the Louvre without
thinking of a building in London devoted to the same purpose, which is
neither very beautiful nor very convenient; and it is rather tempting to
enlarge on the despicable show the Trafalgar Square collection makes
beside the principal Continental ones. The equitable temper, however, of
your Correspondent leads him to suggest some reflections which will
mitigate that censure. The National Gallery was not built by the
luxurious sovereign of an impoverished people, or it might have been
larger and more splendid. No curse cleaves to its stones. The pictures
are not the fruit of rapine and confiscation, or the collection might
have been more extensive and valuable. As it is, it contains less
rubbish and more priceless gems than any gallery of its size in the
world; and no pillaged aristocracy, no humbled province, claims a canvas
there. Such considerations consoled him as he paced up the gilded saloon
of APOLLO to the square chamber which holds the masterpieces of the
collection. RAPHAEL, PAUL VERONESE, LEONARDO, and TITIAN appear in all
their glory; but the star of the room and cynosure of neighbouring eyes,
is MADAME SOULT'S MURILLO--the _Assumption of Mary_. A crowd of devout
admirers cluster always round this great work and the artist who is
employed in copying it. It has the effect of a tender strain from one of
Mozart's masses, sweet and sensous, yet not low. Ladies cannot but be
charmed to see that a saint can be so pretty, and turn with a shudder
from dirty anchorites and unshaven martyrs to gaze again and again at
those lovely eyes, and silky hair, and those elegant hands crossed so
gracefully on her bosom.

Certainly nothing can be more delightful than to sit on the central
ottoman (which by the way is a great deal more comfortable than those
backless rout seats that we wot of), and, shifting one's position from
time to time, study the various marvels of art that clothe the walls of
this saloon. Your Correspondent, like every English gentleman, knows (or
wishes to be thought to know) something about pictures, but he is not
minded to gratify you with the slang that is usually thought necessary
for the proper treatment of this subject. Wherefore he will make no
allusions to breadth, or chiaro-scuro, or texture, or bits of colour.
PAUL VERONESE'S _Marriage at Cana_ is before him, fresh and varied as a
bouquet of flowers, and he wishes to enjoy it as he would digest his
dinner, without giving technic