We remember the appearance of Mr. Hood's first work--_Odes and Addresses to Great People_; and many a reviewer and printer rejoiced in the light columns which it furnished them by way of extract. They made up very prettily beside a theological critique, a somewhat lumbering book on political economy, or a volume of deep speculations on geology. Hood's little book, a mere thin pocket size, soon grew into notice and favour; the edition ran off, and one or two more impressions have followed. A host of imitators soon sprung up, but we are bound to acknowledge that from the above to the present time, Mr. Hood has kept the field--the Pampa of pun--to himself, and right sincerely are we obliged for the many quips and quiddities with which he has enabled us to _garnish our_ pages. We say garnish, for what upon earth can better resemble the garnishings of a table than Mr. Hood's little volumes: how they enliven and embellish the feast, like birds and flowers cut from carrots, turnips, and beet-root; parsley fried _crisp_; cascades spun in sugar, or mouldings in almond paste, at a pic-nic supper party. We love a good motto, and one like Mr. Hood's speaks volumes: "HUNTS ROASTED"-- Next comes an advertisement of the author's endeavour to record a yearly revel (the Epping Hunt,) already fast hastening to decay. Mr. Hood is _serious_, as the following epistle will show:-- "It was penned by an underling at the Wells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing." "Sir,--About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so much so this year that there was nobody allmost. We did a mear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be sad to be in the last Stag of a Decline. "I am, Sir, "With respects from "Your humble Servant, "BARTHOLOMEW RUTT." Then begins the tale. John Huggins was as bold a man As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood Hard by the church of Bow. There people bought Dutch cheeses round, And single Glos'ter flat,-- And English butter in a lump, And Irish--in a _pat_. Six days a week beheld him stand, His business next his heart, At _counter_ with his apron tied About his _counter-part_. The seventh in a sluice-house box, He took his pipe and pot; On Sundays for _eel-pie_ty, A very noted spot. Huggins gets "Epping in his head," and resolves to go to "the Hunt." Alas! there was no warning voice To whisper in his ear, Thou art a fool in leaving _Cheap_ To go and hunt the _deer_! No thought he had of twisted spine, Or broken arms or legs; Not _chicken-hearted_ he, altho' 'Twas whisper'd of his _eggs_.' Ride out he would, and hunt he would, Nor dreamt of ending ill; Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout's_ fee, And Surgeon _Hunter's_ bill.