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coördinate the enormous mass of matter with which he was surrounding and overwhelming himself. But there was always one point about his work which was pretty sure to save it. In the remarkably dignified and characteristic letter in which he refers to Jeffrey's "rewritings and omissions," he says that his work was usually deliberate work, which made him all the more reluctant to see light editorial alterations of it. There is little doubt that it was at all times deliberate. No hasty writer could have recovered the "French Revolution." hasty writer could have succeeded in bringing order out of the chaos of details digested into the "Cromwell" and the "Frederick." It must be remembered that great as Mr. Carlyle's productiveness was, his span of life and the prolonged apprenticeship of silence which he served gave him room and verge enough for his labor and a plentifully stored magazine to start with. Between the thirty years of his comparatively silent youth and the fifteen years of his comparatively silent old age, forty were left, and forty years of such a life as he lived-a life undisturbed by bread-winning drudgery of the non-literary kind, and cut into by but little indulgence in society-give room for a great deal of work. Much of that work is hitherto uncollected, and some of the uncollected part, notably his letters, which, if they can be got together, will


yield in interest to hardly any similar body of correspondence, well deserves collection. But no doubt the work on which he chose himself to set his seal is sufficient for his passport to the literary land of matters unforgot. Hardly any writer at any time has seen during his own life-days so many new forms of speech, invented by himself, pass into the general dictionary of phrase: none in our time at least has displayed such varied power of prose writing in the most opposite styles and on the most widely differing subjects: in none certainly are the four qualities of copious and careful information, fresh and original style, earnest purpose, and, pervading the whole, a vein of the soundest common sense safeguarding the most audacious paradox and toning down the most eccentric metaphor, so eminently present. This, at least, all sound criticism must allow, though for the present, and perhaps not for the present only, sane criticism is disposed to allow very much more. The admirable image in which the leader of the younger generation of English men of letters has described Mr. Carlyle will always recur to some memories:

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My short and happy day is done;
The long and lonely night comes on,
And at my door the pale horse stands
To carry me to unknown lands.

His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof,
Sound dreadful as a gathering storm;
And I must leave this sheltering roof
And joys of life so soft and warm.

Tender and warm the joys of life-
Good friends, the faithful and the true;
My rosy children and my wife,
So sweet to kiss, so fair to view.

So sweet to kiss, so fair to view:
The night comes on, the lights burn blue;
And at my door the pale horse stands
To bear me forth to unknown lands.



"I dream of all things free,"

trolled a young man lustily, as, with his coat over his arm, he descended the last slope of one of the most precipitous of the Blue Ridge mountains.

"I dream of all things free, of all things free." His voice, reverberating among the hills, echoed the last words, "free, free," in diminishing tones, until they died away. sang, not on account of his musical powers, certainly, but in the very plenitude of youth and health.


The exhilarating air of the mountains may have prompted the words of the song, and it was not difficult to associate freedom with the singer. His clear eyes and sunembrowned complexion bespoke an out-ofdoor life, and his easy stride down the mountain suggested vigor of mind and body. When at last he reached the lowland, the sun was setting and its level rays filled the valley with a mellow, golden light. Pausing to look around him, Roger Dent saw two dwelling-houses and a church. The houses, large, comfortable-looking country homes, were surrounded with fields and meadows, teeming with life. The church, a modest structure, set in the midst of clustering graves, gently reminded one of death. It was a cheerful little graveyard, however, lying just now in the last best glow of the setting sun. The turf was fresh and green, and the head-stones were low and unobtrusive; the chief monuments being hardy flowering plants, and luxuriant vines that wandered everywhere at their own sweet will.

"That must be my destination," thought Roger, turning from a contemplation of the graves, and surveying with complacency the larger dwelling on his right; "but I shall loaf among the tombs until dusk, for there are young women in that house, and my tramp over the mountain, through mud and brambles, has played the mischief with my clothes. I shall manage to arrive and make my bow just before the lamps are lit, and by that time I hope the lumbering cart with my valise will have put in an appear


Having come to a decision with charac

teristic promptness, Roger turned toward the church-yard and, entering, began with slackened pace and hushed song to wander pensively among the graves. Many of the moss-covered tombs bore the patronymic of the family he had come to visit, and he smiled to think that he was becoming acquainted with the names, ages, and virtues of the departed members of the house of North, before he had been introduced to the living ones.

The necessity for exertion being removed, our pedestrian was not long in discovering that his scramble through the wild fastnesses of a thickly wooded mountain had disposed him to rest rather than to meditation. He seated himself on a flat tombstone and began to study with lazy interest the mountain landscape, that every moment changed and softened in the thick-coming shadows of evening. In a little while he succumbed to an unwonted sense of drowsiness, and, stretching himself on the marble slab, that still retained some of the warmth of a long summer day, fell fast asleep. The coat he had carried over his arm served as a pillow. He looked very handsome, extended at full length on the tombstone, and with his feet crossed seemed very much like a Crusader.

He had been sleeping soundly for about a quarter of an hour when he was awakened, not suddenly, but through gradations of discomfort, peculiar sensations, and vague dreams, until full consciousness dawned upon him. He became aware of soft whispering, suppressed giggling, and what seemed to be delicate fingering about his wrists and ankles. The process of awakening had been so gradual that he was sufficiently collected not to betray himself by a sudden movement, but to peep cautiously through his eyelashes in order to discover the nature of his visitants, and to see that they were at least not ghosts come to torment him for taking a short nap on a tombstone. The figure he saw indistinctly through his more than half closed lids had nothing ghostly about it. A sturdy boy, whose face was hidden by a broad-brimmed hat as he bent over his victim, was deliberately tying Roger's feet together with a stout piece of twine. The indignant remonstrance the young man was on the point of making with

boot and tongue, was arrested by a soft touch on his hands, which were lightly clasped, above his head, out of range of his vision. He liked the sensation of the warm, slender fingers that were fluttering over his broad palms, and it was with difficulty that he refrained from closing his strong hands over the little ones that were weaving a cord in and out, around and about his wrists. The rascal who was tying his feet had, evidently, a confederate who was trying to secure his hands in a like manner; but a singular want of firmness in the manipulations made Roger smile, as Samson might have smiled at the green withes with which Delilah bound him.

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"No," replied the boy, "not even my cravat. I tied that cat's legs with it this morning. Haven't you got a ribbon or something yourself?"


Nothing but-but"Well, take that."

Roger became aware that a ligature was produced from somewhere; his thumb was captured and about to be tied up, when it occurred to him that this was the auspicious moment for a dénouement. His plan had been to free his hands suddenly (the tying amounted to nothing, for the owner of the voice, however skillful in piano-play

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ing, evidently knew nothing about securing a man's hand-with a string), and then to rise to a dignified sitting posture, and, while he was getting out his knife to cut the twine about his feet, to bring his captors to open shame by a homily on their barbarous treatment of a stranger; and then, perhaps, when his feet were liberated, to pommel the boy.

Unfortunately for the success of this wellmatured scheme, the boy at this moment, giving a vicious pull to the string, struck a sensitive spot on Roger's ankle, which made the young man wince and utter an involuntary groan. In a moment the boy took to his heels; and a hurried rustle of garments and light scampering of feet gave token that his confederate had done likewise.

Quick as thought, Roger slipped his hands from their ineffectual noose and sat up. He looked around him in every direction-north, south, east, west; the boy and his companion had disappeared as quickly and completely as though they had descended through a trap-door into the bowels of the earth. Roger was disposed for a moment to think that he had been dreaming; but his still captive feet, and the strings dangling loose about his hands, testified to the contrary. A bright gleam of intelligence shot into his eyes when he found that around his thumb was tied a long elastic band of knitted blue silk.

"So ho! my little lady!" he chuckled, as he drew the pretty ribbed string through his fingers. "I will find out who owns the fellow to this if I die for it! I will teach you how to molest unóffending strangers!"


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ROGER put the blue band carefully away in the breast pocket of the soft flannel shirt that formed a part of his easy hunting-dress, and then proceeded to cut the twine from his feet and ankles. While he was thus engaged, he heard the church-yard gate open and shut. Looking up hastily, in the hope of catching at least a glimpse of his late companions, he saw, instead, a grayheaded old negro, who carried a spade on his shoulder.

"The plot thickens. Enter grave-digger," thought Roger. "Well, Uncle, what kind of country is this, where little imps go about tying people's feet?" he asked, still snipping away at the strings, as the old man came within speaking distance.

The new-comer planted his spade in the

tender beauty.

soft mold, and, leaning on it, contemplated | mellow light that filled earth and sky with the evidences of the trick that had been played on Roger. His old face wrinkled into a smile that displayed a single tooth, as he replied:


Marster, I reckon childun is de same in ebery country. Dey is a mischeevous set, all ober de worl'."

"Have you any idea what children did this? I should like to give them a piece of my mind," said Roger, rising from his sepulchral bed, and putting on the jacket he had carried over his arm during the heat of the day.

The grave-digger scratched his frosty poll contemplatively. "It mout be de miller's childun. I seen 'em playin' 'bout here to-day, and dey is de troublesomest childun dat ever was. And den ag'in it mout be de school-marm's. But whosomever dey is, marster, dey aint agwine to keer for a piece of yo' mind. It take somethin' harder dan dat to skeer de childun 'bout here."

"Just let me catch them," said Roger, confidently. "Who lives in that house to the right ?" "Mr. North.”

"I thought so. way to get there ?"

"To be sho. I lives dar on his farm. You kin go by de main road; dat is de shortest way. But de footpath you see dar by de creek aint so dusty, an' it'll take you straight to de gate."

"Then the footpath, by all means, and here is something for your pains."

Can you tell me the best

"Thanky, marster, thanky. You is a gentleman. De footpath 'll take you right by de mill, and ef you see de miller's childun playin' 'bout, you kin jest try an' git some satisfaction out on 'em. It's mo' dan I kin do for de tricks dey plays on me."


"By the by," said Roger, looking back, are there any children at Mr. North's?" 'Yes, marster, an' dey is ebery bit as bad as de oders."


Roger pursued his walk along the pleasant path that, for some distance, ran parallel with the brawling mountain stream. It was the golden moment just before dusk; the distant hills were beginning to wrap themselves in purple mist, but the plain was aglow with those long, upward pencilings of light that linger in the sky after the sun has gone down. The forest, in the full leafage of midsummer; the mill-stream, fretting over its rocky bed; the meadow-lands, dotted with sheep and cattle; even the sear and rusty stubble-fields-were bathed in a

Roger was not insensible to the charms of Nature; he was drinking in with delight. all her enchanting scenery, her balsamic breezes, her wild, fresh odors, as he wended his way with light heart and step, keeping a sharp lookout for the miller's children,-it may be, for the miller's daughter.

He was a fine-looking fellow, tall, and exceedingly well made-a fact that his shooting-jacket and long boots made even more apparent. Notwithstanding his late experience, he began his song again,

"I dream of all things free, of all things free."

It was not long before the rushing, whirring sound of the mill-wheel reached his ears, and soon after followed a sight of the picturesque old saw-mill itself. His eyes brightened when he found that there, below the turbulent rush from the mill-wheel, playing barefoot in mid-stream, frisking about in the shallows, skipping from rock to rock, and splashing each other with water, were the miller's children, a boy of about twelve, and a tall, slim girl a year or two older.

Roger slackened his pace, and continued his "all things free" under his breath, while he cast a quick, scrutinizing glance at the young people. The only clue he had to the identity of the children he was in search of was the approximate height of the boy, and his being without a cravat. The miller's son corresponded to both of these particulars, but then he was also without hat, coat, or shoes. As to the miller's daughter, he immediately resumed his rapid pace after a glance at her.

"Pshaw!" he said, "that can't be the girl, for she hasn't on stockings."

The path by the stream seemed to be a favorite one; for Roger, as he pursued his way, met or overtook several persons: plowmen plodding homeward, rustic lovers loitering in the gloaming, and two boys who were persecuting a cur of low degree, but who, at his approach, scrambled helterskelter over a hedge.

Once again he met a boy and girl, but this time the girl, although she wore stockings, was a wee toddler whose big brother was helping her over the rough places.

Roger scanned the faces and general appearance of all whom he met, and they, in return, glanced back at the strange, stylish young man who looked a little-just a little-as though the world belonged to him.

The grave-digger's information proved correct. The footpath, after meandering through fields and meadows, over stiles and hedges, brought him at last to the gate that opened on the avenue leading to Mr. North's house.

He arrived, as he had arranged to do, at dusk, and, as he approached, he saw that the gate was partly open, and standing there was a slight, girlish figure, clad in white, apparently on the lookout for some one.

"Teddy, is it you?" she called, in a fresh young voice, eager and panting, as if the speaker had been running, or was agitated.

"No; it is not Teddy," said Roger, gently, so as not to startle the girl, who was peering out into the twilight.

But his precaution was in vain. The figure started back with an exclamation, and the gate swung to. When Roger, with some little difficulty, opened it again, he saw, far up the avenue, something white, like a slip of moonlight, disappearing in the shadow of the house. The girl, he found afterward, had a strongly developed talent for getting out of the way.


The deep, friendly baying of house-dogs announced his approach as he drew near, and when he reached the house he found Mr. North on the porch, waiting to receive him. Ah, here you are! Glad to see you. Been expecting you this half-hour. Your portmanteau arrived some time ago. Come in. Down, Ponto! Down, Music!" said the host, cordially welcoming Roger with one hand, while he put down the vociferously hospitable dogs with the other.

Roger Dent was the son of one of Mr. North's early friends, and, making a leisurely pedestrian tour through the mountains, had been invited to make a visit to Northwood while in the neighborhood. The two gentlemen had never met before, but the guest was at once made to feel at home, and after the first greetings were over and Roger had made some changes in his dress, he was ushered into the drawing-room and introduced to the family circle.

The family circle consisted of Miss North, known at home as Susie, who, her father being a widower, was at the head of the house-a bright, fresh-looking girl of about twenty, cheerful and good-tempered, with a great deal of practical sense, but, from having been early forced into a position of responsibility, a little inclined to be prim and didactic; Alice, four years younger, a gentle, shy creature, with delicate arched eye


brows, that gave her soft brown eyes the expression of a startled fawn; Frederick, commonly called Teddy, a lad of fourteen, good-humored, frank, and mischievous— the average boy,-and Arthur, two years younger and two heads taller-something more than the average boy. He had a beautiful face and a passionate love of music. He was not so robust as the others, his strength not keeping pace with his rapid growth, and this circumstance, together with the fact that he was the youngest, was the occasion of his being greatly petted and indulged.

Members of a household are apt to pair off according to age or tastes, and, in this one, Susie was her father's constant companion, while the phrase was always "Alice and the boys."

When Roger made his appearance in the drawing-room the lamps were lit, and the family, with the exception of Alice, were assembled for tea. He made acquaintance with Miss North over a cup of the cheering beverage, which she poured out for him at a little table in one corner of the room. Quite at the other end of the large, oldfashioned room, the boys had a table to themselves, where Teddy was giving undivided attention to his supper, and Arthur was poring over a book, his head supported on one hand, while with the other he occasionally helped himself to a morsel of bread.

Roger, although apparently intent only on making himself agreeable to Susie and her father, soon found himself scrutinizing these young gentlemen with interest. Could either of them be his friend of the churchyard? The studious, fragile-looking Arthur he soon put aside as out of the question. He was not sure about Teddy; but time would show.

After awhile, Alice slipped into the room, and, if she had had her way, would have stolen unobserved to her place by the boys. She was painfully diffident in company, and had, moreover, an unconquerable aversion to men, especially to young men.

"Alice," said her father, arresting her steps in the middle of the room, "I want to make you acquainted with the son of my old friend Mr. Dent."

The girl placed an unresponsive hand in Roger's, and gave him a shy, startled glance, but words would not come.

"I believe we have met before," said Roger.

"Yes, at the gate," she replied, quickly, with a blush, and, turning away, took her

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