It jest about crushed ’em—the wealth seemed to ’em overwhelmin’.
Imagine a big farm all risin’ up into palaces, beautiful as you ever see rise up into the cloudy Heavens.
The Gallery of the Louvre—wall, if Drusilly and I should undertake to pick up every little grain of dirt that goes to make up them sixty acres of hern, and have each separate one branch out into some beautiful, be-a-u-tiful form, some delicate, exquisite fancy, or some exalted figger of impressive beauty—why, wouldn’t we be tuckered out before we got through? though at the same time so riz up and inspired, that we wouldn’t know, some of the time, whether we wuz in the body or out on’t.
Wall, that may gin the public and Betsy some idee of what everybody must make up their mind to go through when they tackle the Louvre.
From the beginnin’ of time till now every land has contributed its choicest treasures to this hallowed place, from Nineveh and Egypt to Jonesville (for was not Jonesville’s choicest treasures of humanity represented there when Josiah Allen and I stood there, some like statutes, only more comfortably dressed, and lookin’ round us more?).
What poems in marble bust onto our visions, and what sights on ’em!
What marvels of ancient art!
What picters! what picters!
Oh, dear me! it lifts me up, and tuckers me out to think on ’em now. Some of the galleries wuz a quarter of a mild long.
Jest think of it here, as fur as from our house over to Old Grout Nickleson’s; and I never ust to think, when his mother-in-law was bed-rid, that I could walk it; no, I always had Josiah hitch up. And then think of that immense distance full on each side of the best of the world.