bent their knees, like camels stooping, to unlade their riches to the spectator. On one side, on an easel, stood Hippolito de Medici (a portrait by Titian), with a boar-spear in his hand, looking through those he saw, till you turned away from the keen glance; and thrown together in heaps were landscapes of the same hand, green pastoral hills and vales, and shepherds piping to their mild mistresses underneath the flowering shade. Reader, “if thou hast not seen the Louvre, thou art damned!”—for thou hast not seen the choicest remains of the works of art; or thou hast not seen all these together with their mutually reflected glories. I say nothing of the statues; for I know but little of sculpture, and never liked any till I saw the Elgin marbles… Here, for four months together, I strolled and studied, and daily heard the warning sound—“Quatres heures passées, il faut fermer, Citoyens”—(Ah! why did they ever change their style?) muttered in coarse provincial French; and brought away with me some loose draughts and fragments, which I have been forced to part with, like drops of life-blood, for “hard money.” How often, thou tenantless mansion of godlike magnificence—how often has my heart since gone a pilgrimage to thee!
It has been made a question, whether the
