Leaving the gallery, I walked down into the city, and passed through
Smithfield, where I glanced at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. . . . . Then I
went into St. Paul's, and walked all round the great cathedral, looking,
I believe, at every monument on the floor. There is certainly nothing
very wonderful in any of them, and I do wish it would not so generally
happen that English warriors go into battle almost nude; at least, we
must suppose so, from their invariably receiving their death-wounds in
that condition. I will not believe that a sculptor or a painter is a man
of genius unless he can wake the nobleness of his subject, illuminate and
transfigure any given pattern of coat and breeches. Nevertheless, I
never go into St. Paul's without being impressed anew with the grandeur
of the edifice, and the general effect of these same groups of statuary
ranged in their niches and at the bases of the pillars as adornments of
the cathedral.
Coming homeward, I went into the enclosure of the Temple, and near the
entrance saw "Dr. Johnson's staircase" printed over a doorway; so I not
only looked in, but went up the first flight, of some broad, well-worn
stairs, passing my hand over a heavy, ancient, broken balustrade, on
which, no doubt, Johnson's hand had often rested. It was here that
Boswell used to visit him, in their early acquaintance. Before my lunch,
I had gone into Bolt Court, where he died.
This morning there have been letters from Mr.
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