John was the most lovely picture I have
ever seen, and that there never was a painter who has really made the
world richer, except Murillo.
November 12th.--This morning we issued forth, and found the atmosphere
chill and almost frosty, tingling upon our cheeks. . . . . The gateway of
Somerset House attracted us, and we walked round its spacious quadrangle,
encountering many government clerks hurrying to their various offices.
At least, I presumed them to be so. This is certainly a handsome square
of buildings, with its Grecian facades and pillars, and its sculptured
bas-reliefs, and the group of statuary in the midst of the court.
Besides the part of the edifice that rises above ground, there appear to
be two subterranean stories below the surface. From Somerset House we
pursued our way through Temple Bar, but missed it, and therefore entered
by the passage from what was formerly Alsatia, but which now seems to be
a very respectable and humdrum part of London. We came immediately to
the Temple Gardens, which we walked quite round. The grass is still
green, but the trees are leafless, and had an aspect of not being very
robust, even at more genial seasons of the year. There were, however,
large quantities of brilliant chrysanthemums, golden, and of all hues,
blooming gorgeously all about the borders; and several gardeners were at
work, tending these flowers, and sheltering them from the weather. I
noticed no roses, nor even rose-bushes, in the spot where the factions of
York and Lancaster plucked their two hostile flowers.
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