_Milverton_. I think with you, but I have no theory to account for it. I suppose that these committees are frequently hampered by other considerations than those which come before the public when they are looking at the work done; and this may be some excuse. There was a custom which I have heard prevailed in former days in some of the Italian cities, of making large models of the works of art that were to adorn the city, and putting them up in the places intended for the works when finished, and then inviting criticism. It would really be a very good plan in some cases. _Ellesmere_. Now, Milverton, would you not forthwith pull down such things as Buckingham Palace and the National Gallery? Dunsford looks at me as if I were going to pull down the Constitution. _Milverton_. I would pull them down to a certainty, or some parts of them at any rate; but whether “forthwith” is another question. There are greater things, perhaps, to be done first. We must consider, too, “That eternal want of pence Which vexes public men.” Still, I think we ought always to look upon such buildings as temporary arrangements, and they vex one less then. The Palace ought to be in the higher part of the Park, perhaps on that slope opposite Piccadilly. _Dunsford_. Well, it does amuse me the way in which you youngsters go on, pulling down, in your industrious imaginations, palaces and national galleries, building aqueducts and cloacæ maximæ, forming parks, destroying smoke (so large a part of every Londoner’s diet), and abridging plaster, without fear of Chancellors of the Exchequer, and the resistance of mankind in general. _Milverton_. We must begin by thinking boldly about things. That is a larger part of any undertaking than it seems, perhaps. _Dunsford_. We must, I am afraid, break off our pleasant employment of projecting public improvements, unless we mean to be dinnerless. _Ellesmere_. A frequent fate of great projectors, I fear. _Milverton_. Now then, homewards. CHAPTER XI. MY readers will, perhaps, agree with me in being sorry to find that we are coming to the end of our present series. I say, “my readers,” though I have so little part in purveying for them, that I mostly consider myself one of them. It is no light task, however, to give a good account of a conversation; and I say this, and would wish people to try whether I am not right in saying so, not to call attention to my labour in the matter, but because it may be well to notice how difficult it is to report anything truly. Were this better known, it might be an aid to charity, and prevent some of those feuds which grow out of the poverty of man’s power to express, to apprehend, to represent, rather than out of any malignant part of his nature. But I must not go on moralising. I almost feel that Ellesmere is looking over my shoulder, and breaking into my discourse with sharp words; which I have lately been so much accustomed to.