tation, so to speak. But above all, he was to have the horror, every
evening upon going to his room, of passing through those uniform and
desolate corridors, faintly lighted by gas, where before each door are
pairs of cosmopolitan shoes--heavy alpine shoes, filthy German boots,
the conjugal boots of my lord and my lady, which make one think, by
their size, of the troglodyte giants--awaiting, with a fatigued air,
their morning polish.

The imprudent Amedee was destined to all sorts of weariness, all sorts
of deceptions, and all the homesickness of a solitary traveller. At the
sight of the famous monuments and celebrated sites, which have become
in some way looked upon as models for painters and material for
literary development, Amedee felt that sensation of "already seen" which
paralyzes the faculty of admiration. Dare we say it? The dome in Milan,
that enormous quiver of white marble arrows, did not move him. He
was indifferent to the sublime medley of bronze in the Baptistery in
Florence; and the leaning tower at Pisa produced simply the effect of
mystification. He walked miles through the museums and silent galleries,
satiated with art and glutted with masterpieces. He was disgusted to
find that he could not tolerate a dozen "Adorations of the Shepherds,"
or fourteen "Descents from the Cross," consecutively, even if they
were signed with the most glorious names. The scenes of suffering and
martyrdom, so many times repeated, were particularly distasteful to
him; and he took a still greater dislike even to a certain monk, always
represented on his knees in prayer with an axe sticking in his tonsure,
than to the everlasting St. Sebastian pierced with arrows. His deadened
and depraved attention discerned only the disagreeable and ugly side
of a work of art. In the adorable artless originals he could see only
childish and barbarous drawing, and he thought the old colorists'
yolk-of-an-egg tone monotonous.

He wished to spur his sensations, to see something extraordinary. He
travelled toward Venice, the noiseless city, the city without birds or
verdure, toward that silent country of sky, marble, and water; but once
there, the reality seemed inferior to his dream. He had not that shock
of surprise and enthusiasm in the presence of St. Mark's and the Doges'
palace which he had hoped for. He had read too many descriptions of all
these wonders; seen too many more or less faithful pictures, and in his
disenchantment he recalle