wondrous temples which still adorn the banks of the Nile, by the use of which the Greeks perfected their architecture, and which enabled the masons in the Middle Ages to erect those cathedrals and castles which we still admire so much. In all other ages but this the principles of architecture were as well understood and as fixed as those of engineering. They were, in fact, identical; and it was just as easy to ascertain then what was the best design for a cathedral or a mansion, as it is now to know what is the best form of a ship or the best mode of building a bridge. The consequence of this divergence of principle is that the architects are quarrelling over Greek mouldings and Gothic pinnacles, and dreaming of reproducing the elegance of classical times, or the blundering enthusiasm of the Middle Ages, while the engineers are spanning our rivers with structures such as the world never saw before-bridging our valleys with viaducts, arching under our mountains, and roofing acres for stations. They are, in fact, executing a series of works that throw everything hitherto done into the shade: but all this, unfortunately, without that touch of higher art which is alone wanted for perfection; and this simply because the building profession is divided against itself. Because its two branches are conducted on different principles they cannot work together. The engineers cannot forego theirs because they are the only principles which men of common sense can follow; so, unless the architects will consent to forego some of their archæological fancies, and work harmoniously with the engineers, we may be condemned to live in the midst of ugliness for ever. It is only this reunion that is wanted to perfect the works described above, and it ought to be easy of accomplishment. The architects themselves would delight in the change. It is the public who are their employers who do not see the necessity for it, and cannot understand its bearing. When once the fact is appreciated we shall surpass all preceding ages in architecture, as we have done in engineering; and if the engineers can only force this fact on public attention they will have done a greater service than in bridging the Menai Straits, or in tunneling through the Alps. To call architecture back within the domain of logic and of common sense is what is most wanted on the part of the engineers to complete the services which they have rendered and are rendering to mankind. ᎪᎡᎢ . ART. II.-1. The Works of Thomas Hood. 7 vols. Edited, with Notes, by his Son. London, 1862. 2. Hood's Own, First and Second Series. 3. Memorials of Thomas Hood. 2 vols. a London, 1862. T depends greatly on a man's physical health and animal spirits whether he shall be of a large, calm, outward-looking nature and objective mind, or shall be a brooding subjective being, whose vision is introverted, and whose temperament is too irritable to allow full time for maturing the larger births of literature. The great Humorists, as a rule, were men of overflowing animal spirits. They have, as the term suggests, more moisture of the bodily temperament; the unction of mirth, and the wine of gladness. Such are the Chaucers, Ben Jonsons, and Fieldings, the Molières and Rabelais. But the small, thin men, with little flesh and blood, the Popes, Voltaires, and Hoods, rarely reach this perfect joyousness of feeling. On the contrary, they feel naked to the least breath of the world, as though they were one live sensitive nerve of self, and the slightest touch erects their pens like porcupines' quills. That a man with a powerful frame and robust health may, even in a time like ours, reach the corpulent Brobdignagian humour of the older writers, we have had ample proof in John Wilson, whose life was so opulent, and laugh so hearty, that he could shake off all the cob-webs of our miserable self-consciousness. That which would pierce the little men to the vitals he took as a mere tickling of his cuticle. Those things which are as the mighty blows of Thor's hammer to others only seemed to make him look up and say with Skrymir, there must be sparrows roosting in this tree, I think; what is that they have dropped?' It is a very noticeable feature in Hood's character that, with even worse health than Pope's, he was of a most sweet temper; and no amount of pain and buffeting could turn him into one of the wasps of wit. But to read his nature and appreciate his works, we must turn to his Life. Thomas Hood by birth was a genuine Cockney. He was born May 23rd, 1799, in the Poultry, London; therefore within the sound of Bow bells. His father was a native of Scotland; but in this instance the old saying, that one Scotsman will be sure to introduce another, was not verified; Thomas Hood being as unlike a Scotsman as possible. His grandmother was an Armstrong; and he used to say in joke that he was descended from two notorious thieves, Robin Hood and Johnnie Armstrong. The genius of Cockneydom, however, was the ruling power in mixing the elements of his nature. He would have been all the richer for a little of the ruddy health of Robin, and the hardihood of the renowned Borderer. But Cockney he was doomed to be; and we cannot help thinking that the 'Song of the Shirt' could only have been written by one who entered deeply into London life, so as to feel instinctively how it went with the poorest poor who dwell high up the dark and rickety staircases, seeing the stars through the rents of the roof; to whom spring only comes in the plant or flower on the window-sill; the gleam of sunshine on the wing of the swallow darting by, or the warble of an imprisoned skylark. Only a dweller in London who knows how the poor live, could fathom the indescribable yearning of the fevered body and pent-up soul for one breath of the country air and boundless space; to cool the feet in the sweet green grass, and the fingers among its wild flowers; to freshen the poor worn eyes with a look at the glad green world of pleasant leaves, waving woods, and blue heaven bending over all. Hood took cheerfully enough to his birthplace, and thought if local prejudices were worth anything the balance ought to be in favour of the capital. He would as lief have been a native of London as of Stoke Pogis, and considered the Dragon of Bow Church or Gresham's Grasshopper as good a terrestrial sign to be born under as the dunghill cock on a village steeple. He thought a literary man might exult that he first saw the light,-or perhaps the fog,-in the same metropolis as Milton, Gray, De Foe, Pope, Byron, Lamb, and other town-born authors, whose fame has nevertheless triumphed over the Bills of Mortality.' So in their goodly company he cheerfully took up his livery, especially as Cockneyism, properly so called, appeared to him to be limited to no particular locality or station in life. It is likewise worthy of remark, that Hood owes a whole class of humorous character to the streets of London. The Lost Child' is a type of what we mean. In this the nature and language are strictly Cockney. The cooped-up maternal agony grows garrulous beyond measure; and so all rules of verse are violated in order that ample expression may be given to the grief. The result is a long lugubrious patter; tragedy and farce blending in a burlesque such as Mr. Robson alone could do justice to. 6 Hood's father was a man of literary taste; had written a couple of novels, and was one of the firm of Vernor and Hood which published the poems of Bloomfield and Kirke White. James, the eldest boy, likewise had literary predilections. His mother, we are told, was somewhat startled to find a note note-book which appeared to contain some secret confession of hopeless love; the good lady not knowing that her son had been translating Petrarch. Thus Thomas Hood had, as he said, a dash of ink in his blood, which soon became manifest in an inkling for authorship. He was a shy, quiet child, exceedingly sensitive, and delicate in health; fond of making his little observations with continual humour as he sat silently watching, with noticing eyes, the main stream of life passing by. One of his earliest artistic efforts was a great success, although not exactly in the way he had anticipated. He smoked a terrific-looking demon on the bedroom ceiling with a candle, intending to frighten his brother on going to bed; but forgetting all about it, he was himself the victim, and found it no joke. Disease and death were early and frequent visitors to the Hood family. James,' the elder brother, was soon carried off. The father died suddenly, leaving the widow with her little ones but poorly provided for. The wife soon followed her husband. Hood's sister Anne did not survive the mother very long, both dying of consumption. It was on the death of this sister that Hood wrote his tender and touching little poem called the 'Deathbed.' The mother whilst living had given her son what education she could command. He acquired French, and became a pretty good classical scholar. In his attempt on his own life' he speaks of winning a prize for Latin without knowing the Latin for prize. But he had a capable teacher after he left the school at which this happened, and his witty renderings from Latin authors were well known to his friends in after life. We do not make out the precise date at which Thomas Hood was articled to his uncle, Mr. Sands, the engraver, nor how long he laboured at the art which first taught him how to etch his own funny fancies. He speaks of having sat at a desk in some commercial office, but he was not destined to become a winner of the 'Ledger,' his race being cut short at starting; this he communicates in strictly business language. His appetite failed, and its principal creditor, the stomach, received only an ounce in the pound. In the phraseology of the Price Current,' it was expected that he must 'submit to a decline.' The doctors declared that by sitting so much on the counting-house stool he was hatching a whole brood of complaints. So he was ordered to abstain from ashes, bristles, and Petersburg yellow candle, and to indulge in a more generous diet.' Change of air, too, was imperatively prescribed. Accordingly Hood was shipped off to visit some relatives in Dundee. As soon as they set eyes on him they did what what they could to send him back again. He had come to the wrong people in search of health. Hood, however, determined on stopping in Dundee. The air of Scotland did him so much good. One of its results was a belief, that although Scotland might not produce the first man in the world, it would undoubtedly be a Scotsman who would live on as the Last Man. To estimate his position at this time, alone in a strange place, hanging on his own hook, he tells us to imagine a boy of fifteen at the Nore as it were of life, thus left dependent on his own pilotage for a safe voyage to the Isle of Man! How he was occupied in Dundee we are not clearly informed; but his first appearance in print was in the Dundee Advertiser;' his next in the Dundee Magazine;' and he tells us with modest triumph and pardonable pride, that the respective editors published his writings without charging anything for insertion. This he considered success enough to make him sell himself body and soul, after the German fashion, to that minor Mephistophiles the Printer's Devil. Not but what he served some years' apprenticeship before the Imp in question became really his Familiar. As with all literary naturals, he drifted rather than plunged into authorship. In the year 1821 Hood returned to London, and was engaged to assist the editor of the 'London Magazine,' leaving the engraver's business for that purpose. Here was a legitimate opening, and he 'jumped at it, à la Grimaldi, head foremost, and was speedily behind the scenes.' So delighted was he, that he would receive a revise from the foreman of the printers a proof of his regard; forgave him all his slips,' and really thought that printers' devils were not so black as they are painted. But, he tells us, his 'topgallant-glory' was in 'Our Contributors.' How he used to look forward to Elia and backward for Hazlitt, and all round for Edward Herbert; and 'how I used to look up to Allan Cunningham,' who was formed by Nature tall enough to snatch a grace beyond the reach of Art.' Hood has given us a pleasant life-like sketch of Charles Lamb, with his fine head on a small spare body; his intellectual face full of wiry lines, and lurking quips and cranks of physiognomy; brown bright eyes, quick in turning as those of birds,—looking sharp enough to pick up pins and needles. The hesitation in his speech continually relieved by some happy turn of thought which seemed to have been thus naturally waited for. Shy with strangers, but instantly alight with a welcome smile of womanly sweetness for his friends. At Lamb's he met with Coleridge, the full-bodied poet, with his |