O God! to clasp those fingers close, And yet to feel so lonely! To see a light on dearest brows, Which is the daylight only! ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. I was sitting one morning in the library of a friend, looking over a valuable collection of works of art, made during a five years residence abroad, and listening to his animated description of scenes and places now become familiar to every one who reads at all, through the medium of “Jottings,” “Impressions,” and “Travels,” with which the press abounds. Among the paintings were small copies in oil from Corregio, Guercino, Guido, and Rafaelle. There was a head of the latter, copied from a portrait painted by himself, and preserved in the Pitti Palace. With the slightest shade of hectic on the cheek, and the large unfathomable eyes looking into the great beyond, it was truly angelic in its loveliness. No wonder the man for whom nature had done so much, and who delighted in portraying the loftiest ideal beauty, no wonder he was called “divine!” “Here,” said my friend, lovingly holding forth one of those inimitable creations, the beauty of which once seen, haunts us for a lifetime, “here is the far-famed ‘violin-player,’ the friend of Rafaelle. By the bye, I must tell you an anecdote I heard while abroad. There were two gentlemen sight-seers looking at pictures in the Vatican; one called to the other, who was at a short distance from him, ‘come, look at this, here is the celebrated violin-player.’ ‘Ah!’ said his companion, hastening toward him, ‘Paganini!’ I give you the story as I heard it related for truth, and as a somewhat laughable example of traveled ignorance.” On one side of the room in which we were conversing, stood a picture apart from all the others, which soon engrossed my entire attention. A young man was represented reclining on a couch, and wrapped in a robe falling in loose folds about his person. His countenance bore the traces of suffering, but his dark eyes were filled with the light of love, and hope, as they looked up into the face of a young female bending mournfully at his side. On the head of this female the artist had lavished all the _love_ of genius. With the sunny hair parted on the fair forehead, and the rich braids simply confined by a silver arrow—the dark eyes from which the tears seemed about to fall—the half-parted lips quivering as if from intense devotion—oh, it was transcendently lovely! The rest of the figure was in outline, but as vividly portrayed as some of those wonderful illustrations by Flaxman, in which a single line reveals a story. “How is this,” said I, after gazing long and earnestly upon it, “how is this?—why is the picture unfinished. And who was the painter?” “The tale,” replied my friend, “is a sad one; and if you are tired of looking at pictures and medals, I will relate it to you.”