There is one slight objection to our getting rid of this prejudice in favour of white marble which we suggest to Mr Owen Jones, and all the “Stainers’” Company—the unseemly blots we shall have to make in the fairest pages of poetry, old and new. Albums will of course be ruined, and a general smear, bad as a “coat of stucco,” be passed over the whole books of beauties who have “dreamed they dwelt in marble halls.” The new professors, polychromatists, must bring out, if they are able, new editions of all our classics. How must this passage from Horace provoke their bile: “Urit me Glycone nitor Splendentis Pario marmore puriùs.” And when, after being enchanted by the “grata protervitas,” he adds the untranslateable line, “Et Vultus nimium lubricus aspici,” we can almost believe, with that bad taste which Mr Owen Jones will condemn, that he had in the full eye of his admiration the polished, delicately defined charm of the Parian marble. It was a clown’s taste to daub the purity; and first he daubed his own face, and the faces of his drunken rabble. He would have his gods made as vulgar as himself; and then, doubtless, there was many a wooden, worthless, and obscene idol, the half joke and veneration of the senseless clowns, painted as fine as vermilion could make them. “Agricola et minio suffusus, Bacche, rubente, Primus inexpertâ duxit ab arte choros.” TIB.