position to entertain literary angels, and was rewarded by at least one poetic eulogy: "For to the few with sparks ethereal stored He never barred his castle's genial gate, But bade sweet Thomson share the friendly board, Hence fired, the bard forsook the flowery plain, And decked the royal mask and tried the tragic strain." An awkward inference presents itself, that an English prince must be very much out of luck before he warmly favours literary companionship, and that such ill-assorted friendship is more likely to wean a poet from his true métier than to elevate a prince above the intellectual level of his order. Thomson, fired by the society of Frederick Prince of Wales, forsaking "the flowery plain," is an allegory for all seasons. If we glance beyond the confines of our own country, several names stand forth in the roll of royal authors. King Bela of Hungary has a claim, though it is appropriately mythical, to appear there. King Dionysius of Portugal and his son Alfonso IV. are more distinctly inscribed. Alfonso X., surnamed the Wise-not because, like Sir Godfrey Kneller, he thought he could have given the Creator advice which would have much improved the universe-is one of the few literary monarchs who gave any thought to science. His Book of Complaints is declared by Sismondi to be worthy of the sentiments which ought to sustain a deposed monarch; but that seems a very vague and even equivocal compliment. This king, however, was a knowing one; for, chiefly with a view to debase the coinage with impunity, he declared he had discovered the philosopher's stone! Of all royal authors, perhaps the prettiest things have been said of Marguerite Queen of Navarre, sister of Francis I., and writer of the Heptameron and other books. She was "ma mignonne" to her brother, and her name (which means 'pearl') was the occasion of innumerable complimentary puns. She was the Marguerite des Marguerites. She was a pearl surpassing the pearls of Orient, besides being-as so many other ladies have been-Tenth Muse. Marguerite wrote in almost every vein, from farce to pietism, from pure poetry to unclean fiction. Her best-known book is the oddest mixture ever known of lively incident, sprightly conversation, unqualified obscenity, spiritual biblical Protestantism (antedated), and curiously delicate, while curiously bold, sentimentalism. For these days of "spiritual wives," the Heptameron is hardly too immoral perhaps, but infinitely too gross. Enough honour has never been done, however, to its better side, which shines the more brightly in the undimmed light of the personal character of this pearl of prin cesses. Queen Margaret was not the first sovereign who had given the literary distinction. In the first half of the thirteenth century Thibaud King of Navarre, honourably distinguished as Faiseur de Chansons, had won prime distinction by his poetry, as well as by his supposed attachment to Blanche of Castile, the mother of St. Louis. But even Sismondi and the Biographie Universelle give up the attempt to understand his royal muse. It was long the peculiarity of French poets to prefer antique words, and consequently they were left far behind prose-writers in comprehensibleness as well as in polish. The ancient chroniclers, however, had the highest opinion of the great Faiseur. According to them, he made the most beautiful, delectable, and melodious songs ever heard. Moderns know better; and that not for want of appreciation--for the troubadour-poets are admitted to have had chivalrous spirit, lively and touching sensibility, hardy and severe energy. Poor overrated Thibaud, on the other hand, though admitted to have naïveté, and pretty ideas now and then, is voted a mere fastidious repeater of the commonplaces of common poets in all ages. Here is one royal "maker" come into disrepute, but he was a great man in his way and time; nor let it be forgotten that he is supposed to have been the first French writer who used feminine rhymes. We cannot part with royal authors in more creditable company. So, as the gallant Thibaud has lured us into the distant past, let us there part friends with Literature in the Purple, though the death of ex-King Louis of Bavaria-a poet in three volumes-the able criticism on the German War by the Count of Paris, and the Prince of Joinville's survey of French war-policy, unite with the Queen of England's livre de bonne foi to assure us that royalty still cherishes, fitfully but not unsuccessfully, the ambition to write. Literature is the sternest though the gentlest of levellers, and there is no right divine to scratch Priscian, or to afflict the world's ear with tedious twaddle. But Literature in the Purple, though it cannot be said to have given the world a single great book, has substantially and honourably aggrandised, in all ages, the splendours of monarchy. At any rate we may charitably say with Scott: "Kings do their best, and they and we Must answer for the intent, and not the event." EDWARD R. RUSSELL. DIANA GAY A Nobel BY THE AUTHOR OF "BELLA DONNA,” “NEVER FORGOTTEN,” ETC. ETC. MESSRS. LEADBETTER, the eminent Bond-street agents and valuators, had secured for Lady Margaret Bowman (nothing was ever done by or ordered for Mr. Bowman) that capital and desirable family mansion on the east side of the well-known square, "suited in every way for a nobleman or gentleman's family;"-an elastie capacity that would ft people of almost every degree. It had what the recherché "Wally Pepys," a gentleman whom we shall know better presently, called "a hall-chair" in front-one of those spider-legged porches projecting out in front, which yet impart an air of grandeur. It had belonged to the Penguin family, who had fitted it with great magnificence, and then had been unfortunately compelled to fly their country. Lady Margaret was now established there. Lady Margaret's servants, tall and powdered, glided about the stairs, hung about the hall. their hands in their plush pockets. Lady Margaret's carriage-a fullbodied vehicle, rich, swaying, and rocking-a good deal enbonpoint. like some of the dowagers at her ladyship's own parties (we again quete Mr. Pepys)-was always drawn up between two and three o'clock in front of the hall-chair. Enormous horses drew that noble vehicle and its freight daily to the Park, where the great Lady Margaret herself and the delicate figure beside her-a smiling face of enjoyment, but already trained-were exhibited to the admiring crowd. When that great argosy, with its mariners of fashion aboard, was compelled to stop by reason of having got among shoals and breakers, many gracefu! spectators on the shore-at the rails-sent them signals of simpering recognition, and many a hat was raised. Lady Margaret's protégée was now well known and admired. She was considered charming, as indeed who would not be who combined such extraordinary advantages— youth, beauty, simplicity, wealth, broad acres, and singleness? Here was a prize for the youths of good address and suitable connections, who indeed presently began to cluster thickly about the noble lady, who duty of being Diana's mamma. She herself, too-erst "a good "Mother Hubbard" style of woman, but with nothing to recommend her—found herself of a sudden raised to a high social pinnacle, and treated with a respectful homage, an even tender solicitude as to getting cloaks taken out to carriage, &c.—which that good lady, who was no fool, set down to its proper motives. It made no difference to her; she found her account. A new life, indeed, for our Diana. As we look at our Morning Plush -brief and abstract chronicle of the fashionable world-we see their names recurring very often. At "Lady Griggs' The Dansante” we read were "Lady Margaret Bowman and Miss Gay." In the course of the night crowd up the young men of the period-the young and Hon. Mr. Longtail, Lord Monboddo's eldest; young Cubling, of the Royal Guards; a Sir Charles, only nineteen, a baronet, M.P., seven thousand a-year, and no mamma; Mr. Talboys, the rising statesman, young also, who "had made a speech, my dear, and who, Bowman says, will be under-secretary one of these days" (what a number of promotions are made at that undefined period!); and also Canning Bowman, who was very assiduous in his attendance. With such homage, it may be conceived our Diana began to see life very differently. She very soon picked up the true air, combining it, however, with a little faint rusticity, which was very pleasing. Madame Cerise contributed and decked her out richly and sumptuously. Among the crowd, too, that moved round her was an old friend, Mr. Richard Lugard, M.P., who was living in town, having procured absence from his regiment to attend Parliament, which had just met. There were one or two other petitions of a heavy sort to be disposed of, and much business passing, so the Calthorpe Committee was not yet appointed. Richard spoke contemptuously of it. "He'll fight shy of it at the last minute. It's a shabby, pettifogging business, and like our friend Bob. I met him fairly in open battle, and beat him fairly. I think it so characteristic of him to set the attorneys to work and try and beat me that way." Often, however, did Diana think of the barrister, whom she had. never seen since she left Calthorpe. Diana was also often observed about twelve o'clock on a charming horse-not at all like the fatal D'Orsay-cantering along the soft course with the vulgar name-a name indeed worthy of the best Paris slang. This would be after some severe night's work; and by her side was the gentleman who chose the horse, and indeed presented it to her, Mr. Richard Lugard, M.P., grown more handsome, and a little wilder in the eyes. Richard was constantly at Portman-square, and indeed everywhere; for with a young man, otherwise welcome, and under no disability, those two letters are about the best passports that can be conceived. He was indeed married, mais cela n'empêche pas. Now, it is no signal for paying-off a ship's company, or retiring into a hospital; rather, it is a fresh enlistment—an entry on a new campaign, with richer and more lavish resources. Mrs. Richard Lugard was down somewhere in the country—no one, indeed, was curious where. Walpole Pepys-" Wally Pepys-that curions, meddling, ever-buzzing fly of society, who resented the slightest merit in another man-even that of coming into a room better than he did-was soon telling about, that Lugard's wife “was an iron woman, born in a forge, under a boiler somewhere. She couldn't be shown in town, my dear fellow; she is all over rivets." This poor wit was laughed at immensely by the young ladies, with whom Wally Pepys was a favourite; but it only excited fresh interest in Richard, an interest not unalloyed with pity, as for a gentleman sacrificed, thrown away, and what not. His kindness and attention to Diana was soon remarked, and her foolish little head was greatly flattered and delighted by these attentions. With a young married man there is all the security of a chaperon, none of the responsibility of the bachelor. These were charming times for Diana: she lived in a whirl; she delighted in everything-the ball, the drive, the dance, the play, the opera. The valse was a new realm, opening slowly and displaying a thensand joys. Many eyes followed that fairy figure as it flew round at Lady Monntattie's rout, at Sir Thomas Longarter's, and many more. With Wally Pepys she was an especial favourite. After many a dinner-and Wally never dined at home-he was over by her side, doing a sort of elderly gallantry, talking some of that unmeaning and dilapidated French, which seems so inferior as a mode of expression to really good English. There are many of these veterans who thus delight in this needless airing of a foreign tongue, and think it a token of elegant accomplishment. Another of these pseudo-linguists who hobbled round Diana's chair was old Parish, a retired colonel with money, and whom the amiable little lady could not find it in her heart to snub. Perhaps she looked on these old bits of wreck floating about drawing-rooms and ballrooms, as having but a short time before them, when they would break up and sink to the bottom; or that indeed they were socially under sentence of death, and should have their last few hours of life made easy and comfortable. However that was, these ancient voices, when Diana would draw back her chair, would be heard uttering, "Reculer pour sauter mieur, ha? hey?" or something equally pointless. We can see Diana better in her new life on a Thursday night, when Lady Margaret Bowman (and Mr. Bowman) has asked some twenty people to a "state-dinner;" and when the drawing-room is filling with a genteel crowd, the door opening every moment to allow someone to shout, and two or three people to enter at full speed, or with a rush, or a faltering nervous way, undecided, as it were, whether they should turn and fly. In the half light, very different from the glorious effulgence which will blaze out in a couple of hours hence, we see all the figures and faces, and Diana herself in a matchless robe, with great aplomb, acquired in her short training, grown a little fatter, which |