THOMAS HOOD.

Thomas Hood was originally intended for business, and entered a mercantile house; but the failure of his health, at fifteen years of age, compelled him to leave it, and go to Scotland, where he remained two years, with much gain to his body and his mind.  On his return to London, he applied himself to learn the art of engraving; but his constitution would not allow him to pursue it.  Yet what he did acquire of this art, with his genius for comic observation, must have been of excellent service to him in his subsequent career.  This, at first, was simply literary, in a subordinate connection with “The London Magazine.”  His relation to this periodical gave him opportunities, which he did not neglect, of knowing many of its brilliant contributors.  Among these was Charles Lamb, who took a strong liking to the youthful sub-editor, and, doubtless, discovered a talent that in some points had resemblance to his own.  The influence of his conversation and companionship may have brought Hood’s natural qualities of mind into early growth, and helped them into early ripeness.  Striking as the difference was, in some respects, between them, in other respects the likeness was quite as striking.  Both were playful in manner, but melancholy by constitution, and in each there lurked an unsuspected sadness; both had tenderness in their mirth, and mirth in their tenderness; and both were born punsters, with more meaning in their puns than met the ear, and constantly bringing into sudden and surprising revelation the wonderful mysteries of words.

With a genius of so singular a cast, Hood was not destined to continue long a subordinate.  Almost with manhood he began to be an independent workman of letters; and as such, through ever-varying gravities and gayeties, tears and laughter, grimsicalities and whimsicalities, prose and verse, he labored incessantly till his too early death.  The whole was truly and entirely “Hood’s Own.”  In mind he owed no man anything.  Unfortunately, he did in money.  That he might economize, and be free to toil in order to pay, he went abroad, residing between four and five years out of England, part of the time at Coblentz, in Rhenish Prussia, and part at Ostend, in Belgium.  The climate of Rhenish Prussia was bad for his health, and the people were disagreeable to his feelings.  The change to Belgium was at first pleasant and an improvement; but complete recovery soon seemed as far away as ever; nay, it was absolutely away forever.  But in the midst of his family—­his wife, his little boy and girl, most loving and most loved—­bravely he toiled, with pen and pencil, with head and heart; and while men held both their sides from laughter, he who shook them held both his sides from pain; while tears, kindly or comical, came at the touch of his genius into thousands of eyes, eyes were watching and weeping in secret by his bed-side in the lonely night, which, gazing through the cloud of sorrow on