ng in this discussion, the omnibus has gayly
conducted us across the water; and le garde qui veille a la porte du
Louvre ne defend pas our entry.

What a paradise this gallery is for French students, or foreigners who
sojourn in the capital! It is hardly necessary to say that the brethren
of the brush are not usually supplied by Fortune with any extraordinary
wealth, or means of enjoying the luxuries with which Paris, more than
any other city, abounds. But here they have a luxury which surpasses all
others, and spend their days in a palace which all the money of all the
Rothschilds could not buy. They sleep, perhaps, in a garret, and dine
in a cellar; but no grandee in Europe has such a drawing-room. Kings'
houses have, at best, but damask hangings, and gilt cornices. What are
these to a wall covered with canvas by Paul Veronese, or a hundred
yards of Rubens? Artists from England, who have a national gallery that
resembles a moderate-sized gin-shop, who may not copy pictures, except
under particular restrictions, and on rare and particular days, may
revel here to their hearts' content. Here is a room half a mile long,
with as many windows as Aladdin's palace, open from sunrise till
evening, and free to all manners and all varieties of study: the only
puzzle to the student is to select the one he shall begin upon, and keep
his eyes away from the rest.

Fontaine's grand staircase, with its arches, and painted ceilings and
shining Doric columns, leads directly to the gallery; but it is thought
too fine for working days, and is only opened for the public entrance
on Sabbath. A little back stair (leading from a court, in which stand
numerous bas-reliefs, and a solemn sphinx, of polished granite,) is the
common entry for students and others, who, during the week, enter the
gallery.

Hither have lately been transported a number of the works of French
artists, which formerly covered the walls of the Luxembourg (death
only entitles the French painter to a place in the Louvre); and let us
confine ourselves to the Frenchmen only, for the space of this letter.

I have seen, in a fine private collection at St. Germain, one or two
admirable single figures of David, full of life, truth, and gayety.
The color is not good, but all the rest excellent; and one of these so
much-lauded pictures is the portrait of a washer-woman. "Pope Pius," at
the Louvre, is as bad in color as remarkable for its vigor and look of
life. The man had a ge