fancy he carries this admiration of mere earnestness to an extent not warranted even by his own philosophy. Witness his life of Cromwell, who is as much a hero in his eyes while singing a psalm after the slaughter of thousands of his countrymen, as he is when speaking a good bold speech in favor of his country's freedom. Much of the merit of Carlyle's writings depends upon the fearless and unreserved manner in which the thought is spoken-what he says, he says as one man should say it to another; his language is not meant to conceal his thoughts, but to blazon them, as it were. His own earnestness, too, in what he does, is another reason of his weight with thinking minds-he is a follower of the philosophic teachers he is like Chaucer's "poor parson," who taught, "Criste's Love," "But first he folowed it himselve." It matters little where he appears, whether as advocate or whether as enemy, With this spirit he enters the field, and wo to him who is wanting in sincerity, humanity or ability; see what scorn there is in some of his epithets! some of his compound nicknames absolutely are crushing. Gigmanity for respectability, and gigmanity disgigged for the sunken respectable. His sincerity is so sincere, and the thought which a sincere look leads to, is so sad, at the same time so startling, that sometimes you feel quite appalled at the man's power in getting at and exhibiting to you the mysteries of life; this, too, by no greater stretch of reason than we all possess, if we did but use what we have. There is something of this in the following "The highborn (highest-born, for he came out of heaven) lies drowning in the despicablest puddles; the priceless gift of life, which he can have but once, for he waited a whole eternity to be born, and now he has a whole eternity waiting to see what he will do when born-this priceless gift we see strangled slowly out of him by innumerable packthreads; and there remains of the glorious possibility, which we fondly named man, nothing but an inanimate mass of foul loss and disappointment, which we wrap in shrouds and bury under ground-surely with well-merited tears. To the thinker, here lies tragedy enough; the epitome and marrow of all tragedy whatsoever." The Diamond Necklace. Carlyle would emancipate man-man inthralled—man in chains -the chains of custom and creeds: he would like to see the human soul working in the human body, and some respect paid to it also, instead of the disrespect, or rather the no respect it meets: he would be glad to see it acknowledged even: for what is man, generally, to his brother man, but a good machine who casts his ledger correctly, or who strikes a good blow, or is cunning in putting wheels together to make another machine not nearly so complex as himself. Mr. Carlyle's writings are very numerous; the chief are "Past and Present," "Sartor Resartus," "Chartism," "History of the French Revolution," and "Hero-Worship;" the latter, a republication of some lectures he delivered in London. We well remember how he impressed one of the most intellectual audiences the queen of cities ever gathered into one room. Here he held up to the admiring eye Dante, Shakspere, Johnson, Mahomet, Rousseau, and others long past away: his powerful mind flashed a new light upon these withered antiquities. It seemed as though 'neath his spell the grave had given up its dead to be again visible, and clothed with those passions and conflicting elements which had formerly made them famous among their fellows. His lectures excited every listener to a self-activity, which enlarged the mind and braced its powers, and at once strengthened and extended the kingdom of thought. CHARLES MACKAY. Charles Mackay, one of the most popular authors of the time, was born in Scotland about 1810, and after receiving a good general education, practised for the bar: here, however, his poetical temperament got the better of his legal prudence, and he rushed into the world of letters! Coming to London he got introduced to the editor of the Morning Chronicle, and was engaged as subeditor of that leading whig journal for some years. In 1844 he went to Glasgow, and undertook the editing of the "Glasgow Argus," a paper of considerable reputation. He returned to London some short time ago, where he still remains. Few men have made more friends than the author of "The Salamandrine," and "Voices of the Crowd;" his manners being pleasant and his conduct generous. He is about the middle height, hair inclined to a "dark golden," eyes dark, and of a ruddy happy countenance. He has contributed many of the most genial articles in "Chambers' Journal." 66 su In "The Salamandrine" we have the etherialised love of a pernatural nature" developed in the person of Amethysta. Sir Gilbert, the hero, is gazing upon a fire: in the midst of the flame, "In the fiercest of the heat He sees a youth and maiden sweet, A conversation ensues; he learns from the tenor of it that they are brother and sister! Sir Gilbert discovers also that the fair Salamandrine mourns over the mortality of her race, and envies the immortality of man. "O happy! happy man,' (Thus the maiden sang :) At thy birth the heavens were glad, And hosanna's rang. Make us sharers in thy gain, Oh! take pity on our pain; And to our perishing souls impart The immortality of thine, For which with bitter tears we ever yearn and pine.' The soldier felt his inmost heart Warming with pity for their woe: • Most fair; most melancholy things!' Then came an answer to his thought, It was the maiden's voice that sang And sighed again: Alas! alas!' We die; we die; we're banished from the sky: Unless, man, thou'lt pity us and love." " In this "Salamandrine" Mr. Mackay had ample scope for his Rosicrusian learning, but the subject was not so well suited to his poetical genius as it was to his acquired knowledge. It is full of fancy, but is very deficient in poetry, abounding in pretty descriptions and all the lighter graces of the muse. We are perpetually in doubt whether this and that passage are very nice verses, or whether they may not actually be called the mere frivolities of writing. This is a sure evidence of a poet's failure, although it may prove him to possess considerable fancy. It is as a lyric poet of progress, as an utterer of "Voices from the Crowd," that we feel he is a true speaker of fine thoughts, and here we become aware that a brave, keen mind, and a fearless heart, are at work in man's behalf. He regards "old opinions" as "rags and tatters." The dignity of "daily work" he celebrates, instead of pomp. aristocratical arrogance and "Who lags for dread of daily work, And his appointed work would shirk, A soulless slave, A paltry knave, A clog upon the wheels of time. With work to do and store of health, The man's unworthy to be free Who will not give, That he may live, His daily toil for daily fee." He then denounces the causes which render emigration necessary; in another "Voice" he triumphantly anticipates when wars shall cease and brotherhood prevail. One of his pleasantest "Voices" is "On Railways" "No poetry in railways! foolish thought Of a dull train-to no fine music wrought, |