And so be lived, and so he died: He shook my hand: · Ah me?' he cried, While life was flickering in the socket, I'll bring a license in my pocket. I've left my house and grounds to Fag- To feed him for my sake, or shoot him. She'll find him an uncommon mouser My doctors cannot quite determine; And be, like Priam, food for vermin. THOMAS HOOD. THOMAS HOOD (1798–1845) appeared before the public chiefly as a comic poet and humorist; but several of his compositions, of a different nature, shew that he was also capable of excelling in the grave, pathetic, and sentimental. He had thoughts too deep for tears,' and rich imaginative dreams and fancies, which were at times embodied in continuous strains of pure and exquisite poetry, but more frequently thrown in, like momentary shadows, among his light and fantastic effusions. His wit and sarcasm were always well applied. This ingenious and gifted man was a native of London, son of one of the partners in the book-selling firm of Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe. He was educated for the counting-house, and at an early age was placed under the charge of a City merchant. His health, however, was found unequal to the close confinement and application required at the merchant's desk, and he was sent to reside with some relatives in Dundee, of which town his father was a native. While resident there, Mr. Hood evinced his taste for literature. He contributed to the local newspapers, and also to the Dundee Magazine,' a periodical of considerable merit. On the re-establishment of his health, he returned to London, and was put apprentice to a relation, an engraver. At this employment he remained just long enough to acquire a taste for drawing, which was afterwards of essential service to him in illustrating his poetical productions. About the year 1821 he had adopted literature as a profession, and was installed as regular assistant to the London Magazine,' which at that time was left without its founder and ornament. Mr. John Scott, who was unhappily killed in a duel. On the cessation of this work, Mr. Hood wrote for SITT When various periodicals. He was some time editor of the New Monthly Magazine,' and also of a magazine which bore his own name. life was one of incessant exertion, embittered by ill neaith and al the disquiets and uncertainties incidental to autorship. almost prostrated by disease, the governmeut stepped in to relieve him with a small pension; and alter his premature death in May 1845, his literary friends contributed liberally towards the support of his widow and family. The following lines, written a few weeks before his death, possess a peculiar and mecholy interest: Farewell. Lif! my senses swim, Welcome. Life! the spirit strives: Apri, 1845. Mr. Hood's productions are in various styles and forms. His first work, Whims and Oddities,' attained to great popularity. Their most original feature was the us which the author made of puns-a figure generally too contemptible for literature, but which in Hood's hands, became the basis of genuine humour, and often of the purest pathos. He afterwards (1827) tried a series of National Tales'; but his prose was less attractive than his verse. A regular novel, Tylney Hall,' was a more decided failure. In poetry he made a great advance. The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies' is a rich imaginative work, superior to his other productions. As editor of the Comic Annual' and also of some of the literary annuals, Mr. Hood increased his reputation for sportive humour and poetical fancy; and he continued the same vein in his Up the Rhine -a satire on the absurdities of English travellers. In 1843. he issued two volumes of Whimsicalities, a Periodical Gathering,' collected chiefly from the New Monthly Magazine.' His last production of any importance was the 'Song of the Shirt,' which first appeared in Punch' (1844), and is as admirable in spirit as in composition. This striking picture of the miseries of the poor London sempstresses struck home to the heart, and aroused the benevolent feelings of the public. In most of Hood's works, even in his puns and levities, there is a spirit of good' directed to some kindly or philanthropic object. He had serious and mournful jests, which were the more effective from their strange and unexpected combinations. Those who came to laugh at folly, remained to sympathise with want and suffering. The various pen' of Hood, said Douglas Jerrold, 'touched alike the springs of laughter and the sources of tears.' Charles Lamb said Hood carried two faces under his namesake,' a tragic one and a comic. Of Hood's graceful and poetical puns, it would be easy to give abundant specimens. The following stanzas form part of an inimit able burlesque: Lament for the Decline of Chivalry. All chivalrous romanic work Well hast thou said, departed Burke, is ended now and past! The curtal-axe is out of date! 'The good old cross-bow bends to Fate; 'Tis gone the archer's craft! That iron age, which some have thought No tough arm bends the springing yew, Of mettle rater overwrougnt, is now an over-cast. Ay! where are those heroic knights Who wore the plaited vest? The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound; Old Table sucu eclat! Oh, Time has plucked the plumy brow! But those that go to law! Where are those old and fendal clans, A breathing piece of work; but men And jolly draymen ride, in lieu In cavils when will cavaliers No iron crackling now is scored Farewell, then, ancient men of might! The grave, lofty, and sustained style of Hood is much more rare than this punning vein, but a few verses will shew how truly poetical at times was his imagination-how rapt his fancy. The diction of the subjoined stanzas is rich and musical, and may recall some of the finest flights of the Elizabethan poets. We quote from an 'Ode to the Moon.' Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Like the wild chamois on her Alpine snow, Where hunter never climbed-secure from dread? A thousand ancient fancies I have read Of that fair presence, and a thousand wrought, Upon the silver light, Tracing fresh figures with the artist thought. What art thou like? Sometimes I see thee ride Clustered by all thy family of stars. Like a lone widow through the welkin wide, Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch, Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be ! Casting their dappled shadows at my feet; In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet, In the Gem, a literary annual for 1829, Mr. Hood published a ballad entitled 'The Dream of Eugene Aram,' which is also remarkable for its exhibition of the secrets of the human heart, and its deep and powerful moral feeling. It is perhaps to be regretted that an author who had undoubted command of the higher passions and emotions, should so seldom have frequented this sacred ground, but have preferred the gaieties of mirth and fancy. He probably saw that his originality was more apparent in the latter, and that popularity was in this way more easily attained. Immediate success was of importance to him; and until the position of literary men be rendered more secure and unassailable, we must often be content to lose works which can only be the ripened fruits of wise delay.' The following is one of Hood's most popular effusions in that style which the public identified as peculiarly his own: A Parental Ode to my Son, aged Three Years and Five Months. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (Why, Jane, he 'il set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth: Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, CYCLOPEDIA OF (That dog will bite if he pulls its tail!) (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove !) (Are those torn clothes his best?) (He'll cimb upou the table. that s his plan !) No storms, no clouds, in tay blue sky foreseeing, Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick :)) (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) The Song of the Shirt. With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger and dirt: And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, 'Work-work-work ! While the cock is crowing aloof! Till the-tars shine through the roof! Along with the barbarous Turk. Where women has never a soul to save, 'Work-work-work! Till the brain begins to swim; Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! 'O men, with sisters dear! O men, with mothers and wives, It is not linen vou're wearing out! But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt. But why do I talk of death? It seems so like my own. |