The Walls Of My Bed Room Are Lined With
Green Damask, Bordered By Gilt Bands; The Attendance Here Is
Excellent.
In every hotel of each large city, there is a man who
speaks English.
The English language is slowly and surely creeping
through. Europe; already it rivals the universality of the French.
Two things in this city have struck me singularly, as peculiarly
German: one was a long-legged stork, which I saw standing on a chimney
top, reminding me of the oft-mentioned "dear white stork" of German
stories. Why don't storks do so in America, I wonder? Another thing
was, waking suddenly in the middle of the night, and hearing the hymn
of the watchman as he announced the hour. I think this is a beautiful
custom.
In the morning, I determined to get into the picture gallery. Now C.,
who espoused to himself an "_Amati_" at Geneva, has been, like
all young bridegrooms, very careless about every thing else but his
beloved, since he got it. Painting, sculpture, architecture, all must
yield to music. Nor can all the fascinations of Raphael or Rubens vie
in his estimation with the melodies of Mozart, or the harmonies of
Beethoven. So, yesterday, when we found the picture gallery shut, he
profanely remarked, "What a mercy!" And this morning I could enlist
none of the party but W. to go with me. We were paid for going. There
were two or three magnificent pictures of sunrise and sunset in the
Alps by modern artists.
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