driving a canal-boat, now Republican leader of the House,
now Senator, now President, and now the object of a weeping world's
affection. See the poor boy Sherman, born in Lancaster, O. A short space
flies past us, and he has cut his own communications and marched with
his army into the enemy's country. The London _Times_ says if he emerges
from the unknown country with his army, he will be "the greatest captain
of modern times." Soon his banners float on the coast, soon the cities
are blazing behind his fearful stride, and soon the cruel war is over.
We behold the third son of a very large family of

TENNYSONS

begin writing verses. He writes trash at first, but by and by he is
proclaimed the greatest living poet, and his art of writing (all that
part of his work which was difficult) is pronounced the greatest the
world has ever seen. We see the boy Lee, studying hard to sustain the
illustrious name he bore, advancing in science to the great study of
astronomy, becoming the intellectual credit of his surroundings, the
tutor of the scholarly. We behold him clasping the sword put in his
hands by the greatest unsuccessful insurrection of all past time, and,
seated on his horse, smiling at the awful repulse of

PICKETT'S IMMORTAL CHARGE AT GETTYSBURG,

saying, simply: "We cannot always expect to have our own way in an
attack," when down in his great heart he knows that the proudest people
ever defeated have cast the final die, and lost. We stand over his ashes
and feel that they are the ashes of a truly great man whom "unmerciful
disaster followed fast and followed faster." We see James Gordon
Bennett, the jibe of all the printers because of his crooked eyes. Yet
he dies the owner of the greatest money-making newspaper of all
newspaper history, a journal which sends expeditions to Africa and
squadrons to the north pole. We see a "canny" Scotch boy at study. He
"takes wonderfully to German," and soon the English world is hailing him
as the "literary Columbus." He has shown them the greatness of
Frederick, of Schiller, and Goethe. He writes a history of the French
Revolution, and calls it the "truth clad in hell-fire." He reads a
library in a few hours, or, rather, he reads what he has not read--and
finally he lies down, hating the world, hating freedom, but full of
genius, and men say "Carlyle is dead."

A BOY CALLED VICTOR HUGO

is born in France. At thirty he is famous. Then for fifty years he
wields an influ