grovel before a titled customer. I had to speak of his brothers,
and mostly of Charley, anent whose change of name Mr B
was not pleased. / Had a letter from
Hannah this morning.
25. Sunday. A walk with Charley in the evening, calling
on Mrs Stine & John Boutcher. Drizzly sloppy weather, mud
plentiful, and circular ice masses melting on the filthy river.
26. Monday. Letter from Dick Bolton. Out, through a dim
yellow mist and intermittent drizzle. Over Waterloo Bridge, and
thence to the National Academy. Many pictures have been added to it,
during the last five years, the veritable Pre-Raphealites being numerous.
Their gaucherie and hideousness is scarcely redeemed by their simplicity.
My visit was intended for Turners� Building of Carthage, which
according to the proviso in the Artist�s will, hangs beside the picture
of Claude�s, which it was painted, to rival. Turner�s is, as it
ought to be, the finer work, yet I think it would never have existed
by but for the glorious Frenchman. There�s a subtleness of concep-
tion, and a spiritually suggestive beauty about [word crossed out] our painter�s
work which Claude�s lacks. The shimmer and dreamy splendor
paired forth on the water is wonderful, the architecture questionable
its location verging on the improbable, (not to say impossible,) the
sky exquisite. Yet Claude is fresher, more ingenuous, with
his blue leaping waves, his awkward architecture, and his indif-
ferently drawn figures. Turner�s genious is noontide glory, Claude�s
that of morning. There is more achievement, and also parade of it
in the former, only joyous content with, and trust in, Nature, in