they entertained then, as I believe they do now, a singularly vulgar idea, that book-makers observe them, to put them in print; while really there is nothing so singular or peculiar about them, as to render them worth the trouble. "Oh, please!" I heard one of those shy ladies of golden rank say (shy people are always thinking of themselves, and what other people think of them)-"oh, please, my dear Miss Lyndsey, don't put me in a book!"

"Put your ladyship in a book!" repeated Helen, looking so sweet and simple, "oh! dear no! what could you do there?"

The poor lady seemed so disappointed!

But I must say a little more about Mrs. Joseph Greene, for since her sun went down. calmly, and with the dignity which characterized her life, there has been no neutral ground in London, where the world of fashion could meet the world of letters-which, were it true to its own dignity, and united, instead of being broken into cliques and cabals, might guide, if not govern the universe. Now-a-days, during

'the season' in London, the presidents of the various learned societies send out astoundingly large cards to the members of their own bodies, and those whom they delight to honour, who, appreciating the compliment, flock to the residence at the appointed hour, are received en prince, make their bów, recognize their acquaintance, chat a little, take a little tea or coffee, and depart. A list of the company appears in the next morning's papers, and is read over by the men at the clubs, who exclaim, "Why Bootile is in town, he was at last night," or "What a cram it was at the Geographical, or Geological, last evening!" Now that, I take it, is little more than a show of heads or hands, to tell the numbers of a great and useful body; but I cannot think it 'society.' I know in the country, that when farmers meet farmers, they talk about farming matters, and when country gentlemen meet only country gentlemen, their ideas run in the same railroad; so I think, when antiquaries only meet antiquaries, and the geogra

phical meet only the geographical, there cannot be 'society' upon a broad and useful scale; one set of ideas bows to a similar set of ideas at the opposite side of the room, that is all. I know that like may go on meeting like for ever, and be dull work. Poor Helen used to say that society, to be piquant, must resemble a fresh salad, be composed of many ingredients, and all of them good of their kind. Perhaps the fault is mine, and that I do not appreciate, as in 'Lang Syne.' I am willing to admit that we do scores of things which we ought to have done, yet did not do in those days, but I am only speaking of society; there is no lack of artistic soirées, where artists confirm each other in their prejudices, and abuse the foreign' schools,' or stand on debateable ground, to determine whether we are to paint what is ugly and unnatural, because some painters long ago having no eye or soul for beauty dotted and worked away very hard indeed, to make what was true appear disagreeable; or discuss if it be better to be content with

nature, taking beauty for the rule, deformity the exception; of course, they never agree on this predetermined point-leaving it just as they found it. There are literary soirées, which, from all I hear, are simply gatherings of a clique, at the residence of the clique idol, and, whoever the idol is, where you meet those of the same way of thinking precisely. It used to be the fashion in my young days, to write only of the upper classes; all the books were about lords and ladies, very grand, dignified, and tiresome, just as if the world belonged to them altogether, and there were no other people in it. Miss Edgeworth and Sir Walter Scott broke new ground, and mingled the classes as in life they are mingled, and interested us in both rich and poor. But it seems now, as if that was all wrong, for the most popular clique make it out, that every well-born, welleducated lady and gentleman, even if they really obey the command, and give 'half their goods to feed the poor,' have no right to the

other half, no right at all to 'do what they like with their own.' I often recall some of Helen's observations. Literature seems to me topsy-turvied; the rich long ago, even since the feudal times, used to rob the poor, but now the poor are set to rob the rich. In this low-class literature-or, I suppose I should write literature of the lower classes' every man who speaks good English, and wears a well made coat-is a thief and a robber, but every man, who among other murders, murders the queen's English, and flutters in rags, is a 'noble of nature;' literature travels on Irish jaunting cars, seeing only one side of a road. Another thing seems so strange, there is just now a clique of uncomfortable ladies, or ladies that are not comfortable, creating a sensation in favour of what they call 'elevating women,' which I think means, 'taking them out of their sphere.' Well, decidedly the most popular, and—though I cannot agree with him in many things-yet the greatest genius of our time-who has