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

whenever he is "in the vein !" As, for instanct

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 to
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.' Then
he is already so good on his legs. I wonder he
ever required D. to stand for him,' • and
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 ,Seeundus,
drops a note on one of these pages not unworthy,
in its quiet humour, of being fathered upon his
famous progenitor. Ex. gr., where (p. 313, vol. i.)
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 a lot of little Benicia
Boys and girls, or Hee-vans 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, Tol. 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," Dunnie,

Jeannie, and May—three especial favourites among
a throng of loved and loving children. A
letter to Jeannie especially (written on the lst 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-
ninable ! "So you are at Sandgate !" he begins:
" Of course, wishing for your old playfellow, M
Ii , (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 I was a child, which was about two years ago.
. . . . Well, bow happy. you must be ! Child-
hood is such a joyous, merry time ; and I often wish.
I was two or three children ! But I suppose I can't
be ; or else I would be Jeanie, and May, and
Minnie 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 Lffection, 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 eTact 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 alai
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-
vouris 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
milking 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.
1 he 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 1 "
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 tl, ose who think it tedious can easily skip it,
and proceed to " fresh fields and pastures new."
The manner in which the, fishing
very perilous at times. "Conceive,
ive,is conducted is
if
you can, up-
wards of one thousand boats, with their nets down,
struck by the storm-blast. Amidst the thunder-
notes of the hurricane, they strive to reach the
shippingha en fromal
which
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
they
much is conveyed by the lines in the popular ballad
veacht every sailed,s sea, but the open boats,
oCaller Herrin'—

' Wives and mithers maist
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. Re 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
:asking heather ale is lost, it was krown 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, cut off, mother's son
For not teaching the Scots to brow 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