WRITING AT NIGHT.—­LONDON.—­NATIONAL GALLERY.—­MURILLO.—­THE FLOWER
GIRL.—­NURSERY-MAIDS AND WORKING-MEN.—­HAMPTON COURT.—­ZOOeLOGICAL
GARDENS.—­KING OF ANIMALS.—­ENGLISH PIETY.—­EAGLES.—­SIR JOHN SOANE’S
MUSEUM.—­KEW GARDENS.—­THE GREAT CACTUS.—­THE REFORM CLUB HOUSE.—­MEN
COOKS.—­ORDERLY KITCHEN.—­A GILPIN EXCURSION.—­THE BELL AT EDMONTON.—­
OMNIBUS.—­CHEAPSIDE.—­ENGLISH SLOWNESS.—­FREILIGRATH.—­ARCADIA.—­
ITALIAN SCHOOL.—­MAZZINI.—­ITALY.—­ITALIAN REFUGEES.—­CORREGGIO.—­
HOPE OF ITALIANS.—­ADDRESSES.—­SUPPER.—­CARLYLE, HIS APPEARANCE,
CONVERSATION, &C.

Again I must begin to write late in the evening.  I am told it is the custom of the literati in these large cities to work in the night.  It is easy to see that it must be almost impossible to do otherwise; yet not only is the practice very bad for the health, and one that brings on premature old age, but I cannot think this night-work will prove as firm in texture and as fair of hue as what is done by sunlight.  Give me a lonely chamber, a window from which through the foliage you can catch glimpses of a beautiful prospect, and the mind finds itself tuned to action.

But London, London!  I have yet some brief notes to make on London.  We had scarcely any sunlight by which to see pictures, and I postponed all visits to private collections, except one, in the hope of being in England next time in the long summer days.  In the National Gallery I saw little except the Murillos; they were so beautiful, that with me, who had no true conception of his kind of genius before, they took away the desire to look into anything else at the same time.  They did not affect me much either, except with a sense of content in this genius, so rich and full and strong.  It was a cup of sunny wine that refreshed but brought no intoxicating visions.  There is something very noble in the genius of Spain, there is such an intensity and singleness; it seems to me it has not half shown itself, and must have an important part to play yet in the drama of this planet.

At the Dulwich Gallery I saw the Flower Girl of Murillo, an enchanting picture, the memory of which must always

      “Cast a light upon the day,
  A light that will not pass away,
      A sweet forewarning.”

Who can despair when he thinks of a form like that, so full of life and bliss!  Nature, that made such human forms to match the butterfly and the bee on June mornings when the lime-trees are in blossom, has surely enough of happiness in store to satisfy us all, somewhere, some time.

It was pleasant, indeed, to see the treasures of those galleries, of the British Museum, and of so charming a place as Hampton Court, open to everybody.  In the National Gallery one finds a throng of nursery-maids, and men just come from their work; true, they make a great deal of noise thronging to and fro on the uncarpeted floors in their thick boots, and noise from which, when penetrated by the atmosphere of Art, men in the thickest boots would know how to refrain; still I felt that the sight of such objects must be gradually doing them a great deal of good.  The British Museum would, in itself, be an education for a man who should go there once a week, and think and read at his leisure moments about what he saw.