through emotion, the features of Emilia Manin.  This holy image, snatched by genius from death, is one of the most admirable works we have ever seen.  She lies there, extended and cold,—­the poor child!—­in that peace unknown to the life which she had lived in the body.  It is, indeed, the intelligent brow from which the inspiration of her soul seemed to speak.  It is the delicate mouth and the pale lips, which, never uttering a murmur, betrayed the celestial goodness of her heart.  In truth, it would have been difficult to hide our emotion, in recognizing—­thanks to the pure devotion of the painter—­the touching features of this innocent victim, whom we had known, loved, and venerated during her life.  Some hours later, we again found Ary Scheffer sustaining with us the tottering steps of Manin upon the freshly removed earth which was soon to cover the coffin of his child.”

By the same loving and faithful hand were traced the features of the Abbe de Lamennais, a name so dear to those who live in the hope of new progress and liberty for humanity.  “At the moment,” says M. de la Lorge, “when death was yet tearing this great genius from the earth, the pencil of the artist restored him, in some sense alive, in the midst of us all, his friends, his disciples, his admirers.  Hereafter, thanks to the indefatigable devotion of Ary Scheffer, we shall be permitted to see again the meagre visage, the burning eyes, the sad and energetic features of the Breton Apostle.”

Into the domestic life of Scheffer it is not at present our privilege to enter.  Some near friend—­the brother, the daughter, the wife—­may, perhaps, hereafter, lift the veil from the sacred spot, and reveal him to us in those relations which most deeply affect and most truly express a man’s inmost nature.  We close this notice with some slight sketch of his life in the atelier.

None could enter this room without a feeling of reverence and sacredness.  In the failing light of a November afternoon, all was subdued to a quiet and religious tone.  Large and commodious in size, it was filled with objects of the deepest interest.  Nothing was in disorder; there was no smoke, no unnecessary litter; yet everywhere little sketches or hints of pictures were perceptible among the casts, which one longed to bring forth into the light.  A few portraits especially dear to him—­best of all, that of his mother—­were on the walls; a few casts of the finest statues—­among others, that of the Venus de Milo—­around the room.  His last copy of the “Francesca da Rimini,” and the original picture of “The Three Marys,” and the yet unfinished “Temptation on the Mount,” were all there.  On the easel stood the picture of the “Group of Spirits ascending to Heaven.”  Such was the aspect of this celebrated atelier, as we saw it in 1854.  But “the greatest thing in the room was the master of it.”  Ary Scheffer was then about sixty years of age, but was still healthy and fresh in appearance.  His