I have looked for a long time at this deplorable work, and it made me thoughtful. How heavy is the responsibility of the critic! Supposing I knew nothing of Meunier and only saw this work, I should find it hard to resist the impulse to abuse him in the sharpest terms, for it unites the two worst faults that can be found in a work of art: it is at the same time inanely futile and obtrusively pretentious. So far I should be acting within the scope of my perfect rights. But am I certain that I was not allowing myself to be carried away by my own natural propensity to generalise, and to condemn not only the work, but also its author, to call him a bungler and a botcher? Such a verdict would, apparently, be well-grounded and, in fact, revoltingly false. Works such as “The Bricklayers” are a warning to the critic; they admonish him to be conscientious. Their teaching is that every comprehensive verdict on an artist must presuppose a knowledge of his whole life’s work, and that no single work can offer sufficient basis for the general appreciation of its author, especially of his depreciation. In his figures of the miners and iron-founders, Meunier showed sympathy with the lot of the proletariate; in his portrayals of the countryman’s life, reverence for the civilising work of the man who ploughs the soil. But he reveals in certain other works of similar subjects beauty which prevents us from wishing for one moment for those Invalides of Olympus, the unchangeable troop of academic sculpture. The “Blacksmith” wielding his hammer, the “Harbour-Workers,” the more than life-sized “Smith,” are discoveries which are tantamount to revelations. Especially this smith in his working garb, with his stiff leather apron, leggings, and the foot coverings that are intended to protect him from the sparks. Leaning on the tongs that are almost the height of a man, he rests his hand on his hips and waits until it is his turn to attack the work. There is a proud tranquillity, and a reserve of ready strength in him that carry us away. This artisan is every whit as handsome in his way as an antique statue in a toga of ample fold, or a noble nudity, or a knight in romantic armour. His body possesses the elegance which perfect fitness confers, his movement the energetic restraint that the workman, thrifty in exerting himself, acquires through being in the habit of avoiding every prodigal expenditure of his strength. Meunier trains our eyes to appreciate the æsthetic charm of this phenomenon of our own days, which great art has hitherto stupidly passed by.