L. (I owe him this justice) is not the author of the famous blunder which is now repeated in every circle.  I am assured it was our neighbour, Lord G. though I scarce believe it, who on being presented with the Countess of Albany’s card, exclaimed—­“The Countess of Albany!  Ah!—­true—­I remember:  wasn’t she the widow of Charles the Second, who married Ariosto?” There is in this celebrated beveu, a glorious confusion of times and persons, beyond even my friend L.’s capacity.

* * * * *

The whole party are gone to the Countess of Albany’s to-night to take leave:  that being, as L. says, “the correct thing.”  Our notions of correctness vary with country and climate.  What Englishwoman at Florence would not be au desespoir, to be shut from the Countess of Albany’s parties—­though it is a known and indisputable fact, that she was never married to Alfieri?  A propos d’Alfieri—­I have just been reading a selection of his tragedies—­his Filippo, the Pazzi, Virginia, Mirra; and when I have finished Saul, I will read no more of them for some time.  There is a superabundance of harsh energy, and a want of simplicity, tenderness, and repose throughout, which fatigues me, until admiration becomes an effort instead of a pleasurable feeling.  Marochesi, a celebrated tragedian, who, Minutti says, understood “la vera filosofia della comica,” used to recite Alfieri’s tragedies with him or to him.  Alfieri was himself a bad actor and declaimer.  I am surprised that the tragedy of Mirra should be a great favourite on the stage here.  A very young actress, who made her debut in this character, enchanted the whole city by the admirable manner in which she performed it; and the piece was played for eighteen nights successively; a singular triumph for an actress, though not uncommon for a singer.  In spite of its many beauties and the artful management of the story; it would, I think, be as impossible to make an English audience endure the Mirra, as to find an English actress who would exhibit herself in so revolting a part.

* * * * *

Tuesday.—­Our last day at Florence.  I walked down to the San Lorenzo this morning early, and made a sketch of the sarcophagus of Lorenzo de’ Medici.  Afterwards we spent an hour in the gallery, and bid adieu to the Venus—­

    “O bella Venere! 
      Che sola sei,
    Piacer degli uomini
      E degli dei!”

When I went to take a last look of Titian’s Flora, I found it removed from its station, and an artist employed in copying it.  I could have envied the lady for whom this copy was intended; but comforted myself with the conviction that no hireling dauber in water-colours could do justice to the heavenly original, which only wants motion and speech to live indeed.  We then spent nearly two hours in the Pitti Palace; and the court having lately removed to Pisa, we had an opportunity of seeing Canova’s