“_If!_” I said. “It _must_ be.” “It is a very costly matter to put such a thing into bronze,” he answered. “I do not know if I can ever afford to do it. I do not paint my pictures to sell, but to serve another end. I give them to the nation. For a long time I was in doubt whether I had a right to do this because money is a great power for good, and I can make a great deal of money with my portraits, but on the whole I felt that my example and my best work would be of more value to my country. We need very little money. We go nowhere. Mrs. Watts spends next to nothing on her dress and we only need to live as we do, very quietly and comfortably.” The colossal horse and its rider of whose future Watts was so doubtful have found a place worthy of themselves and their creator. The group now forms part of the magnificent memorial to Cecil Rhodes in South Africa. It stands at the foot of the great flight of steps with a background of purple mountains and Africa stretching endlessly below it. We had much pleasure in again meeting Sir Henry Stanley, the African explorer. He had been at our house in Boston the year before with his handsome wife, his mother-in-law Mrs. Tennant, and their relative, Hamilton Aïdé. Stanley was a masterful looking man who on most occasions was inclined to be silent. Once, however, he talked graphically with us about his experiences in Africa. He spoke with modesty of his own personal exploits, but in spite of this he gave the impression that he deserved the name given him by the African chieftainess and written on a photograph I still possess,--Bula Matari, breaker of stone! Two years before General Booth had paraphrased Stanley’s famous book “In Darkest Africa” with a volume called “In Darkest England.” The book laid strong hold on my imagination. During our first days in London I was too busy renewing old friendships, revisiting beloved haunts, to think about “Darkest England.” One hot night, as we were driving home from a ball, our way took us along the Thames Embankment, where under the shadow of the Egyptian obelisk, Cleopatra’s Needle, I saw certain silent figures sleeping on the ground, crouching on the benches. There was, then, another London I did not know, and these forlorn men and women were among its people! I could not sleep for thinking of them, and the next day began my exploration of “Darkest England.” My diary during the rest of this London visit is almost entirely devoted to this subject. London, July 10, 1892. Found that the boys in the Salvation Army convict Shelter had no schooling, but prayer meetings seven evenings a week. Found very few books. The weak point in the work seems the lack of intellectual development. The libraries in the Shelters consist of one or two religious books, nothing more. “How do the discharged prisoners get to this place?” I asked my guide.