quare, and is lighted entirely from the inner side. There are in
all twelve halls, each containing the remains of a particular era in the
art, and arranged according to time, so that, beginning with the clumsy
productions of the ancient Egyptians, one passes through the different
stages of Grecian art, afterwards that of Rome, and finally ends with
the works of our own times--the almost Grecian perfection of Thorwaldsen
and Canova. These halls are worthy to hold such treasures, and what more
could be said of them? The floors are of marble mosaic, the sides of
green or purple scagliola, and the vaulted ceilings covered with raised
ornaments on a ground of gold. No two are alike in color and decoration,
and yet there is a unity of taste and design in the whole, which renders
the variety delightful.

From the Egyptian Hall, we enter one containing the oldest remains of
Grecian sculpture, before the artists won power to _mould_ the marble to
their conceptions. Then follow the celebrated Egina marbles, from the
temple of Jupiter Panhellenius, on the island of Egina. They formerly
stood in the two porticoes, the one group representing the fight for the
body of Laomedon, the other the struggle for the dead Patroclus. The
parts wanting have been admirably restored by Thorwaldsen. They form
almost the only existing specimens of the Eginetan school. Passing
through the Apollo Hall, we enter the large hall of Bacchus, in which
the progress of the art is distinctly apparent. A satyr, lying asleep on
a goat-skin which he has thrown over a rock, is believed to be the work
of Praxiteles. The relaxation of the figure and perfect repose of every
limb, is wonderful. The countenance has traits of individuality which
led me to think it might have been a portrait, perhaps of some rude
country swain.

In the Hall of Niobe, which follows, is one of the most perfect works
that ever grew into life under a sculptor's chisel. Mutilated as it is,
without head and arms, I never saw a more expressive figure. Ilioneus,
the son of Niobe, is represented as kneeling, apparently in the moment
in which Apollo raises his arrow, and there is an imploring supplication
in his attitude which is touching in the highest degree. His beautiful
young limbs seem to shrink involuntarily from the deadly shaft; there is
an expression of prayer, almost of agony, in the position of his body.
It should be left untouched. No head could be added, which would equal
that one