SUNLIGHT IN A LONDON SQUARE. 243 



wreathed round about the central square. I hope that 

 at some time, by dint of bolder thought and freer 

 action, the world shall see a race able to enjoy it 

 without stint, a race able to enjoy the flowers with 

 which the physical world is strewn, the colours of the 

 garden of life. To look backwards with the swallow 

 there is sadness, to-day with the fleck of cloud there 

 is unrest; but forward, with the broad sunlight, there 

 is hope. 



Except you see these colours, and light, and tones, 

 except you see the blue heaven over the parapet, 

 you know not, you cannot feel, how great are the 

 possibilities of man. At my back, within the gallery, 

 there is many a canvas painted under Italian skies, in 

 glowing Spain, in bright Southern France. There are 

 scenes lit with the light that gleams on orange grove 

 and myrtle ; there are faces tinted with the golden hue 

 that floats in southern air. But yet, if any one im- 

 partial will stand here outside, under the portico, and 

 forgetting that it is prosaic London, will look at the 

 summer enclosed within the square, and acknowledge 

 it for itself as it is, he must admit that the view — 

 light and colour, tone and shade — is equal to the 

 painted canvas, is full, as it were, to the brim of 

 interest, suggestion, and delight. Before the painted 

 canvas you stand with prepared mind ; you have come 

 to see Italy, you are educated to find colour, and the 

 poetry of tone. Therefore you see it, if it is there. 

 Here in the portico you are unprepared, uneducated ; 

 no one has ever given a thought of it. But now trace 

 out the colour and the brightness ; gaze up into the 

 sky, watch the swallows, note the sparkle of the 



