ng a vogue at that time, owing partly to the exploits of
the American medium Home. Marvellous, indeed, were the ghostly yarns
Powers used to spin, and they lost nothing by the physical appearance of
the narrator, with his tall figure, square brow, great, black eyes, and
impressive gestures; his voice, too, was deep and flexible, and could
sink into the most blood-curdling tones. My recollection is that Powers
was always clad in a long, linen pinafore, reaching from his chin to his
feet, and daubed with clay, and on his head a cap made either of paper,
like a baker's, or, for dress occasions, of black velvet. His homely
ways and speech, which smacked of the Vermont farm as strongly as if he
had just come thence, whereas in truth he had lived in Florence, at this
time, about twenty years, and had won high fame as a sculptor, tempted
one to suspect him of affectation--of a pose; and there is no doubt that
Powers was aware of the contrast between his physical presentment and
his artistic reputation, and felt a sort of dramatic pleasure in it.
Nevertheless, it would be unjust to call him affected; he was a big man,
in all senses of the term, and his instinct of independence led him to
repudiate all external polish and ear-marks of social culture, and to
say, as it were, "You see, a plain Vermont countryman can live half a
lifetime in the centre of artificial refinement and rival by the works
of his native genius the foremost living artists, and yet remain the
same simple, honest old sixpence that he was at home!" It was certainly
a more manly and wholesome attitude than that of the ordinary American
foreign resident, who makes a point of forgetting his native ways and
point of view, and aping the habits and traits of his alien associates.
And, besides, Powers had such an immense temperament and individuality
that very likely he could not have modified them successfully even had
he been disposed to do so.

[IMAGE: HIRAM POWERS]

His daughters, as I have said, were lovely creatures. Powers was at this
time modelling an ideal bust of a woman, and one day I went into his
studio expecting to find Bob there, but the studio was empty but for the
bust, which I now had an opportunity to contemplate at my ease for the
first time. I thought it very beautiful, and there was something about
the face which reminded me of somebody, I could not decide who. Just
then a portiere in the doorway parted, and in came a living bust, a
reality in