grown have sunk into the grave, the former children instinctive, self-accusing knowledge, that it is the world attain the plenitude of power, and the full bloom and which needs pity rather than Thomas Hood. They are vigour of manhood. the result of our almost unconscious feeling, that his What an instance of the truth of this is our own all-contemporaries were too "poor" in appreciation, to glorious Shakspere. When the Blackfriars Theatre was discern the depth and richness of that mine of mental standing in the midst of fields now covered with bricks wealth which was in the midst of them. and mortar, and Shakspere was an actor there, how little those with whom he associated supposed that his fame, long surviving their generation, would spread over the world as that of the greatest mind the Anglo-Saxon race ever produced; and how few dreamed that, long after the old theatre had been levelled with the ground, the dramas there represented, and which they, no doubt, thought mere bubbles of the hour, would form the most valuable and imperishable volume in the realm of literature. "Will Shakspere" was, no doubt, to the men of the then present, a boon companion, no better nor worse than scores of others they met every day; with less learning than many, and less brilliance than others. We can almost fancy ourselves peeping into a hostelry of that day, with its quaint old gables, and curious nooks and corners, and oaken settles, and seeing a group of gay roisterers-young nobles, and the choice spirits of the time. We think we can see all eyes turned upon some handsome presence, tricked out in all the fopperies of the period, at whose jest the ready laugh circled the board-the observed of all observers; while, towards the bottom, sits a cheerfully grave man, clad in a sombre suit, but with "fair high broad brow," and bright blue eye, observant of all; who seldom opens his mouth, but now and then lets fall a pearl or two, which is not half so much regarded as the sparkling crystals of the lord of the feast. After centuries have passed away, where is the gay and the witty noble who stood so high there? dead, body and memory alike-his name unknown, his place forgotten. Where the thoughtful, silent, sombre-clad man?-elevated into a world's idol, and his mental remains the "household words" of the learned and ignorant, the rich and poor alike. This is the history of genius in the present and the future. Now unrecognised, or admired for some comparatively unimportant qualities, then worshipped by all who see the eternal time-penetrating beams of thought, rushing out from the transient star, which has long descended below the horizon of the tomb. How strongly we recognise in all this the truth of that sentence, that, "the first shall be last, and the last shall be first;" and how, too, we see eternal justice asserting itself through time, and giving "honour to whom honour is due." Hood was known and appreciated, it is true, to some extent during his life, but for the very qualities which posterity will forget. His powers of humour, in an age always more ready to laugh than to think, made him known, not as a man of deep poetic power, of high aspirations, of burning feeling, of self-devoting enthusiasm, but as a word-master, a language-juggler; a writer who used syllables as a conjurer does his cards, and cups and balls, making them occupy strange corners, and assume grotesque aspects, and change like the tricks of a pantomime, to gratify the laughter-loving million, for whom he catered. We do not know where we could find a more striking proof of the want of earnestness of the time, than is to be found in the fact, that Hood (poor Hood!), in order to earn his bread, was obliged to write puns, and twist jokes into miraculous rhyme, while he was capable of such poems as The Song of the Shirt, The Bridge of Sighs, The Haunted House, and others, which are published among his serious poems. We do not doubt that Thomas Hood himself felt this deeply and acutely, and, notwithstanding his fine perception of the ludicrous, and the ready wit which clothed it in verse the best suited to its enunciation, he accounted it a task of mental degradation that he must, so that he and his family might live, be a sort of intellectual buffoon, a clown of literature, coming out as regularly in comie annuals, as stage managers produced Christmas pantomimes. Indeed, the boards of a theatre would furnish an apt comparison for Hood's mental life. There, on the very self-same spot where Richard crouched to the "shadows" which troubled his guilty soul; or, Lady Macbeth plotted for royal power; or Hamlet soliloquized and philosophized; there, where the Moor acted out the jealousy of a noble nature, and Shylock insisted on his bond, and Juliet stood in all the dignity of loveliness, all the rapture of joy, all the despondency of woe, but a short night ago-there the clown grins, the pantaloon tumbles, and the harlequin jumps through magic clocks. So, poor Hood, with the tenderest poetry overflowing his heart, was compelled, by the verdict of the same world which crowds a pantomime and deserts Shakspere, to write comic doggerel for the laughing philosophers of his day. We would not discourage innocent mirth nor disparage How true is all this, too, as applied to poor Hood! laughter-loving wit, but we are afraid the extravagant fond"Poor Hood!" the words escaped from our pen, as ness of the times for mere humour, the constant yearning for they have from the pens of many others-almost in- something to laugh at, is far from being a sign of healthy voluntarily. Why poor Hood? If thought, wit, ten- merriment; but that it is a morbid hysterical tendency derness, power to thrill into the hearts of his fellow-menarising from overstrained excitement, and that, to the be riches, then was "poor Hood" as rich, if not richer than any man of his time. In his own world, his own cherished dream-land, where the sun was brighter, and the air purer and more odoriferous, the flowers more gorgeous, and the birds more melodious, than in any land which we, poor prose mortals, know of; in that world poor Hood's riches were unbounded. He was the sole monarch of the place, and all things did him homage. To use the words of another poet of the present, Charles Mackay : "For him were the oceans rolled, For him did the rivers run, For him did the year unfold Its glories to the sun." Aye, and for him, too, did the winds strike their forest Eolian harps, in unison with the gushing, overflowing, fount of deep, soft music, murmuring in the recesses of his heart. Why then "poor Hood?" The words flow from an want of deep, true, earnest, serious, enthusiastic feeling which accompanies it, and is indeed a part of it, may be, to some extent, attributed the continuance of no small portion of those public and social evils, the revelations of which ever and anon come upon us like a thunder-clap, and almost extinguish our faith in humanity. The public who only read, shaking their sides meanwhile, the infusions of the comic writer, know nothing of the heart-ache and head-ache, the fears, hopes and perplexities which attend their production. They can scarcely estimate poor Hood, their witty favourite, coughing out his soul, and spitting up his life-blood; surrounded by domestic cares, and worried by narrow means, while he was writing jokes by the bushel. They imagine a sort of laughing-philosopher, fat with mirth, and living in an atmosphere of revelry, instead of an earnest, thoughtful man, with care-worn brow, languid eye, and pale thin cheek, and such sentiments as thesc "Farewell Life! my senses swim, And the world is growing dim: I smell the mould above the rose !" This is the dark, cold, sorrowful side of such a literary life as Thomas Hood's; the shade of the picture; it doubtless had its joys and sun-lights, and bright dreams, too; and, while we can imagine him, with the printer's boy waiting for "copy" of a comic annual and making a fresh demand for jokes, thinking such a stanza as that above, we can imagine him, too, when the wordspinning was over, feeling such a stanza as that which follows: "Welcome Life! The Spirit strives! I smell the rose above the mould !" "It would fill a Court Gazette to name The lofty lord and the titled dame, All diamonds, plumes, and urbanity; Here is a description of the mere money-grubbing father, for which picture, it may be, that some of our readers can find an original :— "He had rolled in money like pigs in mud, And his cheeks, instead of a healthy hue, Making the common phrase seem truc And as she was born and bred amid gold, so she was taught to love it; for "Instead of stories from Edgeworth's page, Or lessons from Barbauld and Trimmer, With a Book of Leaf-Gold for a Primer. Of course, such a golden young lady had plenty of flatterers, who, of course, praised her faults, too. "They praised her spirit, and now and then The Nurse brought her own little 'nevy' Ben And when he got raps, and taps, and slaps, As if from a Tigress or Bearess, They told him how Lords would court that hand, His carroty poll, That his hair had been pulled by 'a Hairess!'" No wonder that with such an education she grew up self-willed and gold-loving-that, when her leg was broken and amputated, she would not hear of a wooden or cork leg; things but "For your common Jockeys and Jennies," Leaving "poor Hood" for awhile, we will give a few words to his works, confining ourselves to the posthumous volumes upon which his true fame hereafter is to rest. The chief portion of these is made up of serious poetry; but there is one serio-comic poem, of vivid fancy and startling power, full of fun, and quiet, deep, but benevolent satire, with here and there a touch of deep, pure, earnest feeling, flashing like a gem of sympathy in the golden setting of wit by which it is surrounded. This poem is one which shows, strikingly, the nature of Hood's powers: graceful, versatile, well-read, and thoughtful, he was not a great poetic egotist, nor a powerful spiteful satirist, like Byron; not a dream-painter, like Wordsworth; not a constructor and plot maker, like the wizard Scott (no disparagement to those great names). It is easier to say what he was not than what he was; but one essential character of his writings, as shown here is, that he takes a simple circumstance, and without any touch of dramatic power, without any striking use of "incident' "" 66 or situation," uses it as a peg, whereon to hang a drapery of poetry. He uses a lay-figure of mere sticks, and clothes it in abundant folds of thought and imagery, bright with the rainbow hues. He is like a man walking along a straight piece of common road-many would see in their walk nothing but the hedges and footpaths, and the ruts and furrows--but he gets a clear But it alters the case when view of the distant blue hills, mingling with the horizon; there, a peep at a river, glistening in the sun; and somewhere else a glance up a verdant avenue, with its velvet So, too, of corkturf, and cathedral roof of interlaced boughs, and its choir of twittering songsters, and, without forgetting his journey's end, he dwells amid all these beauties, and thinks nothing of the bare road along which he travels. This poem, to which we refer, "Miss Kilmansegg and her Golden Leg," might be summed up in plain prose in a dozen lines. A girl is born into a rich family, cradled in splendour, brought up in luxury, and taught to love wealth as the summum bonum of existence. She is For, as she argued, "Wood, indeed, in forest or park, With its sylvan honours and frugal bark, "Trod on! staggered on! Wood cut down "When the noble cork-tree shades A lovely group of Castilian maids, of gold was made— "All sterling metal-not half-and-half: men, both old and young, were more tolerant ; for "Age, sordid Age, admired the whim And its indecorum pardoned; The goldsmith's mark was stamped on the calf." thrown from her horse, breaks her leg, has it amputated, where, although a "few" of the women thought that the And the heiress appears with it at a fancy ball," and will, and does, have a golden, not a wooden, proxy-freely exhibited golden leg "looked like brazen," the limb. She makes an unfortunate matrimonial choice, marries a foreign swindler, who spends her money, and then wants her leg; for the sake of, and by a blow with which, he at last murders her. Yet, on this slender foundation, we have about 130 pages of rich verse, every line of which is worth reading; full of reflections, sometimes grave and earnest, and always wise and just. Here, in the christening of the heiress, is a touch at that vanity which mingles the pomps of the world with the simple, humble rites of Christianity: While half of the young-aye, more than half- Like the Jews when their hearts were hardened." And those who have their share of worldly wisdom will not be surprised at it, for they well understand with Hood "That the precious metal, by thick and thin, Will cover square acres of land or sin." We have no space for her marriage or her married misery, but must come to the finale, when she wakes from the midst of a golden dream, and finds the count abstracting her golden leg from beneath her pillow. "'Twas the Golden Leg! she knew its gleam! That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash, The "Plea of the Midsummer Fairies" is a poem full And all peace to his soul for directing attention to of graceful thought, and quaintly beautiful imagery. Titania (the fairy queen) and all her realm plead to hoary, "all-devouring Time," who threatens them with "That shattered roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, his scythe, for a longer term of existence. They tell how and to similar dens where, as now, "Nay, by the golden lustre of thine eye, And by thy brow's most fair and ample span,. And this glorious shade saves the fairies he so loved, and would not let "oblivious death" harm them. "For," he says, "These are kindly ministers of nature To soothe all covert hurts, and dumb distress Pretty they be, and very small of stature, For mercy still consorts with littleness; Wherefore the sum of good is still the less, And mischief grossest in this world of wrong. So do these charitable dwarfs redress The tenfold ravages of giants strong, To whom great malice and great might belong." We would willingly go on quoting, but must draw to a conclusion. There is one image of silence and solitude, however, in his "Haunted House," (a poem, beautiful and yet Crabbe-like in its quaint power,) so simple and eloquent, that we must extract it. ness. "The moping heron, motionless and stiff, None of these productions, however, beautiful as they All All praise to him, too, for that companion piece, "The Bridge of Sighs," where he sees, in one of these outcasts "One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Gone to her death!" and that, after death, neither world nor friend could be found loving enough to raise over him a better monument than the mound which marks a pauper's grave. We conclude with a hope, first, that the world will do itself justice by doing justice to the dead, and that a subscription will place a simple monument over the grave of him who subscribed so bountifully for the welfare of all humanity; and secondly, that these beautiful poems may be published at such a price as will open every cottage home in England to their elevating and ennobling influence. ADVICE TO THE LADIES. THIRD AND CONCLUDING LETTER. In this letter, which concludes my correspondence with you, in this form at least, for some time to come, I shall deal more seriously with my subject than I have hitherto done, and sum up in as succinct a statement as I can, my views upon the Condition of the Ladies' question. My first and most important position, then, in reference to the matter, is, that every lady, by which I mean, every one of our daughters, wives, and mothers of the middle classes, should have some regular occupationshould be engaged in some determinate employment. I have a great idea that work, if only for working's sake, is infinitely valuable as a moral agent, and social reformer; and I could wish that the ladies of the present day both held the same opinion, and themselves afforded instances of its justness. and keepsakes, clasp William Shakspere and John Milton; and read them every line. The sentiment is old enough, and is being continually revived, that woman is the poetry of life. Be you so. But, be Poetry; not silly jingling rhyme-a Baviad or a Mæviad; but, heartfelt nervous poetry; such lessons as the greatest poetpreachers of our day, teach us in song. A thought comes into my mind, which I will set down here. In the early days of the drama, it was the custom for the young men and youths of the company to personate the female characters. May I not point a moral from this, and say, that the female character should be represented, or personified in some degree by the young man's, the youth's; that it should have the vigour, the unrest, (how I like that word!) belonging to man-the simplicity and freshness of youth? Finally, my closing words to you are: be earnest, be thoughtful; trifle no time, lead no listless life. Think what a deal of sin and suffering there is in the world; how, in that foulest of cisterns, a great city, misery and crime lie knotting and gendering everywhere. Think of the sorrowing girls and wretched women, the "hands" employed at those warehouses, whose masters' modern heraldry is truly "hands," not hearts: think of the slop-hands, the shirt-hands, the tambour-hands, the dressmakers. Think too, sometimes, of the governesses: a class who, if their wrongs have been at any time overstated, yet, deserve your consideration and sympathy. And if, having thought of these things, you can be frivolous in your speech, effeminate in your acts; if you can have any heart for frippery and foppery, ever afterwards cease to ascribe your errors to want of thought; set them down to their true cause-want of feeling. I know that it will be objected, ere I have well said this, that every female member of a family, either in the character of head of a household, or in the subordinate capacity of assistant director in its management, cannot fail of finding in domestic concerns the fullest occupation for her time, and employment for her energies. But this I must take leave emphatically to deny. I am entirely disposed to admit that, as housewifery goes now-a-days, these same domestic concerns, (I have always thought the phrase far more impressive in name, than expressive in fact,) are in numerous instances, borne like so many worlds of petty anxieties by our Atlas-like housekeepers of modern times. But, by this, I am in no way convinced either of their arduousness or extent. What I am convinced of is, that ladies for the most part form a mistaken conception, and, upon that, base a faulty execution of house affairs. They have no notion of methodizing their labour, and economizing their time. They are too prone, like Mrs. Peerybingle, to do things in "little bits of bustle;" a very costly process, when the time spent over them comes to be reckoned; and, although in glorious little Dot this was a very pleasing and poetical trait, because so perfectly in keeping with the impetuous, and womanly nature depicted; yet, it is not in itself a commendable characteristic. I submit, therefore, that two hours a-day would suffice every lady for the discharge of her household concerus, if a little tact and judgment were but brought to bear on the matter: I would point in evidence of my IDLE WISHES; OR, CHANGE NOT ALWAYS assertion to the fact, that young ladies of attainments and refinement, reduced gentlewomen in fact, who, by the pressure of circumstances, are forced to earn their living by serving in shops, or working for warehouses; and to whom, in consequence, time stands for money, and work represents wages, despatch their domestic duties with the greatest ease and celerity; and this simply, because they give their minds to the performance of them, and go through with it in a business-like manner. But, it may be urged, house affairs are not like business, that can be transacted and done with: they are continually drawing us off. This is a mistake too. If there is only present the inclination to improve yourself in any one thing in leisure time, be sure you will be enabled to prove my allowance of two hours for domestic duties an ample one. Next I have to speak of how I propose for you to employ and occupy the time thus made vacant. It appears to me then of little moment to what work it is given, so it is given to work. What I wish chiefly to inculcate is, the duty of achieving distinction in some branch of study, or department of manual skill; the necessity for excelling as an artist, a musician, say, even a chess-player, or a florist; or, for accomplishing yourself to superiority in the acquisition of languages, or the obtaining thorough mastery of some science. But, after all, the great thing is to do something: to open your mind, to enlarge your ideas and understanding; to gain exact knowledge and conclusive information. Do not be afraid, in prosecuting this scheme of action, of having it charged upon you that you are a "masculine woman. Better a thousand times be a masculine than a weak one. Brave the stigma manfully. Discard boudoirtable books; in the stead of crimson morocco annuals Lessons for Little Ones. IMPROVEMENT. "WHAT a pity," said William, a little boy of eight years old, "that Papa has taken it into his head to hang up the parrot's cage so high! Though I stand on tip-toe on the chair, I cannot get within arm's length of it." "Let me try," said his brother, Charles, who was about two years older, "I think I am somewhat taller than you." "You may try," said William, "though I don't think there is much difference between us. But you see you are not tall enough, for you cannot reach the cage after all." At this moment their Papa came into the room, and Charles exclaimed, "Oh! Papa, how I should like to be as tall as you!" PAPA.-Believe me, my boy, you would not be at all better satisfied if you were. CHARLES.-Indeed, Papa, I believe you are quite right; for I should much rather be as tall as the giant that was exhibiting some time ago in the town. WILLIAM. Well, as wishes cost nothing, you might as well say something that would be worth wishing for. Now, I should like to be as tall as our tallest cherry tree. PAPA. In the first place, wishes cost a great deal; idle wishes, such as yours, waste both your time and powers of mind; and, in the next place, I should be glad to know why you wish to be as tall as the cherry tree? CHARLES.-Oh! because I should then want neither pole nor ladder when the cherries were ripe. Just think, William, how nice it would be to have our heads higher than the trees in the orchard, and to be able to gather the pears and apples, as if we were picking gooseberries. Would not that be something worth wishing for? WILLIAM. And then we could look in at the top windows of our neighbours' houses. What a fine fright we should give them ? CHARLES, And I should never be afraid of the carriages running over me then. I need only keep my legs out wide apart, and under might pass horses, coach, coachman, and footman. WILLIAM.-And, brother, you know the little river at the bottom of the garden, I must have a boat to get across it now, or else run a mile round to the bridgebut, then, with one stride, I should be at the other side. PAPA. All this is very fine; but, after all, I must say you are a pair of little fools. CHARLES.-Fools! Papa? PAPA.-Yes; to think that you would be, in the least, better off than you are. CHARLES. But, Papa, if we were able to do more than we can do now, would not this be a great point? WILLIAM. For instance, would it not be very convenient to be able to reach up very high, and to go very far in one step? PAPA.-Before I answer, you must tell me whether, while giving yourself this immense height, you intend that everything around you should remain the same size it is now. WILLIAM.-Certainly, Papa. giants. PAPA.-Many thanks to you; but I am quite satisfied with my present size, and choose to remain as I am. But, now, William, if you were as tall as our tallest cherry tree, as you just now wished to be, tell me, how could you get on in the orchard, thickly planted as it is? You should walk on all-fours, and even then you would have some difficulty in making your way. WILLIAM.-Difficulty! Surely, Papa, I need only put my foot to the first tree I found in my way, and knock it to pieces. PAPA. A most rational arrangement, truly. So, then, just in proportion to the greater quantity of fruit necessary to satisfy your giant appetite, would be the destruction of the trees producing it. But, if we leave the precincts of our own domain, and get upon the roads, some are like so many shaded avenues, with the trees on each side, intertwined overhead, which you could not walk under, so that you must give up all hope of ever enjoying the cool shade that others feel so delightful. But what would become of you if you encountered a thick wood? You should lay about you at a great rate to make a free passage. WILLIAM. It would not be more trouble to me than it is now to make a hole in the hedge. CHARLES.-I would tear up the oaks by the roots, like the Orlando Furioso, in the story you told me. PAPA. The men condemned to live in the same age with you would be very much to be pitied. However, let us go on. With the long legs you would have then, you, doubtless, would take it into your head to travel? WILLIAM. To be sure, Papa! For my part, I would go to the world's end. PAPA.-It must be then without stopping; for where could you find on the way a house, a room, or bed large enough for you? You must be content to sleep in the open air on a hay-cock, be the night as stormy as it may. Would that be very pleasant, think you, William ? WILLIAM.-Alas! I should be like poor Gulliver at Lilliput ! CHARLES.-Well! I see we did not arrange the matter properly. I believe we must allow other people to be as tall as ourselves. PAPA.-Come, that is being a little less selfish. But, how would the earth suffice to feed so many colossal monsters? A country in which a thousand persons are able to subsist now, could not afford sufficient for twenty of your giants. We should each devour an ox in two days; and half a ton of milk would not be enough for our breakfast. CHARLES.-But, then you know, Papa, I intend that the oxen should grow bigger too. PAPA. And how many of such oxen think you could be pastured in our fields? CHARLES.-Not very many, indeed, Papa. PAPA. So that for want of room, we should soon have no cattle. CHARLES.-There is nothing for it, but to enlarge the world at the same time. PAPA. It seems that nothing stands in your way. To give yourselves a few inches more in height, you think little of changing all nature. It is doubtless a fine stretch of imagination, nevertheless I am inclined to believe you would derive very little advantage from it. CHARLES.-But why, Papa? PAPA. Do you know what is meant by proportion? CHARLES.-No, Papa. PAPA. Stand close to William. Which is the taller of the two? CHARLES.-It is easily seen. he is. I am a head taller than PAPA.--Now stand beside me. Which is the shorter? CHARLES.-I am sorry to say I am. PAPA. Then you are at once both tall and short? CHARLES.-No. I am tall compared with William, and short compared with you. PAPA. And were we all three to become ten times taller than we are, would you be shorter, compared with me, or taller compared with your brother, than you are at present? CHARLES.-No, papa, there would be still the same difference between us. PAPA. Now you know what is meant by proportion, a proportional gradation. Now, to go back to your idea; if everything in nature became proportionately larger, you would still find yourself at the very point from which you set out. You would not be tall enough to frighten people by looking in at their windows; nor to cross rivers in one stride. If you were as tall as our cherry-tree, the cherrytree in its turn would have grown in the very same proportion that it now bears to you. WILLIAM. It is quite true, you have made it quite clear. I see papa, that I should have to take to my pole or my ladder; and they too must be larger; just as I do now, when I want to pick cherries. PAPA. What possible advantage then could you derive from such a total reversal of the present order of things? CHARLES.-Indeed, papa, I do not see any, I must own. PAPA. You perceive, then, how absurd it is to indulge in wishes, the gratification of which would not render you one degree more happy. CHARLES.-You are quite right, papa. It would have been much better to have wished to be little, very little, quite little. Papa.—This is but exchanging one foolish fancy for another. I should be glad to hear your reasons for this reduction in size? CHARLES.-One reason is-and now papa I am sure you will say this is a good reason-we need never then have any fear of famine. A handful of corn would feed a whole family for the twenty-four hours. PAPA. This indeed would be a great saving. CHARLES. And then there would be no occasion for war. A space like our garden would be sufficient for building a whole city And men, having more than enough of room to be quite at their ease, would no longer seek to slaughter each other for some inches of ground. PAPA.-Knowing the folly, the madness of men, I am |