182 LETTERS OF WILLIAM BLAKE
pleasing one to me. It will be highly gratifying to see another copy by another hand, and not only gratifying, but improving, which is much better.
The town is mad: young Roscius,[1] like all prodigies, is the talk of everyone. I have not seen him, and perhaps never may. I have no curiosity to see him, as I well know what is within compass of a boy of fourteen; and as to real acting, it is, like historical painting, no boy's work.
Fuseli is made Master of the Royal Academy. Banks,[2] the sculptor, is gone to his eternal home. I have heard that Flaxman means to give a lecture on sculpture at the Royal Academy on the occasion of Banks' death. He died at the age of seventy-five, of a paralytic stroke: and I conceive Flaxman stands without a competitor in sculpture.
I must not omit to tell you that, on leaving Mr. Phillips, I asked if he had any message to you, as I meant to write immediately. He said: "Give my best respects, and tell Mr. Hayley that I wish very much to be at work for him." But perhaps I ought to tell you what he said to me previous to this, in the course of our conversation. His words were: "I feel somewhat embarrassed at the idea of setting a value on any works of Mr. Hayley, and fear that he will wish me to do so." I asked him
