Hood was intended for an engraver, and although he soon deserted that profession, he acquired a sufficient knowledge of it to enable him to illustrate his own works, which he did in a quaintly comical manner. His sketches, though generally crude and inartistic, admirably explain his meaning, and never certainly did puns find such a prolific, and humourous, pictorial exponent as Hood. Hood's eldest son (Thomas Hood the younger) was also the author of several novels and some humourous poetry. He was for many years editor of _Fun_. Of Hood's poems the four most usually selected for parody and imitation are, _The Song of the Shirt;_ _The Bridge of Sighs;_ _The Dream of Eugene Aram;_ and a pretty little piece entitled _I remember, I remember_. It is a somewhat curious fact that one of the most earnest and pathetic of Hood's poems should first have appeared in _Punch_. _The Song of the Shirt_ will be found on page 260 of vol. 5, 1843, of that journal. This dirge of misery awoke universal pity for the poor victims of the slop-sellers and ready-made clothiers; but like most of the spasmodic outbursts of British rage and indignation little permanent good resulted from it. The machinists, and unattached out-door employés of the London tailors, are probably worse off now than ever they were in Hood's time. As might have been expected from the wonderful popularity of _The Song of the Shirt_ and its peculiarly catching rhythm, it has been the subject of almost innumerable parodies, and has also served as the model for many imitations of a serious nature. TRIALS AND TROUBLES OF A TOURIST. In clothes, both muddy and wet, Without hat--left on the fell; A pedestrian sought, with a tottering gait, Refreshment at this hotel. He'd walked a long and weary way, O'er mountain-top and moor; And thus he mused, mid'st wind and rain, As he approached the door. "I walk! walk! walk! First climbing hills, and then down Where the people are not to be seen, Many miles from village or town. Oh! haven't I been a dupe, Pedestrian pleasure to seek, When so quiet I might have stayed At Redcar all the week." "I walk! walk! walk! With my boots fast breaking up, And walk! walk! walk! Without either bite or sup. Oh! that again I was at home, To feel as I used to feel, And not as now, in hunger and thirst, With a doubly-blistered heel." "I walk! walk! walk! Up to the knee in bog, And loudly call, 'Lost! Lost!' Surrounded by clouds and fog. I walk! walk! walk! Till my head begins to spin; Oh! that I ne'er had scrambled out The stream I tumbled in." "I walk! walk! walk! With cheeks all swollen and red; A nasty aching within my ears, Rheumatics in my head. I walk! walk! walk! In trousers tattered and torn! With every thread from foot to head Quite soaked since early morn."