justice for Tuscany,—an eminent and respectable man, whom I was glad to visit in the great artist's house, and to find surrounded with his memorials, and possessing a good many of his characteristic manuscripts. I also knew there, and at their own houses, Micali, the author of ‘Italia avanti i Romani,’—a lively, courtly old gentleman, of good fortune, who values himself as much on his fashionable distinctions as on his considerable literary fame; Niccolini, the tragic writer,—a rather savage republican, who fancies himself to have sympathies with all Americans, and who is really an interesting person; as well as some others of less note, whose names you would not recognize. But I missed the old Countess d'albany's house. No such exists now in Florence; and what made it more striking, I was offered for lodging-rooms the very suite of apartments in her palazzo over that in which I used to visit her; the very suite, too, that was occupied by Alfieri, and where I passed a forenoon once in looking over his library and manuscripts. Au reste, she has not left any odor of sanctity behind her among the Florentines. In the latter part of her life she fell under the influence of a Frenchman by the name of Fabre,— you remember Dido's conjugium vocat, hoc proetexit nomine culpam,— and when she died she left him all her property; so the Palazzo Alfieri, as it is called, is turned into a lodging-house, and all Alfieri's books and manuscripts are carried off to the South of France, except a duplicate copy of his Tragedies, which Monsieur Fabre gave to the Laurentian Library. This annoys the Italians, and so much the more, because Alfieri, not in legal, but in poetical form, by a sonnet, had signified his wish that his library should be deposited in his native city of Asti; and I remember Tassi, who was his private secretary, told me, when he showed me the books, that at Mad. d'albany's death they would go to Asti. But it has turned out otherwise; and the Italians console themselves for their loss by abusing the wife of the Pretender; a satisfaction which, I assure you, some of the principal men in Florence enjoyed one night at Madame Lenzoni's in great perfection, at the end of a rather active and agreeable soiree. The want of society—intellectual, agreeable society—is very much felt by foreigners, not only in Florence, but throughout Italy. I have sometimes thought that it is even felt by the Italians themselves, especially when I have found persons of the first distinction—as far as rank and family are concerned—living in the most cheerless manner, sometimes in an upper story, and sometimes in a remote corner of one of their vast, gloomy, and uncomfortable palaces, without fires in winter, without carpets, and without convenient furniture; and
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