et somehow it seems as distant as a dinner at Mr.
Thrale's, or a meeting at Will's.

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
year