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 aim: he had no apprehenion, whatever he pretended, of an illuion of the painter. He well knew that the original exited in nature, and was far more beautiful than the imitation by the artit: he was only ignorant where it was to be found, and how he could get it into his poeion.

On entering the gallery he flew with fiery impatience towards the beloved portrait, and throwing himelf into the attitude of worship: ‘Behold here the goddes of my devotion; where is he to be found? On your lips, dicreet princes, hangs my detiny—decide whether I am to live or die. If I am deceived by a bewitching phantom, let me ink lifeles at your feet: but if my own preentiments jutify the choice of my heart, dicover to me what land or people poees this jewel, that I may ally forth in quet of my mitres, and gain her favour by knightly atchievements.’ The venerable princes was not a little diconcerted at this unexpected dicovery: a erious air overhadowed her face, whoe