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nose being made rather bright with carnations.
The Pope visited the show, and on seeing the medallion exclaimed, laughing, ‘Son brutto da vero, ma non cosi’ (I am ugly indeed, but not like this).
The experience of our winter in Rome could not be repeated at this day of the world.
The Rome of fifty-five years ago was altogether mediaeval in its aspect.
The great inclosure within its walls was but sparsely inhabited.
Convent gardens and villas of the nobility occupied much space.
The city attracted mostly students and lovers of art. The studios of painters and sculptors were much visited, and wealthy patrons of the arts gave orders for many costly works.
Such glimpses as were afforded of Roman society had no great attraction other than that of novelty for persons accustomed to reasonable society elsewhere.
The strangeness of titles, the glitter of jewels, amused for a time the traveler, who was nevertheless glad to return to a world in which ceremony was less dominant and absolute.
Among the frequent visitors at our rooms were the sculptor Crawford, Luther Terry, and Freeman, well known then and since as painters of merit.
Between the first named of these and the elder of my two sisters an attachment sprang up, which culminated in marriage.
Another artist of repute, Tormer by name, often passed the evening with us. He was somewhat deformed, and our
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