The Sun.
London, England, 1844-12-02 00:00:00

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HOOD'S MAGAZINE.
This Number opens with an amusing tale entitled
" Mrs. Peck's Pudding," which records the domestic
distresses of a penniless widow, blessed with fire
small children, who, anxious to have a pudding of
orthodox richness arid dimensions for Christmas-day,
sends her children to beg of their neighbours for tile
requisite materials. Of course their mission is unsuc-
cessful, and the poor widow is in despair, but, luckily,
a good Samaritan takes pity on her delicate distress,
and gives her, not indeed the pudding, but the money
wherewith to buy it. The tale is written with point
and spirit, and makes its appearance at a very season-
able juncture. The following pithy reflection, which
occurs towards the close of the narrative, is very
neatly expressed :—" In this motley world of ours,
some people have their happiness cut thick and
buttered on both sides; and some have it out thin,
with no butter at all." A " Lounge in the Lands"
is a graphic description of that wild, desolate, unshel-
tered district in the neighbourhood of Bourdeaux.
The editor's story of " Our Family" improves in
interest as it proceeds. There are some skilful and
earnest touches of character in the present chapters.
The " Death-Seer" is a ghost•story admirably
adapted for a Christmas fire-side, when the sofa is
wheeled round to the fire, the flowing curtains are
drawn, and the wind is howling without. We sub-
join the fable of the " Lark and the Rook," chiefly
for the useful moral it inculcates :
Once on a time—no matter where—
A Lark took such a fancy to the air,
That though he often gaz'd beneath,
Watching the breezy down, or heath,
Yet very, very seldom he was found
To perch upon the ground.
Hour after hour,
Through ev'ry change of weather hard or soft,
Through sun and shade, and wind and show'r,
Still fluttering aloft ;
In silence now, and now in song,
Up, up in cloudland all day long,
On weary wing, yet with unceasing flight,
Like to those Birds of Paradise, so rare,
Fabled to live, and love, and feed in air,
But never to alight.
It caus'd, of course, much speculation
Among the feather'd generation ;
Who tried to guess the riddle that was in it—
The robin puzzled at it, and the wren,
The swallows, cock and hen,

The wagtail, and the linnet.
The yellowhammer, and the finch as well—
The sparrow ask'd the tit, who couldn't tell,
The jay, the pie—but all were in the dark,
Till out of patience with the common doubt,
The Rook at last resolv'd to worm it ont,
And thus accosted the mysterious Lark :
" Friend, prithee, tell me why
You keep this constant hovering so high,
As if you had some castle in the air,
That you are always poising there,
A speck against the sky—
Neglectful of each old familiar feature
Of Earth that nurs'd you in your callow state—
You think you're only soaring at heaven's gate,
Whereas you're flying in the face of Nature I"
"Friend," said the Lark, with melancholy tone,
And in each little eye a dewdrop shone,
"No creature of my kind was ever fonder
Of that dear spot of earth
Which gave it birth—
And I was nestled in the furrow yonder'.
Sweet is the twinkle of the dewy heath,
And sweet that thymy down I watch. beneath,
Saluted often with a loving sonnet ;
But Men, vile Men, have spread so thick a scarf
Of dirt and infamy about the Turf,
I do not like to settle on it !"

MORAL.
Alas ! how Nobles of another race
Appointed to the bright and lofty way,
Too willingly descend to haunt a place
Polluted by the deeds of Birds of Prey

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

In his "Physiology of London Life," which is here
continued, Mr. Murray gives some useful hints to
those unhappy single gentlemen whose destiny it is to
live in lodgings or boarding-houses. He advises them
by all means to study the physiognomy of the street
in which they think of establishing themselves—a ser-
viceable suggestion, which is not to be neglected with
impunity. Streets, like human beings, have their own
pecular aspects—bad, good, or indifferent—and that
one is the most suited to the views of the lodger,
which is of quiet, respectable appearance, thinly
sprinkled with decent shops, to show that it is devoid
of aristocratic assumption, and not subject to the con-
stant invasion of cabs and carriages. Bat a street
with a pawnbroker's shop in it should be diligently
eschewed by him who is particular in the matter of
location, for the apparition of the three brass balls
impending over the door, is a convincing proof that
the street has seen its best days—has lost the full
bloom of its respectability, and is just running to seed.
Your knowing pawnbroker never squats himself down
in a district till it is no longer in a condition to resist
his intrusion, as the vulture never pounces on a hu-
man being till he is reduced to the last extremity of
weakness. The " Benefits of Snuff-taking," is a com-
mon-place idea ingeniously worked out. A silly.
Frenchman, who had been singularly happy as a ba-
chelor, thought it essential to the full completion of
his felicity that he should take a wife—which he ac-
cordingly did, and as a necessary consequence, never
knew a single tranquil moment till the death of his
spouse, which took place immediately after she had
tale is an
spentthelasatmfoiop
ar,thingofher
commentary on
husbands
thfoorhomtuneely old
fortune. The
adage, " Let well alone." The " Sketches of Legen-
dary Cities," is an article from the practised pen of
Miss Costello, who gossips about the antiquities and
traditional anecdotes connected with the fine old town
of Shrewsbury in a very agreeable spirit. " Notes of
a Loiterer in New York" gives us an insight into the
domestic habits and customs of the inhabitants of,this
thriving and populous city. At the celebrated Astor
House hotel, the writer met at dinner several hundred
Yankees of the better sort, and observes of them :
" They were all well dressed, but all dressed alike,
for there was the everlasting black coat and black
satin waistcoat ; they almost all spoke more or less
through their noses; they were all grave and ceremo-
nious alike ; they all looked dyspeptic : they all, to a
man, had their shirt collar turned down ; and dollars
and cents. appeared to be the leading topic of conver-
sation." Mr. Dickens in his " American Notes," has,

quote a portion o! Miss Cook's " Song of the Sea•
weed :”
I am born in chrystal bower,
Where the despot hath no power
To trail and turn the oozy fern,
Or trample down the fair sea-flower.
I am born where human skill
Cannot bend rue to its will,
None can delve about my root,
And nurse me for my bloom and fruit;
I am left to spread and grow
In my rifted bed below,
Till I break my slender hold,
As the porpoise tumbleth o'er me,
And on I go—now high—now low—
With the ocean world before me.
I am nigh the stately ship
Where she loiters in the calm,
While the south, like love's own lip.
Breathes a sweet and peaceful balm.
Plashing oft with gentle grace,
Round the hull I keep my place,
While the sailor, through the day,
Leaneth o'er her side,
And idly watches me at play
Upon the drowsy tide.
She is staunch and she is stout,
With chain and cable girt about,
But I'll match my tendrils fine
With her shrouds and halyard line.
Now the red flash breaks,
The thunder .volley shakes,
And billows boil with hissing coil,
Like huge snow-crested snakes.
The mad winds reitr,
The rain sheets polo',
And screaming loud mid VaPC and Nona
The white gulls soar;
Diving deep and tossing high,
Round that same ship there am I
Till at last I mount the mast,
In the tight reef hanging fast,
While the fierce and plunging sea
Bow•eth down the stout crosstree,
Till the sharp and straining creek
Echoeth the tempest shriek.
Another peal ! another flash !
Top-gallants start with snapping crash.
" Quick ! quick ! All hands !" one mighty sweep,
And giant guns are in the deep.
Hark ! the heavy axe below,
Whirls and rings with blow on blow,
And I feel the timber quiver,
Like a bulrush on a river.
Still I twine about the pine,
Till a wild and bursting cry
Tells the fearful work is done,
The ship leaps up, the mast is gone,
And away with it go I.
Now I dance and dash again,
Headlong through the howling main,
While the lightning groweth stronger,
And the thunder rattleth longer,
Now I feel a hard hand clutch me,
With a wildly snatching hold ;
Who is he that dares to touch me,
With a gripe so strong and bold ?
'Tis the sailor, young and brave,
Struggling o'er his yawning grave.
Does he think that he can cling
To the Seaweed's mazy string ?
Does he dream with frenzied hope,
Of floating spar and saving rope ?
He does, he does, but billows meet,
And form his close-vvrnp'd winding sheet,
While I mingle with the ;wreath
Of white foam gurgling throv,gh his teeth,
•
And twist and tangle in his locks,
As the mountain waters lift him,
And the frothy breakers drift him,
On the gray and iron rocks.