we find the bust of that ideal of picturesque narrators, Froissart.  The modern rule of France is abruptly and almost grotesquely suggested amid such associations, by the figure of De Joinville on the deck of a man-of-war, well described by Talfourd, as “the type of dandified, melodramatic seamanship.”  The cycles of kingly sway is abruptly broken by the meteoric episode of Bonaparte:  first he appears dispersing the Assembly, and then in his early victories, wounded at Ratisbon, at the tomb of Frederick the Great, distributing the Legion of Honor at the Invalides, quelling an insurrection at Cairo, engaged in his unparalleled succession of battles, and at the altar with Maria Louisa.  The divorce from Josephine and the murder of the Duc D’Enghien, are events that only recur more impressively to the mind of the spectator because uncommemorated.  From the career of military genius which transformed the destinies of France, we pass to apartments where still breathes the vestiges of legitimacy as in the hour of its prime.  The equestrian statue of Louis XIV. in the court-yard, his bed and crown, his clock and chair in the long suite of rooms kept sacred to his memory, typify the age when genius and beauty mingled their charms in the corrupt atmosphere of intrigue and profligacy.  The noble expanse of wood, water, and meadow; the paths lined with stately myrtles and ancient box, spread as invitingly to the eye from this embayed window, as when the grand monarque stood there to watch the graceful walk of La Valliere, or the staid carriage of Maintenon.  The abandonment and quietude of these chambers, mirrored, tapestried, and solitary, owe not a little of the spell they exercise over the imagination, to the vicinity of the galleries devoted to the men of the Revolution and the campaigns of ’92; amid the smoke of conflict ever appears that resolute, olive face with the dark eye fixed and the thin lip curved in decision or expectancy.  We mechanically repeat Campbell’s elegy as we mark “Hohenlinden,” and linger with patriotic gratitude over “Yorktown,” notwithstanding the absurd prominence given to the French officers; Conde, Turenne, Moreau, Lannes, Massena, and Lafayette fight over again before us the wars of the Fronde, the Empire, or the Republic.  The monotony of these scenes of destruction is only relieved by the individual memories of the chiefs; they link a certain individuality with the flame and shroud of war, the fragmentary conquests, and the struggles that make up so large a portion of external history; and we emerge from the crowd of warriors into the company of statesmen, wits, and poets, with a sensation of refreshment.  Each single triumph of thought, each victory of imagination and memorial of character, has an absolute worth and charm that the exploits of armies can never emulate.