N spite of constant protests, the practice of classifying poets and setting them down in order of merit seems to be an universal failing. Some have their lists of the five, ten, or twenty best poets; the rival claims of favourite authors are hotly pressed; and there are few who have not some kind of graduated mental tariff of great names. In such classifications Hood usually occupies a peculiar position. There seems to be some hesitation in assigning him a place, and this not infrequently ends in his being labelled a kind of poetical nondescript.

Beyond the universal admiration bestowed on his three poems "The Song of the Shirt," "The dream of Eugene Aram," and "The Bridge of Sighs," Hood suffers from an almost paradoxical injustice. To one he is the poet of "The plea of the Midsummer Fairies," to another of "Faithless Nelly Gray." But oddly enough these two fields of achievement, instead of earning him a two-fold meed of fame, are allowed to mutually detract from one another. On the one hand the opinion of Hood's contemporaries that he was essentially a comic poet dies very hard; and many even of those who appreciate his really fine poetic VOL. XVIII,

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qualities have not quite shaken off the idea that his serious work was the well meant though somewhat abortive attempt of one who had temporarily mistaken his vocation. On the other hand, those who see in Hood powers and beauties of the rarest kind, are inclined to bear a grudge against his comic poems for robbing them of more of what they consider his finer work. In this conflict of opinion Hood's reputation as a poet suffers considerably; and it is to be regretted that there are comparatively few who sympathise with those lines of Landor which Hood's admirers are never tired of quoting:

"Jealous I own it I was once,
That wickedness I here renounce,
I tried at wit, that would not do,
At tenderness, that failed me too;
Before me on each path there stood
The witty and the tender Hood."

The details even of a poet's life are apt to be tedious; but in an age that has given birth to the interview, no apology is needed for touching on the main features of Hood's life. This is especially the case since the character of Hood's writings was so largely determined by exterior circumstances-that his life to some extent supplies the answer to the question as to why his work took the shape it did. He was born in 1798 and died in 1845. Of these forty-seven years only the latter half were spent in literary work. In only four years out of that half was Hood in comfortable circumstances; while throughout his whole life he was the victim of hereditary consumption, and his work was broken in upon by frequent serious illnesses. He was the son of a London bookseller, and his intimate acquaintance with middle class London life was used to good purpose in his comic poems. He was in turn a merchant's clerk and an engraver. The latter employment doubtless led him to cultivate that talent for humorous drawing and caricature, which enabled him to illustrate

his comic poems with such broad farce. Bad health compelled him to abandon his profession, and he then turned to literature. From first to last he was writing for a living, and it was journalism and especially comic journalism that brought him in the best income. He was successively sub-editor of "The London Magazine," editor of "The Gem," "Hood's Annual," "The New Monthly Magazine," and "Hood's Own." Besides this he wrote three prose works-"Tylney Hall," a novel, "Up the Rhine," apparently a kind of "Innocents Abroad," and "National Tales." All have found even enthusiastic admirers, but they are no longer read. Pecuniary necessity gave him neither time nor encouragement to devote himself much to serious poetry. Such serious poems as he published were on the whole little read, and brought in small profits. His comic poems on the other hand quickly caught the public favour, and his popularity soon became immense. Thus he was able to keep up the struggle for respectability to the end of his short life, delighting an enthusiastic and laughing public with his comicalities, while troubles were wearing out his heart in secret-a pathetic parallel to Hans Anderson's Punchinello.

But if poverty, ill-health, and some lack of appreciation constitute the darker side of Hood's life, they are after all but the foil against which the other side shews more brightly. There are few things more charming than Hood's domestic life, his literary friendships, and above all his own cheery, patient, loveable nature. In spite of all his difficulties his home life was one of the happiest. His wife, Jane Reynolds, was in every way worthy of him; their correspondence reveals the true and beautiful character of their affection :-"I never was anything, dearest, till I knew you, and I have been a better, happier, and more prosperous man ever since. Lay by that truth in lavender, sweetest, and remind me when I fail. I am writing fondly and warmly, but not without good cause. First your own affectionate letter,