The memorials of Thomas Hood by his son and daughter, present us with a delightful picture of domestic literary life. The book itself is not a remarkable specimen of biographical writing, but the characters of Hood and his wife are so full of human goodness, so touched with all delicate graces, that one forgets everything else. Mrs. Hood's letters are delicious unreveal

' A spirit, yet a woman, too

Legend of Good Women," and think of happy | watched over the splendid ruin of his intellect. ones, to exorcise those complaining ghosts that come and go in the shadow of my book-case. The reader will remember the charming Lucy Herbert, who might have been a Duchess if she had not chosen to walk out of the purple and wed the poet Habbington, who sang her praises as maid and matron, and loved her, notwithstanding she was his wife! I will let a woman* say that "his poems to Castara formings of herself. She was one of the most elegant monuments genius ever raised to the memory of a wife." The amiable and lovely woman whose early death drove Parnell to destruction, should not be forgotten; nor Anne More, the wife of Dr. Donne, whose fidelity through poverty to death is loftier than any poetry, certainly much loftier than any of the Doctor's. And later still is Lady Littelton, whose flight from this world, in the flush of her youth and beauty, taught Lord Lyttelton the only noble number he ever uttered. In times nearer our own, we recollect several poets whose lives have been broken by the severing of these domestic ties which so many have worn but lightly.

case

In view of these and similar cases, a witty French author once prepared an ingenius treatise in which he attempted to show why a literary man should not marry at all. He says that twenty poets are unhappy because their wives died, and twenty are wretched because their wives lived. In one the husband trembles for fear his consort will leave him, and in the other-for fear that she won't! The humourist had proceeded thus far when the ingenuity of his own logic made him an idiot, and he really completed the essay with a solemn protest against marriage! While we smile at the entertaining French gentleman, it is worth observing that many of the finest tributes paid to the gentler sex have emanated from old bachelors-the light-hearted Benedicts who never lived to be married! Tasso made Leonora immortal, and Herrick his Prudence Baldwin-and these were the most incurable of old bachelors. There is one of Herrick's lyrics to his sweetheart, so diminutive, and chaste, and perfect-" like an agate-stone on the fore-finger of an alderinan"-that I can never think of it without quoting it:

ON HIS MAID PREW.

"In this little urn is laid
Prewdence Baldwin, once my maid,
From whose happy spark here let,
Spring the purple violet !"

No reader of recent biography is unfamiliar with Lady Byron's unfortunate marriage, nor with the love of Jean Burn, nor the touching account of Shelley's two wives, nor with the tender care with which the wife of Tom Moore

* Mrs, Jameson,

*

A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles."

Our own day and our own literature are not barren in instances of such unions, nor lacking in painful household histories. The time has not come when it would be proper to speak of the wives of those authors who are still living, or who have but newly passed away from among us. Many women who to-day are moving quietly and gracefully through the light and shadow of fireside life, are to be known hereafter. Their names will be gracious words to other generations. They shall have justice done them, for the nineteenth century, among other inventions and discoveries has discovered Woman! It was not enough that she was placed in the garden of Eden for us. We were blind for many thousand years. When the world was young we made her fetch our wood and cook our food and play the menial. In our days of chivalry we taught her to be a pretty Amazon, to dress our wounds, to bind her scarf about our helmet, to receive a fantastic and insincere adoration. Then, as if there were never to be an end to our nonsense, we fancied that she was an Arcadian shepherdess, or a lovely wood-nymph with confused ideas of virtue. Then was the sickly, sentimental, pastoral age in full blast. Then did she tap us on the cheek with her fan, and smirk and smile, and paint and powder, and wear her hair four stories high. That was the courtly age. But by-and-bye she wearied of these follies. We began to treat her with more sense; then little by little she began to assert herself, the better we treated her the more she asserted, until at last we cried out like Frankenstein, "What monster is this we have created?" But it was not a monster-it was only A Woman! Great in her weakness, noble in her charity, beautiful in her patience. We have found her out! She was never so recognized as now; we have discovered that she has brain as well as heart-that she can write verse like Mrs. Browning, paint pictures like Rosa Bonheur, be all that is gentle and loveable like Florence Nightingale, and philanthrophical and humane as Miss Burdett Coutts.

A SKIPPER'S TALE.

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rovers, trading with the natives on shore, or robbing them at sea, as opportunity offered, and fancying all the while that he was performing the part of an honest man and a good citizen; for no argument imaginable could have convinced him that, in defrauding foreign states of the duties levied on imported goods, or taking the vessels of their merchants, he was acting any other part than that which became a subject of the king of England, who was at war with them; and, indeed, all arguments would most probably have been lost upon him which tended to abridge the sum of his earnings.

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By dint of all these labours, and of the most rigid economy, for my hero when at home lived upon that luxurious diet which the vulgar call Glatney soup" (from the name of a street originally inhabited by the lower order, also by the more refined term " soupe à la graisse,' from the description of the only animal matter which enters into its composition, and which, in truth, is only admitted in the proportion of half an ounce of beef and pork fat melted together, to a gallon of water and half-a-dozen cabbages), and by dint of never indulging himself, at the most joyful periods, with more than three "doubles" worth of cider, he had saved a considerable sum of money, which he had placed, as it accumulated, in the public funds in London; for, though he had the highest respect for all his countrymen, he somehow felt a dislike to trusting his property in their hands, as was the usual custom of the islanders.

In one of those islands which form the only part of the Duchy of Normandy now possessed by the kings of England, there lived, not many years ago, a man who, like all the other inhabitants of the lower class, was a compound of husbandman and smuggler, and possessed of all that artful duplicity of mind, and daring resolution of spirit, for which his countrymen, like their fellow Normans on the continent, are so remarkable. Though a well-set and sturdy fellow, you would have taken him for one of the most humble beings you could encounter in a blue jacket and trowsers; his only object seemed to be to slink unobserved through life, to watch the growth of his apples, to make cider, and to tether his cows in the field with such mathematical precision, that they might eat the grass regularly from one end of it to the other without wasting a single blade; and yet, that they might have enough to keep them fat, and to enable them to produce the luxuriant milk for which the breed is celebrated; for the race known in England as Alderney cows alone, are the only cattle propagated in all those islands, and arrive at much greater perfection in the verdant pastures of Jersey and Guernsey, than on the bleak and barren down which forms the whole of the islet from which the English have derived their name. One other terrestrial occupation, indeed, he had-that of making kegs; for your genuine smuggler of those days resembled the citizen soldier of certain political economists, and was, in truth, a man who could make a tub as well as run it ashore, and of whose multifarious occu- Almost every man has some specific object, pations, smuggling (I mean the act of landing which it is his ambition to obtain. Our hero contraband goods) formed but a portion. Yet, had all his life coveted possession of a farm, although not constantly engaged in the practice which adjoined his own, but which, for many of this latter profession, our hero was a con- years, he had had no prospect of acquiring; for summate master of the art in all its branches-the owner was, like himself, one of those prudent a fact, by-the-by, which proves how much more congenial smuggling is than fighting to the human heart, notwithstanding all that has been said to prove that warfare is the most natural occupation of man; for your citizen soldier is generally a very unmilitary character, whereas the citizen smuggler is frequently most adroit in the exercise of his vocation.

At the beginning of the late war, when the French and their allies possessed both ships and colonies, the worthy people of the islands to which I have alluded, willing to profit by every circumstance, fitted out a number of their luggers as privateers, and most of the amphibious population at times took a turn on board some of these vesssls; for they were all prudent, careful, money-making fellows, and never neglected any opportunity to "increase their store," and never questioned the means by which such an increase was to be effected. Like most of his compatriots, my hero had made a few voyages along the French and Spanish coasts in one of these

men who feel more inclined to add to their estates than to dispose of them. Prudent men, however, have sometimes imprudent heirs, and so it happened in the present instance; the farmer died, and his son, after having spent all the money his father had acquired, determined to sell his land and emigrate to Canada; and our hero, who had lent him a considerable sum on the security of his property, agreed to become the purchaser.

I know not whether it was in consequence of one of those unaccountable whims to which the most steady are sometimes subject, or whether it was that he feared to trust his well-beloved money in the hands of any other person, however respectable; but, from whatever cause it arose, our hero resolved to go over to London, and fetch the sum requisite to complete his purchase. To London he came accordingly, and having effected his business, he returned to Southampton, whence he embarked on board a vessel bound for his native island, with his bank

A Skippee's Tale.

notes carefully sewed into the waistband of his trowsers. This event took place just after the last war had broken out with the United States, and at a time when the channel was occasionally visited by American privateers; and, amongst all the mischances against which our hero had provided, he had totally forgotten the chance of being taken prisoner; for the French navy had been so long annihilated, or shut up in their harbours, that the islanders were accustomed to go to and from Southampton as carelessly as if England had been at peace with all the world. This only unforeseen accident, however, as is The almost always the case, came to pass. English vessel had scarcely lost sight of the Isle of Wight, when an American privateer bore down upon her, and as fighting was out of the question, on account of the superior force of the enemy, flying became the only resource. But it soon grew apparent that escape was impossible; the trader was a bad sailor, and heavily laden, and the privateer gained so quickly upon her, that it was evident she must speedily get up with her; and, indeed, the Southampton vessel only continued her flight in the vague hope that some of the English cruisers might heave in sight, and rescue her from impending capture.

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You must imagine, for words cannot describe, the terror and anxiety of my hero during this awful period; not that he was by any means deficient in courage, when only life was endangered, but here his money, his bank-notes, which had been the fruit of years of hardship and privation, were at stake, and, more than all, the farm on which he had set his heart seemed now slipping through his hands, at the moment when he thought he had only to close In his agony, his fingers to grasp it for ever. he at first resolved to write down the numbers of his notes in his pocket-book, and then throw them overboard before witnesses, in order that he might prove they had been destroyed, and thus recover their value of the bank; and, in pursuance of this idea, he actually unripped the lining of his trowsers, and laid them out before him in the little locker which served him for a bed cabin. But no amorous glance, or tender billet-doux, ever wrought a more sudden alteration on the mind of an angry lover, than did the sight of these pale-faced and meagre notes on the soul of my hero. How could be, who had worshipped Mammon all his life, enter tain for a moment the idea of throwing the god There was no of his idolatry into the sea? sacrilege he would not sooner have committed. He grasped his treasure in his hands, and pressed it to his bosom with the agonizing embrace of one about to be separated for ever from the only object of his affections, and then, thrusting it into his pocket, he ran upon deck and looked out, with the anxiety of sister Anne in the nursery tale, to see whether any relief was at hand. No friendly sail, however, was in sight, and, except sea and air, the only object in view was the American privateer bearing rapidly down upon her quarry, at a distance of

somewhat more than a mile. By this time,
however, our hero had recovered a little of his
usual coolness. He recollected that the vessel
on board which he sailed was of no great value,
and that her cargo (consisting chiefly of bricks,
mops, brooms, and various other cumbrous
articles of household utility) was not likely to
be very tempting to the enemy, and he began
to entertain a hope that they might merely
plunder her of what was valuable, or useful to
themselves, and let her go-a hope which was
strengthened by the recollection that an Ameri-
can privateer had lately acted in a similar
manner to another small trader she had captured,
and by the consideration that, probably, the foe
could not spare men enough to carry her into a
French port. Urged by these opinions, he
again went down below, resolved to conceal his
money in some secure place, where it might
escape the hasty search of the transatlantic
plunderers, and having, at length, hidden it to
his satisfaction, he was about to return to the
deck, when he saw the master and some of the
sailors engaged in an occupation that for a time
drove even the American privateer from his
mind. Among other things of value, consigned
to the merchant who owned the vessel, was a
a small package of specie. This the master and
his companions had broken open, and they were
now busily engaged in transferring its glittering
contents into their pockets-perhaps hoping that
they might escape a personal search, and certain
that, at any rate, the risk was worth the adven-
Our hero almost forgot his own impend-
ture.
ing loss, in his admiration of the wealth he saw
these sailors thus carelessly thrusting into their
pockets. He stood gazing at it and at them,
with his eyes enlarged almost to the size of
crown pieces, and nearly as yellow as guineas,
with jealousy and desire; and the master (who
knew him personally) after he had crammed
every receptacle in his dress almost to bursting
with gold, called out to him, that he might help
himself to a few dollars. Our hero (who would
not have refused a few doubles* at any time)
heard the permission with delight, and throwing
himself upon some silver, that lay scattered
about the deck below, he filled every pocket he
possessed, and then retreating to his birth, he
resolved to await the event, trusting, by pretend-
ing illness or some other evil, to mollify the
hearts of the enemy, or, at any rate, hoping
that, should their object be only to plunder the
vessel, he should escape by giving up the dollars
of which he had thus acquired possession.

He had scarcely formed this resolution (if such it can be called) when a bustle upon deck announced that the ship was bringing-to, and in a few moments more he could hear that the enemy had taken possession of her, and, almost instantly, some of the captors made their ap

also find some of his countrymen, who would give him a passage to his native island.

As soon as he had secured his money, he came upon deck, and finding that the privateer was now out of sight, he declared that his malady was very much abated, and set himself to gain the confidence of the American, who had charge of the prize, to whom he recommended himself very highly, by helping to work the sails, and by singing English songs in the manner of a Frenchman, a character he

could hardly be said to assume, since French was his native tongue; and the English language and manners were merely habits acquired by mingling with the English residents in his island, and observing their customs. He took care, however, to say nothing further of his relations at Cherbourg, hoping, on the arrival of the vessel there, to be set on shore as a Frenchman, and trusting to his own acquaintance with the place to find friends who would assist him. Thus passed away the evening; for I should have noticed that it was in the afternoon that the vessel was captured, and night set in long before they came in sight of the coast of France. During the conversation that took place upon deck, our hero learnt that none of the crew had ever been at the port to which they were bound, and he offered, in his general desire to make himself useful, to keep watch all night, in order to assist them with his local knowledge, when they reached the coast near Cherbourg. Thie, however, they would by no means suffer, though they consented to call him up in case they should find any occasion for his services, and accordingly, just after dawn, they roused him to inform him that they were in sight of land.

Our hero arose, and perceived that they had made Cape la Hogue; but he also perceived, that, though they guessed from the course they had steered whereabouts they were, they were totally ignorant of the coast. At this instant, another of his extraordinary plans entered his mind, and he declared that the headland they saw before them was Cape Barfleur, and that Cherbourg lay but a little way to the westward. The head of the vessel was immediately turned in the direction pointed out by our hero, and in a short time the island and town of Alderney appeared dimly through one of those fogs so very common in that part of the channel.

"Voilà Cherbourg!" said our hero, fixing his eyes upon the American commander, to see what impression the information made upon him: "Dat is Cherbourg."

"Indeed!” exclaimed the Yankee, in a tone of astonishment, but not of suspicion. "I thought it had been a larger town."

"Ah-oui-but you cannot see it all, by reason of de mystification, what you call de brume," replied our hero, willing to draw off the attention of his auditor from the place beore him.

"The broom! you mean the fog, I suppose," cried the American.

"Oui, justement!" answered my hero;

"Mais qu'allez-vous faire? Ah! sacré ! baillezmoi le timon!-give me the tiller,-vous allez vous perdre, I shall lead you right in, for I do not see no vilain pilot boat."

This last asertion, however, was not quite correct, for our hero did see a pilot boat, pulling for the vessel, and almost the only anxiety he and betray him before he had time to bring his now felt was, lest the pilot should get on board the Americans saw it, and pointed it out to him. plot to maturity; and, what was worse than all,

hero in reply; "dat miserable boat a pilot boat
c'est un bateau de pêcheur-it is what you call
-ne savez-vous- -do you not know,
a fishing-boat-
dat in all de ports of France de pilot boats are
vraiment magnifique, superbe? Ah, vous verrez
tout à Theure." Then, raising his voice, he
bawled out to the pilot boat to keep off, still
using the Norman French dialect, and swearing
he would run it down if it approached any
nearer to him, and sweating with anxiety lest
anyone on board should hail the ship in English,
and thus overthrow the hopes he began to
entertain of recovering the vessel.

"Dat miserable bateau-là!" exclaimed our

Fortune, however, who had stood his friend during the whole of his enterprize, did not now desert him. The pilot, seeing another vessel in the offing, went to offer his services to her, and the boat belonging to the guard-ship was now becoming visible through the mist of the morning. For this boat our hero steered with breathless anxiety, though without the least alteration of countenance, and but a few minutes elapsed before she was alongside.

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Our hero could diguise his feelings no longer. He sprung to the gangway, and exclaimed, Shump aboard, my boys! de ship's all our own!" The boat's crew, although they could directions; and, to cut short my tale, the vessel not guess his meaning, instantly obeyed his was recaptured, to the infinite astonishment of her American crew, who had never once suspected the duplicity of my hero, so artfully had he concealed his fears and his intentions.

CHRISTMAS.

BY MARGARET GILL CURRIE.

The hoary Christmas cometh now,
With festive cheer and greenwood bough,
And stars that sparkle, burn and glow,
While cold, white winter reigns below.
It comes with mirth and sounding chimes,
And ghostly tales of olden times;
Of wild-boar chased o'er glade and glen,
Of wassail-bowl and merry-men;
With roaring fires all blazing bright,
With cheerful voice and taper's light,
And grateful vows and songs of praise
To Him whose mercy crowns our days.
O, blessed are they who know the sound
Of joy and mirth as years roll round.
In light of life with glad accord
They walk before their kindred Lord;
Who stooped to own a mortal birth,
And sojourn on our lowly earth.