adford," you would
have been justly offended with me, not knowing the reasons of so blunt
a carelessness. So I have come down, hoping that you will patiently
let me tell you why, on this, and many other such occasions, I now
remain silent, when formerly I should have caught at the opportunity
of speaking to a gracious audience.

In a word, then, I do not care about this Exchange--because _you_
don't; and because you know perfectly well I cannot make you. Look at
the essential conditions of the case, which you, as business men, know
perfectly well, though perhaps you think I forget them. You are going
to spend L30,000, which to you, collectively, is nothing; the buying a
new coat is, as to the cost of it, a much more important matter of
consideration to me, than building a new Exchange is to you. But you
think you may as well have the right thing for your money. You know
there are a great many odd styles of architecture about; you don't
want to do anything ridiculous; you hear of me, among others, as a
respectable architectural man-milliner; and you send for me, that I
may tell you the leading fashion; and what is, in our shops, for the
moment, the newest and sweetest thing in pinnacles.

Now, pardon me for telling you frankly, you cannot have good
architecture merely by asking people's advice on occasion. All good
architecture is the expression of national life and character, and it
is produced by a prevalent and eager national taste, or desire for
beauty. And I want you to think a little of the deep significance of
this word "taste"; for no statement of mine has been more earnestly or
oftener controverted than that good taste is essentially a moral
quality. "No," say many of my antagonists, "taste is one thing,
morality is another. Tell us what is pretty: we shall be glad to know
that; but we need no sermons--even were you able to preach them, which
may be doubted."

Permit me, therefore, to fortify this old dogma of mine somewhat.
Taste is not only a part and an index of morality;--it is the ONLY
morality. The first, and last, and closest trial question to any
living creature is, "What do you like?" Tell me what you like, and
I'll tell you what you are. Go out into the street, and ask the first
man or woman you meet, what their "taste" is; and if they answer
candidly, you know them, body and soul. "You, my friend in the rags,
with the unsteady gait, what do _you_ like?" "A pipe and a quartern of
gin." I know you.