basest, the ugliest, and the most inconvenient that men have ever
built for themselves, and which our own haste, necessity, and
stupidity, compel almost all of us to live in? That is our present
question.

In dealing with this subject, I shall perforce be chiefly speaking
of those middle-class dwellings of which I know most; but what I
have to say will be as applicable to any other kind; for there is no
dignity or unity of plan about any modern house, big or little. It
has neither centre nor individuality, but is invariably a congeries
of rooms tumbled together by chance hap. So that the unit I have to
speak of is a room rather than a house.

Now there may be some here who have the good luck to dwell in those
noble buildings which our forefathers built, out of their very
souls, one may say; such good luck I call about the greatest that
can befall a man in these days. But these happy people have little
to do with our troubles of to-night, save as sympathetic onlookers.
All we have to do with them is to remind them not to forget their
duties to those places, which they doubtless love well; not to alter
them or torment them to suit any passing whim or convenience, but to
deal with them as if their builders, to whom they owe so much, could
still be wounded by the griefs and rejoice in the well-doing of
their ancient homes. Surely if they do this, they also will neither
be forgotten nor unthanked in the time to come.

There may be others here who dwell in houses that can scarcely be
called noble--nay, as compared with the last-named kind, may be
almost called ignoble--but their builders still had some traditions
left them of the times of art. They are built solidly and