Thomas Hood

It must be an increasing object of regret to all who love that which is original or powerful in imaginative prose and verse, that Hood gave such small time and labour to the public. Though he used to profess that he could not control his demon, as an excuse for his indolence, a time always arrived when it became a matter of life and death, of daily and nightly toil, to hurry through the work, long contracted and largely paid for in advance. For years this amounted to nothing beyond the small annual volume of comic and grotesque fancies.