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 home, a name which will not die. Circumstances have combined to trammel and hinder him in his onward career. The fortunes of war have affected his success. We all remember how grand old Michael Angelo's noble creations were interfered with when armies beleagured his beloved Florence; and, reasoning from the greater to the less, we can well understand how our modern sculptor has fared in his war-smitten city and State. Edward Virginius Valentine was born in the city of Richmond, Virginia, November 12, 1838. As is usual with those whose art-faculty is an instinct, his talent for sculpture developed itself in his earliest boyhood, and he was fortunate in possessing surroundings that tended to foster his natural bent. He was not thwarted in any way; but his art proclivities were, nevertheless, not suffered to interfere with that solid foundation of education which should underlie all art. Thorwaldsen assumed the chisel before he could write and spell his own language or any other correctly; and he remained an uncultured man to the end of his career save in one department. But keeping in view his chosen course, young Valentine combined with other studies a course of Lectures on Anatomy, which he attended at the Medical College of Richmond when he was scarce more than a boy. He had the advantage of cultivated friendships and artistic counsel from the beginning, for, in his boyhood, the capital of the State still kept much of the prestige of the old regime. Mrs. Mowatt Ritchie, whose fine taste was moved by some of his earlier work, gave him encouraging words and foretold his future eminence. John R. Thompson, at that time a leading litterateur of the South, held out a helping hand. Governor Wise sat to him for a portrait bust, which was so perfect as to awaken high hopes for the future artist, so that he was not called to go through that oftre-peated struggle to which so many bright spirits are doomed before a clear pathway is opened for their endeavor. The youth was not subjected to the discouragements which have embarrassed the finished master, for then the wide world was before him, and ambition and hope bouyed him and beckoned him on. Now, ready for high achievement, but sharing the evil fortunes which have robbed his native city and State of their ability to fill his hands with commissions, he waits in his studio, surrounded by his beautiful creations, for orders to put them into marble—orders which, through the stress of circumstance, have but stintedly come. At times we are disposed to think that he has made a great mistake in not changing his studio to one of our large Northern cities, where
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