of paintings now gathered within the walls of
the Louvre. But when, in seventeen hundred
and seventy-nine, Louis the Sixteenth gave
the palace to his brother, the Count de
Provence (afterwards Louis the Eighteenth),
Rubens's pictures and the works forming the
public gallery were removed, and set apart to
be added to the collection in the Louvre.
While the gloom of the Revolution was over
the capital, dark days fell upon the palace.
Presently, however, it was decorated for the
Directory; then for the Senat Conservateur;
then again, in eighteen hundred and two, a
gallery of old masters was collected within
its walls, to be withdrawn finally to fill up
gaps in the Louvre gallery in eighteen
hundred and fifteen. It was that same Count
de Provence, who once held the palace as
his private property, and who gave
importance to the building afterwards occupied
by his chamber of peers, by ordering
that a gallery of paintings by modern
French artists should be formed in one of the
wings.To carry out this project some of the
more remarkable examples of French art
in the Louvre and the royal palaces were
removed hither. This exhibition, which
included some celebrated works by David
Gros, and Gerard, was opened to the public
for the first time in eighteen hundred and
eighteen. And this collection is now free to
all who have an hour to spare, and who are
armed with passports.

The way to the gallery, up a narrow stone
staircase, is not impressive. It is unlike
a French approach to an art-gallery,
although it might serve such a purpose
without notice in England. A ring at a
bell on the first floor summons an
important person in a cocked hat, and green
and red livery, who examines the applicant's
passport, takes his cane (for the
care of which he charges him two sous)
and lets him loose in the gallery. The
pictures in the collection are, generally, very
well known: it is with the copyists that the
idle student's interest will lie. Here he is
certain to meet some friends; and, as he strolls
from one easel to another, with a lively
word for each acquaintance, and a criticism
on each copy, the time flies onward to his
perfect satisfaction.

These copyists are a peculiar class in Paris,
who supply the picture-market in all parts
of the world, but mostly in Paris, with imitations
of popular paintings. The visitor, entering
the gallery for the first time, if he have
been many weeks in Paris, knows almost every
picture. Copies of them are to be seen in any
quarter of the capital: they are heaped up in
the shops in the Rue de Seine—they choke up
the gateways on the Quai Voltaire—they
dangle in the wind outside the gates of the
Louvre. And here they are by dozens, lying
against the walls, under the originals. Four
persons, with their easels ingeniously grouped
within the narrowest possible space, are painting
Scheffer's Charlotte Corday: three
distinct copies of Rosa Bonhem's masterly
Ploughed Field are peeping from the canvas:
De la Roche's Death of Queen Elizabeth is
being reproduced on four or five different
scales: the picture of the Last Victims of
the Reign of Terror, by Muller, with André
Chenier as the central figure, is being either
copied wholesale, or being mercilessly
dissected into "studies;" some copyists taking
only the head of the poet: others snatching
the face of a terrified woman. The
young Princes in the Tower, by De la
Roche, are being as mercilessly murdered by
two copyists as they were, in reality, by the
hired assassins. One glance at these
imitators, however, is more interesting and
pleasing than two at the copies. Many are
women—some young women—negligently
dressed. Their cloaks and bonnets are
put aside in a heap, and some black lace,
or a coquettish handkerchief, is gracefully tied
over the head. They have generally a sad,
careworn, business look, and they proceed
with their painting as listlessly as the
seamstress goes on with her sewing. They are
undisturbed by the stare of visitors, and hear
passing criticism without the least exhibition
of pleasure or resentment. The hopes
of fame have been crushed, the ardour with
which they once contended for prizes is
quenched. They have reached the summit of
their art-destiny; and every attempt to soar
higher has failed. There they sit upon their
little deal stools, with shabby, dirty paintboxes
beside them, wielding huge palettes,
and adding their browns and greens with
mechanical industry. So do some old ladies,
who wear spectacles, and a dingy costume,
and who appear to have been at work in the
same manner for forty or fifty years.

The male copyists are a motley race.
Some are finished dandies, others are the
most slovenly fellows it is possible to imagine:
some have their hair beautifully brushed
and pomatumed, and sport shining coats,
apparently worn for the first time: others
are in greasy, threadbare garments, adopt
the negligent style of coiffure, and are not
sufficiently ostentatious to wash hands or face
very frequently. It may be perhaps noticed that
the latter are, generally, better artists than the
well-pomatumed copyists. One very dandified
old gentleman who attends the gallery may be
remarked for the care with which he envelopes
his arms up to the elbows in black satin bags,
to preserve his coat from contact with paint
or varnishes.

The student's idle day is spent altogether
near the Panthéon. There are many cafés at
hand, where, when he is tired of the pictures
and the gardens of the Luxembourg, he
may have his absinthe or his billiards: or
there are cabinets where he can have his two
sous worth of popular literature. But he is
possibly not inclined even for the lightest
reading, and strolls back to the nourriture