Opposite, on the other side of the Hall, stand together Connecticut’s contribution—the statues of Jonathan Trumbull and Roger Sherman. They are of heroic size and at first glance are most imposing. When you walk nearer, and soberly survey them, you see that Roger Sherman looks solid and stolid, and you see also (at least, I do,) that old Jonathan Trumbull, with his down-perked head and narrow-lidded eyes, looks like a meditative rooster—an immense human chanticleer, who had paused in his lording career for a minute’s meditation. Mind, I don’t say but this may be a grand statue, in its way, I only observe that it is a very repelling one to me. Just round the angle of the alcove on a box set on end, covered with tattered black cambric, stands a bust of Kosciusko, by H. D. Saunders. Poor Kosciusko! His nose always needs wiping; and what a pedestal for a Pantheon! A candle or a soap box, probably, half covered with black tags; then on his nose celestial, the dust alights and lodges always. It is so provocative—the tip of it; every bumpkin who approaches it taps or pulls it. Thus, literally, Kosciusko’s nose is seldom clean. One day it was. Some pitying hand had washed the entire face. If you could have seen the difference between Kosciusko clean and Kosciusko exiled, dirty and forlorn! A few steps from this bust stands the statue of Alexander Hamilton, by Horatio Stone—a noble figure, spirited in posture and beautiful in countenance. No painted portrait can give so grand an idea of the great Federalist to posterity. It is eight feet high and represents Hamilton in the attitude of impassioned speech. It is persuasive rather than declamatory, for the lifted hands droop, the face presses slightly forward, the eyes look out from under their royal arches deep and steadfast, while the sunshine pouring down the dome lights up every lineament with the intensity of life. The execution of the statue is exquisite, while in _posé_ and expression it is the embodiment of majesty and power. Burr—who presided over the Senate, who with the pride, subtlety and ambition of Lucifer, planned and executed to live in the future amid the most exalted names of his time—sleeps dishonored and accursed; while the great rival that he hated, whose success he could not bear, whose life he destroyed, comes back in this majestic semblance to abide in the Capitol. Thus we behold in this statue not only a “triumph of art” but also a triumph of that final retributive compensation of justice which sooner or later crushes every wrong. This image of Hamilton looks forth from an era which, across the gulf of our later revolution, seems already remote. It recalls Washington the friend, Jefferson the foe, the war of Colonist and Tory, the war of ideas between Federalist and Republican, the struggles and successes of a splendid career; yet how far removed seem all across the graves of the men of our own generation whom patriotism and death have made illustrious and immortal.