peak more nor wiselier
of him now; nor needs it. His works are true to blame and praise
him,--the Siegfried of England, great and powerful, if not quite
invulnerable, and of a might rather to destroy evil than to legislate
for good."

In a letter to Mr. Emerson, Margaret gives some account of her visits at
the Carlyle mansion. The second of these was on the occasion of a
dinner-party, at which she met "a witty, French, flippant sort of a man,
author of a History of Philosophy, and now writing a life of Goethe,"
presumably George Lewes. Margaret acknowledges that he told stories
admirably, and that his occasional interruptions of Carlyle's persistent
monologue were welcome. Of this, her summary is too interesting to be
omitted here:--

"For a couple of hours he was talking about poetry, and the whole
harangue was one eloquent proclamation of the defects in his own mind.
Tennyson wrote in verse because the schoolmasters 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 Beranger. 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: