Literature.

grim satisfaction what good Ms "Whims and Oddities" would clo his soul ? and how he would recall his levities in literature upon his death-bed ? My father was pretty well used to attacks of this sort , but this was really going a little too far , and accordingly she received a copy of the fbllowhig , which he ever after entitled 'My Tract . ' " It is well worthy of separate publication with the ' Ode to Rae Wilson , ' in any collection of * Really Religious Reading . '

" MY TRACT . " MABAir , —I have received your pious billet-doux , but haie little leisure , and less inclination for a religious flirtation , and what ( according to our Law and Police Reports ) is its usual issue —a decidedly serious intrigue . How else , indeed , am I to interpret the mysterious ' object' of your late visit , which you significantly tell me was defeated by your being unintentionally accompanied by a friend ?—how answer for her designs on a man's person who

can take such liberties with his soul ? The presence of a companion could not of course stand in the way of you giving me a tract , or a letter , or anything proper for a modest woman to offer ; but where can be the womanly modesty , or delicacy , or decency of a female who intrudes on a man ' s private house , ancl private correspondence , and his most private affairs , those of his heart ancl soul , with as much masculine assurance as if she wore Paul Pry ' s inexjiressibles under her petticoats ? Perhaps I have to congratulate

myself , as Joseph Andrews did on the preservation of bis virtue from that aiiioroiis widow , Lady Boohy ! lint whatever impropriety you intended to commit it has been providentially frustrated , it appears , hy the intrusion of the young lady in question , to whom therefore I beg you will present my most grateful and special thanks . I am ,

as yon know , a married man , and clo not care to forget that character , only that I may be aide to say afterwards , as you suggest , 'I have gone astray , but now I have learned thy righteous law . ' . . . "And now , Madam , farewell . Your mode of recalling yourself to my memory reminds me that your fanatical mother insulted mine in the last days of her life ( which was marked by every Christian virtue ) , by the presentation of a Tract addressed to infidels . I remember also that the same heartless woman intruded herself ,

with less reverence than a Mohawk Squaw would have exhibited , on the chamber of death , and interrupted with her jargon almost my very last interview with my dying parent . Such reminiscences warrant some severity ; but , if more be wanting , know that my jioor sister has been excited hy a circle of canters like yourself into a religious frenzy , and is at this moment in a private madhouse . — I am , Madam , yours with disgust , TnoiiAS HOOD . " In IS If Hood commenced his "Monthly Magazine , " and the

fame of "The Song of the Shirt , " which had appeared in "Punch , " just before , promised an extraordinary success , but he died in 1815 ; ancl not long previously the crown had granted him a pension . His last letter to Sir Roher Peel and that minister's reply are worthy of being better known , as they exhibit the Premier and

the Poet under the most favourable aspect . Hood writes thus : — " T ) r . ATi SIE , —We are not to meet in tiie flesh . Given over hy my physicians and by myself , I am only kept alive by frequent instalments of mulled port wine . In this extremity I feel a comfort , for which I cannot refrain from again thanking you , with all the sincerity of a dying man—and , at the same time , bidding yon a respectful farewell . "Thank God mind is composed and reason undisturbed

, my my , hut my race ns an author is run . My physical debility finds no tonic virtue in a steel pen , otherwise I would have written one more paper—a forewarning one—against an evil , or the danger of it , arising from a literary movement in which I have hacl some share , a one-sided humanity , opposite to that Catholic Sliaksperian sympathy , which felt with king as well as peasant , and duly estimated the mortal temptations of both stations . Certain classes at the poles of societ alreadtoo fir assnnder

y are y ,- it should be the duty of our writers to draw * them nearer by kindly attraction , not to aggravate the existing- repulsion , and place ' a wider moral gulf between rich and poor , with hate on the one side , and fear on the other . But I am too weak for this task , the last I had set myself-It is death that stops my pen , you see , and not the pension . " Gocl bless you , Sir , and prosper all your measures for the benefit of my beloved country . —I have the honour to be , Sir , your most grateful and obedient servant , Titos . HOOD . "

To which Sir Robert replied : — " DEAII SIR , —I must write one line to express an earnest hope that it will please Gocl to restore you to health and strength ; and that you may lie enabled to apply your unimpaired faculties to the inculcation of those , } ust aucl reall y benevolent doctrines ivhich aro slwdoived out in tho letter you have ' addressed to inc . —AVith my best wishes believe mc , dear Sir , faithfully yours , Konr . irr PKT . I .. "

Literature.

The last scene of our poet ' s mortal existence is thus described , and proves him to havo been , not only a pious man , but a good and exemplary christian , carrying out the blest work of forgiveness ancl hoping for , " That mercy I to others show , that mercy show to me . " " Knowing himself to be dying , he called us round him—my

mother , my little brother , just ten years old , ancl myself . He gave us his last blessing , tenderly ancl fondly ; and then quietly clasping my mother ' s hand , he said : ' Remember , Jane , I forgive all , all as I hope to be forgiven ! ' He lay for some tune calmly and peacefully , but breathing slowly and with difficulty . My mother bending over him heard him say faintly , ' 0 Lord ! say , 'Arise , take up thy cross , ancl follow me . '' His fast words were , 'Dying , dying ! ' as

if glad to realize the rest implied in them . He then sank into what seemed a deep slumber . " AVe have lingered over these touching volumes , and would fain transfer every page to our columns , feeling , that the mere reading of them goes far to make us both wiser and better . The Memorials of Thomas Hood will be read , ancl wept over , by every lover of his species possessing a noble heart , such as was his of whom they bear record .

Poetry.

Poetry .

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE . 'Twas Summer ' s Eve—I wander'd forth , My heart was sad , I knew not why , —¦ The distant chime of evening bells Came floating on the breezes by . I sought once more that hallow'd spot —• That spot which oft my tears doth lave ; Por , w-ho can gaze with eye imciimm'd Upon a Mother's lonely grave ;

Or , who can roam amid the dead , And know the dust that ' s resting there , AA'ithout a si gh of sad regret , Or cheek bedewed with unknown tear ? "lis then the spirit wings its flight , To dear lost treasures of the past , And lingers round those youthful joys , So heavenly once—yet could not last !

I felt that there a mother lay , A \ ho nursed me as her darling child—Who kiss'd my pure and infant brow , And smil'd upon mo when I smil'd ; AVho took me in tho Summer time Through leafy haunts and shady bowers , And told me tales of innocence , AVhilc gath ' ring for me fragrant flowers .

In vain , I wish'd those hours were back—In vain , I long'd that voice to hear ; But no , my soul eould only gain Prom memory ' s fount a silent tear . Those lips that mine so often press'd—Those hands that led me oft away—That form I treasur'd so and lov'd , Alas ! were moulcl'riiig in thc clay .

Yes , thoughts of home and early days In vision pass'd before me there , AA'hen life was one sweet dream of joy , And hope wove o ' er me garlands fair ; And as I stood beside her grave , Mourning for her I weep in vain ; Oh ! how I long'd in sadness there , To be a happy child again !

Sweet Memories ! though ye bring out tears ; Still , let me treasure in my breast Bach thought of her—that mother deariSJbw sleeping in a holy rest . Still shall I wander to that tomb , And there let fall the tear of love O'er her , for whom my spirit longs To meet in other lands above !