"As unto the bow the cord is--
So unto the man is woman.
Though she bends him, she obeys him;
Though she draws him, yet she follows;
Useless one without the other."

When first I knew them, they resided in chambers, No. 2, Robert Street, Adelphi. While writing for the London Magazine, his labors must have been remunerative, for he removed from his "lodgings" in the Adelphi (where a child was born to him, who died in infancy), first to a pleasant cottage (then called "Rose Cottage") at Winchmore Hill (where his daughter Fanny-Mrs. Broderip was born), and not long afterwards to a really large house at Wanstead-"Lake House" -with ample "grounds." He lost a considerable sum in some publishing speculation; and this loss early in his career was the cause of his subsequent embarrassment. At Lake House the younger "Tom" was born. It was originally the Banquet Hall of Wanstead House (Wellesley Pole's mansion), and there was a lake between the two

(now dwindled to a ditch), so that parties went by water to a feast.

His connection with the London Magazine led to intimacy with many of the finer spirits of his time, who appreciated the genius and loved the genial nature of the man. Foremost of those who exchanged warm friendship with him was Charles Lamb.

Owing mainly to his ill-health, they went but little into society; so indeed, it was at all periods of their lives. Comparative solitude was, therefore, the lot of the poet, who was destined to live and triumph for ever. But the sacrifice implied little of self-denial. With wife, children, and friends, he could easily be made content; and, although no doubt fully appreciating praise, he never had much appetite for applause. His long residence abroad-at Coblentz and Ostend-was, in a degree, compulsory. His publisher was a craving creditor-if,

It is in no degree necessary to my purpose to pass under review the works of Thomas Hood. They were very varied; novels, poems (serious as well as comic); filling several volumes (exclusive of the two volumes of "Hood's Own"), collected by his daughter and his son. Nearly the whole of these were written, not only while haunted by pecuniary troubles, but while under the depressing influence of great bodily suffering. So it was with the merriest of his poems, "Miss Kilmansegg," composed during brief intermissions of bodily pain which would have been accepted by almost any other person as sufficient excuse for entire cessation from work; and, perhaps, might have been by him, but that it was absolutely necessary the day's toil should bring the day's food. Yet at this very time, a sum of £50 was transmitted to

There is no doubt that a law-suit, in which and anxiety that ensued, induced a state of health he was involved with his publisher, and the worry

that led to his death much earlier than, in the course of nature, it might have been looked for. I know that was the opinion of his physician.

It is pleasant to record the fact that nearly every literary man or woman with whom I have been acquainted, or whose lives I have looked into, has found a generous and disinterested friend in a Doctor. I could, of my own knowledge, tell many anecdotes of the sacrifices made to mercy by members of the profession; of continuous labors without a thought of recompense; of anxious days and nights, by sick or dying beds, without the remotest idea of "fees." I may tell one-of a doctor, now himself gone home; it was related to me by Sir James Eyre, M. D. Unfortunately, I have forgotten the name of the good physician; but there are, no doubt, many to whom the story will apply. Sir James called upon him-one morning when his career was but commencing

and saw his waiting-room thronged with patients. "Why," said he, "you must be getting on famously. "Well, I suppose I am," was the answer; "but let me tell this fact to you. morning I have seen eight patients; six of them which I have just given to the eighth.' gave me nothing-the seventh gave me a guinea, Such a physician Providence sent to Thomas Hood.

him, without application, by the Literary Fund. Hood returned it, "hoping to get through his troubles as he had done heretofore." There was then a gleam of brightness in the long-darkened sky. In 1841, Theodore Hook died, and Hood became editor of the New Monthly Magazine. "Just then," as Mrs. Hood writes, "poverty had come very near.” He removed from Camberwell to 17, Elm Tree Road, St. John's Wood. He did not long keep his editorship, however; differences having arisen between him and Mr. Colburn, he was induced to start a magazine of his own.

Meanwhile, an accident, totally unanticipated, did that which years of labor had not done-made him famous. In the Christmas number of Punch, in 1843, appeared the "Song of a Shirt." It ran through the land like wildfire; was reprinted in every newspaper in the kingdom, although anonymous; and there was intense desire to know who was the author. He had been so long absent from the active exercise of his " calling," that when the poem burst upon the world, there were many to whom the writer's name was "new."

In January, 1844, Hood's Magazine was issued. He labored like a slave to give success to that speculation. It was in a melancholy sense "Hood's own;" there was a "proprietor," but he was without "means;" there was an effort to do without a publisher; printer after printer was changed; the magazine was rarely "up to time:" vexation brought on illness; he "fretted dreadfully;" there was alarm as to the solvency of his coproprietor, a man who had "lived too long in the world to be the slave of his conscience." Unhappy authors, who are their own publishers-lords of land in Utopia-will take warning by the fate of Thomas Hood and his "speculation" for his own behoof. It was a failure, and therefore his; had it been a success, no doubt it would have become the property of a publisher.

The number for June-the sixth number of Hood's Magazine-contained an announcement, that on the 23rd of May he had been striving to continue a novel he had commenced; that on the 25th, "sitting up in bed, he tried to invent and sketch a few comic designs, but the

effort exceeded his strength, and was followed by the wandering delirium of utter nervous exhaustion." Two of the "sick-room fancies" were published with the June number: the one is "Hood's Mag."—a magpie, with a hawk's hood on; the other, "The Editor's Apologies," is a drawing of a plate of leeches, a blister, a cup of water-gruel, and three labelled vials: suggesting, according to some writing underneath, the sad thought by what harassing efforts the food of mirth is furnished, and how often the pleasures of the many are obtained by the bitter suffering and mournful endurance of the ONE.

Yet three of the pleasantest letters he ever penned were written soon afterwards to the three children of his dear and constant friend, Dr. Elliott.

He rallied, however, sufficiently to resume work for his magazine, and many valued friends were willing and ready to help him: authors who were amply recompensed by the knowledge that they could thus serve the author of a "Song of a Shirt." "I must die in Harness, like a Hero or a Horse," he writes to Bulwer Lytton on October 30, 1844. Death was drawing nearer and nearer, but before its close approach there came a ray of sunshine to his death-bed-Sir Robert Peel granted to him a pension of £100 a year, or rather to his widow, for she was almost so. It was a sinall sum-a poor gift from his country in compensation for the work he had done; but it was very welcome, for it was the only boon he had ever received that was not payment for immediate toil— "toil hard and incessant"-to the last. He was dying when the "glad tidings" came; yet in the middle of November, 1844, he "pumped out a sheet of Christmas fun," and "drew some cuts" for his magazine. He was, as he said, “so near death's door, that he could almost fancy he heard the creaking of the hinges!" His friends were about him with small gifts of love: they came to give him "farewells;" and for all of them he had kind words and thoughts. We have the comfort of knowing that his head was laid on a down pillow we had lent him: on that pillow its throbbings ceased.

On the 3rd of May, 1845, he died, and

on the 10th he was buried in the graveyard at Kensal Green.

66

Some seven years afterwards, subscriptions were raised, chiefly owing to the exertions of a kindred spirit, Eliza Cook (with whom the thought originated,) and a monument was erected to his memory, designed and executed by the sculptor, Matthew Noble. On the 18th July, 1854, it was unveiled in the presence of many of the poet's friends, Monckton Milnes (now Lord Houghton) "delivering an oration" over the grave that covered his remains. To raise that monument, peers and many men of mark contributed: but surely even higher honor was rendered to him-a yet purer and better homage to his memory-by the poor needlewomen," whose offerings were a few pence, laid in reverence and affection upon the grave of their great advocate-a fellow-worker, whose toil had been as hard, as continuous, and as ill-rewarded, as their own. In person, Hood was of middle height, slender and sickly-looking, of sallow complexion and plain features, quiet in expression, and very rarely excited, so as to give indication of either pathos or the humor that must ever have been working in his soul. His was, indeed, a countenance rather of melancholy than of mirth; there was something calm, even to solemnity, in the upper portion of the face, seldom relieved, in society, by the eloquent play of the mouth, or the sparkle of an observant eye. In conversation he was by no means brilliant. When inclined to pun, which was not often, it seemed as if his wit was the issue of thought, and not an instinctive produce, such as I have noticed in other men who have thus become famous; who are admirable in crowds; whose animation is like that of the sounding board, which makes a great noise at a small touch, when listeners are many and applause is

sure.

We have been so much in the habit of treating Tom Hood as a "joker," that we lose sight of the deep and touching pathos of his more serious poems. All are indeed acquainted with the "Song of a Shirt," and "Take her up tenderly," but throughout his many volumes there are poems of surpassing worth, full of the higest refinement-of sentiment the purest and the most chaste.

In writing a memoir of him in the "Book of Gems," for which, in consequence of his absence from England, I received no suggestions from himself, I took that view, and some time afterwards I received from him a letter strongly expressive of the gratification I had thus afforded him, His nature was, I believe, not to be a punster, perhaps not to be a wit, The best things I have ever heard Hood say are those which he said when I was with him alone. I have never known him laugh heartily, either in society or in rhyme. The themes he selected for "talk" were usually of a grave and sombre cast; yet his payful fancy dealt with frivolities sometimes, and sometimes his imagination frolicked with nature in a way peculiarly his own. He was, however, generally cheerful, and often merry when in "the bosom of his family," and could, I am told, laugh heartily then; that when in reasonably good health, he was as full of fun as a school-boy." He loved children with all his heart, loved to gambol with them as if he were a child himself, to chat with them in a way they understood; and to tell them stories, drawn either from old sources, or invented for the occasion-such as they could comprehend and remember.* There was more than mere poetry in his verse— "A blessing on their merry hearts, Such readers I would choose; Because they seldom criticise,

And never write reviews!"

Literature was, as he expresses it, his "solace and comfort through the extremes of worldly trouble and sickness," "maintaining him in a cheerfulness, a perfect sunshine of the mind." Well may he add, "My humble works have flowed from my heart as well as my head, and, whatever their errors, are such as I have been able to contemplate with composure, when more than once the Destroyer assumed almost a visible presence."

Poor fellow! He was longing to be away from earth when I saw him last; struggling to set free the

"Vital spark of heavenly flame!"

lying on his death-bed, watched and tended by his good and loving wife, who survived him only a few brief months:

*The son and daughter have preserved and printed some of these "impromptu stories.

"Thank God, my mind is composed, and my reason undisturbed; but my race, as an author, is run. My physical debility finds no tonic virtue in a steel pen, otherwise I would

have written one more paper-a forewarning against an evil, or the danger of it, arising from a literary movement in which I have had some share; a one-sided humanity, opposite to that Catholic, Shaksperian sympathy which felt with king as well as peasant, duly estimating the moral temptations of both stations. Certain classes at the poles of society are already too far assunder. It should be the duty of our writers to draw them together by kindly attraction-not to aggravate the existing repulsion, and place a wider moral gulf between rich and poor-hate on the one side, and fear on the other. But I am too weak

for this task-the last I had set myself. It

is death that stops my pen, you see, and not my pension. God bless you, sir, and prosper all your measures for the benefit of my beloved country!"

Almost his latest act was to obtain some proofs of his portrait, recently engraved. and to send one to each of his most esteemed friends, marked by some line of affectionate reminiscence.

His daughter writes me thus of his last hour on earth :-"Those who lectured him on his merry sallies and innocent gaiety, should have been present at his death-bed, to see how the gentlest and most loving heart in the world could die!" "Thinking himself dying, he called us round him-my mother, my little brother, and myself to receive his last kiss and blessing-tenderly and fondly given; and gently clasping my mother's hand, he said, Remember, Jane, I forgive all --all! He lay for some time calmly and quietly, but breathing painfully and slowly; and my mother, bending over him, heard him murmer faintly, O Lord, say, Arise, take up thy cross, and follow Me!"

He died at Devonshire Lodge, in the the New Finchley Road.

Genius is seldom hereditary. There are but few immortal names, the glory of which has been "continued." It is gratifying to know that the seed planted by Thomas Hood and his estimable wife, has borne fruit in due season. Their son and daughter were but children when both their parents were called away from their guardianship on earth; but surely (as I firmly believe,) to a more powerful and effectual guardianship over

those they loved, and who remained "in the flesh." The daughter (Fanny,) wedded a good clergyman in Somersetshire, and the happy mother of children, is the author of many valuable works, the greater number of them being specially designed for the young. The name of "Fanny Broderip" is honored in letters. To the son-another "Tom"-it is needless to refer. He has added renown to the venerated name he bears; and has written much that his great father himself might have owned with pride. They have had a sacred trust committed to them, and so far have nobly redeemed it.

In this memory of Thomas Hood, I have printed his last letter, and quoted his latest words. They are such as must, in the estimation of all readers raise him even higher than he stands. The world owes him much; Humanity is his debtor; and who is there that will not exclaim, borrowing from another poet

"The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew Upon thy grave, good creature?"

Saturday Review.

CIVILIZED WAR.

The war which is drawing to a close in the United States has taught us some valuable lessons. The gigantic experiments, for example, on iron-plates and heavy artillery have contributed towards solving many problems in military art. But these incidental results, important as they are, are still of minor importance. They may save us a certain amount of time and money. They may enable us to overleap a few terms in the long series of contests between guns and armor. Our military skill may receive an improvement per saltum, instead of following the slow gradations of the ordinary process of discovery; and we may at once learn, what would otherwise have taken several years, how to spend money on the implements of war twice as fast as we are doing at present. There are, however, certain lessons which are likely to be of more interest to the future historian. The gradual perfecting of warlike instruments is itself a mere incident of that progress in mechanical skill which is one characteristic of our civilization. But a more direct light is thrown upon