uring my stay in Paris I visited the gallery of David. This celebrated
artist has amassed a fortune of upwards of two hundred thousand pounds,
and is permitted by his great patron, and friend Bonaparte, to occupy
the corner wing of the old palace, from which every other man of genius
and science, who was entitled to reside there, has been removed to other
places, in order to make room for the reception of the grand National
Library, which the first consul intends to have deposited there. His
apartments are very magnificent, and furnished in that taste, which he
has, by the influence of his fame, and his elegance of design, so
widely, and successfully diffused. Whilst I was seated in his rooms, I
could not help fancying myself a contemporary of the most tasteful times
of Greece. Tunics and robes were carelessly but gracefully thrown over
the antique chairs, which were surrounded by elegant statues, and
ancient libraries, so disposed, as to perfect the classical illusion. I
found David in his garden, putting in the back ground of a painting. He
wore a dirty robe, and an old hat. His eyes are dark and penetrating,
and beam with the lustre of genius. His collection of paintings and
statues, and many of his own studies, afforded a perfect banquet. He
was then occupied in drawing a fine portrait of Bonaparte. The presence
of David covered the gratification with gloom. Before me, in the bosom
of that art, which is said, with her divine associates, to soften the
souls of men, I beheld the remorseless judge of his sovereign, the
destroyer of his brethren in art, and the enthusiast and confidential
friend of Robespierre. David's political life is too well known. During
the late scenes of horror, he was asked by an acquaintance, how many
heads had fallen upon the scaffold that day, to which he is said coolly
to have replied, "_only one hundred and twenty!!_ The heads of twenty
thousand more must fall before the great work of philosophy can be
accomplished."

It is related of him, that during the reign of the Mountain, he carried
his portfolio to the front of the scaffold, to catch the last emotions
of expiring nature, from the victims of his revolutionary rage.

He directed and presided at the splendid funeral solemnities of
Lepelletier, who was assassinated by Paris, in which his taste and
intimate knowledge of the ceremonies of the ancients, on similar
occasions, were eminently displayed.

Farewell, David! when years have roll