bitter contrast to
the terrible picture which human passion and the claims of duty had
conjured with lightning speed into these two spots in the sea--the
smugglers' boat and the Custom-house yacht.

The shot was fired, and the mighty giant of Moerkoe, Olagus Esbjoernsson,
sank back into the tarpaulin.

"The accursed devil has shot right into my heart!"

Pale as death, Tuve sprang forward, and wanted to stay the blood.

"Leave it alone," panted Olagus. "It is no use. Give my love to father
and Britje; she was a good wife. You must be a father to--my boy. The
business may cease."

The subduing touch of death had already extinguished the wild light
which the fire of hatred had kindled in these eyes. And the last
glance that sought his brother's gaze was gentle.

Suddenly he was once more fired by the remembrance of the earthly life
which was fast retreating from him.

"Quickly away with the cargo! No one must know that Olagus Esbjoernsson
fell from a shot out of the Custom-house yacht. I--I--fell upon them."

They were his last words.

Tuve's head fell, sobbing, on the man whom he had so completely
honored as his superior.

Tuve was now the first in Moerkoe, and as though a stronger spirit had
come over him, he began to feel his duty. He rose, and gave orders to
turn toward the sea, but the crew stood motionless with terror.

THOMAS CARLYLE

(1795-1881)

BY LESLIE STEPHEN

The hundredth anniversary of the birth of Thomas Carlyle--(December
4th, 1795)--was lately commemorated. The house in Cheyne Walk,
Chelsea, which he had occupied from 1834 till his death (February 4th,
1881), was handed over to trustees to be preserved as a public
memorial. No house in the British islands has more remarkable
associations. Thither Carlyle had come in his thirty-eighth year,
still hardly recognized by the general public, though already regarded
by a small circle as a man of extraordinary powers. There he went
through the concluding years of the long struggle which ended by a
hard-won and scarcely enjoyed victory. There he had been visited by
almost all the most conspicuous men of letters of his time: by
Jeffrey, Southey, and J. S. Mill; by Tennyson and Browning, the
greatest poets, and by Thackeray and Dickens, the greatest novelists
of his generation; by the dearest friends of his youth, Irving and
Emerson and John Sterling, and by his last followers, Froude and
Ruskin. There too had lived until 1866 the woman