Mr. Woolner, the well-known sculptor, died on October 7th at
his own house. Had his death not happened to take place in the same week as those of Tennyson and Renan, public atten- tion would have been drawn to the event far more strongly than it has been. Mr. Woolner, like all English sculptors, was forced to devote much of his time to busts of commonplace men, or, perhaps, we should say, of men with commonplace faces ; and, in doing this work, he hardly showed the skill in getting over difficulties displayed by Sir Edgar Boehm. ilia imaginative work was, however, often very fine, and in the little bas-relief of " Achilles Shouting in the Trench," which adorns the base of the bust of Mr. Gladstone in the Bodleian, he reached a very high level. Twenty-five years ago, it was thought by some that Mr. Woolner's verse would live as long as his marble, and " My Beautiful Lady" was considered as fit to be reckoned with the best achievement of the age in verse. Time, however, has shown that his poetry had not the true inspiration ; and it will be by his work as sculptor alone that he will be remembered.
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