A Chicago woman writes to the Tribune of that city, propounding a question of solemn import, and also suggesting the existence of certain habits on the part of the husbands of that ambitious city, which is probably not altogether im aginary : “ What is that fearful male strom called business, which swallows up the purest and best of our married men, after dark ? Where is it located, and what, oh, what do they do there ? Is it some infernal chowder that witches stir? They come thence with mysterious particles of boiled lobster sticking to their silken beards ; the dust of Kenosha crackers on their lips Odors strange and undefinable cling about them; they walk in tortuous ways ; their speech is thick; they ex aggerate. Is this business chimera of übiquitous presence to be tolerated, when it invades our homes and thrusts midnight vigils upon us ? We know this is a legitimate calling; for when our husbands leave us after tea to go down town, they look weary and de jected, and when they return near morning they are livelier than crickets. But how we yearn to know where the partners of our bosoms are, that we might share the dangers of their busi ness ! It is not at their offices, for these are always dark. Doubtless some dreary, subterranean retreat, piled with ledgers and hard-cushioned chairs, re ceives those self-sacrificing spirits, all all for us—for us!”

AN EAST-END MYSTERY.
