Picters by Guido, Murillo, Titian, Rembrandt, Vandyke, Leonardo da Vinci, Wouverman, etc., etc., etc.—picters that them immortal old masters had their own hands on, and bent their own glowin’ inspired eyes on.
My soul, jest think on’t!
Relicks of all the sovereigns—spurs of the old conquerors (and how they did spur things up and make ’em fly!).
Relicks of kings without number—and queens, too, and princes.
Marie Antoinette’s shues—I’m glad I didn’t have to walk in ’em, for though they trod through pleasant, luxurious places at first, they had to climb up the scaffold.
Poor creeter!
There wuz the clothes he wore that he ust to button over that restless, ambitious heart.
The Napoleon Room gin me a sight of emotions, and I didn’t care who see ’em. I jest about cried when I looked on that old flag he kissed in a sad hour. There wuz the clothes he wore that he ust to button over that restless, ambitious heart. Yes, and there wuz some of the hair that riz up over that ambitious brain, that wuz the terror and admiration of all Europe.
He used Josephine mean—mean as a dog, and he wuz too high-sperited and ambitious; but yet what a man, what a man he wuz! Sunthin’ good and noble must have been in him to make his soldiers love him so. How they totter up to-day to lay wreaths on the railin’ round his statute—layin’ at his marble feet the poseys of their hearts’ devotion, their highest love, and their deepest sorrer. No man not naterally noble could call forth sech affection in his dependents.