tered. Cavour was seated at his writing-table, with his face turned towards the door.
I had been told that his exterior presented nothing very remarkable, and a young English lady had assured me that he looked very much as one might imagine Mr. Pickwick, in Dickens' Pickwick Papers; and I confess that, at the first glance, he reminded me more of an English red-complexioned country squire, who rides and hunts, eats good dinners, and takes life easily and gayly, than of a deep-minded statesman, who, with a secure glance and hand steers the vessel of the state towards its destined object, over the stormy political sea. But very soon was that countenance lit up for me; and the more I studied it, during my tolerably long conversation with Cavour, the more significant and agreeable it seemed to me. They who have painted Cavour's portrait, have not understood this countenance, nor the character of this head. It has a something almost square in it, but at the same time refined. The complexion is fresh and delicate, the forehead magnificent, open, with room in it for both lofty and broad ideas; the glance of the light blue eyes is clear, lively, and penetrative; the nose and the mouth remind me of those of Napoleon the Great, as does also the form of the countenance. They have the firmness and delicacy of outline. In the play of the muscles about the nose, there is something arch, and the smile has the graciousness of the south. The figure is not tall, but strong and well-built, and has something particularly solid and robust about it. The manners are calm, easy, very agreeable, and evince natural self-government.
