mind, not the most expressive, of all his pictures—­the late acquisition for which kings competed at Marshal Soult’s sale; now we are warmed by the rosy flush of Rubens—­like a mellow sunset beaming from the walls; and now startled at the life-like individuality of Vandyke’s portraits, as they gaze down with such placid dignity and keen intelligence; at one point, we examine with mere curiosity the stiff outlines of early religious limning; and, at another, smile at the homely nature of the Dutch school; Philip de Champagne’s portraits, Wouverman’s white horses, Cuyp’s meadows and kine, Steen’s rural fetes, Claude’s sunsets, Pannini’s architecture and Sneyder’s animals; David’s melodramatic pieces, Isabey’s miniatures, Oudny’s dogs, Robert’s “Harvest Home,” all hint a chapter, not only in the history of art, but in the philosophy of life and the secrets of the beautiful—­enshrined there for the world’s enjoyment, with a liberal policy yet more aptly illustrated by the vast and lofty colonnades, the courteous custodes, and the provisions for students in the drawings of successive schools.

In order to exchange the fascinations of the moment for the lessons of the past, one cloudy morning we drove through the avenue of the Champs Elysees, by the triumphal arch of Napoleon, to the palace of St. Cloud, and from the esplanade gazed back upon the city, over the plain below, to the dense mass of buildings surmounted by the domes of the Invalids, and the Pantheon and the towers of Notre Dame.  To the eye of contemplation it is one of the most memorable of landscapes; a stand-point for historical reverie, which attunes the mind for subsequent and less discursive retrospection.  Enter the apartment where Bonaparte dispersed the assembly of five hundred—­the initatory act of his rule; it is now a conservatory, whence rising terrace walks, statues and fountains only are visible; in the fresh silence of morning, they offered a striking contrast to that eventful scene.  In an adjacent room a picture representing Maria de Medici’s interview with Sully after the death of Henry IV., carries us back to an earlier era.  Here Blucher had his headquarters, and here was settled the convention by which Paris was yielded to the allies.  The saloon of Vernet, the well-trimmed vine-trees of the garden, the vivid hues of the tapestry, the newly waxed floors, the hangings and couches of Lyons silk, the elegant Sevres vases, and Florentine tables of pietra dura, the velvet cushions of the chapel, and late publications on the library desks—­all free of speck or stain—­proclaim this summer palace as great a favorite now as when resorted to by the princes of Orleans.  In this hall the two Napoleons were proclaimed; and the brilliant memory of those summer festivals that lately made St. Cloud dazzling with light and beauty, was reflected from mirror, cornice, and tinted fabric; from this gilt on the iron chain of usurped dominion, a glance through the window revealed its origin:  a throng of people