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 volume, a speech of Zarca's ('Nay, never falter'), and a fine description of Truth by Sephardo in The Spanish Gypsy, with, perhaps, Ladislaw's song, 'Oh me, oh me, what frugal cheer my love doth feed upon!'—these may find a place in anthologies, but that is all.

Writing now with the sense of her loss still fresh, it is impossible to forget that, for those who knew her personally, she herself was her greatest work. By her own training she made herself probably the most accomplished woman the century has seen. She brought to the world of art a greater extent of culture than any predecessor, with the possible exception of Goethe. Not alone was she a veritable pundit in languages, with mastery of French, German, and Italian, and serviceable knowledge of Latin, Greek, Spanish, and Hebrew; she was widely learned in science and philosophy, and deeply read in history; her works teem with evidence of her intimate knowledge of music and painting. Add to all these accomplishments a width of sympathy and acuteness of observation seldom equalled, and one can form some idea of the rich nature just taken from us. She could draw such characters as Maggie Tulliver and Dorothea Brooke, Mary Garth and Gwendolen Harleth, Fedalma and Romola, because she