nder my feet
were these words, "TO COSMO THE VENERABLE, THE FATHER OF HIS
COUNTRY." I moved away in haste, and before I had decided to my
own satisfaction upon Cosmo's claims to the gratitude and veneration
of posterity, we left the church.

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