From the _salons_ we ascended to the Galerie du Louvre by a most superb staircase. English riflemen were posted, not only on the landing-place, but also distributed at intervals through the whole length of the gallery--whether to preserve order or the pictures, I know not; but I do know that the appearance of their green uniforms, as they stood leaning on their rifles all along this magnificent perspective, was another of those sights calculated to excite in our minds such strange tumultuous feelings. What must have been those of the Parisians, of whom a part of the immense crowd that thronged the _galerie_ and anteroom was composed? They apprehend that the spoliation will commence directly, and are therefore assiduous in their worship of those treasures about to quit them for ever, and with them, they think, their national glory. The only record I make of the _galerie_ is, that Poussin’s “Deluge” fascinated me. Never did I see a picture inspiring so much awe. Paul Potter’s “Bull” pleased me as an inimitable copy from nature, but as a picture it struck me as wanting in poetry. Some beggar-boy, by Murillo, perfectly ravished me, _malgré_ the disgusting subject: here was nature and the most delicious colouring imaginable. As both Hitchins and I proposed paying many more visits to the _musée_, we did little more than walk to the end of the _galerie_ and back, and then departed, crossed the Prussian bivouac, and wandered into the palace of the Tuileries. We went as we listed, no one offering us the slightest obstruction; and the sentinels (I think they were of the National Guard), although they did not salute us, yet drew up respectfully at their posts as we passed them. Ascending a magnificent staircase, we found our way into a large handsome saloon, over the fireplace in which was a very fine painting of a battle. I think this was the Salle des Maréchaux. There was not a living soul to answer our questions; but I have since learned that what I took for a painting was a piece of Gobelins tapestry. Unheeded, we rambled on from one large room to another; indeed we met but few anywhere, until at last we walked most unceremoniously into one where a number of servants in the royal livery were laying a dinner-table, which, to our astonishment, we found was for his Majesty. They hardly noticed us, and answered all our questions in a most good-natured but most respectful manner. There was a beautiful service of Worcester ware, and, for a private gentleman, a decent display of plate, but nothing more--so far all was respectable; but what a table-cloth! I doubt whether most of our gentry of even the second table wouldn’t turn up their insolent noses at such a one. Sure I am that no gentleman in England ever sits down to so coarse a thing. As dinner was just coming up, the butler (I suppose) very civilly begged us to retire, as his Majesty would be in immediately. We descended to the gardens. I had heard and read so much of the