THOMAS HOOD. 



257 



volume, and then submit himself, 

 like a child, to the guiding hand 

 of an attendant, and be led out; 

 for, in the days of his insanity, it 

 was a strange fact, that although 

 fond of finding his way into his 

 beloved library, he never could dis- 

 tovcr the way out of it. 



" The conversation was pretty 

 general, and chiefly related to the 

 old friends of either party. Mr. 

 Smith spoke of Coleridge in the 

 highest terms, but severely depre- 

 cated his indolence. Referring to 

 Charles Lamb's intemperate habits, 

 he remarked, 'He draws so much 

 beer that no wonder he buffoons 

 people he must have a butt to 

 put it in.' 



"At this time, the question of 

 the authorship of that strange, but 

 clever and learned book, the Doctor, 

 was a doubtful one, and much 

 mooted in literary circles. Many 

 suspected, and indeed named, 

 Southey as the writer; but he 

 never either admitted or denied 

 the fact of his being so. The con- 

 versation turned on the subject, 

 and Smith, with a roguish twinkle 

 in his eye, told Southey that he 

 knew who was the author. Southey 

 calmly inquired the name, and the 

 reverend gentleman remarked, ' I 

 remember, some years since, en- 

 joying a conversation with one Ro- 

 bert Southey, in which he used the 

 exact words which I find here,' and 

 he read from a page of the Doctor 

 a passage, and then said, 'Now, Mr. 

 Laureate, it needs no conjuror to 

 convince any one of common sense 

 that the writer of the passage I 

 have read, and the utterer of those 

 very words to me seven years since, 

 are one and the same person.' 

 Southey bit his lip, but said no- 

 thing. After his death, Mrs. 

 Southey divulged the secret, which 

 her husband kept till his death. I 

 question whether she would have 

 made known the fact of the author- 

 ship, had not some shabby fellows, 



by judicious nods and well-timed 

 faint denials, gained the credit of 

 being connected with the work. 



"We sat down to a plain country 

 dinner, after which 



' The glasses sparkled on the board.' 



"Like Friar Tuck, the canon of 

 St. Paul's enjoyed creature com- 

 forts, and many were the flashes of 

 wit which set us in a roar. Southey 

 was very abstemious, and refused 

 wine, alleging his recent seizure as 

 an excuse. Smith rattled away 

 like a great boy, and, with the sole 

 exception of Theodore Hook, I 

 never heard any one so brilliant in 

 conversation. No subject came 

 amiss to him, and he seemed at 

 home in every one. Of humbugs, 

 both political and personal, he had 

 the most utter detestation, and 

 freely expressed his opinions. I 

 shall not soon forget the ridicule 

 which he that day heaped on the 

 head of Robert Montgomery, who 

 had then just published his poem, 

 Satan, 



" As to personal appearance, Sid- 

 ney Smith was about the average 

 height, or a trifle above it, inclined 

 to corpulency, and of a fresh red- 

 and- white complexion. The ex- 

 pression of his features was pleas- 

 ing, and his snowy hair gave him 

 an air of vcnerability. Good hu- 

 mour was the prevailing character- 

 istic; but when he talked with 

 severity, his aspect became changed, 

 and few could have beheld unmoved 

 his withering glance." 



THOMAS HOOD. 



Mr. Hood was born under 

 Gresham's Grasshopper, in the 

 city of London, in the year 1790, 

 the son of Hood, of the firm of 

 Vernor & Hood, in the Poultry, 

 the publishers of Bloomfield and 

 Kirke White, and the booksellers 

 to whom wo are indebted for the 

 Beauties of England and Wales. 

 One of his biographers has told us 



R 



