The Sun.
London, England, 1845-05-28 00:00:00

GUERNSEY.

Mr. ROEBUCK presented petitions from persons in
Guernsey, complaining of the administration of the law
in that island. He should move on Friday that the peti-
tions be printed. On a future day he would bring for-
ward a motion for an inquiry into the state of the law
there.

Lord SANDON presented a petition for the repeal of
the union of the sees of St. Asaph and Bangor. Also
a petition from some merchants in Liverpool,
to take measures fc r the renewal of the treaty between
this country and Brazil, and also in favonr of the im•
provement of the navigation of the river La Plata, in
South America.
BUSINESS OF THE HOUSE.

Mr. IIUME said that he had fixed a motion for the
10th of June, but he now found that a motion had got
upon the paper, he knew not how, by which he was pre-
cluded.—(A laugh.) He should, therefore, fix the 17th.
The SPEAKER said that the Hon. Gentleman was
mistaken ; the rule only precluded him from giving a
notice within four days.
- - -

After a few words from Mr. T. DUNCOMBE,
Mr. HUME said he would give his notice to morrow.
MERCHANT SEAMEN'S BILL.

Mr. HUME presented a petition from Montrose
against clauses in the Merchant Seamen's Bill.
SANITARY MEASURES.
Lord DUNCAN begged to ask the Noble Lord oppo-
site (Lord Lincoln) whether he could state when the sani-
tory measures alluded to in her Majesty's speech would
be introduced to the House ?

Vv
Lord LINCOLN hoped that in a few days he would
be able to fix a day.

(LEFT SITTING.)

A MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD.
BY MRS. S. C. HALL.
ends; acold bleak "season"
in the number of its
(From the Art- Union. )
The past winter has been one of dismal heaviness to us, for
it
ehas—each b
montheens tosu
rpas many
surpassing
dearng iits
predecessorf ri
bereavements, until we have asked each other, " Is the cup
of sorrow :0-et unfilled?" All through February and March
the dull boom of the death-bell mingled with the snow-
wreath and rose above the storm, while the frost-bound earth
echoed the clank of the mattock and the spade. We do not
speak of the simple hearts, near and dear, whom death found
as fittest for immortality—ripest for the sickle—but of others,
known to the world about us, who have been taken "home"
in the flower of their days; and more especially of one, just
gone, whose gentle spirit past away while nature was re-
cruiting,—resuming her leaves and flowers, and wearing once
again a happy look of plenteousness and peace.
First, from over the sea, came news of the death of one
who, if longer spared, would have achieved a much higher
reputation than she had yet won—for her mind was evidently
gaining strength, and her views of life and knowledge of
literature were expanding: One of our Contemporaries has
said, that Mary Anne Browne was " spoiled at first by over-
praise ;" over-praised the girl-poet might have been, but
none who have read what she has written as Mrs. James
Gray could have deemed her " spoiled"--for all her later
works evince care and thought, and much genuine refine-
ment ; and her last small volume of poems—" Sketches from
the Antique"—supply evidence of higher hopes and holier
aspirations than belong to the " spoiled" children of the
Muses. Her short life, though uneventful, was chequered
and of uneven course—as literary lives always are in Eng-
land—but she was a loving and a beloved wife, esteemed by
those who knew her as a kind and amiable woman, and one
of rare industry. I found it hard to believe that death had
taken her from the new-born infant that nestled in her
bosom ; that the grave had closed over the laughing girl I
had seen but as yesterday—her rich brown curls clustering
round her throat, and her eyes luminous with mirth.
But heavier sorrows followed. There are few, indeed, who
are acquainted with the light and graceful literature of our
country—who cull the simple and natural flowers so plenti-
fully scattered in their paths—to whom the name of Latnan
Blanchard is unknown : his ready and eloquent pen could in-
dite a sonnet, point an epigram, tell a story, or lend interest
to an essay, while slower spirits were wondering and ponder.
ing wkat they had to write about.
His name was a pleasant watchword, a guarantee that
something was to follow—racy and fanciful. His wit, rather
genial than caustic, and so abounding that it brightened
everything it played about, was checked only by a sensitive
desire to avoid giving pain ; even where to censure became a
duty, this tenderness in his nature was apparent in his writ-
ings : he frequently stopped short of his object lest he might
inflict a wound. Of late, few articles bore his name in pc-•
riodical works; and those who are unacquainted with the
mighty mechanism that scatters" leaders," " criticism," and
" reviews"—" opinions" of all kinds en all subjects to guide
the multitude—little imagine what volumes have passed
down the stream of time—written for " the day," by this
man of many labours, but upon which the power of the
throbbing brain had been lavishly expended.
Sixteen years ago we knew him ; even as a poet, buoyant
with youth and hope—his purpose fixed, his independence
unflinching—with the dreamy, ardent temperament -of a
genuine " child of son" yet tiring himself to the direst and
hardest duty work, andg,labouring at everything that did not
compromise the principles with which he set out in life,—
fighting his way with a brave heart and a bright eye, known
only to be loved, and imparting as much pleasure to, as he
received from, literary society. Many are the happy and
profitable hours we have passed together ; his ready sym.
pathy attracting confidence that was never betrayed. Alas I
his wife became the victim of a distressing malady; and his
sensitive nerves were ill able to endure long midnight watch-
ings, relieved only by midnight labour—the coin with which
genius purchases bread. She died some months ago, and to
all but him her death seemed a mercy. From that time,
however, his light of life either blazed or flickered, as it was
excited. He rose up, and went about, and wrote, when he
could, but fancied, and perhaps truly, that he could not write
as he had done. The fact was, his mind required repose—a
total absence from labour—it craved rest ; but how is
the producer of periodical literature to find rest ?
People tell you "not to be excited," " not to over-
work yourself." Ah ! they cannot see underneath
the gay draperies that society folds around the form—they
cannot see the chains that bind us to the galley. A terror
that he should be unable to provide for his children took hold
of our poor friend—seized him by the brain through the
heart ; his eyes became atrected—to all appearance they were
as bright as ever, but he could not endure the light, and con-
tinued to suffer intensely ; his imagination appeared to retain
its power after his reason had given way; and thus was the
fountain of life exhausted at one-and-forty! The eloquent
and tender poet—the man with many real friends, yet dying
in harness which, if one ready hand had unbuckled for a
time, might have been worn, after a brief rest, in honour for
many years ! Not but be was difficult to manage ; loath to
owe any debt save to his own exertions ; and proud—as all
right-thinking men must be—of the independence that had
won the respect and friendship of the intellectual and the
true ; and it was hard, when you saw his bright face or heard
his pleasant words, to think of him and sorrow—the sure

suggestion v.-as, that he would be better by-and-by. Ah lit
was a mournful termination to such a life.

And, after he was laid in his grave, the bells tolled on;
another and another passed away—names highly honoured
in Art—Calcott, Smirke, Phillips, the gentle and highly•
gifted Duncan ; and now one whose name has long been a
household word, but whose death has been anticipated for
months, nay, for years—the noble poet—yet, strange, better
known as the annual " jester"—Thomas Hood! Truly, the
man who, year after year, furnished abundant food for mirth,
and yet could imagine " The Plea of the Midsummer
Fairies," " The Dream of Eugene Aram," and depict such
realities as " The Song of the Shirt" and " The Bridge of
Sighs," must have been formed in no common mould! He,
too, is gone " home !"
I remember the first time I met him was at one of the
pleasant soirees of the painter Martin; for a moment I turned
away—as many have done—disappointed, for the counte-
nance, in repose, was of melancholy rather than of mirth :
there was something calm, even to solemnity, in the upper
portion of the face, which, in public, was seldom relieved by
the eloquent play of the mouth, or the occasional sparkle of
the observant eye ; and it was a general remark among
his acquaintances, that he was too quiet for " the world."
There are many wit• watchers to be found in society, who
think there is nothing in a man, unless, like a sound-
ing•board, he make a great noise at a small touch—
who consider themselves aggrieved, unless an " author" open
at once like a book, and speak as he writes ; this vulgar no-
tion, like others of the same stamp, creeps into good society,
or what is so considered, and I have seen both I-look and
Hood " set," as a pointer sets a partridge, by persons who
glitter in evanescent light simply by repeating what such
men have said. Mr. Hook, perhaps, liked this celebrity—
this setting and starting, this lion hunt—so different from
the heart-worship paid to veritable greatness. Mr. Hood
did not : he was too sensitive, too refined, to endure it ; the
dislike to being pointed at as the " man who was funny" kept
him out of a crowd, where there were always numbers who
really honoured his genius, and loved him for his gentle and
domestic virtues. It was only among his friends that his
playful fancy flourished, or that he yielded to its influence ;
although, strictly speaking, " social" in all his feelings, he
never sought to stimulate his wit by the false poison of
draughts of wine ; nor was he ever more cheerful than when
at his own fireside he enjoyed the companionship of his dear
and devoted wife.. He was playful as a child; and his imagi-
nation, pure as bright, frolicked with nature, whcm he loved
too well ever to outrage or insult by slight or misrepresen-
tation. And yet he was City born,and City bred,—born in the
unpoetic district of " the Poultry ;" though born as it were,
to letters, for his father was a bookseller ; and the son was
remarkable for great vivacity of spirits, and prone to asto-
nish good citizens, guests at his father's, no less than his
fellow-pupils when at school, by the shrewdness and bril-
liancy of his observations upon topics of which it was thought
he knew nothing. He finished his education at Camberwell ;
and, even at that early age being in very precarious health,
was advised to try the effect of a sea voyage upon his con-
stitution. The sea suited him not. I can well imagine its
boiling turbulence—its fitfulness—its glittering brightness,
and its fearful storms finding no sympathy in the gentle
bosom of the author of " The Plea of the Midsummer
Fairies."

He passed some years, on his return, with relatives in
"Bonny Dundee ;" and, manifesting a great talent for draw-
ing, was apprenticed to his uncle, Mr. Robert Sands, an
engraver. But he trifled with the pencil, while he laboured
with the pen ; his future destiny was pointed out by the
light of genius. And what rare talents did he not possess,
blended with the gentleness and kindliness of the sweetest
of poetic temperaments—how full his sympathies !—how
honest his heart—how great and true in all things ! Although
his existence was a long disease rather than a life, he
was free from all bitterness and harshness of spirit, feeling
intensely for the sufferings of others; he was in every way
unselfish ; prone to the very last to turn his own sad zuffer-
ings into jests, and forcing those who wept over his agony,
fierce as it was (until the last dull sleep which continued
from the Tuesday to the Saturday of his death), to smile at
the wittiness of his conceits, mingling as they did with a
touching consciousness of his situation, and the solemn belief
in that hereafter which, in all faith and humility, we believe
—to the full extent of knowledge—he now enjoys.
But what a sad picture—and by no means a solitary one—
de the last months of this GREAT MAN'S life display ! " The
Song of the Shirt" wasj knocking at every heart in Great Bri-
tain, while its author was panting for breath, and trying to
enlist the forces of his friends in the launch of the Magazine
that still bears his name. And his friends stood by him :
they gathered willingly beneath the banner which, had it
been raised by a strong arm instead of one trembling with
pain and the unsteadiness of departed health, would have
battled the breeze boldly and waved for years triumphantly
above—as a shelter to—his home. A little longer, and the
difficulties of his position increased; one illness succeeded
another, and " l'Envoi" at the end of each " periodical la-
bour," induced the mingled smiles and tears of his admirers.
Ile wrote wit while propped by pillows; and the chapters of
a novel—doomed to remain, like his life, a great fragment—
were produced between the intervals and beatings of heart
disease.

Alas! what those endure who write for bread ! But it is all
over with him now: the gold has been refined and the crud-
is broken ; the toil-worn body has been bowed in death
that the soul might escape into life; the mortal cerements
have been burst; the winged child is borne into the true life
—the life of eternity Those who loved him best rejoice at
his release from labour—lnever remunerated in proportion to
the pleasure it gave—never in a way at all commensurate
with the enormous profit it produced seldom, perhaps,
thought of by those whose hearts it opened. Latterly his
dear friends had been agonised by his terrible lament, " I
cannot die—l cannot die I" Such friends were thankful to
lay him, on the 10th of May, in a calm grave at Kensall-
green. It will not, we are sure, be long before a monument
is raised to his memory; and there are hearts enough in
England to remember that his widow and two children have
but the hundred a year to subsist on—bestowed by Sir Robert
Peel, whose letter, in words which did him honour, con-
veyed the request that he might be permitted to make the
personal acquaintance of one whose works and whose cha-
meter he had long admired and appreciated. In this gene-
rous wish and hope he was destined to be disappointed—but
Honour and glory to a great statesman with a good heart 1
Such men are worthy almoners of genius!