soft light upon all the marvels of this museum. For a museum it really was, in which an intelligent and prodigal mind had united all the treasures of nature and art, with a little of that “mixing” which distinguishes the “studio” of a painter. Thirty masterpieces in handsome frames ornamented the walls, covered with tapestry of chaste design.
Here I perceived pictures of the greatest value, which for the most part I had admired in private collections and exhibitions. The various schools of the old masters were represented by a “Madonna,” by Raphael; a “Virgin,” by Leonardo da Vinci; a “Nymph,” by Correggio; a “Lady,” by Titian; an “Adoration,” by Veronese; an “Assumption,” by Murillo; a portrait, by Holbein; a “Monk,” by Velasquez; a “Martyr,” by Ribeira; a “Kermesse,” by Rubens; two Flemish landscapes by Teniers, three small pictures of the school of Gerard Dow, Metsu, and Paul Potter, two by Géricault and Prudhon, some sea views by Backuysen and Vernet. Amongst modern works were those of Delacroix, Ingres, Decamp, Troyon, Meissonnier, Daubigny, &c., and some admirable reductions from statues of the first models stood upon pedestals in the corners of this splendid museum.
The state of stupefaction predicted by the captain of the Nautilus had already taken possession of my mind.
“Monsieur,” said the extraordinary man, “you will, I hope, excuse the informal manner in which I have received you, and the disorder or this room.”
