An hour passed in St. Peter's had been wont to compose her; and Corinne hoped to find the same effect from visiting the churches of fair Florence. She walked beneath the fine trees of the river's bank, in a lovely eve of June. Roses embalmed the air, and every face expressed the general felicity from which she felt herself excluded; yet she unenvyingly blessed her God for his kind care of man. "I am an exception to universal order," she said; "there is happiness for every one but me: this power of suffering, beneath which I die, is then peculiar to myself. My God! wherefore was I selected for such a doom? May I not say, like thy Divine Son, 'Father, let this cup be taken from me?'" The active air of the inhabitants astonished her: since she had lost all interest in life, she knew not why others seemed occupied; and, slowly pacing the large stoned pavement of Florence, she forgot where she had designed to go. At last, she found herself before the far-famed gate of brass, sculptured by Ghiberti, for the front of St. John's, which stands beside the cathedral. For some time she examined this stupendous work; where, wrought in bronze, the divers nations, though of minute proportions, are distinctly marked by their varied physiognomies; all of which express some thought of their artist. "What patience!" cried Corinne; "what respect for posterity! yet how few scrutinize these doors, through which so many daily pass, in heedlessness, ignorance, or disdain! How difficult it is to escape oblivion! how vast the power of death!" In this cathedral was Julian de Medicis assassinated. Not far thence, in the church of St. Lorenzo, is shown the marble chapel, enriched with precious stones, where rise the tombs of that high family, and Michael Angelo's statues of Julian and Lorenzo: the latter, meditating vengeance on the murder of his brother, deserves the honor of having been called "_la pensée de Michel Angelo_!" At the feet of these figures are Aurora and Night. The awaking of the one is admirable; still more so is the other's sleep. A poet chose it for his theme, and concluded by saying: "Sound as is her slumber, she lives: if you believe not, wake her, she will speak." Angelo, who cultivated letters (without which imagination of all kinds must soon decay) replied:---- "Grato m'è il sono, e più l'esser di sasso. Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura, Non veder, non sentir m'è gran ventura, Perô non mi destar, deh parla basso!" "It is well for me to sleep, still better to be stone; while shame and injustice last: not to see, not to hear, is a great blessing; therefore disturb me not! speak low!"