th a "krug of schiedam" and some
"canastre," made me as happy as a king.

The "Holbeiner Kammer" owes its name, and any repute that it enjoys, to
a strange, quaint portrait, of that master seated at a fire, with a fair
headed, handsome child, sitting cross-legged on the hearth before him.
A certain half resemblance seems to run through both faces, although
the age and colouring are so different. But the same contemplative
expression, the deep-set eye, the massive forehead and pointed chin, are
to be seen in the child, as in the man.

This was Holbein and his nephew, Franz von Holbein, who in after years
served with distinction in the army of Louis Quatorze. The background
of the picture represents a room exactly like the chamber--a few
highly-carved oak chairs, the Utrecht velvet-backs glowing with their
scarlet brilliancy, an old-fashioned Flemish bed, with groups of angels,
neptunes, bacchanals, and dolphins, all mixed up confusedly in quaint
carving; and a massive frame to a very small looking-glass, which hung
in a leaning attitude over the fire-place, and made me think, as I gazed
at it, that the plane of the room was on an angle of sixty-five, and
that the least shove would send me clean into the stove.

"Mynheer wants nothing?" said the _Vrow_ with a court'sey.

"Nothing," said I, with my most polite bow.

"Good night, then," said she; "_schlaf wohl_, and don't mind the ghost."

"Ah, I know him of old," replied I, striking the table three times with
my cane. The woman, whose voice the moment before was in a tone of
jest, suddenly grew pale, and, as she crossed herself devoutly,
muttered--"_Nein! Nein!_ don't do that;" and shutting the door, hurried
down stairs with all the speed she could muster.

I was in no hurry to bed, however. The "krug" was racy, the "canastre"
excellent: so, placing the light where it should fall with good effect
on the Holbein, I stretched out my legs to the blaze; and, as I
looked upon the canvas, began to muse over the story with which it was
associated, and which I may as well jot down here, for memory's sake.

Frank Holbein, having more ambition and less industry than the rest of
his family, resolved to seek his fortune; and early in the September
of the year 1681, he found himself wandering in the streets of Paris,
without a _liard_ in his pocket, or any prospects of earning one. He was
a fine-looking, handsome youth, of some eighteen or twenty years, with
a sharp, piercing l