He was tall, solemn, and dignified. One would have thought him a Roman senator on his way to make a speech on finance. But he wasn't, singularly enough, he wasn't. He was a book-agent. He wore a linen duster; and his brow was furrowed with many care-lines, as if he had been obliged to tumble out of bed every other night of his life to dose a sick child. He called into a tailor-shop on Randolph Street, removed his hat, took his "Lives of Eminent Philosophers" from its cambric bag, and approached the tailor with,—

"I'd like to have you look at this rare work."

"I haf no time," replied the tailor.

"It is a work which every thinking man should delight to peruse," continued the agent.

"Zo?" said the tailor.

"Yes. It is a work on which a great deal of deep thought has been expended; and it is pronounced by such men as Wendell Phillips to be a work without a rival in modern literature."

"Makes anybody laugh when he zees it?" asked the tailor.

"No, my friend: this is a deep, profound work, as I have already said. It deals with such characters as Theocritus, Socrates, and Plato, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. If you desire a work on which the most eminent author of our day has spent years of study and research, you can find nothing to compare with this."

"Does it shpeak about how to glean cloze?" anxiously asked the man of the goose.

"My friend, this is no receipt-book, but an eminent work on philosophy, as I have told you. Years were consumed in preparing this volume for the press; and none but the clearest mind could have grasped the subjects herein discussed. If you desire food for deep meditation, you have it here."

"Does dis pook say sumding about der Prussian war?" asked the tailor as he threaded his needle.

"My friend, this is not an every-day book, but a work on philosophy,—a work which will soon be in the hands of every profound thinker in the country. What is the art of philosophy? This book tells you. Who were, and who are, our philosophers? Turn to these pages for a reply. As I said before, I don't see how you can do without it."

"And he don't haf any dings about some fun, eh?" inquired the tailor, as the book was held to him.

"My friend, must I again inform you that this is not an ephemeral work, not a collection of nauseous trash, but a rare, deep work on philosophy? Here, see the name of the author. That name alone should be proof enough to your mind, that the work cannot be surpassed for profundity of thought. Why, sir, Gerritt Smith testifies to the greatness of this volume!"

"I not knows Mr. Schmidt: I make no cloze mit him," returned the tailor in a doubting voice.

"Then you will let me leave your place without having secured your name to this volume? I cannot believe it. Behold, what research! Turn these leaves, and see these gems of richest thought! Ah! if we only had such minds, and could wield such a pen! But we can read, and, in a measure, we can be like him. Every family should have this noble work. Let me put your name down: the book is only twelve dollars."

"Zwelve dollars for der pook! Zwelve dollars, und he has noddings about der war, und no fun in him, or say noddings how to get glean cloze! What you take me for, mister? Go right away mit dat pook, or I call der bolice, and haf you locked up pooty quick!"

Detroit Free Press