326 [January 28,1860.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Conducted by

kiss thy cheek, and the pleasures of imagination
attend thy dreams; and when length of years makes
thee tired of earthly joys, and the curtain of death
gently closes around thy last sleep of human exist-
ence, may the Angel of God attend thy bed, and
take care that the expiring lamp of life shall not re-
ceive one rude blast to hasten on its extinction.

A sailor had these devices on his right arm.
"Our Saviour on the Cross, the forehead of the
crucifix and the vesture stained red; on the
lower part of the arm, a man and woman; on
one side of the Cross, the appearance of a half
moon, with a face; on the other side, the sun;
on the top of the Cross, the letters I.H.S.; on
the left arm, a man and woman dancing, with
an effort to delineate the female's dress; under
which, initials." Another seaman "had, on the
lower part of the right arm, the device of a
sailor and a female; the man holding the Union
Jack with a streamer, the folds of which waved
over her head, and the end of it was held in her
hand. On the upper part of the arm, a device
of Our Lord on the Cross, with stars surround-
ing the head of the Cross, and one large star on
the side in Indian ink. On the left arm, a flag,
a true lovers' knot, a face, and initials." This
tattooing was found still plain, below the disco-
loured outer surface of a mutilated arm, when
such surface was carefully scraped away with a
knife. It is not improbable that the perpetua-
tion of this marking custom among seamen, may
be referred back to their desire to be identified,
if drowned and flung ashore.

It was some time before I could sever myself
from the many interesting papers on the table,
and then I broke bread and drank wine with the
kind family before I left them. As I had
brought the Coast-guard down, so I took the
Postman back, with his leathern wallet, walking-
stick, bugle, and terrier dog. Many a heart-
broken letter had he brought to the Rectory-
House within two months; many a benignantly
painstaking answer had he carried back.

As I rode along, I thought of the many people,
inhabitants of this mother country, who would
make pilgrimages to the little churchyard in the
years to come; I thought of the many people in
Australia, who would have an interest in such a
shipwreck, and would find their way here when
they visit the Old World; I thought of the
writers of all the wreck of letters I had left
upon the table; and I resolved to place this
little record where it stands. Convocations,
Conferences, Diocesan Epistles, and the like,
will do a great deal for Religion, I dare say,
and Heaven send they may! but I doubt if they
will ever do their Master's service half so well, in
all the time they last, as the Heavens have seen
it done in this bleak spot upon the rugged coast
of Wales.

Had I lost the friend of my life, in the wreck
of the Royal Charter; had I lost my betrothed,
the more than friend of my life; had I lost my
maiden daughter, had I lost my hopeful boy, had
I lost my little child; I would kiss the hands
that worked so busily and gently in the church,
and say, " None better could have touched the

form, though it had lain at home." I could
be sure of it, I could be thankful for it: I could
be content to leave the grave near the house the
good family pass in and out of every day, undis-
turbed, in the little churchyard where so many
are so strangely brought together.

Without the name of the clergyman to whom
—I hope, not without carrying comfort to some
heart at some time—I have referred, my refer-
ence would be as nothing. He is the Reverend
Stephen Roose Hughes, of Llanallgo, near
Moelfra, Anglesey. His brother is the Reverend
Hugh Robert Hughes, of Penrhos Alligwy.

MY BOYS.

I AM in the awful position of being the father
of a large family of boys. If I were asked of
how many, I should not be able to answer. I
only know that they are all home for the holi-
days at once, at this present writing, that they
are visited by " fellows" of their own age, and
that with feelings of the strongest affection for
my own offspring and of general philanthropy
for the "fellows" before spoken of, I yet find
myself occasionally referring to the almanack to
see how many days longer it will be before " the
boys" go back again to school.

'" And why," asks some celibate, who reads
these words—" why wish the holidays at an
end?" My answer is simple; my boys are good
boys enough, they are respectful and obedient,
but I don't know what to do with them, and
they, for their part, have not the remotest no-
tion what to do with themselves. There is some-
thing in this one respect radically wrong about
the boys of this generation. They want pur-
pose. They don't play at anything. The
younger ones even, have not imagination enough
to carry out a self-delusion through half a day
together, as I used to do. I have all my life
been fond of horses; but I can solemnly declare
that I have, in early youth, enjoyed a ride upon
a harnessed chair, elaborately prepared with
stirrups and bridle of my own construction, and
with spurs which derived their existence from
the same source, with my cloak rolled up in front
of me—  it was unfurled and put on, though, when
that fearful storm came on which overtook
me on the heath—with stoppages to bait
and easily achieved payments of ostlers, con-
sisting in the insertion of a finger and thumb
into an imaginary waistcoat-pocket and the de-
positing of a shilling, bright from Imagina-
tion's mint, on that particular portion of that
particular piece of furniture which did duty for
the official's hand—rides such as these, I say,
diversified by that fearful night encounter with
highwaymen, and rescue of the distressed lady
in the wood, I have enjoyed a million times
more than the excursions of after life, when I
have sat upon a real saddle, have had my feet
in real stirrups, and have had a real quadruped
between them. Playing at horses has declined,
perhaps, with the decay of stage-coaches.

Why don't my boys—  the bigger ones—scoop
out ships, as I used, and go thoroughly into the