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I don't remember a word of the lecture; and yet there were enough of them to have filled a good-sized dictionary. The stream of Mrs. Amyot's eloquence had become a flood: one had the despairing sense that she had sprung a leak, and that until the plumber came there was nothing to be done about it.

Amyot's last brilliant lecture on the influence of something upon somebody; and her own letters she overwhelmed me with them spared me no detail of the entertainment given in her honor by the Palimpsest Club of Omaha or of her reception at the University of Leadville. The college professors were especially kind: she assured me that she had never before met with such discriminating sympathy.

Amyot's eight thousand errors were not diminished in passing into Sir Thomas North's English; but their number mattered little to the readers of those days, who found in the thick folio enough of interest to spare them from making inquiry as to the exactness of its rendering of the meaning of Plutarch.

The cardinal made no answer to Amyot's question, but resumed his walk through the centre of the hall, talking in low tones with Monsieur de Robertet and the chancellor. At this epoch a secretary of State like Robertet was purely and simply a writer; he counted for almost nothing among the princes and grandees who decided the affairs of State.

Amyot's aunts has translated Eurip " "And is she as pretty as ever?" I irrelevantly interposed. My hostess looked shocked. "She is excessively modest and retiring. She says it is actual suffering for her to speak in public. You know she only does it for the baby." Punctually at the hour appointed, we took our seats in a lecture-hall full of strenuous females in ulsters. Mrs.

A careful reading of North's Plutarch and then of the famous Roman plays shows to how great an extent Shakespeare was dependent upon his obscure contemporary. North's translation, to which we owe so many heroic models in our literature, was probably made not from Plutarch but from Amyot's excellent French translation.

"Rascal, you are asking a question!" "No, Monsieur, I was simply stating a fact. Plutarch says . . ." "Plutarch? What next?" in astonishment. "I have just bought a copy of Amyot's translation with the money you gave me. Plutarch is fine, Monsieur." "What shall a gentleman do when his lackey starts to quote Plutarch?" with mock helplessness. "Well, lad, read Plutarch and profit.

The week after that I was on the deck of an ocean steamer, reconsidering my share in Mrs. Amyot's triumphs with the impartiality with which one views an episode that is being left behind at the rate of twenty knots an hour. After all, I had been helping a mother to educate her son. The next ten years of my life were spent in Europe, and when I came home the recollection of Mrs.

It was her art of transposing second-hand ideas into first-hand emotions that so endeared her to her feminine listeners. To any one not in search of "documents" Mrs. Amyot's success was hardly of a kind to make her more interesting, and my curiosity flagged with the growing conviction that the "suffering" entailed on her by public speaking was at most a retrospective pang.

Jerome in the exquisite canvas of our own National Gallery. Behind the Hotel de Ville an opening shows a small, beautifully kept flower garden, just now a blaze of petunias, zinnias, and a second crop of roses. Long I lingered before this noble monument, one only of the many raised to Amyot's memory, of whom Montaigne wrote: