y, or literary fame,—she had an extraordinary degree; I think more than any person I have known.
An interview with her was a joyful event.
Worthy men and women, who had conversed with her, could not forget her, but worked bravely on in the remembrance that this heroic approver had recognized their aims.
She spoke so earnestly, that the depth of the sentiment prevailed, and not the accidental expression, which might chance to be common.
Thus I learned, the other day, that, in a copy of Mrs. Jameson's Italian Painters, against a passage describing Correggio as a true servant of God in his art, above sordid ambition, devoted to truth, one of those superior beings of whom there are so few; Margaret wrote on the margin,
And yet all might be such. The book lay long on the table of the owner, in Florence, and chanced to be read there by a young artist of much talent.
These words, said he, months afterwards, struck out a new strength in me. They revived resolutions long fallen away, a
is much spoken.
But to know the common people, and to feel truly in Italy, I ought to speak and understand the spoken Italian well, and I am now cultivating this sedulously.
If I remain, I shall have, for many reasons, advantages for observation and enjoyment, such as are seldom permitted to a foreigner.
I forgot to mention one little thing rather interesting.
At the Miserere of the Sistine chapel, I sat beside Goethe's favorite daughter-in-law, Ottilia, to whom I was introduced by Mrs. Jameson.
to R. F. F.
Florence, July 1, 1847.—I do not wish to go through Germany in a hurried way, and am equally unsatisfied to fly through Italy; and shall, therefore, leaving my companions in Switzerland, take a servant to accompany me, and return hither, and hence to Rome for the autumn, perhaps the winter.
I should always suffer the pain of Tantalus thinking of Rome, if I could not see it more thoroughly than I have as yet even begun to; for it was all outside the two months, just fin