Greenough, who has been sometime in Germany, returned lately to Florence, where he has a colossal group in progress for the portico of the Capitol.  I have seen part of it, which is nearly finished in the marble.  It shows a backwoodsman just triumphing in the struggle with an Indian; another group to be added, will represent the wife and child of the former.  The colossal size of the statues gives a grandeur to the action, as if it were a combat of Titans; there is a consciousness of power, an expression of lofty disdain in the expansion of the hunter’s nostril and the proud curve of his lip, that might become a god.  The spirit of action, of breathing, life-like exertion, so much more difficult to infuse into the marble than that of repose, is perfectly attained.  I will not enter into a more particular description, as it will probably be sent to the United States in a year or two.  It is a magnificent work; the best, unquestionably, that Greenough has yet made.  The subject, and the grandeur he has given it in the execution, will ensure it a much more favorable reception than a false taste gave to his Washington.

Mr. C.B.  Ives, a young sculptor from Connecticut, has not disappointed the high promise he gave before leaving home.  I was struck with some of his busts in Philadelphia, particularly those of Mrs. Sigourney and Joseph R. Chandler, and it has been no common pleasure to visit his studio here in Florence, and look on some of his ideal works.  He has lately made two models, which, when finished in marble, will be works of great beauty.  They will contribute greatly to his reputation here and in America.  One of these represents a child of four or five years of age, holding in his hand a dead bird, on which he is gazing, with childish grief and wonder, that it is so still and drooping.  It is a beautiful thought; the boy is leaning forward as he sits, holding the lifeless playmate close in his hands, his sadness touched with a vague expression, as if he could not yet comprehend the idea of death.

The other is of equal excellence, in a different style; it is a bust of “Jephthah’s daughter,” when the consciousness of her doom first flashes upon her.  The face and bust are beautiful with the bloom of perfect girlhood.  A simple robe covers her breast, and her rich hair is gathered up behind, and bound with a slender fillet.  Her head, of the pure classical mould, is bent forward, as if weighed down by the shock, and there is a heavy drooping in the mouth and eyelids, that denotes a sudden and sickening agony.  It is not a violent, passionate grief, but a deep and almost paralyzing emotion—­a shock from which the soul will finally rebound, strengthened to make the sacrifice.

Would it not be better for some scores of our rich merchants to lay out their money on statues and pictures, instead of balls and spendthrift sons?  A few such expenditures, properly directed, would do much for the advancement of the fine arts.  An occasional golden blessing, bestowed on genius, might be returned on the giver, in the fame he had assisted in creating.  There seems, however, to be at present a rapid increase in refined taste, and a better appreciation of artistic talent, in our country.  And as an American, nothing has made me feel prouder than this, and the steadily increasing reputation of our artists.