(THOMAS HOOD was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845. He was des. tined for commercial pursuits, and at an early age was placed in a counting. house in his native city. Being of a delicate constitution, his health began to fail; and at the age of fifteen he was sent to Dundee, in Scotland, to reside with some relatives. Here he lived for two years; reading much in a desultory way, and gaining strength by rambling, fishing, and boating. Upon his return to London, he devoted himself for some time to the art of engraving, and thus acquired that knowledge of drawing which he afterwards turned to good account in the humorous pictorial illustrations with which many of his works were accompanied. But his tastes were strongly literary; and at the age of twenty-three he embraced the profession of letters, and began to earn his bread by his pen. His life was one of severe toil, and, from his delicate health and sensitive temperament, of much suffering, always sustained, however, with manly resolution and a cheerful spirit. He wrote much both in prose and verse. His works consist, for the most part, of collected contributions to magazines and periodicals. His novel of "Tylney Hall" was not very successful. His "Whims and Oddities," of which three volumes were published, and his "Hood's Own," are the most popular of his writings. "Up the Rhine" is the narrative of an imaginary tour in Germany by a family party. "Whimsicalities" is a collection of his contributions to the "New Monthly Magazine," of which he was at one time the editor. At the time of his death he was conducting a periodical called "Hood's Magazine," in which some of his best pieces appeared. Hood was a man of peculiar and original genius, which manifested itself with equal power and ease in humor and pathos. He was a very accurate observer of life and manners. His wit is revealed by a boundless profusion of the quaintest, oddest, and most unexpected combinations; and his humor is marked alike by richness and delicacy. As a punster, he stands without a rival. No one else has given so much expression and character to this inferior form of wit. His serious productions are mostly in the form of verse, and are remarkable for sweetness and tenderness of feeling, exquisite fancy, and finely chosen language. A few of them, such as "The Dream of Eugene Aram," "The Song of the Shirt," "The Bridge of Sighs," have great power and pathos. In many of his poems the sportive and serious elements are most happily blended. A Retrospective Review" is a case in point.] 1 ONE more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, 2 Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; 3 Look at her garments 4 Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her 5 Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; While wonderment guesses Where was her home? 6 Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? 7 Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity (ELIJAH KELLOGG was born in Portland, Maine, and was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1840. In 1844 he was ordained over the Congregational Society of Harpswell. In 1855 he removed to Boston, and became pastor of the Mariners' Church, under the patronage of the Boston Seamen's Friend Society. He has since continued to reside there. The following is a supposed speech of Spartacus, who was a real personage. He was a Thracian by birth, and a gladiator, who headed a rebellion of gladiators and slaves against the Romans, which was not suppressed until after a long struggle, in which he showed great energy and ability. A prætor was a Roman magistrate. The vestal virgins were priestesses of Vesta. They had a conspicuous place at the gladiatorial shows. The ancients attached great importance to the rites of sepulture, and believed that if the body were not buried, the soul could not cross the Styx, and reach the Elysian fields, the abode of the departed spirits of the good.] IT had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of rev5 elry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet, and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drop on the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark 10 waters of Volturnus with wavy, tremulous light. It was a night of holy calm, when the zephyr sways the young spring leaves, and whispers among the hollow reeds its dreamy music. No sound was heard but the last sob of some weary wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles 15 of the beach, and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were crowded together, - their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, and 20 the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows, — when Spartacus, rising in the midst of that grim assemblage, thus addressed them: "Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every 25 shape of man or beast that the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and yet never has lowered his arm. And if there be one among you who can say that, ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, |