The Sun.
London, England, 1860-07-12 00:00:00

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LITERATURE.

Memorials of Thomas Hood. Collected and ar-
ranged by his Daughter. With a preface and
notes by his Son. Two vols, Edward Moxon

and Co.

We accept these two very agreeable volumes at
once as most welcome souvenirs of an exquisite
poet and a delightful humorist. At the same time
we cannot but feel that The" Memorials of Thomas
Hood" will henceforth be regarded as discoverable
not so much in the pages here submitted to our
consideration (readable though these are in them-
selves) as in the Works both Serious and Comic of
the inimitable author of whom they are commemo-
rative, and in that eminently beautiful Monument
erected, now six years ago, over the grave of Thomas
Hood, in Kensal-Green Cemetery. That last-men-
tioned testimonial, in truth we take to be not only
the most touching and the most graceful, but also
the most conspicuous and conclusive attestation of
the living and indestructible popularity of the great
Wit and greater Lyrist whose remains had until then
for nine long years been lying in the earth, unmarked
by the humblest stone or by the poorest little
flowering clump of rue—that lowly herb that, as
Ophelia sings, is for remembrance ! A kindred
Poet of the great English people—one kindred both
in genius and in popularity—Eliza Cook, chaunted
in remonstrance, over that neglected grave, a lay
in honour of the noble head and gentle heart that.
had there been mouldering into dust without, until
then we repeat, the scantiest epitaph or the plainest
headstone to mark the honoured place of their
sepulture. In answer to that plaintive appeal,
the grave of Hood has now, for six years past,
(as we have said) been distinguished by its
appropriate monument; by a monument worthy
of perpetuating there, upon that sacred spot,
the name and fame of Thomas Hood. We must
confess that we think the insertion of the lines
which led to the erection of the monument would
have been a simply just addition to the interest of
the work. They are certainly good enough to
compete with the prose writing of the volumes, and
the engrafting of them in these pages would have
been a graceful and grateful compliment due to one
whose " strenuous exertions" far excelled those of
the " Committee formed of members of the Whit-
tington Club," and whose personal sympathy with
the genius of the dead poet effected an object which
had never been even suggested or attempted by his
contemporary and influential familiar friends. We
regret this omission, we say, on more grounds than
it might be worth while to touch on. However, the
good work was done, and done well. Standing
in fancy, by that grave, now so gracefully adorned
through the intervention of the sculpturesque
genius of Matthew Noble, as shown there in en-
during bronze and granite—there comes stealing to
our senses from that honoured ground at our feet :
" Colder, colder, colder still—
Upward steals a vapour chill—
Strong the earthy odour grows—
I smell the Mould above the nose I"
But the poet's own mournful thought is
dashed upon the instant by one of a more benig-
nant influence—one floating now around that
tomb in this genial summer weather :

" O'er the earth there conies a bloom—
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapours cold—
I smell the Rose above the Mould !"

The memory of Hood is embalmed in his own
beautiful verses, and gratefully, too, in the popular
recollection.

In obedience to the dictate of a most happy
thought, the work—such as it is—has, by Hood's
children, been

DEDICATED

TO
THE PEOPLES:

FOR WHOM THOMAS HOOD WROTE ♦ND LABOURED.

Nothing coed be more tenderly or more irresis-
tibly persuasive than the apology with which the
delay in the issue of these volumes is accounted for
by the son and daughter of the long since dead and
buried man of letters—respectively the editor an d the
annotator of these " Memorials." In his manly
and graceful preface, writes the son, Thomas Hood
the Younger—" It is owing chiefly to this fact
[i. e., the fact that, in the performance of this self-
imposed labour, so very often pain has predominated
over pleasure] that the publication of these
volumes has been so long delayed. To us, to
turn over the MSS. for these pages—to con-
sult, the letters, written in that well-known, clear
hand—was to recall to memory such a flood of re-
collections of dead joys, of long past sorrows, of
gentle, loving deeds and words, that we may well
claim to be excused if we were slow in our pro-
gress, and lingered somewhat over pages that
were often hidden from us by our tears."
And the same filial annotator adds imme-
diately afterwards in the preface : " Look-
ing back now on my own emotion, while
reading over these memorials, I can scarcely
think how I should be so moved after the lapse
of fifteen years, and. I can fully realise how
intensely painful must the compilation have
been to my sister, who, as the elder, was more
intimately connected with, and has a clearer
memory of the events chronicled, than I."
Who will not bow in respectful recognition of this
generous sensibility? Who will not turn the
pages afterwards with a reverent recollection of
the tears with which they have been sprinkled
(nature's holy water) during the process of their
arrangement. A formal biography was hardly to
be looked for in the pages designed, only by their
very title, to be devoted to the preservation of mis-
cellaneous recollections of the departed hterateur.
Yet the memoirs of Hood, or, at the least, the ma-
terials for his memoirs, are here discernible—with a
certain charm in their unostentatious completeness.
From his birthday, in the Poultry, on the 23d of
May, in the year 1799, to his marriage day, on the
sth of May, 1824, down to his death day, on the
3d of May, 1845—the whole of these " short and
simple annals " are epitomized. Interspersed
throughout with fragments of Hood's correspon-
dence with his intimate fritnds—many of these (as
for example, Charles Dickens) his illustrious con-
temporaries. Several of the witticisms we cannot
but think are somewhat inaptly selected. The sub-
joined epigram for example—dedicatory of the first
series of his Whims and Oddities to the Reviewers
—might very well have been omitted :

" What is a modern Poet's fate ?
To write his thoughts upon a slate ;
The critic spits on what is done,
Gives it a wipe—and all is gone 1"
'ost of the titles again, suggested by Hood for the
sham book-case at Chatsworth (according to the
device of Hood's noble patron—patron in the
noblest sense—the late Duke of Devonshire) are
unworthy of the author of the Whimsicalities.
While the publication, in cold blood, of the frag-
mentary jottings in Hood's note-book, we take to
be the cruelest kindness ever done to Wit posthu-
mously. These—beginning at page 341 of the
second volume—are, it must be remembered, an-
nounced as fr©m his common place book, it
might even have been put as from his
very common place book—they are to our
thinking, in many particulars, so exceedingly
indifferent. The excessive particularity again
which has been shown here and there in regard to
dates, both by editor and annotator, we cannot
but deem a blemish provocative of the sneers of the
supercilious. As, for example, at page 40 of the Ist
Vol., where it being observed in the text that " In
1832 he (Hood) left Winchmore Hill," &c., an
asterisk at the year 1832 .* carries attention
down to a footnote, where we read :
"*lt will be seen by reference to the letter:3lo the D ake
of Devonshire, that this removal took place toward
the end of the year—probably in October.—T• H."
Frequently, however—be sure of that !—the readerd
of these pleasant volumes comes upon jokes, and
witticisms, and whimsicalities, and fun-poking,
worthy of one of the quaintest and most delectable
humorists of his age. Who can preserve a grave
face when reading (p. 46, Vol. I.) in the midst of
Hood's wonder at the prodigious quantity of eggs
imported into England from the Continent,
Frenchntinent,g,hl:lo2rs
certain the quantity is great, and
must lay longer odds than mine ! Or-who can re-
main true to his own centre of gravity, When
shaken towards laughter, by Hood's record of a
smooth passage down the river :—" There was no
sickness whatever when I came down—at least
human sickness," he writes, "the only symptom I
saw was the heaving of the lead." Delightfully
ridiculous, too, is his chance remark to anotln r
correspondent, when touching upon amenity as
opposed to ascerbity in religious matters, he con-
tinues : —" If I recollect rightly your style of
singing,you were also in favour of ‘tolloPeration !' "
Then the airy inexhaustible play of comicality,

whenever he is "in the vein !" As, for instance
when writing (p. 111, vol. i.) about his son, thus :
" But ' henuff hov 'im,' as of course you used to say
at Margate. " * Tom, Junior, who came tes
Cologne a little shabby, flabby, dabby babby,'
has grown a young Kentuck, who can lick his
father—as hard as nails, and as brown as rusty
ones.—For his temper, only fancy mine with
sugar.' So unlike Jane's ' warm without.' Therr
he is already so good on his legs. I wonder he
ever required 1). to stand for him,' Tand
as to talking he can say papa when he likes.
I have no doubt he only don't cut his teeth
because he don't choose. In bulk, he is really a;
double number, but a good deal more amusing."
Occasionally this same Thomas Hood Sccundus,
drops a note on one of these pages not unworthy,
in its quiet humour, of being fathered upon his
famous progenitor. Ex. yr., where (p. 313, vol.
upon his exclusion, as a child, from the hope of
taking part in some continental pageantry, he writes,
"I confess I shed some natural tears at being
denied a chance of wings. When the procession
did come off, I remember the harmony of the
car was not exemplary, for the angels were all
fallen' to fisticuffs, like at lot of little Benicia
Boys and girls, or Hee-nans and She-nans.—T. H."
Sometimes, too, he comes out in the same purely
incidental way with a bit of shrewd criticism or
sagacious observation : as where (p. 12, vol. II.) he,
observes, " I believe one secret of the success of
my father's humorous writing was, that he read
Humphrey Clinker,' 'Tristram Shandy,' and 'Tom
Jones,' and caught their style, without catching
that something far more infectious, which occasion-
ally breaks out in their admirers." About the most
charming exemplars of the Hood's delightful hu-
mour in its very happiest style are the letters given
here and there to " the little Elliots,"
Jeannie, and May—three especial favourites among
a throng of loved and loving children. A
letter to Jeannie especially (written on the Ist of
July, 1844), and for the which in its entirety we re-
fer our readers to Vol. 11. 211-214—is really and
truly one of the charmingest child-letters well ima-
ginable ! "So you are at Sandgate !" he begins:
" Of course, wishing for your old playfellow, M
H--, (he can play,—it's work to me) to help you.
to make little puddles in the sand, and swing on the
gate. But perhaps there are no sand and gate at
Sandgate, which, in that case, nominally tells us a
fib. But there must be little crabs somewhere,
which you can catch, if you are nimble enough, so
like spiders, I wonder they do not make webs.
. . . . I suppose you never gather any sea-
flowers, but only sea-weeds. The truth is Mr.
David Jones never rises from his bed, and so has a
garden full of weeds, like Dr. Watt's Sluggard.
. . . . I hope you like the sea. I always did
when 1 was a child, which was about two years ago.
• • • . Well, how happy you must be ! Child-
hood is such a joyous, merry time ; and I often with
I was two or three children ! But I suppose I can't
be ; or else I would be Jeanie, and May, and
Dunnie Elliot. And wouldn't I pull off my
three pairs of shoes and socks, and go
paddling in the sea up to my knees ! And
oh ! how I would climb up the downs, and roll
down the ups on my three backs and stomachs !"
Reading through these child-letters, we cannot
certainly but coincide to the full in the regret ex-
pressed more than once by Hood's children, that he
never carried out his design of contributing sub-
stantially to the literature of the nursery—a de-
lightful literature to which Oliver Goldsmith did
not disdain to contribute, in his time, the pretty
legendary tale of " Goody Twoshoes." As to the
letters addressed to his wife by Thomas Hood,
in a strain of the tenderest affection, while
some of them tempt us to comment upon their
exceeding grace and suavity as very models of
what may be termed the correspondence of the hearth
and heart, we pass them respectfully sub silentio.
In contrast to the excessive particularity in some
places noticeable in these " Memorials," as already
observed, in regard to the exact date of a removal,
there is a curious reticence at other parts of the
work, a slurring over of particulars that might
have been given easily enough with an accuracy at
those times not without its interest and advantage.
When relating the circumstances attendant upon
the original appearance of " The Song of the Shirt"
—a fac simile from the original MS. of which
forms the frontispiece to Vol. I. of these memorials !
—it is mentioned that an universal interest as to
the authorship of the song having been awakened
upon its anonymous publication in the Christmas
number of Punch (1843)—"' At last my father
wrote to one of the daily papers and acknowledged
it." The particular journal might very easily
have been specified. It was in The Sun
that the authorship of "The Song of the Shirt" was
first acknowledged—Tom Hood having written to
ourselves a note in which he owned the exquisite
"impeachment !" Scattered up and down the volumes
are embellishments taken from accurate copies of
Hood's own original sketches—from an examina-
tion of which embellishments we may recognise
at a glance how deplorably the quaint pencilled
fancies of the Humorist have, in almost every.
instance before this, been murdered by the misera-
ble lack of skill on the part of previous wood en-
gravers. Examined however critically, these
" Memorials" of Thomas Hood, by his Son and
Daughter, will be found a really charming awl
most graceful addition to any library, however
fastidiously selected or amply furnished.

Two Months in the highlands, Orcadia, and Skye.
By Charles Richard Weld, author of " Vacations
in Ireland," "The Pyrenees East and West,"
&c. Longman.
Among the many works of travel that are
brought before us we do not often meet with one
more fascinating than this one. It is written
• throughout in a flowing style, and the variety of
• the topics, the manner in which the scenery, &C.,
' is described all contribute to render it a very charm-
ing work. The lines from Burns on the title page
fully exemplify the object of a book whose endea-
vour is to set before one the land of the north in its
majesty and magnificence—
" Their groves of sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume,
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom."
There is always something very attractive in the
scenery of the Highlands, and surely those who
rave about the delights of foreign tours might
look at home before they rush about to seek variety
in German baths and Swiss mountains. The
author avails himself of every opportunity of
making us acquainted with the chief objects of
rarity and renown in the several places through
which he passes. At Peebles, one of the first towns
he enters, he mentions the curious silver arrow
that is there, and to which the medals gained
by successful archers, are attached by silver
chains instead of being kept by the winners.. In
this neighbourhood resided David Ritchie, the
original of the" Black Dwarf" of Sir Walter Scott.
The novelist actually saw this man when once stay-
ing in the neighbourhood, and the account here
given is very interesting to peruse. In mentioning
Sir Walter Scott it is remarked that he ex-
claimed, "I really believe that I should die if I did
not see the heather every year," and this remark
is in every way characteristic of him who sang—
" Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires, what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand ! "
An amusing account is given of the crowded state
of the vessel in which they made the voyage from
Aberdeen to Wick. It is wisely remarked that if
cheapness is the object, the water way is the best,
but it does not include comfort in its stock of ad-
vantages. There is a long account given of the
herring fishery, which will be of service to some;
and those who think it tedious can easily skip it,
and proceed to " fresh fields and pastures new."
The manner in which the fishing is conducted is
if you can, up-
heir nets down,
wv ear
ryd
sp eo rfi loonues
tahto
ut isma
ne es
e"aCtsr
wceitivhet,
struck by the storm-blast. Amidst the thunder-
notes of the hurricane, they strive to reach the
haven from which they sailed, but the open boats,
shipping water at every sea, labour in the foaming
ocean troughs, and the crews are glad to run, with
loss of nets and tackle, for any creek where shelter
may be found. Picture this, and you will feel how
much is conveyed by the lines in the popular ballad
Herrin'—an mithers maist despairinV
of Caller
lvivesa
Ca' them lives of men.' "
The writer gives a glowing account of the pleasures
of his mountain resort, and of the grand doings of
himself and his brother sportsmen. He says they
worked hard, often not sitting down to their dinner
till Past ten. Their sport averaged fifteen
brace of grouse per day per gun. This,
it is said, is not much beside some of
the slaughter on certain moors ; but their
shooting-ground did not resemble a poultry-yard,
and they had to exercise skill in their sport.
Among other curious tales, it is said that the art of
making heather ale is lost, it was known to the
Picts. A legend narrates that, Kenneth Mac
Alpine slew all the Picts but two, an aged father
and his son, who were said to have the recipe of this
nectar. The father agreed to tell on one condition,
which was to have his son's head cut off! Now,
said the old man I am satisfied, he might have told
you, I never will! This explains the lines of the
ballad—
" The Picts were undone, cat off, mother's son
For not teaching the Scots to brew heather-ale."
It is truly stated that John o'Groat's house has a
world-wide fame, but strange to say, that while his
name " has been carried to the uttermost ends of
the earth, it is ignored by some persons residing