not being entirely in his own favor.

Walking onward, I found the Pincian thronged with promenaders, as also
with carriages, which drove round the verge of the gardens in an unbroken
ring.

To-day has been very rainy. I went out in the forenoon, and took a
sitting for my bust in one of a suite of rooms formerly occupied by
Canova. It was large, high, and dreary from the want of a carpet,
furniture, or anything but clay and plaster. A sculptor's studio has not
the picturesque charm of that of a painter, where there is color, warmth,
and cheerfulness, and where the artist continually turns towards you the
glow of some picture, which is resting against the wall. . . . . I was
asked not to look at the bust at the close of the sitting, and, of
course, I obeyed; though I have a vague idea of a heavy-browed
physiognomy, something like what I have seen in the glass, but looking
strangely in that guise of clay. . . . .

It is a singular fascination that Rome exercises upon artists. There is
clay elsewhere, and marble enough, and heads to model, and ideas may be
made sensible objects at home as well as here. I think it is the
peculiar mode of life that attracts, and its freedom from the
inthralments of society, more than the artistic advantages which Rome
offers; and, no doubt, though the artists care little about one another's
works, yet they keep each other warm by the presence of so many of them.

The Carnival still continues, though I hardly see how it can have
withstood such a damper as this rainy day. There were several people--
three, I think--killed in the Corso on Saturday; some accounts say that
they were run over by the horses in the race; others, that they were