householder to be expected to consort with
such? I have my doubts of you, sir, though
it is through you I make—by the wish of my
wife's mother—this objection public. You're
the sort of person, I fear, who would say it's
right that after he has been ferreting all day
long, in dust-holes, the nation should invite
such a man, if he will take the trouble of a
walk to South Kensington, to give his eyes a
rest over bright rainbow thoughts hung in
gill frames—over a sight of the free gifts of
nature and the hard-won earnings of art.
You are a man to ask that he may have
something to see worth seeing when he comes
out of his dust-hole for the day, and to say
to him, when you come across him at South
Kensington, "God bless your bit of well-
spent holiday!" You'll tell me that this
dustman striving quietly to get thoughts
beautiful or wise into his head is, in such
act, the equal of a stonemason, the equal of a
prince. The equal of a prince, no doubt.
I've often said something to that effect at out
Mutual Instruction Club; but that he is fit
copmany for anyone in our sphere I deny.
Were he to ask for admission at the Mutual
Instruction, I don't say he would be black-
balled, because question of his admission
never would be put to the vote. We'd laugh
and between him and us there'd be Ha-ha
fence that I should like to see him leaping
over.

Then when we were entering the architectural
department, where there are building
stones and tiles of all ages, what should
we meet but a couple of hodmen? Let them
go up the ladder of learning, if they please,
but not while my wife's mother is upon it.
We came upon a man more nearly assimilated
to our sphere, who was all by himself
among the modern tiles and drains, at work
with a monstrously sharp eye. He was
having close regard to the main chance, I
saw, although he hid his eagerness of study
by getting out of our way until we had left
him the coast clear again.

Now, I will tell you, sir, a wonderful thing
that struck me as a professional man more
than anything. The modern sculptors, my
contemporaries, have liberally contributed to
the South Kensington Museum a fine show
of their works. I should have liked to see
among them a few specimens of monumental
art: a broken pillar, a rose or lily or so
parted from the stem, a tureen or a teacaddy;
but as to the perfection attained in that
branch of art, our cemeteries will speak to
posterity. Prattleton, Limehouse, at the
foot of many a stone will be observed by our
children's children. Non omnis moriar, as
I was once ordered to carve. Our works,
too, are all sacred to memory, announced and
admitted to be such; but as a professor of
the sacred branch of our art, I do not feel it
necessary to slight the profaner sculptors.
I wish to encourage by my approbation Mr.
Baily, Mr. Marshall, Mr. Theed and others
of that class. I like their works, and now I
come to the wonderful thing that I observed
on Monday evening at Kensington, nobody
has eyes for them. In Kensal Green, on a
Sunday, I have stood at the foot of my own
masterpiece, and heard it warmly praised by
hundreds of couples who perambulate the
grounds, examine the designs of tombs, and
criticise inscriptions. There is a great deal
of attention paid to sacred sculpture by the
public, I am proud to say. But here at
South Kensington is a gallery of sculpture
by men who have a rare cunning in expression
of all that is most beautiful in form; the
statues and groups are arranged where each
can be seen to good advantage; and there are
comfortable settees from which they can be
admired in comfort. The settees were all
occupied, but the occupants were talking to
each other, resting, doing anything but looking
at the works of art. Though every sitter
had a statue fully placed to excellent
advantage opposite him, her or, if a baby, it, I
made a point of looking for a pair of eyes
employed upon a statue, and did not see one.
Two or three thousand people moved about
the building while we remained in it. I
went to the sculpture gallery from time to
time, and once only succeeded in discovering
that anybody paid heed to the statues. Then
it did happen that there was a man in a
complete suit of corduroys, who passed
gravely and thoughtfully from work to work,
before each one settled himself at ease, and
stood gazing for some minutes, until, in fact,
he had drunk in through his eyes all its
proportions, before passing on. I like to see
our art, in any of its branches, duly
reverenced, and I said to my wife, "Well, for
that fellow's sake I shall say that to-night
the statues have not been exhibited in vain.
He carries a precious sight of stone off in his
head." And nobody shall say that our
modern sculptors fail to command attention,
because they produce puny efforts. Their
efforts are not puny. I wonder indeed how
many brethren of the profane branch have
achieved so much upon so little encouragement.
Look there, in the middle of this
exhibition towers a gift from the Grandduke
of Tuscany a cast of Michael Angelo's
David. Is that puny? At the foot of it
are anatomical wax models designed by the
great master himself when preparing for the
work. There the work is. I claim Michael
Angelo, as head of our branch of the
profession. Look at his tomb-stones! Well,
there's his heroic David, with the mighty
power and the nervous hands that are to slay
the Philistine; there's a work for a poor
stone-mason like me to fall down and worship;
there's by far the biggest thing in the
whole exhibition, and I did not perceive a
single glance, even of curiosity, turned up at
it; I watched in vain for a man, woman or
child who would take the trouble to look
David in the face. Had the statue been