A deep and strangely-blended impression of sadness and gayety sunk
into our hearts as we gazed. All is vivacity, gracefulness, and
sparkle, to the eye; but ah, what fires are smouldering below! Are not
all these vines rooted in the lava and ashes of the volcano side?
Tuesday, June 7. _A la Louvre_! But first the ladies must "shop"
a little. I sit by the counter and watch the pretty Parisian
_shopocracy_. A lady presides at the desk. Trim little grisettes
serve the customers so deftly, that we wonder why awkward men should
ever attempt to do such things. Nay, they are so civil, so evidently
disinterested and solicitous for your welfare, that to buy is the most
natural thing imaginable.
But to the Louvre! Provided with catalogues, I abandoned the ladies,
and strolled along to take a kind of cream-skimming look at the whole.
I was highly elated with one thing. There were three Madonnas with
dark hair and eyes: one by Murillo, another by Carracci, and another
by Guido. It showed that painters were not so utterly hopeless as a
class, and given over by common sense to blindness of mind, as I had
supposed.
H.
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