ion of Paintings-Authenticity of the Cenci Questioned-A Portrait of Galileo-Portrait of Martin Luthe

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ith the exception of those in daily use, filling three good-sized bookcases in our present residence; but as the house in the woods had been twice broken into last winter, Ida thought it safer to move them all down this summer to the side-hill house, where Berna

he necessity of writing down the names, and we had unluckily chosen the hottest day that we had so far experienced for this laborious task. We all went to work, however, with as muc

, for more than one thousand volumes of all sizes and in every variety of binding from cloth to calf, had been thrown promiscuously on the floor, and the hottest antagonists in the political and religious world were now lying side by side in the apparent enjoyment of peace and good-will. "Slavery Doomed" and "Slavery Justified" compos

gest and clearest type, with richest binding; Lord Derby's translation of the Iliad, Mackay's "Thousand and One Gems," a large and elegant volume of Byron's complete works, and Bryant's "Library of Poetry and Song"-the two latter beautifully bound and illustrated. Xenophon, Herodotus, Josephus, and

"Effects of Alcohol," including "Scriptural Testimony against Wine;" and a work or two

r-Appleton's useful Cyclopaedia-and beside them lay an enormous Webster

album of languages, beautifully illuminated, and bound in scarlet morocco, containing the Lord's

rs each, and treasures which no money could have bought from uncle-one a copy of Erasmus, dated Basle, 1528, and the other "The tvvoo Boo

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eans a Stewart or an Astor, showed great liberality. Uncle could not afford, like ostentatious millionnaires, to dazzle the public with paintings bought by the yard; but for a man of his means he displayed, I think, a true love for art and a strong desire to encourage it. His purchases, too, were very different from the second-rate pictu

a museum. It is over the music-room, and its long French windows open upon a balcony, from which we daily admire our tender, Italian-like sunsets. To the right it is overhung by the branches of our favorite apple-tree, from who

picture, and hot discussions took place wherever the believers and unbelievers chanced to meet. No possible proof existed, one party would declare, that Guido had ever painted Beatrice Cenci; and no one had thought of it as other than a fancy head until Shelley had aroused the interest of the public in the half-forgotten tragedy of poor Beatrice's sad life by the sombre drama, "The Cenci." From that time, they say, caprice has

ood upon the scaffold-for there are two versions of the story-and that the gown and turban which she wears were made by her own hands on the nigh

e redness about the eyes, very slightly indicated, so that you would question whether or no the girl had been weeping. The whole face was quiet; there was no distortion or disturbance of any single feature, nor was it easy to see why the expression was not cheerful, or why a single touch of the artist's pencil should not brighten it into joyousness. But in fact it was

im. The skull at his feet and the dreary landscape surrounding him indicate his hermit-life of isolation and penance. The Saint is dressed in the coarse brown habit of a mendicant friar, a

the sixteenth or early in the seventeenth century. It is a portrait of Galileo painted from life by Andrea Bartone, and was bought at a sale of the Santi Gallery. Only the head and bust are represented-the latter clothed in a dark-brown op

Aunt Mary's, is an antique marble medallion of Juno, the

mother's face is youthful and radiant with divine beauty: the Infant Je

e biographers who are so prone to describe him in his younger days as having been "uncouth" and "awkward," would be, I think, much startled if they could see it. His coat is black, with a black tie, like o

which stand several marble curiosities: a model of the tomb of Scipio, Minerva issuing from the head o

ught in Rome, and made of variegated marble tak

st of Proserpine, of which uncle was especially proud. H

of the female head that have come down to us; and while I do not see how they could be excelled in their o

the Flemish school of painting. I have seen in the Dresden Gallery the counterpart to this picture, painted by the same artist, but representing Luthe

phael, and underneath it hangs one of our most valuable pictures-a v

a Venetian scene-the Doge's palace with its graceful, Moorish architecture; St. Peter and St. Paul; the Cumaean Sybil, a beautiful female figure whose partly veiled face seemed full of mystery; St. Agatha, and an Ecce Homo. There are still some more marble medallions that I have not mentioned; several

t made of uncle in 1846 by Hart, the Kentucky sculptor. This bust was the first work of importance that Mr. Hart had ever executed, for he was then in the first flush of manhood, and the early vigor of that genius that has since wrought out so many beautiful creat

extremely busy, and it was very difficult for him to give Mr. Hart an occasional half hour for a sitting. As ordinary means failed, Mr. Hart brought his clay and instruments to The Tribune office, and there he

ny, and attended every occasion when he spoke in public, that he might model him, he said, in his best mood. Consequently the bust was the most perfect likeness that had ever been made of brother, and as his face was then delic

her belonging to one of our cousins was broken by her little son; and although Cassius Clay's copy was buried, Mr. Hart told me, during the war to save it from the hands of the soldiers, he had no reason to suppose that it finally had escaped the fate of the others. Aunt M

this bust, where he has since remained, with the exception of a flying visit to America about twelve

at sea from proceeding with the statue of Henry Clay, which he is commissioned by the ladies of Virginia to fashion and construct; but he is wisely devoting much of his time to careful study, and to the modelling of the ideal, before proceeding to