In the Louvre is situated the museum or _musée central des arts_. This superb collection, without exception the finest in the world, occupies a room equally unrivalled, covering a space at least equal to a quarter of an english mile. The antichamber[2] to this vast gallery is at present filled with a modern exhibition of paintings, which, indifferent in themselves, become still more contemptible by an involuntary, though perhaps unfair, comparison, which one is led to make between the artists of our times, and those of our ancestors. An excellent likeness in full length of madame Bonaparte, and a beautiful miniature of a _father and a son_, by _Isabey_, were the only objects which attracted my attention. My impatience soon carried me forward. At length I found myself in the magnificent room, which I have before mentioned, the walls of which are covered as far as the eye can reach with the sublimest efforts of human art. Where the mind has long been promised a pleasure, when fancy has dressed it in all her choicest colours, how seldom does the reality approach the phantom of heated imagination! For once I was not disappointed. I expected it is true, a high gratification. I had formed to myself an exalted idea of the objects, which I was about to visit, yet the satisfaction I felt exceeded, far exceeded, what I supposed it possible for the power of sight to afford; nor did I believe that the hand of man was capable of attaining that degree of perfection, which I now beheld. For some time I was lost in wonder, I knew not where to fix my enraptured eye. A catalogue which was offered me, by one of the attendants, and which as I afterwards found, is drawn up with great clearness and precision, roused me from this pleasing reverie, and gave some order to the train of my thoughts. The arrangement of the collection is admirable. After viewing the masterpieces of la Sueur, le Brun, Nicolas Poussin, and the three Van Loos, I supposed I had already seen the utmost efforts of the art, and even, under this supposition, was ready to allow that my highest ideas of the power of painting fell short of what these specimens presented. Think of my surprise, when, looking on my catalogue, I found that I had not yet passed the limits of the french school. Astonished and delighted I went on. The flemish, dutch, and german masters occupy the second division. Among them I beheld the exquisite works of Van Dyck, of Hans Holbein, of Paul Potter, of Rembrandt, of Teniers, and of Rubens. Sublime as were the first, objects that had claimed my admiration, even they were exceeded by the latter. Nor had I yet seen the acme of the art. Charmed with the fancy and execution of all the flemish painters, I was particularly pleased with the beautiful pasturage, by Paul Potter, every object of which seems alive on the canvass.