lligence; at one point, we examine with mere curiosity the stiff
outlines of early religious limning; and, at another, smile at the homely
nature of the Dutch school; Philip de Champagne's portraits, Wouverman's
white horses, Cuyp's meadows and kine, Steen's rural _fetes_, Claude's
sunsets, Pannini's architecture and Sneyder's animals; David's
melodramatic pieces, Isabey's miniatures, Oudny's dogs, Robert's "Harvest
Home," all hint a chapter, not only in the history of art, but in the
philosophy of life and the secrets of the beautiful--enshrined there for
the world's enjoyment, with a liberal policy yet more aptly illustrated by
the vast and lofty colonnades, the courteous custodes, and the provisions
for students in the drawings of successive schools.

In order to exchange the fascinations of the moment for the lessons of the
past, one cloudy morning we drove through the avenue of the Champs
Elysees, by the triumphal arch of Napoleon, to the palace of St. Cloud,
and from the esplanade gazed back upon the city, over the plain below, to
the dense mass of buildings surmounted by the domes of the Invalids, and
the Pantheon and the towers of Notre Dame. To the eye of contemplation it
is one of the most memorable of landscapes; a stand-point for historical
reverie, which attunes the mind for subsequent and less discursive
retrospection. Enter the apartment where Bonaparte dispersed the assembly
of five hundred--the initatory act of his rule; it is now a conservatory,
whence rising terrace walks, statues and fountains only are visible; in
the fresh silence of morning, they offered a striking contrast to that
eventful scene. In an adjacent room a picture representing Maria de
Medici's interview with Sully after the death of Henry IV., carries us
back to an earlier era. Here Blucher had his headquarters, and here was
settled the convention by which Paris was yielded to the allies. The
saloon of Vernet, the well-trimmed vine-trees of the garden, the vivid
hues of the tapestry, the newly waxed floors, the hangings and couches of
Lyons silk, the elegant Sevres vases, and Florentine tables of _pietra
dura_, the velvet cushions of the chapel, and late publications on the
library desks--all free of speck or stain--proclaim this summer palace as
great a favorite now as when resorted to by the princes of Orleans. In
this hall the two Napoleons were proclaimed; and the brilliant memory of
those summer festivals that lately made St. Cloud