try has sent in provisions. The finest thing contributed
by our countrymen, is a large piece of silk with an eagle painted upon
it, surrounded by stars and stripes.

After remaining more than five hours in the great temple, I turned my
back upon the richly laden stalls and left the Crystal Palace. On my
return home I was more fortunate than in the morning, inasmuch as I
found a seat for my friend and myself in an omnibus. And even my ride
in the close omnibus was not without interest. For I had scarcely taken
my seat, when my friend, who was seated opposite me, with looks and
gesture informed me that we were in the presence of some distinguished
person. I eyed the countenances of the different persons, but in vain,
to see if I could find any one who by his appearance showed signs of
superiority over his fellow-passengers. I had given up the hope of
selecting the person of note when another look from my friend directed
my attention to a gentlemen seated in the corner of the omnibus. He was
a tall man with strongly marked features, hair dark and coarse. There
was a slight stoop of the shoulder--that bend which is almost always a
characteristic of studious men. But he wore upon his countenance a
forbidding and disdainful frown, that seemed to tell one that he thought
himself better than those about him. His dress did not indicate a man of
high rank; and had we been in America, I would have taken him for an
Ohio farmer.

While I was scanning the features and general appearance of the
gentleman, the Omnibus stopped and put down three or four of the
passengers, which gave me an opportunity of getting a seat by the side
of my friend, who, in a low whisper, informed me that the gentleman whom
I had been eyeing so closely, was no less a person than Thomas Carlyle.
I had read his "Hero-worship," and "Past and Present," and had formed a
high opinion of his literary abilities. But his recent attack upon the
emancipated people of the West Indies, and his laborious article in
favour of the re-establishment of the lash and slavery, had created in
my mind a dislike for the man, and I almost regretted that we were in
the same Omnibus. In some things, Mr. Carlyle is right: but in many, he
is entirely wrong. As a writer, Mr. Carlyle is often monotonous and
extravagant. He does not exhibit a new view of nature, or raise
insignificant objects into importance, but generally takes commonplace
thoughts and events, and tries to express them in