with pearls. Her husband soon died, and Sofonisba seems not to have been inconsolable for the loss, for returning to Spain in a vessel commanded by Orazio Lomellini, a Genoese patrician, she was prevailed on during the voyage to accept his hand, and, instead of proceeding to Spain, Lomellini conducted her straight to Genoa. The Lomellini family still preserve her portrait, by herself, after the manner of Raphael, perhaps better done than the one in the gallery at Florence, under which is written "Sophonisba Anguisciola, Crem." aet. suae ann. XX.," and the one in the Imperial Gallery of Vienna, with the following inscription, "Sophonisba Anguisciola virgo se ipsam, fecit 1554."

In the Villa Borghese at Rome, there is a portrait by her, of Amilcare her father, and of her brother. Lord Yarborough is also in possession of one of her pictures, which had always passed for a Titian, (little to the credit of the connoisseurs,) until Francis Wey deciphered the following inscription on the back ground, "Sophonisba Anguisciola virgo i.... teris, Agoti pinx...t. MDLI." Wey conjectures that the young nun with dark eyes and pale face, pure soft features animated by an angelic smile, hands of exquisite delicacy, holding a prayer book, is Elena, Sofonisba's sister and favorite pupil, who took the veil in very early years. (28) Her marriage of S. Catherine is in the Pembroke collection at Wilton. Two portraits of herself, done by her own hand, are in the possession of Mr. Harcourt and Mr. Stirling, and there is a third at Nuneham. Other pictures of hers are at Burleigh House, Althorp, and in Lord Spencer's collection at Wimbledon. (29) Various other works by her are mentioned by Baldinucci, and among them a portrait of the Infanta Isabella Chiara d' Austria, (the same who was confided to Sofonisba's care in Madrid,) on the occasion of her voyage from Genoa to marry the Archduke Albert. Sofonisba died in 1620, at the age of ninety, but long before that time she had become blind. The conferences on aesthetics and on the practice of art, which she held in her own palace, were attended to the last, by distinguished painters from every quarter, and Van Dyk declared that he had received more light from this blind woman than from all his studies of the greatest masters. By precept and by example she helped to raise art in Genoa from the decay into which it had fallen in the middle of the sixteenth century. Receiving her, art education from Campi, who painted in the style of Raphael, and later from Sojari, a follower of Correggio, her pictures reflect the grace and cheerfulness of the first, and the impasto and relief of (28) Les Anglais chez Eux, p. 293. Paris, 1854.

(29) Enumerating the pictures belonging to Sir Charles Cootes, Wägen writes: "In the dining-room I was particularly attracted by a family piece, representing an old couple and a young woman, a picture of animated conception and delicate execution, which I am inclined to assign to the rare and admirable painter, Sofonisba Anguisciola. It is erroneously assigned to Allessandro Allori, called Bronzino, the young female being designated by the name of Bianca Capello."

the second. "More than any other woman of her time," writes Vasari, "with more study and greater grace, she has labored on everything connected with drawing; not only has she drawn, colored, and painted from life, and made excellent copies, but she has also drawn many beautiful original pictures."

(To be continued.)

XXV. THE MISDEEDS OF AURA PLAISTOW.

I.

SHE was but nineteen; and nineteen does not calculate chances or criticise defects. Besides, who could have refused him, handsome, agreeable, fascinating, as he was? Were the paltry facts of a totally different education and diametrically opposed habits and principles to weigh against graceful manners, showy accomplishments, an obliging disposition, and the pleasant abandon of amateur vagabondism? Was it to be expected that Aura, young, credulous, and impressionable, should reject the love of such a man as handsome Tom Delane, because there might be flaws in the perfect fitting of their so diversely moulded lives? It would have been a heroism of prudence scarcely natural in one so ignorant of life, and so careless of consequences as Aura. And as for seeking advice from her father and mother, who, in this prosaic world of ours, ever knew of any work-a-day common sense in a household where the husband wore a beard and a blouse, and gave away his money to the poor instead of paying his debts to his creditors; where the wife dressed the children like pictures, and despised the suggestions of milliners; and where they all lived the lives of gipsies, and did not know what regularity or in-door snugness meant ? Aura would not have heard much rational counsel from her own people, even if she had asked it, but it never occurred to her to ask it, for the Plaistows had a theory about the sacredness of their children's individuality, in virtue of which, those young persons thought and acted for themselves almost as soon as they were out of long frocks and leading strings. A mode of education singularly delightful to the educated, but one not calculated to produce much facility for accepting, or proneness for asking, advice. It was not surprising then, that Aura, instead of referring Tom Delane to her papa or mamma, when he asked her if she would be his wife, should simply put her hands in his, and, looking up frankly into his face, say, Yes, Tom, I will, for I like you;" her color rather deepened, and her heart beating faster than usual, but that was all. Nor was it any the more surprising, considering who and what they were, that her

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father, Horace Plaistow, should add nothing by way of comment or caution, when she went up to him, and put her arms round his neck as he sat painting, saying in her loud clear voice-all her consonants labial, and all her vowels open-" Papa! Tom Delane asked me to marry him to-day, and I said I would." No one who knew them would have wondered that the father's only answer should be to lay down his palette, smooth his beard, pat her flushed face, and tighten the belt of his blouse; then, after the pause of a few moments, to say, "Very well, dear, you know best. Tom is a fine fellow, and I believe he will make you happy, but we shall miss you, my Aura." And so to turn to his easel again; his paternal duty discharged, and his conscience at rest if his heart was troubled. For never yet did a loving father desire to marry off his daughters; and Horace Plaistow, careless artist as he was, was too passionate a lover of his family and his home, to wish to see it broken up.

When all was made known and clear here, at Merridno Vale, Tom wrote home to his mother, and told her, very timidly and very respectfully, that he was engaged to Aura Plaistow, the artist's daughter. He knew he might as well have said the mountebank's daughter, or the pickpocket's, so far as Mrs. Delane's estimate of comparative respectability went.

"I wonder how my mother will like it," said Tom to himself, sealing his letter with the Delane coat of arms, as he always did when writing home; for, indeed, if he had not done so, he need not have communicated with that respectable place at all. "And how will Mary and Margaret agree with Aura? Not well, I think; but Aura will be none the worse for a little of our home discipline. She only wants that to make her perfect, for though it is very charming here, still, we cannot be asleep under the trees like blackbirds, thinking of nothing but pictures and pleasure. My wife must be more conventional and disciplined; know how to manage her household, and be able to keep in-doors. I should be distracted to live in this way for ever, though it is very delightful for a time. But when I have Aura all to myself, and under my sole influence, she will be a very different creature."

He kept his thoughts to himself, and said nothing about his fear of his mother, or his designs for the taming and conversion of his bride. And as the only home bondage which Aura knew of was love and loving likeness, she never imagined that Tom's people could disapprove of what Tom liked, or that he would care if they did. Love meant happiness with Aura, constancy and amity; she could not imagine a divided home, or a family with hearts pointing different ways. So the Delane mine, which some day might explode and scatter her innocent theories to the winds, as yet slumbered beneath her feet, unseen and unknown.

After a surly delay of several days, at last the answer came from Mrs. Delane. She said very little about the engagement at all,

"declining to express her opinion, or to give her sanction until she had seen the young lady herself; so far, but only so far, waiving her primary objection to the undesirable status of the family, and the father's questionable profession." Enclosed was a short, stiff, uncomfortable note for Mrs. Plaistow, written in the third person, compliments and all, icily complete, "desiring an introduction to Mrs. Plaistow's daughter, before matters were allowed to proceed farther." To accomplish which introduction, Aura was to go to the Hollies, where the Delanes lived, on a visit of an indefinite length.

"What a formal letter!" said sweet-tempered, sunny-faced Mrs. Plaistow, who spoke to her very servants with more frankness than many women use to their friends, and who was never known to have looked sour or sad in her life.

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'My mother's heart is warmer than her manner,' said Tom, but he looked as if he were telling a falsehood, and knew it. “Oh, she shall not be cold to me!" cried Aura, laughing, "I will soon kiss her into good humour."

"My mother never kisses any one," said Tom, gravely. He almost shuddered at the thought.

"What, not her own children even?" cried Mrs. Plaistow, hugging her eldest boy, great giant Franky, just seventeen, and six feet high.

"No, never," replied Master Tom, in a matter-of-fact way, as if it was all quite a thing of course. "I remember only once in my life receiving a caress from her. I was a very little boy then, and dangerously ill, I believe; and I can just recollect my mother coming to my bedside and kissing my face. I do not think she has ever done so again."

"How would that suit you, Franky?" said Mrs. Plaistow, pulling her boy's curly crop. "How would you like that from your mother,

spoilt baby that you are ?"

"Oh, mother, not at all," said Franky, dropping his huge limbs on the floor, and laying his head on his mother's lap; such a rough, square, untidy head as it was too. For Franky was one of those large, awkward, shambling creatures, all innocence and muscle, only to be found in unconventional English families very much attached to each other, and living to themselves in the country; a giant boy, who worshipped his mother, idolised his sisters, and thought his father the greatest man of his generation.

"He was such a darling," Mrs. Plaistow used to say, after she had scolded him, as Mrs. Plaistow scolded, to a symphony of smiles and caresses, and vowed positively that he should not creep into her lap as he did, so like a big baby. He really must give up such ways! "But, Tom, you never told us this," said Aura, looking rather dismayed. "And are your sisters the same ?"

quite the same, Aura."

"It is as well she

should know the truth at once," he thought, self-fortifyingly.

"You are not like the rest, then!" laughed Mrs. Plaistow, lifting up her face from the contemplation of Frank's shoulders. It was one of the loveliest faces in creation, even now, mother as she was of eight or nine children.

"No," replied Tom, lightly, "I represent the worldly element among us. I am the frivolous one; a kind of tame black sheep, sadly in want of solidity and reform."

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Oh, bah! you need nothing of the sort!" cried Aura, holding out her hand, "so come, let us go and shoot. Come, Franky, you have all those bad marks of yesterday to make up, and you shot so badly then, I am sure you must be getting short-sighted. Come along, who'll be marker ?"

"I will," said Franky, in his drawling way, gathering up his wandering limbs one by one, as if they were so many separate pieces that fastened by hooks and eyes.

come too."

"Oh yes, mamma, of course! her! Now then, make haste, the we begin, if you are not quick."

"But the little mother must

We could not get on without daylight will be all gone before

And Aura ran off to the archery ground, Tom rushing after her, while big Franky followed a trifle more leisurely, his arm round his mother's waist and his Anakite stride dwarfed to suit her pace. While she, with the fresh wind blowing her bright curls across her merry eyes, looked more like the elder sister than the mother of her son.

As they stood in the archery ground, with the whole tribe of children screaming and laughing about them, such an assemblage as they made of large dark eyes, wide red lips, floating hair and white tossing arms, with the huge dog barking, and the birds singing noisily overhead, Tom could not help thinking that after all, this life of beauty and careless good temper, of art and love and buoyant health, of gaiety and freedom and childlike pleasure, was a wiser one than had been dealt out to him at home. He and his had known only a life of suppressed emotions and checked affections, a life of conventional bondage and social slavery, a life of dull flat monotonous routine, of hard practicality and of severe thought, a life which art had never beautified, and poetry had never idealised, and which made of gaiety a sin, and of nature a reprobation. It was out of such a narrow existence as this that he had stepped into the enchanted circle of an artist's home, a home overflowing with beauty, like purple wine streaming over a golden vase. Small wonder was it then, if, in the intoxication of such a delicious novelty, he lost his head and heart together, and, like Aura, overlooked the grave difference which education and early training had made between them. "Love conquers all things," says the poet in syntax; but assuredly his first conquests are over prevision and common sense, over the measurement of distances and the com