bed; Michel Angelo, persecuted by envy; and
Alfieri perpetually torn, as he describes himself, by two furies--"Ira
e Malinconia"--

"La mente e il cor in perpetua lite."

But they fulfilled their destinies: inexorable Fate will be avenged
upon the favourites of Heaven and nature. I can remember but one
instance in which the greatly gifted spirit was not also the
conspicuously wretched mortal--our own divine Shakspeare--and of him
we know but little.

In some books of travels I have met with, Boccaccio, Aretino, and
Guicciardini, are mentioned among the illustrious dead of the Santa
Croce. The second, if his biographers say true, was a wretch, whose
ashes ought to have been scattered in the air. He was buried I
believe at Venice--or no matter where. Boccaccio's tomb _is_, or
_was_, at Certaldo; and Guicciardini's--I forget the name of the
church honoured by his remains--but it is not the Santa Croce.

The finest figure on the tomb of Michel Angelo is architecture. It
should be contemplated from the left, to be seen to advantage. The
effect of Alfieri's monument depends much on the position of the
spectator: when viewed in front, the figure of Italy is very heavy and
clumsy; and in no point of view has it the grace and delicacy which
Canova's statues generally possess.

There is a most extraordinary picture in this church representing God
the Father supporting a dead Christ, by Cigoli, a painter little known
in England, though I have seen some admirable pictures of his in the
collections here: his style reminds me of Spagnoletto's.

* * * * *

Our departure is fixed for Wednesday next: and though I know that
change and motion are good for me, yet I dread the fatigue and
excitement of travelling; and I shall leave Florence with regret. For
a melancholy invalid like myself, there cannot be a more delightful
residence: it is gay without tumult--quiet, yet not dull. I have not
mingled in society; therefore cannot judge of the manners of the
people. I trust they are not exactly what Forsyth describes: with all
his taste he sometimes writes like a caustic old bachelor; and on the
Florentines he is peculiarly severe.

We leave our friend L. behind for a few days, and our Venice
acquaintance V. will be our _compagnon de voyage_ to Rome. Of these
two young men, the first amuses me by his follies, the latter rather
fatigues _de trop de raison_. The first talks too much, the latter too
l