hich is the
gift of genius, he immediately commanded the marble, always obedient
to his chisel, to express the sudden inspiration of the moment; and
the Beatrice of Dante passed from the vague region of poetry into the
domain of substantial art. The sentiment which dwells in this
harmonious countenance, now become a new type of pure and virgin
beauty, in its turn inspires artists and poets. This woman, whose
name I would here conceal, whom I would veil even as Dante does, is
endowed with all the generous sympathies of our age. She has visited,
with the select few, the haunts of lofty minds. Here, in this seat of
imperturbable peace, of unalterable security, she has formed noble
friendships, those friendships which have filled her life, which,
born under immortal auspices, are sheltered alike from time, from
death, and from all human vicissitudes. I address myself, then, to
her who has been seen as a living apparition of Beatrice. Can she
encourage me with her smile, with that serious smile of love and of
grace, which expresses at once confidence and pity for the pains of
probation, for the burdens of an exile that should end, sweet and
calm augury, wherein is revealed, even in the present, the certainty
of our infinite hopes, the grandeur of our definitive destinies?"

When the good Ballanche was taken dangerously ill, Madame Recamier
had just undergone an operation for cataract, and was under strict
orders from the physician not to leave her couch. But, on the
announcement of the condition of Ballanche, she immediately rose, and
went to his bedside, and watched by him until his last breath. In the
anxiety and tears of this experience, she lost all hope of recovering
her sight. Her incomparable friend received the supreme hospitality
at her hands, and was buried in her family tomb, leaving, in his
works, a delightful picture of his mind; in his life, a perfect model
of devotion. The removal of this soul, echo of her own; this heart,
wholly filled by her; this mind, so gladly submissive to her
influence, could not but leave a mighty void behind. For,
notwithstanding the wondrous array of gifts, attractions, and
attentions lavished on her, her deep sensibility and interior
loneliness made her often unhappy. She would sit by herself, in the
twilight, playing from memory choice pieces of the great masters of
music, the tears rolling down her cheeks. Friendship was more than a
delight: it was a necessity to her.

De Tocqu