Vestri, a Tuscan by birth, visit Florence in the autumn, and furnish a pleasant pastime at the Cocomero, while during Carnival, Stenterello dispenses his jokes and rhymes at the Borg' Ogni Santi. In Florence, alone, is enjoyed the opportunity, at certain seasons, of witnessing Alfieri's tragedies. The stranger, too, cannot but grate. fully recur to the comedies of Goldoni. They furnish him with an admirabie introduction to the language; and when he is once more at home, and would fain renew the associations of every day life in far distant Italy, he has only to peruse one of these colloquial plays, and be transported, at once, to a locanda or a caffé. Goldoni's history is intimately associated with his comedies. Successively a student of medicine, diplomacy and law, a maker of almanacs, and a comic writer, his personal adventures abound in the humorous. He solaced himself, when unfortunate, by observing the passing scene. When jilted by a woman, or cheated by a knave, he revenged himself by showing up their conduct as a warning, in his next play. He looked upon the panorama of human existence, not as a metaphysician, but as a painter, not to discover the ideal, but to display the actual. Yet he often aimed at bringing popular vices or follies into contempt, and frequently with no little success. At a time when ciscesbeism and gambling prevailed in Venice, he portrayed their consequences so graphically, that, a for time, both practices were brought into disrepute; and when the Spectator began to be read, and it became fashionable for women to affect philosophy, he turned the laugh upon them with his Filosofo Inglese. His comedies have more humor than wit, but their chief attraction is their truth to nature. Although much attached to Venice, his native city, which he declares was never revisited without discovering new beauties, Goldoni seems to have highly enjoyed his long residence at the French court. He boasts of having an excellent appetite after every fresh mortification; and when care or sickness made him wakeful, he was accustomed to translate from the Venetian into the Tuscan dialect, and then into the French, by way of a soporific. Overshadowed as his buoyant spirit was at last, by illness and reverses, his happy temperament made his life pleasant. He had the satisfaction of feeling that, through his efforts, comedy was reformed in Italy, and his country furnished with a stock of standdard plays, of excellent tendency, sixteen of which were composed in one year-no ordinary achievement of in. dustry. The house of the Buonarotti family has recently undergone extensive repairs. But the rooms once occupied by Michael Angelo, remain unchanged, save that around one of them are arranged a series of paintings, illustrative of the artist's life. How Florence teems with the fame of this most gifted of her children! How rife are his sayings on the lips of her citizens ! How eloquently do his works speak in the city where his bones repose! As the Cathedral dome first greets the stranger's eye, or fades from his parting gaze, how naturally does it suggest the thoughts of St. Peter's and the artist's well known exclamation! In a twilight walk along the river-side, as we watch the evening star over San Spirito, we remember that a prior of that convent taught him anatomy. If we pass the church del Carmine, we are reminded that he there studied the early efforts of Mas. sacio. In the gallery, we behold the Dancing Faun, whose head he so admirably restored, wonder at the stern face of Brutus, or ponder his own portrait. In the Piazza is his David, in the church of San Lorenzo, his Day and Night, and that perfect embodiment of Horatio's familiar phrase a countenance more in sorrow than in anger,'-the statue of the Duke of Urbino. Here he made his figure of snow; there he buried his sleeping Cupid, which was dug up for an antique. Near St. Mark's was the school of sculpture, where he first practiced. In Santa Croce is his tomb. The memory of Michael Angelo constitutes the happiest of the many interesting associations of Florence. Not less as a man than an artist, does his name lend dignity and beauty to the scene. We look upon the master-lines of his unfinished works, and realize the struggles of his soul towards perfection. Truly has one of his biographers remarked, his genius was vast and wild, by turns extravagant and capricious, rarely to be implicitly followed, always to be studied with advantage.' But we think not merely here of the sculptor, painter, architect, philosopher and poet; we dwell upon, and feel the whole character of him who so nobly proved his eminent claim to these various titles. As we tread the chambers where he passed so many nights of study, so many days of toil, as we behold the oratory where he prayed, or stand above his ashes, we think of his noble independence which princes and prelates, in a venal age, could not subdue, of his deep sympathy with the grand and beautiful in human nature, and of his true affection which dictated the sentiment "Better plea Love cannot find than that in loving thee, Glory to that eternal Peace is paid Who such divinity to thee imparts, As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts." Art seemed not an exclusive end to Michael Angelo. For fame, he cherished no morbid appetite. He was conscious of loftier aims. His letters and sonnets breathe the noblest aspirations, and the most perfect love of truth. When refused admittance to the Pope's presence, he quitted Rome in disgust; yet watched as tenderly by the sick-bed of a faithful servant, as at that of a son or a brother. As the architect of St. Peter's, he declined all emolument; and kissed the cold hand of Vittoria Colonna with tearful reverence. After eightyeight years spent in giving a mighty impulse to the arts, in cultivating sculpture, painting, poetry and architecture, in observing the harmless comedy of life,' in proving the supremacy of genius over wealth, of moral power over rank, of character over the world, Michael Angelo died, saying, My soul I resign to God, my body to the earth, and my possessions to my nearest kin.' He left a bequest of which he spoke not, for it was already decreed that his fame and example should shed a perennial honor upon Florence, and for ever bless the world.. THE THESPIAN SYREN. is But ever and anon of grief subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, I. Byron. It was towards the close of a cool but delightful autumn evening, in Milan, the best part of which I had vainly spent in searching for a friend. All at once it occurred to me that he might beat the opera ;—yet, thought I, F— very fastidious, and there is no particular attraction tonight. Thus weighing the matter on my mind, I came within sight of the Scala, and I was soon at the door of Count G-'s box, where F- was generally to be found. The orchestra was performing an interlude, and the footlights beaming upon the beautiful classical groups depicted on the drop. My friend was not visible, and I should instantly have retreated, had not a side glance revealed to me the figure of a young man, seated in the shadow of the box curtains. Count G-was partial to Americans, and I scrutinized the stranger, thinking it not impossi |