claws to scratch the other. She possessed one right, however, to criticise Carlyle, which some of his critics do not, having read some of his works; and when she suggested-bless her innocent soul!-that you had to read a thousand words to obtain an idea, it was no less rational than many a criticism which we have heard from grown She was up men. more fortunate with Carlyle's words, however, than Solomon was with his lady acquaintances, having found an idea in a thousand. We hope her opinions will not reach Carlyle, as we confess to the weakness of being somewhat fond of his writings, and it might make him give up his trade, "a maker of books," when he became thus convinced that his calling and election to that work is

not sure.

To make use of a mercantile phrase, we know of no writer whose works should be read this side up with care" so much as Carlyle's.

Let one, for instance, open any of his works at random, and come upon half a page of writing at high pressure, about Gigmanity, with all his lexicons and reference-book aids he will find it difficult to discover what Carlyle is driving at; yet had he read the works in order, and seen the origin of that word, he would have found clearness and a remarkable expressiveness in said half page, and with pen in hand, find it necessary to write four or five sentences himself to express the meaning of that one word, and then perhaps without much approach to its biting severity and force. Every work-almost every chapter which Carlyle has written contained something of this sort, to which he afterwards refers, by word or hint, making what is read more thrillingly expressive to him who is familiar with that which is already written, but a dead letter to him who is not.

We are inclined to impute to this want of order in reading his works, much of the strange criticism and sneers which are thrown at him-even sometimes by men who have a thinking faculty; but we must leave this subject, with the suggestion, that those who wish to read Carlyle understandingly must begin with his Miscellanies, and leave Sarton Resartus, which is generally

read or dipped into first, until the very last.

Speaking of Carlyle reminds us of petrifactions, and more particularly of the petrified human body recently exhibited at that el dorado of country cousins, the American Museum, for is he (Carlyle) not a stone of stumbling and rock of offence to many?

It (the petrified) was not so great a curiosity as you probably imagined, dear reader, for we had a charming cousin who was "petrified with horror" because a strange man took hold of her in the street-and young ladies always mean what they say, you know

yet she was not exhibited, beautiful petrification though she was :-again, if the ministers are to be credited, most of us are more wonderful than Barnum's mummy, for we live, move, and have a being, with stony hearts in us; and are not the diseases known as stone and grave! incipient stages of petrification? Why, we are half-inclined to start a new theory, and make Silliman, Lyell & Co. hide their diminished heads, by proving that all rock strata is but departed mortals-dead lovers, for instance, become sienites(sigh-a-nights ;) defunct police-officers, and young ladies trap-rock, departed Jews, flints, young gentlemen who buy gold watches at the Broadway auction stores, verde antique and soap-stone; and let us hope the Mexicans will become boulder-stones than they are men, while the true American turns into free-stone, of course.

All this might be easily proved by the "doctrine of correspondences," but we hand the theory over to Dr. Barret, Mr. Locke and the "Sun" newspaper, with the hope that Espy and Dr. Shew will not be near to throw" cold water" on their efforts. Puff medical

Dear dyspeptic reader, if you call on this same Dr. Shew he will be kinder than Hamlet's ghost, and tell you some secrets of your soul's prison-house, of which your philosophy probably never dreamed, for which you may fee him if you please, but will thank him until you are-put down to petrify.

We know a young gentleman who wished he was petrified one morning, and this is a fact which is a fact. The youth had had the misfortune to fall in

was useless; so springing up the first tree, he began climbing, with the hope of reaching a secure place in the branches, where he might keep Madam at bay, and wound-perhaps kill her, with his large pocket-knife; but she proved herself the better climber, and at the moment he clasped with hands and arms the lower limb of the tree, the bear caught one of his well-booted feet in her mouth. Then came the tug of war; and the loose leg and foot were desperately busy kicking the face of his antagonist, who grumbled loud and long at the manner in which he was marring her beauty.

The battle lasted but a few moments, for in her determination to "preserve the game," she loosened her hold of the tree, and a kick more desperate than the rest knocked her entirely free from it, when off she swung like a huge pendulum between heaven and earth, still holding by Smith's foot, and of course hanging by it, while he as desperately clung to the branch above.—— But, dear reader, we beg pardon, we have forgotten the dead letters, and in another chapter we will endeavour to go on a less erratic course, and introduce you to the tomb of all the cap"(foolscap and so on.)

Smith felt his sinews and joints cracking; the agony became intense; the bear uttered a wild cry or howl between her clenched teeth, and our friend's strength and consciousness were rapidly ebbing. Relaxing his grasp slightly, in an instant he lost his hold, and down they dashed to the ground, a distance of some thirty feet. The sun was setting when Smith awoke to consciousness, and found himselflying upon the dead bear, but unable to move his strained and mangled limbs. He lay there all night; and the next day was consumed in walking, or rather crawling to the nearest habitation, three miles away. Smith has never hunted since; and the contact of a bearskin, even in a sleigh-ride, instead of warming him, gives him a nervous chill.

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Next to dying the death of the righteous, we should prefer that of a dead letter. The postman knocks at the door under the designated number. “A letter for Jones, Esq." Don't live here," answers the Irish "stick in waiting." A pencil mark is placed on the epistle, and without even the scratch of a bare bodkin, it is dead, in due time to be forwarded to its tomb at Washington, there to be dissected and burned, where its ashes will be until that day when all thoughts shall be revealed. It has gone to its long home; it has been launched into eternity without a pang, without a regret for all the hopes or sorrows which gave it

birth, or a single thought of the aforesaid loved, hated, or dunned Mr. Jones, from its not having lived to fulfil its destiny.

Who does not feel a deep interest in a dead letter? It brings with it mystery, melancholy, and a brooding sadness; and we have to thank them for many a dreamy reverie. Their deaths, like others, often end friendship and love; and affection grows cold from supposed neglect. Who has lived many years in this sin-marred paradise, and not known the importance that many attach to the miscarriage of a letter? Anna S-, a black-eyed sylph, now in heaven, let us hope, loved and was loved again; her lover, in search of those smiles of fortune which would enable him to wed, went to the south. He wrote to her with love's own eloquence; but the letters miscarried, and reports reached her of his southern gaiety. Stung to the soul by his apparent neglect, she married another, and too late learned the madness of the act. Poor girl! the doctors a few months afterwards reported her another of consumption; but she died of a dead letter.

The entrée to the Dead Letter Office, like kissing, goes by favor; at least it cost us many efforts, many pullings of the right strings, and then it was at the end of a five weeks' sojourn at Washington when it was obtained.

We do not mean the mere privilege

of looking into a room where some clerk-undertakers were preparing some thousands of dead letters for burial, as we would look into the glass-cases of the Patent Office. Not at all; any one can do that who is properly introduced, and have a frown for his pains, too, if he touches one of the letters. We mean the uncontrolled, unlimited, unchecked range of the office for a whole day, with full permission to read, extract or copy, anything or everything therein.

It was near eight o'clock one evening, that we obtained permission to spend the following day, our last in Washington, amongst the dead; and during that night letters and funeral processions of every imaginable form were passing through our brain. Morning at last broke, and under the auspices of Mr. Auditor Pratt, after a slight repast, we wended our way to the beautiful white marble palace postoffice.

Having entered, we turned to the left along the corridor, which extends some two or three hundred feet through the entire length of the building; passing on to the last door, it opened and closed behind us, and we were in the sanctuary of the dead, a foolscap Golgotha, though not merely "a place of skulls," for they (the letters) being dead, yet speak.

We bowed solemnly to the clerks as the Auditor introduced us, and when he retired, sat down, lost in a reverie, over the sad scene; for what a vast record of buried hopes, lost friends, broken friendships, and neglected love, lay scattered about that cemetery. While dreaming thus, one of the clerks began whistling "dandy Jim;" in an instant the spell was broken, and we went, business-like, to our task, of dissecting some hundreds of "subjects."

The dead letter department of the general post-office, at Washington, is one of much importance; there all the letters and packages which are misdirected, refused, or miscarry, are sent, after being advertised for a certain time in the places to which they are

addressed; and, strange as it may seem, between one and two millions annually fail to reach their destination; say, some five thousand daily. These are received, at stated times, from the various branches, all over the Union; and are placed on the long tables of the office, where four clerks are exclusively employed in opening them; if they contain nothing, they are thrown down unread, and packed in large paper bags, and, every three months, taken to the common, and burned by cart-loads.

Should the letters contain money or other valuables, they are laid on a sidetable, and a recording-clerk ranges them alphabetically, in the boxes prepared for that purpose, and writes to the writer of the letter, stating that it has been received. If no answer is returned after three years, the contents, if money, is placed in the treasury, still subject to the owner if he brings the requisite proofs. Every article received is kept and labelled, and in this way they collect gloves, rings, garters, books, locks of hair, pictures, likenesses, law-papers, and so on, and in money some three hundred dollars weekly. Title deeds, and other valuable papers, supposed to be lost, are often recovered there. Out of the mass through which we waded, but few would bear selection for the public eye, so many were common-plac^, or only useful to the owner. were notices of protests, circulars, &c., and so many to persons travelling, merely relating, in an indifferent way, the doings at home for a few previous days, about Mary having a cold, or Fanny the measles, the cat dead, or the geranium dying; that, as is so often the case, what began in hope ended somewhat in disappointment, and by the time the office was closed, we were glad to leave it, utterly tired and weary, but with a package of selected letters, from which we will proceed to re-select a few for your amusement, dear reader; and, at our earliest convenience, lay those before you in a future No. of this journal.

So many