When JOHNSON married Mrs. Porter, her age was twice his own; yet the union proved a happy one. It was not a love-match, but it was one of inclination and of reciprocal esteem. Johnson was any thing but graceful or attractive, yet he possessed admirable qualities. Mrs. Porter was rather ungainly; but Johnson was very shortsighted, and could not detect personal faults. In his eyes, she was beautiful; and, in an affectionate epitaph which he devoted to her, he painted her in glowing colors. Indeed, his writings contain many proofs of the lively and sincere affection which he entertained for her. While such have been the wives of a few of the great men of past times, it must be stated that, probably, the greatest of them all led a single life. The greatest of the philosophers were bachelors, such as Bacon, Newton, Gassendi, Galileo, Descartes, Bayle, Locke, Leibnitz, Hume, Gibbon; and many poets also as Pope, Goldsmith, and Thompson. Bacon says that wife and children are "impediments to great enterprises;" and that "certainly the best works, and of greatest merit for the public, have proceeded from the unmarried, or childless men, which, both in affection and reason, have married and endowed the public." But these were the words of a bachelor, and, perhaps, not strictly correct. The great men of more recent times have generally been married; and, at another time, we shall probably complete this paper by a brief account of the more distinguished of their wives. A LEGEND OF ST. MARY'S. BY ALICE CAREY. One night, when bitterer winds than ours On hill-sides and in valleys low, Built sepulchres for the dead flowers, And buried them in sheets of snow,-- When over ledges dark and cold, The sweet moon rising high and higher, Tipped with a dimly burning gold St. Mary's old cathedral spire,-- The lamp of the confessional, (God grant it did not burn in vain,) After the solemn midnight bell, Streamed redly through the lattice-pane. And kneeling at the father's feet, Whose long and venerable hairs, Now whiter than the mountain sleet, Could not have numbered half his prayers, Was one--I cannot picture true The cherub beauty of his guise; Lilies, and waves of deepest blue, Were something like his hands and eyes! Like yellow mosses on the rocks, Dashed with the ocean's milk-white spray, The softness of his golden locks About his cheek and forehead lay. Father, thy tresses, silver-sleet, Ne'er swept above a form so fair; Surely the flowers beneath his feet Have been a rosary of prayer! We know not, and we cannot know, Why swam those meek blue eyes with tears; But surely guilt, or guiltless wo, Had bowed him earthward more than years. All the long summer that was gone, A cottage maid, the village pride, Fainter and fainter smiles had worn, And on that very night she died!