re admirable
landscapes by living artists--Hanoteau, who with such masterly power of
execution bends and crooks in every direction the knotted branches of
his giant oaks; Emile Breton, painter of the melancholy scenes of
winter; Harpignies, faithful interpreter of the varying aspects of the
valley of the Allier under all the changes of day and season; Eugene
Feyen and Feyen-Perrin, who delight us with the sea-coast of Brittany
and its fisher-women and bathing-women; Van-Marcke, who is less than the
successor, but more than the imitator, of Troyon; and finally, MM.
Pelouse and Sege, representatives of new forces and processes.

Americans are supposed in Paris to prefer highly-finished and elaborate
work, like that of Gerome, but I have seen in America examples of the
painter who elaborates least of all, who lays on his colors in the
boldest manner--in a word, the painter of general effect, Isabey. It is
refreshing to meet again, here, his _Wedding-Feast_, a delightful repose
to the eye, almost wearied with minute perfection of detail.

Before quitting the labyrinth of French art we must not forget a class
of painters who have received a great deal of admiration, and who
deserve it, whatever rank one may be disposed to assign to their special
branch of art. I refer to the painters of still-life. There is Vollon,
for instance, whose name suggests those wonderful representations of
armor, of rich goldsmith's work, superb tapestries and damascened metal,
to say nothing of the equally admirable counterfeits of warming-pans and
saucepans, which delight the lover of _nature-morte_. We find here his
famous kettle of red copper, sold at a price which might suggest that it
was of solid gold. Amateurs and dealers pronounce Vollon the first of
painters in his specialty, though there are some who profess a
preference for his rival, Blaise-Desgoffes, of whom there are three
examples in the Exposition; and though these are only Venetian glass,
Gothic missals, jewel-boxes and the like, there are some of them worth
thirty thousand francs at the very least: it will be understood that I
speak of the paintings, and not of what they represent. Philippe
Rousseau displays not less than a dozen pictures, and the names of
their owners, Alexandre Dumas, the baroness de Rothschild, Barbedienne,
Edouard Dubufe, etc., show how much he is the _mode_. Indeed, it is
impossible to imagine cheeses more savory, fresher oysters, peaches and
vegetables mor