The Works of Thomas Hood; Vol. 02 (of 11): Comic and Serious, in Prose and Verse, With All the Original IllustrationsHood, Thomas
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The Works of Thomas Hood; Vol. 02 (of 11): Comic and Serious, in Prose and Verse, With All the Original Illustrations
Hood, Thomas
English poetry -- 19th century; English wit and humor; Humorous poetry, English
In the mean time, whilst thus playing at Literature, an event was
ripening which was to introduce me to Authorship in earnest, and make
the Muse, with whom I had only flirted, my companion for life. It
had often occurred to me that a striking, romantical, necromantical,
metaphysical, melodramatical, Germanish story, might be composed, the
interest of which should turn on the mysterious influence of the fate
of A over the destiny of B, the said parties having no more natural
or apparent connexion with each other than Tenterden Steeple and the
Goodwin Sands. An instance of this occult contingency occurred in my
own case; for I did not even know by sight the unfortunate gentleman
on whose untimely exit depended my entrance on the literary stage.
In the beginning of the year 1821, a memorable duel, originating in
a pen-and-ink quarrel, took place at Chalk Farm, and terminated in
the death of Mr. John Scott, the able Editor of the London Magazine.
The melancholy result excited great interest, in which I fully
participated, little dreaming that his catastrophe involved any
consequences of importance to myself. But on the loss of its conductor,
the Periodical passed into other hands. The new Proprietors were my
friends; they sent for me, and after some preliminaries, I was duly
installed as a sort of sub-Editor of the London Magazine.
It would be affectation to say, that engraving was resigned with
regret. There is always something mechanical about the art--moreover
it is as unwholesome as wearisome to sit copper-fastened to a board,
with a cantle scooped out to accommodate your stomach, if you have one,
painfully ruling, ruling, and still ruling lines straight or crooked,
by the long hundred to the square inch, at the doubly hazardous risk
which Wordsworth so deprecates, of “growing double.” So farewell
Woollett! Strange! Bartolozzi! I have said, my vanity did not rashly
plunge me into authorship; but no sooner was there a legitimate opening
than I jumped at it, à la Grimaldi, head foremost, and was speedily
behind the scenes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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