Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 6, No. 37, November, 1860 | Page 2

always before applauded him. He burst into tears.
He had been watching his dying wife, and had left her dead, as be came
upon the stage. This was his apology for imperfection in his part. Poor
Hood had also to unite comedy with tragedy,--not for a night, or a day,
or a week, but for months and years. He had to give the comedy to the
public, and keep the tragedy to himself; nor could he, if comedy failed
him, plead with the public the tragedy of his circumstances. That was
nothing to the public. He must give pleasure to the public, and not
explanations and excuses. But genius, goodness, many friends, no
enemy, the consciousness of imparting enjoyment to multitudes, and to
no man wretchedness, a heart alive with all that is tender and gentle,
and strong to manful and noble purpose and achievement,--these are
grand compensations,--compensations for even more ills than Hood
was heir to; and with such compensations Hood was largely blessed.
Though his funds were nothing to the bounty of his spirit, yet he did
not refuse to himself the blessedness of giving. Want, to his eye of
charity, was neither native nor foreign, but _human_; and as human he
pitied it always, and, as far as he could, relieved it. While abroad, he
was constantly doing acts of beneficence; and the burlesque style with
which, in his correspondence, he tries to disguise his own goodness,
while using the incidents as items to write about, is one of the most

delightful peculiarities in his delightful letters. The inimitable
combination of humanity and humor in these passages renders them
equal to the best things that Hood has anywhere written. To crown all,
Hood had happiness unalloyed in his children and his wife. Mrs. Hood
seems to have deserved to the utmost the abounding love which her
husband lavished on her. She was not only, as a devoted wife, a cheerer
of his heart, but, as a woman of accomplishment and ability, she was a
companion for his mind. Her judgment was as clear and sure as her
affection was warm and strong. Her letters have often a grave
tenderness and an insinuated humor hardly inferior to her husband's.
But as she must write from fact and not from fancy, what she writes
naturally bears the impression of her cares. Here is a passage from one
of her latest letters, which, half sadly, half amusingly, reminds us of
Mrs. Primrose and her "I'll-warrant" and "Between-ourselves" manner.
"Hood dines to-day," she writes, "with Doctor Bowring, in Queen
Square. He knew him well years ago in 'The London Magazine'; and he
wrote, a few days ago, to ask Hood to meet Bright and Cobden on
business,--I think, to write songs for the League. I augur good from it.
This comes of 'The Song of the Shirt,' of which we hear something
continually."
As an instance of her judgment, we may mention that she prophesied at
once all the success which followed this same "Song of the Shirt."
When read to her in manuscript,--"Now mind, Hood," said she, "mark
my words, this will tell wonderfully! It is one of the best things you
ever did." Her reference to "The Song" in her letter has a sort of
pathetic _naïveté_ in it; it shows that the thought with which she was
concerned was practical, not poetical,--not her husband's fame, but her
household cares. She was thinking of songs that would turn into
substance,--of "notes" that could be exchanged for cash,--of evanescent
flame that might be condensed into solid coal, which would, in turn,
make the pot boil,--and of music that could be converted into mutton. O
ye entranced bards, drunk with the god, seeing visions and dreaming
dreams in the third heaven, that is, the third story! O ye voluminous
historians, who live in the guilt and glory of the past, and are proud in
making the biggest and thickest books for the dust, cobwebs, and moths
of the future! O ye commentators, who delight to render obscurity more
obscure, and who assume that in a multitude of words, as in a multitude

of counsellors, there is wisdom! O ye critics, who vote yourselves the
Areopagites of Intellect, whose decrees confer immortality in the
Universe of Letters! O all ye that write or scribble,--all ye tribes, both
great and small, of pen-drivers and paper-scrapers!--know ye, that,
while ye are listening in your imaginative ambition to the praise of the
elect or the applause of nations, your wives are often counting the
coppers that are to buy the coming meal, alarmed at the approaching
rent-day, or trembling in apprehension of the baker's bill.
Hood, in 1840, returned to reside in England during the small
remainder of his life. For a few months he edited the