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The Candidate. ‘Father, who travels onr road so late ! ’ ‘Hush, my child ! 'tis the candidate ! Fit example of human woes, Early he comes and late he goes ! He greets the women with courtly grace; He kisses the baby’s dirty face; He calls to the fence the farmer at work; He bores the merchant, he bores the clerk; The blacksmith, while his anvil rings. He greets, and this is the song he sings: ■Howdy, Howdy, how d’ye do How is your wife and how are you ? Ah, it fits my fist as no other can, The horny hand of the workingman.’ ‘Husband, who is that at the gate ? ’ ‘Hide, my love, it’s the candidate ! ’ ‘Husband, why can’t he work like you ? Has he nothing at all at home to do?’ •My dear, whenever a man is down, No cash at home and no credit in town, Too plain to preach and too proud to beg, Too timid to rob, and too lazy to dig, Then over his horse his legs he flings, And to the dear people this song he sings: ‘Howdy, Howdv how d’ye do ? How is your wife and how are you ? Ah, it fits my fist as no other can, The horny hand of the workingman.’ Brothers, who work early and late, Ask these things of the candidate: What is his record ? How does he stand At home? No matter about his hand, Be it hard or soft, so it is not prone To close over money not his own. Has he in view no thieving plan ? Is he honest and capable ?—he’s your man ! Cheer such a man till the welkin rings ! Join in the chorus while he sings: ‘Howdy, Howdy, how d’ye do? How is your wife and how are you? Ah, it tits my fists as no other can, The honest hand of the workingman ! ’ —OR — The Vial of Chloral. BY T. C. HARBAUGH. CHAPTER I. Lindsay Halsingham walked the tessellated floor of his library, ill at ease. He was a proud young man, who had not passed his twenty-fifth year, and there was a cloud on his countenance that lovely mid-sum mer day. The light winds that came up from the park stirred the leaves of various plants in the window, and filled the room with fragrant odors peculiar to the season. Even and anon the man would glance anxiously from the win dow, never pausing in his walk. For a long time he was the sole occupant of the lofty chamber. When the door opened and admitted a liveried servant, he started forward. ‘Well, Cyrus?' fell from his lips. ‘Was she there again ?’ ‘She was,’ replied the man in a harsh grating voica ‘I met her by the dead oak. She wore that same dark dress, and rode the black horse. I came upon her suddenly, and when I politely touched my hat, she said: ‘‘How is your master to-day?” ’ •Hid sfle speak with a sneer ? asked Halsing- ham with eagerness. T do not think she did; but her words seemed as hard as iron.’ ‘And did you ask what brought her to Eng land—to my home ?’ -Aye, master ! Then she smiled and said it was a useless question—she said that you know what brought her here.’ Halsingham’s face grew pale, and his fine lip trembled. ‘Is she handsome, Cyrns?’ he asked in a low toDe and so curiously that the servant smiled. ‘Yes, but very dark. In all my life, master, I never saw such eyes; they are the prettiest I have ever seen.’ ‘Do not judge too hastily; there be pretty eyes over the Dee.’ ‘Yes, but not so pretty as hers, I think. What shall I do now, master?’ ‘Nothing, save to depart. Return within an hour. I will send a message across the river.’ Cyrus, the servant, bowed himself from the library, and Halsingham was alone again. ‘I know her,' he said, locking the door and drop ping into an arm-chair. Yes, I know this dark syren, who rides among my trees at odd times; but she shall not succeed in her mission. Never!’ and the next moment he had sprung from the chair and was standing in the centre of the room clenching his hands like a madman. 'I swear by all that man holds sacred, Coralie Deprez, that you shall not accomplish your pur pose. I fell into your snare once; but escaped after a short captivity. What would I want with you here? Why, there are English women who seek the hand of Halsingham, as you sought it in Cuba. Do not feast yourself on the thought that you are going to wreak upon me the ven geance of your hot heart. If money could buy you off I might offer it; but you seek actual re venge. Diamond must cut diamond now. Be ware, Coralie Deprez ! when I speak the word, a woman must step from Linsay Halsingham’s j path.’ _ . j A few moments later Cyrus returned, and his j master hastily indited a few lines, which he j sealed and entrusted to his care. ‘Now,’ said the master, ‘I will go down to the j fountain. I promised to meet him there to- | night.’ The servant, with the message in his bosom, mounted a horse and rode towards the Dee, j whose waters washed a portion of the estate. | His master left the house and crossed the beau- j Cdful garden to a grove of magnificent trees. In- i terspersed throughout the tract were groups of I sought his couch, hi statuary and antique vases that looked weirdly | a guilty man, he tos beautiful in the moonlight. He saw them, but i and the little puffs of Yici not seem to notice their loveliness. He did not pause till he reached a fountain that flowed from the mouth of a massive lion head held down by Hercules. The silence about him seemed palpable, and the broken branch that a bird dropped at his feet startled him, and brought a pallor to his face. If he was waiting for some one he was not com pelled to wait long, for shortly after his arrival at the fountain, a dark figure crept around the lion and confronted him. ‘Good-night!’ were the words that saluted Linsay Halsingham, and he echoed them in a low, strange tone. The new comer was a man of his own age, but more strongly built and several inches taller. Y'ou see I have kept my part of the appoint ment,’ continued Halsingham. ‘I cannot re- main’here long. Will you please tell me why I have been summoned here?’ •Yes sir,’ and the other came nearer Halsing ham. ' ‘I want to know if you still seek the hand of Arietta Comlen ?’ •What is that to you? cried Halsingham quick- lv ‘I keep my own secrets; keep yours, Tom Jewett and we will never have any difficulties. Ifel did not come here to-night to hear such ques- CPtions.’ ‘But I came here to ask them,’ was the stern reply, and Halsingham saw a pistol in the speak er’s baud. Then he regretted having left his own weap ons in the library. ‘Now answer me,’ said -Jewett. ‘Do you in tend to force Arietta Comlen to an abhorrent bridal ?’ ‘I intend to make ber my wife !’ said Halsing ham, looking into bis interrogator's eyes. YVhat is it to you ?’ Tom Jewett smiled. ‘Nothing of interest, I will say,’ he said; ‘but I will tell you that bigamy in England is a hein ous crime.’ ‘Bigamy ! Tom Jewett what are you talking about ?' Jewett laughed outright. ‘You may discover in time. I dare you to make Arietta your wife.’ ‘Dare me?’ Y'es, listen to me. I love that beautiful wo man. Long ago I sought her hp.nd and received it. The promise is still valid, she loves me to day instead of you, Halsingham. Her father hates mine—an old family feud, von see. He drove me from his estate, and I struck him in a tit of passion. When I cross the Dee at the Ghost's Ford, I tread forbidden ground. You are welcome there, while I am outlawed. The old man has given her to you. Linsay Halsing ham, if you have the heart of a man you will re lease her from the engagement of marriage, and let her wed in time one who holds her love sa cred and pure. I know yon, sir,’ the speaker went on, touching Halsingham’s arm; ‘I know that you do not love her as I do; and I ask you to relinquish your intentions. Give her to me; j do not buy ber sorrowed life with your gold and broad acres.’ ‘You do not know Linsay Halsingham !’ was ! the proud reply. ‘Tom Jewett, I am going to i wed the girl; she gave me her hand of her own j free will. .She has forgotten you. And I tell I you here that I want no interference. I want no threats. Such will not cause me to swerve one inch from the path I have marked out. She j is mine by promise fair; the marriage agreement has been properly drawn and signed. There ! are you satisfied !’ jewels in rich cases on the stand, and their glit ter almost blinded ber. Bracelets, necklaces, ear-rings and brooches greeted her vision when ever she looked up—out of the windows of her reverie. ‘To-morrow,’ she said at last, moving her chair and taking up a brilliant brooch, to-mor row I am to wear these gewgaws purchased with ‘Where did he live?’ she asked, scarcely above a whisper. ‘At Halsingham House.’ Couilen’s child started from the Southern wo man with a cry of incredulity. ‘No ! no ! no !’ Y'es ! yes ! yes !’ said the creole. ‘Halsingham was my husband. He was Mortvn Mortyn TOW 1 ft III LU Wrtu iucoo t | * a* J •/ his money. I wonder why he wants me then? Cuba, and under that name wedded me. My Can he not wait another fortnight? Here he sends his Cyrus over with a letter asking that I wed him to-morrow. He says that it is impera tive that I should, and I have consented. Fath er said I must obey, and obedience, as his child, I have ever owned. Tom, to-morrow the river between us is to be effectually bridged. Noth ing can now intervene between this and the fa- tafhour. His wife? the mistress of Halsingham Rouse ? I prefer to be the mistress of llosebank; 1jut I am not my own chooser.’ Thus talked Arietta Comlen to herself of the coming day. The contents of the letter with which the read er has seen Halsingham’s servant leave his pres ence, she has just disclosed. Bv proper appointment, the wedding-day was yet a fortnight distant; but Halsingham now de manded an immediate marriage. In the letter he assigned no reasons for such a sudden change, of course; his words were deeply mysterious, and the girl felt that some calamity hovered over her head. She would have shrunk trom the hasty marriage; but her father's voice was hard, and Cyrus went back to E£alsingh..ai House with the tidings for his master. Tom -Jewett, Arietta’s earliest lover, was a man of considerable means, hut untitled. He lived near Westwood, a little town not far from the two estates. He told the truth to Lindsay Halsingham at the fountain when he said that the curse of Saltobam Comlen was upon his head. The old man loved the riches of the worid, and when he saw that Halsingham sought his child’s hand, he forced a quarrel with the young gentleman which culminated in an angry altercation at Brushwood, the mansion of Com len estate. From that hour Halsingham was a welcome guest there, and he availed himself of the piiv- and came often. The master of Brush- blood was up when I entered his house to-night, and I carried a dagger. I might have killed him; just think of it, girl. But his own hands has worked my revenge.’ ‘Why, I was to wed him to-morrow,’ said Ari etta. ‘Poor, poor child ! Did you love him too ?' ‘No ! I gave my love away before I knew him.’ ‘I lived to love him,' said the Cuban. ‘Say nothing of me. I am going back to my old home now; he is past my revenge.’ It brought the author the name of the ‘Clothes Philosopher.’ It pretends to be extracts from the ‘Philosphy of Clothes,’ written by one Diogones Teufelsdrockh (Godbour Devilsoffal) hailing from Eutepfuhl (Duckpuddle) and educated at the University of Wessnichtwo) Don’t know where. ) The doctrine brought for ward by ‘Dr. Teufelsdrockh’ was that all the creeds, lorrns aDd institutions of the world are but the clothes—the garments in which man has clothed himself in past and present ages. He holds that these garments are sadly worn out or badly patched and need putting off alto gether, for the most part, though he neglects to give us any pattern for a new outfit, and would leave the world (pursuing his own figure of clothes,) in the condition of Miss Flora Mc- Flimsy, ‘with nothing to wear.’ The London booksellers stupidly enough failed to see any merit in the Sartor ’ Resartus. cheeks—a tear for the man who had won her love to desert her. She kissed Arietta ere she was let out of the house; she told her that she had confided her know that the young man had fallen beneath his own pistol in the hands of young Halsing ham. Quite early the next morning the death at Hal- singham House was discovered. The empty chloral vial disclosed the manner of his taking oft', and the people said it was suicide. But the reader believes if, indeed, he does not know that the master administered too much of the medicine to himself. It quieted his nerves for ever. While the people flocked to Halsingham House, Tom Jewett crossed the threshold. There was a red furrow along his temple—the track of his pistol's ball. Halsingham had not slain him in the grove, and be lived to lead Arietta to the altar, for death, shortly after the tragedy at Halsingham House, removed her father. He proved himself worthy of his fair bride’s love, and happiness crowned two lives. Coralie, the Cuban wife, returned to Havana and died in her father's arms. THOMAS CARLISLE, THE Lion of Chelsea. A i*ir<!’s Eye (•lam*) 1 sit liis Life iiiul liis hooks. BY MARY E. BRYAN. Coralie, the Cuban. Tom Jewett bit his lip and stepped back. ‘If you are,’ he said, ‘I will probably see her to night. May I not carrv a message from you?' ‘See whom?’ cried Halsingham, noticing the emphasis, and the next moment he faced Jewett with clenched hands and crimson face. ‘Ans wer me, Tom Jewett!’ ‘I mean your wife,’ was the reply. ‘I have no wife!' ‘This will not do, Linsay Halsingham, Cora lie is here. I have seen her and will see her again before the sun burnishes the waves of the Dee. You were in Cuba five years ago; they knew you as Mortyn Mortyn: there you met Coralie Deprez, and married her. Ha ! you thought I knew nothing of this !’ ‘A pack of lies that shall go for naught!’ cried Halsingham. ‘I spurn them and the tongue that has given them to the winds.’ The response to this was a laugh, and Tom Jewett turned his back upon the angry man. An instant later Halsingham sprang forward, and struck the man who, having heard his ejac ulation of rage, was turning to confront him. Jewett reeled under the blow, which was given with great force, and the pistol dropped from his hands. Another second and a loud report cleft the summer air, and Halsingham flung a smoking psstol into the basin of the fountain. Tom Jewett lay on the verdant carpet of na ture, still, like a weary man asleep. His enemy cast a look at his pale face as he walked by, and the vicinity of the fouatain saw no living being for a long time. ‘One is out oi my road,’ said Halsingham, find ing himself in the library agaiD. ‘I can easily manage Coralie if she remains about bore. I re peat my vow that she shall not accomplish her purpose. The heiiess of Brushwood is mine by promise, and mine by the laws oi church and State she shall be !’ Then he disrobed in the mellow moonlight that streamed through the silken curtains, and sought his couch. But he could not sleep. Like tossed restlessly on the bed, puffs of night wind that rustled the loose papers on his table, made him nervous. He rose, walked the floor, and sought the pillows again, but not to sleep. At last, with a curse on his lips, he sprang from the bed, and took a phial labeled ‘hydrate of chloral' from the desk. ‘Thinking kills men,’ he murmured, prepar ing the sorporifie medicine. ‘I must sleep if it be the sleep ol death.’ Then he took the potion and retired for the tenth time—to sleep ! By-and-by he ceased to toss about on the bed, his heavy eyelids drooped, and the moonbeams fell on his face white and death-like. CHAPTER II. While Lindsay Halsingham slept under the influence of the medicine he had swallowed, Arietta Comlen sat in an arm-chair in her bou doir, wide awake. She was a beautiful girl, whose blue eyes and golden hair had made her an object of adrnira- tien to all who knew her. The lamp burned brilliantly on the table, and the mellow light, as beautiful as her tresses, fell on her face. The delicate gold watch she could have touched with her hand denoted the hour of eleven, and found the pillows of her couch unpressed. There were wood broke the way for him, and when he asked him for his daughter’s hand, he received the promise. But what had influenced Halsingham into the demand lor immediate marriage? Was it the presence on his estate of the Cuban woman called Coralie? The reader, taking ev erything into consideration, would naturally ar rive at such a conclusion. Five years before Linsay Halsingham made a tour of Cuba, and it was reported in England before he returned, that he had taken a Cuban bride to his heart. But when he returned alone and denied the report, rumor was silenced, and he settled down to life on his wide extending lands. Arietta Comlen wa3 handling the jewels— weighing them on her fingers and admiring their flashings, when she heard a tapping on the win dow sill. Starting with a light ejaculation of affright, she dropped the diamonds, and beheld a face at the window. It was the dark, handsome face of a woman whose jaunty black hat was crowned with a white feather. Arietta, wondering how the woman could have reached the balcony, rose and started for ward. ‘Good-night!’ the strange one said, with a smiie. ‘I hope you will pardon me for intrud ing here. I clambered up the vines to the dem olition of many bunches ot emerald grapes; but I saw your light, and then I want to see you. She spoke English with a beautiful Spanish accent, which won Arietta to her at once, and she invited her in. With a smile, the creole stepped oyer the sill, and stood in the blaze of the argand burner. .she had a form taller and not so plump as Arietta’s aud her hair was long and dark as the raven’s plumage. A pair A passionate eyes burned beneath long silken lashes, and daintily gloved hands compelled the heiress’ attention. ‘Do you want to see me? asked Arietta. ‘I never saw you before.’ ‘But I have seen you,’ was the strange reply. ‘Listen to me. My name is Mortyn by marriage, Deprez, by CubaD birth. I lelt Ever laithtul j Isle to find the man who years ago led me to the altar, in my father’s mansion. I first met him in Havana, and there loved him—there I became his bride. My folks called me the English Cu ban, and my husband seemed to adore me till one morn, when I awoke and made a terrible discovery. He had fled ! while 1 read the letter he left behind, he was sailing to this land. ‘To England?’ cried Arietta. ‘To this country ! More than once I have met him here when he did not know me. 1'o-night. I made bold to seek him in his own house. I entered, the doors being unlocked. lo bis chamber I made my way, and on his couch tound the man I sought. He is dead now. Saltobam Couilen’s daughter started towards the Cuban with pallid tace. YVhat! did you slay him ? she cried. ‘Did you strike him while he slept-he your lawfully wedded husband ?’ _ . ‘No ^ replied Coralie, quietly, but with a taint smile." ‘I found him dead. On his desk sat a bottle of medicine that makes people sleep for ever. Oh ! I wonder if he took it to put himself out of the world.’ . . , „ _ , , Arietta was silent, looking into the Cuban s face. Arietta saw a tear steal down the Cuban's j It was a new departure they were shy of. They ‘ ‘ ‘ could not appreciate the bold originality, keen statire and sublime thought that gowed through all the grotesque comparisons, the rugged, in volved style which Carlyle had now begun to search to Tom Jewett; but the woman did not | usp. This twisted, bewildering form of expres- ‘ ' " 1 sion afterwards became one of his idiosyncra sies. At last, Sartor had to be published in Fraser’s Magazine, for the publishers would not touch it, until after it became famous and was more widely read, perhaps, than any of his books. These books now followed fast on each other. On the heels of Sartor came the History of the I rench Revolution—a series of the most vivid, graphic pictures that pen ever sketched—tilled out too, with a pre-raphaelite fidelity of de tail, for Carlyle, like Waiter Scott, neglected no study that would enable him to describe with minute truthfulness of detail. In the ‘French Revolution’ the gifted dyspeptic reiterated his mastiff growl that the world was a world of shams and men and women were maskers and moral cowards and hypocrites. But it is a grand book. It came near never seeing the light. A careless servant kindled the fires with the carefully pre pared copy and the poor philosopher found that all his brain-labor had vanished up the chim ney in smoke. He vowed that the history was all gone out of his head; he neither could nor would re-write a line of it. He shut himself in his study in the indigo gloom of ‘blues:’ The dyspepsia reigned malignant, the deepest jaundice stain ed the Thunderer’s out-look. But relief came. A lady friend braved the lion in his den, brought a pile of novels and won from him a promise to peep into them. He did so; the cure wa3 effect ed. The novels cleared away the vapors, toned up the intellectual man,and the maid’s mischief was repaired; the ‘French Revolution’ was re written. It was followed by numerous works, minor in point ot size,but some of them literary diamonds of the first water. ‘Heroes and Hero Worship,’ ■Past and Present,' ‘Count Cagliosto,’ ‘the Dia mond Necklace,’ and the famous, trenchant ‘Latter Day Pamphlets,’ which earned him the title ot the ‘Thunderer’ and the Lion of Chelsea which he had now made his home. Later, he wrote the‘Life of Sterling.’ When this noble biography appeared, it had been expected it would be an out-pouring of the author’s hete rodox opinions and bitter denunciations of so cial and religious shams. The philosopher’s many foes stood ready to transfix it on their critical spears, but it took them by surprise. It was broad indeed and strong, but calm, it was even pathetic, tender. The heart of the wri ter glowed under his sketch of the bright evanescent, lovable life and character of his friend as in no other of his works that I have read. Even Gilfillan, his detractor, exclaims in wonder that Carlyle ‘must have been in love when he wote the Life of Sterling. There is hardlv a growl in it ‘Th° ! • n rn ■ :r. g "' / as the sucking dove.’ A few years later appeared Carlyle's great work ‘History of Frederic the Second, called Frederic the Great.’ It is a masterly produc tion; full of graphic power,brilliant, thougn not always sound views, and an attention to details of topography, local scenery and minor points, very rare in one who swept also with wide-search ing vision in the matter of description; though the mind of Carlyle, it must be confessed, is not a broad, comprehensive one. It might have been, perhaps, but for that unfortunate liver; but the fact remains that he was too prejudiced for a historian and too dogmatic for a philoso pher. Many of his thoughts and sentiments rise into the heights or shale into the delicate tints of poetry. Y'et, he was a firm hater of the poetic form and he had a thorough and stroDgly expressed contempt for any one who fettered himself with rhyme and measure. ‘Away with such hampering harness,’ cried the old sage, whose thoughts refused to prance in such traces. He could never help sneering even at England’s poet laureate and doubtless had an itching to strip Tennyson of what Channing calls his ‘mild, singing clothes.’ He is alive still, in spite of his liver and his eighty-three years —living at Chelsea and writ ing his autobiography with the assistance of his niece, Miss Mary Carlyle Aiken. It is still de lightful to listen to him when he is in the mood for talking. He is said to have excelled that matchless monologuist, Coleridge, in conversa tion, and his rich, spontaneous utterances are listened to by his friends as almost oracular. He proved a false prophet in regard to our war. He predicted that it would break up the Republic. He is at heart a strong monarchist, notwithstanding some contrary utterances. He sketched the great Federick con amore. He de ifies the strong will, the bold hand. And yet, he is inconsistent in his worship. He cries all hail to Frerderic and Mahomet,and even Dan- ton and Mirabeau and he sneers at Bonapart, whom he calls the ‘great highway-man of histo ry, whose habit was to clutch king or kaiser by the throat and swear if they did no, stand and deliver he would blow their brains out,and who did a profitable trade at this sort ot thing until another man, Arthur, duke of Wellington, who had learned the trick, succeeded in clutching him and there was an end of it.’ (SEE FEOXT PAGE ENGIiA VISG.) Thomas Carlyle—the strong, vindictive, un compromising old Scotch philosopher. Look at his face: you can read marked individuality on the brow and mouth; earnestness, insight, tenacity of opinion, strong prejudice, these are written in the lines of the most peculiar face. Softer characteristics are traced there. The trenchant satirist had a heart that his friends found warm. His love, like his hate, is strong. He is a decided character; no half way abo it Thomas Carlyle. He puts his whole soul into whatever he does. He is eighty three years old this year of our Lord and he is as earnest as ever, trying to clog the wheels of progress, de nouncing the Darwinian Scientists inveighing against electoral reform. He is no hypocrite. His rigid old Scotch father destined him for the church: wise men predicted heVould be a world- famous preacher, and he would certainly have made a stir in the religious world—a regular r. ’.ir! • -cl. Bi-Jt Oar 1 3‘ 1 <‘ *—■«■ unless from sincerest convictions; and he had doubts that tormented him. He peered into the bewildering cloud-region of German meta physics,and the doubts came thicker and faster. In his adjective-burdened phraseology he calls them ‘a trooping throng of phantoms dire from the abysmal depths of nethermost perdition.’ He wrestled with them, he says, for weeks, in strong agony of spirit, not knowing if he slept or ate, moved or spoke. What came of the struggle? Conviction?,No. Thomas Carlyle's re ligious sky never cleared. But something was developed from all these throes of spirit, all this study, and isolation from human recreations, namely dyspepsia—the ever present conscious ness that he was possessed cf what he denomi nated ‘that diabolical arrangement called a stomach.’ Let no one smile at this as inconsequential; Carlyle’s dispepsia had an important moral affect. It turned the current of a great nature. It colored the medium through which a deep thinker looked at men and things. Henceforth Carlyle saw with jaundiced eyes. He became a pessimist—a chronic growler against society, government, creeds and customs. No musing, melancholy Jacques,but an energetic faultfinder. And as yet he was only a youth of twentv-three. Previously he had taught school at Kilcardy Scotland (all philosphers, poets and politicians seem to begin their career as pedagogues.) His co-laborer was no less a personage than our own Edward Irving, who had been his fellow student at Edinburgh. A grim sort of school master, the embryo Thunderer must have made, and one fancies his scholarly assis-ant looking at him often in mild deprecation. But the ferule, no more than the pulpit-board typed Carlyle’s mission; and, as he was not one to wait for his vocation to hunt him up, he soon found his work in life, which wa/to make books. He first tried bis hand at translations. German literature had just taken hold of his young im agination with a power that amounted almost to a "craze. He called on every body to worship Goethe as the most transcendant genius of the worid. He translated Wilhelm Meister, that queer novel with its brilliant oases in a desert of commonplace, and he pointed out a thousand beauties, and saw a depth and breadth of social wisdom and a richness of significant suggestion in the work that no one else had discovered. He wrote the ‘Life of Schiller,’ an able paper published first in the Loudon Magazine. It was the initial essay of a senes ot commentaries on German writers as well as translations from their works. But before he launched fully on this sea of Tueton literature he married a lineal descendant of John Knox, the sturdy reformer. Miss Jane Welch must have made him an excel lent wife; he speaks of her in his Lite ot Stir ling iQ a manner to show his affection and respect. She was cultivated enough to sympa thize in his persuits—to comprehend his bent of mind and appreciate his genius. All devotees to literature are not so fortunate in choosing mates. Oftenest, they labor with no such stim ulant as intelligent companionship and appre ciation at home. His wife’s companionship was now almost all Carlyle allowed himself; for he withdrew from society and towns. He went to live on his bride’s little estate of Craigen puttoch. A wild place it was—fifteen miles from any town—shut round by granite hills and bleak morasses. It was just the place for such a mind to con- cieye such a book as the Sartor Resartus—and accordingly that medley of sound philosophy and absurd conclusions, lofty eloquence and grotesque thoughts and expression had here its birth, bearing on it the mark of the black mo rasses without and the disordered liver within. The ‘Sartor Resartus,’ which being interpreted is the ‘Sticher Restiched,’ is a criticism upon the civilization of our day, from a pessimist standpoint-a strange, grotesque, brilliant, absurd book, at once fascinating and repellant. Eighty-three years old! Well, we cannot have him long with us, he must pass like the other great lights of the age—like Macaulay, Dickens, Thackeray and so many more. Our stars of the first magnitude are all vanishing; lesser lights take their place; less in brilliancy, greater in numbers; thus ‘The individual withers while the world is more and more.’ A woman's Promise.—Henry Carey, cousin to Queen Elizibeth, after having enjoyed her majesty’s favor for several years,lost it in the fol lowing manner: As he was walking one day full of thought in the garden of the palace, under the queen’s window, she perceived him, and said to him in a jocular manner: YVhat does a man think of when he is think ing of nothing?’ ‘Upon a woman s promise,’ replied Carey. ‘Well done, cousin,’ answered Elizabeth. She retired, but did not forget Carey’s answer. Some time after he solicited the honor of a peerage, and reminded the queen that she had promised it to him. ‘True,’ said she, ‘but that was a woman’s promise,’ Mrs. Langtry's beautiful nose is out of joint. Mrs. Wheeler, another Jersey woman, only re cently resident in the Isle of Wight, is the new reigning beauty. She is a lady of the Langtry and languishing type, and is said to excel even Jersey Lily in the art of setting off her chafrms.