to
me a region of enchantment. I became devotedly attached to him. He was
not a native of Genoa, but had been drawn thither by the solicitation
of several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, for
the completion of certain works he had undertaken. His health was
delicate, and he had to confide much of the filling up of his designs
to the pencils of his scholars. He considered me as particularly happy
in delineating the human countenance; in seizing upon characteristic,
though fleeting expressions and fixing them powerfully upon my canvas.
I was employed continually, therefore, in sketching faces, and often
when some particular grace or beauty or expression was wanted in a
countenance, it was entrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was fond of
bringing me forward; and partly, perhaps, through my actual skill, and
partly by his partial praises, I began to be noted for the expression
of my countenances.

Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an historical
piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which were to be introduced
the likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one entrusted
to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a convent
for her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for the
picture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous
palaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon the
bay, a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of
glory round her as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. She was but
sixteen years of age--and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like
a mere vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down
and worshipped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and
painters, when they would express the _beau ideal_ that haunts their
minds with shapes of indescribable perfection.

I was permitted to sketch her countenance in various positions, and I
Fondly protracted the study that was undoing me. The more I gazed on
her the more I became enamoured; there was something almost painful in
my intense admiration. I was but nineteen years of age; shy, diffident,
and inexperienced. I was treated with attention and encouragement, for
my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favor for me; and I am
inclined to think that there was something in my air and manner that
inspired interest and respect. Still the kindness with which I was
treated could not dispel the