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ject drawn by different masters. The eldest daughter with a fine complexion and elegant form, might be compared to a painting by Corregio; the second exhibited the same features on the larger and fuller scale of the Florentine school; the third reminded you of the same portrait from the pencil of Reubens; the fourth resembled a picture by Durer; the next might have been referred to the French school,—full; brilliant, but undetermined; and the youngest seemed like a fluid painting of Leonardo. It was a pleasure to compare these countenances with each other—each showing the same general contour, yet each so different in individual traits; expression, and colour."

"Do you remember," inquired Erich, "that miraculous portrait which your old friend had in his collection, and which has disappeared, with the other articles, in such a mysterious manner?"

"I do," rejoined Walter: "If that portrait was not by Raphael—as some people affirmed—it was, at least,by a distinguished Artist, who had successfully studied that master. Those moderns who affect to speak of portrait-painting as an inferior branch of the Art, and one which lowers a professor's character, ought to have been put to the blush before that admirable portrait."

"How! What do I hear you say?" interrupted the stranger, with animation. "Have there been yet more remarkable paintings than this one lost? In what manner did it happen?"

"Whether they are really lost cannot be easily ascertained," replied Walter; "but true it is that the pictures have disappeared; perhaps they have been sold into some distant country. My friend, Von Essen—the father of that young: man whom you met with in my gallery—grew somewhat whimsical and fantastic with his increasing years. Our mutual love of the Arts had connected us in friendship; and I have no doubt that I enjoyed his fullest confidence. We took the greatest delight in our collections; and his was at that