“That is a very reasonable demand, sir,” answered the Laureate, daring the offending and rather elated low comedian from the corner of his eye. “I have no doubt that to the uninformed in such matters the magnitude of this conception palliates, or even overpowers, the meretriciousness of its details. But you mistake me on one point. My profession, though it embodies all the arts, specialises in none, and if I claim a dictatorial right in this instance, it is simply because as an actor I represent the trinity in unity of the creative faculty.”
“I see, I see,” said the old gentleman. “It is merely accident which has kept dormant your architectural proclivities.”
“Well, sir,” said the poet, with a smile, “I flatter myself I could have evolved, under compulsion, a more faultless erection than this.”
The stranger nodded with an air of satisfied acquiescence.
“I shall be really grateful to Mr. Cibber,” he said, “if he will help me to the right point of view. To my uninstructed intelligence, I confess, the pile seems to stand well.”
The poet laughed tolerantly.
“A good fortune it owes to its site. O, you must really pardon me, sir! It is in truth a cold, heavy, tasteless affair, imposing in no more than bulk, lacking the inspiration of sacramentality. Bear with me, now bear with me, while I strip off for your edification a little of the monster’s pretence. You will observe its most prominent feature, the dome? Very well, sir; that dome sums up in itself the hollowness of the entire conception. It violates the first principles of the art it professes, with a monstrous impertinence, to crown. Its height bears no relation to the proportions of the structure within, and is fixed thus arbitrarily for no other purpose than effect.”
“But is not the effect good?” ventured the old gentleman.
“Why, stap my vitals, sir!” said Mr. Cibber, “have you the assurance to condone a whited sepulchre? The greater the audacity, the worse the pretence. The cupola proper to this design lies within that external sham like a head under a steel basinet. What we look on is a mere exuberance, supporting nothing but itself. Will you tell me that that is in accordance with the principles of art, which demand that each part should naturally progress in lines of beauty from the parent stock?”
“No,” said the stranger—“no. You teach me much, sir.”