To return from our digression; leaving the workroom, we cross one side of the small garden, and by just such another rough door as the two we have already passed through in the first studio, we enter another capacious, barn-like apartment, the centre of which is occupied by the colored Venus, so dear to Mr. Gibson’s heart that, though executed to order, year after year passes on, and he can not make up his mind to part with it. Ranged around the walls of this capacious studio are casts of the Hunter, one of the earliest and most vigorous of Mr. Gibson’s works; of the Queen, of the colossal group in the House of Lords, and sundry others. Having inspected these at our leisure, and viewed the Venus from the most approved point, probably under the eye of the master, who never tires of expatiating on the great knowledge of the ancients in coloring their statues, a curtain across the left-hand corner of the studio is lifted, and the attendant inquires if “la signorina” will receive visitors. The permission given, we ascend a steep flight of stairs, and find ourselves in a small upper studio, face to face with a compact little figure, five feet two in height, in cap and blouse, whose short, sunny brown curls, broad brow, frank and resolute expression of countenance, give one at the first glance the impression of a handsome boy. It is the first glance only, however, which misleads one. The trim waist and well-developed bust belong unmistakably to a woman, and the deep, earnest eyes, firm-set mouth, and modest dignity of deportment show that woman to be one of no ordinary character and ability. Thus, reader, we Have brought you face to face with the subject of this sketch, Harriet Hosmer, the American sculptress.