ily all such notions have now passed or are passing away; and it is even thought by some that marriage, like the State and the Church, is rather too old an institution to survive our present paroxysms of improvement. As a further development of this noble system, strange its advocates do not propose to get up a new edition of woman with beards and bass voices! Weighed in the balance of this sublime philosophy, Desdemona has of course been found wanting in the qualities that make up the idea of female heroism.

But seriously: In an age when freedom and dignity are sought for in insubordination; and obedience, save to ourselves, is not only thought, but, far worse, is even felt to be a sort of degradation: when wisdom, (queer wisdom!) inculcating an identity of rights and duties between the sexes, is giving us mannish women and effeminate men, forgetting that the more the sexes resemble, the less they will love and respect one another: when woman, instead of quietly doing her duties to secure her rights, that she may be in a condition to do her duties, and of course finds the former so long a labor that she can never come to the latter: when, reversing the doctrine and practice of our fathers, that married people "must be complicated in affections and interest, that there be no distinction between them of mine and thine;" and that "their gods should be as their children, not to be divided, but of one possession and provision," for that "whatsoever is otherwise is not marriage, but merchandize;"-when, reversing all this, marriage is passing from a junction of aims and interests into a conflict and competition thereof, and the old-fashioned way of regarding man and wife as one person, and so legislating round them, is getting reformed into a method of legislating between them; so that the wife, instead of seeking protection in her husband, in the religious awe with which, by a meek, gentle, submissive demeanor, she used in simpler times to inspire him, is resorting to legal provi sions and securities for protection against him: when a heartless system of domestic equality and independence is crushing all the higher domestic sentiments, killing off old honor and loyalty and gentleness and generosity, by leaving them nothing to do, nor any occasion for their exercise ;-pumping out all the spontaneous chivalry of our nature, and leaving us no manhood for woman to trust, nor any womanhood for man to fear: when a sort of malignant, ferocious, philanthropy, sprung from the marriage of ambition and infidelity, is going about to strip off the sacred wardrobe ⚫ which religion has gathered about our otherwise naked, shivering, defenceless nature, to supply its place with court-house logic and paper constitutions,-until the great sacrament and bond of society, the consecrated channel through which all social grace must come to us, or else not come at all, has got well nigh desiccated into a soulless, godless, impotent and impudent legality :-in such an age, it is surely far from strange, that the possession of lofty, heroic qualities should have been denied her

"Whose life was, like the violet, sweet,

As climbing jasmine, pure:"

and who was guilty of no more heroism in respect of her husband than is implied in "though he slay me, yet will I trust in him;" or, in her own words,

"Unkindness may do much;

And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love."

Well might Wordsworth say,

"The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone, our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws."

Fortunately, however, notwithstanding our present surfeit of transcendental crotchets and theories, we may hope there yet survives a revisionary fund of healthy sentiment in human nature, which "the gentle lady married to the Moor" may fall back upon with confidence. People may wrangle and syllogise themselves into errors and follies as they will, but nature is still too strong for them, and, before this excellent pattern of wifely submission, will be pretty sure to vindicate herself in their hearts."

Some may object to Mr. Hudson's style as too abrupt and at times jagged, but every man to his peculiarities; he may polish these, but if he subdues them he will lose all that makes him readable. He sometimes gives strict grammar the go-by, bearing more interest in conveying his meaning clearly than grammatically. The defects, however, are few, and in our opinion these two volumes contain the best commentary on Shakspeare that ever has been written, and stamp Mr. Hudson as a clear, original thinker, and a strong minded man.

JUNE ON THE OCEAN.

BY L'A.

It is a delightful relief to the American traveler in Europe, to find himself once more on shipboard, fairly embarked for home.. If he has been a conscientious traveler, the tranquility of a seavoyage is almost indispensable to his excited intellect and imagi nation, particularly if fresh from Italy, or the storied banks of the Rhine. Long before quitting the former, he becomes weary with the rapid and rich succession of antique novelties, and is almost horrified at the prospect of encountering another painting-gallery or museum. His recollections are inevitably more or less indistinct and confused. While opportunity offered, he gorged himself, and he needs time to digest the mental salmagundi. The innumera

ble army of gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines, in stone or on canvas, naked and draped, float in phantasmagoric dance before his over-wrought and bewildered memory. A month of repose in the solitude of the sea, is as sleep to a fevered man.

In summer, when the breezes blow fresh from the south and the waters and the sky rival each other's brightness; and above all, in the brilliant month of June, when the full moon is shining, the livelong night, and the sun rises and declines, day after day, week after week, in unclouded majesty, the ocean is a glory and a delight. Oh! forever, in sunshine and in storm, its glory is unchangeable as that of its mighty Maker! Images, all-beautiful and sublime, come thronging from its bosom, like its own eternal exhalations, and in the light of the soul they distil perpetually, a thousand graceful, rainbow-colored forms!

It is true, no song of birds greets your ear, with the rising day, or pleasant chirp of the grasshopper in the fresh grass, or other of those thousand sights and sounds, that so endear to the poet's heart, the "leafy month of June." No waving groves or bright grain vary the broad scene. But then the green waves gleam and heave in the sunshine, and the light breeze flings over them all a net-work of silvery, bubbling foain, as of blossoms floating over a forest-top in the bloom of the rural year.

And you see no graves or ruins on the ocean. Men point proudly to the relics of their fathers' strife, where brother throttled brother, and left his foul carcass to infect the air; but the sea hides quickly its wrecks and its dead, and seems to stand over them with finger on its lip, to command our silence and awe.

And to the denizen of the town, the change is peculiarly grateful. June, in the town, is often hot and dusty. The air simmers up from the white side-walks, as over a hot stove. Now and then, a fitful gust sweeps round the corner of the street, bearing along a small column of dust. It suddenly subsides, leaving the dust to fall as in a cloud. The shops upon the sunny side of the way are deserted; and the younger partner comes often to the door, looking anxiously up street and down, for the shadow of a may-be customer. The school-girls coming home from school, fling carelessly upon their bonnets, their thick green veils, and nod familiarly, themselves unknown, to the young gentlemen who gather in the drug store to see them pass, and who are thereby sadly tantalized. Then perhaps a shower descends, as you are strolling lazily along in your blouse; and too hot, or too dignified to run, you finally reach refuge at your friend's, the jeweller's, looking forlorn as a patient in his hydropathic shirt.

Now, at sea, of course there's no dust. And saving the calms, which in these latitudes are rare and short, you may always revel in the luxury of a breeze. The glittering spray, scattered from some passing wave, often showers the deck, or drawing a rainbow crest over the summit of the wave itself, and then falling in a sheaf of liquid crystal, leaps up again in some new form, like old

Proteus sporting in the sea. The ship sails on, day after day, with easy motion; the white canvas spreads itself wider and higher, to catch the lightest whiff; the captain gives himself up to the entertainment of his lady passengers; and the passengers themselves, after the first few days of sickness, are all out upon the quarter deck to enjoy the free air. The ladies recline around upon pillows and foot-cushions, and the captain's sea jackets, and the gentlemen's cloaks. The invalids remain quiet, while the more fortunate busy themselves with their favorite games-chess, dominoes, or shuffles.

It was a bright June morning, when the Ashburton swung out of the Liverpool docks, and floated down the Mersey. The black, asthmatic little steam-craft that had shouldered us along, detached itself about two o'clock in the afternoon, and with all sail set, we stood out for sea. We neared Holyhead in the night, intending to descend St. George's channel, but finding several vessels there, wind-bound already several days, the captain ordered "up helm," and put for the northern passage. The passengers remained on deck till the night shut off all longer prospect of the Scotch and Irish coasts-for both are visible from the middle of the channel. A ragged little Scotch terrier, who belonged to one of the ladies in the cabin, ran from side to side, and resting with fore paws upon the bulwarks, sniffed the land-breeze, and whined most piteously. The cow, too, looking from her cabin window, pricked up her ears and grew wistful and very pensive, at each glimpse of the green hill sides, that rose with the falling ship.

We cleared the passage, I think, the same evening, and the following dawn found us alone on the ocean:

cælum undique et undique pontus."

And now, at once severed from every wonted association, we turn ourselves to the study of ourselves-the temporary denizens of this little world-this world-fragment, shot into space as by some convulsion, with all its living load.

The cabin of a liner is built upon the vessel's main deck, at the stern. Its roof forms the quarter-deck or poop. These decks communicate with each other, only by steep and narrow ladders. The ascent to the quarter-deck from the cabin, is by convenient stairs. within.

The cabin itself is generally supplied with a sofa at each end, and a table running nearly its entire length, which, together with the cane-work settees that flank it, is of course fixed. Two parallel ridges running around its edge, serve to guard the plates, with occasional cross-pieces to keep the turkey from chassezing up to the beef, and both from diving into the captain's lap. One day (this, however, happened in a February gale,) the steward was on the lower side of the table arranging the dishes, the ship gave an unlucky lurch-steward's feet slipped from under him-his chin dropped in a passenger's plate, the turkey cut cable, drove gallantly

along his neck and back, leaving a shining wake of gravy in its path, till it finally heaved to, under the berth of the open state room opposite. And not seldom, in a lively storm, you will see the company at table suspend suddenly all operations, and begin balancing their plates in the air, like a band of jugglers, to keep the sauce and chicken in true equilibrum. Then the saltcellar comes tearing down upon you, just as you had grasped the castor with your only free hand, and your neighbor opposite, in trying to overtake it, blackens a yard of table-cloth with his upset coffee.

Over the centre of the table, just under the sky-light, swings the ship's barometer, together with a compass. The mizen-mast passes up through the cabin and the dining table, and is cased with mahogany or satin wood, or richly painted. Around this apartment, and opening into it, are the passengers' state rooms, furnished with two berths each, the one above the other, and with washing apparatus and a small settee-which settee serves for a drawer-chest and lounge-and a delightful lounge it is, only being against the vessel's side, you must hold on with both hands, and keep one leg awake to save yourself in a roll.

And by the way, talking of the wash-bowl, brings up some funny purgatorial recollections.

A storm has risen during the night, and the ship is dancing about like a cockle-shell. You attempt to rise, and find yourself prostrate after every effort, as if your room-mate had got crazy and quarrelsome from sea-sickness, and wouldn't let you up. At last you succeed in coaxing on your pants. One of your slippers has slid under the berth, and you try to hook it out with your cane, but it wont be hooked. By and by, you draw up to the wash-stand, and of the entire contents of the pitcher, spill about a pint in the bowl itself.

Then comes a solemn pause. You plant one foot against the berth-side, and the other against the opposite settee. One hand grasps the edge of the wash-stand, and the other a knob below. With hair disheveled, suspenders swinging in air behind, and one slipper between two feet, you eye lugubriously the mouthful of liquid before you, oscillating from rim to rim, and leaping in mimic waves. Slowly and carefully you lower your head and close your eyes, preparatory to the immersion. Biff! your nose flattens out on the damp crookery, while the water has already bespattered the door. One more draught upon the pitcher, and unless very unlucky, you succeed this time in moistening your nasal extremity and the tips of your eye-lashes. Then you wipe yourself very dry, and go to breakfast in your overcoat or gown, buttoned up to the ears.

But we had no experiences of this sort, aboard the Ashburton. The easy breeze that met us in the Irish sea, attended us across the entire Atlantic. Our mainsail was reefed but once, and for nearly a week the studding-sails were undisturbed; the studding