Mr. L.-B. (wagging his head sapiently). I could tell you shtranger things than that. But as I was shaying, here was this busht of Napoleon, by some French chap—which you would tell me was against it.
Mr. Milb. Why? The French are the best sculptors in the world.
Mr. L.-B. The Frensh! I can not bring myshelf to believe that, if only for thish shimple reashon, they haven't the patiensh for it.
First Comm. So I should have said. For my own part—not knowing much about it, very likely—I should have put the Italians first.
Mr. Milb. If you are talking of all time——
First Comm. (feeling at last at his ease). I should say, even now. Why, there was a piece of statuary in the Italian Exhibition at Earl's Court some years back that took my fancy and took my wife's fancy very much. It was a representation in marble of a 'en and chickens, all so natural, and with every individual feather on the birds done to such a nicety——!
Mr. Milb. I was hardly referring to the skill with which the Italians carve—ah—poultry.
Mr. L.-B. Ridic'lous! Great mishtake to talk without unnershtanding shubject. (The First Commercial retires from the room in disorder.) One thing I should like to ashk is thish. Why are sculptors at present day so inferior to the antique? Ishn't the human form divine ash noble and ash shymmetrical ash formerly? Why can't they reproduce it then?
Mr. Milb. You must first find your sculptor. Providence doesn't see fit to create a Michael Angelo or a Praxiteles every five minutes, any more than a Shakspeare.
Mr. L.-B. (wavering between piety and epigram). Thank the Lord for that! Now there'sh Florensh. Shome of us who have had the run there—well, there you see all the original thingsh—all the originalsh. And yet, if you'll believe me (dreamily), with all my love and charm for Art, gimme the Capitoline Venush living and breathing in flesh and blood, Sir, not in cold lifelesh marble!