"You perhaps think that you are known to one with such multifarious occupations as myself, merely by general reputation as an author;but I assure you that there can be little, which you have written and acknowledged, which I have not read; and that there are few who can appreciate and admire more than myself, the good sense and good feeling which have taught you to infuse so much fun and merriment into writings correcting folly and exposing absurdities, and yet never trespassing beyond those limits within which wit and facetiousness are not very often confined.You may write on with the consciousness of independence, as free and unfettered, as if no communication had ever passed between us.I am not conferring a private obligation upon you, but am fulfilling the intentions of the legislature, which has placed at the disposal of the Crown a certain sum (miserable, indeed, in amount) to be applied to the recognition of public claims on the bounty of the Crown.If you will review the names of those whose claims have been admitted on account of their literary or scientific eminence, you will find an ample confirmation of the truth of my statement.
"One return, indeed, I shall ask of you,--that you will give me the opportunity of ****** your personal acquaintance."And Hood, writing to a friend, enclosing a copy of Peel's letter, says, "Sir R.Peel came from Burleigh on Tuesday night, and went down to Brighton on Saturday.If he had written by post, I should not have it till to-day.So he sent his servant with the enclosed on SATURDAY NIGHT; another mark of considerate attention." He is frightfully unwell, he continues: his wife says he looks QUITEGREEN; but ill as he is, poor fellow, "his well is not dry.He has pumped out a sheet of Christmas fun, is drawing some cuts, and shall write a sheet more of his novel."Oh, sad, marvellous picture of courage, of honesty, of patient endurance, of duty struggling against pain! How noble Peel's figure is standing by that sick-bed! how generous his words, how dignified and sincere his compassion! And the poor dying man, with a heart full of natural gratitude towards his noble benefactor, must turn to him and say--"If it be well to be remembered by a Minister, it is better still not to be forgotten by him in a 'hurly Burleigh!'" Can you laugh? Is not the joke horribly pathetic from the poor dying lips? As dying Robin Hood must fire a last shot with his bow--as one reads of Catholics on their death-beds putting on a Capuchin dress to go out of the world--here is poor Hood at his last hour putting on his ghastly motley, and uttering one joke more.
He dies, however, in dearest love and peace with his children, wife, friends; to the former especially his whole life had been devoted, and every day showed his fidelity, simplicity, and affection.In going through the record of his most pure, modest, honorable life, and living along with him, you come to trust him thoroughly, and feel that here is a most loyal, affectionate, and upright soul, with whom you have been brought into communion.Can we say as much of the lives of all men of letters? Here is one at least without guile, without pretension, without scheming, of a pure life, to his family and little modest circle of friends tenderly devoted.
And what a hard work, and what a slender reward! In the little domestic details with which the book abounds, what a ****** life is shown to us! The most ****** little pleasures and amusements delight and occupy him.You have revels on shrimps; the good wife ****** the pie; details about the maid, and criticisms on her conduct; wonderful tricks played with the plum-pudding--all the pleasures centring round the little humble home.One of the first men of his time, he is appointed editor of a Magazine at a salary of 300L.per annum, signs himself exultingly "Ed.N.M.M.," and the family rejoice over the income as over a fortune.He goes to a Greenwich dinner--what a feast and a rejoicing afterwards!--"Well, we drank 'the Boz' with a delectable clatter, which drew from him a good warm-hearted speech....He looked very well, and had a younger brother along with him....Then we had songs.Barham chanted a Robin Hood ballad, and Cruikshank sang a burlesque ballad of Lord H----; and somebody, unknown to me, gave a capital imitation of a French showman.Then we toasted Mrs.Boz, and the Chairman, and Vice, and the Traditional Priest sang the 'Deep deep sea,' in his deep deep voice; and then we drank to Procter, who wrote the said song; also Sir J.Wilson's good health, and Cruikshank's, and Ainsworth's: and a Manchester friend of the latter sang a Manchester ditty, so full of trading stuff, that it really seemed to have been not composed, but manufactured.Jerdan, as Jerdanish as usual on such occasions--you know how paradoxically he is QUITE AT HOME in DINING OUT.As to myself, I had to make my SECOND MAIDEN SPEECH, for Mr.Monckton Milnes proposed my health in terms my modesty might allow me to repeat to YOU, but my memory won't.However, I ascribed the toast to my notoriously bad health, and assured them that their wishes had already improved it--that I felt a brisker circulation--a more genial warmth about the heart, and explained that a certain trembling of my hand was not from palsy, or my old ague, but an inclination in my hand to shake itself with every one present.
Whereupon I had to go through the friendly ceremony with as many of the company as were within reach, besides a few more who came express from the other end of the table.VERY gratifying, wasn't it? Though I cannot go quite so far as Jane, who wants me to have that hand chopped off, bottled, and preserved in spirits.She was sitting up for me, very anxiously, as usual when I go out, because Iam so domestic and steady, and was down at the door before I could ring at the gate, to which Boz kindly sent me in his own carriage.
