“My new statue!” said Kenyon, who had positively forgotten it in the thought of Hilda; “here it is, under this veil.”  “Not a nude figure, I hope,” observed Miriam.  “Every young sculptor seems to think that he must give the world some specimen of indecorous womanhood, and call it Eve, Venus, a Nymph, or any name that may apologize for a lack of decent clothing.  I am weary, even more than I am ashamed, of seeing such things.  Nowadays people are as good as born in their clothes, and there is practically not a nude human being in existence.  An artist, therefore, as you must candidly confess, cannot sculpture nudity with a pure heart, if only because he is compelled to steal guilty glimpses at hired models.  The marble inevitably loses its chastity under such circumstances.  An old Greek sculptor, no doubt, found his models in the open sunshine, and among pure and princely maidens, and thus the nude statues of antiquity are as modest as violets, and sufficiently draped in their own beauty.  But as for Mr. Gibson’s colored Venuses (stained, I believe, with tobacco juice), and all other nudities of to-day, I really do not understand what they have to say to this generation, and would be glad to see as many heaps of quicklime in their stead.”

“You are severe upon the professors of my art,” said Kenyon, half smiling, half seriously; “not that you are wholly wrong, either.  We are bound to accept drapery of some kind, and make the best of it.  But what are we to do?  Must we adopt the costume of to-day, and carve, for example, a Venus in a hoop-petticoat?”

“That would be a boulder, indeed!” rejoined Miriam, laughing.  “But the difficulty goes to confirm me in my belief that, except for portrait-busts, sculpture has no longer a right to claim any place among living arts.  It has wrought itself out, and come fairly to an end.  There is never a new group nowadays; never even so much as a new attitude.  Greenough (I take my examples among men of merit) imagined nothing new; nor Crawford either, except in the tailoring line.  There are not, as you will own, more than half a dozen positively original statues or groups in the world, and these few are of immemorial antiquity.  A person familiar with the Vatican, the Uffizzi Gallery, the Naples Gallery, and the Louvre, will at once refer any modern production to its antique prototype; which, moreover, had begun to get out of fashion, even in old Roman days.”

“Pray stop, Miriam,” cried Kenyon, “or I shall fling away the chisel forever!”

“Fairly own to me, then, my friend,” rejoined Miriam, whose disturbed mind found a certain relief in this declamation, “that you sculptors are, of necessity, the greatest plagiarists in the world.”