The marble-shops were very pleasant places. A
whirring sound lulled the senses into dreamy receptiveness, as the
stone wheel heavily turned with soft swiftness, giving the impression
that here hard matter was controlled to a nicety by airy forces; and a
fragrance floated from the wet marble lather, while the polishing of
our newly picked up mementos from the ruins went on, which was as
subtle as that of flowers. A man or two, hoary with marble-dust and
ennobled by the "bloom" of it, stood tall and sad about the wheel, and
we handed to these refined creatures our treasures of giallo-antico
and porphyry and other marbles picked up "for remembrance" (and no
doubt once pressed by a Caesar's foot or met by a Caesar's glance), in
order to observe the fresh color leap to the surface,--yellow, red,
black, or green.
Far more were we thrilled at finding scraps of iridescent glass
lachrymals, containing all the glories of Persian magnificence, while
pathetically hinting of the tears of a Roman woman (precious only to
herself, whatever her flatterers might aver) two thousand years ago.
The heart of Rome was acknowledged to be St. Peter's, and its pulse
the Pope. The most striking effect the Holy Father produced upon me,
standing at gaze before him with my parents, was when he appeared, in
Holy Week, high up in the balcony before the mountainous dome, looking
off over the great multitude of people gathered to receive his
blessing. Those eyes of his carried expression a long way, and he
looked most kingly, though unlike other kings.
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