His brows are tense and damp with the dews of thought.  In that head you see the great future, careless of the black and white stones; and even when you turn to the voluptuous beauty of the mouth, the impression remains so strong, that Russia’s snows, and mountains of the slain, seem the tragedy that must naturally follow the appearance of such an actor.  You turn from him, feeling that he is a product not of the day, but of the ages, and that the ages must judge him.

    ’Near him is a head of Ennius, very intellectual; self-centred
    and self-fed; but wrung and gnawed by unceasing thoughts.

’Yet, even near the Ennius and Napoleon, our American men look worthy to be perpetuated in marble or bronze, if it were only for their air of calm, unpretending sagacity.  If the young American were to walk up an avenue lined with such effigies, he might not feel called to such greatness as the strong Roman wrinkles tell of, but he must feel that he could not live an idle life, and should nerve himself to lift an Atlas weight without repining or shrinking.

’The busts of Everett and Allston, though admirable as every-day likenesses, deserved a genius of a different order from Clevenger.  Clevenger gives the man as he is at the moment, but does not show the possibilities of his existence.  Even thus seen, the head of Mr. Everett brings back all the age of Pericles, so refined and classic is its beauty.  The two busts of Mr. Webster, by Clevenger and Powers, are the difference between prose,—­healthy and energetic prose, indeed, but still prose,—­and poetry.  Clevenger’s is such as we see Mr. Webster on any public occasion, when his genius is not called forth.  No child could fail to recognize it in a moment.  Powers’ is not so good as a likeness, but has the higher merit of being an ideal of the orator and statesman at a great moment.  It is quite an American Jupiter in its eagle calmness of conscious power.

’A marble copy of the beautiful Diana, not so spirited as the Athenaeum cast.  S. C——­ thought the difference was one of size.  This work may be seen at a glance; yet does not tire one after survey.  It has the freshness of the woods, and of morning dew.  I admire those long lithe limbs, and that column of a throat.  The Diana is a woman’s ideal of beauty; its elegance, its spirit, its graceful, peremptory air, are what we like in our own sex:  the Venus is for men.  The sleeping Cleopatra cannot be looked at enough; always her sleep seems sweeter and more graceful, always more wonderful the drapery.  A little Psyche, by a pupil of Bartolini, pleases us much thus far.  The forlorn sweetness with which she sits there, crouched down like a bruised butterfly, and the languid tenacity of her mood, are very touching.  The Mercury and Ganymede with the Eagle, by Thorwaldsen, are still as fine as on first acquaintance.  Thorwaldsen seems the grandest and simplest of modern sculptors.  There is a breadth in his thought, a freedom in his design, we do not see elsewhere.

    ’A spaniel, by Gott, shows great talent, and knowledge of the
    animal.  The head is admirable; it is so full of playfulness
    and of doggish knowingness.’