In Art, this intimate relation of the result of action to the actor is complete,—­inasmuch as, to be Art, to rise above being something else, the shadow and mockery of Art, it must be of and from the man, a spontaneity, a reflection, light for light, shade for shade, color for color, of his entire being; and with this effect his will has little to do.  Therefore, unless he be an impostor, he need give himself no trouble regarding his future.  His works shall serve as a clue, produced century after century, along which posterity shall feel its way back to his studio and heart.  No need of thought for his morrow.

But for his to-day he may well be solicitous.  If fame be his reflection, he has also the shadow of himself, his reputation.

It is a great error to assume that these two effects are so related that the augmentation of the one must increase the other, and as great a mistake to confound the two.  The truth is, that reputation and fame are rarely coincident.  They are not unfrequently in direct opposition,—­so much so, that some names, which the world cannot give up, have to be filtered through a thick mass of years, to purify them of their reputations, and leave them simply famous.

No name has suffered more than that of Powers.  His friends, blind to the laws which govern these matters, have wrought bravely to construct for him a reputation commensurate with his vaguely imagined worth; but upon his real worth they have evinced no desire to lay their foundation.  No accurate survey has been made of his abilities, no definite plan of his artist-nature.  Often a place has been demanded for his name in the history of Art, and the first place too, because of his fine frank eye, or the simplicity of his manners,—­because his workmen cut the chain of the Greek slave out of one piece of stone, or the marble of the statue itself had no spot as big as a pin-head,—­because he himself chooses to rasp and scrape plaster, rather than model in plastic clay,—­because he tinkered up the “infernal regions” of the Cincinnati Museum years ago, or spends his time now in making perforating-machines and perforated files; in fine, for any reason rather than for the right legitimate one of artistic merit, they have demanded room for their favorite.

Even those who look deeper than this, appreciating Mr. Powers as a gentleman, an ingenious mechanic, and a skillful manipulator in sculpture, have been content or constrained to urge his claims to attention upon false considerations.  We have heard it gravely remarked, as a matter of astonishment, that there were individuals—­refined men, apparently—­who looked upon the Venus de’ Medici as a finer work than the Greek Slave.  In the files of a New York paper may be found an article, written by a highly cultivated man, in which Powers’s busts are asserted to be rather the effect of miracles than the results of human effort.  The spirit which has prompted these and many kindred expressions cannot