I CANNOT easily express the pleasure I have had, in looking at these statues. I should be almost afraid to say how they impress me in comparison with other works of art. The most powerful, certainly, of all the statues in the world is the Apollo di Belvedere. That is grandeur. If we descend a step lower and seek for beauty, I confess that I have nowhere felt it, as in these works of Powers; in his Eve, that is to say, and in the "Greek Slave." I do not mean the beauty of mere form, of the moulding of limbs and muscles. In this respect it is very likely that the Venus de' Medici is superior to the Eve and the Greek Girl. But I mean that complex character of beauty, which embraces with muscular form, the moral sentiment of a work. And looking at this last trait, I fearlessly ask any one to look at the Venus and at the Greek Girl, and then to tell me where the highest intellectual and moral beauty is found. There cannot be a moment's doubt. There is no sentiment in the Venus, but modesty. She is not in a situation to express any sentiment, or any other sentiment. She has neither done anything nor is going to do anything, nor is she in a situation, to awaken any moral emotion. There she stands, and says, if she says anything; "I am all-beautiful, and I shrink a little from the exposure of my charms!" Well she may. There ought to be some reason for exposure besides beauty; like fidelity to history as in the Eve, or helpless constraint as in the Greek Girl. Nay, according to the true laws of art, can that be so right in a statue, which would be wrong, improper, disgusting in real life? I am so bold as to doubt it! Art proposes the representation of something that exists or may properly and beautifully exist in life. And I doubt whether statuary or painting have any more business to depart from that rule than poetry. And suppose that an Epic poem, for the sake of heightening the charms and attractions of its heroine, should describe her as walking about naked! Could it be endured? Not any more do I believe that sculpture, without some urgent cause, should take a similar liberty. A draped statue can be beautiful, and answer all the ordinary purposes of a work of art; witness Canova's Hebe; and the Polymnia in the Louvre, an ancient work. And I doubt not that ancient art would have given us more examples of this kind, if the moral delicacy had been equal to the genius that inspired it. I trust that Christian refinement, breaking away from the trammels of blind subjection to the antique, will supply the deficiency. But at any rate, the statues of Mr. Powers are entirely free from this objection. She who walked in the bowers of primeval innocence, had never thought of apparel—had not yet been ashamed to find herself devoid of it; and she is clothed with associations which scarcely permit others to think of the possession or want of it. She is represented in this work as standing. Her left hand hangs negligently by her side; her right holds the apple: and upon this, with the head a little inclined, her countenance is fixed; and in this countenance there are beautifully blended, a meditation, a sadness, and an eagerness. When I first saw this statue, or model rather, the last of these expressions was not given. I said to the artist: "I see here two things; she meditates upon the point before her; and she is sad at the thought of erring." He said, "Yes, that is what I would express, but I must add another trait." I feared to have him touch it; but when I next saw the work, that expression of eager desire was added, which doubtless fills up the true ideal of the character.

  I do not wish to speak of this work in any general term of commonplace praise. The world will see it, the skilful will judge of it, and I have no doubt of their verdict.

  Much as I admire this statue, I confess that the Greek Slave interests me more deeply. I have spoken of the want of sentiment in the Venus. The form is beautiful, but the face is confessedly insipid. The Greek Slave is clothed all over with sentiment; sheltered, protected by it from every profane eye. Brocade, cloth of gold, could not be a more complete protection than the vesture of holiness in which she stands. For what does she stand there? To be sold; to be sold to a Turkish harem! A perilous position to be chosen by an artist of high and virtuous intent! A perilous point for the artist, being a good man, to compass. What is it? The highest point in all art. To make the spiritual reign over the corporeal; to sink form in ideality; in this particular case, to make the appeal to the soul entirely control the appeal to the sense; to make the exposure of this beautiful creature foil the base intent for which it is made; to create a loveliness such that it charms every eye, and yet that has no value for the slave-market, that has no more place there than if it were the loveliness of infancy; nay, that repels, chills, disarms the taste that would buy. And how complete is the success! I would fain assemble all the licentiousness in the world around this statue, to be instructed, rebuked, disarmed, converted to purity by it! There stands the Greek Girl in the slave-market, with a charm as winning as the eye ever beheld, and every sympathy of the beholder is enlisted for the preservation of her sanctity; every feeling of the beholder is ready to execrate and curse the wretch that could buy such a creature! There she stands, with a form less voluptuous than the Venus de' Medici, but if possible more beautiful to my eye; manacles clasp her wrists and a chain unites them; her head is turned aside a little; and then her face—I cannot describe it—I can only say that there is the finest imaginable union of intellectual beauty, touching sadness, and in the upper lip, the slightest possible curl, just enough to express mingled disdain and resignation. The thought of a fate seems to be in her face, and perhaps nothing could better bring to its climax the touching appeal of innocence and helplessness.

  I will only add, that Mr. Powers' work seems to me to be characterized by a most remarkable simplicity and chasteness. Nature is his guide, to the very letter. No extravagance, no straining after effect, no exaggeration to make things more beautiful; all is calm, sweet, simple nature. The chasteness in these statues is strongly contrasted with the usual voluptuousness of the antique, and it is especially illustrated by the air of total unconsciousness in the Eve and the Greek Girl. This is a trait of delicacy, in my opinion, altogether higher than the shrinking attitude and action of most of the antique statues of Venus.