Poor little gleam of sunshine! very little good cheer enlivens that sad simple life.  We have the triumph of the Magazine:  then a new Magazine projected and produced:  then illness and the last scene, and the kind Peel by the dying man’s bedside speaking noble words of respect and sympathy, and soothing the last throbs of the tender honest heart.

I like, I say, Hood’s life even better than his books, and I wish, with all my heart, Monsieur et cher confrere, the same could be said for both of us, when the inkstream of our life hath ceased to run.  Yes:  if I drop first, dear Baggs, I trust you may find reason to modify some of the unfavorable views of my character, which you are freely imparting to our mutual friends.  What ought to be the literary man’s point of honor now-a-days?  Suppose, friendly reader, you are one of the craft, what legacy would you like to leave to your children?  First of all (and by heaven’s gracious help) you would pray and strive to give them such an endowment of love, as should last certainly for all their lives, and perhaps be transmitted to their children.  You would (by the same aid and blessing) keep your honor pure, and transmit a name unstained to those who have a right to bear it.  You would,—­though this faculty of giving is one of the easiest of the literary man’s qualities—­you would, out of your earnings, small or great, be able to help a poor brother in need, to dress his wounds, and, if it were but twopence, to give him succor.  Is the money which the noble Macaulay gave to the poor lost to his family?  God forbid.  To the loving hearts of his kindred is it not rather the most precious part of their inheritance?  It was invested in love and righteous doing, and it bears interest in heaven.  You will, if letters be your vocation, find saving harder than giving and spending.  To save be your endeavor, too, against the night’s coming when no man may work; when the arm is weary with the long day’s labor; when the brain perhaps grows dark; when the old, who can labor no more, want warmth and rest, and the young ones call for supper.

I copied the little galley-slave who is made to figure in the initial letter of this paper, from a quaint old silver spoon which we purchased in a curiosity-shop at the Hague.* It is one of the gift spoons so common in Holland, and which have multiplied so astonishingly of late years at our dealers’ in old silverware.  Along the stem of the spoon are written the words:  “Anno 1609, Bin ick aldus ghekledt gheghaen”—­“In the year 1609 I went thus clad.”  The good Dutchman was released from his Algerine captivity (I imagine his figure looks like that of a slave amongst the Moors), and in his thank-offering to some godchild at home, he thus piously records his escape.

     * This refers to an illustrated edition of the work.