Monson P. Tracy was, I am sorry to say, a man of not more than moderate abilities. He was addicted to hobbies, and some of these, to the relief of by-standers, he rode to death. He was a man of unbounded ambition. Believing himself entirely competent to fill any office his country had to offer, he was not backward in presenting his claims, and urging them on the unappreciating public. Monson P. Tracy professed himself a Christian. He owned a slip in the popular church edifice near him, and might usually be seen in it on the morning of the Lord's day. He said a form of grace at table, and read a form of prayer afterward. By these means he intended to impress those about him with the fervor of his devotion, but in this he cheated few beside himself. In an old-fashioned book which he seldom opened, there was a maxim: "By their fruits ye shall know them." This touchstone applied by others, rendered a verdict widely different from the one he so lovingly hugged to his own breast. But time will show us which verdict was correct. If there was one thing which particularly pleased Mr. Tracy, it was to see his name in print. To give the man full justice, he was active, industrious, and energetic. Few men could work more skilfully to attain an end. And all his powers were brought into play to bring about so desirable a result, as seeing his name in capital letters at the head of a column in the newspaper. Let me take advantage of an auspicious moment of this nature, to introduce him more fully to my readers. He was sitting in a luxurious arm-chair, by far the most comfortable which the room contained, with the drop-light nicely shaded by a porcelain screen exactly the right distance from his eyes, a pleasant smile on his well-formed mouth, reading from the evening Journal. His wife, a meek little woman, in a low chair on the other side of the table, had a stocking stretched over her hand, and was gazing rather dismally at a large hole in the toe, when he thus addressed her: "There is an article here, Mrs. Tracy, which you will be interested to read." "I seldom read the newspapers," was the indifferent reply. "I haven't time." "But you will read this. I repeat, that it will interest you." The tone was decisive, though a smile still curled his lips. After an anxious search for thread of the right size, Mrs. Tracy realized that her husband had addressed her, and was awaiting a reply. She glanced in his face, and saw a heavy shade about to settle on his brow, so she quickly asked: "What is it? Anything about you?" "It is the report of my speech at the Convention. The editor does himself credit, in his way of printing those reports. See!" He held the paper toward her, swinging the drop-light in her direction, while she read: "Speech of Monson P. Tracy before the — Convention. Received by a crowded audience, with loud and repeated applause."