In The Palais Royal The Three Most Remarkable Temples Of Dissipation Are
Very's For Gastronomes, Robert's Faro Bank For Gamesters, And The Cafe
Montausier For Those Devoted To The Fair Sex.
The Cafe Montausier is fitted
up in the guise of a theatre where music, singing and theatrical pieces are
given; you pay nothing for admission, but are expected to call for some
refreshment.
It is splendidly illuminated, and is the Cafe par
excellence, frequented by those ladies who have made the opposite choice
to that of Hercules, and who, taking into consideration the shortness and
uncertainty of life, dedicate it entirely to pleasure, reflecting that
Laggiu nell' Inferno,
Nell' obblio sempiterno,
In sempiterno orrore,
Non si parla d'amore.
Of course, this saloon is crowded with amateurs, and the Prussians and
English are not the least ardent votaries of the Goddess of Paphos; many a
vanquished victor sinks oppressed with wine and love on the breast of a
Dalilah: this last comparison suggests itself to me from the immense
quantity of hair worn by the Prussians, as if their strength, like that of
Samson's, depended on their chevelure. There is a very pretty graceful
girl who attends here and at the different restaurants and cafes with an
assortment of bijouterie and other knick-knacks to sell. She is full of wit
and repartee; but her answer to all those who attempt to squeeze her hand
and make love to her is always: "Achetez quelque chose." Her name is
Celine and she has a great flow of conversation on all subjects but that of
love, which she invariably cuts short by "Achetez quelque chose."
10th August.
I have been to see the Museum of sculpture and painting in the Louvre, but
what is to be seen there baffles all description:
Se tante lingue avessi e tante voci
Quanti occhi il cielo o quante arene il mare
Non basterian a dir le lodi immense.
The Apollo Belvedere, the Venus de Medici and the Laocoon first
claimed my attention, and engaged me for at least an hour and a half before
I could direct my attention to the other masterpieces. I admire indeed the
Laocoon, still more the Venus, but the Apollo certainly bears away
the palm and I fully participate of all Winkelmann's enthusiasm for that
celebrated statue. The Venus is a very beautiful woman, but the Apollo
is a god. One is lost, and one's imagination is bewildered when one enters
into the halls of sculpture of this unparalleled collection, amidst the
statues of Gods, Demi-Gods, Heroes, Philosophers, Poets, Roman Emperors,
Statesmen and all the illustrious worthies that adorned the Greek and Roman
page. What subjects for contemplation! A chill of awe and veneration
pervaded my whole frame when I first entered into that glorious temple of
the Arts. I felt as I should were I admitted among supernatural beings, or
as if I had "shuffled off this mortal coil" and were suddenly ushered into
the presence of the illustrious tenants of another world; in fact, I felt
as if Olympus and the whole Court of Immortals were open to my view.
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