I found Pepys, and he looks much more _material_ in paint than he does in stone. There is, though, an expression of childlike speculation in the eyes, and there one finds Samuel of the Diary. Bunyan hangs next to him, a humorous looking old chap, a man one could trust. The same can be said of Sir Thomas More, with his gentle, clean-cut face, and his kind, intellectual brown eyes. Nell Gwynne is neighbour to her Charles. She is pert, with a look of the gamin about her as she points a derisive finger in direction of her royal lover. By the by, I didn't know Whitfield squinted! There is a quaint picture of him preaching to an audience of four, and an admiring female in the front row is making a vain effort to catch his eye. What a mixed company it is! and how do they pair off at nights when, in the darkness and echoing silence of the long galleries, they step out of their frames? Pepys might hob-nob with Bunyan very easily, Sir Thomas More with Hannah More, and Charlotte Brontë with Dr. Johnson, but how about Nell Gwynne with Charles's lawful consort. How about "Bloody Queen Mary" with old John Foxe and Elizabeth with Mary Queen of Scots? Meanwhile Horace Walpole would be quizzing the lot of them (I know it by the bright busy-body expression in his eyes), and writing letters to Madame du Deffand to tell her all about it. I have always been curious about his friendship with the infatuated old Frenchwoman of sixty-nine, and very disgusted with Walpole for causing his correspondence with her to be destroyed. By the way, Madame du Deffand was blind. I wonder who had the privilege of reading Horace's letters to her? I left the gallery pondering the odd situation, and was met by Mrs. D. on my return with the announcement that she had got crumpets for tea--would I like some? I said I would; moreover, I suggested that I should eat them in her company and have a cup of tea out of her tea-pot. I told her about Horace Walpole and Madame du Deffand as we sat over the fire drinking our tea, and she remarked that there were "no fools like old fools". This was a bit damping, and I said to myself, "George, you must be a _very_ lonely man to seek the company of such an unsympathetic woman!" Nevertheless, I was in no hurry to return to my solitary room, but sat smoking and watching the old lady mend my socks until the bells began to ring for evening service, and I bethought myself of this letter I had in my mind to write to you. Here it is, with the affectionate thought of Your old friend, GEORGE. CHAPTER X CARRINGTON MEWS, SHEPHERD MARKET, _20th January._