scowl howl scoff sneer
Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer,

strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer! 
For all the good-wine, and we’ve some of it here

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,

    Down, down, with the tyrant that masters us all!
  Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!

The company said I had been shabbily treated, and advised me to charge the committee double,—­which I did.  But as I never got my pay, I don’t know that it made much difference.  I am a very particular person about having all I write printed as I write it, I require to see a proof, a revise, a re-revise, and a double re-revise, or fourth-proof rectified impression of all my productions, especially verse.  Manuscripts are such puzzles!  Why, I was reading some lines near the end of the last number of this journal, when I came across one beginning

  “The stream flashes by,”—­

Now as no stream had been mentioned, I was perplexed to know what it meant.  It proved, on inquiry, to be only a misprint for “dream.”  Think of it!  No wonder so many poets die young.

I have nothing more to report at this time, except two pieces of advice I gave to the young women at table.  One relates to a vulgarism of language, which I grieve to say is sometimes heard even from female lips.  The other is of more serious purport, and applies to such as contemplate a change of condition,—­matrimony, in fact.

—­The woman who “calc’lates” is lost.

—­Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

THOMAS CARLYLE is a name which no man of this generation should pronounce without respect; for it belongs to one of the high-priests of modern literature, to whom all contemporary minds are indebted, and by whose intellect and influence a new spiritual cultus has been established in the realm of letters.  It is yet impossible to estimate either the present value or the remote issues of the work which he has accomplished.  We see that a revolution in all the departments of thought, feeling, and literary enterprise has been silently achieved amongst us, but we are yet ignorant of its full bearing, and of the final goal to which it is hurrying us.  One thing, however, is clear respecting it:  that it was not forced in the hot-bed of any possible fanaticism, but that it grew fairly out of the soil, a genuine product of the time and its circumstances.  It was, indeed, a new manifestation of the hidden forces and vitalities of what we call Protestantism,—­an assertion by the living soul of its right to be heard once more in a world which seemed to ignore its existence, and had set up a ghastly skeleton of dry bones for its oracle and God.  It was that necessary return to health, earnestness, and virtuous endeavor which Kreeshna