ll a much more popular speaker--especially in the House of Commons--than
his fellow-worker Edward Miall, and his loss to the Nonconformists all
over the land was very great.

But, after all, the Welshman with whom I was most intimate, and whom I
most admired, was Joseph Edwards, the sculptor. He came from the
neighbourhood of Merthyr, where he had many relatives, whom he never
forgot, and whose poverty he was always ready to relieve. He had a
studio in Robert Street, Hampstead Road, and lived in the house close by.
He had an uphill work to fight, and to lead a life of labour and
self-denial, relieved by a few intervals of sunshine, as when at a dinner
party he had the privilege of meeting Mr. Gladstone--or as when staying
at the Duke of Beaufort's, from whom he had a commission, he had the
honour of escorting the Duchess into the drawing-room--an honour on which
I never forgot to chaff him as I used to sit in his studio watching him
at work. He must have had to work hard to make both ends meet; and when
I went to see him on his death-bed, as it proved to be, I was shocked
with grief to see a man of such rare and lofty genius have to sleep in a
little room at the very top of the house. But commissions were rare, and
the material on which he had to work (marble) was very costly, and the
sculptor works at a great disadvantage compared with the popular portrait
painter. I believe he derived a great part of his income by going to the
studio of a more successful artist, and giving finishing touches to what
work might be on hand, much to the astonishment of the assistants, who,
when they returned in the morning, were astonished to find what progress
had been made in the night, which they attributed to the visitation of a
ghost. Edwards was an enthusiastic poet, and many of his works in
plaster--waiting, alas! for the commission to transfer to the marble
which never came--were exquisitely beautiful, and were often engraved in
_The Art Journal_. Both Mr. Hall, the editor, and his wife, the clever
authoress, were great admirers of Mr. Edwards' lofty and poetical
idealisms, which sometimes soared a little above my poor prosaic
qualities. As I listened to his rapt and ardent speech, I felt impelled
somewhat to make a few remarks to bring him down from his starry heights,
and the result ended in a hearty peal of laughter, for no man better
loved a joke. I have a medallion of myself which he gave me after it had
been exhibite