[from] LETTER XII.Lynn, July 4, 1848. . . . I mentioned in a late letter a visit to the Greek Slave, but could not then speak of it at any length. I had heard many
conflicting opinions concerning this work of art, and
scarcely knew what I expected to behold; I certainly looked not to see what I saw. As you have a copy of the Slave now in Philadelphia, and as I suppose that most of your readers have either seen, heard, or read of it, I will not attempt a description. Without making any modest disclaimer to the possession of artistical knowledge, I trust I shall be pardoned for giving only my impressions concerning this statue, and my spirit's interpretation of the sentiment which it embodies. Who will expect severe artistic criticism from a young, untravelled writer, and a woman at that? As I entered the exhibition room, and marked first the exquisite, the adorable beauty of the figure, I paused involuntarily, for she seemed unapproachable in the divinity of her perfect loveliness. Then my eye fell upon her manacles and chain; I saw the proud sadness of her attitude, and drew near with a pity which was half awe. Then first I looked full upon that face, grand in its heroic endurance, divinely beautiful in its purity, and inexpressibly touching in its sorrows. I trembled, my heart beat audibly, the tears sprang to my eyes, and for some moments I gazed through mists of sad but most exquisite emotion. With what irrepressible tenderness, with what pitying human love we look upon this noble creation of a true artist soul; this subduing harmony, breathing through the lines of beauty; this mournful poem, which writes itself on the gazer's spirit; this fearful tragedy in stone; this lofty embodiment of womanhood, triumphant in sorrow and degradation. Torn forever from her country, its faith, and its loves, chained in the market-place of her enemies, all disrobed, and awaiting her brutal purchaser, she is yet pure as a seraph, and proud as a crowned queen, yet unconquerably constant to her love, her country, and her God. Oh, what a divinity of purity, what a glory of womanhood is round about her, holier than the halo of saints, and mightier than the panoply of warriors! The total absence of all voluptuousness in the person of
the slave, with its expression of childlike innocence, the evident and terrible constraint of her bondage, the averted face, with the severe calm of its majestic resignation,—all have their effect upon the mind, and one is scarce conscious of gazing upon a nude figure, clothed as the poor girl seems in the love and the sorrow of the angels. I have elsewhere expressed this idea in a poem on Pygmalion's statue: Like Cytherea's were the rounded limbs, The reverential silence in the presence of the Greek Slave has been often remarked. No one speaks above a whisper, and many gaze with hushed breath and tearful eyes, in a dreamy trance of admiration, in the full, deep enjoyment of a new and delicious sensation. As to the simple beauty of the face, it is indeed rather severe in its character; at least it did not seem to me as soft as either that of the Genevra, or Proserpine of Powers. Nor should it; a fate like the captive's would almost mould a face anew. It bears, though faintly, the stern impress of misfortune, the mournful tracery of bereavements, fears, and wrongs, as deeply felt, as bravely endured. If any there be who feel the moral sentiments of this statue, without understanding its source, let them glance at the locket
and the cross, hanging from the column at her side. To a woman's nature originally great, a worthy love and a true religious
faith impart a beauty and a grandeur
which poetry and art have sanctified themselves in interpreting and embodying. By the embroidered cap and robe at her side, as well as by the exquisite delicacy of her hands, we may know that the maiden is noble, and that luxury and homage have waited upon her steps from infancy. Then how fearful this bondage, this exposure! Manacles on those soft, fair hands, and the gaze of vulgar eyes upon that unrobed, patrician form! Yet of all this she evidently thinks not wholly, but with the sublime unselfishness of a great soul, loses her own sorrow in that of those she loves. Her heart is far away with her brave and struggling country. Perchance she sees her sire vainly pouring out his life-blood for its lost liberties. She revisits in spirit her desolate home, where her mother grieves ceaselessly for the child she shall fold to her breast no more; whose return the old look not for, and whose name little children speak mournfully. And now are her thoughts with him, the best beloved; who, with his young life darkened by despair, his heart riven by grief and maddened by wrong, yet battles for his lost Greece, or sighs his soul out in weary captivity. Oh, joy in the midst of her desolation, the will of her tyrant cannot subjugate her love, his base chains are not upon her spirit! Though his merciless hand may take from her jewelled cap and broidered vest, the emblem of her faith and the memento of her love, he cannot take from her nature the greatness that is wrapped as a royal robe about it—the power of purity, the dignity of patient endurance. Though his bold, licentious glance may linger upon her unprotected form, it cannot pierce into her heart's sanctuary of sorrow; from its gaze are hid forever its proud and beautiful and sacred memories. Adieu. |