"'The last six hours have been devoted to a profound investigation of the fine arts. My first visit was to the _gullyteen;_ after which I passed an instructive hour or two in the galleries of the Musy.'--" "Ou, done?" "Le Musee, mademoiselle." "--'Where I discovered several very extraordinary things, in the way of sculpture and painting. I was particularly struck with the manner in which a plate was portrayed in the celebrated marriage of Cana, which might very well have been taken for real Delft, and there was one finger on the hand of a lady that seemed actually fitted to receive and to retain the hymeneal ring.'" "Did you inquire if she were engaged?--Mr. Monday, we will drink her health." "'Saint Michael and the Dragon is a _shefdowory_.'--" "Un quoi?" "Un chef-d'oeuvre, mademoiselle." "--' The manner in which the angel holds the dragon with his feet, looking exactly like a worm trodden on by the foot of a child, is exquisitely plaintive and interesting. Indeed these touches of nature abound in the works of the old masters, and I saw several fruit-pieces that I could have eaten. One really gets an appetite by looking at many things here, and I no longer wonder that a Raphael, a Titian, a Correggio, a Guide-o.'--" "Un qui?" "Un Guido, mademoiselle." "Or a Cooley." "And pray who may he be?" asked Mr. Monday. "A young genius in Dodgetown, who promises one day to render the name of an American illustrious. He has painted a new sign for the store, that in its way is quite equal to the marriage of Cana. 'I have stood with tears over the despair of a Niobe,'" continuing to read, "'and witnessed the contortions of the snakes in the Laocoon with a convulsive eagerness to clutch them, that has made me fancy I could hear them hiss." That sentence, I think, will be likely to be noticed even in the New-Old-New-Yorker, one of the very best reviews of our days, gentlemen." "Take a little more punch, Mr. Dodge," put in the attentive captain; "this grows affecting, and needs alleviation, as Saunders would say. Mr. Monday, you will get a bad name for being too sober, if you never empty your glass. Proceed, in the name of Heaven! Mr. Dodge." "'In the evening I went to the Grand Opery.'--" "Ou, done?" "Au grand Hoppery, mademoiselle," replied John Effingham. "--'To the _Grand Opery_,'" resumed Mr. Dodge, with emphasis, his eyes beginning to glisten by this time, for he had often applied to the punch for inspiration, "'where I listened to music that is altogether inferior to that which we enjoy in America, especially at the general trainings, and on the Sabbath. The want of science was conspicuous; and if _this_ be music, then do I know nothing about it!'"