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Ninth, Perhaps the greatest objection to the statue theory is the last on which I shall mention, and that is the majestic simplicity and grandeur of the figure itself. It is not unsafe to affirm that ninety-nine out of every hundred persons who have seen this would have become immediately and instantly impressed with the idea that they were in the presence of an object not made by mortal hand, and that the figure before them once lived and had its being like those who stood around it. This feeling arises from the awful naturalness of the figure and its position. No piece of sculpture of which we have any account ever produced the awe inspired by this blackened form lying among the common and every-day surroundings of a country farm yard.

We see objects of larger size every day, formed from materials which excite our wonder or admiration, and upon which have been bestowed the highest skill of the artist, the sculptor and the painter, but there is in that blackened mass, that worn and impaired as it is by the action of the elements, and repulsive from the nature and color of the material forming it, which inspires an awe and reverence such as the handiwork of a mortal, no matter how gifted, has ever accomplished. I venture to affirm that no living sculptor can be produced who will say this figure was conceived and executed by any human hand. But Mr. Editor I am afraid I have trespassed too far on your attention and space. There is much more to be said on the subject, which at a future time I will say. R.

The present owners of the Giant have engaged Col. J.W. Wood, known all over the country as a popular showman, as their manager. To-night Mr. W. will have a much larger tent (forty feet) over his giantship, so that hereafter many more can be accommodated at a time–whether they can see better we are not sure.

From the Syracuse Journal, October 23d, 1869.

SPEAKING OF THE CARDIFF GIANT.
Reports of Committees.

Three of us–Tom, Dick and Harry–interviewed the stone wonder on Thursday of this week, and here are our reports. Tom sees everything from a ludicrous point of view, and is nothing if not funny. Dick is a common-sense fellow, who makes up in positiveness what he lacks in education; and I am–Yours, very respectfully, A.C.

TOM’S REPORT. His Majestic Highness was in bed when we reached the royal residence although it was high noon by the dial.

But the obliging janitor was convinced, by a single glance at the cards we presented, that it would not do to refuse us admission. We found the Noble Duke divested of wearing apparel and enjoying his morning ablution, which was administered by a valet de chambre, who stood on a platform above His Excellency, and held him down with a ten foot pole. The countenance of the great man expressed composure and serenity. His eyes were closed and his general appearance and attitude were limp and cadaverous, causing us to fear, for a moment, that His Mightiness might be dead instead of sleeping.

Our apprehensions were allayed, however, when the irreverent attendant punched his Sublime Majesty in the head and chest, and elicited an impatient, cavernous, responsive “ugh!”

Having feasted our eyes on the unveiled grandeur of the stupendous Knight, we begged permission of his keeper to get into the Imperial bed and embrace the gigantic feet. We begged in vain. Let us then grasp that autocratic right hand, which reminds us so touchingly of the dear, fat, fried-cake hands Bridget used to mould for us in our infancy. Our request was declined with emphasis. May we not breathe an affectionate word into that dexter ear, which seems placed far down towards his shoulder as if on purpose to receive our tender message? “He’s deaf,” said the heartless man with the pole. Let us at least give him one– just one–kiss for his mother. “He never had no mother,” responded the inexorable valet, and we turned sadly away from the Kingly presence of the sweet, sleeping orphan.