ittle: the first speaks, and speaks egregious nonsense; the latter
never says any thing beyond common-place: the former always makes
himself ridiculous, and the latter never makes himself particularly
agreeable: the first is (_con rispetto parlando_) a great fool, and
the latter would be pleasanter were he less wise. Between these two
_opposites_, I was standing this evening on the banks of the Arno,
contemplating a sunset of unequalled splendour. L. finding that
enthusiasm was his cue, played off various sentimental antics, peeped
through his fingers, threw his head on one side, exclaiming,
"Magnificent, by Jove! grand! grandissimo! It just reminds me of what
Shakspeare says: 'Fair Aurora'--I forget the rest."

V. with his hands in his pockets, contemplated the superb
spectacle--the mountains, the valley, the city flooded with a crimson
glory, and the river flowing at our feet like molten gold--he gazed on
it all with a look of placid satisfaction, and then broke out--"Well!
this does one's heart good!"

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. Alfie