THE BOATMAN. Still shorter was a short winter’s day rendered by a heavy and gloomy mist that filled the atmosphere and made it murky twilight long before the sun went down. It had just ended, in blasts and pelting rain, when a Thames boatman, chilled and wet by exposure, and with a pair of oars upon his shoulder, entered the door of his humble abode by the river side. His habitation, although wretched enough, seemed to be a palace of comfort in his eyes, as they met the cheerful blaze upon the hearth, with his good wife stooping down and cooking a warm supper for him, and beheld upon a few coals, seething most invitingly, a mug of egg flip. The sight made him smile with a cheery expression upon his dark, sun-browned face, which, as he first entered, looked sour and discomposed: and when his young wife, and handsome withal, rose up and turned to welcome him with `I am so glad you have come in, Martin!’ spoken in the tones that only a loving wife can utter, his gloomy aspect disappeared entirely, and he responded with a kindliness of look and voice which showed that he not only loved his wife, but had his heart in the right place: `And glad am I to come in, Martha, for the night is as cheerless and cold as I ever would care to be abroad in!’ he said, placing his oars in beckets over the door. `Then I am rejoiced that you havn’t to go on the river! It is so rare that I have you at home with me so early, that I feel grateful to the storm and darkness that keeps travelers in their houses. How drenched your muffler is?’ she added with a look of surprise and sympathy, as she untied it from his neck and hung it dripping upon a chair by the fire. `What a time you must have had!’ `Yes, and no fares at that, Martha,’ he answered, removing his heavy, wet over-coat, the numerous patches upon which showed both the poverty of the husband and the tenderness and skill of the wife. It also revealed, suspended by a ribbon upon his breast, a silver medal