12 TROPICAL PLANTS. through an alley embowered with evergreens, young pines and firs, planted for the occasion, filling the cool air with resinous odors. On each side of the alley were benches, inviting the visitor who might be wearied with his walk, to rest awhile. Thence we passed into the vast area beyond the columns which support the galleries, and here the floor was covered with a bright green turf, closely shaven, formed into hillocks and gentle slopes, surrounding beds of shrubs and other plants in full bloom, and intersected by winding walks. Here were thickets of rhododendrons of different varieties; here was a group of our own mountain laurel, as beautiful as any seen in our forests; here were showy companies of azaleas of all tinges of color, from bright scarlet to pure white; here were beds of roses and wildernesses of geraniums, pampered into innumerable diversities, perfuming the air. All had their roots in the soil; and a friendly soil it seemed, for though the exhibition had already lasted a fortnight, there was nothing faded or withered; every blossom and leaf was as fresh as it could have been in its native bed. The tropical flowers themselves seemed not to miss, under this immense canopy of glass, their own genial climate. A young datepalm stood on one of the hillocks, with plants of its own latitudes clustering and blooming around it. In the midst of the area a little fountain threw up its waters, which formed themselves into what had the appearance of a winding brook. A rustic bridge bestrode the little stream, which, to say the truth, was not quite so transparent as one of our country brooks, for it was the turbid water of the Seine; but it was glassy enough on the surface to make a mirror for some magnificent water-plants whose roots were steeped by it. Two black swans from New Holland, as we crossed the bridge, were standing on the brink of the water, each supported by one broad foot, the other coiled up under the body, and the head tucked under one wing. As we approached, they suddenly pulled out their heads from under their wings, put the uplifted foot to the ground, uttered a clanging cry, and taking to the water sailed off among the groups of calla and iris that fringed the bank. The exhibition was visited by a crowd of people, and groups of smartly-dressed Parisian ladies were hovering about the flowers like butterflies. Among the roses exhibited were some fine new varieties, which it is the fashion of the day to name after eminent military commanders. A large blushrose bears the name of Lord Raglan, and a larger, with flaming blood-red petals, the name of General Jacqueminot. I believe this is regarded as a very desirable addition to the stock of roses. As I was about leaving the place, I observed a gentleman looking at me with a very attentive scrutiny, as if he thought he might have seen me before. A second glance sufficed me to recognize him; it was Mons. Vattemare, author of the system of International Exchanges, looking as fresh as any of the flowers in their beds around him. He hurried me off to a place under one of the galleries, where he had a little niche, in which were suspended in rows ears of maize of different varieties, from the State of New York, and on the table 14 DELAROCHE'S PAINTINGS. lay the two quarto volumes of the Natural History of the same State, which treat of its botany. The ears of Indian corn, I was not displeased to see, made a much better appearance than the samples from Algeria, which were suspended on a wall immediately opposite. As we were talking about them, two Orientals, with glittering black eyes and jet black beards, wearing the high, shaggy Persian cap-one of them with features so regular and finely formed that they might have served as a pattern for an ideal bust-came up, and addressing Mons. Vattemare in French, asked him for some of the ears of maize to take to their own country. "I will give you them, and a great many other things beside," he answered, delighted to find the opportunity of pushing his system of international exchanges in a new quarter. In the midst of the dialogue which followed, and which was carried on with great spirit and earnestness on the part of Mons. Vattemare, I took my leave. His The same day I went to an exhibition of the works of Paul Delaroche, whose reputation as a painter is as great in the United States as here. Shortly before his death he expressed a desire to paint a picture the subject of which should be of universal interest, in order to give the proceeds to unfortunate artists and workmen in the studios of artists. friends have thought that the best method of fulfilling a design which the artist himself was only prevented from fulfilling by death, would be to assemble all his pictures in one gallery and give the profits of this exhibition to the charitable fund of the Association of Artists, Painters, Sculptors, &c., of which PORTRAITS OF NAPOLEON. Delaroche was President. 15 His works have accordingly been brought together from various collections, private and public, in this country, in England and elsewhere. They illustrate, curiously, the gloomy character of his genius. You look about the walls, and you are in the midst of deathbeds, executions, assassinations. The least interesting of these pictures is the death of Queen Elizabeth. The gigantic old woman, sprawling on her couch upon the floor, her harsh features livid with mortal disease, is a horrid object; nor is there any thing in the rest of the picture to make amends for the disagreeable impression produced by this principal figure. The series of portraits of Napoleon forms of itself a tragedy, and a most impressive one. The first of these is "Napoleon crossing the Alps," with which the American. public is familiar. As he is making his way through the mountain snows, you see that he is revolving his great plans of conquest. You read in the eye of the young adventurer untameable resolution and absolute confidence in his own fortunes. In the next picture, "Napoleon in his Closet," you have him in the noon of life, his ambitious desires gratified, and the continent of Europe at his feet. His eye is lighted up with a proud satisfaction, as he contemplates the strength and security of the power he has founded by his single arm. In the third painting, "Napoleon at Fontainebleau," you see the great egotist after his fall, older, grosser in person, arrived at the palace from a hasty flight, his boots spattered with mud, his riding coat not laid by; one arm hanging over the back of the chair, as if never to be re |