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 presented itself to my gaze. How poor, how weak, how incompetent are the efforts of the greatest painters to embody an image of so much perfection! Such skill appertains to the Creator alone. That regular oval form, the mild lustre which shone so sweetly in her soft sloe-black eyes, half hid by their long lashes; that pure innocence of soul which beamed from them; the smile of love upon her rosy cheeks, those ruby lips, that row of teeth vying with ivory itself; no—never could the hand of the painter produce or pourtray so many charms. I was motionless with surprise, and gazed upon the beauteous being with silent wonder and admiration. Such blooming firmness of tint was never attained by the vulgar Flemish school; that colouring was not Italian, which too often mars, with gaudy daubs, faces on which the Almighty by his creating breath had breathed the soft carnation hues of life and youth.

She appeared at most to be sixteen, and yet what fulness displayed in her bosom, what grace in her neck, how beautifully rounded her arm; indeed, the whole of the enchanting figure was so perfect, and so finely formed, from the silken flowing hair, to the small and pretty foot, that I inwardly determined, should many such beings bestow their visits upon the hermit, to turn anchorite myself.

The young and beautiful creature was seated at the foot of the steps leading to the chapel, employed in culling the flowers from some herbs in her lap, and placing them in a basket at her feet. I sat down next the basket, under the pretence of examining the flowers, and awaiting the arrival of the hermit.

Once I had seen in the collection of the Messrs. Boisserée, in Heidelberg, a German altar-piece, where the principal figure was a Madonna, whose beautiful countenance made an indelible impression upon me. The painting was upon a ground of gold, and in the celestial countenance of the holy virgin there was mingled so much of earthly beauty, as made it difficult to decide whether it belonged to this world or to heaven. It