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I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I 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 birth-day,-

The tree is living vet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing;
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.

THE PORTRAIT:

BEING AN APOLOGY FOR NOT MAKING AN ATTEMPT ON MY OWN LIFE

The late inimitable Charles Mathews, in one of his amusing entertainments, used to tell a story of a certain innkeeper, who made it a rule of his house, to allow a candle to a guest, only on condition of his ordering a pint of wine. Whereupon the guest contends, on the reciprocity system, for a light for every halfbottle, and finally drinks himself into a general illumination.

Something of the above principle seems to have obtained in the case of a Portrait and a Memoir, which in literary practice have been usually dependent on each other-a likeness and a lifea candle and a pint of wine. The mere act of sitting probably suggests the idea of hatching; at least an author has seldom nested in a painter's chair, without coming out afterwards with a brood of Reminiscences, and accordingly, no sooner was my effigy about to be presented to the Public, than I found myself called upon by my Publisher, with a finished proof of the engraving in one hand, and a request for an account of myself in the other. He evidently supposed, as a matter of course, that I had my auto-biography in the bottle, and that the time was come, to un-cork and pour it out with a Head.

To be candid, no portrait, perhaps, ever stood more in need of such an accompaniment. The figure has certainly the look of one of those practical jokes whereof the original is oftener suspected than really culpable. It might pass for the sign of “The Grave Maurice.” The author of Elia has declared that he once sat as substitute for a whole series of British Admirals,* and a physiognomist might reasonably suspect that

* He perhaps took the hint from Dibdin, who lays down the rule in his Sea Songs, that a Naval Hero ought to be a Lion in battle, but afterwards a Lamb.

in wantonness or weariness, instead of giving my head I had procured myself to be painted by proxy. For who, that calls himself stranger, could ever suppose that such a pale, pensive, peaking, sentimental, sonneteering countenance—with a wry mouth as if it always laughed on its wrong side--belonged bonâ fide to the Editor of the Comic-a Professor of the Pantagruelian Philosophy, hinted at in the preface of the present work? What unknown who reckons himself decidedly serious, would recognize the head and front of my “offending,” in a visage not at all too hilarious for a frontispiece to the Evangelical Magazine ! In point of fact the owner has been taken sundry times, ere now, for a Methodist Minister, and a pious turn has been attributed to his hair-lucus a non lucendo--from its having no turn in it at all.* In like manner my literary contemporaries who have cared to remark on my personals, have agreed in ascribing to me a melancholy bias; thus an authority in the New Monthly Maga. zine has described me as "a grave anti-pun-like-looking person,” whilst another-in the Book of Gems-declares that “ my countenance is more grave than merry,” and insists, therefore, that I am of a pensive habit, and “have never laughed heartily in company or in rhyme.” Against such an inference, however, I solemnly protest, and if it be the fault of my features, I do not mind telling my face to its face that it insinuates a false Hood, and grossly misrepresents a person notorious amongst friends for laughing at strange times and odd places, and in particular when he has the worst of the rubber. For it is no comfort for the loss of points, by his theory, to be upon thorns. And truly what can be more unphilosophical, than to sit ruefully as well as whistfully, with your face inconsistently playing at longs and your hand at shorts,-getting hypped as well as pipped,-—" talking of Hoyle,” as the city lady said, “but looking like winegar," and betraying as keen a sense of the profit and loss, as if the pack had turned you into a pedlar.

But I am digressing; and turning my back, as Lord Castlereagh would have said, on my face. The portrait, then, is genuinem "an ill-favored thing, Sir,” as Touchstone says, “but

* On a march to Berlin, with the 19th Prussian Infantry, I could never succeed in passing myself off as anything but the Regimental Chaplain.

mine own."

For its quarrel with the rules of Lavater there is precedent. I remember seeing on Sir Thomas Lawrence's easel, an unfinished head of Mr. Wilberforce, so very merry, so rosy, so good-fellowish, that nothing less than the Life and Correspondence recently published could have persuaded me that he was really a serious character. A memoir, therefore, would be the likeliest thing to convince the world that the physiognomy alluded to, is actually Hood's own :-indeed a few of the earlier chapters would suffice to clear up the mystery, by proving that my face is only answering in the affirmative, the friendly inquiry of the Poet of all circles—“Has sorrow thy young days shaded ?”—and telling the honest truth of one of those rickety constitutions which, according to Hudibras, seem

as if intended
For nothing else but to be mended.”

66

To confess the truth, my vanity pricked up its ears a little at the proposition of my publisher. There is something vastly flattering in the idea of appropriating the half of a quarter of a century, mixing it up with your personal experience, and then serving it out as your own Life and Times. On casting a retrospective glance however across Memory's waste, it appeared so literally a waste, that vanity herself shrank from the enclosure act, as an unpromising speculation. Had I foreseen indeed, some five-and-thirty years ago, that such a demand would be made upon me,

I might have laid myself out on purpose, as Dr. Watts recommends, so as to give of every day some good account at last.” I would have lived like a Frenchman, for effect, and made my life a long dress rehearsal of the future biography. I would have cultivated incidents “pour servir,” laid traps for adventures, and illustrated my memory like Rogers's, by a brilliant series of Tableaux. The earlier of my Seven Stages should have been more Wonder Phenomenon Comet and Balloon-like, and have been timed to a more Quicksilver pace than they have travelled ; in short, my Life, according to the tradesman's promise, should have been “fully equal to bespoke.” But, alas ! in the absence of such a Scottish second-sight, my whole course of existence up to the present moment would hardly furnish ma

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