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"
Michael Angelo did not like San Gallo; neither did he like
Bramante-who was his senior by thirty years-but this makes his
appreciation of the elder's work all the more generous.
Tinkered away at it, indeed!

May 21st.
I spent all the morning at work by the open window.
I have a small house in Lingfield Terrace, on the north side of
the Regent's Park, so that my drawing-room, on the first floor,
has a southern aspect. It has been warm and sunny for the past
few days, and the elms and plane-trees across the road are
beginning to riot in their green bravery, as if intoxicated with
the golden wine of spring. My French window is flung wide open,
and on the balcony a triangular bit of sunlight creeps round as
the morning advances. My work-table is drawn up to the window.
I am busy over the first section of my "History of Renaissance
Morals," for which I think my notes are completed. I have a
delicious sense of isolation from the world. Away over those
tree-tops is a faint purpurine pall, and below it lies London,
with its strife and its misery, its wickedness and its vanity.


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