ivy and of other architectural beauties, undoubtedly stint us as to water-colors and therefore make oil[1] the most convenient medium. Our American landscape-painters — Kensett, Church, Gifford, Bierstadt — have no superiors in Europe in oils, if, indeed, they have many equals.
I saw the yearly exhibition at the Royal Academy. Of it, I remember one of Landseer's — a curious picture — eagles attacking swans, a bloody, cruel, unequal fight. Then I saw a "Vanessa," by Millais, the deserted love of Dean Swift — another unequal fight. She was represented a tail, proud, unhappy-looking creature, a beauty, and in the handsomest brocade that ever was woven or painted. That brocade alone should have insured a large female attendance at this exhibition.
Westminster Hall I remember with peculiar pleasure, and also the richly decorated St. Stephen's Chapel, under the House of Commons, of no use to anybody, but as rich as an illuminated missal. I was afterwards shut up, as becomes my dangerous character, in a wired den over the House of Commons — and heard Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Disraeli, Mr. Lowe, and Dr. Ball; also some men of lesser note. Mr. Gladstone speaks with singular clearness and elegance, and I noticed none of that hesitancy so often attributed to English speakers. Disraeli had just been defeated for the premiership,
A permission to the House of Lords was not so easily obtained, for it was the height of the debate on the Irish Church Bill, and the peeresses demanded their right to every one of the few available seats. However, that came in time, and I was so fortunate as to hear Earl Granville, the Lord Chancellor, Lord John Russell, and
- ↑ This was my opinion in 1869.
