No More Learning

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air-
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair! )
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire! )
―
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink! )
Thou cherub-but of earth;
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth —
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail! )
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny-
(Another tumble-that's his precious nose! )


## p. 7596 (#406) ###########################################

7596
THOMAS HOOD
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope! )
With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint-
(Where did he learn that squint? )
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove! )
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best? )
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan! )
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,—
(He's got a knife! )
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball — bestride the stick-
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick! )
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk-
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown! )
-
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose! )
Balmy, and breathing music like the south
(He really brings my heart into my mouth! )
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star
(I wish that window had an iron bar! )
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove –
(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he's sent above! )
A NOCTURNAL SKETCH
E
VEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;


## p. 7597 (#407) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7597
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas upblazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low, "No go! "
Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers waking grumble, "Drat that cat! "
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;
But nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears - what faith is man's! Ann's banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!
RUTH
-
S
HE stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened;-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell;
Which were blackest none could tell:


## p. 7598 (#408) ###########################################

7598
THOMAS HOOD
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.
And her hat with shady brim
Made her tressy forehead dim:
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.
Sure, I said, heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean:
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.
FAIR INES
H, SAW ye not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest;
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
O"
O turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivaled bright;
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek
I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier
Who rode so gayly by thy side,
And whispered thee so near! -
Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;


## p. 7599 (#409) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore; —
It would have been a beauteous dream,
- If it had been no more!
Alas, alas, fair Ines!
She went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps,
And shouting of the throng;
But some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines!
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before;
Alas for pleasure on the sea
And sorrow on the shore!
The smile that blest one lover's heart
Has broken many more!
A
A SONG: FOR MUSIC
LAKE, and a fairy boat
To sail in the moonlight clear,-
And merrily we would float
From the dragons that watch us here!
Thy gown shall be snow-white silk,
And strings of orient pearls,
Like gossamers dipped in milk,
Should twine with thy raven curls!
Red rubies should deck thy hands,
And diamonds should be thy dower;
But fairies have broken their wands,
And wishing has lost its power!
7599


## p. 7600 (#410) ###########################################

7600
THOMAS HOOD
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
"Drowned! drowned! »- HAMLET
Ο
NE more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care:
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing:
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly:
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now, is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family.
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,-
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses,
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?


## p. 7601 (#411) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7601
XIII--476
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none!
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed;
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black-flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurled
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran
Over the brink of it:
Picture it, think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!


## p. 7602 (#412) ###########################################

7602
THOMAS HOOD
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care:
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,-
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest-
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Savior!
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT
fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
WITH
Plying her needle and thread:
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt"!
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work-work-work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!


## p. 7603 (#413) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7603
It's oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
« Work work work!
Till the brain begins to swim;
-
-
Work-work-work!
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in my dream!
"O men, with sisters dear!
O men, with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
―
Stitch stitch stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt!
"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own—
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep:
O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work-work-work!
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread, and rags;
A shattered roof, and this naked floor,
A table, a broken chair,
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work-work-work!
From weary chime to chime;
Work-work-work,
As prisoners work for crime!


## p. 7604 (#414) ###########################################

7604
THOMAS HOOD
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,—
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand!
"Work-work — work,
In the dull December light;
And work-work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright;
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.
"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!
"Oh, but for one short hour!
A respite, however brief! —
No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread! "
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread:
Stitch stitch - stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich! -
She sang this "Song of the Shirt. "


## p. 7605 (#415) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7605
C
ODE TO MELANCHOLY
OME, let us set our careful breasts,
Like Philomel, against the inward thorn,
To aggravate the inward grief
That makes her accents so forlorn;
The world has many cruel points
Whereby our bosoms have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast the morn:
True honor's dearth, affection's death,
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have watered since the world was born.
The world! -it is a wilderness,
Where tears are hung on every tree;
For thus my gloomy phantasy
Makes all things weep with me.
Come, let us sit and watch the sky,
And fancy clouds where no clouds be;
Grief is enough to blot the eye,
And make heaven black with misery.
Why should birds sing such merry notes,
Unless they were more blest than we?
No sorrow ever chokes their throats-
Except sweet nightingale; for she
Was born to pain our hearts the more,
With her sad melody.
Why shines the sun, except that he
Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide,
And pensive shades for Melancholy,
When all the earth is bright beside?
Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave:
Mirth shall not win us back again,
Whilst man is made of his own grave,
And fairest clouds but gilded rain!
I saw my mother in her shroud;
Her cheek was cold and very pale:
And ever since I've looked on all
As creatures doomed to fail!
Why do buds ope, except to die?
Aye, let us watch the roses wither,
And think of our loves' cheeks;


## p. 7606 (#416) ###########################################

7606
THOMAS HOOD
And oh, how quickly time doth fly
To bring death's winter hither!
Minutes, hours, days, and weeks,
Months, years, and ages, shrink to naught—
An age is but a thought!
Aye, let us think of him awhile
That, with a coffin for a boat,
Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat;
And for our table choose a tomb.
There's dark enough in any skull
To charge with black a raven plume;
And for the saddest funeral thoughts
A winding-sheet hath ample room,
Where Death, with his keen-pointed style,
Hath writ the common doom.
How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom,
And o'er the dead lets fall its dew,
As if in tears it wept for them-
The many human families
That sleep around its stem!
How cold the dead have made these stones,
With natural drops kept ever wet!
Lo! here the best, the worst, the world
Doth now remember or forget,
Are in one common ruin hurled;
And love and hate are calmly met,-
The loveliest eyes that ever shone,
The fairest hands, and locks of jet.
Is 't not enough to vex our souls
And fill our eyes, that we have set
Our love upon a rose's leaf,
Our hearts upon a violet?
Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet;
And sometimes, at their swift decay
Beforehand we must fret.
The roses bud and bloom again;
But love may haunt the grave of love,
And watch the mold, in vain.
Oh clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine,
And do not take my tears amiss;
For tears must flow to wash away
A thought that shows so stern as this.


## p. 7607 (#417) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7607
Forgive if somewhile I forget,
In woe to come, the present bliss.
As frighted Proserpine let fall
Her flowers at the sight of Dis,
Even so the dark and bright will kiss,
The sunniest things throw sternest shade;
And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid.
Now let us with a spell invoke
The full-orbed moon to grieve our eyes;
Not bright, not bright-but, with a cloud
Lapped all about her, let her rise
All pale and dim, as if from rest
The ghost of the late buried sun
Had crept into the skies.
The moon! she is the source of sighs,
The very face to make us sad,
If but to think in other times
The same calm, quiet look she had,
As if the world held nothing base,
Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad-
The same fair light that shone in streams,
The fairy lamp that charmed the lad;
For so it is, with spent delights
She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad.
—
All things are touched with melancholy,
Born of the secret soul's mistrust
To feel her fair ethereal wings
Weighed down with vile, degraded dust.
Even the bright extremes of joy
Bring on conclusions of disgust –
Like the sweet blossoms of the May,
Whose fragrance ends in must.
Oh give her, then, her tribute just,
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy!
There is no music in the life
That sounds with idiot laughter solely;
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.


## p. 7608 (#418) ###########################################

7608
THOMAS HOOD
THE DEATH-BED
E WATCHED her breathing through the night,
WⓇ Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied:
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed. - she had
Another morn than ours.
-
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER
REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn:
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember
The roses red and white;
The violets and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday —
That tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,


## p. 7609 (#419) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7609
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing:
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
STANZAS
F
AREWELL, Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night.
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapor chill;
Strong the earthy odor grows -
I smell the mold above the rose!
Welcome, Life! the spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn.
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapor cold-
I smell the rose above the mold!


## p. 7610 (#420) ###########################################

7610
PIETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT
(1581-1647)
IETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT, who has been called "the father
of Dutch poetry," was born March 16th, 1581, at Amsterdam,
Holland, where his father was burgomaster. He received a
liberal education at home, and traveled extensively in France, Italy,
and Germany. Subsequently he studied literature and law at the
University of Leyden. In 1609 he was appointed to the influential
position of bailiff of Muiden, and from this time on for many years
he spent the summer months at the castle of Muiden, a short dis-
tance from Amsterdam.
Hooft's position in the literary history of
Holland is due not only to his own writings,
but also to the unmistakable influence that
he exerted upon the whole literary develop-
ment of the time. As bailiff at Muiden,
whither he brought his young wife the year
after his appointment, he kept open house,
and gathered about him the flower of Hol-
land in politics, in art, literature, and learn-
ing, known since in Dutch history as the
"Muiden circle," who were held together
by Hooft's own attractive personality and
social position as well as by his literary
talents. Some of the most notable names of
Holland are connected with Hooft at Muiden. Vondel and Coster
were there together, and in the long list of other names are to be
found Grotius, Brederoo, Vos, and Ansloo, Constantin Huygens, and
before all, Anna and Maria Tesselschade, the daughters of Roemer
Visscher. Hooft was twice married. For his life of Henry IV. of
France, written in 1626, he was ennobled by the French king. He
died on the 25th of May, 1647, at The Hague, whither he had gone
to attend a royal funeral.
Hooft's literary career began early. In his sixteenth year he had
joined, according to the custom of the day, one of the rhetorical
"chambers," and wrote at this time several minor poems and the
tragedy 'Achilles and Polyxena,' his first important literary work.
His numerous lyrics, a series of dramas, and his historical works

PIETER HOOFT


## p. 7611 (#421) ###########################################

PIETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT
7611
show that his official duties did not seriously interfere with his lit-
erary pursuits. His plays, besides the one already noticed, are the
tragedies 'Geraardt van Velzen,' Theseus and Ariadne,' and 'Baeto';
the pastoral Granida'; and the comedy 'Warenaer,' after the 'Aulu-
laria' of Plautus.
(
Hooft's first historical work was the life of Henry IV. , already
mentioned. This and a translation of Tacitus consciously served,
however, but as a preparation for his greatest work, the 'History
of the Netherlands' (Nederlandsche Historien), which was written
during the years 1628-38, and finally published in 1642. He expended
on this work his very best powers. A vast deal of time was spent
upon the careful collection and study of sources, and upon the purity
of the vocabulary and the literary form, which received extraordinary
praise from his contemporaries, and have made this work a classic
in the literature of Holland. He had planned a continuation of the
history, but died before it was completed.
Hooft's best poetical work was lyrical. His dramas are altogether
lacking in originality, and not one of them has kept the stage. It is
as a historian that his fame is most firmly founded.
ANACREONTIC
TH
HREE long years have o'erwhelmed me in sadness,
Since the sun veiled his vision of gladness:
Sorrow be banished, for sorrow is dreary;
Sorrow and gloom but outweary the weary.
In my heart I perceive the day breaking;
I cannot resist its awaking.
On my brow a new sun is arisen,
And bright is its glance o'er my prison;
Gayly and grandly it sparkles about me,
Flowingly shines it within and without me:
Why, why should dejection disarm me,
My fears or my fancies alarm me?
Laughing lightly, lovely life, in the heaven
Of thy forehead is virtue engraven;
Thy red coral lips, when they breathe an assenting,
To me are a dawn which Apollo is painting;
Thy eyes drive the gloom, with their sparkling,
Where sadness and folly sit darkling.
Lovely eyes, then the beauties have bound them,
And scattered their shadows around them;


## p. 7612 (#422) ###########################################

7612
PIETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT
Stars, in whose twinklings the virtues and graces,
Sweetness and meekness, all hold their high places:
But the brightest of stars is but twilight
Compared with that beautiful eye-light.
Fragrant mouth, all the flowers spring is wreathing
Are dull to the sweets thou art breathing;
The charms of thy song might summon the spirit
To sit on the ears all-enchanted to hear it:
What marvel, then, if in its kisses
My soul is o'erwhelmed with sweet blisses?
Oh how blest, how divine the employment!
How heavenly, how high the enjoyment!
Delicate lips and soft amorous glances,
Kindling and quenching and fanning sweet fancies,
Now, now to my heart's centre rushing,
And now through my veins they are gushing.
Dazzling eyes, that but laugh at our ruin,
Nor think of the wrongs ye are doing,
Fountains of gladness and beacons of glory,
How do ye scatter the dark mists before ye!
Can my weakness your tyranny bridle ?
Oh no! all resistance is idle.
Ah! my soul-ah! my soul is submitted;
Thy lips-thy sweet lips-they are fitted
With a kiss to dissolve into joy and affection
The dreamings of hope and of gay recollection:
And sure never triumph was purer;
And sure never triumph was surer.
I am bound to your beauty completely,
I am fettered and fastened so sweetly;
And blessed are the tones, and the looks, and the mind
too,
Which my senses control, and my heart is inclined to;
While virtue, the holiest and brightest,
Has fastened love's fetters the tightest.
Translated by Sir John Bowring.


## p. 7613 (#423) ###########################################

7613
THEODORE HOOK
(1788-1841)
T
T IS impossible to draw the figure of Theodore Hook without
his cap and bells. In London society he filled the place of
the court jester; and the extraordinary vogue of his books
in the London world of letters, art, and fashion was due doubtless to
his personal agreeableness. He had a remarkable gift for improvis-
ing verse and music, and for throwing off farces, burlesques, and jeux
d'esprit, which made him an invaluable guest, and gave him a famous
name. Much of the volatile aroma of his literary work, the distilla-
tion of the hour, has now evaporated.
Theodore Edward Hook was born in London September 22d, 1788,
the son of James Hook, a popular composer. The father, discovering
his son's peculiar talent for making verses, took him from school and
set him to turning rhymes for his own musical compositions. This de-
lighted the indolent boy, who greatly preferred the praise of the clev-
erest actors, authors, and wits in London to the dull routine of Harrow.
For this appreciative audience he played, sang, made puns, flashed
epigrams, or laughed at dignitaries, and caricatured greatness. These
private entertainments soon expanded into farces and comic operas,
successfully presented on the stage before Hook reached the age of
twenty. At thirty he founded and edited a Tory paper called John
Bull, publishing in this The Ramsbotham Papers,' in which Mrs.
Ramsbotham anticipated the ingenious Mrs. Partington in the fun
which arises from the grotesque misapplication of words.
In 1824 Hook published his first series of Sayings and Doings,'
tales that delighted his contemporaries. The jester lacked the con-
structive faculty, and therefore his novels may be called literary
improvisations, conceived in the same happy-go-lucky spirit as his
farces. In his own day they were much esteemed, and they still mir-
ror faithfully the bygone fashions and manners and reigning follies
of the London of George IV. and the Sailor King. One and all, they
illustrate the theory of Sir Walter Scott that "every comic writer of
fiction draws, and must draw, largely from his own circle. " Gilbert
Gurney' is autobiographic, and many of his own mad pranks as a
practical joker are recorded in it. Thomas Moore appears in 'A Man
of Sorrows' (afterwards recast as 'Merton'), as Mr. Minus, while other
notable persons wear other disguises.


## p. 7614 (#424) ###########################################

7614
THEODORE HOOK
(
Of Hook's thirty-eight volumes all except 'Maxwell,' The Par-
son's Daughter,' 'Love and Pride,' 'Jack Brag,' and 'Births, Marriages,
and Deaths,' now gather dust on the library shelves. The citation
here given shows not only his cleverness in farcical writing, but that
apprehension of the dangerous tendencies of popular education which
in his time disturbed the comfortable Tory satisfaction with things
as they were. Hook died at Fulham Bridge, near London, August
24th, 1841. The best account of his life was published in 1849 by
his friend Barham, "Thomas Ingoldsby," like himself one of the still
famous circle of London wits in the early decades of the century.
THE MARCH OF INTELLECT
A Prophetic View of Socialism, from John Bull'
IT
T HAPPENED on the 31st of March, 1926, that the then Duke
and Duchess of Bedford were sitting in their good but old
house, No. 17 Liberality Place (the corner of Riego Street),
near to where old Hammersmith stood before the great improve-
ments; and although it was past two o'clock, the breakfast equi-
page still remained upon the table.
It may be necessary to state that the illustrious family in
question, having embraced the Roman Catholic faith (which at
that period was the established religion of the country), had been
allowed to retain their titles and honorable distinctions; although
Woburn Abbey had been long before restored to the Church,
and was, at the time of which we treat, occupied by a worship-
ful community of holy friars. The duke's family estates in Old
London had been, of course, divided by the Equitable Conven-
tion amongst the numerous persons whose distressed situation
gave them the strongest claims, and his Grace and his family
had been for a long time receiving the compensation annuity
allotted to his ancestors.
"Where is Lady Elizabeth? " said his Grace to the duchess.
"She is making the beds, duke," replied her Grace.
"What, again to-day? " said his Grace. "Where are Stubbs,
Hogsflesh, and Figgins, the females whom, were it not contrary
to law, I should call the housemaids? "
"They are gone," said her Grace, "on a sketching tour with
the manciple, Mr. Nicholson, and his nephew. ”
"Why are not these things removed? " said his Grace, eying
the breakfast-table, upon which (the piece of furniture being of


## p. 7615 (#425) ###########################################

THEODORE HOOK
7615
oak, without covering) stood a huge jar of honey, several saucers
of beet-root, a large pot of half-cold decoction of sassafrage, and
an urn full of bean-juice; the use of cotton, sugar, tea, and cof-
fee having been utterly abolished by law in the year 1888.
"I have rung several times," said the duchess, "and sent
Lady Maria up-stairs into the assistants' drawing-room to get
some of them to remove the things; but they have kept her, I
believe, to sing to them-I know they are very fond of hearing
her, and often do so. "
His Grace, whose appetite seemed renewed by the sight of the
still lingering viands which graced the board, seemed determined
to make the best of a bad bargain, and sat down to commence
an attack upon some potted seal and pickled fish from Baffin's
Bay and Behring's Straits, which some of their friends who had
gone over there to pass the summer (as was the fashion of those
times) in the East India steamships (which always touched there)
had given them; and having consumed a pretty fair portion of
the remnants, his favorite daughter, Lady Maria, made her ap-
pearance.
“Well, Maria," said his Grace, "where have you been all this
time? »
"Mr. Curry," said her Ladyship, "the young person who is
good enough to look after our horses, had a dispute with the
lady who assists Mr. Biggs in dressing the dinner for us, whether
it was necessary at chess to say check to the queen when the
queen was in danger, or not. I was unable to decide the ques-
tion, and I assure you I got so terribly laughed at that I ran
away as fast as I could. "
"Was Duggins in the assistants' drawing-room, my love? »
said the duke.
"No," said Lady Maria.
"I wanted him to take a message for me," said his Grace, in
a sort of demi-soliloquy.
"I'm sure he cannot go, then," said Lady Maria, "because I
know he is gone to the House of Parliament" (there was but one
at that time); "for he told the other gentleman who cleans the
plate that he could not be back to attend at dinner, however
consonant with his wishes, because he had promised to wait for
the division. "
"Ah," sighed the duke, "this comes of his having been elected
for Westminster. "


## p. 7616 (#426) ###########################################

7616
THEODORE HOOK
At this moment Lord William Cobbett Russell made his ap-
pearance, extremely hot and evidently tired, having under his
arm a largish parcel.
"What have you there, Willy? " said her Grace.
"My new breeches," said his lordship. "I have called upon.
the worthy citizen who made them, over and over again, and
never could get them, for of course I could not expect him to
send them, and he is always either at the academy or the gym-
nasium; however, to-day I caught him just as he was in a hot
debate with a gentleman who was cleaning his windows, as to
whether the solidity of a prism is equal to the product of its base
by its altitude. I confess I was pleased to catch him at home;
but unluckily the question was referred to me, and not compre-
hending it I was deucedly glad to get off, which I did as fast as
I could, both parties calling after me, 'There is a lord for you
-look at my lord! ' and hooting me in a manner which, how-
ever constitutional, I cannot help thinking deucedly disagreeable. "
At this moment (what in former times was called) a footman,
named Dowbiggin, made his appearance, who entered the room;
as the duke hoped, to remove the breakfast things, but it was in
fact to ask Lady Maria to sketch in a tree in a landscape which
he was in the course of painting.
"Dowbiggin," said his Grace in despair, "I wish you would
take away these breakfast things. "
"Indeed! " said Dowbiggin, looking at the duke with the most
ineffable contempt-"you do! -that's capital-what right have
you to ask me to do any such thing? "
"Why, Mr. Dowbiggin," said the duchess, who was a bit of
a tartar in her way, "his Grace pays you, and feeds you, and
clothes you, to—”
"Well, duchess," said Dowbiggin, "and what then? Let his
Grace show me his superiority. I am ready to do anything for
him: but please to recollect I asked him yesterday, when I did
remove the coffee, to tell me what the Altaic chain is called,
when, after having united all the rivers which supply the Jeni-
sei, it stretches as far as the Baikal lake and what did he
answer? He made a French pun, and said, Je ne sais pas,
Dobiggin. Now, if it can be shown by any statute that I, who
am perfectly competent to answer any question I propose, am
first to be put off with a quibble by way of reply; and secondly,
to be required to work for a man who does not know as much
-


## p. 7617 (#427) ###########################################

THEODORE HOOK
7617
as I do myself, merely because he is a duke, why, I'll do it:
but if not, I will resist in a constitutional manner such illiberal
oppression and such ridiculous control, even though I am trans-
ported to Scotland for it. Now, Lady Maria, go on with the
tree. "
"Willy," said the duke to his son, "when you have put away
your small-clothes, go and ask Mr. Martingale if he will be kind.
enough to let the horses be put to our carriage, since the duchess
and I wish to go to mass. "
"You need not send to Martingale," said Dowbiggin: "he is
gone to the Society of Arts to hear a lecture on astronomy. "
"Then, Willy, go and endeavor to harness the horses your-
self," said the duke to his son, who instantly obeyed.
"You had better mind about those horses, sir," said Dowbig-
gin, still watching the progress of his tree: "the two German
philosophers and Father O'Flynn have been with them to-day,
and there appears little doubt that the great system will spread,
and that even these animals, which we have been taught to de-
spise, will express their sentiments before long. "
"The sentiments of a coach-horse! " sighed the duchess.
"Thanks, Lady Maria," said Dowbiggin: "now I'll go to work
merrily; and duke, whenever you can fudge up an answer to my
question about the Altaic chain, send one of the girls, and I'll
take away the things. "
Dowbiggin disappeared; and the duke, who was anxious to
get the parlor cleared (for the house, except two rooms, was all
appropriated to the assistants), resolved to inquire of his priest
what the proper answer would be to Dowbiggin's question which
he had tried to evade by the offensive quibble, when Lord Will-
iam Cobbett Russell reappeared, as white as a sheet.
"My dear father," cried his Lordship, "it's all over now. The
philosophers have carried the thing too far: the chestnut mare
swears she'll be d-d if she goes out to-day. "
"What," said the duke, "has their liberality gone to this?
Do horses talk? My dear William, you and I know that asses
have written before this; but for horses to speak! "
"Perhaps, Willy," said the duchess, "it is merely yea and
nay; or probably only the female horses who talk at all. "
"Yes, mother, yes," said her son, "both of them spoke; and
not only that, but Nap, the dog you were once so fond of, called
after me to say that we had no right to keep him tied up in
XIII-477


## p. 7618 (#428) ###########################################

7618
THEODORE HOOK
that dismal yard, and that he would appeal to Parliament if we
did not let him out. "
"My dear duchess," said the duke, who was even more alarmed
at the spread of intelligence than her Grace, "there is but one
thing for us to do: let us pack up all we can, and if we can get
a few well-disposed post-horses, before they become too much
enlightened, to take us towards the coast, let us be off. "
What happened further, this historical fragment does not ex-
plain; but it is believed that the family escaped with their clothes
and a few valuables, leaving their property in the possession of
their assistants, who by extending with a liberal anxiety (natural
in men who have become learned and great by similar means
themselves) the benefits of enlightenment, in turn gave way to
the superior claims of inferior animals, and were themselves com-
pelled eventually to relinquish happiness, power, and tranquillity
in favor of monkeys, horses, jackasses, dogs, and all manner of
beasts.


## p. 7619 (#429) ###########################################

7619
HORACE
(QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS)
(65 B. C. -8 B. C. )
BY HARRIET WATERS PRESTON
AKE care of Horace as you would of me" ("Horatii Flacci ut
mei esto memor"). The words of the dying Mæcenas to the
Emperor Augustus throw a singularly attractive light over
the relations of the three famous men whose names they associate.
They show the yearning human affection of the great patron of
Roman letters for the man of genius whose best work he had made
possible, and who had returned his bounty so nobly. They also dis-
close that redeeming quality in the not too delicate or scrupulous
master of the world, which invited on the part of those whom he
personally esteemed a homely and trustful familiarity. There is no
reason to doubt that the last wish of Mæcenas would have been
abundantly heeded; but as the event proved, there was little further
occasion for the imperial patronage. Mæcenas passed away after a
lingering illness in the summer of 746 (8 B. C. ); Horace died suddenly
on the 27th of November in the same year: and the affectionate vow
not to linger long in life after his good genius had left it, which the
poet had recorded in some of his most exquisite verses nearly seven-
teen years before, thus received a curious and touching fulfillment.
The lines were these:
"Why wilt thou kill me with thy boding fears—
Why, O Mæcenas, why?
Before thee lies a train of happy years;
Yea, nor the gods, nor I
Could brook that thou shouldst first be laid in dust:
That art my stay, my glory, and my trust!
Ah, if untimely Fate should snatch thee hence,
Thee, of my soul a part,
Why should I linger on with deadened sense
And ever-aching heart,
A worthless fragment of a fallen shrine?
No, no-one day shall see thy death and mine!


## p. 7620 (#430) ###########################################

7620
HORACE
Think not that I have sworn a bootless oath:
Yes, we shall go, shall go
Hand linked in hand whene'er thou leadest both
The last sad road below! » *
The outlines of the poet's rather uneventful history may be given
briefly. Quintus Horatius Flaccus was born in the year of the city
of Rome 689 (65 B. C. ) at Venusia, now Venosa, a small hill town
lying about a hundred miles from Naples, eastward toward the Adri-
atic. His father was a freedman who had acquired a modest com-
petence; and the historic name of Horatius was merely that of the
great Latin tribe or gens to which the master of the former slave had
belonged. That the elder Horace was also a man of much force and
dignity of character, we gather from many passages in the writings
of the son: most of all from a peculiarly manly and loyal tribute in
the sixth satire of the first book. He would give his only child no
less than the best instruction possible in those days. He went with
him to Rome, and watched carefully over the boy's manners and
morals during his preliminary studies there; and afterward sent him,
where only the sons of noblemen and wealthy knights went usually
in those days, to finish his education at Athens. There, while nom-
inally attending lectures in philosophy, Horace must have indulged
his natural bent, and simply steeped himself in the lyric poetry of
Greece: especially in the iambic satires of Archilochus of Paros, and
the odes of Sappho, Alcæus, and Anacreon.
But this congenial and care-free life at Athens was doomed to
receive a rude interruption. Horace had left Rome at about twenty,
during the supremacy of Julius Cæsar. A year later, in 44 B. C. , the
dictator fell, and his assassins took refuge in Athens. The crowd of
impressionable young Roman students immediately rallied round
Brutus, espoused his cause with the utmost enthusiasm, enlisted in
the army he was raising, and worshiped him as a republican hero.
In return for their devotion, Brutus, when gathering his forces for
the last struggle with Antony, distributed commands among these
ardent neophytes, for which they were at best not fitted by previous
active service. It was thus that Horace was made military tribune
at twenty-two, commanded at the battle of Philippi what would cor-
respond to a regiment in a modern army,- and retreated from that
fatal field, leaving, as he afterward quaintly confessed, his buckler
behind him, when the day and the cause were finally lost. (Odes,
Book II. , vii. )
He returned to Italy to find his good father dead, the little Venu-
sian property confiscated as that of a rebel, and a prospect before
* Odes, Book II. , xvii. , Sir Theodore Martin's translation.


## p. 7621 (#431) ###########################################

HORACE
7621
him which would have been dismal enough to any but one of his
sunny and debonair disposition and happy facility in making friends.
He presently secured a small place, as we should say, in the civil
service; that of quæstor's clerk. Suetonius says that he purchased it,
after making his submission to the authorities (venia impetrata); but
I think we may take it for granted that there was no mean or un-
timely abjuration of his republican creed on the part of one whom in
after years even imperial blandishments failed to shake in his quiet
independence of thought and action.
It is plain, at all events, that the freedman's son never forfeited
the place he had won in the best of the young Roman society.
Within three years after his return from Greece, we find him upon
friendly terms both with Virgil, who was five years his senior, and
with the epic poet and tragedian Lucius Varius Rufus. By them he
was introduced, at the age of twenty-six, to Mæcenas, the first citi-
zen of Rome at that moment in social and political influence, and
the acknowledged arbiter of literary destinies. The poet himself, in
the same satire in which he commemorates the fine character and
unselfish devotion of his father (Satires, I. , vi. ), has left us a diverting
account of this first momentous interview with Mæcenas - which it
pleases him to represent as a conspicuous fiasco. He himself, he says,
behaved like an awkward child, while the great man — whom, by the
way, he was then addressing — was very distant and awful. But after
holding aloof, and considering for a number of months the works
and ways of the new candidate for his favor, Mæcenas succumbed
without reserve to the young man's personal fascination, opened wide
both his house and his heart, and ended by becoming almost dotingly
fond of him. We find Horace in the spring of the next year, 717
(37 B. C. ), attached, along with Virgil, to the highly distinguished suite
which accompanied Mæcenas on an embassy from Augustus to treat
with Antony at Brindisi. About 720-the exact date is nowhere
recorded, but it must have been before the close of the civil war in
723- Horace was made independent of the world, and even of any
sordid obligation to literature, by the gift of that beautiful little estate
among the Sabine Hills which is so closely associated with his name
and fame; and where the pilgrim may yet go and pay his vows to
that pleasant memory, as at a sweet undesecrated shrine.
It was
the fittest gift ever made by a liberal man of fortune to a needy
man of parts, and both offered and received in the finest spirit.
We flatter ourselves in these days that we have reduced charity as
well as most other things to a science; but much of the anxious, arbi-
trary, and over-organized benevolence of modern times, with its disin-
genuous and dreary subtleties about profusion and pauperization, and
its intrinsic selfishness, stands rebuked before the simple. and noble


## p. 7622 (#432) ###########################################

7622
HORACE
give-and-take of these two pagans, which inflicted no hurt upon the
dignity of either, while it laid the generations that were to come
under endless obligations.
During his brief period of storm and stress, Horace had already
turned his nimble wits to account, and become known to some extent
as a satirical poet. "When," he says (Epistles, II. , ii. ),—" when I
came back with clipped wings from Philippi, poor, insignificant, re-
lieved even of the paternal home and farm, reckless poverty impelled
me to verse-making. But now that I am in easy circumstances, you
might take it as a symptom of raging fever in me if I could not
sleep for the pressure of unwritten poetry! " It is easy to see how
this laughing self-depreciation, this resolute refusal to take himself
and his brilliant endowments over-seriously, of which across the centu-
ries we can still feel the charm, must have helped to endear Horace
to his friends in every grade of life. It was a part of the exquisite
savoir-faire which always marked his bearing in the great world; of
that innate good sense and invincible good breeding which were as
much a gift of heaven to the freedman's son as his youthful good
looks, and no more prejudiced by his rustic boyhood, and his early
familiarity with such brave sons of the Italian soil as his father and
their racy neighbor at Venusia, the yeoman Ofellus. (Satires, II. , ii. )
His unaffected love of nature and a country life was in fact a
main safeguard of the poet's mental health, and the best of all aids
to his talent. It breathes in many of the Horatian lines and phrases
which linger longest in the memory. Horace never expatiates on his
love of natural beauty; rather, it escapes from his verses at inter-
vals, like a hoarded but volatile perfume. Doubtless he was the
more reserved, not to say shamefaced, about this deep sentiment of
his own, because there was plainly a fashion in the Rome of his day
for affecting a rapturous enjoyment of country scenes and pursuits,
and affectation of every kind excited his cordial abhorrence.