in our collections, and his at that time far surpassed
mine, which I have been enabled to enlarge so considerably only by the
thoughtlessness of his son. Whenever we wished to give ourselves a real
treat, we seated ourselves in his cabinet, in which his choicest works
were collected. He had set them in particularly splendid frames, and
ingeniously arranged them in the most advantageous light. Beside that
portrait there was an incomparable landscape of Nicholas Poussin, of
which I have never seen the fellow. In a soft evening light, Christ is
sailing with his disciples on the water. The lovely reflection of the
houses and trees, the clear sky, the transparency of the waves, the
noble character of the Redeemer, and the heavenly repose that hung over
the whole, and almost dissolved the soul in melancholy and peaceful
aspiration, are not to be described. By its side hung a Christ with the
crown of thorns, by Guido Reni, of an expression such as since then I
have never seen again. My old friend, among his oddities, would in
general allow that excellent artist perhaps too little merit. But this
picture always threw him into raptures; and indeed one seemed every
time one saw it to see it for the first time; a familiar acquaintance
with it did but heighten the enjoyment, and still discover new and more
refined beauties. That expression of mildness, of patient resignation,
of heavenly goodness, and forgiveness, could not but penetrate the most
stubborn heart. It was not that state of intense passion which one sees
in other similar pictures of Guido, and which, in spite of the
excellent treatment of the subject, is rather repulsive than
attractive, but on the contrary the sweetest while it was the most
painful of pictures. Through the delicate fleshy parts beneath the
cheek, chin, and eye, one saw and felt the whole skull, and this
expression of suffering only enhanced its beauty. Opposite was a
Lucretia, by the same master, plunging the dagger with a strong full
arm into her beauteous bosom. In this picture the expression was great
and vigorous, the colouring incomparable. A Holy Mother withdrawing the
cloth from the naked body of the sleeping child, and Joseph and John
gazing on the sleeper; the figures, large as life, were represented by
an old Roman master, so nobly and gracefully as to baffle all
description. But well might I seek words to give but a faint conception
of that matchless Van Eyck, an Annunciation, which was perh