[Footnote A:  George Henry Lewes.]

“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 most amusing part is always when he comes back to some refrain, as in the French Revolution of the sea-green.  In this instance, it was Petrarch and Laura, the last word pronounced with his ineffable sarcasm of drawl.  Although he said this over fifty times, I could not help laughing when Laura would come.  Carlyle running his chin out when he spoke it, and his eyes glancing till they looked like the eyes and beak of a bird of prey.

Poor Laura!  Luckily for her that her poet had already got her safely canonized beyond the reach of this Teufelsdroeckh vulture.

“The worst of hearing Carlyle is, that you cannot interrupt him.  I understand the habit and power of haranguing have increased very much upon him, so that you are a perfect prisoner when he has once got hold of you.  To interrupt him is a physical impossibility.  If you get a chance to remonstrate for a moment, he raises his voice and bears you down.  True, he does you no injustice, and, with his admirable penetration, sees the disclaimer in your mind, so that you are not morally delinquent; but it is not pleasant to be unable to utter it.  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, not one of them, perhaps, perfectly just, but all drawn with the finest, boldest strokes, and, from his point of view, masterly.  All were depreciating, except that of Beranger.  Of him he spoke with perfect justice, because with hearty sympathy.

“I had, afterward, some talk with Mrs. C., 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.

* * * * *

“After this, they went to stay at Lord Ashburton’s, and I only saw them once more, when 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. C., but his being there gave the conversation a turn to ‘progress’ and ideal subjects, and C. 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. C. said to me,—­