There is a beautiful picture by Barbalunga of a dying girl. The dull grey of twilight is gradually deepening to night in the lonely chamber, and the film of death is slowly gathering on the flickering eye, symbolising the end of all that is beautiful on earth. We particularly noted one fine production by Guercino. Some wicked-looking old men are stealthily approaching Susanna bathing, creeping onward from behind with outstretched hands, as if they were going to catch a butterfly. Two naked ladies, by Titian, in his most untrammeled style, are distinctly of the flesh, fleshy; but they are splendid specimens of that great master's proficiency in delineating the human form--of his consummate fidelity to truth in colouring and expression. The vast picture by Rubens of the Adoration of the Magi shows plainly--with many hundred others, however--how Art, _longa_ as it may be, must, like all things mortal, have a limit. This limit, in the present instance, is where, the mirror being held up to Nature, Nature herself cries out with delight at her own reflection, mistaking it for another self. The limitation here attained is Perfection. We suppose that expression of adoration, as seen in the fifty faces delineated, is beyond imitation. Then how admirable is the grouping, how gorgeous the colouring, how perfect the arrangement of light and shade, never surpassed, or perhaps equalled, either by the master himself or by Titian. What an advantage to modern art it would be if we could gain some insight into the chemistry of the colours used in past centuries! Why should our Reynolds and Lawrences fade away, in some cases into mere outlines filled up with pale tints, when the paintings of the sixteenth century still retain the hues on their canvas in all their pristine splendour? The crimson drapery of one of the Magi in the picture in question seems as fresh and as brilliant as it was on the day when it was painted by the master's hand. Of course it appears something like presumption in us to add our feeble commentaries upon the numerous gems in this matchless collection to those of the great judges who have preceded us; yet, perchance, in his simple worship of art, a little outburst of enthusiasm upon the subjects which strike a sympathetic chord within the humbler pilgrim as he passes, may be pardoned.