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they were given to fill us with ecstacy and joy. Then let not writers like Hood be condemned for striving to cheer us by exciting feelings of pleasure, and driving away our gloom by the sunshine they scatter around them. In this hard-working world they serve a wise purpose; for

66 who would not have an eye

To see a sun where others see a cloud?
A frame so vernal, as in spite of snow
To think it genial summer all year round?”

Apart from this, humour has a healthful tendency, promoting the circulation of the blood, helping the digestion, and quickening the understanding.

To return. In 1827, "The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies" appeared, one of the most enchanting works Hood has written. It deserves to be more widely known, for it abounds in pictorial skill and poetic imagery. For this reason the public did not appreciate it; it was treated much in the same manner as Defoe's "Robinson Crusoe;" and at last Hood had to buy up the unbound sheets, to save it, as he said, from the butter-shops. The poem was inspired by Shakspeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream," and is an allegory of the "good people,"

66 kindly ministers of nature

To soothe all covert hearts and dumb distress,"

"It

whose actions Hood has endeavoured to weave with our daily lives, and to make them real to the mind's eye. would have been a pity," said he, in the dedication to his congenial associate, Charles Lamb, "for such a race to go extinct, even though they were as the butterflies that hover about the leaves and blossoms of the visible world." It is much to be regretted that Hood was not encouraged to continue this vein of writing, and that the public did not patronise it. Writing, as he was at this time, for bread, he was compelled to abandon it, and forced to gratify the public taste. His serious poems never were appreciated during his life; and ere they could make any way among the public, and ere his genius could be honoured, he must first, like Shakspeare, Milton, Defoe, and many others,die. Then, if the beautiful saying is true that "society hath need of her poets as the night hath need of stars," is it not the duty of society to foster neglected genius, instead of allowing it to pine away in its habitual garret ?

In 1829, he commenced his famous "Comic Annual, and continued it for twelve years. The jokes and outrageous caricatures of these volumes, made them the most popular of all his works. They went into thousands of homes, setting their inmates a-grinning, from the staid pater-familias down to the livelier members. Penetrating critics of his writings found out at last that this great comic writer and inveterate punster was of a melancholy disposition. They could see lurking somewhere behind this apparently merry face a melancholy, solemn sadness, which deeply tinged even his most laughable effusions. It was found out that Hood could occasionally pour out streams of exquisite poetry in graceful and flowing verses His lines on "The Moon," written about this time, are an illustration of this. A kindred piece is his "Ode to Melancholy," in which he says, with the penetration of a true poet:

"All things are touched with Melancholy;
Born of the secret soul's mistrust,

To fill her fair etherial wings,

Weighed down with vile degraded dust;
Even the bright extremes of joy

Bring on conclusions of disgust,

Like the sweet blossoms of the May,
Whose fragrance ends in must.
Oh, give her then her tribute just,

Her sighs, and tears, and musings holy !

There is no music in the life

That sounds with idiot laughter solely;
There's not a string attuned to Mirth
But has its chord in Melancholy."

I have before referred to those who would make life gloomier than it need be; but there are some, on the other hand, who go the same length in the other direction,— whose lives seem to be one long dance of mirth. Extremes meet. It is a mistake to suppose there are to be no serious moments in life. "Because I have jested elsewhere," said Hood, "it does not follow that I am incompetent for gravity, of which any owl is capable; or proof against melancholy, which besets even the ass. Those who can be touched by neither of these moods, rank indeed lower than both of these creatures. It is the contrast that lends

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a double relish to our days. A life of mere laughter is like music without its bass." Life is made up of the mingling of the two states; in everyone's history there are times to laugh and times to weep; and no poet so much as Thomas Hood has taught us so gently and persuasively to laugh with those who laugh, and weep with those who weep. By the publication of the widely known poem of "Eugene Aram's Dream," his critics were astonished to find Hood, with comparative ease, going into the very highest walks of poetry. This terrible dream is one of the greatest of tragic poems, and on it alone his fame as poet might well rest. Hood might thus have cultivated the higher passions and emotions of our nature. His poetic feeling and truthfulness are strikingly manifested in this poem. He does not, like Bulwer in his novel, make the murderer into a hero whose deed of blood his readers are ready to excuse. who thus glorify characters of the vilest notoriety, should not be allowed to enlist our sympathies; for it is often at the expense of all virtuous feeling, and they but gild the vice they palliate. Hood's genius was versatile. About this time we find him engaged in connection with the theatre. He wrote a strange dramatic composition, the name of which is lost, the characters being bees. He also assisted in dramatising Gil Blas. He lived at a pretty little cottage at Winchmore Hill, near London, where, in 1830, his son was born-the present Thomas Hood, whose “My Song" and other published pieces, show him to be a poet of much promise. Being obliged to remove, Hood became the occupier of Lake House, Wanstead, Essex,-a quaint old house, well fitted, it would appear, as a residence for ghosts, owls, and bats. This was the scene of many of Hood's practical jokes. Some boys, for instance, were once caught robbing Hood's orchard, and they were brought by him into the house. Mrs. Hood's father, at Hood's instigation, at once took a large arm-chair, assumed a solemn face and the character of J.P. for the county. Hood formally charged the terrified offenders with the theft, which was further corroborated by the contents of their pockets. The judge sentenced them to instant execution by having them hung on the cherry-tree. Hood's little son was prompted to intercede on their behalf; for the boys in their fright had fallen on their knees, imploring to be "let off this once, and they would never do so any more." Hood solemnly pardoned them, and they took to their heels.

In 1831 he obtained the patronage of the Duke of Devonshire, by whom he was asked to furnish titles for a sham bookcase at Chatsworth. Hood complied, and sent the following among others :-"Lamb's Recollections of Suett" "Life of Zimmerman: by Himself;" "Cursory Remarks on Swearing" "Barrow on the Common Weal "The Whole Duty of Man: by I. K. Brunel;" "Cook's Specimens of the Sandwich Tongue." The Duke was of course delighted, and several courtesies passed between them. His literary labours still continued while residing at Wanstead. The "Comic Annual" for 1832 was dedicated to William IV., and this led to his introduction to that monarch. On his death, Hood made the following impromptu :—

"The death of kings is easily explained,

And thus it might upon his tomb be chiselled~~
As long as Will the Fourth could reign, he reigned,

And then he mizzled."

Here he wrote his "Tylney Hall,” the only novel he ever penned. Much of the scenery is taken from the neighbourhood in which he lived. Hood does not seem to have been adapted for a novelist, for he did not excel in plot. This novel should be read for its fun, not its story. At the end of 1834, Hood became involved in harassing pecuniary difficulties, by the failure of the firm who published his works. This event was the beginning of a long series of troubles, which only terminated with his death. He was advised to free himself from his embarrassments by legal means; but Hood was as upright and honest as Defoc, and considered that a man was not morally free from paying his debts because he was protected from his creditors by the law-courts. "Emulating the example of Sir Walter Scott, he determined to try whether he could not score off his debts as effectually and more creditably with his pen, than with legal whitewash or a wet sponge. * * * * With these views, leaving every shilling behind him derived from the sale of his effects-the means he carried with him being an advance upon his future labours he voluntarily expatriated himself, and bade his native land good night." A long wearisome night it proved to poor Hood. In order to find a suitable place for a residence on the Rhine, he crossed the ocean in a memorable

storm, in which eleven vessels were wrecked, and many others nearly so. Among the latter was the steamer in which Hood was. He said "it was quite a squeak for the 'Comic' of 1836." Hood was passionately fond of the sea, notwithstanding that on a previous occasion it nearly caused his death. He often loved to visit it; and would frequently revert to pleasant hours spent near its rolling

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From this time Hood was afflicted with a long series of illnesses. He finally settled at Coblentz, whence he wrote to England for his family. His letters to his wife are most affectionate and tender, full, however (as are those to his friends) of sly humour. He said

"With my dear ones by my side, my pen will gambol through the "Comic" like the monkey who had seen the world. My mind was never so free. * * I mean what is right and just to all. I feel cheerful at our prospects; and in spite of illness, have kept up. Get yourself strong, there's still a happy future; fix your eyes forward to our meeting, my best and dearest. Our little home, though homely, will be happy for us; and we don't bid England a very long good night."

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