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 exhibited at the Royal Academy, which I cherish as the most beautiful work of art in my possession; but he was too modest and retiring, and never gained the public esteem to which he had an undoubted claim. I was present at the unveiling of his fine marble bust of Edith Wynne, then radiant in her glory as the Welsh Nightingale, of whom I saw enough to learn that she was as charming in private as in public life. The place was Hanover Square Rooms. My friend Edwards received quite an ovation, the Sir Watkin Wynne of that day presiding; but on the whole I fear that Edwards by his genius did more for Wales than ever Wales did for him. His life ought to have been written. Young men, I am sure,