The diverse religious character of these two men may be illustrated by an allusion to their different habits with respect to Art.  Sydney Smith, visiting Paris, satisfied himself by a fifteen-minutes’ observation in the galleries of the Louvre.  His mind, almost orbicular in its various capacity, took in the scene at a glance.  There were pictures from almost every country, statues from almost every age, representations of the finest imaginations of the mind and of the noblest labors of history.  He was not a barbarian with respect to the Louvre, but understood all about it, and knew its excellence and value; yet he mingled his sentiment and common-sense well together, and took a rapid walk from chamber to chamber.  He probably entertained large views of Art during his impetuous progress through the ages, from battle-field to battle-field, from saint to saint, from philosopher, poet, and hero, to landscape, shepherdess, and domestic scene.  He took in thought with lightning swiftness, and lived for fifteen minutes amid statues and paintings which collected scenes from all the universe.  He went forth, satisfied that the Louvre was a fine gallery of Art, that Art was a very fine thing, that painters and sculptors ought to be encouraged, and that he had been looking at many things which were worthy a man’s consideration.  If he had been called upon at once to preach a sermon, there is no doubt that he would have made very judicious reflections upon the spectacle which he had beheld.

Charles Lamb, too, visited Paris, and though it is not recorded that he went into the Louvre, yet we can hardly be mistaken in conjecturing that he did, and the thoughts with which he went.  He would have entered those galleries with timid ecstasy.  He would at first have shrunk away from the full splendor, and made acquaintance with some modest painting in a corner.  Happy would some friend near him be to hear the half-tender, half-witty, yet most appreciative conceit which should first come stammering from his lips.  He would have advanced slowly, and only after much delay would have ventured to stand before the great masters, and to look up eye to eye at the spirit of the Louvre.  After taking his departure, he would never have thought familiarly of the scene, but it would have remained in his mind as terrible and sacred an episode as was the descent into Hades to Virgil’s hero.

Not only in the Louvre, but in the world, Charles Lamb was the more timid worshipper.  The whole character of his mind, the intensity of his thought within a narrow sphere, made him reverent of the Infinite.  The thought of departure from the life which he now lived was to him a very solemn one.  Religious ideas were so sacred to him that he never referred to them lightly, and seldom at all.  When he did mention them, it was with peculiar impressiveness.  No one can read the account of his share in a conversation on “persons one would like to have seen,” without admiring the energy and pathos with which