orld as that of
another--but she uttered no protest.

Xantippe lives in history only because she sought to worry a great
philosopher; we remember the daughter of Herodias because she demanded
the head (not the heart) of a good man; Goneril and Regan because they
trod upon the withered soul of their sire; Lady Macbeth because she lured
her liege to murder; Charlotte Corday for her dagger-thrust; Lucrezia
Borgia for her poison; Sapphira for her untruth; Jael because she pierced
the brain of Sisera with a rusty nail (instead of an idea); Delilah for
the reason that she deprived Samson of his source of strength; and in the
"Westminster Review" for May, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-four, Ouida makes
the flat statement that for every man of genius who has been helped by a
woman, ten have been dragged down.

But Jeannie Welsh Carlyle lives in the hearts of all who reverence the
sweet, the gentle, the patient, the earnest, the loving spirit of the
womanly woman: lives because she ministered to the needs of a great man.

She was ever a frail body. Several long illnesses kept her to her bed for
weeks, but she recovered from these, even in spite of the doctors, who
thoroughly impressed both herself and her husband with the thought of her
frailty.

On April the Twenty-first, Eighteen Hundred Sixty-six, she called her
carriage, as was her custom, and directed the driver to go through the
park. She carried a book in her hands, and smiled a greeting to a friend
as the brougham moved away from the little street where they lived. The
driver drove slowly--drove for an hour--two. He got down from his box to
receive the orders of his mistress, touched his hat as he opened the
carriage-door, but no kindly eyes looked into his. She sat back in the
corner as if resting; the shapely head a little thrown forward, the book
held gently in the delicate hands, but the fingers were cold and
stiff--Jeannie Welsh was dead--and Thomas Carlyle was alone.

* * * * *

Along the Thames, at Chelsea, opposite the rows of quiet
and well-kept houses of Cheyne Walk, is the "Embankment." A parkway it is
of narrow green, with graveled walks, bushes and trees, that here and
there grow lush and lusty as if to hide the unsightly river from the good
people who live across the street.

Following this pleasant bit of breathing space, with its walks that wind
in and out among the bushes, one comes unexpectedly upon a bronze statue.
You