grounds newly turned up, and could not resist the temptation to cram our pockets full of the granite, porphyry, and marble slabs which he here by thousands, and serve as unfailing witnesses to the ancient splendour of the walls which were once covered with them.
I must now speak of a wonderful problematical picture, which, even in the midst of the many gems here, still makes a good show of its own.
For many years there had been residing here a Frenchman, well known as an admirer of the arts, and a collector. He had got hold of an antique drawing in chalk, no one knows how or whence. He had it retouched by Mengs, and kept it in his collection as a work of very great value. Winckelmann somewhere speaks of it with enthusiasm. The Frenchman died, and left the picture to his hostess as an antique. Mengs, too, died, and declared on his death-bed that it was not an antique, but had been painted by himself. And now the whole world is divided in opinion; some maintaining that Mengs had one day, in joke, dashed it off with much facility; others asserting that Mengs could never do anything like it, indeed that it is almost too beautiful for Raphael. I saw it yesterday, and must confess that I do not know anything more beautiful than the figure of Ganymede, especially the head and shoulders: the rest has been much renovated. However, the painting is in ill repute, and no one will relieve the poor landlady of her treasure.
As experience fully teaches us that there is a general pleasure in having poems, whatever may be their subject, illustrated with drawings and engravings, nay, that the painter himself usually selects a passage of some poet or other for the subject of his most elaborate
