itty, French, flippant sort of man, author of a History of Philosophy, and now writing a Life of Goethe, a task for which he must be as unfit as irreligion and sparkling shallowness can make him. But ention 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.
ich artists and poets have viewed these Italian lakes.
The Titan of Richter, the Wanderjahre of Goethe, the Elena of Taylor, the pictures of Turner, had not prepared me for the visions of beauty thatk to return, and go with others for a little.
I have realized in these last days the thought of Goethe,— He who would in loneliness live, ah!
he is soon alone.
Each one loves, each one lives, and lbut that there might seem something offensively strange in the circumstances I mentioned to you. Goethe says, There is nothing men pardon so little as singular conduct, for which no reason is given; a