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transiated, viz., Greek, Latin, Italian, and French. He had no knowledge of German, nor, I imagine, any great sympathy with the German genius, the complexion of his own mind being Southern-a mingling of the classic and the romantic; but he knew Goethe through translations, and appreciated him. It was the essence of this varied knowledge that you got in his conversation, mingled with the results of his own meditations, and the experiences of a chequered life; all lit up by a soft and lambent wit, a singularly quaint and kindly humour, and a fancy that was never at a loss for the aptest illustrations, and the happiest turns of expression. All through the evening, the books referred to in conversation accumulated on the little table placed at the side of his chair; passages from favourite poets, or (though less frequently) prose authors, were occasionally read in a fine sonorous voice, and with exquisite modulation; and one o'clock in the morning would often take you unawares. The beautiful cheerfulness of the veteran-a cheerfulness with no hint of flippancy, and indeed not seldom infinitely touching in its reflected lights of tender and regretful memory; the easy grace of his manners; his boundless charity; his belief in the essential goodness of human nature; his hopefulness for the future of the world, and his profound, though informal, piety;--all these things contributed to the peculiar charm of his companionship. I rank those evenings among my most cherished recollections, and prize them as we prize that which has gone from us for ever. The qualities which make a man of genius what he is, are never to be met with again in precisely the same combination. We may find a second time friends as kind and as intellectual; but a certain type of character is lost

at least to his personal intimates—when a man like Leigh Hunt is removed from amongst us. It is as if a peculiar species of flower had died out, and, though other species may be as fine or finer, they will not supply the gap.

The great ambition of Leigh Hunt was to achieve a name as a poet; but he will be known to posterity less in connexion with his verse than with his prose. Undoubtedly he has written some very beautiful poetry. The "Story of Rimini" has many passages full of a rich, southern luxury of feeling and warmth of tone, and others that are steeped in pathos. "Captain Sword and Captain Pen" exhibits in parts a terrible power of word-painting, descriptive of the agonies of a battle-field. Many of his lighter pieces are distinguished by sparkling wit and fancy, and the two. Eastern poems, "Mahmoud" and "Abou ben Adhem," are models of powerful and concentrated narrative. But his imagination was not strong; he could seldom get rid of his own personality; and what he has so admirably said of Charles Lamb, in explaining his deficiencies in this respect, may also be pronounced of himself. "He sat at the receipt of impressions, rather than commanded them."* His dramas are charming in many respects; but they are not sufficiently dramatic to keep a place on the stage. The critical habit, or disposition to comment, was more natural to him than the power to originate; and thus we often find his poems spoiled by the intrusion of what is simply essaywriting in verse. It is in fact as an essayist and critic that Leigh Hunt will mainly live. The papers contained in the present volume are but a fraction of his writings in this respect; but they show not a little of the riches of his * Introductory Essay to "The Book of the Sonnet."

mind. They are among the most admirable essays in the English language. Buoyant in manner as they mostly are, they have a substratum of thought. A kindly wisdom looks out of them, smiling, yet often with a gravity beneath the smile; for they are deeply and tenderly human. In early life, the southern gaiety of Hunt's animal spirits occasionally found vent in a sort of boyish friskiness, which people mistook for frivolity, though it was not really so; but after middle age this sobered down into a graver, though never a less cheerful, mood. Now gay, now humorous, now witty, now reflective, now analytical, and invariably literary, these essays pass through many lights and shades of feeling, and are at home in all. Addison had not half as much variety, and his views of life and nature had nothing like the subtlety and depth of Hunt's. Lamb had a richer humour, a more singular personality, a more tragic intensity of pathos; but his range was less-his sympathies were not so catholic. Leigh Hunt's criticism may never have reached the majestic and sonorous heights of Hazlitt's masterpieces; it had less of eloquence and force; but it was more reliable and more even. Its quality was exquisitely refined and delicate—the result of a natural sensibility, educated and trained by long and careful study; but it is a mistake to suppose that its only characteristic was sympathy. No doubt, sympathy was a chief element; but not more so than judgment. Leigh Hunt has never had justice done him for the excellent sense and sanity of his mind. Where Coleridge would rave, and Hazlitt be paradoxical, and Lamb grow hysterical with emotion, or beautifully quaint with fantastic eccentricity, Hunt seemed always to preserve the balance of his faculties. With great powers of admir

ation, a strong sense of enjoyment, and an ardent disposition, he nevertheless appeared to know the exact line beyond which literary worship passes into superstition.

Like all men who are obliged to write for bread, Leigh Hunt wrote many things that do not merit reprinting. Of his numerous periodicals, he only succeeded in establishing the Examiner; and the reasons are too obvious to permit of the result being surprising. They were started with insufficient capital, and were made to depend too much on the efforts of one man. After a while, Leigh Hunt would be ill or overworked. Then came excuses that the editor could not furnish the usual amount of matter, and old articles, that had appeared years before in other periodicals, would be made to do duty for original matter, in default of a staft of contributors to fall back upon. It is amusing sometimes to observe Hunt's excessively personal confidences with the reader under the dual shadow of the editorial "we." His greatest undertaking in the way of periodicals was the Tatler, a daily paper of which he was the chief support, and in which he wrote literary criticisms, theatrical criticisms (penned in the small hours at the printing-office, after seeing the play), and general articles. He continued this tremendous work for nearly a year and a half, and was almost killed by the fatigue and the late hours. One of his characteristics has not been fully recognised, and that was, his great capacity for work. He had periods of enforced idleness, and, like all bookish men, he was fond of meditative ease. But his best writings were the result of very considerable labour and painstaking; of the most conscientious investigation of facts, where facts were needed; and of a complete devotion of his faculties towards the

object to be accomplished. Even when an old man, he would sometimes sit up through the greater part of the night, in order to complete work in hand. Notwithstanding his great experience, he was not (except on special occasions) a very rapid writer. He corrected, excised, reconsidered, and elaborated his productions (unless when pressed for time) with the most minute attention to details ; and the habit increased on him the older he grew.

In his earlier days, the life of Leigh Hunt was a life of war; in his later days it was a life of peace, chequered with sorrows. The courage with which, in poverty and trouble, he fought the enemies of his youth, dealing hard blows and grievous gashes, neither giving nor asking quarter, and varying his attacks from prose to verse with infinite spirit and address, is one of the gallantest things on record. In the last five-and-twenty years of his long life, however, he desired to be at peace with all men, and to help the world by sympathy rather than by antagonism. In both ways (for both are necessary) he aided the march of humanity, and, though he suffered much, he did not miss his reward. He gathered friends and admirers about him while he was yet in the flesh, and his memory is a perfume in the heart of literature.

March, 1869.

EDMUND OLLIER.

*** The essays contained in the present volume are all from the Indicator, and are reprinted from the first edition of that work. They are among the best and most characteristic of their author's productions, and several (as the reader will find pointed out in their respective places) were special favourites with Lamb, Hazlitt, Keats, &c.

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