A woman led us up a
staircase, and ushered us into a great gloomy hall, square and lofty, and
wearing a very gray and ancient aspect, its walls being painted in
chiaroscuro, apparently a great many years ago. The hall was lighted by
small windows, high upward from the floors, and admitting only a dusky
light. The only furniture or ornament, so far as I recollect, was the
colossal statue of Pompey, which stands on its pedestal at one side,
certainly the sternest and severest of figures, and producing the most
awful impression on the spectator. Much of the effect, no doubt, is due
to the sombre obscurity of the hall, and to the loneliness in which the
great naked statue stands. It is entirely nude, except for a cloak that
hangs down from the left shoulder; in the left hand, it holds a globe;
the right arm is extended. The whole expression is such as the statue
might have assumed, if, during the tumult of Caesar's murder, it had
stretched forth its marble hand, and motioned the conspirators to give
over the attack, or to be quiet, now that their victim had fallen at its
feet.
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