to roll down a hill with. What fun it was! only so prickly, I thought I had a porcupine in one pocket, and a hedgehog in the other. The next time, before we kiss the earth we will have its face well shaved. Did you ever go to Greenwich Fair? I should like to go there with you, for I get no rolling at St. John's Wood. Tom and Fanny only like roll and butter, and as for Mrs. Hood, she is for rolling in money. Tell Dunnie that Tom has set his trap in the balcony and has caught a cold, and tell Jeanie that Fanny has set her foot in the garden, but it has not come up yet. Oh, how I wish it was the season when March winds and April showers bring forth May flowers!' for then of course you would give me another pretty little nosegay. Besides it is frosty and foggy weather, which I do not like. The other night when I came from Stratford, the cold shrivelled me up so, that when I got home, I thought I was iny own child! Christmas; I mean However, I hope we shall all have a merry to come in my ticklesome waistcoat, and to laugh till I grow fat, or at least streaky. Fanny is to be allowed a glass of wine, Tom's mouth is to have a hole holiday, and Mrs. Hood is to sit up to supper? There will be doings! And then such good things to eat; but, pray, pray, pray, mind they don't boil the baby by mistake for the plump pudding, instead of a plum one. Give my love to everybody, from yourself down to Willy, with which and a kiss, I remain, up hill and down dale, Your affectionate lover THOMAS HOOD. СССХХІІІ. The last letter, written by this great poet and good man, was addressed to Sir Robert Peel in gratitude for the transfer of a pension of 1007 a year from his to Mrs. Hood's name, and in order thoroughly to appreciate the sentiment of this letter we should compare it with that last poem of his composed about the same time, in which he took farewell of life. Happy in being able to 'smell the rose above the mould,' he could smile at being so near death's door, that, as he said, he could almost fancy he heard the creaking of the hinges. Thomas Hood to Sir Robert Peel. 1845. Dear Sir,-We are not to meet in the flesh. Given over by my physicians and myself, I am only kept alive by frequent instalments of mulled port wine. In this extremity I feel a comfort, for which I cannot refrain from again thanking you, with all the sincerity of a dying man,-and, at the same time, bidding you a respectful farewell. Thank God my mind is composed and my reason undisturbed, but my race as an author is run. My physical debility finds no tonic virtue in a steel pen, otherwise I would have written one more paper-a forewarning one-against an evil, or the danger of it, arising from a literary movement in which I have had some share, a one-sided humanity, opposite to that Catholic Shaksperian sympathy, which felt with King as well as Peasant, and duly estimated the mortal temptations of both stations. Certain classes at the poles of society are already too far asunder; it should be the duty of our writers to draw them nearer by kindly attraction, not to aggravate the existing repulsion, and place a wider moral gulf between Rich and Poor, with Hate on the one side and Fear on the other. But I am too weak for this task, the last I had set myself; it is death that stops my pen, you see, and not the pension. God bless you, sir, and prosper all your measures for the benefit of my beloved country. I have the honour to be, Sir, THOS. HOOD. |