Mrs. Jameson had an
engagement to dinner at half past six, so that we could go but a little
farther along this most interesting road, the borders of which are strewn
with broken marbles; fragments of capitals, and nameless rubbish that
once was beautiful. Methinks the Appian Way should be the only entrance
to Rome,--through an avenue of tombs.
The day had been cloudy, chill, and windy, but was now grown calmer and
more genial, and brightened by a very pleasant sunshine, though great
dark clouds were still lumbering up the sky. We drove homeward, looking
at the distant dome of St. Peter's and talking of many things,--painting,
sculpture, America, England, spiritualism, and whatever else came up.
She is a very sensible old lady, and sees a great deal of truth; a good
woman, too, taking elevated views of matters; but I doubt whether she has
the highest and finest perceptions in the world. At any rate, she
pronounced a good judgment on the American sculptors now in Rome,
condemning them in the mass as men with no high aims, no worthy
conception of the purposes of their art, and desecrating marble by the
things they wrought in it.
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