ing to her, as it could have been
to any Florentine patriot. When it was understood that Prince
Lichtenstein had requested the Grand Duke to order a general
illumination in honor of the anniversary of the battle of Novara,
Madame Ossoli, I recollect, was more moved, than I remember on
any other occasion to have seen her. And she used to speak very
regretfully of the change which had come over the spirit of Florence,
since her former residence there. Then all was gayety and hope. Bodies
of artisans, gathering recruits as they passed along, used to form
themselves into choral bands, as they returned from their work at the
close of the day, and filled the air with the chants of liberty. Now,
all was a sombre and desolate silence.

Her own various cares so occupied Madame Ossoli that she seemed to be
very much withdrawn from the world of art. During the whole time of my
stay in Florence, I do not think she once visited either of the Grand
Ducal Galleries, and the only studio in which she seemed to feel any
very strong interest, was that of Mademoiselle Favand, a lady whose
independence of character, self-reliance, and courageous genius, could
hardly have failed to attract her congenial sympathies.

But among all my remembrances of Madame Ossoli, there are none more
beautiful or more enduring than those which recall to me another
person, a young stranger, alone and in feeble health, who found, in
her society, her sympathy, and her counsels, a constant atmosphere of
comfort and of peace. Every morning, wild-flowers, freshly gathered,
were laid upon her table by the grateful hands of this young man;
every evening, beside her seat in her little room, his mild, pure face
was to be seen, bright with a quiet happiness, that must have bound
his heart by no weak ties to her with whose fate his own was so
closely to be linked.

And the recollection of such benign and holy influences breathed upon
the human hearts of those who came within her sphere, will not, I
trust, be valueless to those friends, in whose love her memory is
enshrined with more immortal honors than the world can give or take
away.

[Footnote A: Just before I left Florence, Madame Ossoli showed me a
small marble figure of a child, playing among flowers or vine leaves,
which, she said, was a portrait of the child of Madame Arconati,
presented to her by that lady. I mention this circumstance, because I
have understood that a figure answering this description was