MAY 323 



of her own, called 'On Tuscan Hills and Venetian 

 Waters.' 



I have long had that amusing classic, the ' Memoirs 

 of Benvenuto Cellini ' by himself, translated by Thomas 

 Roscoe (1823), on the title-page of which is a saying of 

 Horace Walpole's : ' Cellini was one of the most extra- 

 ordinary men of an extraordinary age. His Life, writ- 

 ten by himself, is more amusing than any novel I know. ' 

 This book was again translated into English by John 

 Addington Symonds, and published in 1888. It is 

 pleasanter reading than Roscoe's, but the engraved por- 

 trait in the old book is infinitely better than in the new. 



I found Symonds' ' Life of Michael Angelo' a book 

 of rare interest. Symonds is often criticised for inaccu- 

 racy of detail. The same accusation is always brought 

 against Fronde ; but both writers have a power of pop- 

 ularising information which, joined to their gift for 

 vivid description, make one live in the past, in spite of 

 the atmosphere of modern thought through which they 

 present it. 



Symonds' 'Italian Sketches,' which are so conven- 

 iently published in the Tauchnitz edition, speak of many 

 things in a charming way, but do not actually touch on 

 Florence itself. 



Amongst the books I have been reading none seem 

 to me more remarkable or stamped with a stronger 

 or more interesting individuality than Walter Pater's. 

 His 'Renaissance,' which he calls 'Studies in Art and 

 Poetry,' and ' Marius the Epicurean,' with its vivid word- 

 painting and its pictures of old Italy, so unchanged 

 even to-day, are books which must be immensely admired 

 by those who read them, or not liked at all. They are 

 certainly not light reading, and more fitted for the study 

 than the railway carriage ; but they are books which I 

 believe will live in English literature when many of the 



