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180 a woman say—'bless their nice little fat arms!'" "Look at the enthusiasm," rejoined Mr. Brande, "about the works of art at Rome. The story of the barber—I have forgotten the artist's name—who flung himself at the cardinal's feet, and implored him to take away his life, but not the picture which had been painted beneath his roof,—is a simple fact. The very postilions rein up their horses, and point out to strangers, with a gesture of pride, the first glimpse of St. Peter's. It would be long enough before one of Mr. Newman's post-boys stopped on Highgate Hill to point out the cupola of St. Paul's." "And yet," said Lorraine, "we are not without some sort of attachment to it—I do think we attach an idea of respect ability to St. Paul's." "Perhaps," returned Lady Mandeville, "from its vicinity to the Bank—to say nothing of its utility to set watches by." "Our insular imagination is the exact reverse," observed Lord Mandeville, "of the Italians': theirs delights in outward impressions—ours dwells on internal impressions; theirs is the imagination of the ideas—ours of the