the ragged, rugged front of S. Lorenzo, and
entering, find the tomb of Piero de' Medici, made by Verrocchio, and
thinking awhile of those other tombs where Michelangelo hard by carved
his Night and Day, Twilight and Dawn, I shall find my way again into the
Piazza del Duomo, and, following Via Cerretani, that busy street, I
shall come at last into Piazza S. Maria Novella, and there on the north
I shall see again the bride of Michelangelo, S. Maria Novella of the
Dominicans.

Perhaps I shall rest there a little before Duccio's Madonna on her high
altar,[85] and linger under the grave, serene work of Ghirlandajo; but
it may be the sky will be too fair for any church to hold me, so that
passing down the way of the Beautiful Ladies, and taking Via dei Serpi
on my left, I shall come into Via Tornabuoni, that smiling, lovely way
just above the beautiful Palazzo Antinori, whence I may see Palazzo
Strozzi, but without the great lamp at the corner where the flowers are
heaped and there are always so many loungers. Indeed, the whole street
is full of flowers and sunshine and cool shadow, and in some way, I know
not what, it remains the most beautiful gay street in Florence, where
past and present have met and are friends. And then I know if I follow
this way I shall come to Lung' Arno,--I may catch a glimpse of it even
from the corner of Via Porta Rossa over the cabs, past the Column of S.
Trinita.

[Illustration: PONTE VECCHIO]

Presently, in the afternoon, I shall follow Via Porta Rossa, with its
old palaces of the Torrigiani (now, Hotel Porta Rossa), and the
Davanzati into Mercato Nuovo, where, because it is Thursday, the whole
place will be smothered with flowers and children, little laughing
rascals as impudent as Lippo Lippi's Angiolini, who play about the Tacca
and splash themselves with water. And so I shall pass at last into
Piazza della Signoria, before the marvellous palace of the people with
its fierce, proud tower, and I shall stand on the spot before the
fountains where Humanism avenged itself on Puritanism, where Savonarola,
that Ferrarese who burned the pictures and would have burned the city,
was himself burned in the fire he had invoked. And I shall look once
more on the Loggia de' Lanzi, and see Cellini's young _contadino_
masquerading as Perseus, and in my heart I shall remember the little wax
figure he made for a model, now in Bargello, which is so much more
beautiful than this young giant. So, under the c