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 dear; it is doled out like wax candles, and my landlord looks with absolute amazement upon the quantity which I use. Jan. 19 (Friday). The long gallery of the Louvre will close to-morrow, in order to prepare for the annual exhibition of the productions of modern artists, which takes place in it,—the new pictures being placed before the old. I went there to-day, to snatch a hasty view of these numerous specimens of art and genius. I felt ‘cabined, cribbed, confined,’ from my ignorance of the principles of art and of its history, except in its most prominent traits. There are about a dozen pictures here by Raphael, and as many by Leonardo da Vinci, which at once attracted my attention. There was the stamp of genius upon them. If I should attempt to describe their effect or appearance, I should probably make some blunder. They touched my mind, untutored as it is, like a rich strain of music. To-night had an exercise with my new Frenchman; found him the very man I wanted. The cold continues intolerable; and my chamber, notwithstanding all my exertions, frigid beyond endurance. I go to bed to-night earlier than usual—the clock this moment striking midnight—in the hope of escaping the cold. My French grammar will be my companion. Jan. 20 (Saturday). Waked in the full determination with which I went to sleep; namely, to find a warmer place for my body. In America I am accustomed to cold weather; but there I find a comfortable shelter from its inclemency. My present quarters do not afford it. With a large fire in front and my surtout on, I freeze behind; and my hair is so cold that I hesitate to touch it with my hand. Of course, I cannot endure this; and I have taken neat and comfortable quarters at No. 25 Rue de l'odeon, where Shattuck and Benjamin are, at the rate of sixty francs a month. To-day I heard at the Sorbonne the substitute of Cousin, M. Poret, a gentleman very plain in his appearance, who appeared to be about forty-five. His lecture was written,—the first written one I have heard,—and he seemed to be so little acquainted with its text, and was so near-sighted, that he was obliged to stoop his head constantly in order to read it. It was on the philosophical theory of Heraclitus. I did not stay long to hear it; but went to the École de Droit, where I found Ducaurroy1 in the midst of a lecture on the ‘Institutes of Justinian.’ He was an old gentleman of sixty, with gray hair and a mild manner, with a slow enunciation, and in the black-andred dress which I first noticed as that of a professor; but which, now, I believe to be peculiar to the schools of medicine and law. He had quite a large audience, among whom I noticed two or three blacks, or rather mulattoes,— two-thirds black, perhaps,—dressed quite à la mode, and having the easy,
1 Adolphe Marie Ducaurroy de la Croix, 1788-1850. The ‘Institutes of Justinian’ were the study of his life. His distinctive aim was to set aside the Commentaries, and restore the Institutes themselves to their just place as a study and an authority. His chief work — which is a classic — was ‘The Institutes of Justinian newly Translated and Explained’ (Institutes de Justinien nouvellement Traduites et Expliquees), which, first published in 1835, had reached an eighth edition in 1851. He was also a contributor to the Revue Étrangere
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