of light and shade is more harmoniously disposed, than I ever saw in any of his most esteemed and largest productions. In short, to bring you an instance in his Prodigal Son, which is deservedly regarded as one of his best; the styles are so different between the Saint Sebastian and it, that it would require the penetration of Apelles and Protagoras united, to discover traces in either of having both been produced by the same hand. As several persons whom I met with, pronounced it to be a work of Salvator Rosa; and as their connoisseur experience in the galleries of the continent ought to give them authority, I did not pretend to dispute their judgment, though I could not assent; but must still deny our favourite banditti painter the merit of producing this saint. If I dare presume to affix a name to it, I would say that I rather think it bears the marks of Michael Angelo de Caravaggio.

The prince can boast a chef-d'œuvre of Murilio. The subject is two boys eating a watermelon. They are represented the size of life, and possess all that fascination, so true to nature, which distinguishes the productions of this Spaniard. There is a fine duplicate of this picture in the elector's gallery at Munich. Many smaller pictures of the Dutch and Italian schools ornament the saloon in which I sat; but time, and ignorance and neglect in those who have the care of them, have so wofully abused their beauties, that they are now scarcely worth notice.

Indeed, as I looked around on the assemblage, some good, others bad, and most indifferent, I could not but recollect the impression I have so often felt, both at home and abroad, when taken by a travelled lover of arts to see his collection. His walls in general, are plentifully hung; and at as great an expense as if every pannel had been painted by the fathers of the art: but how easy is it to see, that not depending on his own judgment, the amateur has been led by those cicerone gentlemen, who are ever ready to save him the trouble of seeing, selecting, and buying: and, who thus directing his taste both in sculpture and painting, fill his house, and their own pockets, by the labours of merely secondary artists.

But I should be ungrateful to my illustrious host, and most ungracious to myself, were I to dwell longer on the faults of a

minor part of his furniture, when all else, his bronzes and his statues, were admirable; and himself, moved like a Nestor through the scene. Though I passed so long a day with him, from noon till night, the interest never flagged. His conversation teemed with information and urbanity. The characters of men lay open before him: he decided on all with a precision that declared his judgment; while the candour with which he examined their actions, convinced you of the goodness of his heart.

The evening brought in new company, who turned the scene to a gaiety in which he partook with smiles; and an elegant supper terminated the night. A very well timed period! It is twelve o'clock! That witching hour, when all the grim heroes and heroines of the Tales of Wonder are afloat! So, for fear of being visited by some of the said sheeted fraternity, I shall even be beforehand with them, and assume a double share of their wardrobe by getting between the sheets of my bed. Therefore, good night to thee, my friend!

LETTER XXX.

Mosco, December, 1806.

I DINED yesterday with count Razumofsky; and partook of a repast, which, at this sterile season of the year, teemed with all the luxuries of spring and autumn: fruits of every climate, ripened in hothouses; and vegetables of all descriptions, raised in cellars. A strange place, you will think, for the exercise of horticulture! But so it is; and by the exclusion of the cold air, and the admission of heat from the stoves, these subterraneous gardens produce summer vegetables all the year round. Green peas and asparagus are here as common at christmas, as potatoes and winter cabbages may be with you.

Indeed the Russians are very much indebted to the fostering care of our mother earth; for in her bosom do they also treasure the ice which, during the hot months, is used to cool their feverish bloods. In no country, not even Italy, can this attemperating substance be consumed in greater quantities. It is put down into the vaults appointed for its reception every year in such vast shoals, that, I am told, from the continual replenishing, (and using that first which lies a top, and consequently the latest deposited,) there is ice in some of the cellars in Mosco, which has lain at their bottoms for nearly a century. The ice is so strong, that when the owner has portious taken out for consumption, the servants are obliged to cut it up with pickaxes.

Hence you see, between vegetables and ice, the two seasons (thus imprisoned during their own proper reigns, to break forth and invade each other's rights), occupy almost as great an extent of building underground as the city possesses above.

Count Razumofsky's house is in every way answerable to the splendor of his entertainments: it is lately rebuilt; and in a style that does honour to his taste and liberality. I am told that the structure alone, cost him a million of rubles. He possesses many expensive pictures; but as they are not yet arranged, I had not an opportunity of judging of their merits. Only one

saloon is completely hung: and that is with very fine works from the Dutch school.

In one of the rooms I observed a portrait of Peter the Great, which more resembled the statue of Falconet than any I had yet seen. Its features convey an elevation of soul and energy perfectly consistent with a representation of that hero. A circumstance which the count related, gave an additional interest to the picture. He requested I would notice that the head had been sewed into the present canvass on which the figure is painted. That small piece, he told me, was the only part that was original; the rest having been added by an ancestor of his own.

While Peter the First was travelling in Holland in his usual incognito style, he stopped at an inn on the road for refreshments. He was shown into a room where a large picture hung at the upper end: it was a portrait. And as he sat at his meal he observed the landlord look several times from him to the portrait, and from the portrait to him, with a kind of comparing scrutiny. "Whose picture is that?" inquired the emperor.

"The tzar of Muscovy:" replied the man; "it was brought to me from Paris, and every body says it is his very self. And I was thinking it was very like you, sir."

Peter made no answer to this latter observation; but affecting to eat his dinner with too keen an appetite to hear distinctly, finished it in a few minutes: and paying his reckoning as an ordinary passenger, sent the landlord out of the room on some excuse; then taking a knife from his pocket, cut the head from the shoulders of the portrait and put it in his bosom. He left a large sum of money on the table, more than sufficient he thought, to pay the damage he had done; and immediately, before the mischief was discovered, he took his departure in his humble equipage. This act was to prevent his being recognised as he proceeded, by any who might have afterwards stopped at the same inn, and like the landlord have perceived the resemblance: and certainly, but for the equivalent on the table, the deed itself would never be supposed to have been that of an emperor.

On his return to Russia, he gave this relic to an ancestor of

count Razumofsky; to whom the monarch told the story attached to it, with much merriment at the idea of what must have been the amazement of the observing landlord, when he saw both the head and its likeness flown.

This was not the only interesting object which excited my attention during my visit to the munificent count. I met with a man under the protection of this nobleman, whose history might afford grounds for a very pretty romance. He is a Frenchman, a native of Bourdeaux; and was put, when a boy, on board a merchant ship, in order to learn the duty of a sailor. Soon after this, the war broke out between Great Britain and the Republic, and the ship in which he sailed was taken, and he carried prisoner to England. However, he did not remain in confinement long, but entered on board a small British ship of war bound to our settlements in New Holland. As fate would have it, a violent storm arose; and the vessel was wrecked on one of the islands not many leagues from Otaheite. Himself and one seaman were the only persons who escaped; for not a trace of the men, nor the ship, remained, after the tempestuous horrors of the scene dispersed.

The inhabitants, instead of seizing them as a prey, received the sufferers with the most humane hospitality. Hope for awhile flattered them that some ship might also be driven thitherward, which not enduring so much as their's had, would return them safe to Europe. But days and weeks wearing away without any signs of release, they at last began to regard the island as their future home. And a short time so accustomed them to the society and manners of the country, that in a few months more, they were perfectly resigned to their situation. By degrees they laid aside European modes, and assumed the habits of the natives; forsaking their clothes; hunting and fishing, and doing just as if they had been born amid the Friendly Isles. They learnt the language, allowed themselves to be tattooed; and at length sealed their insular fates by marriage.

The subject of my narrative was little more than fifteen when he thus domesticated himself. Being of a handsome person, he was honoured with the hand of the daughter of the