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say as much as the rarest pictures, and are as eloquent as the music of Bach or Beethoven. I only refer to the greatest; for a study of the work of many modern sculptors leaves one as cold as the marble itself; and the morbid cult of some of them for what is hideous is not only irritating but painful. I remember a visit to the studio of one of the most prominent French sculptors in Paris. After seeing everything in both of the huge ateliers, Lord Lytton (who was of the party), a singularly able critic in all matters artistic, suggested a visit to the morgue as a means of driving from our minds the hideous creations we had seen. We gladly assented; and indeed the three or four figures we saw there were far more beautiful, with the calm majesty of death upon them, than any of the representations of life we had seen in the studio. My friends in Paris were wont to say that many of my leisure moments were spent either at the Comedie Fran-9aise or at the Nouveau Cirque. I confess that the circus has always had a great hold upon my affections. To see such riders as Madame Dock-rill and Robert Stickney was a genuine artistic pleasure. The grace, power, and daring they exhibited were nothing short of wonderful. Their