s, and I often spent whole
hours there in a single salon. There I almost always saw Mr. G----, a
German-American, copying from the masters; and he could copy too! What
an indefatigable worker he was! Slight and delicate of frame, he seemed
absolutely incapable of growing weary. He often toiled there all day
long, his hands red and swollen with the cold, for the winter, as I have
before remarked, was unusually severe. For many days I saw him working
on a Descent from the Cross by Tintoretto--a bold attempt, for
Tintoretto's colors are as baffling as those of the great Venetian
master himself. This copy had received very general praise, and one day
I took a Lucca friend, a dilettante, to see it. Mr. G---- brought the
canvas out in the hall, that we might see it outside of the ocean of
color which surrounded it in the gallery. When we reached the hall, Mr.
G---- turned the picture full to the light. The effect was astounding.
It was so brilliant that you could hardly look at it. It seemed a mass
of molten gold reflecting the sun. "Good God!" exclaimed G----, "did I
do that?" and an expression of bitter disappointment passed over his
face. I ventured to suggest that as everybody had found it good while it
was in the gallery, this brilliant effect must be from the cold gray
marble of the hall. G---- could not pardon the picture, and nothing that
the Italian or I could say had the least effect. He would hear no excuse
for it, and, evidently quite mortified at the debut of his Tintoretto,
he hurried the canvas back to the easel. The sister of the czar of
Russia was greatly pleased with this copy, and proposed to buy it, but
whether she did or not I forgot to ascertain.

Alone as I was in Florence, cultivating only the acquaintance of
Italians, yet was I never troubled with _ennui_. I read much at
Vieussieux's, and when I grew tired of that and of music, I made long
sables on the Lung Arno to the Cascine, through the charming Boboli
gardens, or out to Fiesole. Fiesole is some two miles from Florence, and
once on my way there I stopped at the Protestant burying-ground and
pilfered a little wildflower from Theodore Parker's grave to send home
to one of his romantic admirers. Fiesole must be a very ancient town,
for there is a ruined amphitheatre there, and the remains of walls so
old that they are called Pelasgic in their origin; which is, I take it,
sufficiently vague. The high hill is composed of the most solid marble;
so the g