ch certain forms repeat themselves in families,
often most distinctly in the most remote ramifications. "It is singular
too," said the host, "that nature often proceeds just in the manner of
art. If a Netherlander and an Italian of the elder school had to paint
the same portrait, they would both seize the likeness, but each would
produce quite a different portrait and quite a different likeness. So
in my youth I knew a family consisting of several children, on all of
whom was stamped the physiognomy of their parents, and a single leading
form, but under different modifications, as clearly and distinctly as
if the children had been portraitures of the same subject drawn by
different great masters. The eldest daughter was as if painted by
Correggio, with delicate complexion and slender form; the second was
the same face, only larger and fuller, as if from the Florentine
school; the third looked as if Rubens had painted the same portrait in
his manner; the fourth like a picture of Duerer; the next like a work of
the French school, showy and full, but indistinct; and the youngest
like one painted in the liquid style of Leonardo. It was delightful to
compare these faces, which with the same forms were so different again
in expression, colouring, and lineaments."

"Do you remember that singular portrait," asked Erich, "which your old
friend possessed in his collection, and which with so many other things
has been lost in so inexplicable a manner?"

"Ay, to be sure," cried old Walther; "if it was not from the hand of
Raphael, as some assert, it was at least by a first-rate master, who
had successfully studied the art after his model. When some moderns
talk of the art of portrait-painting, as if it were something trivial
or even degrading to a painter, they need only be taken to this
admirable work to be shamed out of their opinion."

"How say you," inquired the stranger, addressing himself with animation
to the old Counsellor; "were other remarkable pictures lost beside this
excellent piece? In what way?"

"Whether they are lost," said Walther, "it is impossible precisely to
say; but they have disappeared, and have perhaps been sold and
transported far away abroad. My friend, Baron von Essen, the father of
the young man whom you lately met in my saloon, as he advanced in life
grew humorsome and eccentric. Love of the arts was the basis of our
friendship, and I may say I enjoyed his entire confidence. Our great
pleasure was