ended as usual with the Tribune.  The Salle des Portraits contains a complete collection of the portraits of painters down to the present day.  In general their respective countenances are expressive of their characters and style of painting.  Poor Harlow’s picture, painted by himself, is here.