I say nothing of the Gallery of the Palazzo Pitti; which is not a collection so much as a selection of the most invaluable gems and masterpieces of art.  The imagination dazzled and bewildered by excellence can scarcely make a choice—­but I think the Madonna Della Seggiola of Raffaelle, Allori’s magnificent Judith, Guido’s Cleopatra, and Salvator’s Catiline, dwell most upon my memory.

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Nov. 24.—­After dinner, we drove to the beautiful gardens of the Villa Strozzi, on the Monte Ulivetto, and the evening we spent at the Cocomero, where we saw a detestable opera, capitally acted, and heard the most vile, noisy, unmeaning music, sung to perfection.

Nov. 26.—­Yesterday we spent some hours at Morghen’s gallery, looking over his engravings; and afterwards examined the bronze gates of the Baptistery, which Michel Angelo used to call the gates of Paradise.  We then ascended the Campanile or Belfry Tower to see the view from its summit.  Florence lay at our feet, diminished to a model of itself, with its walls and gates, its streets and bridges, palaces and churches, all and each distinctly visible; and beyond, the Val d’Arno with its amphitheatre of hills, its villas, and its vineyards—­classical Fesole, with its ruined castle, and Monte Ulivetto, with its diadem of cypresses; luxuriant nature and graceful art, blending into one glorious picture, which no smoky vapours, no damp exhalations, blotted and discoloured; but all was serenely bright and fair, gay with moving life, and rich with redundant fertility.

    “O dell’ Etruria gran Citta Reina,
    D’arti e di studj e di grand’ or feconda;
    Cui tra quanto il sol guarda, e ’l mar circonda,
    Ogn’ altra in pregio di belta s’ inchina: 
    Monti superbi, la cui fronte alpina
    Fa di se contra i venti argine e sponda: 
    Valli beate, per cui d’onda in onda
    L’Arno con passo signoril cammina: 
    Bei soggiorni ove par ch’ abbiansi eletto
    Le grazie il seggio, e, come in suo confine,
    Sia di natura il bel tutto ristretto, &c.”

Filicaja will be pardoned for his hyperboles by all who remember that he was himself a Florentine.

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28.—­“Corinne” I find is a fashionable vade mecum for sentimental travellers in Italy; and that I too might be a la mode, I brought it from Molini’s to-day, with the intention of reading on the spot, those admirable and affecting passages which relate to Florence; but when I began to cut the leaves, a kind of terror seized me, and I threw it down, resolved not to open it again.  I know myself weak—­I feel myself unhappy; and to find my own feelings reflected from the pages of a book, in language too deeply and eloquently true, is not good for me.  I want no helps to admiration, nor need I kindle my enthusiasm at the torch of another’s mind.  I can suffer enough, feel enough, think enough, without this.