The American Fugitive in Europe/Chapter 29
CHAPTER XXIX.
"Farewell! we did not know thy worth;
But thou art gone, and now 't is prized.
So angels walked unknown on earth,
But when they flew were recognized."
Thomas Hood.
It was on Tuesday, July 18, 1854, that I set out for Kensall Green Cemetery, to attend the inauguration of the monument erected to the memory of Thomas Hood, the poet. It was the first pleasant day we had had for some time, and the weather was exceedingly fine. The company was large, and many literary characters were present. Near the monument sat Eliza Cook, author of the "Old Arm Chair," with her hair cut short and parted on one side like a man's. She is short in stature, and thick-set, with fair complexion, and bright eyes. Not far from Miss Cook was Mrs. Balfour, author of the "Working Women of the Last Half-century," "Morning Dew Drops," etc. etc. Mrs. Balfour is both taller and stouter than Miss Cook; and both are about the same age.—not far from forty. Murdo Young, Esq., of The Sun, and George Cruikshank, stood near the monument. Horace Mayhew, author of "London Labor and London Poor," was by the side of Cruikshank. The Hon. Mrs. Milnes sat near Eliza Cook. As the ceremony was about to commence, a short, stout man, with dark complexion, and black hair, took his stand on a tomb near by; this was R. Monckton Milnes, Esq., author of "Poetry for the People," and M.P. for Pontefract. He was the orator of the occasion.
The monument, which has been ably executed by Mr. Matthew Noble, consists of a bronze bust of the poet elevated on a pedestal of highly-polished red granite, the whole being twelve feet high. In front of the bust are placed wreaths in bronze, formed of the laurel, the myrtle, and the immortelle; and on a slab beneath the bust appears that well-known line of the poet, which he desired should be used as his epitaph:
Upon the front of the pedestal is carved this inscription:
At the base of the pedestal a lyre and comic mask in bronze are thrown together, suggesting the mingled character of Hood's writings; whilst on the sides of the pedestal are bronze medallions illustrating the poems of "The Bridge of Sighs" and "The Dream of Eugene Aram." The whole design is worthy of the poet and the sculptor, and it is much to the honor of the latter that his sympathy with the object has entirely destroyed all hope of profit from the work.
Mr. Milnes was an intimate friend of the poet, and his selection as orator was in good taste. He spoke with great delicacy and kindness of Hood's personal characteristics, and with much taste upon the artistic value of the dead humorist's works. He touched with great felicity and subtlety upon the value of humor. He defined its province, and showed how closely it was connected with the highest forms in which genius manifests itself. Mr. Milnes spoke, however, more as a friend than as a critic, and his genial utterances excited emotions in the hearts of his hearers which told how deep was their sympathy both with the orator and the subject of his eulogium. There were not many dry eyes amongst his hearers when he quoted one or two exquisite portions of Hood's poems. It was evident that the greater part of the audience were well acquainted with the works of the poet, and were delighted to hear the quotations from poems which had afforded them exquisite gratification in the perusal.
Hood was not a merely ephemeral writer. He did not address himself to the feelings which mere passing events generated in the minds of his readers. He smote deep down into the hearts of his admirers. Had he been nothing more than a literary man, the ceremony on this occasion would have been an impertinence. The nation cannot afford to have its time taken up by eulogiums on every citizen who does his work well in his own particular line. Nevertheless, when a man not only does his own work well, but acts powerfully on the national mind, then his fame is a national possession, and may be with all propriety made the subject of public commemoration. A great author is distinguished from the merely professional scribe by the fact of adding something to the stock of national ideas. Who can tell how much of the national character is due to the operation of the works of Shakspeare? The flood of ideas with which the great dramatist inundated the national mind has enriched it and fertilized it. We are most of us wiser and better by the fact of Shakspeare having lived and written. It would not be difficult to find in most modern works traces of the influence which Shakspeare has exercised over the writers. A great author, such as Shakspeare, is, then, a great public educator. The national mind is enlarged and enriched by the treasures which he pours into it. There is, therefore, a great propriety in making such a writer the subject of public eulogium.
Hood was one of those who not only enriched the national literature, but instructed the national mind. His conceptions, it is true, were not vast. His labors were not, like those of Shakspeare, colossal. But he has produced as permanent an effect on the nation as many of its legislators.
Englishmen are wiser and better because Hood has lived. In one of his own poems, "The Death-Bed," how sweetly he sang: "We watched her breathing through the night,
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."
Thomas Hood has another morn; may that morn have brightened into perfect day! It is well known that the poet died almost on the verge of starvation. Being seized, long before his death, with a malady that kept him confined to his bed the greater part of the time, he became much embarrassed. Still, in defiance of anguish and weakness, he toiled on, until nature could endure no more. Many of Hood's humorous pieces were written upon a sick bed, and taken out and sold to the publishers, that his family might have bread. Little did those who laughed over these comical sayings think of the pain that it cost the poet to write them. And, now that he is gone, we often hear some one say, "Poor Hood!" But peace to his ashes! He now lies in the finest cemetery in the world, and in one of its greenest spots. At the close of the inauguration, a rush was made to get a view of Eliza Cook, as being the next great novelty after the monument, if not its equal.