He was fond of German literature, and translated the “Wilhelm Meister” by Goethe. He wrote many other books, and became so famous that when Gladstone retired from office as Lord Rector of Edinburgh, Carlyle was made his successor. It was a great triumph for the mason’s son; but in the midst of his new honors his wife died, and there was no one to share his happiness. Not long after this, Queen Victoria sent for Carlyle and granted him a personal interview. On his eightieth birthday he was honored by gifts from Scotland, England, and Germany. He died in 1881. IN the village of Entepfuhl dwelt Andreas Futteral and his wife--childless, in still seclusion, and cheerful, though now verging toward old age. Andreas had been grenadier sergeant and even regimental schoolmaster under Frederick the Great; but now, quitting the halbert and ferule for the spade and pruning hook, cultivated a little orchard, on the produce of which he lived not without dignity. Fruits, the peach, the apple, the grape, with other varieties came in their season, all of which Andreas knew how to sell. On evenings he smoked or read (as beseemed a regimental schoolmaster), and talked to the neighbors about the victory of Rossbach; and how “Fritz the Only” had once with his own royal lips spoken to him, and had been pleased to say, when Andreas as camp sentinel demanded the password, “Peace, hound!” before any of his staff adjutants could answer. “There is what I call a king!” would Andreas exclaim; “but the smoke of Kunersdorf was still smarting his eyes.” Gretchen, the housewife, had been won by the deeds rather than the looks of her husband, nevertheless she at heart loved him both for his valor and wisdom. Was not Andreas in very deed a man of order, courage, downrightness, that understood Büsching’s Geography, had been in the victory of Rossbach, and left for dead on the battlefield? The good Gretchen, for all her fretting, watched over him and hovered round him as only a true house-mother can; she cooked and sewed and scoured for him; so that not only his old regimental sword and grenadier cap, but the whole habitation, where on pegs of honor they hung, looked ever trim and gay; a roomy cottage, embowered in fruit trees and forest trees, evergreens and honeysuckles, rising many-colored from amid shaven grass plots, flowers struggling in through the very windows; under its long projecting eaves nothing but garden tools and seats where, especially on summer nights, a king might have wished to sit and smoke and call it his.