poetry, and the whole harangue was' one eloquent
proclamation of the defects in his own mind. Tennyson wrote in verse because the school-masters had
taught him that it was great to do so; and had thus,
unfortunately, been turned from the true path for a
man. Burns had, in like manner, been turned from
his vocation. Shakespeare had not had the good sense
to see that it would have been better to write straight
on in prose; and such nonsense which, though amusing
enough at first, he ran to death after a while. . . . The
latter part of the evening, however, he paid us for this
by a series of sketches, in his finest style of railing and
raillery, of modern French literature. All were depreciating except that of Béranger. Of him he spoke
with perfect justice, because with hearty sympathy."
The retirement of the ladies to the drawing-room afforded Margaret an opportunity which she had not yet enjoyed.
“I had afterward some talk with Mrs. Carlyle, whom hitherto I had only seen,—for who can speak while her husband is there? I like her very much; she is full of grace, sweetness, and talent. Her eyes are sad and charming."
Margaret saw the Carlyles only once more,
"They came to pass an evening with us. Unluckily, Mazzini was with us, whose society, when he was there alone, I enjoyed more than any. He is a beauteous and pure music; also, he is a dear friend of Mrs. Carlyle. But his being there gave the conversation a turn to progress and ideal subjects, and Carlyle was fluent in invectives on all our rose-water imbecilities. We all felt distant from him, and Mazzini, after some vain efforts to remonstrate, became very sad. Mrs, Carlyle said to me: These are but opinions to Carlyle;
