of Titian and Correggio, the Elgin marbles and Phidias; of all the great names. I remember his account of the Vatican, with its population of statues; and I well remember that one of the things which struck him most was the bust of the young Augustus; not so much because of its beauty and excellence of workmanship as because it was Octavius,—the Emperor, the Father of his country, the Augustus of history. The world of art, as art purely, was to him always a half-opened, if not a locked world. He longed to enter into it, and feel it as an artist does; but the keys were never given to him. His interest in it was historical and literary, not artistic. His judgment as to a work of art was poor; his sense of art very limited, though he ever strove to cultivate his taste and feeling for it. It was in Rome that he first made the acquaintance of Thomas Crawford,—the distinguished sculptor,—for whom he formed a strong friendship and sympathy. Crawford was then a young man, struggling up the first difficult steps of his art, with high ambition and very small means,—full of talent and vigor of mind and purpose, but hampered by the res angusta domi. Sumner, with that natural kindness and geniality of heart which always characterized him, sought his society, lent him encouragement, and prophesied for him the fame which he afterwards acquired. More than this: his friendship did not exhaust itself in words, but took the shape of earnest acts of kindness. Crawford was then modelling one of his first statues, representing Orpheus descending into Hades to redeem Eurydice; and Sumner, impressed by the beauty and spirit of the work, urged so strenuously upon his friends at home the propriety of giving a commission for this work in marble that he succeeded in his purpose; and Crawford owes to him his first commission for a statue, and his first great lift to fame. Many a long year after, walking in Rome with me, Sumner recounted the pleasant days spent with him; and pointing out his studio, said: “There, in the old days, I passed many a pleasant hour with our friend: there he confided to me his great ambition, and his small hope of success; and once when, almost in despair at his dark prospects, he poured forth his heart to me, I said: ‘Coraggio, Crawford! When I come again to Rome, you will be a great and successful sculptor, and be living in a palace.’ He smiled, and shook his head. Look now! Was I not a true prophet? He is now living in a palace; and he is a great sculptor.” This friendship, let me add, never abated through life. Crawford never forgot the debt of gratitude he owed him; and Sumner always took the most earnest and active interest in him and his works, and never failed to chant his praise. After Crawford's death, we went together over his studio; and the tears came into Sumner's eyes, as he spoke of the old days, and the untimely end of our friend.Tidings reached Sumner at Rome of his father's death, which had taken place April 24. He had languished for several weeks, and the end was not unexpected. He had reached the age of sixty-three,—a year which he had, for some time, designated as likely to prove fatal to him. The family, in communicating the
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