is worse than death, and whose eternal veil is but a foretaste of the winding-sheet and the grave?  Thou wilt not, canst not, my Antonio, make such unheard-of misery thy stepping-stone to fame and fortune.”  This impassioned appeal to all his better feelings at length reached the heart of Antonio.  For a short time he continued to withhold the drawing; but his kindly nature triumphed.  Tearing his sketch into fragments, he threw himself into the extended arms of his beloved teacher, who with deep emotion placed his trembling hand on the curling locks of his pupil, and implored the blessing of Heaven on his better feelings and purposes.

With a view to improve the impression he had made, the painter led Antonio round the studio, and sought to fix his attention upon several portraits of lovely women which adorned it.  “Here,” said he, “are heads worthy to crown that striking figure in the gondola.  Behold that all-surpassing portrait by Giorgione, of such beauty as painters and poets may dream of but never find, and yet not superhuman in its type.  Too impassioned for an angel; too brilliant for a Madonna; and with too much of thought and character for a Venus—­she is merely woman.  Belonging to no special rank or class in society, and neither classical nor ideal, she personifies all that is most lovely in her sex; and, whether found in a palace or a cottage, would delight and astonish all beholders.  This rarely gifted woman was the daughter of Palma Vecchio, and the beloved of Giorgione, one of the handsomest men of his time; but her sympathies were not for him, and he died of grief and despair in his prime.  She was the favourite model of Titian and his school, and the type that more or less prevails in many celebrated pictures.

“How different and yet how beautiful of its kind, is that portrait of a Doge’s daughter, by Paris Bordone!  Less dazzling and luxuriant in her beauty than Palma’s daughter, she is in all respects intensely aristocratic.  In complexion not rich and glowing, but of a transparent and pearly lustre, through which the course of each blue vein is visible.  In shape and features not full and beautifully rounded, but somewhat taller and of more delicate symmetry.  In look and attitude not open, frank, and natural; but astute, refined, courteous, and winning to a degree attainable only by aristocratic training and the habits of high society.  In apparel, neither national nor picturesque, but attired with studied elegance.  Rich rows of pearls wind through her braided hair, in colour gold, in texture soft as silk.  A band of gold forms the girdle of her ruby-coloured velvet robe, which descends to the wrist, and there reveals the small white hand and tapering fingers of patrician beauty.  All this may captivate the fastidious noble; but, to men less artificial in their tastes and habits, could such a woman be better than a statue—­and could love, the strongest of human passions, be ever more to her than a short-lived and amusing pastime?