not been tempted, by the praises which our vicious criticism has showered upon exaggeration and distortion, to lower your taste to the level of the Hour; you have lived, and you have laboured, as if you had no rivals but in the Dead—no purchasers, save in judges of what is best. In the divine Priesthood of the Beautiful, you have sought only to increase her worshippers and enrich her temples. The pupil of Canova, you have inherited his excellences, while you have shunned his errors:—yours his delicacy, not his affectation. Your heart resembles him even more than your genius: you have the same noble enthusiasm for your sublime profession—the same lofty freedom from envy, and the spirit that depreciates—the same generous desire, not to war with, but to serve. Artists in your art; aiding, strengthening, advising, elevating the timidity of inexperience, and the vague aspirations of youth. By the intuition of a kindred mind, you have equalled the learning of Winckelman, and the plastic poetry of Goethe, in the intimate comprehension of the antique. Each work of yours, rightly studied, is in itself a criticism illustrating the sublime secrets of the Grecian Art, which, without the servility of plagiarism, you have contributed to revive amongst us; in you we behold its three great and long-undetected principles—simplicity, calm, and concentration.
But your admiration of the Greeks has not led you to the bigotry of the mere Antiquarian, nor made you less sensible of the unappreciated excellence of the mighty Modern, worthy to be your countryman,—though till his statue is in the streets of our capital, we show ourselves not worthy of the glory he has shed upon our land: You have not suffered even your gratitude to Canova to blind
