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George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), Chapter 3: (search)
ation or pretension. I found there Micali, the author of Italia avanti il Dominio dei Romani,—an old man, but very full of life and spirit; Forti, who is distinguishing himself as a political economist; a professor of mathematics, and two or three other agreeable people. . . . I was particularly glad to make the acquaintance of Micali, whose book, which I have valued these twenty years, has, I find, passed through eight or ten editions, notwithstanding its severe and learned character. November 7.—This morning I went to the gallery . . . . . The Tribune I found—as far as I can recollect—just as I left it eighteen years ago, and I cannot express how much pleasure it gave me. . . . . It is, indeed, a sort of holy place in the arts, and even the least interested visitors speak under their breath, and tread lightly, as they glide about from the monument of one great man's genius to that of another, consecrated already by the testimony of ages. November 9.—I made a visit to Nicco
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), Chapter 6: (search)
French government, and especially to the King; but persons standing in the same relations of party and personal friendship to the President of the United States and his Cabinet, as the Duke de Broglie, Rossi, and Mad. de Ste. Aulaire do to the French throne and administration, would not have spoken out their opinions as freely and truly as these persons have spoken them out to me. This is a difference between the countries discreditable to us, and which I feel as a moral stain upon us. November 7.—I spent some time this morning in the King's private library, originally Bonaparte's, and which I knew under Barbier as the library of Louis XVIII. It is an uncommonly comfortable and well-arranged establishment; better than any of the sort I know of, except the Grand Duke's at Florence, and larger than that. Jouy, the author of the Hermite de la Chaussee d'antin, is the head of it, a hale, hearty, white-headed old gentleman of about sixty-five. Like everybody else, now, he talked abou