"set up" on it, and make as fine a show, let me tell you, as the drawers in a druggist's shop, all nicely labelled, do with nothing in them. All of us know instances of books which, for this very reason, have attained their fifteen or twenty editions; while others, full of truth, of wisdom, of thought, fall still-born from. the press, and 'cumber the shelves of disconsolate publishers; and so, a "Paradise Lost," or a "Vicar of Wakefield," shall with difficulty be sold for a few pounds; while a "sensational drama," which splits the ears "of the groundlings but makes the judicious grieve," shall enable its author to start his carriage and keep flunkeys, literary as well as the other kind. Shall we, then, say "where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise?" Chacun à son gout. But for my own part, I do not well see how, with all their disadvantages, the world would get on without some knowledge and wisdom in it; farther, I am fully persuaded that nothing can come from nothing-that, however great a noise they make, inanities of speech and writing are doomed inevitably and quickly to pass into chaos and old night, whence they sprung; while the true, brave, quiet, earnest word of wisdom and genius shall be heard across the centuries, and influence men's thoughts and destinies for ever. Come, now, old fogey, no moralizing! Well, each reader may pick what meaning he likes out of my humble essay; for not car ing much for the didactic, I hold with Prince Alfred (Tennyson, I mean) : "That liberal applications lie In art, like Nature, dearest friend; Should hook it to some useful end." 134 HOOD'S POEMS. NOTHING is more common now-a-days, than to hear of the degeneracy of poetry, and the little appreciation bestowed by the public on the lucubrations of our modern bards. And the cry is, generally speaking, well founded. That much of the poetry which is daily poured from the press creates little sympathy, is nothing very extraordinary; the apathy is traceable to a very simple cause the over-supply of an inferior article. The human heart is the same now as it was eighteen hundred years ago. Its feelings, affections, and sympathies are awakened still by the same agencies as then. Half-a-century ago, the genius of Burns sent an electric thrill through the Scottish bosom; it has since been felt in every corner of the world, wherever a Scottish heart beats; nor do we see any evidence that its intensity is weakening. On the contrary, each successive year seems to add new power to the spell, and to stamp more indelibly the name of Robert Burns upon the human heart. And were another to rise up in our own day, gifted, like him, with the same rare and varied powers, he would receive the right hand of hearty welcome. In these days the poetry of mediocrity will not do; and we think we are justified in saying, that nine-tenths of what we are favoured with is of that character. excellence must be gained, to secure and maintain general admiration. It is because this essential quality is absent, that little of the poetry of the day survives its birth. Poets and poems we possess in inexhaustible abundance and variety-poets in everything but head and heart-poems wanting in nothing but originality, common sense, and simple feeling. The general mind, sick to satiety with smooth rhymes and mawkish sentimentality, neglects their effusions. Nevertheless, the outpourings of true genius are as much welcomed and appreciated as ever: and while human nature remains human nature, the chords of the heart will never cease to vibrate to the touch of a master-hand, be the theme what it may. In this as in other matters of taste, We look upon the poems of Thomas Hood, as forming one of the refreshing spots in the great desert of modern poetry; and the public has shown that when real, life-like poetry is presented, the taste for its enjoy ment is as keen and deep as ever. These poems are the product of a great mind and a warm heart. It is but recently Britain-may we not add, the world?— was deprived of Thomas Hood, and all of us can yet recall the affecting description of his last moments. A beloved wife and affectionate children dependent upon him for support, he toiled for that sacred object, even while the blight of mortal sickness was upon his frame. While the lamp of life was flickering in its socket, this highly gifted man was compelled to task his overwrought mind to the utmost for bare subsistence. “Work, work, work!" cried necessity, till the debilitated and shattered body became incapable to contain the large soul that struggled within. Hood's character and mission were not understood in his lifetime. He was looked upon as an inimitable humorist and wit-an inveterate punster--a mighty word-conjuror a living impersonation of an enlarged Joe Miller-quick and happy at seizing a witty point, and arraying it in the quaintest and most striking language. All this he doubtless was; but he was something greater. He was a poet whose soul was cast in nature's mould; and his published poems are his title to this high name. Like Burns, his works prove him to have been born a poet. Poetry was the celestial element of his being, and should have been the soul of |