room, listening to Jenny, as she reads to me by lamp light, and letting, the while, my eyes wander from the quietly flickering flames of the fire to her gentle Madonna-like countenance, more beautiful still when seen by this light. But we do not always enjoy quietness like this. We are frequently visited by Scandinavian friends, sometimes by foreigners, amongst whom was this day, a young Duke di Torlonia, a very agreeable young man, and one of the few amongst the young nobility of Rome, who are cultivated by literature. Twice in the week comes my professor of Italian literature, Signor Barguillione, a mild, little, amiable, and learned man, and perfect genius in languages. He reads Dante with me, to a perpetual accompaniment of e molto philosophico! molto grazioso, bello, bellissimo! Ho capito? Ho capito? As we are still in the Hell, and Dante's fancy is especially rich in horrible punishments and torments, I am not able to accord with his e molto grazioso, molto bellissimo, but perhaps it will be otherwise when we arrive in purgatory. I have also begun to read with him the old Roman language, the metallic clang and beautiful rhythm of which, always delighted me. I believe, with the wise Solon, that one is never too old to learn, but I begin to suspect that one may be too old to learn a new language.
Kind friends have provided us with many excellent works on Italy, its art and artists, and it has been a pleasure to me thus to make the acquaintance of Vittoria Colonna, alike noble as a woman and a poetess, with Michel Angelo and Eaphael, in the letters written by them, and many other artists, which have lately been published by Gühl. Michael Angelo gains on
