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though the mouth was a little brutal, I should think, in life, it did 
not give me the impression of sensualism or want of refinement. 
It was a strong mouth, it was a stubborn mouth, it seemed a 
mouth of contempt and self-will: a mouth of pride, but not 
necessarily a mouth of animalism. The teeth were white and 
much worn, but wonderful teeth and well set. The strength of 
the face was emphasised by the chin. Square and massy with 
great length from front of chin to ear: not prognathous, but full 
of power and fire, the pride of the face seemed doubled by the 
set of that chin. The face was worn and thin ; what old man of 
near a hundred years would not be; there were slight traces of 
wrinkles on the brow. As the father of 119 children, 59 sons 
and 60 daughters—so the outer wall of the temple of Abydos tells 
us—it might have been supposed that the care of a family would 
have worn his face, if the care of all Egypt, and the Egyptian 
court life of 67 years—for the monuments expressly tell us he 
did reign for 67 years—had not left their mark upon it. 
Do what I would, I could not see in that proud, obstinate face 
of the warrior king in his shroud before me, anything that looked 
like a yielding to the weight of years. There was a kind of 
‘‘ What is all this to me; am I not son of the sun, Rameses, 
favourite of Amen? Shall not my years endure as long as the 
sun shineth? Will not my sun that sets arise in the morning ?”’ 
TOM HOOD. 
By the Rev. 8S. A. STEINTHAL, Vice-President of the 
Geographical Society, Manchester. Nov. 19th, 1889. 
Mr. Steinthal said he had to bring before his audience the life 
and works of an author who had struggled against ill health and 
pecuniary difficulties, and had succeeded by his power in pathos 
and humour in winning an honoured name in literature. An 
invalid from his earliest years, he had written some of his finest 
poems in times of great physical agony. He was born on 
May 22, 1799; his father was a bookseller and the writer of 
two novels. The lad was apprenticed to an uncle and was 
taught wood-engraving. There was as much humour in Hood’s 
illustrations as in his writings, as one may see on referring to 
the woodcuts in his ‘‘ Whims and Oddities.”” Atan early age he 
lost his father, and soon afterwards his sister, for whom he 
lamented in the beautiful and pathetic poem which Mr. Steinthal 
recited, ‘‘ We watched her breathing through the night.” Hood 
