the day or night. Many ludicrous episodes are recorded of the Italian artist, Gambardella, who painted her portrait for nothing, or, as Carlyle suggested, because 'he must be very much in love with the subject-that is all.' One of the most absurd arose out of his unfortunate wording of an advertisement for a servant which he fo had inserted in the press: Wanted a very genteel girl to do very genteel work-not under fifteen nor exceeding eighteen years of age,' etc. But the whole b story, told with admirable spirit, is too long to quote.

I

In December 1843, at past the age of forty-two, Mrs Carlyle danced. The occasion was that of a party at a Mrs Macready's house. It was

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" the very most agreeable party that ever I was at in London I -everybody there seemed animated with one purpose to t make up to Mrs Macready and her children for the absence of "The Tragic Actor" and so amiable a purpose produced the most joyous results. Dickens and Forster above all exerted themselves till the perspiration was pouring downl and they seemed drunk with their efforts! Only think of da that excellent Dickens playing the conjuror for one whole hour-the best conjuror I ever saw-(and I have paid money to see several) . . . Then the dancing-old Major Burns with his one eye-old Jerdan of the Literary Gazette (escaped & out of the Rules of the Queen's Bench for the great occa per sion!)-the gigantic Thackeray &c &c all capering like s Mænades!! Dickens did all but go down on his knees teas make me-waltz with him! But I thought I did my part weld enough in talking the maddest nonsense with him, Forster bes Thackeray and Maclise-without attempting the Impossiblehowever after supper when we were all madder than eve . a universal country dance was proposed, and Forstel seizing me round the waist whirled me into the thick of it pe and made me dance!! like a person in the tread-mill who t must move forward or be crushed to death. Once I cried a out "Oh for the love of Heaven let me go! you are going t dash my brains out against the folding doors!" to which he answered (you can fancy his tone)-" your brains? who caresore about their brains here? let them go!"... After all the pleasantest company, as Burns thought, are the blackguards -that is those who have just a sufficient dash of black guardism in them to make them snap their fingers at ceremony and "all that sort of thing." I question if ther was as much witty speech uttered in all the aristocratic

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onventional drawing rooms thro'out London that night as mong us little knot of blackguardist literary people who elt ourselves above all rules, and independent of the universe!'

Another ball at which Mrs Carlyle was present was t Bath House in July 1850. Carlyle insisted on her oing. He was quite determined for once in his life to ee an aristocratic Ball.' Her objections were overruled. He would buy the dress. Of course, it must be cut low.

'True propriety consisted in conforming to other people's ashions!!! and Eve he supposed had as much sense of lecency as I had and she wore no clothes at all!!! So got a white silk dress . . cut down to the due pitch of ndecency! I could have gone into fits of crying when I egan to put it on-but I looked so astonishingly well in it by candle light, and when I got into the fine rooms amongst he universally bare people I felt so much in keeping, that forgot my neck and arms almost immediately. I was glad fter that I went-not for any pleasure I had at the time, being past dancing, and knowing but few people—but it is n additional idea for life, to have seen such a party-all he Duchesses one ever heard tell of blazing in diamonds, all he young beauties of the season, all the distinguished tatesmen &c &c were to be seen among the six or seven undred people present-and the rooms all hung with rtificial roses looked like an Arabian Nights entertainment -what pleased me best was the good look I got into the eyes f the old Duke of Wellington-one has no notion, seeing im in the streets, what a dear kind face he has.'

The times at which Mrs Carlyle wrote were less assionate and exciting than those of Byron and Shelley. The temperature had cooled. The tone of feeling had ropped to a lower pitch. But whatever was left of ervour and unconventionality was to be found in Mrs arlyle's intimate circle, and she lived in daily comunion with the man who was the potent influence in ew movements, social, political, and intellectual. There , therefore, in the material of the correspondence bundance of vitality and interest. The letters touch fe at many varied points. There is little literary riticism. But the writers of many books pass across he pages-not only Dickens, Thackeray, and Tennyson, ut lesser lights like Harriet Martineau, Helps, Monckton,

Milnes, Mrs Gaskell, Lady Eastlake. FitzGerald, George Lewes, Aubrey de Vere. Nor do literary celebrities occupy the whole of the picture. Life in Cheyne Rows is mixed with that of great houses both in London and su in the country. Musicians like Chopin, painters like Maclise, rising politicians like Charles Buller, socialt leaders like Lady Ashburton, mingle in the scene. Part

The wish is often expressed for the opportunity of talking with those who lived a century or more ago ally The desire is gratified by Mrs Carlyle's correspondence.me Her letters afford the privilege of listening to the vivacious sparkling conversation of one of the moste gifted women of last century. They preserve much of the animation and charm of her spoken talk. They are inter genuine improvisations, frank outpourings of what was ment uppermost in her mind. Nothing is studied-least of le all the punctuation. Mrs Carlyle is, as all good letter mi writers must be, sensitive to external impressions, and a she sets them down with an extraordinary facility of expression, and with all the naturalness of unpre meditated art. It is these characteristics, sustained re throughout her copious correspondence, that give her one of the highest places among English letter-writers. Possibly, many readers will agree that, while the new collection confirms her position, it does not enhance her reputation. The letters do not belong to the best period of her life. In nearly every case, people write their th finest letters in the freshness, buoyancy, and fearlessness of youth. It is true of Mrs Carlyle. First-rate letter writers need a dash of egotism. In youth, it is swallowed up in the triumphant joy of life. In middle age, it tends to become more self-concentrated, and with some as with Mrs Carlyle, to be absorbed in personal ailments Her letters in the new collection suffer from an excess of headaches and blue pill.

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art. 13.-IDEALS IN POLITICS.

6

OME months ago a correspondence sprang up in the ress on the subject of political ideals. It started with letter from Sir Martin Conway in the 'Times,' in which e lamented the lack of attractive ideals in the Conervative Party, the provision of which he seemed to tope would make the youthful politicians of the Party nore vocally impressive at the street corners and, at he same time, inspire them with that martial enthusiasm which is as necessary in politics as in war. The corespondence struck a responsive chord, and it spread From the columns of the Times' to the provincial press. It was interesting as a symptom of the prevailing emperament of a community whose nerves were perhaps a little overstrung, and which was inclined to be ather unduly introspective. A few observers were ynical enough to doubt the efficacy of the nostrum of idealism as a cure for all our evils, and to hint that andue insistence upon ideals might savour of that cant which we find offensive in religion, and which might be equally offensive in politics. On the whole, however, the tendency represented no unwholesome symptom.

It is easy to account for this tendency. During the last ten years, we have passed through an ordeal which might well try the nerves of any nation. Under that ordeal the landmarks of our political divisions were broken down; customary methods of life; respected Conventions; deeply rooted traditions, have practically disappeared. We who have lived through the change, and whose attention was absorbed in urgent problems and anxieties, have hardly recognised its extent. Nevertheless, we are oppressed by the sense of unsettlement, and are eager to find a cure. It was not unnatural that many people thought that the best method was to be bold to the verge of recklessness. In the greatness of the strain, we were led to set economical laws at defiance, and to establish arbitrary rules to regulate Labour and to fetter Capital. Our hazardous and meddlesome experiments produced ever-increasing friction in regard to Finance, Manufactures, and Employment. Wages grew by leaps and bounds, only to lead to increased pressure of poverty, increased unemployment, and increased

depression of trade. We could not bring ourselves to conte fess our errors and to retrace those experimental foot steps which had led to so many mistakes. Perhaps, indeed the time had passed when that was possible. Instead, th we felt constrained to strive after some supreme ideal, which might inspire a deeper sense of political duty, and arouse a more earnest effort after mutual helpfulness, form even although uncertain as to its precise form.

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Great as our economic difficulties were, we seemed the o bent on adding to them by experiments in other directions.and i We chose this moment to remodel on a vast scale our p representative system. The electorate was increased threefold. The political status of women was suddenly mess altered, without reference to the constituencies, by the found same Parliament which had twice refused to them the vote; and this was done with the assistance of the very foc statesmen who had previously denounced such a change as likely to lead to condign disaster.

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Nor was this all. Our duties and our responsibilities are not domestic only. They are also Imperial, and therefore our handling of them has incalculable weight for good or ill throughout the world. By a strange perversity, this critical moment, when our whole administrative machinery was shaken by the strain of unprecedented war effort, was chosen as the fitting time for suggesting dreams of responsible government to our vast dependencies-government to be wielded by a small and intriguing minority nominally on behalf of countless millions, to whom our Western constitutional theories were an incomprehensible tangle, and whose welfare, for which we are responsible, we thus hand over to the mercies of a petty and selfish oligarchy. A new element of difficulty was thus added to the sea of troubles which we had to meet.

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Such was the position to which an evil fate, and the popular excitement which is the natural result of war, had brought us. It would be useless, and very likely unjust, to throw the blame for these rash experiments in every direction, upon any one political party. War is a cruel school for the political education of nations. Its discipline rests mainly upon fear and operates under excitement, which is apt to breed violent class jealousy, fed by the widely divergent estimate which each section