ceaselessly with nothing to do made my life in my own room intolerable, and now I actually take my own letters to the post.  I went to the exhibition:  it was full of portraits of the most hideous women, with inconceivable spots on their faces, of which I think I’ve told you my horror, and scarcely six decent pictures in the whole enormous collection; but I had never been in the Tuilleries before, and it was curious to go through the vast dingy rooms by which such a number of dynasties have come in and gone out—­Louis XVI., Napoleon, Charles X., Louis Philippe, have all marched in state up the staircase with the gilt balustrades, and come tumbling down again presently.—­Well, I won’t give you an historical disquisition in the Titmarsh manner upon this, but reserve it for Punch—­for whom on Thursday an article that I think is quite unexampled for dullness even in that journal, and that beats the dullest Jerrold.  What a jaunty, off-hand, satiric rogue I am to be sure—­and a gay young dog!  I took a very great liking and admiration for Clough.  He is a real poet, and a simple, affectionate creature.  Last year we went to Blenheim—­from Oxford (it was after a stay at Cl——­ved——­n C——­rt, the seat of Sir C——­ E——­n B——­t), and I liked him for sitting down in the inn yard and beginning to teach a child to read off a bit of Punch, which was lying on the ground.  Subsequently he sent me his poems, which were rough but contain the real, genuine, sacred flame I think.  He is very learned:  he has evidently been crossed in love:  he gave up his fellowship and university prospects on religious scruples.  He is one of those thinking men who, I dare say, will begin to speak out before many years are over, and protest against Gothic Christianity—­that is, I think he is.  Did you read in F. Newman’s book?  There speaks a very pious, loving, humble soul I think, with an ascetical continence too—­and a beautiful love and reverence.  I’m a publican and sinner, but I believe those men are on the true track.

* * * * *

And is W. Bullar going to work upon you with his “simple mysticism”?  I don’t know about the unseen world; the use of the seen world is the right thing I’m sure!—­it is just as much God’s world and creation as the Kingdom of Heaven with all the angels.  How will you make yourself most happy in it?  How secure at least the greatest amount of happiness compatible with your condition? by despising to-day, and looking up cloudward?  Pish.  Let us turn God’s to-day to its best use, as well as any other part of the time He gives us.  When I am on a cloud a-singing, or a pot boiling—­I will do my best, and, if you are ill, you can have consolations; if you have disappointments, you can invent fresh sources of hope and pleasure.  I’m glad you saw the Crowes, and that they gave you pleasure;—­and that noble poetry of Alfred’s gives you pleasure (I’m happy to say, ma’am, I’ve said the very same thing in prose that you