s, usual letters.
Lord Ashburton always invited Carlyle to his house, and there is no
reason to think that the Scottish philosopher wronged him.

There is much more to be said about the charge that Mrs. Carlyle
suffered from personal abuse; yet when we examine the facts, the
evidence resolves itself into practically nothing. That, in his
self-absorption, he allowed her to Sending Completed Page, Please Wait
... overflowed toward a man who must have been a manly, loving lover.
She calls him by the name by which he called her--a homely Scottish
name.

GOODY, GOODY, DEAR GOODY:

You said you would weary, and I do hope in my heart you are wearying.
It will be so sweet to make it all up to you in kisses when I return.
You will take me and hear all my bits of experiences, and your heart
will beat when you find how I have longed to return to you. Darling,
dearest, loveliest, the Lord bless you! I think of you every hour,
every moment. I love you and admire you, like--like anything. Oh, if I
was there, I could put my arms so close about your neck, and hush you
into the softest sleep you have had since I went away. Good night.
Dream of me. I am ever YOUR OWN GOODY.

It seems most fitting to remember Thomas Carlyle as a man of strength,
of honor, and of intellect; and his wife as one who was sorely tried,
but who came out of her suffering into the arms of death, purified and
calm and worthy to be remembered by her husband's side.

THE STORY OF THE HUGOS

Victor Hugo, after all criticisms have been made, stands as a literary
colossus. He had imaginative power which makes his finest passages
fairly crash upon the reader's brain like blasting thunderbolts. His
novels, even when translated, are read and reread by people of every
degree of education. There is something vast, something almost Titanic,
about the grandeur and gorgeousness of his fancy. His prose resembles
the sonorous blare of an immense military band. Readers of English care
less for his poetry; yet in his verse one can find another phase of his
intellect. He could write charmingly, in exquisite cadences, poems for
lovers and for little children. His gifts were varied, and he knew
thoroughly the life and thought of his own countrymen; and, therefore,
in his later days he was almost deified by them.

At the same time, there were defects in his intellect and character
which are perceptible in what he wrote, as well as in what he did. He
had the Gallic