loose trowser. Diamond buckles adorned his knees, and fastened his
shoes. His clear blue eye--the high polished forehead--the deep lines of
the countenance--revealed the man of thought and intellect. The playful
lip shewed he could yet appreciate a flash of wit or spark of humour.

"Miss Delme, you are looking at my paintings; let me show you my late
purchases. Observe this sweet Madonna, by Murillo! I prefer it to the
one in the Munich Gallery. It may not boast Titian's glow of colour, or
Raphael's grandeur of design,--in delicate angelic beauty, it may yield
to the delightful efforts of Guido's or Correggio's pencil,--but surely
no human conception can ever have more touchingly portrayed the
beauteous resigned mother. The infant, too! how inimitably blended is
the God-like serenity of the Saviour, with the fond and graceful
witcheries of the loving child! How little we know of the beauties of
the Spanish school! Would I could ransack their ancient monasteries, and
bring a few of them to light!

"You are a chess player! Pass not by this check-mate of Caravaggio's.
What undisguised triumph in one countenance! What a struggle to repress
nature's feelings in the other! Here is a Guido! sweet, as his ever are!
He may justly be styled the female laureat. What artist can compete with
him in delineating the blooming expression, or the tender, but lighter,
shades of female loveliness? who can pause between even the Fornarina,
and that divine effort, the Beatrice Cenci of the Barberini?"

The party were by this time assembled. Besides our immediate friends,
there was his Grace the Duke of Gatten, a good-natured fox-hunting
nobleman, whose estate adjoined Mr. Graeme's; there was the Viscount
Chambery, who had penned a pamphlet on finance--indited a folio on
architecture--and astonished Europe with an elaborate dissertation on