In
our imperfect minds, housed in our over-fat, over-lean, and always
commonplace bodies, exists the principle of development, for whose
steady advance eternity is not too long. Statues belong to time: man
has Forever.
For some strange reason, no tourist ever goes to Fano. One reason
why I went there was simply because I had never met a person of any
nationality who had ever seen the town. Yet it is easily accessible,
very near Ancona, the scene of the _Grammarian's Funeral_, and the
place where Browning wrote _The Guardian Angel_. One day Mr. and
Mrs. Browning, walking about Fano, came to the church of San Agostino,
in no way a remarkable edifice, and there in the tiny chapel, over
the altar, they found Guercino's masterpiece. Its calm and serene
beauty struck an immortal poem out of Browning's heart; and thanks
to the poet, the picture is now one of the most familiar in the world.
But no copy comes near the ineffable charm of the original, as one
sees it in the dim light of the chapel.
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