figure whose partly veiled face seemed full of mystery; St. Agatha, and an Ecce Homo.  There are still some more marble medallions that I have not mentioned; several valuable antiques, portraits of Alexander the Great and Tacitus, and a bas-relief representing the flight of Aeneas—­the former found near the Appian Way—­and two others that are comparatively modern—­likenesses of Pope Clement XI., and Vittoria Colonna, the gifted Italian poetess of the fifteenth century.

But I have not yet spoken of the pearl of our museum.  This piece of sculpture was not one of uncle’s Italian purchases, nor does it date back for centuries, but it is priceless to us, especially as it is, we believe, the only copy now existing.  I allude to the bust made of uncle in 1846 by Hart, the Kentucky sculptor.  This bust was the first work of importance that Mr. Hart had ever executed, for he was then in the first flush of manhood, and the early vigor of that genius that has since wrought out so many beautiful creations.  Then, however, he had not modelled his fine statue of Henry Clay, ordered by the ladies of Virginia, nor had he even dreamed of his lovely “Triumph of Woman” that when finished will send his name down to posterity, as our greatest creative American sculptor.

Mamma was living with uncle when Mr. Hart arrived in New York with a commission from Cassius M. Clay to make this bust, and she has often told me all the circumstances of the sittings.  Uncle was then, as ever, extremely busy, and it was very difficult for him to give Mr. Hart an occasional half hour for a sitting.  As ordinary means failed, Mr. Hart brought his clay and instruments to The Tribune office, and there he worked whilst uncle rested from his daily editorial labors; but even while “resting,” his lap was full of newspapers, and he could not afford the time to “pose,” for his eyes were rapidly scanning their columns.

“I never,” said mamma, “knew an artist to make such a study of another’s face as Mr. Hart did of brother’s.  He was not content with a mere sitting from him now and then; he visited him at the house; he watched his face in company, and attended every occasion when he spoke in public, that he might model him, he said, in his best mood.  Consequently the bust was the most perfect likeness that had ever been made of brother, and as his face was then delicate and his features so classic in their cut, it was, I thought, the most beautiful piece of sculpture that I had ever seen.  It was quite a revelation to dear brother, who in his modesty had never had an idea of his own beauty.”