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 ESSAYS OF LEIGH HUNT 
 
This edition is limited to Five Hundred copies 
 for England and Five Hundred for America {ac- 
 quired by Messrs. Macmillan and Co.). There 
 is also an Edition, on large paper, lijuited to Two 
 Hundred and Twenty -five copies {\SO for England). 
 J. M. Dent and Co. 
 
ESSAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 LEIGH HUNT 
 
 SELECTED AND EDITED 
 
 BY 
 
 REGINALD BRIMLEY JOHNSON 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTION 
 
 PORTRAIT BY S. LAWRENCE 
 AND ETCHINGS BY HERBERT RAILTON 
 
 LONDON 
 J. M. DENT AND CO. 
 
 69 GREAT EASTERN STREET 
 1891 
 

 
 tJtiSBS^miXU 
 
 Vol. I. 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface ix 
 
 Introduction xi 
 
 Essays, Miscellaneous, Critical, and 
 Autobiographical. 
 
 Deaths of Little Children i 
 
 Child-Bed 7 
 
 An Earth upon Heaven ,8 
 
 Thoughts and Guesses on Human Nature . . .15 
 
 Angling 17 
 
 February 23 
 
 March 23 
 
 May 24 
 
 Dawn 24 
 
 Fine Days in January and February .... 26 
 
 The Walk in the Wood 29 
 
 A " Now," Descriptive of a Hot Day .... 30 
 A " Now," Descriptive of a Cold Day . . -35 
 
 Getting up on Cold Mornings 42 
 
 The Old Gentleman 49 
 
 The Old Lady .55 
 
 The Maid-Servant ....... 60 
 
 The Waiter 65 
 
 Seamen on Shore 70 
 
 Coaches 80 
 
 [From] A Visit to the Zoological Gardens . . f. 108 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Letter to the Bells of a Parish Church in Italy . iii 
 The True Enjoyment of Splendour :— A Chinese 
 
 Apologue ii6 
 
 Wit made Easy, or, A Hint to Word- Catchers . . i2o 
 
 The Prince on St. Patrick's Day 125 
 
 An Answer to the Question, What is Poetry ? . . 127 
 
 Reason in Poetry 128 
 
 Wit and Humour . 129 
 
 " On the Representation of Tragedy .... 132 
 
 Table Talk 135 
 
 Spenser 136 
 
 Shakespeare 137 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher . . . . . . 140 
 
 Samuel Butler 143 
 
 Pope 145 . 
 
 - An Evening with Pope 147 
 
 Gray 148 
 
 - Goldsmith 150 
 
 Bums 151 
 
 Wordsworth 152 
 
 Coleridge 153 
 
 Lamb 157 
 
 Shelley 161 
 
 The Colman Family 171 
 
 John Buncle 178 
 
 My Books 181 
 
 'Dedication to " Foliage," 1818, to Sir John Edward 
 
 Swinburne, Bart 206 
 
 A Schoolboy's First Love 207 
 
 An Account of Christ- Hospital 211 
 
 His Jailers 224 
 
 Maiano 229 
 
 The Religion of a Lover of a Truth . . . .233 
 
 ^ Alive 234 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Portrait (from a Sketch by Samuel Lawrence, in the 
 
 possession of Mr, W. Leigh Hunt) . frontispiece 
 Chapel at Horsemonger Lane Gaol . . opposite p. 126 
 Christ-Hospital (shewing the window beneath which 
 Leigh Hunt slept, as indicated by his grandson) 
 
 opposite p. 211 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 HE following selections have been 
 printed from the earliest known edi- 
 Ij^^ tions (although the references in the 
 footnotes apply to the latest editions, 
 for convenience of verification) and to each is pre- 
 fixed a list of all the occasions on which, so far as 
 I have been able to discover, it has formerly ap- 
 peared. The essays and poems which are given 
 for the first time in this edition have been printed 
 from copies made by Mr. Alexander Ireland from 
 the original manuscripts, and with the permission 
 of Mr. Walter Leigh Hunt, to whom it seems 
 most probable that the copyright belongs. Messrs. 
 Routledge and Sons have kindly allowed me to 
 include " A Coronation Soliloquy " (vol. ii., p. 76). 
 The authorship of "The Walk in a Wood " (vol. i., 
 p. 29), is indirectly proved by a footnote in one of 
 Mrs. Carlyle's letters (vol. i., p. 104). 
 
 Every student of Leigh Hunt owes gratitude to 
 Mr. Alexander Ireland for his invaluable " List of 
 the Writings of William Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt," 
 and I have further to express my thanks to him 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 for the very great personal kindness with which he 
 has always been ready to communicate to me the 
 results of his later researches. I am also under 
 great obligations to Mr. Walter Leigh Hunt, the 
 poet's grandson, especially for his assistance with 
 regard to the list of portraits and the illustrations 
 and for kindly allowing a portrait in his possession 
 to be reproduced for the frontispiece. 
 
 To Mr. C. W. Reynell, the lifelong friend of 
 Leigh Huntj I am indebted for some interesting 
 reminiscences, and to Dr. Richard Garnett for his 
 kind answers to my inquiries. My special thanks 
 are due to Mr. F. J. Sebley of Cambridge, who 
 has allowed me the free use of his valuable collec- 
 tion of early editions of Leigh Hunt, and to my 
 sister, Miss Alice Johnson, for the great care with 
 which she has revised the proofs and for numerous 
 suggestions made by her in the course of the 
 work, 
 
 R. B. J. 
 
 [Note.— The abbreviations in the bibliographies prefixed 
 to the selections are : — 
 
 C. Kent for Leigh Hunt as Poet and Essayist, 
 edited by C. Kent. 
 
 A. Symons for Essays by Leigh Hunt, edited by 
 A. Symons. 
 
 Canterbury Poets for the Poems of Leigh Himt and 
 Thomas Hood (in that series). 
 
 Works (in vol. ii.) for Poetical Works. 
 
 In other cases the main part of the title is given.] 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT was 
 born on the 19th of October, 1784, in 
 what was then the pretty village of 
 s^^ Southgate, county Middlesex, " not 
 only in the lap of the nature which he loved, but 
 in the midst of the truly English scenery which he 
 loved beyond all other." It was doubtless this 
 *' scene of trees and meadows, of 'greenery' and 
 nestling cottages," that laid the foundation of his 
 love for the simple beauties of nature, and gave 
 him the same affection for the suburbs of London, 
 that literary associations did for her streets. 
 
 He states in his "Autobiography" that "a 
 man is but his parents, or some other of his 
 ancestors, drawn out," and prefaces that work 
 with some very charming sketches of his progeni- 
 tors. " On the mother's side they seemed all sailors 
 and rough subjects, with a mitigation (on the fe- 
 male part) of quakerism; as, on the father's side, 
 they were Creoles and claret drinkers, very polite 
 and clerical." His own father, the Rev. Isaac 
 
xii INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 Hunt, was more polite than prudent. His firm 
 loyalty made it impossible for him to remain in 
 the West Indies, while the width of his sympathies 
 hindered his preferment at home. As his family 
 increased, and he was not in a position to turn his 
 powers of oratory to financial account, he became 
 acquainted with debtors' prisons, and was con- 
 stantly in dread of arrest. Yet so capable was he 
 "of settling himself to the most tranquil plea- 
 sures," that he could always forget his troubles 
 in reading aloud to his wife with the same fine 
 voice that had first won her heart when he spoke 
 the farewell oration on leaving college. *' We 
 thus struggled on between quiet and disturbance, 
 between placid readings and frightful knocks at 
 the door, and sickness, and calamity, and hopes, 
 which hardly ever forsook us." 
 
 His wife, Mary Shewell, the daughter of a mer- 
 chant of Philadelphia, had a disposition the exact 
 reverse of his. " I may call myself," writes her 
 son, "in every sense of the word, etymological 
 not excepted, a son of mirth and melancholy." 
 From his mother Leigh Hunt inherited an " ultra- 
 sympathy with the least show of pain and suffer- 
 ing," and a tendency to fits of depression. But it 
 was no less her memory that stimulated him to 
 an uncompromising uprightness of conduct and 
 gave him " the power of making sacrifices for the 
 sake of a principle. " He ventures very hesitatingly 
 to question the full wisdom of her training on 
 account of its tendency to encourage sensitiveness, 
 but he adds at once, " how happy shall I be (if I ' 
 may) to laugh and compare notes with her on the 
 
INTRODUCTION. xili 
 
 subject in any humble comer of heaven ; to recall 
 to her the filial tenderness with which she was 
 accustomed to speak of the mistakes of one of her 
 own parents, and to think that her grandchildren 
 will be as kind to the memory of their father." 
 She ,was a woman of much power through her 
 suffering and her love. 
 
 Leigh Hunt was nine years younger than any of 
 his brothers, and thus came more under his 
 mother's influence, which was, at any rate for the 
 moment, an unfortunate preparation for the life of 
 a great school. He went to Christ's Hospital, or 
 Christ-Hospital, as he tells us it should be called, 
 in 1792, at the age of eight, and stayed there till 
 he was sixteen. It was a period of some trouble, 
 and, at the same time, of very great enjoyment. 
 The Spartan system and healthy tone of the school 
 probably helped to strengthen his character, but 
 the course of education was far from being com- 
 plete. Here he first learnt the meaning of the word 
 compromise. Here he began to take up the cause of 
 independence, and practised resistance to tyranny. 
 Here he at once dreaded and delighted in the 
 haunted cloisters. Here he found his inseparable 
 friend, and here, above all, he devoured Cooke's 
 edition of the British Poets; "he bought them 
 over and over again, and used to get up select 
 sets, which disappeared like buttered crumpets ; 
 for he could resist neither giving them away nor 
 possessing them." He seems at this early age to 
 have acquired the habit of keen and kindly obser- 
 vation, which afterwards enabled him to write 
 such delightful character-sketches in the*'Indi- 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 cator " and elsewhere, and the third and fourth 
 chapters of the "Autobiography " contain the most 
 lifelike pictures of the boys, the masters, and his 
 own place in their midst. 
 
 When the time for departure was come he wept 
 bitterly, and took individual leave of every person 
 and spot on the establishment. '* I had now a 
 vague sense of worldly trouble, and of a great and 
 serious change in my condition." 
 
 He had not meanwhile been left entirely to 
 school influences, for he was always welcomed at 
 three houses where he could share the advantages 
 of family life. First that of Mr. West with "the 
 quiet of [the artist's] gallery, the tranquil, intent 
 beauty of the statues ; " then that of Mr. Godfrey 
 Thornton in Austin Friars, " where there was 
 cordiality, and there was music, and a family 
 brimful of hospitality and good-nature, and dear 
 
 Almeria (now Mrs. P e), who in vain pretends 
 
 that she has become aged, which is what she 
 never did, shall, would, might, should, or could 
 do"; " and later that of his aunt Mrs. Dayrell, 
 "another paradise in Great Ormond Street," 
 where he fell in love with his cousin P^an, and 
 acquired a " religious idea of keeping a secret," 
 from having been accidentally present at his 
 brother's private marriage with her sister. He 
 was fortunate in his friends throughout life, or 
 rather his beautiful nature always attracted to 
 itself the most congenial companions. 
 
 "For some time after he left school, he did 
 nothing but visit his schoolfellows, haunt the book- 
 stalls, and write verses." His proud and inju- 
 
INTRODUCTION. xv 
 
 dicious father collected the verses and published 
 them by subscription in 1801, so that among all 
 whom he was likely to meet the boy became 
 famous in his eighteenth year. Shortly after the 
 publication of these poems he was introduced to 
 the family of Mrs. Kent, lodged for some time in 
 her house, and became engaged to her daughter 
 Marianne. During the greater part of their en- 
 gagement he seems to have continued living at the 
 houses of various friends, and to have tried his 
 hand at several different employments. He was 
 for a short time a clerk with his brother Stephen, 
 an attorney, and was afterwards placed in the War 
 Office by Mr. Addington. 
 
 But his habits of complete absorption in the 
 immediate occupation of the moment left him no 
 faculty for noting the lapse of time, and rendered 
 him unfit for official regularity ; while the work of 
 writing for the papers — particularly as a theatrical 
 critic — with which he filled his leisure hours, was 
 far more congenial to his whole turn of mind. In 
 later life, by great exertions, he partially conquered 
 his difficulty in measuring time, but fortunately he 
 did not cease to write. 
 
 At the beginning of 1806 he was living with his 
 brother John, who had been apprenticed to Rey- 
 nell the printer, and after several more or less 
 abortive attempts to establish newspapers the two 
 brothers started in 1808 "The Examiner," the 
 only one of his papers that succeeded, and by 
 means of which the main part of his political work 
 was achieved. By the end of the same year he 
 felt that he could carry on the paper with greater 
 
»ri INTRODUC TION. 
 
 energy and independence if he resigned his 
 work at the War Office ; and in 1809 his pro- 
 spects were such as to justify his marriage, a 
 cotidition into which he would ttot enter until 
 he could feel secure of a moderate income in the 
 futzire. 
 
 Leigh Hunt and Marianne Kent were married 
 on July 3rd, 1809, and spent together a Hfe in 
 which there was much sorrow, and yet no little 
 joy, till her death at the beginning of 1857, rather 
 more than two years before his own. 
 
 After he had decided to devote himself to the 
 profession of writing, the outward events of his 
 life, with two exceptions, presented but little 
 variety. He continued to edit papers and write 
 books with extraordinary energy and small financial 
 result. His family increased, and he was con- 
 stantly moving from house to house, though he 
 lived almost always in one of the London suburbs. 
 He wrote with great care, and seldom with any 
 rapidity, and his ignorance of popular taste pre- 
 vented him from catching the ear of the public, 
 which was, moreover, prejudiced against him 
 by the scurrilous abuse of Blackwood and the 
 "Quarterly," who spared no weapon against the 
 man for whom they had invented the silly nickname 
 of the *' Cockney King." He was not suited by 
 nature for the practical control of a newspaper, 
 and his incapacity for business had been fostered 
 by the peculiar system of Christ-Hospital, where 
 he had not learnt arithmetic, and by a certain in- 
 herited incapacity for turning his attention to his 
 own interests. Circumstances and character thus 
 
INTRODUCTION. xvii 
 
 combined to fill his life with anxiety, and it would 
 be a great mistake to think that he took his 
 troubles lightly. His moods of depression, how- 
 ever, were relieved by his healthy power of child- 
 like gaiety, and of burying sorrows in a book. 
 " Those who knew him best would picture him 
 to themselves clothed in a dressing-gown, and 
 bending his head over a book or over the desk. 
 At some periods of his life he rose early, in order 
 that he might get to work early ; in other periods 
 he rose late, because he sat over the desk very 
 late. For the most part, however, he habitually 
 came down * too late ' to breakfast, and was no 
 sooner seated sideways at the table than he began 
 to read. After breakfast he repaired to his study, 
 where he remained until he went out to take his 
 walk. ^ He sometimes read at dinner, though not 
 always. At some periods of his life he would 
 sleep after dinner ; but usually he retired from the 
 table to read. He read at tea-time, and all the 
 evening read or wrote." So writes Thornton 
 Hunt, and he adds that his father's house was noted 
 at some periods of his life and " among a truly 
 selected circle of friends for the tasteful ease of its 
 conversation and recreation," to which the host's 
 own charming manners added attraction.^ In his 
 later days indeed when he was regarded as a kind of 
 literary patriarch, numbers of enthusiastic persons 
 came to pay him an homage which he certainly 
 
 1 See references to him in Mrs. Ritchie's fascinating 
 "Chapters from some unwritten Memoirs" — Macmillan's 
 Magazine, Feb. 1891; and in Hawthorne's "Our old 
 Home," vol. ii., p. 175. 
 
 I. b 
 
xvlii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 appreciated. Under such influences Carlyle refers 
 to his conversation as " free, cheery, idly melodious 
 as bird on bough," and to "his fine, chivalrous, 
 gentlemanly carriage, polite, affectionate, respect- 
 ful (especially to her ') and yet so free and natural." 
 
 His greatest friend was Shelley, but the "Auto- 
 biography " and ' * Correspondence " bring out also 
 his intimacy with Keats, Hazlitt, the Lambs, and in 
 a lesser degree the Carlyles, Brownings, Thackeray, 
 etc., etc., while from their biographies we may 
 gather interesting impressions of him. 
 
 Every one knows "that in an unfortunate mo- 
 ment Charles Dickens conceived the idea of giving 
 a bright life-likeness to one of his most despicable 
 creations by investing him with a certain atmo- 
 sphere of gay sentiment, and by attributing to him 
 certain tricks of manner which were generally re- 
 cognized as Hunt's."^ It was natural that, at the 
 time, ignorant or careless readers should have sup- 
 posed the moral characters of the real Hunt and 
 the imaginary Skimpole to be much alike ; but 
 there can be no excuse for such a supposition to- 
 day. Dickens' own denial of it was obviously 
 cordial and genuine, while our knowledge of Leigh 
 Hunt shows him to have been a man of courageous 
 as well as sensitive morality, and of the strictest 
 integrity. His writings alone afford indisputable 
 testimony to his purity of thought and principle. 
 
 The two events to which I have referred, as 
 
 1 Mrs. Carlyle. 
 
 2 From a most interesting article on " Leigh Hunt, his life, 
 character, and work," in the "London Quarterly Review," 
 written, I believe, by Mr. J. A. Noble, author of "The 
 Pelican Papers." 
 
INTR OD UC TION. xix 
 
 having broken into the regular routine of his daily 
 life, were also its most serious troubles — his im- 
 prisonment and his visit to Italy, 
 
 Somebody said once that '* poor L. H, was put 
 in prison for calling the Prince Regent a fat Adonis 
 of fifty," and the idea sounds absurd enough ; but 
 in the eyes of the law the " Examiner" article was 
 undeniably as libellous as it was well-merited. 
 The trial was, of course, a foregone conclusion ; 
 and, in spite of Lord Brougham's eloquent defence, 
 the brothers Hunt were condemned to two years' 
 imprisonment and a fine of one thousand pounds. 
 Leigh Hunt was confined in Horsemonger Lane 
 Gaol from 1813 to 181 5, and a great deal has been 
 said about the bower of roses into which he turned 
 his prison cell. Some writers have even fancied 
 that his punishment was only nominal because he 
 could share it with his family, his flowers, and his 
 books. They have ignored or forgotten that a few 
 weeks after his release he was so much broken 
 down that he " had not the courage to continue 
 looking at the shoals of people passing to and fro, 
 as the coach drove up the Strand." Just before 
 the sentence was passed his doctor had ordered 
 him drives in the country, and though his im- 
 prisonment brought him general sympathy and 
 some invaluable friends, it may be doubted whether 
 he ever recovered from the shock to his health and 
 spirits ; while it is certain that the fine was the 
 cause of long-continued financial embarrassments. 
 
 The visit to Italy was perhaps still more unfor- 
 tunate. In 1 82 1 the fortunes of the " Examiner" 
 had begun to decline, and it was natural that he 
 
XX INTR ODUC TION. 
 
 should be tempted by an invitation from vShelley 
 and Lord Byron to join them in bringing out a new 
 periodical, in which their more advanced opinions 
 might be made public. The combination of 
 Byron's brilliance and popularity with Hunt's ex- 
 perience in journalism seemed to promise fair for 
 the venture, which was to be called "The Liberal," 
 and it was with the brightest hopes that the Hunts 
 set out for Italy. The terrible delays and suffer- 
 ings of their voyage might well have been regarded 
 as ominous by a superstitious spirit ; but, in the first 
 moment of reunion with Shelley, all troubles were 
 forgotten. — And then Shelley was drowned. 
 
 The more we know of Leigh Hunt the deeper 
 do we seem to see into this calamity, and the more 
 clearly can we realize how it must have unstrung 
 him for the painful necessity of working with 
 Byron. Meanwhile that nobleman's aristocratic 
 friends had been alarming his vanity by reflections 
 upon his association with a poor radical jourttalist. 
 The new journal that had seemed so attractive in 
 prospect became distasteful in execution. Byron 
 never admitted his change of feeling to Hunt, but he 
 delayed the work, and, when he took it up, did it so 
 grudgingly that failure was inevitable. Hunt, more- 
 over, could not afford to wait, and was thus forced 
 to receive pecuniary help from Byron, at whose 
 invitation he had come out to live upon the pro- 
 ceeds of a periodical, which was now neglected by 
 its own originator. Apart from the strain of their 
 financial relations, the natures of Byron and Hunt 
 were essentially incompatible, while the latter's 
 family rather helped to widen the breach. *' The 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxi 
 
 Liberal " dragged through four numbers, and then 
 died of inanition, and its projectors separated. The 
 Hunts remained in Italy till 1825, partly in com- 
 I^any with Mrs. Shelley, but in the end were 
 thankful to return to England. 
 
 In the meantime Byron died, and the public was 
 greedy for any details of his life. The eyes of an 
 enterprising publisher turned to Leigh Hunt, and 
 it was agreed that he should write a biographical 
 sketch for an edition of Byron's works. But the 
 delight of his return to English fields led him to 
 take too long a holiday, and in the hurry of keep- 
 ing an engagement with his publisher, he had to 
 make use of materials already in hand, so that 
 ** Lord Byron and his Contemporaries" assumed, 
 almost by accident, the shape in which it now 
 exists. The circumstances under which it was 
 written coloured it with a sense of injury, not 
 wholly wise, perhaps, but at any rate fully apolo- 
 gized for later by the author. It is to be observed 
 further that Leigh Hunt's own relations with 
 Byron had been cruelly misrepresented by earlier 
 Writers, and that his picture of " the noble poet's" 
 character is now admitted on all hands to be 
 true, original, and essentially kindly. 
 
 We may disregard to-day the indignation of 
 those who would listen to nothing against Byron ; 
 and need only add that the probable cause of the 
 continued and more reasonable complaints against 
 the book, was the spiritual and somewhat quixotic 
 nature of Leigh Hunt's theories concerning the 
 rights of property, which made him regard the 
 power to be generous as a privilege, for others as 
 
xxii I NTH OD UC TION. 
 
 well as for himself, and led him to speak of the 
 gifts of money he received in a manner very likely 
 to offend the average Englishman's formal notions 
 of financial responsibilities. ^ 
 
 During his stay in Italy, Leigh Hmit wrote a 
 beautiful set of meditations, privately printed with 
 the title " Christianism " (later enlarged into a 
 book called "The Religion of the Heart"), 
 "which represent very fully the religious side of an 
 essentially pious nature." They are "the voice 
 of a good heart on the lips of a beautiful speaker," 
 whose beliefs were as tolerant as his nature was 
 sympathetic. 
 
 He did not again leave England after his return, 
 and later in life his affairs became less embarrassed 
 through the generosity of the Shelley family and a 
 royal pension, granted in 1847. 
 
 He died on August 28th, 1859. "Although 
 his bodily powers had been giving way, his most 
 conspicuous qualities — his memory for books, and 
 his affection — remained ; and when his hair was 
 white, when his ample chest had grown slender, 
 when the very proportion of his height had visibly 
 lessened, his step was still ready, and his dark eyes 
 brightened at every happy expression, and at every 
 
 1 A letter written to Mrs. Shelley in September, 1821, 
 will, perhaps, illustrate most simply the way in which Leigh 
 Hunt accepted the generosity of his friends : — " My dear 
 Mary, Pray thank Shelley, or rather do not, for that kind 
 part of his ofter relating to the expenses. I find I have 
 omitted it, but the instinct that led me to do so is more 
 honourable to him than thanks. I hope you think so." 
 
 This was a gratitude that the Shelleysno doubt knew how 
 to appreciate. 
 
INTR OD UC TION. xxiii 
 
 thought of kindness. His death was simply ex- 
 haustion : he broke off his work to lie down and 
 repose. So gentle was the final approach, that he 
 scarcely recognized it till the very last, and then it 
 
 came without terrors His last breath was 
 
 used to draw from one of his sons, by minute, 
 eager, and searching questions all that he could 
 learn about the latest vicissitudes and growing 
 hopes of Italy, — to ask the friends and children 
 around him for news of those whom he loved, — 
 and to send love and messages to the absent who 
 loved him." And so died 
 
 " Hunt, one of those happy souls, 
 Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom 
 This earth would smell like what it is,— a tomb ; 
 Who are what others seem." 
 
 In a critical estimate of Hunt's writings, allow- 
 ance must be made for two adverse influences — the 
 models that his contemporaries admired, and the 
 pressure under which he worked. 
 
 At the time he began to write, the fatal habit of 
 imitating Dr. Johnson's pomposity was in vogue, 
 while "in poetry the Delia Cruscan manner pre- 
 vailed, with its false simplicity and real tinsel, its 
 lachrymose tenderness and sham romance." He 
 first imitated this artificiality, and then, by his very 
 detestation of it, was led to adopt a freedom of 
 style that sometimes degenerated into incorrect- 
 ness. If he seems to dwell upon trifles, or to 
 affect too much simplicity, the impulse may pro- \^ 
 bably be traced to an impatience of false ideals of 
 dignity in writing, as the occasionally involved and 
 
zxiv INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 parenthetic construction of his sentences seems to 
 arise from an intense desire for truth. 
 
 In the case of his prose work, the Herculean 
 journalistic responsibilities that he undertook may 
 have stood in the way of his recognition of these 
 defects, while they must obviously have encouraged 
 the tendency to express any idea as fully and from 
 as many points of view as possible. When it is 
 remembered that he had to produce copy almost 
 daily for more than fifty years, the wonder is that 
 so much should be worth reprinting. An explana- 
 tion may be found in the great care with which he 
 invariably wrote, in the extraordinary width of his 
 acquaintance with the best literature, and in the 
 fact that " he was a man of genius in a very strict 
 sense of that word." ^ 
 
 It is a difficult matter indeed to postulate the 
 unique beauties of his writings. They defy defini- 
 tion. " Versatility, clearness, lovingness, truth- 
 fulness," and absolute healthfulness are there. 
 The touch is light and rapid, yet the deepest and 
 widest sympathies are evinced. His pages are 
 illuminated with passages of delicate wit and un- 
 expected poetry, and enriched by the most happily 
 chosen quotations. 
 
 He is most charming when writing of his friends, 
 — Shelley, his mother, and many others that live 
 before us in the fascinating pages of his ".Auto- 
 biography." His imaginary character-sketches are 
 scarcely less sympathetic, and, though the publica- 
 tion of Professor Knight's " Tales from Leigh 
 Hunt " has perhaps shown that he was not himself 
 1 Carlyle. 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxv 
 
 a master of pure fiction, it has reminded us that 
 he can inspire fresh interest in an old story by his 
 manner of reproducing it. The familiar narrative 
 assumes an added significance in his hands ; re- 
 flections, morals, side issues are suggested ; and 
 the forgotten heroes live again before another 
 generation, clothed in a new garb, and displaying 
 new charms. Nor is this all, for he can breathe 
 life into the dry bones of an obscure chronicle, and 
 fascinate his readers with the gossip of the past. 
 
 But the most popular of his writings have always 
 been his purely miscellaneous essays, which de- 
 pend for their subject and treatment on the sugges- 
 tion of the moment:^ as he said, in the "Wishing 
 Cap," — '* I will take up in this paper any subject 
 to which I feel an impulse." And the subjects are 
 often commonplace enough, but " he brings poetry 
 to our bYeakfast-table, and strikes light out of the 
 pebble at our feet," finding — 
 
 " Sermons in stones, and good in everything." 
 
 In these miscellaneous essays we meet with some 
 occasional literary criticism in which " a sentence 
 does the work of a chapter ; " thus he writes of 
 Charles Lamb that ** his essays will take their 
 place among the daintiest productions of English 
 wit -melancholy," and of O'Keefe that "his muse 
 was as fresh as a dairy-maid." His longer criticisms 
 are seldom less happy. They are nearly always 
 
 1 Yet those who knew him best agree in testifying that 
 even these casual writings "were the result of very con- 
 siderable labour and painstaking, of the most conscientious 
 investigation of facts, where facts were needed ; and of a 
 complete devotion of his faculties towards the objects to be 
 accomplished." 
 
xxvi INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 appreciations^ and yet discriminating. He de- 
 lighted to consider himself a taster in literature, 
 the Indicator, or honey-hunter, among the flowers 
 of the past. He does not construct theories of 
 composition, but gives utterance to his delight in 
 an author, and makes his reader share it. He 
 seems to have no prejudices,^ though he does not 
 praise blindly. 
 
 His more strictly journalistic w^ork may be esti- 
 mated by a brief resume oi the main characteristics 
 of the " Examiner," which are fully set forth in its 
 prospectus (see vol ii. ). The independent theatrical 
 criticism, which he had originated in the "News," 
 was here maintained, and his carefully written 
 miscellaneous articles gave it a literary tone, which 
 was unusual in newspapers of that time. Here 
 also he bore witness to his admiration for the men 
 of real genius among his contemporaries, welcom- 
 ing contributions from Lamb, Hazlitt, Keats, and 
 Shelley, at a time when the last three were almost 
 entirely unknown or despised. The same judg- 
 ment was shown later in the *' London Journal," 
 where the writings of Bentham and Hugh Miller 
 received some of their earliest recognitions, and 
 where Carlyle's translations of Goethe were enthu- 
 siastically noticed. In the " Tatler," we find him 
 working with Barry Cornwall, and, in the "Monthly 
 Repository," with W. S. Landor. 
 
 1 This impartiality, however, cannot be claimed for the 
 criticism in the early numbers of the " Examiner," while he 
 retained two prejudices throughout life : against Dante, for 
 his belief in hell, and against Southey, for his complacent 
 Toryism. 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxvii 
 
 The attitude of the *' Examiner " with regard to 
 political matters was equally advanced. *' It 
 began by being of no party, but reform gave it 
 one ; " and although it was against the grain that 
 Hunt ever wrote on politics, there can be no 
 doubt that the energy and fearlessness of his 
 editorial utterances and the consistent vigour of 
 his paper did no little service to the cause of 
 Liberalism in one of its darkest periods. 
 
 Turning to the consideration of his poetry, we 
 can see the same obvious faults in it as in his 
 prose. It is often trivial in subject, always slight 
 in treatment, and pet ideas are sonietimes allowed 
 to run to seed. He was too much inclined to use 
 words in unusual connections and with a meaning 
 of his own, though without producing obscurity. 
 It may also perhaps be criticised with less com- 
 punction than his prose, because it was his chosen 
 work, written in times of comparative leisure, and 
 by which he hoped to live. 
 
 But "his poetry never fails in that imagina- 
 tive glow and glamour which takes us into 
 another world than the prosaic life of every day, 
 and enables us to forget the dullness and meanness 
 of the actual. . . . Whatever else it may lack, it 
 never lacks gusto, — the sense of the expression of 
 quick, keen delight in all things naturally and 
 wholesomely delightful." ' His nature was essen- 
 tially romantic. His thoughts kept company with 
 brave knights and fair ladies, wandering in beautiful 
 gardens and exchanging tender compliments. The 
 
 » J. A. Noble, 0^. cit. 
 
xxviii INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 ceremonies and customs that had grown archaic in 
 the world of action retained their full significance 
 in his imagination, and it was upon them that he 
 delighted to dwell. 
 
 It is largely because he was so much at home 
 in the fields of imagination that his poetry pos- 
 sesses its peculiar faults and its peculiar merits. 
 His most perfect poems are the short Eastern 
 tales and some of the translations, while the "Story 
 of Rimini " well represents his genius as a whole, 
 and is of supreme interest on account of the admira- 
 tion it excited in some of the master-minds of his 
 day. 
 
 / And finally his writings are the expression of his 
 Amoral nature. They are genial, sympathetic, and 
 chivalrous like himself ; revealing the main motive 
 of his life — the desire to increase the happiness of 
 mankind. They seem to echo the ever-memorable 
 petition of Abou Ben Adhem : — 
 
 " Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
 
 Reginald Brimley Johnson. 
 
 Cambridge, 
 
 February, 1891. 
 
ESSAYS, 
 
 Miscellaneous, Critical, and 
 Autobiographical. 
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 [" Indicator," April 5th, 182a " Indicator and Com- 
 panion," 1834. "Tale for Chimney CJorner," 1869. A. 
 Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 GRECIAN philosopher being asked 
 why he wept for the death of his son, 
 since the sorrow was in vain, replied, 
 " I weep on that very account." And 
 his answer became his wisdom. It is only for 
 sophists to pt"etend, that we, whose eyes contain 
 the fountains of tears, need never give way to them. 
 It would be unwise not to do so on some occasions. 
 Sorrow unlocks them in her balmy moods. The 
 first bursts may be bitter and overwhelming ; but 
 the soil on which they pour, would be the worse 
 without them. They refresh the fever of the soul 
 — the dry misery which parches the countenance 
 into furrows, and renders us liable to our most 
 terrible ** flesh-quakes." 
 
 I. B 
 
2 • '.LEICH HUNT. 
 
 •There are sorraws, it is true, so great, that to 
 give'thfim sorae of the ordinary vents is to run a 
 fe?zard k)f« being overthrown. These we must 
 rather strengthen ourselves to resist, or bow quietly 
 and drily down, in order to let them pass over us, 
 as the traveller does the wind of the desert. But 
 where we feel that tears would relieve us, it is false 
 philosophy to deny ourselves at least that first re- 
 freshment ; and it is always false consolation to 
 tell people that because they cannot help a thing, 
 they are not to mind it. The true way is, to let 
 them grapple with the unavoidable sorrow, and try 
 to win it into gentleness by a reasonable yielding. 
 There are griefs so gentle in their very nature, that 
 it would be worse than false heroism to refuse them 
 a tear. Of this kind are the deaths of infants. 
 Particular circumstances may render it more or less 
 advisable to indulge in grief for the loss of a little 
 child ; but, in general, parents should be no more 
 advised to repress their first tears on such an occa- 
 sion, than to repress their smiles towards a child 
 surviving, or to indulge in any other sympathy. , It 
 is an appeal to the same gentle tenderness ; and 
 such appeals are never made in vain. The end of 
 them is an acquittal from the harsher bonds of 
 affliction — from the tying down of the spirit to one 
 melancholy idea. 
 
 It is the nature of tears of this kind, however 
 strongly they may gush forth, to run into quiet 
 waters at last. We cannot easily, for the whole 
 course of our lives, think with pain of any good 
 and kind person whom we have lost. It is the 
 divine nature of their qualities to conquer pain and 
 
DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 3 
 
 death itself ; to turn the memory of them into plea- 
 sure ; to survive with a placid aspect in our imagi- 
 nations. We are writing at this moment just 
 opposite a spot which contains the grave of one in- 
 expressibly dear to us. ^ We see from our window 
 the trees about it, and the church spire. The 
 green fields lie around. The clouds are travelling 
 overhead, alternately taking away the sunshine 
 and restoring it. The vernal winds, piping of the 
 flowery summer-time, are nevertheless calling to 
 mind the far-distant and dangerous ocean, which 
 the heart that lies in that grave had many reasons 
 to think of. And yet the sight of this spot does 
 not give us pain. So far from it, it is the existence 
 of that grave which doubles every charm of the 
 spot ; which links the pleasures of our childhopd 
 and manhood together ; which puts a hushing 
 tenderness in the winds, and a patient joy upon 
 the landscape ; which seems to unite heaven and 
 earth, mortality and immortality, the grass of the 
 tomb and the grass of the green field ; and gives a 
 more maternal aspect to the whole kindness of 
 nature. It does not hinder gaiety itself. Happi- 
 ness was what its tenant, through all her troubles, 
 would have diffused. To diffuse happiness and to 
 enjoy it, is not only carrying on her wishes, but 
 realizing her hopes ; and gaiety, freed from its 
 only pollutions, malignity and want of sympathy, 
 is but a child playing about the knees of its 
 mother. 
 
 The remembered innocence and endearments of a 
 child stand us instead of virtues that have died older. 
 '' liis cnother's, in |lampstea4 churchyard.— f^D. 
 
4 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Children have not exercised the voluntary offices 
 of friendship ; they have not chosen to be kind 
 and good to us ; nor stood by us, from conscious 
 will, in the hour of adversity. But they have shared 
 their pleasures and pains with us as well as they 
 could ; the interchange of good offices between us 
 has, of necessity, been less mingled with the. 
 troubles of the world ; the sorrow arising from 
 their death is the only one which we can associate 
 with their memories. These are happy thoughts 
 that cannot die. Our loss may always render them 
 pensive ; but they will not always be painful. It 
 is a part of the benignity of Nature that pain does 
 not survive like pleasure, at any time, much less 
 where the cause of it is an innocent one. The 
 smile will remain reflected by memory, as the 
 moon reflects the light upon us when the sun has 
 gone into heaven. 
 
 When writers like ourselves quarrel with earthly 
 pain (we mean writers of the same intentions, 
 without implying, of course, anything about abilities 
 or otherwise), they are misunderstood if they are 
 supposed to quarrel with pains of every sort. This 
 would be idle and effeminate. They do not pre- 
 tend, indeed, that humanity might not wish, if it 
 could, to be entirely free from pain ; for it endea- 
 vours, at all times, to turn pain into pleasure : or 
 at least to set off the one with the other, to make 
 the former a zest and the latter a refreshment. 
 The most unaffected dignity of suffering does this, . 
 and, if wise, acknowledges it. The greatest benevo- 
 lence towards others, the most unselfish relish of 
 their pleasures, even at its own expense, do^ but 
 
DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. s 
 
 look to increasing the general stock of happiness, 
 though content, if it could, to have its identity 
 swallowed up in that splendid contemplation. We 
 are far from meaning that this is to be called selfish- 
 ness. We are far, indeed, from thinking so, or of 
 so confounding words. But neither is it to be 
 called pain when most unselfish, if disinterestedness 
 be truly understood. The pain that is in it softens 
 into pleasure, as the darker hue of the rainbow 
 melts into the brighter. Yet even if a harsher line 
 is to be drawn between the pain and pleasure of 
 the most unselfish mind (and ill-health,^ for in- 
 stance, may draw it), we should not quarrel with it 
 if it contributed to the general mass of comfort, 
 and were of a nature which general kindliness 
 could not afford. Made as we are, there are cer- 
 tain pains without which it would be difficult to 
 conceive certain great and overbalancing pleasures. 
 We may conceive it possible for beings to be made 
 entirely happy ; but in our composition something 
 of pain seems to be a necessary ingredient, in order 
 that the materials may turn to as fine account as 
 possible, though our clay, in the course of ages and 
 experience, may be refined more and more. We 
 may get rid of the worst earth, though not of earth 
 itself. 
 
 Now the liability to the loss of children — or 
 rather what renders us sensible of it, the occasional 
 loss itself — seems to be one of these necessary 
 bitters thrown into the cup of humanity. We do 
 
 1 For himself, he valued ill-health because " it taught me 
 the worth of little pleasures as well as the dignity and 
 utility of great pains." — "Autobiography," p. 147, — Ed. 
 
6 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 not mean that everybody must lose one of his chil- 
 dren in order to enjoy the rest ; or that every indi- 
 vidual loss afflicts us in the same proportion. We 
 allude to the deaths of infants in general. These 
 might be as few as we could render them. But if 
 none at all ever took place, we should regard every 
 little child as a man or woman secured ; and it will 
 easily be conceived what a world of endearing cares 
 and hopes this security would endanger. The very 
 idea of infancy would lose its continuity with us. 
 Girls and boys would be future men and women, 
 not present children. They would have attained 
 their full growth in our imaginations, and might aS 
 well have been men and women at once. On the 
 other hand, those who have lost an infant, are 
 never, as it were, without an infant child. They 
 are the only persons who, in one sense, retain it 
 always, and they furnish their neighbours with the 
 same idea.' The other children grow up to man- 
 hood and womanhood, and suffer all the changes 
 of mortality. This one alone is rendered an im- 
 mortal child. Death has arrested it with his kindly 
 harshness, and blessed it into an eternal image of 
 youth and innocence. 
 
 Of such as these are the pleasantest shapes that visit 
 our fancy and our hopes. They are the ever-smiling 
 emblems of joy ; the prettiest pages that wait upon 
 imagination. Lastly, '* Of these are the kingdom 
 of heaven." Wherever there is a province of that 
 
 ' " I sighed," says old Captain Bolton, " when I envied 
 you the two bonnie children ; but I sigh not now to call 
 either the monk or the soldier mine own ! " — " Monastery," 
 vol. iii., p. 341 ; in edition of 1830, vol. ii., p. 346. 
 
CHILDBED. 7 
 
 benevolent and all-accessible empire, whether on 
 earth or elsewhere, such are the gentle spirits that 
 must inhabit it. To such simplicity, or the resem- 
 blance of it, must they come. Such must be the 
 ready confidence of their hearts, and creativeness 
 of their fancy. And so ignorant must they be of 
 the "knowledge of good and evil," losing their dis- 
 cernment of that self-created trouble, by enjoying 
 the garden before them, and not being ashamed of 
 what is kindly and innocent. ^ 
 
 CHILDBED. 
 
 A PROSE POEM. 
 
 ["Monthly Repository," Nov. 1835. "Wishing Cap 
 Papers," &c., 1874.] 
 
 ND is childbed among the graces, with 
 its close room, and its unwilling or idle 
 visitors, and its jesting nurse (the old 
 and indecent stranger), and its un- 
 motherly, and unwifely, and unlovely lamenta- 
 tions ? Is pain so unpleasant that love cannot 
 reconcile it? And can pleasures be repeated 
 without shame, which are regretted with hostile 
 cries and resentment ? 
 
 No. But childbed is among the graces, with 
 the handsome quiet of its preparation, and the 
 smooth pillow sustaining emotion, and the soft 
 steps of love and respect, and the room in which 
 the breath of the universe is gratefully permitted 
 
 1 One of Lamb's favourite papers. See "Autobiography," 
 p. 250. 
 
8 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 to enter, and mild and venerable aid, and the 
 physician (the urbane security), and the living 
 treasure containing treasure about to live, who 
 looks in the eyes of him that caused it and seeks 
 energy in the grappling of his hand, and hides her 
 face in the pillow that she may save him a pain by 
 stifling a greater. There is a tear for what may 
 have been done wrong, ever ; and what may 
 never be to be mutually pardoned again ; but it is 
 gone, for what needs it? Angelical are their 
 whispers apart ; and Pleasure meets Pain the 
 seraph, and knows itself to be noble in the smiling 
 testimony of his severity. ^ 
 
 It was on a May evening, in a cottage flower- 
 ing with the greengage in the time of hyacinths 
 and new hopes, when the hand that wrote this 
 took the hand that had nine times laid thin and 
 delicate on the bed of a mother's endurance ; and 
 he kissed it, like a bride's. 
 
 L. H. 1827. 
 
 AN EARTH UPON HEAVEN.^ 
 
 ["The Companion," April 2nd, 1828. "Indicator and 
 Companion," 1834. A. Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 OMEBODY, a little while ago, wrote 
 ^ an excellent article in the New Monthly 
 , Magazine on " Persons one would wish 
 '^"^ to have known." He should write 
 another on '* Persons one could wish to have 
 dined with." There is Rabelais, and Horace, and 
 
 1 See the poem, "A Heaven upon Earth," in vol. ii.— 
 Eo. 
 
AN EARTH UPON' HEAVEN. 9 
 
 the Mermaid roysters, and Charles Cotton, and 
 Andrew Marvell, and Sir Richard Steele, aim 
 inultisaliis : and for the colloquial, if not the festive 
 part. Swift and Pope, and Dr. Johnson, and 
 Burke, and Home Tooke. What a pity one can- 
 not dine with them all round ! People are accused 
 of having earthly notions of heaven. As it is 
 difficult to have any other, we may be pardoned 
 for thinking that we could spend a very pretty 
 thousand years in dining and getting acquainted 
 with all the good fellows on record ; and having 
 got used to them, we think we could go very well 
 on, and be content to wait some other thousands 
 for a higher beatitude. Oh, to wear out one of 
 the celestial lives of a triple century's duration, 
 and exquisitely to grow old, in reciprocating din- 
 ners and teas with the immortals of old books ! 
 Will Fielding "leave his card" in the next 
 world ? Will Berkeley (an angel in a wig and 
 lawn sleeves !) come to ask how Utopia gets on ? 
 Will Shakespeare (for the greater the man, the 
 more the good-nature might be expected) know by 
 intuition that one of his readers (knocked up with 
 bliss) is dying to see him at the Angel and Turk's 
 Head, and come lounging with his hands in his 
 doublet-pockets accordingly ? 
 
 It is a pity that none of the great geniuses, to 
 whose lot it has fallen to describe a future state, 
 has given us his own notions of heaven. Their 
 accounts are all modified by the national theology ; 
 whereas the Apostle himself has told us, that we 
 can have no conception of the blessings intended 
 for us. " Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard," &c. 
 
ix> LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 After this, Dante's shining lights are poor. Milton's 
 heaven, with the armed youth exercising them- 
 selves in military games, is worse. His best Para- 
 dise was on earth, and a very pretty heaven he 
 made of it. For our parts, admitting and vene- 
 rating as we do the notion of a heaven surpassing 
 all human conception, we trust that it is no pre- 
 sumption to hope, that the state mentioned by the 
 Apostle is the final heaven ; and that we may 
 ascend and gradually accustom ourselves to the 
 intensity of it, by others of a less superhuman 
 nature. Familiar as we may be both with poetry and 
 calamity, and accustomed to surprises and strange 
 sights of imagination, it is difficult to fancy even 
 the delight of suddenly emerging into a new and 
 boundless state of existence, where everything is 
 marvellous, and opposed to our experience. We 
 could wish to take gently to it ; to be loosed not 
 entirely at once. Our song desires to be "a song 
 of degrees. " Earth and its capabilities — are these 
 nothing ? And are they to come to nothing ? Is 
 there no beautiful realization of the fleeting type 
 that is shown us ? No body to this shadow ? No 
 quenching to this [drought] ^ and continued thirst ? 
 No arrival at these natural homes and resting- 
 places, which are so heavenly to our imaginations, 
 even though they be built of clay, and are situate 
 in the fields of our infancy ? We are becoming 
 graver than we intended ; but to return to our 
 proper style : — nothing shall persuade us, for the 
 present, that Paradise Mount, in any pretty village 
 in England, has not another Paradise Mount to 
 ' Printed " taught " in earlier editions. — Ed. 
 
AN EARTH UPON HEAVEN. if 
 
 correspond, in some less perishing region ; that is 
 to say, provided anybody has set his heart upon 
 it :— and that we shall not all be dining, and 
 drinking tea, and complaining of the weather (we 
 mean, for its not being perfectly blissful) three 
 hundred years hence, in some snug interlunar 
 spot, or perhaps in the moon itself, seeing that it 
 is our next visible neighbour, and shrewdly sus- 
 pected of being hill and dale. 
 
 It appears to us, that for a certain term of cen- 
 turies, Heaven musl consist of something of this 
 kind. In a word, we cannot but persuade our- 
 selves, that to realize everything that we have 
 justly desired on earth, will be heaven ; — we mean, 
 for that period : and that afterwards, if we behave 
 ourselves in a proper pre-angelical manner, we 
 shall go to another heaven, still better, where we 
 shall realize all that we desired in our first. Of 
 this latter we can as yet have no conception ; but 
 of the former, we think some of the items may be 
 as follow ; — 
 
 Imprimis,— (not because friendship comes be- 
 fore love in point of degree, but because it pre- 
 cedes it, in point of time, as at school we have a 
 male companion * before we are old enough to 
 have a female) — Imprimis then, a friend. He 
 will have the same tastes and inclinations as our- 
 selves, with just enough difference to furnish 
 argument without sharpness ; and he will be gene- 
 rous, just, entertaining, and no shirker of his 
 nectar. In short, he will be the best friend we 
 
 1 As a schoolboy Leigh Hunt had very exalted notions 
 of " Friendship." See " Juvenilia."— Ed. 
 
13 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 have had upon earth. We shall talk together " of 
 afternoons ; " and when the Earth begins to rise 
 (a great big moon, looking as happy as we know 
 its inhabitants zuill be), other friends will join us, 
 not so emphatically our friend as he, but excellent 
 fellows all ; and we shall read the poets, and have 
 some sphere-music (if we please), or renew one of 
 our old earthly evenings, picked out of a dozen 
 Christmases. 
 
 Item, a. mistress. In heaven (not to speak it 
 profanely) we know, upon the best authority, that 
 people are "neither married nor given in mar- 
 riage ; " so that there is nothing illegal in the 
 term. (By the way, there can be no clergymen 
 there, if there are no official duties for them. We 
 do not say, there will be nobody who has been a 
 clergyman. Berkeley would refute that ; and a 
 hundred Welsh curates. But they would be no 
 longer in orders. They would refuse to call them- 
 selves more Reverend than their neighbours.) 
 Item then, a mistress ; beautiful, of course, — an 
 angelical expression, — a Peri, or Houri, or what- 
 ever shape of perfection you choose to imagine 
 her, and yet retaining the likeness of the woman 
 you loved best on earth ; in fact, she herself, but 
 completed ; all her good qualities made perfect, 
 and all her defects taken away (with the exception 
 of one or two charming little angelical peccadil- 
 loes, which she can only get rid of in a post-future 
 state) ; good-tempered, laughing, serious, fond of 
 everything about her without detriment to her 
 special fondness for yourself, a great roamer in 
 Elysian fields and forests, but not alone (they go 
 
AN EARTH UPON HEAVEN. 13 
 
 in pairs there, as the jays and turtle-doves do with 
 us) ; but above all things, true ; oh, so true, that 
 you take her word as you would a diamond, 
 nothing being more transparent, or solid, or pre- 
 cious. Between writing some divine poem, and 
 meeting our friends of an evening, we should walk 
 with her, or fly (for we should have wings, of 
 course) like a couple of human bees or doves, 
 extracting delight from every flower, and with 
 delight filling every shade. There is something 
 too good in this to dwell upon ; so we spare the 
 fears and hopes of the prudish. "We would lay 
 her head upon our heart, and look more pleasure 
 into her eyes, than the prudish or the profligate 
 ever so much as fancied. 
 
 Item, books. Shakespeare and Spenser should 
 write us new ones ! Think of that. We would 
 have another Decameron : and Walter Scott (for 
 he will be there too ; — we mean to beg Hume to 
 introduce us) shall write us forty more novels, all 
 as good as the Scotch ones ; and Radical as well 
 as Tory shall love him. It is true, we speak pro- 
 fessionally, when we mention books. 
 
 We think, admitted to that equal sky, 
 
 The Arabian Nights must bear us company. 
 
 When Gainsborough died, he expired in a painter's 
 enthusiasm, saying, "We are all going to heaven, 
 and Vandyke is of the party." — He had a proper 
 foretaste. Virgil had the same light, when he 
 represented the old heroes enjoying in Elysium 
 their favourite earthly pursuits; only one cannot 
 help thinking, with the natural modesty of re- 
 formers, that the taste in this our interlunar heaven 
 
14 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 will be benefited from time to time by the know- 
 ledge of new-comers. We cannot well fancy a 
 celestial ancient Briton delighting himself with 
 painting his skin, or a Chinese angel hobbling a 
 mile up the Milky Way in order to show herself to 
 advantage. 
 
 For breakfast, we must have a tea beyond any- 
 thing Chinese. Slaves will certainly not make 
 the sugar ; but there will be cows for the milk. 
 One's landscapes cannot do without cows. 
 
 For horses we shall ride a Pegasus, or Ariosto's 
 HippogrifF, or Sinbad's Roc. We mean, for our 
 parts, to ride them all, having a passion for fabu- 
 lous animals. Fable will be no fable then. We 
 shall have just as much of it as we like ; and the 
 Utilitarians will be astonished to find how much 
 of that sort of thing will be in request. They will 
 look very odd, by the bye, — those gentlemen, 
 when they first arrive ; but will soon get used to 
 the delight, and find there was more of it in their 
 own doctrine than they imagined. 
 
 The weather will be extremely fine, but not 
 without such varieties as shall hinder it from being 
 tiresome. April will dress the whole country in 
 diamonds ; and there will be enough cold in 
 winter to make a fire pleasant of an evening. The 
 fire will be made of sweet-smelling turf and sunr 
 beams ; but it will have a look of coal. If we 
 choose, now and then we shall even have in- 
 conveniences. 
 
ON HUMAN NATURE. 15 
 
 THOUGHTS AND GUESSES ON 
 HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 [" Indicator," Sept. 13th, 1820. " Tale for Chimney 
 Comer," 1869. A. Synjons, 1888. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 DEATH. 
 F all impositions on the public, the 
 greatest seems to be death. It re- 
 sembles the threatening faces on each 
 side the Treasury. Or rather, it is a 
 necessary bar to our tendency to move forward. 
 Nature sends us out of her hand with such an im- 
 petus towards increase of enjoyment, that some- 
 thing is obliged to be set up at the end of the 
 avenue we are in, to moderate our bias, and make 
 us enjoy the present being. Death serves to make 
 us think, not of itself, but of what is about us, 
 
 DEGRADING IDEAS OF DEITY. 
 
 The superstitious, in their contradictory repre- 
 sentations of God, call him virtuous and benevo- 
 lent out of the same passion of fear as induces them 
 to make him such a tyrant. They think they shall 
 be damned if they do not believe him the tyrant he 
 is described : — they think they shall be damned 
 also, if they do not gratuitously ascribe to him the 
 virtues incompatible with damnation. Being so 
 unworthy of praise, they think he will be particu- 
 larly angry at not being praised. They shudder to 
 think themselves better; and hasten to make 
 
i6 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 amends for it, by declaring themselves as worthless 
 as he is worthy. 
 
 GREAT DISTINCTION TO BE MADE IN BIGOTS. 
 
 There are two sorts of religious bigots, the un- 
 healthy and the unfeeling. The fear of the former 
 is mixed with humanity, and they never succeed in 
 thinking themselves favourites of God, but their 
 sense of security is embittered, by aversions which 
 they dare not own to themselves, and terror for 
 the fate of those who are not so lucky. The un- 
 feeling bigot is a mere unimaginative animal, whose 
 thoughts are confined to the snugness of his own 
 kennel, and who would have a good one in the 
 next world as well as in this. He secures a place 
 in heaven as he does in the Manchester coach or 
 a Margate hoy. Never mind who suffers outside, 
 woman or child. We once found ourselves by 
 accident on board a Margate hoy, which professed 
 to " sail by Divine Providence." Walking about 
 the deck at night to get rid of the chillness which 
 would occasionally visit our devotions to the starry 
 heavens and the sparkling sea, our foot came in 
 contact with something white, which was lying 
 gathered up in a heap. Upon stooping down, we 
 found it to be a woman. The methodists had 
 secured all the beds below, and were not to be 
 disturbed.^ 
 
 1 This anecdote is repeated in the "Autobiography." — 
 Ed. Leigh Hunt thinks that this whole paper was one of 
 C. Lamb's favourites. See "Autobiography," p. 250. 
 
ANGLING. 
 
 ANGLING.* 
 
 ["Indicator," Nov. 17th, 1819. "Indicator and Com- 
 panion," 1834. A. Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 [HE anglers are a race of men who 
 puzzle us. We do not mean for their 
 patience, which is laudable, nor for the 
 infinite non-success of some of them, 
 which is desirable. Neither do we agree with the 
 good joke attributed to Swift, that angling is 
 always to be considered as " a stick and a string, 
 with a fly at one end and a fool at the other." 
 Nay, if he had books with him, and a pleasant 
 day, we can even account for the joyousness of 
 that prince of all punters, who, having been seen 
 in the same identical spot one morning and even- 
 ing, and asked both times whether he had had 
 any success, said No, but in the course of the day 
 he had had "a glorious nibble." 
 
 But the anglers boast of the innocence of their 
 pastime ; yet it puts fellow-creatures to the torture. 
 They pique themselves on their meditative facul- 
 ties ; and yet their only excuse is a want of 
 thought. It is this that puzzles us. Old Isaac 
 Walton, their patriarch, speaking of his inquisi- 
 torial abstractions on the banks of a river, says, 
 
 Here we may 
 Think and pray, 
 
 1 Leigh Hunt was constantly writing against angling. 
 See e.g. " Imaginary Conversations of Pope and Swift," at 
 the end of " Table Talk " volume.— Ed. 
 
 I. C 
 
i8 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Before death 
 Stops our breath. 
 Other joys 
 Are but toys. 
 And to be lamented. 
 
 So saying, he "stops the breath" of a trout, by 
 plucking him up into an element too thin to re- 
 spire, with a hook and a tortured worm in his 
 jaws — 
 
 Other joys 
 
 Are but toys. 
 
 If you ride, walk, or skait, or play at cricket, 
 or at rackets, or enjoy a ball or a concert, it is 
 " to be lamented." To put pleasure into the faces 
 of half a dozen agreeable women, is a toy unworthy 
 of the manliness of a worm-sticker. But to put a 
 hook into the gills of a carp — there you attain the 
 end of a reasonable being ; there you show your- 
 self truly a lord of the creation. To plant your 
 feet occasionally in the mud, is also a pleasing 
 step. So is cutting your ankles with weeds and 
 stones — 
 
 Other joys 
 Are but toys. 
 
 The book of Isaac Walton upon angling is un- 
 doubtedly a delighttul performance in some res- 
 pects. It smells of the country air, and of the 
 flowers in cottage windows. Its pictures of rural 
 scenery, its simplicity, its snatches of old songs, 
 are all good and refreshing; and his prodigious 
 relish of a dressed fish would not be grudged him, 
 if he had killed it a little more decently. He 
 really seems to have a respect for a piece of sal- 
 
ANGLING. 19 
 
 mon ; to approach it, like the grace, with his hat 
 off. But what are we to think of a man, who in 
 the midst of his tortures of other animals, is always 
 valuing himself on his wonderful harmlessness ; 
 and who actually follows up one of his most com- 
 placent passages of this kind, with an injunctioa to 
 impale a certain worm twice upon the hook, be- 
 cause it is lively, and might get off ! All that can be 
 said of such an extraordinary inconsistency is, that 
 having been bred up in an opinion of the innocence 
 of his amusement, and possessing a healthy power 
 of exercising voluntary thoughts (as far as he had 
 any), he must have dozed over the opposite side of 
 the question, so as to become almost, perhaps 
 quite, insensible to it. And angling does indeed 
 seem the next thing to dreaming. It dispenses 
 with locomotion, reconciles contradictions, and 
 renders the very countenance null and void. A 
 friend of ours, who is an admirer of Walton, was 
 struck, just as we were, with the likeness of the 
 old angler's face to a fish. It is hard, angular, 
 and of no expression. It seems to have been 
 ** subdued to what it worked in ; " to have become 
 native to the watery element. One might have 
 said to Walton, " Oh flesh, how art thou fishi- 
 fied ! " He looks like a pike, dressed in broad- 
 cloth instead of butter. 
 
 The face of his pupil and follower, or, as he 
 fondly called himself, son, Charles Cotton, a poet 
 and a man of wit, is more good-natured and un- 
 easy.^ Cotton's pleasures had not been confined 
 
 1 The reader may see both the portraits in the late 
 editions of Walton. 
 
20 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 to fishing. His sympathies indeed had been a 
 little superabundant, and left him, perhaps, not so 
 great a power of thinking as he pleased. Accord- 
 ingly, we find upon the subject of angling in his 
 writings more symptoms of scrupulousness than in 
 those of his father. 
 
 Walton says, that an angler does no hurt but to 
 fish ; and this he counts as nothing. Cotton 
 argues, that the slaughter of them is not to be 
 "repented;" and he says to his father (which 
 looks as if the old gentleman sometimes thought 
 upon the subject too) 
 
 There whilst behind some bush we wait 
 
 The scaly people to betray, 
 We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait. 
 
 To make the preying trout our prey. 
 
 This argument, and another about fish's being 
 made for *' man's pleasure and diet," are all that 
 anglers have to say for the innocence of their sport. 
 But they are both as rank sophistications as can be ; 
 mere beggings of the question. To kill fish out- 
 right is a different matter. Death is common to 
 all ; and a trout, speedily killed by a man, may 
 suffer no worse fate than from the jaws of a pike. 
 It is the mode, the lingering cat-like cruelty of the 
 angler's sport, that renders it unworthy. If fish 
 were made to be so treated, then men were also 
 made to be racked and throttled by inquisitors. 
 Indeed among other advantages of angling. Cotton 
 reckons up a tame, fishlike acquiescence to what- 
 ever the powerful choose to inflict. 
 
 We scratch not our pates, 
 Nor repine at the rates 
 
ANGLING. 21 
 
 Our superiors impose on our living ; 
 
 But do frankly submit, 
 
 Knowing they have more wit 
 
 In demanding, than we have in giving. 
 
 Whilst quiet we sit, 
 
 We conclude all things fit. 
 
 Acquiescing with hearty submission, &c. 
 
 And this was no pastoral fiction. The anglers of 
 those times, whose skill became famous from the 
 celebrity of their names, chiefly in divinity, were 
 great fallers-in with passive obedience. They 
 seemed to think (whatever they found it necessary 
 to say now and then upon that point) that the 
 great had as much right to prey upon men, as the 
 small had upon fishes ; only the men luckily had 
 not hooks put into their jaws, and the sides of their 
 cheeks torn to pieces. The two most famous anglers 
 in history are Antony and Cleopatra. These ex- 
 tremes of the angling character are very edifying. 
 
 We should like to know what these grave divines 
 would have said to the heavenly maxim of" Do as 
 you would be done by." Let us imagine ourselves, 
 for instance, a sort of human fish. Air is but a 
 rarer fluid ; and at present, in this November 
 weather, a supernatural being who should look 
 down upon us from a higher atmosphere, would 
 have some reason to regard us as a kind of pedes- 
 trian carp. Now fancy a Genius fishing for us. 
 Fancy him baiting a great hook with pickled 
 salmon, and twitching up old Isaac Walton from 
 the banks of the river Lee, with the hook through 
 his ear. How he would go up, roaring and scream- 
 ing, and thinking the devil had got him ! 
 
22 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Other joys 
 Are but toys. 
 
 We repeat, that if fish were made to be so 
 treated, then we were just as much made to be 
 racked and suffocated ; and a footpad might have 
 argued that old Isaac was made to have his pocket 
 picked, and be tumbled into the river. There is 
 no end of these idle and selfish beggings of the' 
 question, which at last argue quite as much against 
 us as for us. And granting them, for the sake of 
 argument, it is still obvious, on the very same 
 ground, that men were also made to be taught 
 better. We do not say, that all anglers are of a 
 cruel nature ; many of them, doubtless, are amiable 
 men in other matters. They have only never 
 thought perhaps on that side of the question, or 
 been accustomed from childhood to blink it. But 
 once thinking, their amiableness and their practice 
 become incompatible ; and if they should wish, on 
 that account, never to have thought upon the sub- 
 ject, they would only show, that they cared for 
 their own exemption from suffering, and not for 
 its diminution in general.^ 
 
 1 Perhaps the best thing to be said finally about angling 
 is, that not being able to determine whether fish feel it 
 very sensibly or otherwise, we ought to give them the 
 benefit rather than the disadvantage of the doubt, where 
 we can help it; and our feelings the benefit, where we 
 cannot. 
 
FEBRUARY. MARCH. 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 - [From the " Months," 1821, which is reprinted from the 
 ' Literary Pocket Book " of i8ig.] 
 
 I HE farmer now grapples with earth again, 
 and renews the friendly contest for her 
 treasures. He ploughs up his fallows, 
 sows beans, pease, rye, and spring 
 wheat, sets early potatoes, drains wet lands, dresses 
 and repairs hedges, lops trees, and plants those 
 kind that love a wet soil, such as poplars, alders, 
 and willows. Here is the noblest putting in of 
 stockiox a nation, — the healthiest in its pursuit, and 
 the most truly rich and returning in its interest. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 [From the "Months," 1821, which is reprinted from the 
 " Literary Pocket Book " of 1819.] 
 
 E sometimes, it must be confessed, as if 
 in a fit of the spleen, hinders the buds 
 which he has dried from blowing ; and 
 it is allowable in the less robust part of 
 his fiiends out of doors, to object to the fancy he 
 has for coming in such a cutting manner from the 
 East. But it may be truly said, that the oftener 
 you meet him firmly, the less he will shake you ; 
 and the more smiles you will have from the fair 
 months that follow him. 
 
LEIGH HUNT, 
 
 MAY. 
 
 [From the " Months," 1821, which is reprinted from the 
 " Literary Pocket Book " of 1819.] 
 
 |HE farmer does little but leisurely weed 
 his garden, and enjoy the sight of his 
 flowering industry ; the sun stops long, 
 and begins to let us feel him warmly ; 
 and when the vital sparkle of the day is over, in 
 sight and sound, the nightingale still continues to 
 tell us its joy ; the moon seems to be watching us, 
 as a mother does her sleeping child ; and the little 
 glowworm lights up her trusting lamp, to show her 
 lover where she is. 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 [" Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla," 1847. Reprinted 
 from "Ainsworth's Magazine," 1844.I 
 
 EE also the Satyr's account of dawn [in 
 Fletcher's " Faithful Shepherdess "], 
 ^ which opens with the four most ex- 
 ^ quisite lines perhaps in the whole 
 play : 
 
 See, the day begins to break, 
 And the light shoots like a streak 
 Of subtle Jire. The wind blows cold. 
 While tlie morning doth unfold. 
 
 Who has not felt this mingled charmingness and 
 chilliness (we do not use the 'words for the sake of 
 the alliteration) at the first opening of the morning ! 
 
DA IVN. 25 
 
 Yet none but the finest poets venture upon thus 
 combining pleasure with something that might be 
 thought a drawback. But it is truth ; and it is 
 truth in which the beauty surmounts the pain ; and 
 therefore they give it. And how simple and straight- 
 forward is every word ! There are no artificial 
 tricks of composition here. The words are not 
 suggested to the truth by the author, but to the 
 author by the truth. We feel the wind blowing as 
 simply as it does in nature ; so that if the reader be 
 artificially trained, and does not bring a feeling for 
 truth with him analogous to that of the poet, the 
 very simplicity is in danger of losing him the per- 
 ception of the beauty. And yet there is art as well 
 as nature in the verses ; for art in the poet must 
 perfect what nature does by her own art. Observe, 
 for instance, the sudden and strong emphasis on 
 the word shoots, and the variety of tone and modu- 
 lation in the whole passage, and the judicious 
 exceptions of the two o's in the wind "blows cold," 
 which have the solemn continuous sound of what 
 it describes : also the corresponding ones in "doth 
 unfold," which maintain the like continuity of the 
 growing daylight. And exquisite, surely, is the 
 dilatory and golden sound of the word *' morning " 
 between them : 
 
 The wind blows cold, 
 While the mor-ximz doth unfold. 
 
26 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 FINE DAYS IN JANUARY AND 
 FEBRUARY.' 
 
 [" The Companion," Jan. 30th, 1828. " Indicator and 
 Companion," 1834. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 ! E speak of those days, unexpected, sun- 
 shiny, cheerful, even vernal, which come 
 towards the end of January, and are too 
 apt to come alone. They are often set 
 in the midst of a series of rainy ones, like a patch 
 of blue in the sky. Fine weather is much at any 
 time, after or before the end of the year ; but, in 
 the latter case, the days are still winter days ; 
 whereas, in the former, the year being turned, and 
 March and April before us, we seem to feel the 
 coming of spring. In the streets and squares, the 
 ladies are abroad, with their colours and glowing 
 cheeks. If you can hear anything but noise, you 
 hear the sparrows. People anticipate at breakfast 
 the pleasure they shall have in ' * getting out." The 
 solitary poplar in a corner looks green against the 
 sky ; and the brick wall has a warmth in it. Then 
 in the noisier streets, what a multitude and a new 
 life ! What horseback ! What promenading \ 
 What shopping, and giving good day ! Bonnets 
 encounter bonnets : — all the Miss Williamses meet 
 all the Miss Joneses ; and everybody wonders, par- 
 ticularly at nothing. The shop-windows, putting 
 forward their best, may be said to be in blossom. 
 The yellow carriages flash in the sunshine ; foot- 
 
 1 Cf. " Sudden fine weather," in vol. ii. 
 
FINE DA YS IN JANUAR Y &> FEBR UARY. 27 
 
 men rejoice in their white calves, not dabbed, as 
 usual, with rain ; the gossips look out of their 
 three-pair-of-stairs windows ; other windows are 
 thrown open ; fruiterers' shops look well, swelling 
 with full baskets ; pavements are found to be dry ; 
 lapdogs frisk under their asthmas ; and old gentle- 
 men issue forth, peering up at the region of the 
 north-east. 
 
 Then in the country, how emerald the green, 
 how open-looking the prospect ! Honeysuckles 
 (a name alone with a garden in it) are detected in 
 blossom ; the hazel follows ; the snowdrop hangs 
 its white perfection, exquisite with green ; we 
 fancy the trees are already thicker; voices of 
 winter birds are taken for new ones ; and in Feb- 
 ruary new ones come — the thrush, the chaffinch, 
 and the wood-lark. Then rooks begin to pair ; and 
 the wagtail dances in the lane. As we write this 
 article, the sun is on our paper, and chanticleer (the 
 same, we trust, that we heard the other day) seems 
 to crow in a very different style, lord of the ascen- 
 dant, and as willing to be with his wives abroad 
 as at home. We think we see him, as in Chaucer's 
 homestead : 
 
 He looketh, as it were, a grim leoun ; 
 And on his toes he roameth up and down ; 
 Him deigneth not to set his foot to ground ; 
 He clucketh when he hath a com yfoimd, 
 And to him runnen then his wives all. 
 
 Will the reader have the rest of the picture, as 
 Chaucer gave it ? It is as bright and strong as 
 the day itself, and as suited to it as a falcon to a 
 knight's fist. Hear how the old poet throws forth 
 
28 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 his strenuous music ; as fine, considered as mere 
 music and versification, as the description is plea- 
 sant and noble. 
 
 His comb was redder than the fine cor^U, 
 Embattled as it were a castle wall ; 
 His bill was black, and as the jet it shone ; 
 Like azure was his legges and his tone ; 
 His nailes whiter than the lilly flower, 
 And like the burned gold was his colotir. 
 
 Hardly one pause like the other throughout, and 
 yet all flowing and sweet. The pause on the third 
 syllable in the last line but one, and that on the 
 sixth in the last, together with the deep variety of 
 vowels, make a beautiful concluding couplet ; and 
 indeed the whole is a study for versification. So 
 little were those old poets unaware of their task, 
 as some are apt to suppose them ; and so little 
 have others dreamt, that they surpassed them in 
 their own pretensions. The accent, it is to be ob- 
 served, in those concluding words, as coral and 
 colour^ is to be thrown on the last syllable, as it is 
 in Italian. Colhr, colbre, and Chaucer's old Anglo- 
 Gallican word, is a much nobler one than our 
 modern one cblour. We have injured many such 
 words, by throwing back the accent. 
 
 We should beg pardon for this digression, if it 
 had not been part of our understood agreement 
 with the reader to be as desultory as we please, 
 and as befits Companions. Our very enjoyment 
 of the day we are describing would not let us be 
 otherwise. It is also an old fancy of ours to as- 
 sociate the ideas of Chaucer with that of any early 
 and vigorous manifestation of light and pleasure. 
 
THE WALK IN THE WOOD. 29 
 
 He is not only the " morning-star " of our poetr>', 
 as Denham called him, but the morning itself, and 
 a good bit of the noon ; and we could as soon 
 help quoting him at the beginning of the year, 
 as we could help wishing to hear the cry of prim- 
 roses, and thinking of the sweet faces that buy 
 them. 
 
 THE WALK IN THE WOOD. 
 
 A PROSE POEM BY A LITTLE BOY. 
 
 t" Monthly Repository," Dec. 1837.] 
 
 |HILDREN are, more or less, poets by 
 nature, they are so disposed to enjoy 
 existence and to see the beautiful and 
 admirable wherever they cast their 
 eyes. And if it is not egotism in a father to think 
 it, there is a genuine poetical feeling in the follow- 
 ing simple and joyous observations ma^^e by a little 
 boy, in the companiable gaiety of his heart, while 
 strolling with him in the Bishop's Wood, between 
 Highgate and Hampstead. He had no suspicion, 
 of course, that he was uttering anything unusual, 
 or that his father was taking the words down. It 
 was a sort of human bird-song, uttered out of the 
 fulness of comfort.] 
 
 " It would be nice to have a little house in this 
 wood, and to walk out of it whenever we chose, 
 and take a liitle green ivalk. 
 
 '* You look for violets on that side, and I will 
 look on this : a7td then we shall be wanderers. 
 
LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 '* It is a good joy, having found this wood. 
 *' Ah, you are writing : — it is convenient, that, 
 to be able to write in a little green wood.^^ 
 
 A "NOW." 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE OF A HOT DAY. 
 
 [" Indicator," June 28th, 1820. " London Journal," Jnly 
 23rd, 1834. "Indicator and Companion," 1834. "Tale 
 for Chimney Corner," 1869. A. Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 
 .] 
 
 I OW the rosy- (and lazy-) fingered Aurora, 
 issuing from her saffron house, calls up 
 the moist vapours to surround her, and 
 goes veiled with them as long as she 
 can ; till Phoebus, coming forth in his power, looks 
 everything out of the sky, and holds sharp uninter- 
 rupted empire from his throne of beams. Now the 
 mower begins to make his sweeping cuts more 
 slowly, and resorts oftener to the beer. Now the 
 carter sleeps a-top of his load of hay, or plods with 
 double slouch of shoulder, looking out with eyes 
 winking under his shading hat, and with a hitch 
 upward of one side of his mouth. Now the little 
 girl at her grandmother's cottage-door watches the 
 coaches that go by, with her hand held up over her 
 sunny forehead. Now labourers look well resting 
 in their white shirts at the doors of rural alehouses. 
 Now an elm is fine there, with a seat under it ; 
 and horses drink out of the trough, stretching their 
 yearning necks with loosened collars ; and the 
 traveller calls for his glass of ale, having been with- 
 
A ''NOW." 31 
 
 out one for more than ten minutes ; and his horse 
 stands wincing at the flies, giving sharp shivers of 
 his skin, and moving to and fro his ineffectual 
 docked tail ; and now Miss Betty Wilson, the 
 host's daughter, comes streaming forth in a flowered 
 gown and earrings, carrying with four of her beauti- 
 ful fingers the foaming glass, for which, after the 
 traveller has drank it, she receives with an indiffer- 
 ent eye, looking another way, the lawful two- 
 pence : that is to say, unless the traveller, nodding 
 his ruddy face, pays some gallant compliment to 
 her before he drinks, such as, " I'd rather kiss 
 you, my dear, than the tumbler," or, "I'll wait 
 for you, my love, if you'll marry me ; " upon which, 
 if the man is good-looking and the lady in good- 
 humour, she smiles and bites her lips, and says, 
 *' Ah, men can talk fast enough ; " upon which the 
 old stage-coachman, who is buckling something 
 near her, before he sets off, says in a hoarse voice, 
 "So can women too for that matter," and John 
 Boots grins through his ragged red locks and doats 
 on the repartee all the day after. Now grass- 
 hoppers *' fry," as Dryden says. Now cattle stand 
 in water, apd ducks are envied. Now boots, and 
 shoes, and trees by the road-side, are thick with 
 dust ; and dogs, rolling in it, after issuing out of the 
 water, into which they have been thrown to fetch 
 sticks, come scattering horror among the legs of 
 the spectators. Now a fellow who finds he has 
 three miles further to go in a pair of tight shoes, is 
 in a pretty situation. Now rooms with the sun 
 upon them become intolerable ; and the apothe- 
 cary's apprentice, with a bitterness beyond aloes. 
 
32 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 thinks of the pond he used to bathe in at school. 
 Now men with powdered heads (especially if thick) 
 envy those that are unpowdered, and stop to wipe 
 them up hill, with countenances that seem to ex- 
 postulate with destiny. Now boys assemble round 
 the village pump with a ladle to it, and delight to 
 make a forbidden splash and get wet through the 
 shoes. Now also they make suckers of leather, and 
 bathe all day long in rivers and ponds, and follow 
 the fish into their cool corners and say millions 
 of '* MY eyes ! " at " tittlebats." Now the bee,, 
 as he hums along, seems to be talking heavily 
 of the heat. Now doors and brick-walls are 
 burning to the hand ; and a walled lane, with 
 dust and broken bottles in it, near a brick-field, is 
 a thing not to be thought of. Now a green lane, 
 on the contrary, thick-set with hedge-row elms, 
 and having the noise of a brook "rumbling in 
 pebble-stone," is one of the pleasantest things in 
 the world. Now youths and damsels walk through 
 hayfields, by chance, and the latter say, " Ha' 
 done then, William ; " and the overseer in the 
 next field calls out to " let thic thear hay thear 
 bide ; " and the girls persist merely to plague 
 "such a frumpish old fellow." 
 
 Now, in town, gossips talk more than ever to 
 one another, in rooms, in door-ways, and out of 
 window, always beginning the conversation with 
 saying that the heat is overpowering. Now blinds 
 are let down, and doors thrown open, and flannel 
 waistcoats left off, and cold meat preferred to hot, 
 and wonder expressed why tea continues so refresh- 
 ing, and people delight to sliver lettuces into bowls, 
 
A ''NOW." 33 
 
 and apprentices water doorways with tin canisters 
 that lay several atoms of dust. Now the water- 
 cart, jumbling along the middle of the street, and 
 jolting the showers out of its box of water, really 
 does something. Now fruiterers' shops and dairies 
 look pleasant, and ices are the only things to those 
 who can get them. Now ladies loiter in baths ; 
 and people make presents of flowers ; and wine is 
 put into ice ; and the after-dinner lounger recreates 
 his head with applications of perfumed water out of 
 long-necked bottles. Now the lounger, who can- 
 not resist riding his new horse, feels his boots burn 
 him. Now buckskins are not the lawn of Cos. ' 
 Now jockeys, walking in great -coats to lose flesh, 
 curse inwardly. Now five fat people in a stage- 
 coach hate the sixth fat one who is coming in, and 
 think he has no right to be so large. Now clerks 
 in office do nothing but drink soda-water and 
 spruce-beer, and read the newspaper. Now the 
 old-clothesman drops his solitary cry more deeply 
 into the areas on the hot and forsaken side of the 
 street ; and bakers look vicious ; and cooks are 
 aggravated ; and the steam of a tavern -kitchen 
 catches hold of one like the breath of Tartarus. 
 Now delicate skins are beset with gnats ; and boys 
 make their sleeping companion start up, with 
 playing a burning-glass on his hand ; and black- 
 smiths are super -carbonated ; and cobblers in their 
 stalls almost feel a wish to be transplanted ; and 
 butter is too easy to spread ; and the dragoons 
 wonder whether the Romans liked their helmets ; 
 
 1 Coa vesits, a thin kind of silk or gauze made in the 
 island of Cos, alluded to by Horace. — Eo. 
 
 I. D 
 
34 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 and old ladies, with their lappets unpinned, walk 
 along in a state of dilapidation ; and the servant- 
 maids are afraid they look vulgarly hot ; and the 
 author, who has a plate of strawberries brought 
 him, finds that he has come to the end of his 
 writing. 
 
 We cannot conclude this article, however, with- 
 out returning thanks, both on our own account and 
 on that of our numerous predecessors, who have 
 left so large a debt of gratitude unpaid, to this very 
 useful and ready monosyllable — *' Now." We are 
 sure that there is not a didactic poet, ancient or 
 modern, who, if he possessed a decent share of 
 candour, would not be happy to own his obliga- 
 tions to that masterly conjunction, which possesses 
 the very essence of wit, for it has the art of bring- 
 ing the most remote things together. And its gene- 
 rosity is in proportion to its wit, for it always is most 
 profuse of its aid where it is most wanted. 
 
 We must enjoy a pleasant passage with the 
 reader on the subject of this "eternal Now" in 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's play of the " Woman- 
 Hater."^ 
 
 1 We have not room to enjoy it here, and it is therefore, 
 omitted. The above paper v/as a special favourite with 
 Keats, who contributed one or two passages to it.— "Auto- 
 biography," p. 250.— Ed. 
 
A "NOIV." 35 
 
 A "NOW." 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE OF A COLD DAY. 
 " Now, all amid the rigours of the year."— Thomson. 
 
 ["London Journal," Dec. 3rd, 1834. "Seer," 1840. A, 
 Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 FRIEND tells us, that having written 
 a "Now," descriptive of a hot day [see 
 previous essay], we ought to write 
 another, descriptive of a cold one ; and 
 accordingly we do so. It happens that we are, at 
 this minute, in a state at once fit and unfit for the 
 task, being in the condition of the little boy at 
 school, who, when asked the Latin for "cold," 
 said he had it "at his fingers' ends;" but this 
 helps us to set off with a right taste of our sub- 
 ject ; and the fire, which is clicking in our ear, 
 shall soon enable us to handle it comfortably in 
 other respects. 
 
 NoWf then, to commence. — But first, the reader 
 who is good-natured enough to have a regard for 
 these papers, may choose to be told of the origin 
 of the use of this word Now, in case he is not al- 
 ready acquainted with it. It was suggested to us 
 by the striking convenience it affords to descriptive 
 writers, such as Thomson and others, who are 
 fond of beginning their paragraphs with it, thereby 
 saving themselves a world of trouble in bringing 
 about a nicer conjunction of the various parts of 
 their subject. 
 
 Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks — 
 
36 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Now flaming up to heaven, the potent sun — 
 
 Now when the cheerless empire of the sky — 
 
 But now — 
 
 When now — 
 
 "Where now — 
 
 For now — &c. 
 
 We say nothing of similar words among other 
 nations, or of a certain But of the Greeks which 
 was as useful to them on all occasions as the And 
 so of the little children's stories. Our business is 
 with our old indigenous friend. No other Now 
 can be so present, so instantaneous, so extremely 
 Now, as our own Now. The now of the Latins, 
 — Nunc, ox Jam, as he sometimes calls himself, — 
 is a fellow of past ages. He is no Now. And 
 the Nun of the Greek is older. How can there 
 be a Now which was Then ? a ** Now-then" as 
 we sometimes barbarously phrase it. "Now and 
 then " is intelligible ; but " Now-then" is an ex- 
 travagance, fit only for the delicious moments of a 
 gentleman about to crack his bottle, or to run 
 away with a lady, or to open a dance, or to carve 
 a turkey and chine, or to pelt snow-balls, or to 
 commit some other piece of ultra-vivacity, such as 
 excuses a man from the nicer proprieties of 
 language. 
 
 But to begin. 
 
 Now the moment people wake in the morning, 
 they perceive the coldness with their faces, though 
 they are warm with their bodies, and exclaim 
 " Here's a day ! " and pity the poor little sweep, 
 and the boy with the water-cresses. How any- 
 body can go to a cold ditch, and gather water- 
 
A "NOW." 37 
 
 cresses, seems marvellous. Perhaps we hear great 
 lumps in the street of something falling ; and, 
 looking through the window, perceive the roofs of 
 the neighbouring houses thick with snow. The 
 breath is visible, issuing from the mouth as we lie. < 
 Now we hate getting up, and hate shaving, and 
 hate the empty grate in one's bed-room ; and 
 water freezes in ewers, and you may set the towel 
 upright on its own hardness, and the window- 
 panes are frost- whitened, or it is foggy, and the 
 sun sends a dull, brazen beam into one's room ; 
 or, if it is fine, the windows outside are stuck with 
 icicles ; or a detestable thaw has begun, and they 
 drip ; but, at all events, it is horribly cold, and 
 delicate shavers fidget about their chambers look- 
 ing distressed, and cherish their hard-hearted 
 enemy, the razor, in their bosoms, to warm him a 
 little, and coax him into a consideration of their 
 chins. Savage is a cut, and makes them think 
 destiny really too hard. 
 
 Now breakfast is fine ; and the fire seems to 
 laugh at us as we enter the breakfast-room, and 
 say ' ' Ha ! ha ! here's a better room than the bed- 
 chamber ! " and we always poke it before we do 
 anything else ; and people grow selfish about seats 
 near it ; and little boys think their elders tyran- 
 nical for saying, *' Oh, you don't want the fire ; 
 your blood is young." And truly that is not the 
 way of stating the case, albeit young blood is 
 warmer than old. Now the butter is too hard to 
 spread ; and the rolls and toast are at their maxi- 
 mum ; and the former look glorious as they issue, 
 smoking, out of the flannel in which they come 
 
38 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 from the baker's ; and people who come with 
 single knocks at the door are pitied ; and the 
 voices of boys are loud in the street, sliding or 
 throwing snow-balls ; and the dustman's bell 
 sounds cold ; and we wonder how anybody can go 
 about selling fish, especially with that hoarse 
 voice ; and schoolboys hate their slates, and blow 
 their fingers, and detest infinitely the no-fire at 
 school ; and the parish-beadle's nose is redder 
 than ever. 
 
 Now sounds in general are dull, and smoke out 
 of chimnies looks warm and rich, and birds are 
 pitied, hopping about for crumbs, and the trees , 
 look wiry and cheerless, albeit they are still 
 beautiful to imaginative eyes, especially the ever- 
 greens, and the birch with boughs like dishevelled 
 hair. Now mud in roads is stiff, and the kennel 
 ices over, and boys make illegal slides in the path- 
 ways, and ashes are strewed before doors ; or you 
 crunch the snow as you tread, or kick mud-flakes 
 before you, or are horribly muddy in cities. But 
 if it is a hard frost, all the world is buttoned 
 up and great-coated, except ostentatious elderly 
 gentlemen, and pretended beggars with naked 
 feet ; and the delicious sound of " All hot " is 
 heard from roasted apple and potato stalls, the 
 vender himself being cold, in spite of his "hot>" 
 and stamping up and down to warm his feet ; and 
 the little boys are astonished to think how he can 
 eat bread and cold meat for his dinner, instead of 
 the smoking apples. 
 
 Now skaiters are on the alert ; the cutlers' shop- 
 windows abound with their swift shoes ; and as 
 
A "NO IV." 39 
 
 you approach the scene of action (pond or canal) 
 you hear the dull grinding noise of the skaits to and 
 fro, and see tumbles, and Banbury cake-men and 
 blackguard boys playing "hockey," and ladies 
 standing shivering on the banks, admiring anybody 
 but their brother, especially the gentleman who is 
 cutting figures of eight, who, for his part, is ad- 
 miring his own figure. Beginners affect to laugh 
 at their tumbles, but are terribly angry, and long 
 to thump the bye-standers. On thawing days, 
 idlers persist to the last in skaiting or sliding 
 amidst the slush and bending ice, making the 
 Humane-Society-man ferocious. He feels as if 
 he could give them the deaths from which it is his 
 business to save them. When you have done 
 skaiting, you come away feeling at once warm and 
 numb in the feet, from the tight effect of the skaits ; 
 and you carry them with an ostentatious air of in- 
 difference, as if you had done wonders; whereas 
 you have fairly had three slips, and can barely 
 achieve the inside edge. 
 
 Now riders look sharp, and horses seem brittle 
 in the legs, and old gentlemen feel so ; and coach- 
 men, cabmen, and others, stand swinging their 
 arms across at their sides to warm themselves ; and 
 blacksmiths' shops look pleasant, and potato shops 
 detestable ; the fishmongers' still more so. We 
 wonder how he can live in that plash of wet and 
 cold fish, without even a window. Now clerks in 
 offices emy the one next the fire-place ; and men 
 from behind counters hardly think themselves re- 
 paid by being called out to speak to a Countess in 
 her chariot ; and the wheezy and effeminate pastry- 
 
40 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 cook, hatless and aproned, and with his hand in 
 his breeches-pockets (as the graphic Cruikshank 
 noticeth in his almanack) stands outside his door, 
 chilling his household warmth with attending to 
 the ice which is brought him, and seeing it un- 
 loaded into his cellar like coals. Comfortable look 
 the Miss Joneses, coming this way with their muffs 
 and furs ; and the baker pities the maid-servant 
 cleaning the steps, who, for her part, says she is 
 not cold, which he finds it difficult to believe. 
 
 Now dinner rejoiceth the gatherers together, 
 and cold meat is despised, and the gout defieth the 
 morrow, thinking it but reasonable on such a day 
 to inflame itself with " t'other bottle ; " and the 
 sofa is wheeled round to the fire after dinner, and 
 people proceed to burn their legs in their boots, 
 and little boys their faces ; and young ladies are 
 tormented between the cold and their complexions, 
 and their fingers freeze at the piano-forte, but they 
 must not say so, because it will vex their poor com- 
 fortable grand-aunt, who is sitting with her knees 
 in the fire, and who is so anxious that they should 
 not be spoilt. 
 
 Now the muffin-bell soundeth sweetly in the 
 streets, reminding us, not of the man, but his 
 muffins, and of twilight, and evening, and curtains, 
 and the fireside. Now play-goers get cold feet, 
 and invalids stop up every crevice in their rooms, 
 and make themselves worse ; and the streets are 
 comparatively silent ; and the wind rises and falls 
 in moanings ; and fires burn blue and crackle ; 
 and an easy-chair with your feet by it on a stool, 
 the lamp or candles a little behind you, and an in- 
 
A "NO IV." 41 
 
 teresting book just opened where you left off, is a 
 bit of heaven upon earth. People in cottages crowd 
 close into the chimney, and tell stories of ghosts 
 and murders, the blue flame affording something 
 like evidence of the facts. 
 
 " The owl, with all her feathers, is a-cold," 1 
 
 or you think her so. The whole country feels like 
 a petrifaction of slate and stillness, cut across by 
 the wind ; and nobody in the mail-coach is warm 
 but the horses, who steam pitifully when they stop. 
 The " oldest man " makes a point of neveir having 
 "seen such weather." People have a painful 
 doubt whether they have any chins or not ; ears 
 ache with the wind ; and the waggoner, setting his 
 teeth together, goes puckering up his cheeks, and 
 thinking the time will never arrive when he shall 
 get to the Five Bells. 
 
 At night, people get sleepy with the fireside, 
 and long to go to bed, yet fear it on account of the 
 different temperature of the bed-room ; which is 
 furthermore apt to wake them up. Warming-pans 
 and hot-water bottles are in request ; and naughty 
 boys eschew their night-shirts, and go to bed in 
 their socks. 
 
 *' Yes," quoth a little boy, to whom we read this 
 passage, ' ' and make their younger brother go to 
 bed first." 
 
 • Keats, in the " Eve of St. Agnes." Mr. Keats gave us 
 some touches in our account of the " Hot Day " (first pub- 
 lished in the " Indicator ") as we sat writing it in his com- 
 pany, alas ! how many years back. We have here made 
 him contribute to our "Cold Day." Thus it is to have 
 immortal friends whose company never forsakes us. 
 
4» LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS.' 
 
 ["Indicator," Jan. 19th, 1820. "Indicator and Com- 
 panion," 1834. "Tale for a Chimney Corner," 1869. A. 
 Symons, 1888.] 
 
 [N Italian author — Giulio Cordara, a 
 Jesuit — has written a poem upon in- 
 sects, which he begins by insisting, that 
 those troublesome and abominable little 
 animals were created for our annoyance, and that 
 they were certainly not inhabitants of Paradise. 
 We of the north may dispute this piece of theology ; 
 but on the other hand, it is as clear as the snow on 
 the house-tops, that Adam was not under the 
 necessity of shaving ; and that when Eve walked 
 out of her delicious bower, she did not step upon 
 
 icejhree inches thick. 
 
 Some people say it is a very easy thing to get up 
 of a cold morning. You have only, they tell you, 
 to take the resolution; and the thing is done. 
 This may be very true ; just as a boy at school has 
 only to take a flogging, and the thing is over. But 
 we have not at all made up our minds upon it ; 
 and we find it a very pleasant exercise to discuss 
 the matter, candidly, before we get up. This at 
 least is not idling, though it may be lying. It 
 affords an excellent answer to those, who ask how 
 lying in bed can be indulged in by a reasoning 
 being,— a rational creature. How ? WTiy with 
 
 1 The other side of the argument is g^ven in the "Seer," 
 No. VIII., under the title, " A word on early rising."— Ed. 
 
GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS. 43 
 
 the argument calmly at work in one's head, and 
 the clothes over one's shoulder. Oh — it is a fine 
 way of spending a sensible, impartial half-hour. 
 
 If these people would be more charitable, they 
 would get on with their argument better. But 
 they are apt to reason so ill, and to assert so dog- 
 matically, that one could wish to have them stand 
 round one's bed of a bitter morning, and lie before 
 their faces. They ought to hear both sides of the 
 bed, the inside and out. If they cannot entertain 
 themselves with their own thoughts for half an 
 hour or so, it is not the fault of those who can. If 
 their will is never pulled aside by the enticing 
 arms of imagination, so much the luckier for the 
 stage-coachman. 
 
 Candid inquiries into one's decumbency, besides 
 the greater or less privileges to be allowed a man 
 in proportion to his ability of keeping early hours, 
 the work given his faculties, &c. , will at least con- 
 cede their due merits tpsucb-repres^ptations as the 
 f ollo wing. In the first place, says the injured but 
 calm appealer, I have been warm all night, and find 
 my system in a state perfectly sviitable to a warm- 
 blooded animal. To get out of this state into the 
 cold, besides the inharmonious and uncritical 
 abruptness of the transition, is so unnatural to 
 such a creature, that the poets, refining upon the 
 tortures of the damned, make one of their greatest 
 agonies consist in being suddenly transported from 
 heat to cold, — from fire to ice. They are "haled" 
 out of their "beds," says Milton, by "harpy- 
 footed furies," — fellows who come to call them. 
 On my first movement towards the anticipation of 
 
44 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 getting up, I find that such parts of the sheets and 
 bolster, as are exposed to the air of the room, are 
 stone-cold. On opening my eyes, the first thing 
 that meets them is my own breath rolling forth, as 
 if in the open air, like smoke out of a^jsesttftge 
 chimney. Think of this symptom. Then I turn 
 my eyes sideways and see the window all frozen 
 over. Think of that. Then the servant comes in. 
 ** It is very cold this morning, is it not?" — "Very 
 cold, Sir."— "Very cold indeed, isn't it?"— 
 "Very cold indeed. Sir." — "More than usually 
 so, isn't it, even for this weather?" (Here the 
 servant's wit and good-nature are put to a con* 
 siderable test, and the inquirer lies on thorns for 
 the answer.) "Why, Sir . ... I think it ?5." 
 (Good creature ! There is not a better, or more 
 truth-telling servant going.) "I must rise, how- 
 ever — get me some warm water." — Here comes a 
 fine interval between the departure of the servant 
 and the arrival of the hot water ; during which, of 
 course, it is of " no use" to get up. The hot water 
 comes. " Is it quite hot?" — "Yes, Sir." — " Per- 
 haps too hot for shaving: I must wait a little?" — 
 "No, Sir; it will just do." (There is an over- 
 nice propriety sometimes, an officious zeal of 
 virtue, a little troublesome ) *'0h — the shirt — 
 you must air my clean shirt ; — linen gets very 
 damp this weather." — " Yes, Sir." Here another 
 delicious five minutes. A knock at the door. 
 **Oh, the shirt — very well. My stockings — I 
 think the stockings had better be aired too." — 
 "Very well, Sir." — Here another interval. At 
 length everything is ready, except myself. I now, 
 
 ra 
 
GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS. 45 
 
 continues our incumbent (a happy word, by the 
 bye, for a country vicar) — I now cannot help 
 thinking a good deal — who can ? — upon the un- 
 necessary and villainous custom of shaving : it is a 
 thing so unmanly (here I nestle closer) — so effemi- 
 nate (here I recoil from an unlucky step into the 
 colder part of the bed,) — No wonder that the 
 Queen of France took part with the rebels against 
 that degenerate King, her husband, who first 
 affronted her smooth visage with a face like her 
 ownJi The Emperbf Julian lieyei* showed the 
 Ittxufiancy of his genius to better jidvantage than in 
 reviving the flowing beard. ''vLook at Cardinal 
 Bembo's picture — at Michael Angelo's — a t ' Titian ^y 
 — at Shakespeare's — afr-Ftetefaof's — at Spenser's — 
 at Chaucer's — at Alfred's— at Plato's — I could 
 name a great man for every tick of my watch. — 
 Look at the Turks, a grave and otiose people. — 
 Think of Haroun Al Raschid and Bed-ridden 
 Hassan. — Think of Wortley Montague, the worthy 
 sen of his mother, a man above the prejudice of 
 his time. — Look at the Persian gentlemen, whom 
 one is ashamed of meeting about the suburbs, their 
 dress and appearance are so much finer than our 
 own. — Lastly, think of the razor itself — how 
 totally opposed to every sensation of bed — how 
 cold, how edgy, how hard ! how utterly different 
 from anything like the warm and circling ampli- 
 tude, which 
 
 Sweetly recommends itself 
 Unto our gentle senses. 
 
 Add to this, benumbed fingers, which may help 
 you to cut yourself, a quivering body, a frozen 
 
46 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 towel, and a ewer full of ice ; and he that says 
 there is nothing to oppose in all this, only shows, 
 at any rate, that he has no merit in opposing it. 
 
 Thomson the poet, who exclaims in his 
 Seasons — 
 
 Falsely luxurious ! Will not man awake ? 
 
 used to lie in bed till noon, because he said he had 
 no motive in getting up. He could imagine the 
 good of rising ; but then he could also imagine the 
 good of lying still; and his exclamation, it must 
 be allowed, was made upon summer-time, not 
 winter. We must proportion the argument to the 
 individual character. A money-getter may be 
 drawn out of his bed by three and four pence ; but 
 this will not suffice for a student. A proud man 
 may say, "What shall I think of myself, if I don't 
 get up?" but the more humble one will be content 
 to waive this prodigious notion of himself, out of 
 respect to his kindly bed. The mechanical man 
 shall get up without any ado at all ; and so shall 
 the barometer. An ingenious lier in bed will find 
 hard matter of discussion even on the score of 
 health and longevity. He will ask us for our 
 proofs and precedents of the ill effects of lying 
 later in cold weather ; and sophisticate much on 
 the advantages of an even temperature of body ; of 
 the natural propensity (pretty universal) to have 
 one's way ; and of the animals that roll themselves 
 up, and sleep all the winter. As to longevity, "he 
 will ask whether the longest life is of necessity the 
 best ; and whether Holborn is the handsomest 
 street in London. 
 
GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS. 47 
 
 We only know of one confounding, not to say 
 confounded argument, fit to overturn the huge 
 luxury, the " enormous bliss " — of the vice in ques- 
 tion. A Her in bed may be allovi^ed to profess a 
 disinterested indifference for his health or longevity ; 
 but while he is showing the reasonableness of con- 
 sulting his own or one person's comfort, he must 
 admit the proportionate claim of more than one ; 
 and the best way to deal with him is this, especially 
 for a lady ; for we earnestly recommend the use of 
 that sex on such occasions, if not somewhat over- 
 persuasive ; since extremes have an awkward knack 
 of meeting. First then, admit all the ingeniousness 
 of what he says, telling him that the bar has been 
 deprived of an excellent lawyer. Then look at him 
 in the most good-natured manner in the world, 
 with a mixture of assent and appeal in your coun- 
 tenance, and tell him that you are waiting break- 
 fast for him ; that you never like to breakfast with- 
 out him ; Ihat you really want it too ; that the 
 servants want theirs ; that you shall not know how 
 to get the house into order, unless he rises ; and 
 that you are sure he would do things twenty times 
 worse, even than getting out of his warm bed, to 
 put them all into good humour and a state of com- 
 fort. Then, after having said this, throw in the 
 comparatively indifferent matter, to him, about his 
 health ; but tell him that it is no indifferent matter 
 to you ; that the sight of his illness makes more 
 people suffer than one ; but that if, nevertheless, he 
 really does feel so very sleepy and so very much re- 
 freshed by Yet stay ; we hardly know whether 
 
 the frailty of a Yes, yes j say that too, especi- 
 
48 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 ally if you say it with sincerity ; for if the weakness 
 of human nature on the one hand and^the vis 
 inerticB on the other, should lead him to take ad- 
 vantage of it once or twice, good-humour and sin- 
 cerity form an irresistible junction at last ; and are 
 still better and warmer things than pillows and 
 blankets. 
 
 Other little helps of appeal may be thrown in, 
 as occasion requires. You may tell a lover, for 
 instance, that lying in bed makes people corpulent ; 
 a father, that you wish him to complete the fine 
 manly example he sets his children ; a lady, that 
 she will injure her bloom or her shape, which M. 
 or W. admires so much ; and a student or artist, 
 that he is always so glad to have done a good day's 
 work, in his best manner. 
 
 Reader. And pray, Mr. Indicator, how do you 
 behave yourself in this respect ? 
 
 Indie. Oh, Madam, perfectly, of course ; like 
 all advisers. 
 
 Reader. Nay, I allow that your mode of argu- 
 ment does not look quite so suspicious as the old 
 way of sermonizing and severity, but I have my 
 doubts, especially from that laugh of yours. If I 
 should look in to-morrow morning — 
 
 Indie. Ah, Madam, the look in of a face like 
 yours does anything with me. It shall fetch me 
 up at nine, if you please — six^ I meant to say. 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Feb. and, 1820. "Tale for a Chimney 
 A. Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 UR Old Gentleman, in order to be ex- 
 clusively himself, must be either a 
 widower or a bachelor. Suppose the 
 former. We do not mention his pre- 
 which would be invidious : — nor whether 
 he wears his own hair or a wig ; which would be 
 wanting in universality. If a wig, it is a compro- 
 mise between the more modern scratch and the de- 
 parted glory of the toupee. If his own hair, it is 
 white, in spite of his favourite grandson, who used 
 to get on the chair behind him, and pull the silver 
 hairs out, ten years ago. If he is bald at top, the 
 hairdresser, hovering and breathing about him 
 like a second youth, takes care to give the bald 
 place as much powder as the covered ; in order 
 that he may convey to the sensorium within a 
 pleasing indistinctness of idea respecting the exact 
 limits of skin and hair. He is very clean and 
 neat ; and, in warm weather, is proud of opening 
 his waistcoat half-way down, and letting so much 
 of his frill be seen, in order to show his hardiness 
 as well as taste. His watch and shirt-buttons are 
 of the best ; and he does not care if he has two 
 rings on a finger. If his watch ever failed him at 
 the club or coffee-house, he would take a walk 
 every day to the nearest clock of good character, 
 purely to keep it right. He has a cane at home, 
 I. £ 
 
50 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 but seldom uses it, on finding it out of fashion with 
 his elderly juniors. He has a small cocked hat for 
 gala days, which he lifts higher from his head than 
 the round one, when made a bow to. In his 
 pockets are two handkerchiefs (one for the neck at 
 night-time), his spectacles, and his pocket-book. 
 The pocket-book, among other things, contains a 
 receipt for a cough, and some verses cut out of an 
 odd sheet of an old magazine, on the lovely Duchess 
 of A., beginning — 
 
 When beauteous Mira walks the plain. 
 He intends this for a common -place bo(^k which 
 he keeps, consisting of passages in verse and prose, 
 cut out of newspapers and magazines, and pasted 
 in columns ; some of them rather gay. His prin- 
 cipal other books '^ are Shakespeare's Plays and 
 Milton's Paradise Lost ; the Spectator, the His- 
 tory of England, the Works of Lady M. W. 
 Montague, Pope and Churchill ; Middleton's Geo- 
 graphy ; the Gentleman's Magazine ; Sir John 
 Sinclair on Longevity ; several plays with portraits 
 in character ; Account of Elizabeth Canning, 
 Memoirs of George Ann Bellamy, Poetical Amuse- 
 ments at Bath-Easton, Blair's Works, Elegant 
 Extracts ; Junius as originally published ; a few 
 pamphlets on the American War and Lord 
 George Gordon, &c., and one on the French Revo- 
 lution. In his sitting-rooms are some engravings 
 from Hogarth and Sir Joshua ; an engraved por- 
 
 1 This is only one of the numerous proofs — in his books 
 and letters — of the width of Leigh Hunt's own acquaintance 
 with literature, which would suggest to him at once books 
 suitable for any taste or subject. — Ed. 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 51 
 
 trait of the Marquis of Granby ; ditto of M. le 
 Comte de Grasse surrendering to Admiral Rodney ; 
 . humorous piece after Penny ; and a portrait of 
 uTiself, painted by Sir Joshua. His wife's por- 
 trait is in his chamber, looking upon his bed. She 
 is a little girl, stepping forward with a smile, and 
 a pointed toe, as if going to dance. He lost her 
 when she was sixty. 
 
 The Old Gentleman is an early riser, because 
 he intends to live at least twenty years longer. 
 He continues to take tea for breakfast, in spite of 
 what is said against its nervous effects ; having 
 been satisfied on that point some years ago by Dr. 
 Johnson's criticism on Hanway, and a great liking 
 for tea previously. His china cups and saucers 
 have been broken since his wife's death, all but 
 one, which is religiously kept for his use. He 
 passes his morning in walking or riding, looking in 
 at auctions, looking after his India bonds or some 
 such money securities, furthering some subscrip- 
 tion set on foot by his excellent friend Sir John, or 
 cheapening a new old print for his portfolio. He 
 also hears of the newspapers ; not caring to see 
 them till after dinner at the coffee-house. He 
 may also cheapen a fish or so ; the fishmonger 
 soliciting his doubting eye as he passes, with a pro- 
 found bow of recognition. He eats a pear before 
 dinner. 
 
 His dinner at the coffee-house is served up to 
 him at the accustomed hour, in the old accustomed 
 way, and by the accustomed waiter. If William 
 did not bring it, the fish would be sure to be stale, 
 and the flesh new. He eats no tart; or if he ven- 
 
S2 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 tures on a little, takes cheese with it. You might 
 as soon attempt to persuade him out of his senses, 
 as that cheese is not good for digestion. He takes 
 port ; and if he has drunk more than usual, and in 
 a more private place, may be induced by some re- 
 spectful inquiries respecting the old style of music, 
 to sing a song composed by Mr. Oswald or Mr. 
 Lampe, such as — 
 
 Chloe, by that borrowed kiss, 
 or 
 
 Come, gentle god of soft repose, 
 
 or his wife's favourite ballad, beginning — 
 
 At Upton on the hill, 
 There lived a happy pair. 
 
 Of course, no such exploit can take place in the 
 coffee-room : but he will canvass the theory of that 
 matter there with you, or discuss the weather, or 
 the markets, or the theatres, or the merits of "my 
 lord North "or ** my lord Rockingham;" for he 
 rarely says simply, lord; it is generally "my 
 lord," trippingly and genteelly off the tongue. If 
 alone after dinner, his great delight is the news- 
 paper ; which he prepares to read by wiping his 
 spectacles, carefully adjusting them on his eyes, 
 and drawing the candle close to him, so as to stand 
 sideways betwixt his ocular aim and the small 
 type. He then holds the paper at arm's length, 
 and dropping his eyehds half down and his mouth 
 half open, takes cognizance of the day's informa- 
 tion. If he leaves off, it is only when the door is 
 opened by a new-comer, or when he suspects 
 somebody is over-anxious to get the paper out of 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 53 
 
 hand. On these occasions he gives an impor- 
 t hem ! or so ; and resumes. 
 
 In the evening, our Old Gentleman is fond 
 of going to the theatre, or of having a game of 
 cards. If he enjoys the latter at his own house or 
 lodgings, he likes to play with some friends whom 
 he has known for many years; but an elderly 
 stranger may be introduced, if quiet and scientific ; 
 and the privilege is extended to younger men of 
 letters ; who, if ill players, are good losers. Not 
 that he is a miser, but to win money at cards is 
 like proving his victory by getting the baggage ; 
 and to win of a younger man is a substitute for his 
 not being able to beat him at rackets. He breaks 
 up early, whether at home or abroad. 
 
 At the theatre, he likes a front row in the pit. 
 He comes early, if he can do so without getting 
 into a squeeze, and sits patiently waiting for the 
 drawing up of the curtain, with his hands placidly 
 lying one over the other on the top of his stick. 
 He generously admires some of the best per- 
 formers, but thinks them far inferior to Garrick, 
 Woodward, and Clive. During splendid scenes, 
 he is anxious that the little boy should see. 
 
 He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall 
 again, but likes it still less than he did years back, 
 and cannot bear it in comparison with Ranelagh. 
 He thinks everything looks poor, flaring, and 
 jaded. '* Ah !" says he, with a sort of triumphant 
 sigh, ** Ranelagh was a noble place ! Such taste, 
 such elegance, such beauty ! There was the Duchess 
 of A. , the finest woman in England, Sir ; and Mrs. 
 L., a mighty fine creature; and Lady Susan what's 
 
54 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 her name, that had that unfortunate affair with Sir 
 Charles. Sir, they came swimming by you like the 
 swans." 
 
 The Old Gentleman is very particular in having 
 his slippers ready for him at the fire, when he 
 comes home. He is also extremely choice in his 
 snuff, and delights to get a fresh boxfull in 
 Tavistock-street, in his way to the theatre. His 
 box is a curiosity from India. He calls favourite 
 young ladies by their Christian names, however 
 slightly acquainted with them ; and has a privilege 
 also of saluting all brides, mothers, and indeed 
 every species of lady, on the least holiday occasion. 
 If the husband for instance has met with a piece 
 of luck, he instantly moves forward, and gravely 
 kisses the wife on the cheek. The wife then says, 
 " My niece. Sir, from the country;" and he kisses 
 the niece. The niece, seeing her cousin biting her 
 lips at the joke, says, " My cousin Harriet, Sir ; " 
 and he kisses the cousin. He "never recollects 
 such weather," except during the "Great Frost," 
 or when he rode down with "Jack Skrimshire to 
 Newmarket." He grows young again in his little 
 grandchildren, especially the one which he thinks 
 most like himself; which is the handsomest. Yet 
 he likes best perhaps the one most resembling his 
 wife ; and will sit with him on his lap, holding his 
 hand in silence, for a quarter of an hour together. 
 He plays most tricks with the former, and makes 
 him sneeze. He asks little boys in general who 
 was the father of Zebedee's children. If his grand- 
 sons are at school, he often goes to see them ; and 
 makes them blush by telling the master or the 
 
•r THE OLD LADY. 55 
 
 upper-scholars, that they are fine boys, and of a 
 precocious genius. He is much struck when an 
 old acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived too 
 fast ; and that poor Bob was a sad dog in his 
 youth; "a very sad dog, Sir; mightily set upon a 
 short life and a merry one. " 
 
 When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for 
 whole evenings, and say little or nothing ; but in- 
 forms you, that there is Mrs. Jones (the house- 
 keeper)— "^-^^'11 talk." 
 
 THE OLD LADY. 
 
 ["The Round Table," No. 45, in the "Examiner," Sept. 
 29th, 1816. " Indicator," Nov. 29th, 1820. " Indicator 
 and Companion," 1834. A. Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 [F the Old Lady is a widow and lives 
 alone, the manners of her condition and 
 time of life are so much the more appa- 
 rent. She generally dresses in plain 
 silks, that make a gentle rustling as she moves 
 about the silence of her room ; and she wears a 
 nice cap with a lace border, that comes under the 
 chin. Ih a placket at her side is an old enamelled 
 watch, unless it is locked up in a drawer of her 
 toilet, for fear of accidents. Her waist is rather 
 tight and trim than otherwise, as she had a fine 
 one when young ; and she is not sorry if you see a 
 pair of her stockings on a table, that you may be 
 aware of the neatness of her leg and foot. Con- 
 tented with these and other evident indications of 
 a good shape, and letting her young friends under- 
 stand that she can afford to obscure it a little, she 
 
S6 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 wears pockets, and uses them well too. In the 
 one is her handkerchief, and any heavier matter 
 that is not likely to come out with it, such as the 
 change of a sixpence ; in the other is a miscella- 
 neous assortment, consisting of a pocket-book, a 
 bunch of keys, a needle-case, a spectacle-case, 
 crumbs of biscuit, a nutmeg and grater, a smelling- 
 bottle, and, according to the season, an orange or 
 apple, which after many days she draws out, warm 
 and glossy, to give to some little child that has 
 well behaved itself. She generally occupies two 
 rooms, in the neatest condition possible. In the 
 chamber is a bed with a white coverlet, built up 
 high and round, to look well, and with curtains of 
 a pastoral pattern, consisting alternately of large 
 plants, and shepherds and shepherdesses. On the 
 mantelpiece are more shepherds and shepherdesses, 
 vi'ith dot -eyed sheep at their feet, all in coloured 
 ware: the man, perhaps, in a pink jacket and knots 
 of ribbons at his knees and shoes, holding his crook 
 lightly in one hand, and with the other at his 
 breast, turning his toes out and looking tenderly 
 at the shepherdess : the woman Rolding a crook 
 also, and modestly returning his look, with a gipsy- 
 hat jerked up behind, a very slender waist, with 
 petticoat and hips to cotmteraci, and the petticoat 
 pulled up through the pocket-holes, in order to 
 show the trimness of her ankles. Bat these pat- 
 terns, of course, are various. The toilet is ancient, 
 carved at the edges, and tied about with a snow- 
 white drapery of muslin. Beside it are various 
 boxes, mostly japan ; and the set of drawers are 
 exquisite things for a little girl to rummage, if ever 
 
THE OLD LADY. 57 
 
 little girl be so bold, — containing ribbons and laces 
 of various kinds ; linen smelling of lavender, of the 
 flowers of which there is always dust in the corners ; 
 a heap of pocket-books for a series of years ; and 
 pieces of dress long gone by, such as head-fronts, 
 stomachers, and flowered satin shoes, with enor- 
 mous heels. The stock of letters are under especial 
 lock and key. So much for the bed-room. In the 
 sitting-room is rather a spare assortment of shining 
 old mahogany furniture, or carved arm-chairs 
 equally old, with chintz draperies down to the 
 ground ; a folding or other screen, with Chinese 
 figures, their round, little-eyed, meek faces perking 
 sideways ; a stuffed bird, perhaps in a glass case (a 
 living one is too much for her) ; a portrait of her 
 husband over the mantelpiece, in a coat with frog- 
 buttons, and a delicate frilled hand lightly inserted 
 in the waistcoat ; and opposite him on the wall, is 
 a piece of embroidered literature, framed and 
 glazed, containing some moral distich or maxim, 
 worked in angular capital letters, with two trees 
 or parrots below, in their proper colours ; the 
 whole concluding with an A B C and numerals, 
 and the name of the fair industrious, expressing it 
 to be " her work, Jan. 14, 1762." The rest of the 
 furniture consists of a looking-glass with carved 
 edges, perhaps a settee, a hassock for the feet, a 
 mat for the little dog, and a small set of shelves, 
 in which are the "Spectator" and "Guardian," 
 the "Turkish Spy," a Bible and Prayer Book, 
 Young's "Night Thoughts" with a piece of lace 
 in it to flatten, Mrs. Rowe's " Devout Exercises of 
 the Heart," Mrs. Glasse's "Cookery," and per- 
 
58 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 haps "Sir Charles Grandison," and "Clarissa." 
 "John Buncle" is in the closet among the. pickles 
 and preserves. The clock is on the landing-place 
 between the two room doors, where it ticks audibly 
 but quietly ; and the landing-place, as well as the 
 stairs, is carpeted to a nicety. The house is most 
 in character, and properly coeval, if it is in a re- 
 tired suburb, and strongly built, with wainscot 
 rather than paper inside, and lockers in the windows^. 
 Before the windows should be some quivering 
 poplars. Here the Old Lady receives a few quiet 
 visitors to tea, and perhaps an early game at cards : 
 or you may see her going out on the same kind of 
 visit herself, with a light umbrella running up into 
 a stick and crooked ivory handle, and her little 
 dog, equally famous for his love to her and captious 
 antipathy to strangers. Her grandchildren dis- 
 like him on holidays, and the boldest sometimes 
 ventures to give him a sly kick under the table. 
 When she returns at night, she appears, if the 
 weather happens to be doubtful, in a calash ; and 
 her servant in pattens, follows half behind and half 
 at her side, with a lantern. 
 
 Her opinions are not many nor new. She 
 thinks the clergyman a nice man. The Duke of 
 Wellington, in her opinion, is a very great man ; 
 but she has a secret preference for the Marquis of 
 Granby. She thinks the young women of the 
 present day too forward, and the men not respect- 
 ful enough ; but hopes her grandchildren will be 
 better ; though she differs with her daughter in 
 several points respecting their management. She 
 sets little value on the new accomplishments ; is a 
 
THE OLD LADY. 59 
 
 great though delicate connoisseur in butcher's 
 meat and all sorts of housewifery ; and if you men- 
 tion waltzes, expatiates on the grace and fine 
 breeding of the minuet. She longs to have seen 
 one danced by Sir Charles Grandison, whom she 
 almost considers as a real person. She likes a 
 walk of a summer's evening, but avoids the new 
 streets, canals, &c., and sometimes goes through 
 the churchyard, where her other children and her 
 husband lie buried, serious, but not melancholy. 
 She has had three great epochs in her life : — her 
 marriage — her having been at court, to see the King 
 and Queen and Royal Family — and a compliment 
 on her figure she once received, in passing, from 
 Mr. Wilkes, whom she describes as a sad, loose 
 man, but engaging. His plainness she thinks 
 much exaggerated. If anything takes her at a 
 distance from home, it is still the court ; but she 
 seldom stirs, even for that. The last time but one 
 that she went, was to see the Duke of Wirtemberg ; 
 and most probably for the last time of all, to see 
 the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold. From 
 this beatific vision she returned with the same ad- 
 miration as ever for the fine comely appearance of 
 the Duke of York and the rest of the family, and 
 great delight at having had a near view of the 
 Princess, whom she speaks of with smiling pomp 
 and lifted mittens, clasping them as passionately as 
 she can together, and calling her, in a transport of 
 mixed loyalty and self-love, a fine royal young 
 creature, and " Daughter of England." ^ 
 
 I This and "The Old Gentleman" were favourite papers 
 of Lord Holland's. See " Autobiography," p, 250. 
 
6o LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 THE MAID-SERVANT.^ 
 
 , ["The Round Table," No. 46, in the "Examiner," Oct. 
 20th, 1816. " Indicator," Nov. 22nd, 1820. " Indicator 
 and Companion," 1834.] 
 
 JUST be considered as young, or else she 
 has married the butcher, the butler, or 
 her cousin, or has otherwise settled into 
 a character distinct from her original 
 one, so as to become what is properly called the 
 domestic. The Maid-servant, in her apparel, is 
 either slovenly and fine by turns, and dirty always ; 
 or she is at all times snug and neat, and dressed 
 according to her station. In the latter case, her 
 ordinary dress is black stockings, a stuff gown, a 
 cap, and a neck -handkerchief pinned cornerwise 
 behind. If you want a pin, she just feels about 
 her, and has always one to give you. On Sundays 
 and holidays, and perhaps of afternoons, she 
 changes her black stockings for white, puts on a 
 gown of a better texture and fine pattern, sets her 
 cap and her curls jauntily, and lays aside the neck- 
 handkerchief for a high-body, which, by the way, 
 is not half so pretty. There is something very 
 warm and latent in the handkerchief — something 
 easy, vital, and genial. A woman in a high-bodied 
 gown, made to fit her like a case, is by no means 
 more modest, and is much less tempting. She looks 
 
 In some respects, particularly of costume, this portrait 
 must be understood of originals existing twenty or thirty 
 years ago. 
 
THE MAID-SERVANT. 6» 
 
 like a figure at the head of a ship. We could al- 
 most see her chucked out of doors into a cart, with 
 as little remorse as a couple of sugar-loaves. The 
 tucker is much better, as well as the handkerchief, 
 and is to the other what the young lady is to the 
 servant. The one always reminds us of the Sparkler 
 in Sir Richard Steele; the other of Fanny in 
 "Joseph Andrews." 
 
 But to return. The general furniture of her ordi- 
 nary room, the kitchen, is not so much her own as 
 her Master's and Mistress's, and need not be de- 
 scribed : but in a drawer of the dresser or the table, in 
 company with a duster and a pair of snuffers, may be 
 found some of her property, such as a brass thimble, 
 a pair of scissors, a thread-case, a piece of wax 
 much wrinkled with the thread, an odd volume of 
 "Pamela," and perhaps a sixpenny play, such as 
 *'George Barnwell," or Mrs. Behn's "Oroonoko." 
 There is a piece of looking-glass in the window. 
 The rest of her furniture is in the garret, where 
 you may find a good looking-glass on the table ; 
 and in tfie window a Bible, a comb, and a piece of 
 soap. Here stands also, under stout lock and key, 
 the mighty mystery, — the box, — containing, among 
 other things, her clothes, two or three song-books, 
 consisting of nineteen for the penny ; sundry Trage- 
 dies at a halfpenny the sheet ; the " Whole Nature 
 of Dreams Laid Open," together with the "For- 
 tune-teller " and the " Account of the Ghost of 
 Mrs. Veal;" the "Story of the Beautiful Zoa" 
 "who was cast away on a desart island, showing 
 how," &c. ; some half-crowns in a purse, including 
 pieces of country-money, with the good Countess of 
 
62 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Coventry on one of them, riding naked on the 
 horse ; a silver penny wrapped up in cotton by 
 itself; a crooked sixpence, given her before she 
 came to town, and the giver of which has either 
 forgotten or been forgotten by her, she is not sure 
 which ; — two little enamel boxes, with looking- 
 glass in the lids, one of them a fairing, the other 
 **a Trifle from Margate ; " and lastly, various 
 letters, square and ragged, and directed in all sorts 
 of spellings, chiefly with little letters for capitals. 
 One of them, written by a girl who went to a day- 
 school, is directed *' Miss." 
 
 In her manners, the Maid-servant sometimes 
 imitates her young mistress ; she puts her hair in 
 papers, cultivates a shape, and occasionally con- 
 trives to be out of spirits. But her own character 
 and condition overcome all sophistications of this 
 sort ; her shape, fortified by the mop and scrubbing- 
 brush, will make its way ; and exercise keeps her 
 healthy and cheerful. From the same cause her 
 temper is good ; though she gets into little heats 
 when a stranger is over-saucy, or when she is told 
 not to go so heavily down stairs, or v/hen some un- 
 thinking person goes up her wet stairs with dirty 
 shoes, — or when she is called away often from 
 dinner ; neither does she much like to be seen 
 scrubbing the street-door steps of a morning ; and 
 sometimes she catches herself saying, " Drat that 
 butcher," but immediately adds, *' God forgive 
 me." The tradesmen indeed, with their compli- 
 ments and arch looks, seldom give her cause to 
 complain. The milkman bespeaks her good- 
 humour for the day with " Come, pretty maids : " 
 
THE MAID-SERVANT. 63 
 
 — then follow the butcher, the baker, the oilman, 
 &c. , all with their several smirks and little loiter- 
 ings ; and when she goes to the shops herself, it is 
 for her the grocer pulls down his string from its 
 roller with more than the ordinary whirl, and 
 tosses his parcel into a tie. 
 
 Thus pass the mornings between working, and 
 singing, and giggling, and grumbling, and being 
 flattered. If she takes any pleasure unconnected 
 with her office before the afternoon, it is when she 
 runs up the area-steps or to the door to hear and 
 purchase a new song, or to see a troop of soldiers 
 go by ; or when she happens to thrust her head 
 out of a chamber window at the same time with a 
 servant at the next house, when a dialogue infallibly 
 ensues, stimulated by the imaginary obstacles be- 
 tween. If the Maid-servant is wise, the best part 
 of her work is done by dinner-time ; and nothing 
 else is necessary to give perfect zest to the meal. 
 She tells us what she thinks of it, when she calls it 
 *' a bit o' dinner." There is the same sort of elo- 
 quence in her other phrase, " a cup o' tea ; " but the 
 old ones, and the washerwomen, beat her at that. 
 After tea in great houses, she goes with the other 
 servants to hot cockles, or What-are-my-thoughts- 
 like, and tells Mr. John to "have done then;" 
 or if there is a ball given that night, they throw 
 open the doors, and make use of the music up 
 stairs to dance by. In smaller houses, she receives 
 the visits of her aforesaid cousin ; and sits down 
 alone, or with a fellow maid-servant, to v/ork ; 
 talks of her young master or mistress and Mr. 
 Ivins (Evans) ; or else she calls to mind her own 
 
64 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 friends in the country ; where she thinks the cows 
 and *' all that " beautiful, now she is away. Mean- 
 while, if she is lazy, she snuffs the candle with her 
 scissors ; or if she has eaten more heartily than 
 usual, she sighs double the usual number of times, 
 and thinks that tender hearts were born to be un- 
 happy. 
 
 Such being the Maid-servant's life in-doors, she 
 scorns, when abroad, to be anything but a creature 
 of sheer enjoyment. The Maid-servant, the sailor, 
 and the school-boy, are the three beings that enjoy 
 a holiday beyond all the rest of the world ; — and 
 all for the same reason, — because their inexperience, 
 peculiarity of life, and habit of being with persons 
 of circumstances or thoughts above them, give 
 them all, in their way, a cast of the romantic. 
 The most active of the money-getters is a vegetable 
 compared with them. The Maid-servant when 
 she first goes to Vauxhall, thinks she is in heaven. 
 A theatre is all pleasure to her, whatever is going 
 forward, whether the play or the music, or the 
 waiting which makes others impatient, or the 
 munching of apples and gingerbread, which she 
 and her party commence almost as soon as they 
 have seated themselves. She prefers tragedy to 
 comedy, because it is grander, and less like what 
 she meets with in general ; and because she thinks 
 it more in earnest also, especially in the love-scenes. 
 Her favourite play is "Alexander the Great, or the 
 Rival Queens." Another great delight is in going a 
 shopping. She loves to look at the pictures in the 
 windows, and the fine things labelled with those 
 corpulent numerals of " only 7^." — '* only ds, 6d." 
 
THE WAITER. 65 
 
 She has also, unless born and bred in London, 
 been to see my Lord Mayor, the fine people coming 
 out of Court, and the "beasties" in the Tower ; 
 and at all events she has been to Astley's and the 
 Circus, from which she comes away, equally smit- 
 ten with the rider, and sore with laughing at the 
 clown. But it is difficult to say what pleasure she 
 enjoys most. One of the completest of all is the 
 fair, where she walks through an endless round of 
 noise, and toys, and gallant apprentices, and 
 wonders. Here she is invited in by courteous and 
 well-dressed people, as if she were a mistress. 
 Here also is the conjuror's booth, where the ope- 
 rator himself, a most stately and genteel person 
 all in white, calls her Ma'am ; and says to John by 
 her side, in spite of his laced hat, * ' Be good 
 enough, sir, to hand the card to the lady. " 
 
 Ah ! may her " cousin " turn out as true as he 
 says he is ; or may she get home soon enough 
 and smiling enough to be as happy again next 
 time. 
 
 THE WAITER 
 
 ["London Journal," June 13th, 1835. "Seer," 1840. 
 A. Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 'OING into the City the other day upon 
 business, we took a chop at a tavern, 
 and renewed our acquaintance, after 
 years of interruption, with that swift 
 and untiring personage, yclept a waiter. We men- 
 tion this long interval of acquaintance, in order to 
 L F 
 
66 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 account for any deficiencies that may be found in 
 our description of him. Our readers perhaps will 
 favour us with a better. He is a character before 
 the public : thousands are acquainted with him, 
 and can fill up the outline. But we felt irresistibly 
 impelled to sketch him ; like a portrait-painter 
 who comes suddenly upon an old friend, or upon 
 an old servant of the family. 
 
 We speak of the waiter properly and generally 
 so called, — the representative of the whole, real, 
 official race, — and not of the humourist or other 
 eccentric genius occasionally to be found in it, — 
 moving out of the orbit of tranquil but fiery wait- 
 ing, — not absorbed, — not devout towards us, — not 
 silent or monosyllabical ; — fellows that afiect a 
 character beyond that of waiter, and get spoiled in 
 club-rooms, and places of theatrical resort. 
 
 Your thorough waiter has no ideas out of the 
 sphere of his duty and the business ; and yet he is 
 not narrow-minded either. He sees too much 
 variety of character for that, and has to exercise too 
 much consideration for the ' * drunken gentleman. " 
 But his world is the tavern, and all mankind but 
 its visitors. His female sex are the maid-servants 
 and his young mistress, or the widow. If he is 
 ambitious, he aspires to marry one of the latter : if 
 otherwise, and Molly is prudent, he does not know 
 but he may carry her off some day to be mistress 
 of the Golden Lion at Chinksford, where he will 
 "show off" in the eyes of Betty Laxon who 
 refused him. He has no feeling of noise itself but 
 as the sound of dining, or of silence but as a thing 
 before dinner. Even a loaf with him is hardly a 
 
THE WAITER. 67 
 
 loaf; it is so many "breads." His longest speech 
 is the making out of a bill viva voce — " Two beefs 
 — one potatoes— three ales — two wines — six and 
 twopence " — which he does with an indifferent 
 celerity, amusing to new-comers who have been re- 
 lishing their fare, and not considering it as a mere 
 set of items. He attributes all virtues to every- 
 body, provided they are civil and liberal ; and of 
 the existence of some vices he has no notion. 
 Gluttony, for instance, with him, is not only in- 
 conceivable, but looks very like a virtue. He sees 
 in it only so many more "beefs," and a generous 
 scorn of the bill. As to wine, or almost any other 
 liquor, it is out of your power to astonish him with 
 the quantity you call for. His " Yes, Sir " is as 
 swift, indifferent, and official, at the fifth bottle as 
 at the first. Reform and other public events he 
 looks upon purely as things in the newspaper, and 
 the newspaper as a thing taken in at taverns, for 
 gentlemen to read. His own reading is confined 
 to "Accidents and Offences," and the advertise- 
 ments for Butlers, which latter he peruses with an 
 admiring fear, not choosing to give up " a cer- 
 tainty. " When young, he was always in a hurry, 
 and exasperated his mistress by running against 
 the other waiters, and breaking the "neguses." 
 As he gets older, he learns to unite swiftness with 
 caution ; declines wasting his breath in immediate 
 answers to calls ; and knows, with a slight turn of 
 his face, and elevation of his voice, into what pre- 
 cise corner of the room to pitch his "Coming, 
 Sir." If you told him that, in Shakespeare's time, 
 waiters said " Anon, anon, Sir," he would be 
 
 # 
 
68 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 astonished at the repetition of the same word in 
 one answer, and at the use of three words instead 
 of two ; and he would justly infer, that London 
 could not have been so large, nor the chop-houses 
 so busy, in those days. He would drop one of the 
 two syllables of his " Yes, Sir," if he could ; but 
 business and civility will not allow it ; and there- 
 fore he does what he can by running them together 
 in the swift sufficiency of his " Yezzir." 
 " Thomas ! " 
 "Yezzir." 
 
 •* Is my steak coming ? " 
 '• Yezzir." 
 
 ** And the pint of port ? " 
 *'Yezzir." 
 
 " You'll not forget the postman ? " 
 "Yezzir." 
 For in the habit of his acquiescence Thomas not 
 seldom says "Yes, Sir," for "No, Sir," the habit 
 itself rendering him intelligible. 
 
 His morning dress is a waistcoat or jacket ; his 
 coat is for afternoons. If the establishment is 
 flourishing, he likes to get into black as he grows 
 elderly ; by which time also he is generally a little 
 corpulent, and wears hair-powder, dressing some- 
 what laxly about the waist, for convenience of 
 movement. Not however that he draws much 
 upon that part of his body, except as a poise to 
 what he carries; for you may observe that a 
 waiter, in walking, uses only his lowest limbs, 
 from his knees downwards. The movement of all 
 the rest of him is negative, and modified solely by 
 what he bears in his hands. At this period he has 
 
THE WAITER. 69 
 
 a little money in the funds, and his nieces look up 
 to him. He still carries however a napkin under 
 his arm, as well as a corkscrew in his pocket ; nor, 
 for all his long habit, can he help feeling a satis' 
 faction at the noise he makes in drawing a cork. 
 He thinks that no man can do it better ; and that 
 Mr. Smith, who understands wine, is thinking so 
 too, though he does not take his eyes off the plate. 
 In his right waistcoat pocket is a snuff-box, with 
 which he supplies gentlemen late at night, after the 
 shops are shut up, and when they are in desperate 
 want of another fillip to their sensations, after the 
 devil and toasted cheese. If particularly required, 
 he will laugh at a joke, especially at that time of 
 night, justly thinking that gentlemen towards one 
 in the morning "zcz// be facetious." He is of 
 opinion it is in " human nature " to be a little fresh 
 at that period, and to want to be put into a coach. 
 
 He announces his acquisition of property by a 
 bunch of seals to his watch, and perhaps rings on 
 his fingers ; one of them a mourning ring left him 
 by his late master, the other a present, either from 
 his nieces' father, or from some ultra-goodnatured 
 old gentleman whom he helped into a coach one 
 night, and who had no silver about him. 
 
 To see him dine, somehow, hardly seems 
 natural. And he appears to do it as if he had no 
 right. You catch him at his dinner in a corner, — 
 huddled apart, — "Thomas dining!" instead of 
 helping dinner. One fancies that the stewed and 
 hot meats and the constant smoke ought to be too 
 much for him, and that he should have neither 
 appetite nor time for such a meal. 
 
70 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Once a year (for he has few holidays) a couple 
 of pedestrians meet him on a Sunday in the fields, 
 and cannot conceive for the life of them who it is ; 
 till the startling recollection occurs — " Good God ! 
 It's the waiter at the Grogram ! " 
 
 SEAMEN ON SHORE. 
 
 [" Indicator," March 15th, 1820. " Indicator and Com- 
 panion," 1834. "Tale for a Chimney Corner," 1869. A. 
 Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 ^K'^'^'^^HE sole business of a seaman on shore, 
 who has to go to sea again, is to take 
 
 as much pleasure as he can. The 
 moment he sets his foot on dry ground, 
 he turns his back on all salt beef and other salt- 
 water restrictions. His long absence, and the 
 impossibility of getting land pleasures at sea, put 
 him upon a sort of desperate appetite. He \ands, 
 like a conqueror taking possession. He has been 
 debarred so long, that he is resolved to have that 
 matter out with the inhabitants. They must 
 render an account to him of their treasures, their 
 women, their victualling-stores, their entertain- 
 ments, their everything ; and in return he will 
 behave like a gentleman, and scatter his gold. 
 
 And first of the common sailor. The moment 
 the common sailor lands, he goes to see the watch- 
 maker or the old boy at the " Ship." 
 
 Reader. What, sir ! Before his mistress ? 
 
 Indicator. Excuse me, madam, his mistress, 
 christened Elizabeth Monson, but more familiarly 
 
SEAMEN ON SHORE. 71 
 
 known by the appellation of Bet Monson, has been 
 with him already. You remember the ballad — 
 
 When black-eyed Susan came on board, &c. 
 
 The first object of the seaman on landing is to 
 spend his money, but his first sensation on landing 
 is the strange firmness of the earth, which he goes 
 treading in a sort of heavy light way, half waggoner 
 and half dancing-master, his shoulders rolling, and 
 his feet touching and going ; the same way, in 
 short, in which he keeps himself prepared for all 
 the rolling chances of the vessel, when on deck. 
 There is always to us this appearance of lightness 
 of foot and heavy strength of upper works, in a 
 sailor. And he feels it himself. He lets his jacket 
 fly open, and his shoulders slouch, and his hair 
 grow long, to be gathered into a heavy pigtail ; 
 but when full dressed, he prides himself on a certain 
 gentility of toe, on a white stocking and a natiy 
 shoe, issuing lightly out of the flowing blue trouser. 
 His arms are neutral, hanging and swinging in a 
 curve aloof ; his hands half open, as if they had 
 just been handling ropes, and had no object in life 
 but to handle them again. He is proud of appear- 
 ing in a new hat and slops, with a Belcher hand 
 kerchief flowing loosely round his neck, and the 
 corner of another out of his pocket. Thus equipped, 
 with pinchbeck buckles in his shoes (which he 
 bought for gold), he puts some tobacco in his 
 mouth, not as if he were going to use it directly, 
 but as if he stuffed it in a pouch on one side, as a 
 pelican does fish, to employ it hereafter ; and so, 
 with Bet Monson at his side, and perhaps a cane or 
 
72 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 whanghee twisted under his other arm, sallies forth 
 to take possession of all Lubberland. He buys every- 
 thing that he comes athwart — nuts, gingerbread, 
 apples, shoe-strings, beer, brandy, gin, buckles, 
 knives, a watch (two, if he has money enough), 
 gowns and handkerchiefs for Bet and his mother 
 and sisters, dozens of " Superfine Best Men's 
 Cotton Stockings," dozens of "Superfine Best 
 Women's Cotton Ditto," best good Check for 
 Shirts (though he has too much already), infinite 
 needles and thread (to sew his trousers with some 
 day), a footman's laced hat, bear's grease, to make 
 his hair grow (by way of joke), several sticks, all 
 sorts of Jew articles, a flute (which he can't play, 
 and never intends), a leg of mutton, which he 
 carries somewhere to roast, and for a piece of 
 which the landlord of the " Ship " makes him pay 
 twice what he gave for the whole ; in short, all 
 that money can be spent upon, which is everything 
 but medicine gratis, and this he would insist on 
 paying for. He would buy all the painted parrots 
 on an Italian's head, on purpose to break them, 
 rather than not spend his money. He has fiddles 
 and a dance at the '* Ship," with oceans of flip and 
 grog ; and gives the blind fiddler tobacco for 
 sweetmeats, and half-a-crown for treading on his 
 toe. He asks the landlady, with a sigh, after her 
 daughter Nanse, who first fired his heart with her 
 silk stockings ; and finding that she is married and 
 in trouble, leaves five crowns for her, which the 
 old lady appropriates as part payment for a shilling 
 in advance. He goes to the Port playhouse with 
 Bet Monson, and a great red handkerchief full ot 
 
SEAMEN ON SHORE. 73 
 
 apples, gingerbread nuts, and fresh beef ; calls out 
 for the fiddlers and "Rule Britannia ; " pelts Tom 
 Sikes in the pit ; and compares Othello to the 
 black ship's-cook in his white nightcap. When he 
 comes to London, he and some messmates take a 
 hackney-coach, full of Bet Monsons and tobacco- 
 pipes, and go through the streets smoking and 
 lolling out of window. He has ever been cautious 
 of venturing on horseback, and among his other 
 sights in foreign parts, relates with unfeigned 
 astonishment how he has seen the Turks ride : 
 *' Only," says he, guarding against the hearer's 
 incredulity, "they have saddle-boxes to hold 'em 
 in, fore and aft, and shovels like for stirrups." He 
 will tell you how the Chinese drink, and the Negurs 
 dance, and the monkeys pelt you with cocoa-nuts ; 
 and how King Domy would have built him a mud 
 hut and made him a peer of the realm, if he would 
 have stopped with him, and taught him to make 
 trousers. He has a sister at a " School for Young 
 Ladies," who blushes with a mixture of pleasure 
 and shame at his appearance ; and whose confusion 
 he completes by slipping fourpence into her hand, 
 and saying out loud that he has " no more copper " 
 about him. His mother and elder sisters at home 
 doat on all he says and does ; telling him, however, 
 that he is a great sea fellow, and was always wild 
 ever since he was a hop-o'-my-thumb, no higher 
 than the window locker. He tells his mother that 
 she would be a duchess in Paranaboo ; at which 
 the good old portly dame laughs and looks proud. 
 When his sisters complain of his romping, he says 
 that they are only sorry it is not the baker. He 
 
74 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 frightens them with a mask made after the New 
 Zealand fashion, and is forgiven for his learning. 
 Their mantelpiece is filled by him with shells and 
 shark's teeth ; and when he goes to sea again, 
 there is no end of tears, and " God bless you's ! " 
 and home-made gingerbread. 
 
 His Officer on shore does much of all this, only, 
 generally speaking, in a higher taste. The mo- 
 ment he lands, he buys quantities of jewellery and 
 other valuables, for all the females of his acquain- 
 tance ; and is taken in for every article. He sends 
 in a cartload of fresh meat to the ship, though he 
 is going to town next day; and calling in at a 
 chandler's for some candles, is persuaded to buy a 
 dozen of green wax, with which he lights up the 
 ship at evening ; regretting that the fine moonlight 
 hinders the effect of the colour. A man, with a 
 bundle beneath his arm, accosts him in an under- 
 tone ; and, with a look in which respect for his 
 knowledge is mixed with an avowed zeal for his 
 own interest, asks if his Honour will just step 
 under the gangway here, and inspect some real 
 India shawls. The gallant Lieutenant says to him- 
 self, " This fellow knows what's what, by his face ;" 
 and so he proves it, by being taken in on the spot. 
 When he brings the shawls home, he says to his 
 sister with an air of triumph, " There, Poll, there's 
 something for you ; only cost me twelve, and is 
 worth twenty if it's worth a dollar." She turns 
 pale — "Twenty what, my dear George? Why, 
 you haven't given twelve dollars for it, I hope ? " 
 *• Not I, by the Lord."—" That's lucky ; because 
 you see, my dear George, that all together is not 
 
SEAMEN ON SHORE. 75 
 
 worth more than fourteen or fifteen shillings." 
 ' ' Fourteen or fifteen what ! Why it's real India, 
 en't it ? Why the fellow told me so ; or I'm sure 
 I'd as soon" — (here he tries to hide his blushes 
 with a bluster) — " I'd as soon have given him 
 twelve douses on the chaps as twelve guineas." — 
 *' Twelve guineas ! " exclaims the sister ; and 
 then drawling forth, "Why — my — dear — George," 
 is proceeding to show him what the articles would 
 have cost at Condell's, when he interrupts her by 
 requesting her to go and choose for herself a tea- 
 table service. He then makes his escape to some 
 messmates at a coffee-house, and drowns his re- 
 collection of the shawls in the best wine, and a 
 discussion on the comparative merits of the English 
 and West-Indian beauties and tables. At the 
 theatre afterwards, where he has never been before, 
 he takes a lady at the back of one of the boxes for 
 a woman of quality ; and when, after returning his 
 long respectful gaze with a smile, she turns aside 
 and puts her handkerchief to her mouth, he thinks 
 it is in derision, till his friend undeceives him. He 
 is introduced to the lady ; and ever afterwards, at 
 first sight of a woman of quality (without any dis- 
 paragement either to those charming personages), 
 expects her to give him a smile. He thinks the 
 other ladies much better creatures than they are 
 taken for ; and for their parts, they tell him, that 
 if all men were like himself, they would trust the 
 sex again : — which, for aught we know, is the 
 truth. He has, indeed, what he thinks a very 
 liberal opinion of ladies in general ; judging them 
 all, in a manner, with the eye of a seaman's expe- 
 
76 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 rience. Yet he will believe nevertheless in the 
 "true-love " of any given damsel whom he seeks 
 in the way of marriage, let him roam as much, or 
 remain as long at a distance, as he pleases. It is 
 not that he wants feeling ; but that he has read of 
 it, time out of mind, jn songs ; and he looks upon 
 constancy as a sort of exploit, answering to those 
 which he performs at sea. He is nice in his watches 
 and linen. He makes you presents of cornelians, 
 antique seals, cocoa-nuts set in silver, and other 
 valuables. When he shakes hands with you, it is 
 like being caught in a windlass. He would not 
 swagger about the streets in his uniform, for the 
 world. He is generally modest in company, though 
 liable to be irritated by what he thinks ungentle- 
 manly behaviour. He is also liable to be rendered 
 irritable by sickness ; partly because he has been 
 used to command others, and to be served with all 
 possible deference and alacrity ; and partly, be- 
 cause the idea of suffering pain, without any honour 
 or profit to get by it, is unprofessional, and he is 
 not accustomed to it. He treats talents unlike his 
 own with great respect. He often perceives his 
 own so little felt, that it teaches him this feeling 
 for that of others. Besides, he admires the quan- 
 tity of information which people can get, without 
 travelling like himself; especially when he sees 
 how interesting his own becomes, to them as well 
 as to everybody else. When he tells a story, par- 
 ticularly if full of wonders, he takes care to main- 
 tain his character for truth and simplicity, by 
 qualifying it with all possible reservations, conces- 
 sions, and anticipations of objection ; such as, **in 
 
SEAMEN ON SHORE. 77 
 
 case, at such times as, so to speak, as it were, at 
 least, at any rate. " He seldom uses sea-tevms but 
 when jocosely provoked by something contrary to 
 his habits of life ; as for instance, if he is always 
 meeting you on horseback, he asks if you never 
 mean to walk the deck again ; or if he finds you 
 studying day after day, he says you are always 
 overhauling your log-book. He makes more new 
 acquaintances, and forgets his old ones less, than 
 any other man in the busy world ; for he is so 
 compelled to make his home everywhere, remem- 
 bers his native one as such a place of enjoyment, 
 has all his friendly recollections so fixed upon his 
 mind at sea, and has so much to tell and to hear 
 when he returns, that change and separation lose 
 with him the most heartless part of their nature. 
 Hetilso sees such a variety of customs and manners, 
 that he becomes charitable in his opinions alto- 
 gether ; and charity, while it diffuses the affections, 
 cannot let the old ones go. Half the secret of 
 human intercourse is to make allowance for each 
 other. 
 
 When the Officer is superannuated or retires, he 
 becomes, if intelligent and inquiring, one of the 
 most agreeable old men in the world, equally wel- 
 come to the silent for his card-playing, and to the 
 conversational for his recollections. He is fond of 
 astronomy and books of voyages, and is immortal 
 with all who know him for having been round the 
 world, or seen the transit of Venus, or had one of 
 his fingers carried off by a New Zealand hatchet, 
 or a present of feathers from an Otaheitan beauty. 
 If not elevated by his acquirements above some of 
 
78 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 his humbler tastes, he delights in a corner-cup- 
 board holding his cocoa-nuts and punch-bowl ; has 
 his summer-house castellated and planted with 
 wooden cannon ; and sets up the figure of his old 
 ship, the " Britannia " or the " Lovely Nancy," for 
 a statue in the garden ; where it stares eternally 
 with red cheeks and round black eyes, as if in 
 astonishment at its situation. 
 
 Chaucer, who wrote his *' Canterbury Tales " 
 about four hundred and thirty years ago, has 
 among his other characters in that work a Ship- 
 man, who is exactly of the same cast as the 
 modern sailor, — the same robustness, courage, and 
 rough-drawn virtue, doing its duty, without being 
 very nice in helping itself to its recreations. There 
 is the very dirk, the complexion, the jollity, the 
 experience, and the bad horsemanship. The plain 
 unaffected ending of the description has the air of 
 a sailor's own speech ; while the line about the 
 beard is exceedingly picturesque, poetical, and 
 comprehensive. In copying it out, we shall merely 
 alter the old spelling, where the words are still 
 modern. 
 
 A shipman was there, wonned far by west ; 
 For aught I wot, he was of Dartemouth. 
 He roci'j open a rouncie, as he couth,l 
 All in a gown of falding to the knee. 
 A dagger hanging by a lace had he, ' 
 
 About his neck, under his arm adown : 
 The hot summer had made his hew all brown : 
 And certainly he was a good felaw. 
 Full many a draught of wine he hadde draw 
 From Bourdeaux ward, while that the chapman slep. 
 
 1 He rode upon a hack-horse, as well as he could. 
 
SEAMEN ON SHORE. 79 
 
 Of nice conscience took he no keep. 
 
 If that he fought and had the higher hand. 
 
 By water he sent 'em home to every land. 
 
 But of his craft, to reckon well his tides, 
 
 His streames and his strandes him besides. 
 
 His harborough, his moon, and his lode manage, 
 
 There was not such from Hull unto Carthage. 
 
 Hardy he was, and wise, I undertake ; 
 
 With many a tempest had his beard been shake. 
 
 He knew well all the havens, as they were, 
 
 From Gothland to the Cape de Finisterre, 
 
 And every creek in Briton and in Spain. 
 
 His barge ycleped was the Rlagdelain. 
 
 \Vhen about to tell his Tale, he tells his fellow- 
 travellers that he shall clink them so merry a 
 bell, 
 
 "'That it shall waken all this company : 
 But it shall not be of philosophy. 
 Nor of physick, nor of terms quaint of law ; 
 There is but little Latin in my maw. 
 
 The story he tells is a well-known one in the 
 Italian novels, of a monk who made love to a 
 merchant's wife, and borrowed a hundred francs of 
 the husband to give her. She accordingly admits 
 his addresses during the absence of her good man 
 on a journey. When the latter returns, he appHes 
 to the cunning monk for repayment, and is re- 
 ferred to the lady ; who thus finds her mercenary 
 behaviour outwitted. ^ 
 
 1 " The common sailor was a son of my nurse at school, 
 and the officer a connection of my own by marriage." — 
 "Autobiography," p. 250. 
 
 Cf the following paragraph about sailors (from "Critical 
 Essays on the Performers of the London Theatres") :— " Mr. 
 Bannister possesses all the finnness with all the good- 
 
LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 COACHES. 
 
 [" Indicator," Aug. 23rd and 30th, 1820. " Indicator and 
 Companion," 1834. "Tale for Chimney Corner," 1869, 
 C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 I CCORDING to the opinion commonly 
 entertained respecting an author's want 
 of riches, it may be allowed us to say, 
 that we retain from childhood a consider 
 able notion of "a ride in a coach." Nor do we 
 hesitate to confess, that by coach, we especially 
 mean a hired one ; from the equivocal rank of the 
 post-chaise, down to that despised old cast-away, 
 the hackney. 
 
 It is true, that the carriage, as it is indifferently 
 called (as if nothing less genteel could carry any 
 one) is a more decided thing than the chaise ; it 
 maybe swifter even than the mail, leaves the stage 
 at a still greater distance in every respect, and 
 (forgetting what it may come to itself) darts by the 
 poor old lumbering hackney with immeasuiable 
 contempt. It rolls with a prouder ease than any 
 other vehicle. It is full of cushions and comfort ; 
 elegantly coloured inside and out ; rich, yet neat ; 
 light and rapid, yet substantial. The horses seem 
 
 nature of the seaman ; his open smile, his sincere tone 
 of voice, his careless gait, his person that seems to have 
 undergone all that long and robust labour that must earn 
 the sailor a day of jollity ; m short, every action of his body 
 and his mind belongs to that generous race, of whom Charles 
 the Second observed, they ' got their money like horses and 
 spent it like asses.' ' — Ed. 
 
COACHES. 8 1 
 
 proud to draw it. The fat and fair-wigged coach- 
 man "lends his sounding lash," his arm only in 
 action and that but little, his body well set with its 
 own weight. The footman, in the pride of his 
 nonchalance, holding by the straps behind, and 
 glancing down sideways betwixt his cocked -hat 
 and neckcloth, stands swinging from east to west 
 upon his springy toes. The horses rush along 
 amidst their glancing harness. Spotted dogs leap 
 about them, barking with a princely superfluity of 
 noise. The hammer-cloth trembles through all its 
 fringe,- The paint flashes in the sun. We, con- 
 temptuous of everything less convenient, bow back- 
 wards and forwards with a certain indifferent air 
 of gentility, infinitely predominant. Suddenly, 
 with a happy mixture of turbulence and truth, the 
 carriage dashes up by the curb-stone to the very 
 point desired, and stops with a lordly wilfulness of 
 decision. The coachman looks as if nothing had 
 happened. The footman is down in an instant ; 
 the knocker reverberates into the farthest corner 
 of the house ; doors, both carriage and house, are 
 open ; — we descend, casting a matter-of-course eye 
 at the by-standers ; and the moment we touch the 
 pavement, the vehicle, as if conscious of what it 
 has carried, and relieved from the weight of our 
 importance, recovers from its sidelong inclina- 
 tion with a jerk, tossing and panting, as it were, 
 for very breath, like the proud heads of the 
 horses. 
 
 All this, it must be owned, is very pretty ; but it 
 is also gouty and superfluous. It is too con- 
 venient, — too exacting, — too exclusive. We must 
 
 I. Q 
 
82 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 get too much for it, and lose too much by it. Its 
 plenty, as Ovid says, makes us poor. We neither 
 have it in the republic of letters, nor would desire 
 it in any less Jacobinical state. Horses, as many 
 as you please, provided men have enough to eat ; — 
 hired coaches, a reasonable number : — but health 
 and good-humour at all events. 
 
 Gigs and curricles are things less objectionable, 
 because they cannot be so relied upon as substi- 
 tutes for exercise. Our taste in them, we must con- 
 fess, is not genuine. How shall we own it ? We 
 like to be driven, instead of drive; — to read or 
 look about us, instead of keeping watch on a 
 horse's head. We have no relish even for vehicles 
 of this description that are not safe. Danger is a 
 good thing for giving a fillip to a man's ideas ; but 
 even danger, to us, must come recommended by 
 something useful. We have no ambition to have 
 Tandem written on our tombstone. 
 
 The prettiest of these vehicles undoubtedly is 
 the curricle, which is also the safest. There is 
 something worth looking at in the pair of horses, 
 with that sparkling pole of steel laid across them. 
 It is like a bar of music, comprising their harmo- 
 nious course. But to us, even gigs are but a sort 
 of unsuccessful run at gentility. The driver, to all 
 intents and purposes, had better be on the horse. 
 Horseback is the noblest way of being carried in 
 the world. It is cheaper than any other mode of 
 riding ; it is common to all ranks ; and it is manly, 
 graceful, and healthy. The handsomest mixture 
 of danger with dignity, in the shape of a carriage, 
 was the tall phaeton with its yellow wings. We 
 
COACHES, 83 
 
 remember lobking up to it with respect in our 
 childhood, partly for its own loftiness, partly for 
 its name, and perhaps for the figure it makes in the 
 prints to novels of that period. The most gallant 
 figure which mere modern driving ever cut, was in 
 the person of a late Duke of Hamilton; of whom 
 we have read or heard somewhere, that he used to 
 dash round the streets of Rome, with his horses 
 panting, and his hounds barking about his phaeton, 
 to the equal fright and admiration of the Masters 
 of the World, who were accustomed to witness 
 nothing higher than a lumbering old coach, or a 
 cardinal on a mule. 
 
 A post-chaise involves the idea of travelling, 
 which in the company of those we love is home in 
 motion. The smooth running along the road, the 
 fresh air, the variety of scene, the leafy roads, the 
 bursting prospects, the clatter through a town, the 
 gaping gaze of a village, the hearty appetite, the 
 leisure (your chaise waiting only upon your own 
 movements), even the little contradictions to 
 home-comfort, and the expedients upon which they 
 set us, all put the animal spirits at work, and 
 throw a novelty over the road of life. If anything 
 could grind us young again, it would be the wheels 
 of a post-chaise. The only monotonous sight is 
 the perpetual up-and-down movement of the pos- 
 tilion, who, we wish exceedingly, could take a 
 chair. His occasional retreat to the bar which 
 occupies the place of a box, and his affecting to sit 
 upon it, only remind us of its exquisite want of 
 accommodation. But some have given the bat, 
 lately, a surreptitious squeeze in the middle, and 
 
84 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 flattened it a little into something obRquely resem- 
 bling an inconvenient seat. 
 
 If we are to believe the merry Columbus of 
 Down- Hall, calashes, now almost obsolete for any 
 purpose, used to be hired for travelling occasions a 
 hundred years back; but he preferred a chariot; 
 and neither was good. Yet see how pleasantly 
 good-humour rides over its inconveniences. 
 
 Then answer'd 'Squire Morley, " Pray get a calash, 
 That in summer may burn, and in winter may splash ; 
 I love dirt and dust ; and 'tis always my pleasure 
 To take with me much of the soil that I measure." 
 
 But Matthew thought better ; for Matthew thought right, 
 And hired a chariot so trim and so tight, 
 That extremes both of winter and summer might pass ; 
 For one window was canvas, the other was glass. 
 
 "Draw up," quoth friend Matthew; "Pull down," quoth 
 
 friend John ; 
 " We shall be both hotter and colder anon." 
 Thus, talking and scolding, they forward did speed ; 
 And Ralpho paced by under Newman the Swede. 
 
 Into an old inn did this equipage roll, 
 At a town they call Hodson, the sign of the Bull ; 
 Near a nymph with an urn that divides the highway. 
 And into a puddle throws mother of tea. 
 
 " Come here, my sweet landlady, pray how d'ye do? 
 Where is Cicely so cleanly, and Prudence, and Sue ? 
 And where is the widow that dwelt here below ? 
 And the ostler that sung about eight years ago ? 
 
 And where is your sister, so mild and so dear. 
 Whose voice to her maids like a trumpet was clear? " 
 " By my troth," she replies, "you grow younger, I think ; 
 And pray, Sir, what wine does the gentleman drink ? 
 
 " Why now let me die, Sir, or live upon trust. 
 If I know to which question to answer you first : 
 
COACHES. 85 
 
 Why, things, since I saw you, most strangely have varied ; 
 The ostler is hang'd, and the widow is married. 
 
 " And Prue left a child for the parish to nurse. 
 And Cicely went off with a gentleman's purse ; 
 And as to my sister, so mild and so dear, 
 She has lain in the church-yard full many a year." 
 
 " Well ; peace to her ashes ! What signifies grief? 
 She roasted red veal, and she powder 'd lean beef : 
 Full nicely she knew to cook up a fine dish ; 
 For tough were her pullets, and tender her fish." 
 
 Prior. 
 
 This quotation reminds us of a little poem by 
 the same author, entitled the ** Secretary," which, 
 as it is short, and runs upon chaise-wheels, and 
 seems to have slipped the notice it deserves, we 
 will do ourselves the pleasure of extracting also. 
 It was written when he was Secretary of Embassy 
 at the Hague, where he seems to have edified the 
 Dutch with his insisting upon enjoying himself. 
 The astonishment with which the good Hollander 
 and his wife look up to him as he rides, and the 
 touch of yawning dialect at the end, are extremely 
 pleasant. 
 
 While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix. 
 
 And in one day atone for the business of six. 
 
 In a little Dutch chaise on a Saturday night, 
 
 On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right : 
 
 No Memoirs to compose, and no Post-boy to move. 
 
 That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love ; 
 
 For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea, 
 
 Nor the long-winded cant of a dull Refugee : 
 
 This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine, — 
 
 To good or ill-fortune the third we resign : 
 
 Thus scorning the world and superior to fate, 
 
 I drive on my car in processional state. 
 
 So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode ; 
 
86 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god. 
 
 But why should I stories of Athens rehearse, 
 
 Where people knew love, and were partial to verse ? 
 
 Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose, 
 
 In Holland half drowned in interest and prose ? 
 
 By Greece and past ages what need I be tried. 
 
 When the Hague and the present are both on my side ? 
 
 And is it enough for the joys of the day, 
 
 To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say? 
 
 When good Vandergoes, and his provident vrow. 
 
 As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow. 
 
 That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is 
 
 So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretar is. 
 
 If Prior had been living now, he would have 
 found the want of travelling accommodation flourish- 
 ing most in a country for whose graver wants we 
 have to answer, without having her wit to help us. 
 There is a story told of an Irish post-chaise, the 
 occupier of which, without quitting it, had to take 
 to his heels. It was going down hill as fast as 
 wind and the impossibility of stopping could make 
 it, when the foot passengers observed a couple of 
 legs underneath, emulating with all their might the 
 rapidity of the wheels. The bottom had come out ; 
 and the gentleman was obliged to run for his life. 
 
 We must relate another anecdote of an Irish 
 post-chaise, merely to show the natural tendencies 
 of the people to be lawless in self-defence. A 
 friend of ours,^ who was travelling among them, 
 used to have this proposition put to him by the 
 postilion whenever he approached a turnpike. 
 " Plase your honour, will I drive at the pike?" 
 The pike hung loosely across the road. Luckily, 
 the rider happened to be of as lawless a turn for 
 ' Mr. Shelley. 
 
COACHES. 87 
 
 justice as the driver, so the answer was always a 
 cordial one : — " Oh yes — drive at the pike." The 
 pike made way accordingly ; and in a minute or 
 two, the gate people were heard and seen, scream- 
 ing in vain after the illegal charioteers. 
 
 Fertur equis auriga, neque audit currus. 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 The driver 's borne beyond their swearing, 
 And the post-chaise is hard of hearing. 
 
 As to following them, nobody in Ireland thinks 
 of moving too much, legal or illegal. 
 
 The pleasure to be had in a mail-coach is not 
 so much at one's command, as that in a post-chaise- 
 There is generally too little room in it, and too 
 much hurry out of it. The company must not 
 lounge over their breakfast, even if they are all 
 agreed. It is an understood thing, that they are to 
 be uncomfortably punctual. They must get in at 
 seven o'clock, though they are all going upon 
 business they do not like or care about, or will have 
 to wait till nine before they can do any thing. 
 Some persons know how to manage this haste, 
 and breakfast and dine in the cracking of a whip. 
 They stick with their fork, they joint, they sliver, 
 they bolt. Legs and wings vanish before them 
 like a dragon's before a knight-errant. But if one 
 is not a clergyman or a regular jolly fellow, one 
 has no chance this way. To be diffident or polite, 
 is fatal. It is a merit eagerly acknowledged, and as 
 quickly set aside. At last you begin upon a leg, 
 and are called off. 
 
 A very troublesome degree of science is neces- 
 
88 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 sary for being well settled in the coach. We re- 
 member travelling in our youth, upon the north 
 road, with an orthodox elderly gentleman of vene- 
 rable peruke, who talked much with a grave-look- 
 ing young man about universities, and won our 
 inexperienced heart with a notion that he was deep 
 in Horace and Virgil. He was much deeper in 
 his wig. Towards evening, as he seemed restless, 
 we asked with much diffidence whether a change, 
 even for the worse, might not relieve him ; for we 
 were riding backwards, and thought all elderly 
 people disliked that way. He insinuated the very 
 objection ; so we recoiled from asking him again. 
 In a minute or two, however, he insisted that we 
 were uneasy ourselves, and that he must relieve us 
 for our own sake. We protested as filially as 
 possible against this ; but at last, out of mere shame 
 of disputing the point with so benevolent an elder, 
 we changed seats with him. After an interval of 
 bland meditation we found the evening sun full in 
 our face. — His new comfort set him dozing; and 
 every now and then he jerked his wig in our eyes, 
 till we had the pleasure to see him take out a 
 nightcap and look extremely ghastly. — The same 
 person, and his serious young companion, tricked 
 us out of a good bed we happened to get at the inn. 
 The greatest peculiarity attending a mail-coach 
 arises from its travelling at night. The gradual 
 decline of talk, the incipient snore, the rustling 
 and alteration of legs and nightcaps, the cessation 
 of other noises on the road — the sound of the wind 
 or rain, of the moist circuit of the wheels, and of 
 the time-beating tread of the horses— all dispose 
 
COACHES. 89 
 
 the traveller, who cannot sleep, to a double sense 
 of the little that is left him to observe. The coach 
 stops, the door opens, a rush of cold air announces 
 at once the demands and merits of the guard, who 
 is taking his leave, and is anxious to remember us. 
 The door is clapped to again ; the sound of every- 
 thing outside becomes dim ; and voices are heard 
 knocking up the people of the inn, and answered 
 by issuing yawns and excuses. Wooden shoes 
 clog heavily about. The horses' mouths are heard 
 swilling up the water out of tubs. All is still 
 again, and some one in the coach takes a long 
 breath. The driver mounts, and we resume our 
 way. It happens that we can sleep anywhere except 
 in a mail-coach ; so that we hate to see a prudent, 
 warm, old fellow, who has been eating our fowls 
 and intercepting our toast, put on his nightcap in 
 order to settle himself till morning. We rejoice in 
 the digs that his neighbour's elbow gives him, and 
 hail the long-legged traveller that sits opposite. A 
 passenger of our wakeful description must try to 
 content himself with listening to the sounds above 
 mentioned ; or thinking of his friends ; or turning 
 verses, as Sir Richard Blackmore did, "to the 
 rumbling of his coach's wheels," or chatting with 
 the servant-girl who is going to place (may nobody 
 get her dismissed nine months hence !) or protect- 
 ing her against the Methodist in the corner ; or if 
 alone with her, and she has a kind face, protecting 
 her against a much more difficult person — himself. 
 Really we must say that enough credit is not given 
 to us lawless persons who say all we think, and 
 would have the world enjoy all it could. There is 
 
90 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 the author of the " Mail-coach Adventure," for in- 
 stance. With all his amorous verses, his yearnings 
 after the pleasant laws of the Golden Age, and 
 even his very hymns (which, we confess, are a little 
 mystic), we would rather trust a fair traveller to his 
 keeping, than some much graver writers we have 
 heard of. If he forgot himself, he would not think 
 it a part of virtue to forget her. But his absolution 
 is not ready at hand, as for graver sinners. The 
 very intensity of the sense of pleasure will often 
 keep a man from destroying its after-thoughts in 
 another ; when harsher systems will forget them- 
 selves, only to confound brutality with repentance. 
 The stage-coach is a very great and unpretending 
 accommodation. It is a cheap substitute, not- 
 withstanding all its eighteen-penny and two-and- 
 sixpenny temptations, for keeping a carriage or a 
 horse ; and we really think, in spite of its gossip- 
 ing> is no mean help to village liberality ; for its 
 passengers are so mixed, so often varied, so little 
 yet so much together, so compelled to accommo- 
 date, so willing to pass a short time pleasantly, 
 and so liable to the criticism of strangers, that it is 
 hard if they do not get a habit of speaking, or even 
 thinking more kindly of one another than if they 
 mingled less often, or under other circumstances. 
 The old and infirm are treated with reverence ; the 
 ailing sympathized with; the heal thy congratulated'; 
 the rich not distinguished ; the poor well met : the 
 young, with their faces conscious of ride, patronised, 
 and allowed to be extra. Even the fiery, nay the 
 fat, learn to bear with each other ; and if some 
 high thoughted persons will talk now and then of 
 
COACHES. 91 
 
 their great acquaintances, or their preference of a 
 carriage, there is an instinct which tells the rest, 
 that they would not make such appeals to their 
 good opinion, if they valued it so little as might be 
 supposed. Stoppings and dust are not pleasant, 
 but the latter may be had on much grander occa- 
 sions ; and if any one is so unlucky as never to 
 keep another stopping himself, he must be content 
 with the superiority of his virtue. 
 
 The mail or stage-coachman, upon the whole, 
 is no inhuman mass of great-coat, gruffness, civility, 
 and old boots. The latter is the politer, from the 
 smaller range of acquaintance, and his necessity for 
 preserving them. His face is red, and his voice 
 rough, by the same process of drink and catarrh. 
 He has a silver watch with a steel chain, and plenty 
 of loose silver in his pocket, mixed with halfpence. 
 He serves the houses he goes by for a clock. He 
 takes a glass at every alehouse ; for thirst, when it 
 is dry, and for warmth when it is wet. He likes 
 to show the judicious reach of his whip, by twigging 
 a dog or a goose on the road, or children that get 
 in the way.' His tenderness to descending old 
 ladies is particular. He touches his hat to Mr. 
 Smith. He gives **the young woman" a ride, 
 and lends her his box -coat in the rain. His libe- 
 rality in imparting his knowledge to any one that 
 has the good fortune to ride on the box with him, 
 is a happy mixture of deference, conscious posses- 
 sion, and familiarity. His information chiefly lies 
 in the occupancy of houses on the road, prize- 
 fighters. Bow-street runners, and accidents. He 
 concludes that you know Dick Sams, or Old Joey, 
 
9a LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 and proceeds to relate some of the stories that relish 
 his pot and tobacco in the evening. If any of the 
 four-in-hand gentry go by, he shakes his head, and 
 thinks they might find something better to do. 
 His contempt for them is founded on modesty. 
 He tells you that his off-hand horse is as pretty a 
 goer as ever was, but that Kitty — "Yeah, now 
 there, Kitty, can't you be still ? Kitty's a devil, 
 Sir, for all you wouldn't think it." He knows 
 that the boys on the road admire him, and gives 
 the horses an indifferent lash with his whip as they 
 go by. If you wish to know what rain and dust 
 can do, you should look at his old hat. There is 
 an indescribably placid and paternal look in the 
 position of his corduroy knees and old top-boots on 
 the foot-board, with their pointed toes and never- 
 cleaned soles. His beau ideal of appearance is a 
 frock-coat, with mother-o'-pearl buttons, a striped 
 yellow waistcoat, and a flower in his mouth. 
 
 But all our praises why for Charles and Robert? 
 Rise, honest Mews, and sing the classic Bobart. 
 
 Is the quadrijugal virtue of that learned person 
 still extant? That Olympic and Baccalaureated 
 charioteer ? — That best educated and most erudite 
 of coachmen, of whom Dominie Sampson is alone 
 worthy to speak? That singular punning and 
 driving commentary on the Sunt qtios cuniculo 
 collegisse? In short, the worthy and agreeable 
 Mr. Bobart,' Bachelor of Arts, who drove the Ox- 
 ford stage some years ago, capped verses and the 
 
 1 See also the "Autobiography," p. 99, for further par- 
 ticulars of Mr. B . — Ed. 
 
COACHES. 93 
 
 front of his hat with equal dexterity, and read 
 Horace over his brandy-and-water of an evening ? 
 We had once the pleasure of being beaten by him 
 in that capital art, he having brought up against us 
 an unusual number of those cross-armed letters, as 
 puzzling to verse-cappers as iron-cats unto cavalry, 
 ycleped X's ; which said warfare he was pleased 
 to call to mind in after-times, unto divers of our 
 comrades. The modest and natural greatness with 
 which he used to say " Yait," to his horses, and 
 then turn round with his rosy gills, and an eye 
 like a fish, and give out the required verse, can 
 never pass away from us, as long as verses or 
 horses run. 
 
 Of the hackney-coach we cannot make as short 
 work, as many persons like to make of it in 
 reality. Perhaps it is partly a sense of the con- 
 tempt it undergoes, which induces us to endeavour 
 to make the best of it. But it has its merits, as we 
 shall show presently. In the account of its de- 
 merits, we have been anticipated by a new, and 
 we are sorry to say a very good, poetess, of the 
 
 name of Lucy V L , who has favoured us 
 
 with a sight of a manuscript poem,^ in which they 
 are related with great nicety and sensitiveness. 
 
 Reader. WTiat, Sir, sorry to say that a lady is a 
 good poetess? 
 
 Indicator. Only inasmuch, Madam, as the lady 
 gives such authority to the anti-social view of this 
 subject, and will not agree with us as to the beati- 
 tude of the hackney-coach. — But hold : — upon 
 
 1 By Mr. Keats. The manuscript purports to have bee 
 written by a Miss Lucy Vaughau Lloyd. • 
 
94 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 turning to the manuscript again, we find that the 
 objections are put into the mouth of a dandy cour- 
 tier. This makes a great difference. The hackney 
 resumes all which it had lost in the good graces of 
 the fair authoress. The only wonder is, how the 
 courtier could talk so well. Here is the passage. 
 
 Eban, untempted by the Pastry-cooks, 
 (Of Pastry he got store within the Palace,) 
 With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and solemn looks. 
 Incognito upon his errand sallies. 
 His smelling-bottle ready for the alleys ; 
 He pass'd the Hurdy-gurdies with disdain. 
 Vowing he'd have them sent on board the galleys : 
 Just as he made his vow, it 'gan to rain, 
 Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it drive amain. 
 
 " I'll pull the string," said he, and further said, 
 "Polluted Jarvey ! Ah, thou filthy hack ! 
 Whose strings of life are all dried up and dead. 
 Whose linsey-wolsey lining hangs all slack. 
 Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a crack ; 
 And evermore thy steps go clatter clitter ; 
 Whose glass once up can never be got back. 
 Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and bitter. 
 That 'tis of vile no-use to travel in a litter. 
 
 "Thou inconvenience ! thou hungry crop 
 For all corn ! thou snail creeper to and fro. 
 Who while thou goest ever seem'st to stop. 
 And fiddle-faddle standest while you go ; 
 I' the morning, freighted with a weight of woe. 
 Unto some Lazar-house thou journiest, 
 And in the evening tak'st a double row 
 Of dowdies, for some dance or party drest. 
 Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest east and west. 
 
 " By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien, 
 
 An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge ; 
 
 Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign, 
 
 Round to the curb-stone patient dost thou trudge. 
 
COACHES. 95 
 
 School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge ; 
 A dull-eyed Argus watching for a fare ; 
 Quiet and plodding, thou dost bear no grudge 
 To whisking Tilburies or Phaetons rare. 
 Curricles, or Mail-coaches, swift beyond compare." 
 
 Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check, 
 And bade the coachman wheel to such a street ; 
 Who turning much his body, more his neck, 
 Louted full low, and hoarsely did him greet. 
 
 The tact here is so nice, of the infirmities which 
 are but too likely to beset our poor old friend, that 
 we should only spoil it to say more. To pass then 
 to the merits. 
 
 ^ One of the greatest helps to a sense of merit in 
 other things, is a consciousness of one's own wants. 
 Do you despise a hackney-coach ? Get tired ; get 
 old ; get young again. Lay down your carriage, 
 or make it less uneasily too easy. Have to stand 
 up half an hour, out of a storm, under a gateway. 
 Be ill, and wish to visit a friend who is worse. 
 Fall in love, and want to sit next your mistress. 
 Or if all this will not do, fall in a cellar. 
 
 Ben Jonson, in a fit of indignation at the 
 niggardliness of James the First, exclaimed, *' He 
 despises me, I suppose, because I live in an 
 alley: — tell him his soul lives in an alley." We 
 think we see a hackney-coach moved out of its 
 ordinary patience, and hear it say, "You there, 
 who sit looking so scomfiiUy at me out of your 
 carriage, you are yourself the thing you take me 
 for. Your understanding is a hackney-coach. It 
 is lumbering, rickety, and at a stand. When it 
 
 1 The "Indicator," of Aug. 30th, 1820, begins here. 
 
96 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 moves, it is drawn by things like itself. It is at 
 once the most stationary and the most servile of 
 common -places. And when a good thing is put 
 into it, it does not know it." 
 
 But it is difficult to imagine a hackney-coach 
 under so irritable an aspect. Hogarth has drawn 
 a set of hats or wigs with countenances of their 
 own. We have noticed the same thing in the faces 
 of houses ; and it sometimes gets in one's way in a 
 landscape-painting, with the outlines of the massy 
 trees. A friend tells us, that the hackney-coach 
 has its countenance, with gesticulation besides : 
 and now he has pointed it out, we can easily fancy 
 it. Some of them look chucked under the chin, 
 some nodding, some coming at you sideways. We 
 shall never find it easy, however, to fancy the 
 irritable aspect above mentioned. A hackney- 
 coach always appeared to us the most quiescent of 
 moveables. Its horses and it, slumbering on a 
 stand, are an emblem of all the patience in crea- 
 tion, animate and inanimate. The submission with 
 which the coach takes every variety of the weather, 
 dust, rain, and wind, never moving but when 
 some eddying blast makes its old body seem to 
 shiver, is only surpassed by the vital patience of 
 the horses. Can anything better illustrate the 
 poet's line about — 
 
 Years that bring the philosophic mind, 
 
 than the still-hung head, the dim indifferent eye, 
 the dragged and blunt-cornered mouth, and the 
 gaunt imbecility of body dropping its weight on 
 three tired legs in order to give repose to the lame 
 
COACHES. 97 
 
 one ? When it has blinkers on, they seem to be 
 shutting up its eyes fbr death, like the windows of 
 a house. Fatigue and the habit of suffering have 
 become as natural to the creature as the bit to its 
 mouth. Once in half an hour it moves the position 
 of its leg, or shakes its drooping ears. The whip 
 makes it go, more from habit than from pain. Its 
 coat has become almost callous to minor stings. 
 The blind and staggering fly in autumn might 
 come to die against its cheek. 
 
 Of a pair of hackney-coach horses, one so much 
 resembles the other that it seems unnecessary for 
 them to compare notes. They have that within, 
 which is beyond the comparative. They no longer 
 bend their heads towards each other, as they go. 
 They stand together as if unconscious of one 
 another's company, but they are not. An old 
 horse misses his companion, like an old man. The 
 presence of an associate, who has gone through 
 pain and suffering with us, need not say anything. 
 It is talk, and memory, and everything. Some- 
 thing of this it may be to our old friends in 
 harness. What are they thinking of, while they 
 stand motionless in the rain? Do they remember? 
 Do they dream? Do they still, unperplexed as 
 their old blood is by too many foods, receive a 
 pleasure from the elements; a dull refreshment 
 from the air and sun? Have they yet a palate for 
 the hay which they pull so feebly? or for the rarer 
 grain, which induces them to perform their only 
 voluntary gesture of any vivacity, and toss up the 
 bags that are fastened on their mouths, to get at 
 its shallow feast ? 
 
 I. H 
 
98 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 If the old horse were gifted with memory, (and 
 who shall say he is not, in one thing as well as 
 another?) it might be at once the most melancholy 
 and pleasantest faculty he has ; for the commonest 
 hack has very likely been a hunter or racer ; has 
 had his days of lustre and enjoyment ; has darted 
 along the course, and scoured the pasture; has 
 carried his master proudly, or his lady gently ; has 
 pranced, has galloped, has neighed aloud, has 
 dared, has forded, has spurned at mastery, has 
 graced it and made it proud, has rejoiced the eye, 
 iias been crowded to as an actor, has been all in- 
 stinct with life and quickness, has had its ver>' fear 
 admired as courage, and been sat upon by valour 
 as its chosen seat. 
 
 His ears up-pricked ; his braided hanging mane 
 Upon his compass'd crest now stands on end ; 
 His nostrils drink the air ; and forth again, 
 As from a furnace, vapours doth he send ; 
 
 His eye, which glistens scornfully like fire. 
 Shows his hot courage and his high desire. 
 
 Sometimes he trots as if he told the steps, 
 
 With gentle majesty, and modest pride ; 
 
 Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps. 
 
 As who would say, lo ! thus my strength is tried, 
 And thus I do to captivate the eye 
 Of the fair breeder that is standing by. 
 
 What recketh he his rider's angry stir. 
 His flattering holla, or his Stand, I say f 
 What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur? 
 For rich caparisons, or trappings gay ? 
 
 He sees his love, and nothing else he sees. 
 For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. 
 
 Look, when a painter would surpass the life. 
 In limning out a well-proportion'd steed, 
 
COACHES. 99 
 
 His art with nature's workmanship at strife, 
 
 As if the dead the living should exceed ; 
 
 So did this horse excel a common one, 
 
 In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone. 
 
 Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlock shag and long. 
 
 Broad breast, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide ; 
 
 High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong ; 
 
 Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide ; 
 
 Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack, 
 Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 
 
 Alas ! his only riders now are the rain and a 
 sordid harness ! The least utterance of the 
 wretchedest voice makes him stop and become 
 a fixture. His loves were in existence at the time 
 the old sign, fifty miles hence, was painted. His 
 nostrils drink nothing but what they cannot helpi 
 — the water out of an old tub. Not all the hounds 
 in the world could make his ears attain any emi- 
 nence. His mane is scratchy and lax, his shape an 
 anatomy, his name a mockery. The same great 
 poet who wrote the triumphal verses for him and 
 his loves, has written their living epitaph : — 
 
 The poor jades 
 Lob down their heads, dropping the hide and hips. 
 The gum down roping from their pale dead eyes ; 
 And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit 
 Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless. 
 
 K. Henry V., Act i. 
 
 There is a song called the " High-mettled Racer," 
 describing the progress of a favourite horse's life, 
 from its time of vigour and glory, down to its fur- 
 nishing food for the dogs. It is not as good as 
 Shakespeare ; but it will do, to those who are half 
 as kind as he. We defy anybody to read that 
 
loo LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 song or be in the habit of singing it or hearing it 
 sung, and treat horses as they are sometimes 
 treated. So much good may an author do, who is 
 in earnest, and does not go in a pedantic way to 
 work. We will not say that Plutarch's good- 
 natured observation about taking care of one's old 
 horse did more for that class of retired servants 
 than all the graver lessons of philosophy. For it is 
 philosophy which first sets people thinking ; and 
 then some of them put it in a more popular shape. 
 But we will venture to say, that Plutarch's obser- 
 vation saved many a steed of antiquity a superfluous 
 thump; and in this respect, the author of the 
 "High-mettled Racer" (Mr. Dibdin we believe, no 
 mean man in his way,) may stand by the side of the 
 old illustrious biographer. Next to ancient causes, 
 to the inevitable progress of events, and to the 
 practical part of Christianity (which persons, the 
 most accused of irreligion, have preserved like a 
 glorious infant, through ages of blood and fire,) the 
 kindliness of modern philosophy is more imme- 
 diately owing to the great national writers of 
 Europe, in whose schools we have all been chil- 
 dren : — to Voltaire in France, and Shakespeare in 
 England. Shakespeare, in his time, obliquely 
 pleaded the cause of the Jew, and got him set on a 
 common level with humanity. The Jew has since 
 been not only allowed to be human, but some 
 have undertaken to show him as the *' best good 
 Christian though he knows it not." We shall not 
 dispute the title with him, nor with the other wor- 
 shippers of Mammon, who force him to the same 
 •shrine. We allow, as things go in that quarter, 
 
COACHES. /•' I '>\l '.' i«Jtj , ,' l\\ I 
 
 that the Jew is as great a Christian' as his neigh-' 
 hour, and his neighbour as great a Jew as he. 
 There is neither love nor money lost between 
 them. But at all events, the Jew is a man ; and 
 with Shakespeare's assistance, the time has arrived, 
 when we can afford to acknowledge the horse for a 
 fellow-creature, and treat him as one. We may 
 say for him, upon the same grounds and to the 
 same purpose, as Shakespeare said for the Israelite, 
 *' Hath not a horse organs, dimensions, senses, 
 affections, passions ? hurt with the same weapons, 
 subject to the same diseases, healed by the same 
 means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and 
 summer, as a Christian is ? " Oh — but some are 
 always at hand to cry out, — it would be effeminate 
 to think too much of these things ! — Alas ! we 
 have no notion of asking the gentlemen to think 
 too much of anything. If they will think at all, it 
 will be a great gain. As to effeminacy (if we must 
 use that ungallant and partial word, for want of a 
 better,) it is cruelty that is effeminate. It is selfish- 
 ness that is effeminate. Anything is effeminate, 
 which would get an excitement, or save a proper 
 and manly trouble, at the undue expense of an- 
 other. — How does the case stand then between 
 those who ill-treat their horses, and those who 
 spare them ? 
 
 To return to the coach. Imagine a fine coach 
 and pair, which are standing at the door of a house, 
 in all the pride of their sleek strength and beauty, 
 converted into what they may both really become, 
 a hackney, and its old shamblers. Such is one of 
 the meditations of the philosophic eighteenpenny 
 
/»f»\ ,: ; ■ LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 rider. ' A liackney-coach has often the arms of 
 nobility on it. As we are going to get into it, we 
 catch a glimpse of the faded lustre of an earl's or 
 marquis's coronet, and think how many light or 
 proud hearts have ascended those now ricketty 
 steps. In this coach perhaps an elderly lady once 
 rode to her wedding, a blooming and blushing 
 girl. Her mother and sister were on each side of 
 her ; the bridegroom opposite in a blossom- 
 coloured coat. They talk of everything in the 
 world of which they are not thinking. The sister 
 was never prouder of her. The mother with diffi- 
 culty represses her own pride and tears. The 
 bride, thinking he is looking at her, casts down 
 her eyes, pensive in her joy. The bridegroom is 
 at once the proudest, and the humblest, and the 
 happiest man in the world — For our parts, we sit 
 in a corner, and are in love with the sister. We 
 dream she is going to speak to us in answer to 
 some indifferent question, when a hoarse voice 
 comes in at the front window, and says, "Where- 
 abouts, Sir ! " 
 
 And grief has consecrated thee, thou reverend 
 dilapidation, as well as joy ! Thou hast carried 
 unwilling, as well as willing hearts ; hearts, that 
 have thought the slowest of thy paces too fast ; 
 faces that have sat back in a corner of thee, to hide 
 their tears from the very thought of being seen. 
 In thee the destitute have been taken to the poor- 
 house, and the wounded and sick to the hospital ; 
 and many an arm has been round many an insen- 
 sible waist. Into thee the friend or the lover has 
 hurried, in a passion of tears, to lament his loss. 
 
COACHES. 103 
 
 In thee he has hastened to console the dying or 
 the wretched. In thee the father, or mother, or 
 the older kinswoman, more patient in her years, 
 has taken the little child to the grave, the human 
 jewel that must be parted with. 
 
 But joy appears in thee again, like the look-in of 
 the sun-shine. If the lover has gone in thee un- 
 willingly, he has also gone willingly. How many 
 friends hast thou not carried to merry-meetings ! 
 How many young parties to the play ! How many 
 children, whose faces thou hast turned in an 
 instant from the extremity of lachrymose weariness 
 to that of staring delight. Thou hast contained as 
 many different passions in thee as a human heart ; 
 and for the sake of the human heart, old body, 
 thou art venerable. Thou shalt be as respectable 
 as a reduced old gentleman, whose very sloven- 
 liness is pathetic. Thou shalt be made gay, as he 
 is over a younger and richer table, and thou shalt 
 be still more touching for the gaiety. 
 
 We wish the hackney-coachman were as interest- 
 ing a machine as either his coach or horses ; but it 
 must be owned, that of all the driving species he is 
 the least agreeable specimen. This is partly to be 
 attributed to the life which has most probably put 
 him into his situation ; partly to his want of out- 
 side passengers to cultivate his gentility ; and partly 
 to the disputable nature of his fare, which always 
 leads him to be lying and cheating. The water- 
 man of the stand, who beats him if possible in sor- 
 didness of appearance, is more respectable. He is 
 less of a vagabond, and cannot cheat you. Nor is 
 the hackney-coachman only disagreeable in him- 
 
T04 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 self, but, like Falstaff reversed, the cause of dis- 
 agreeableness in others ; for he sets people upon 
 disputing with him in pettiness and ill-temper. He 
 induces the mercenary to be violent, and the 
 violent to seem mercenary. A man whom you 
 took for a pleasant laughing fellow, shall all of a 
 sudden put on an irritable look of calculation, and 
 vow that he will be charged with a constable, 
 rather than pay the sixpence. Even fair woman 
 shall waive her all-conquering softness, and sound 
 a shrill trumpet in reprobation of the extortionate 
 charioteer, whom, if she were a man, she says, she 
 would expose. Being a woman, then, let her not 
 expose herself. Oh, but it is intolerable to be so 
 imposed upon ! Let the lady, then, get a pocket- 
 book, if she must, with the hackney-coach fares in 
 it ; or a pain in the legs, rather than the temper ; 
 or, above all, let her get wiser, and have an under- 
 standing that can dispense with the good opinion 
 of the hackney-coachman. Does she think that 
 her rosy lips were made to grow pale about two- 
 and-sixpence ; or that the expression of them will 
 ever be like her cousin Fanny's, if she goes on ? 
 
 The stage-coachman likes the boys on the road, 
 because he knows they admire him. ' The hackney- 
 coachman knows that they cannot admire him, and 
 that they can get up behind his coach, which 
 makes him very savage. The cry of "Cut be- 
 hind ! " from the malicious urchins on the pave- 
 ment, wounds at once his self-love and his interest. 
 He would not mind overloading his master's horses 
 for another sixpence, but to do it for nothing is 
 
 ' Cf. p. 92, " He knows that the boys admire him."— Ed. 
 
COACHES. los 
 
 what shocks his humanity. He hates the boy for 
 imposing upon him, and the boys for reminding 
 him that he has been imposed upon ; and he would 
 willingly twinge the cheeks of all nine. The cut 
 of his whip over the coach is very malignant. He 
 has a constant eye to the road behind him. He 
 has also an eye to what may be left in the coach. 
 He will undertake to search the straw for you, and 
 miss the half-crown on purpose. He speculates 
 on what he may get above his fare, according to 
 your manners or company; and knows how much 
 to ask for driving faster or slower than usual. He 
 does not like wet weather so much as people sup- 
 pose ; for he says it rots both his horses and 
 harness, and he takes parties out of town when the 
 weather is fine, which produces good payments in 
 a lump. Lovers, late supper-eaters, and girls 
 going home from boarding-school, are his best 
 pay. He has a rascally air of remonstrance when 
 you dispute half the over-charge, and according 
 to the temper he is in, begs you to consider his 
 bread, hopes you will not make such a fuss about a 
 trifle ; or tells you, you may take his number or sit 
 in the coach all night. 
 
 Lady. There, Sir ! 
 
 Indicator (looking all about him). "Where, 
 Ma'am ? 
 
 Lady. The coachman. Sir ! 
 
 Indicator. Oh pray, Madam, don't trouble your- 
 self. Leave the gentleman alone with him. Do 
 you continue to be delightful at a little distance. 
 
 A great number of ludicrous adventures must 
 have taken place, in which hackney-coaches were 
 
jo6 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 concerned. The story of the celebrated harlequin 
 Lunn, who secretly pitched himself out of one into 
 a tavern window, and when the coachman was 
 about to submit to the loss of his fare, astonished 
 him by calling out again from the inside, is too 
 well known for repetition. There is one of Swift, 
 not perhaps so common. He was going, one dark 
 evening, to dine with some great man, and was 
 accompanied by some other clergymen, to whom 
 he gave their cue. They were all in their canoni- 
 cals. When they arrive at the house, the coach- 
 man opens the door, and lets down the steps. 
 Down steps the Dean, very reverendly in his black 
 robes ; after him comes another personage, equally 
 black and dignified ; then another ; then a fourth. 
 The coachman, who recollects taking up no greater 
 number, is about to put up the steps, when 
 another clergyman descends. After giving way to 
 this other, he proceeds with great confidence to 
 toss them up, when lo ! another comes. Well, 
 there cannot, he thinks, be well more than six. 
 He is mistaken. Down comes a seventh, then an 
 eighth ; then a ninth ; all with decent intervals ; 
 the coach, in the mean time, rocking as if it were 
 giving birth to so many daemons. The coachman 
 can conclude no less. He cries out, " The devil ! 
 the devil ! " and is preparing to run away, when 
 they all burst into laughter at the success of their 
 joke. They had gone round as they descended, 
 and got in at the other door. 
 
 We remember in our boyhood an edifying com- 
 ment on the proverb of "all is not gold that 
 glistens." The spectacle made such an impression 
 
COACHES. X07 
 
 upon us, that we recollect the very spot, which 
 was at the corner of a road in the way from West- 
 minster to Kennington, near a stonemason's. It 
 was a severe winter, and we were out on a holiday, 
 thinking, perhaps, of the gallant hardships to 
 which the ancient soldiers accustomed themselves, 
 when we suddenly beheld a group of hackney- 
 coachmen, not, as Spenser says of his witch, 
 
 Busy, as seemed, about some wicked gin, 
 
 but pledging each other in what appeared to us to 
 be little glasses of cold water. What temperance, 
 thought we ! What extraordinary and noble con- 
 tent ! What more than Roman simplicity ! There 
 are a set of poor Englishmen, of the homeliest 
 order, in the very depth of winter, quenching their 
 patient and honourable thirst with modicums of 
 cold water ! O true virtue and courage ! O sight 
 worthy of the Timoleons and Epaminondases ! 
 We know not how long we remained in this error ; 
 but the first time we recognized the white devil for 
 what it was — the first time we saw through the 
 chrystal purity of its appearance — was a great blow 
 to us. We did not then know what the drinkers 
 went through; and this reminds us that we have 
 omitted one great redemption of the hackney- 
 coachman's character — his being at the mercy of 
 all sorts of chances and weathers. Other drivers 
 have their settled hours and pay. He only is at 
 the mercy of every call and every casualty ; he only 
 is dragged without notice, like the damned in 
 Milton, into the extremities of wet and cold, from 
 his alehouse fire to the freezing rain ; he only must 
 
»o8 LEIGH HUNT.' 
 
 go any where, at what hour and to whatever place 
 you choose, his old rheumatic limbs shaking under 
 his weight of rags, and the snow and sleet beating 
 into his puckered face, through streets which the 
 wind scours like a channel.^ 
 
 [FROM] A VISIT TO THE ZOOLO- 
 GICAL GARDENS. 
 
 [" New Monthly Magazine," Aug. 1836. " Men, Women, 
 and Books," 1847. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 ^ WENT to the Zoological Gardens the 
 other day, for the first time, to see my 
 old friends, " the wild beasts " (grim 
 intimates of boyhood), and enjoy their 
 lift in the world from their lodgings in Towers and 
 Exeter Changes, where they had no air, and where 
 I remember an elephant wearing boots, because 
 the rats gnawed his feet ! The first thing that 
 struck me, next to the beauty of the Gardens, and 
 the pleasant thought that such flowery places 
 were now prepared for creatures whom we lately 
 thrust into mere dens and dust-holes, was the 
 quantity of life and energy presented to one's eyes ! 
 What motion ! — What strength ! — What active 
 elegance ! What prodigious chattering, and bril- 
 liant colours in the macaws and parrakeets ! What 
 fresh, clean, and youthful salience in the lynx! 
 What a variety of dogs, all honest fellows appa- 
 rently, of the true dog kind ; and how bounding, 
 
 ^ One of C. Lamb's favourite papers. See "Autobio- 
 graphy," p. 250. 
 
VISIT TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. 109 
 
 how intelligent, how fit to guajd our doors and 
 our children, and scamper all over the country 
 And then the Persian greyhound ! How like a 
 patrician dog (better even than Landseer's), and 
 made as if expressly to wait upon a Persian prince : 
 its graceful slenderness, darkness, and long silken 
 ears, matching his own gentlemanly figure and 
 well-dressed beard ! 
 
 THE BEAR. 
 
 It is curious to find oneself (literally) hand and 
 glove with a bear ; giving him buns, and watching 
 his face, like a schoolboy's, to see how he likes 
 them. A reflection rises — "if it were not for 
 those bars, perhaps he would be eating me." Yet 
 how mild they and his food render him. We 
 scrutinize his countenance and manners at leisure, 
 and are amused with his apparently indolent yet 
 active lumpishness, his heavy kind of intelligence 
 which will do nothing more than is necessary, his 
 almost hand -like use of his long, awkward -looking 
 toes, and the fur which he wears clumsily about 
 him like a watchman's great-coat. The darker 
 bears look somehow more natural ; at least to 
 those whose imaginations have not grown up 
 amidst polar narrative. The white bear in these 
 Gardens has a horrible mixed look of innocence 
 and cruelty. Some Roman tyrant kept a bear as 
 one of his executioners, and called it *' Innocence." 
 We could imagine it to have had just such a face. 
 From that smooth, un impressible aspect there is 
 no appeal. He has no ill-will to you ; only he is 
 fond of your flesh, and would cat you up as meekly 
 
MO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 as you would sup milk, or swallow a custard. 
 Imagine his arms around you, and your fate de- 
 pending upon what you could say to him. You feel 
 that you might as well talk to a devouring statue, 
 or to the sign of the " Bear" in Piccadilly, or to a 
 guillotine, or to the cloak of Nessus, or to your 
 own great-coat (to ask it to be not so heavy), or to 
 the smooth-faced wife of an ogre, hungry and deaf, 
 and one that did not understand your language. ' 
 
 THE ELEPHANT. 
 
 The more one considers an elephant, the more 
 he makes good his claim to be considered the 
 Doctor Johnson of the brute creation. He is huge, 
 potent, sapient, susceptible of tender impressions ; 
 is a good fellow : likes as much water as the other 
 did tea ; gets on at a great uncouth rate when he 
 walks ; and though perhaps less irritable and 
 melancholy, can take a witty revenge ; as witness 
 the famous story of the tailor that pricked him, and 
 whom he drenched with ditch-water. If he were 
 suddenly gifted with speech, and we asked him 
 whether he liked his imprisonment, the first words 
 he would utter would unquestionably be — " Why, 
 no, sir." Nor is it to be doubted, when going to 
 dinner, that he would echo the bland sentiment of 
 our illustrious metropolitan, on a like occasion, 
 " Sir, I like to dine." If asked his opinion of his 
 keeper, he would say, *'Why, sir, Hipkins is, 
 
 1 " [This] animal resembles many respectable gentlemen 
 whom we could name. When he wishes to attack anybody 
 he rises on his hind legs, as men do in the House of Com- 
 mons." — Table Talk, 1851. 
 
A LETTER TO THE BELLS. iri 
 
 upon the whole, * a good fellow ' — like myself 
 {smiling) — but not quite so considerate ; he knows 
 I love him, and presumes a little too much upon 
 my forbearance. He teases me for the amusement 
 of the bystanders. Sir, Hipkins takes the display 
 of allowance for the merit of ascendancy." 
 
 This is what the elephant manifestly thought on 
 the present occasion ; for the keeper set a little 
 dog at him, less to the amusement of the bystanders 
 than he fancied ; and the noble beast, after butting 
 the cur out of the way, and taking care to spare 
 him as he advanced (for one tread of his foot would 
 have smashed the little pertinacious wretch as flat 
 as a pancake), suddenly made a stop, and, in 
 rebuke of both of them, uttered a high indignant 
 scream, much resembling a score of cracked 
 trumpets. 
 
 A LETTER TO THE BELLS OF A 
 PARISH CHURCH IN ITALY.^ 
 
 ["New Monthly Magazine," 1825.] 
 
 fOR God's sake, dear bells, why this 
 j^ eternal noise ? Why do you make this 
 everlasting jangling and outcry ? Is it 
 not enough that the whole village talk, 
 but you must be talking too ? Are you the repre- 
 sentative of all the gossip in the neighbourhood ? 
 Now, they tell me, you inform us that a friar is 
 
 1 In this article use has been made of a copy in the pos- 
 session of Mr. Alexander Ireland, containing corrections in 
 the handwriting of Leigh Hunt.— Ed. 
 
113 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 dead : now you jingle a blessing on the vines and 
 olives, "babbling o' green fields : " anon you start 
 away in honour of a marriage, and jangle as if the 
 devil were in you. Your zeal for giving information 
 may be generous where there are no newspapers ; 
 but when you have once informed us that a friar is 
 dead, where is the necessity of repeating the same 
 intelligence for twelve hours together? Did any 
 one ever hear of a newspaper which contained 
 nothing from beginning to end but a series of para- 
 graphs, informing us that a certain gentleman was 
 no more ? 
 
 Died yesterday, Father Paul — 
 Died yesterday. Father Paul — 
 Died yesterday, Father Paul — 
 
 and so on from nine in the morning till nine at 
 night ? You shall have some information in return, 
 very necessary to be known by all the bells in 
 Christendom. Learn then, sacred, but at the same 
 time thoughtless tintinnabularies, that there are 
 dying, as well as dead, people in the world, and 
 sick people who will die if they are not encouraged. 
 What must be the effect of this mortal note un- 
 ceasingly reiterated in their ears ? Who would set 
 a whining fellow at a sick man's door to repeat to 
 him all day long, "Your neighbour's dead ; — your 
 neighbour's dead." 
 
 But you say, '* It is to remind the healthy, and 
 not the dying, that we sound ; and the few must 
 give way to the many." Good : it delights me to 
 hear you say so, because everything will of course 
 be changed in the economy of certain governments, 
 
A LETTER TO THE BELLS. 113 
 
 except yourselves. But in this particular instance 
 allow me to think you are mistaken. I differ from 
 a belfry with hesitation. Triple bob majors are 
 things before which it becomes a philosophic in- 
 quirer to be modest. But have we not memoran- 
 dums enough to this good end? Have we not 
 coughs, colds, fevers, plethoras, deaths of all sorts 
 occurring round about us, old faces, churchyards, 
 accidents infinite, books, cookery books, wars, 
 apothecaries, gin-shops? You remind the sick 
 and the dying too forcibly : but you are much 
 mistaken if you think that others regard your 
 importunity of advice in any other light than that 
 of a nuisance. They fnay get used to it ; but what 
 then ? So much the worse for your admonitions. 
 In like manner they get used to a hundred things 
 which do them no sort of good ; which only tend 
 to keep their moods and tempers in a duller state 
 of exasperation. 
 
 Then the marriages. Dear bells, do you ever 
 consider that there are people who have been 
 married two years, as well as two hours. What 
 here becomes of your maxim of the few giving way 
 to the many ? Have all the rest of the married 
 people, think you, made each other deaf, so that 
 they cannot hear the sound ? It may be sport to 
 the new couple, but it is death to the old ones. If 
 a pair or so love one another almost as much as if 
 they had never been married, at least they are 
 none the better for you. If they look kindly at 
 one another when they hear the sound, do you 
 think it is not in spite of the bells, as well as for 
 sweetness of recollection ? 
 
114 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 In my country it is bad enough. A bell shall go 
 for hours telling us that Mr. Ching is dead. 
 
 *• Ring, ring, ring— Ching, Ching, Ching— Oh 
 Ching ! — Ah Ching, Ching ! I say — Ching is gone 
 — Gone, gone, gone — Good people, listen to the 
 steeple — Ching, Ching, Ching." 
 
 " Ay," says a patient in his bed, *' / knew him. 
 He had the same palsy as I have." 
 
 " Mercy on us," cries an old woman in the next 
 house, *' there goes poor Mr. Ching, sure enough." 
 
 *' I just had a pleasant thought," says a sick 
 mourner, '* and now that bell ! that melancholy 
 bell ! " 
 
 "The bell will go for me, mother, soon," ob- 
 serves a poor child to its weeping parent. 
 
 " What will become of my poor children ? " ex- 
 claims a dying father. 
 
 It would be useful to know how many deaths are 
 hastened by a bell : at least how many recoveries 
 are retarded. There are sensitive persons, not 
 otherwise in ill-health, who find it difficult to heai 
 the sound without tears. What must they feel on 
 a sick bed ! As for the unfeeling, who are the 
 only persons to be benefited, they care for it no 
 more than for the postman's. 
 
 But in England we can at least reckon upon 
 shorter bell-ringings, and upon long intervals with- 
 out any. W^e have not bells every day as they 
 have here, except at the universities. The saints 
 in the protestant calendar are quiet. Our belfries 
 also are thicker ; the clappers do not come swing- 
 ing and flaring out of window, like so many scolds. 
 Italians talk of music ; but I must roundly ask, 
 
A LETTER TO THE BELLS. 115 
 
 how came Italian ears to put up with this music of 
 the Chinese ? But you belong to that corner of 
 earth exclusively, and ought all to return thither. 
 1 am loth to praise anything Mussulman in these 
 times ; but to give the Turk his due, he is not ad- 
 dicted to superfluous noise. His belfry -men cannot 
 deafen a neighbourhood all day long with the death 
 of an Imaun, for they are themselves the bells. 
 Alas ! why do not steeples catch cold, and clappers 
 require a gargle ? Why must things that have no 
 feeling — belfries, and one's advisers — be exclusively 
 gifted with indefatigability of tongue ? 
 
 Lastly, your tunes ! I thought, in Italy, that 
 anything which undertook to be musical, would be 
 in some way or other truly so — harmonious, if not 
 various ; various and new, if not very harmonious. 
 But I must say our bells in England have double 
 your science. I once sang a duet with St. Clement's 
 Church in the Strand. Indeed, I have often done 
 it, returning from a symposium in the Temple. 
 The tune was the hundred and fourth psalm. I 
 took the second. And this reminds me that 
 our English bells have the humanity to catch a 
 cold now and then, or something like it. They 
 will lose two or three of their notes at a time. I 
 used to humour this infirmity in my friend St. 
 Clement's, as became an old acquaintance, and 
 always waited politely till he resumed. But in 
 Italy the bells have the oddest, and at the same 
 time the most unfading and inexorable hops of 
 tunes, that can be imagined. 
 
 Light quirks of music, broken and uneven. 
 Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven. 
 
ii6 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 One might suppose that the steeple, in some un- 
 accountable fit of merriment, struck up a country- 
 dance, like that recorded in Mr. Monk Lewis's 
 account of Orpheus : — 
 
 While an arm of the sea. 
 
 Introduced by a tree, 
 To a fair young whale advances ; 
 
 And making a leg. 
 
 Says, " Miss, may I beg 
 Your fin for the two next dances ? " 
 
 I used to wonder at this, till one day I heard 
 the host announced in a procession by as merry a 
 set of fiddles, as ever played to a ship's company. 
 The other d5y a dead bishop was played out in 
 church to the tune of Di piacer. But I forget I 
 am writing a letter ; and luckily my humour, as 
 well as my paper, is out. Besides, the bells have 
 left off before me ; for which I am their 
 
 Much obliged, exhausted humble servant, 
 MiSOCROTALUS. 
 
 THE TRUE ENJOYMENT OF SPLEN- 
 DOUR—A CHINESE APOLOGUE. 
 
 ["The Reflector," No. III., Art. XIX., 1812. "A Day 
 by the Fire," 1870.] 
 
 )OUBTLESS, saith the illustrious Me, 
 he that gaineth much possession hath 
 need of the wrists of Hong and the 
 seriousness of Shan-Fee, since palaces 
 are not built with a teaspoon, nor are to be kept 
 
THE TRUE ENJOYMENT OF SPLENDOUR. 117 
 
 by one who runneth after butterflies. But above 
 all it is necessary that he who carrieth a great 
 burden, whether of gold or silver, should hold his 
 head as lowly as is necessary, lest in lifting it on 
 high he bring his treasure to nought, and lose with 
 the spectators the glory of true gravity, which is 
 meekness. 
 
 Quo, who was the son of Quee, who was the son 
 of Quee-Fong, who was the five hundred and 
 fiftieth in lineal descent from the ever-to-be- 
 remembered Fing, chief minister of the Emperor 
 Yau, one day walked out into the streets of Pekin 
 in all the lustre of his rank. Quo, besides the 
 gredtness of his birth and the multitude of his 
 accomplishments, was a courtier of the first order, 
 and his pigtail was proportionate to his merits, for 
 it hung down to the ground and kissed the dust as 
 it went with its bunch of artificial roses. Ten 
 huge and sparkling rings, which encrusted his 
 hands with diamonds, and almost rivalled the sun 
 that struck on them, led the ravished eyes of the 
 beholders to the more precious enormity of his 
 nails, which were each an inch long, and by proper 
 nibbing might have taught the barbarians of the 
 West to look with just scorn on their many writing- 
 machines. But even these were nothing to the 
 precious stones that covered him from head to foot. 
 His bonnet, in which a peacock's feather was stuck 
 in a most engaging manner, was surmounted by a 
 sapphire of at least the size of a pigeon's egg; 
 his shoulders and sides sustained a real burden of 
 treasure ; and as he was one of the handsomest 
 men at court, being exceedingly corpulent, and, 
 
ii8 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 indeed, as his flatterers gave out, hardly able to 
 walk, it may be imagined that he proceeded at no 
 undignified pace. He would have ridden in his 
 sedan had he been lighter of body ; but so much 
 unaffected corpulence was not to be concealed, 
 and he went on foot that nobody might suspect 
 him of pretending to a dignity he did not possess. 
 Behind him, three servants attended, clad in most 
 gorgeous silks ; the middle one held his umbrella 
 over his head ; he on the right bore a fan of ivory, 
 whereon were carved the exploits of Whay-Quang ; 
 and he on the left sustained a purple bag on each 
 arm, one containing opium and Areca-nut, the 
 other the ravishing preparation of Gin-Seng, which 
 possesses the Five Relishes. All the servants 
 looked the same way as their master — that is to 
 say, straightforward, with their eyes majestically 
 half-shut, only they cried every now and then 
 with a loud voice, "Vanish before the illustrious 
 Quo, favourite of the mighty Brother of the Sun 
 and Moon." 
 
 Though the favourite looked neither to the right 
 nor to the left, he could not but perceive the great 
 homage that was paid him as well by the faces as 
 the voices of the multitude. But one person, a 
 Bonze, seemed transported beyond all the rest 
 with an enthusiasm of admiration, and followed at 
 a respectful distance from his side, bowing to the 
 earth at every ten paces, and exclaiming, "Thanks 
 to my lord for his jewels ! " After repeating this 
 for about six times, he increased the expressions of 
 his gratitude, and said, *' Thanks to my illustrious 
 lord from his poor servant for his glorious jewels," 
 
THE TRUE ENJOYMENT OF SPLENDOUR. 119 
 
 — and then again, "Thanks to my illustrious lord, 
 whose eye knoweth not degradation, from his poor 
 servant, who is not fit to exist before him, for his 
 jewels that make the rays of the sun like ink." In 
 short, the man's gratitude was so great, and its 
 language delivered in phrases so choice, that Quo 
 could contain his curiosity no longer, and turning 
 aside, demanded to know his meaning. ** I have 
 not given you the jewels," said the favourite, 
 * ' and why should you thank me for them ? " 
 
 " Refulgent Quo ! " answered the Bonze, again 
 bowing to the earth, " what you say is as true as 
 the five maxims of Fo, who was born without a 
 father ; but your slave repeats his thanks, and is 
 indeed infinitely obliged. You must know, O 
 dazzling son of Quee, that of all my sect I have 
 perhaps the greatest taste for enjoying myself. 
 Seeing my lord therefore go by, I could not but be 
 transported at having so great a pleasure, and said 
 to myself, * The great Quo is very kind to me and 
 my fellow-citizens : he has taken infinite labour to 
 acquire his magnificence, he takes still greater 
 pains to preserve it, and all the while, I, who am 
 lying under a shed, enjoy it for nothing.' " 
 
 A hundred years after, when the Emperor 
 Whang heard this story, he diminished the expen- 
 diture of his household one half, and ordered the 
 dead Bonze to be raised to the rank of a Colao.' 
 
 1 " How the Chinese came to invent tea, as Sancho would 
 say, we do not know ; but it is the most ingenious, humane, 
 and poetical of their discoveries. It is their epic poem" 
 ("The Indicator,— Table Wits at Breakfast "). 
 
I20 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 WIT MADE EASY 
 
 OR A HINT TO WORD-CATCHERS.^ 
 
 ["New Monthly Magazine," May, 1825. "Printing 
 Machine," July, 1835. " Wishing Cap Papers," 1874.] 
 
 A. 
 
 ERE comes B., the liveliest yet most 
 
 tiresome of word -catchers. I wonder 
 
 whether he'll have wit enough to hear 
 
 good news of his mistress. — ^Well, B., 
 
 my dear boy, I hope I see you well. 
 
 B. I hope you do, my dear A. , otherwise you 
 have lost your eyesight. 
 
 A. Good. Well, how do you do? 
 
 B. How? Why as other people do. You 
 would not have me eccentric, would you ? 
 
 A. Nonsense. I mean, how do you find your- 
 self? 
 
 B. Find myself ! Where's the necessity of find- 
 ing myself? I have not been lost. 
 
 A. Incorrigible dog ! come now ; to be serious. 
 
 B. {comes closer to A. and looks very serious). 
 
 A, Well, what now? 
 
 B. I am come, to be serious. 
 
 A. Come now ; nonsense, B., leave off this. 
 {Laying his hand on his arm. ) 
 
 B, {looking down at his arm). I can't leave off 
 
 ' In this article use has been made of a copy in the posses- 
 sion of Mr. Alexander Ireland, containing corrections in the 
 handwriting of Leigh Hunt.— Ed, 
 
WIT MADE EASY. 121 
 
 this. It would look very absurd to go without a 
 sleeve. 
 
 A. Ah, ha ! You make me laugh in spite of 
 myself. How's Jackson ? 
 
 B. The deuce he is ! How's Jackson, is he? 
 Well I never should have thought that. How can 
 Howe be Jackson? "Surname and arms," I sup- 
 pose, of some rich uncle ? I have not seen him 
 gazetted. 
 
 A. Good-bye. 
 
 B. {detaining him). ** Good Bye ! " What a 
 sudden enthusiasm in favour of some virtuous man 
 of the name of Bye ! ^^ Good Bye !" — To think of 
 Ashton standing at the corner of the street, doat- 
 ing aloud on the integrity of a Mr. Bye ! 
 
 A. Ludicrous enough. I can't help laughing, I 
 confess. But laughing does not always imply 
 merriment. You do not delight us, Jack, with 
 these sort of jokes, but tickle us; and tickling may 
 give pain. 
 
 B. Don't accept it then. You need not take 
 everything that is given you. 
 
 A. You'll want a straightforward answer some 
 day, and then 
 
 B. You'll describe a circle about me, before you 
 give it. Well, that's your affair, not mine. You'll 
 astonish the natives, that's all. 
 
 A. It's great nonsense, you must allow, 
 
 B. I can't see why it is greater nonsense than 
 any other pronoun. 
 
 A, {in despair). Well, it's of no use, I see. 
 
 B. Excuse me : it is of the very greatest use. I 
 don't know a part of speech more useful, /t per- 
 
taa LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 forms all the greatest offices of nature, and con- 
 tains, in fact, the whole agency and mystery of the 
 world. It rains. It is fine weather. It freezes. 
 It thaws. It (which is very odd) is one o'clock. 
 **// has been a very frequent observation." // 
 goes. Here it goes. How goes it ? — (which, by 
 the way, is a translation from the Latin, Eo, is, it ; 
 jEo, I go ; is, thou goest ; it, he or it goes. In 
 short 
 
 A. In short, if I wanted a dissertation on it, 
 now's the time for it. But I don't ; so, good bye. 
 {Going) — I saw Miss M. last night. 
 
 B. The devil you did ! Where was it ? 
 
 A. {to himself). Now I have him, and will 
 revenge myself. Where was it ? Where was it, 
 eh ? Oh, you must know a great deal more about 
 it than I do. 
 
 B. Nay, my dear fellow, do tell me. I'm on 
 thorns. 
 
 A. On thorns ! Very odd thorns. I never saw 
 an acanthus look so like a pavement. 
 
 B. Come now, to be serious. 
 
 A,, {comes close to B. and looks tragic). 
 
 B. He, he ! Very fair, egad. But do tell me 
 now where was she ? How did she look ? Who 
 was with her ? 
 
 A. Oh, ho ! Hoo was with her, was he ? Well, 
 I wanted to know his name. I couldn't tell 
 who the devil it was. But I say. Jack, who''s 
 Hoo? 
 
 B. Good. He, he ! Devilish fair ! But now, 
 my dear Will, for God's sake, you know how 
 interested I am. 
 
JT/Z MADE EASY. 123 
 
 A. The deuce you are ! I always took you for 
 a disinterested fellow. I always said of Jack B. , 
 Jack's apt to overdo his credit for wit ; but a more 
 honest disinterested fellow I never met with. 
 
 B. Well, then, as you think so, be merciful. 
 Where is Miss M. ? 
 
 A. This is more astonishing news than any. 
 Ware is Miss M. I know her passion for music ; 
 but this is wonderful. Good Heavens ! To think 
 of a delicate young lady dressing herself in man's 
 clothes, and leading the band at a theatre under 
 the name of Ware. 
 
 B. Now, my dear Will, consider. I acknow- 
 ledge I have been tiresome ; I confess it is a bad 
 habit, this word-catching ; but consider my love. 
 
 A. {falls in an attitude of musing). 
 
 B. Well. 
 
 A. Don't interrupt me. I am considering your 
 love. 
 
 B. I repent ; I am truly sorry. What shall I 
 do? {laying his hand on his heart). — I'll give up 
 this cursed habit. 
 
 A. You will ? — upon honour ? 
 
 B. Upon my honour. 
 
 A. On the spot ? 
 
 B. Now, this instant. Now, and for ever. 
 
 A. Strip away, then. 
 
 B. Strip? for what? 
 
 A. You said you'd give up that cursed habit. 
 
 B. Now, my dear A. , for the love of everything 
 that is sacred ; for the love of your own love 
 
 A, Will you promise me sincerely ? 
 
 B, Heart and soul. 
 
1.4 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 A. Step over the way, then, into the coffee- 
 house, and I'll tell you. 
 
 Street-sweeper. Plase your honour, pray remem- 
 ber the poor swape. 
 
 B, My friend, I'll never forget you, if that will 
 be of any service. I'll think of you next year. 
 
 A. What again ! 
 
 B. The last time,' as I hope to be saved. Here, 
 my friend; there's a shilling for you. Charity 
 covers a multitude of bad jokes. 
 
 Street-sweeper. God send your honour thousands 
 of them. 
 
 B. The jokes or the shillings, you rascal? 
 
 Street-sweeper. Och, the shillings. Divil a bit 
 the bad jokes. I can make them myself, and a 
 shilling's no joke any how. 
 
 A. What ! really silent ! and in spite of the dog's 
 equivocal Irish face ! Come, B. , I now see you 
 can give up a jest, and are really in love ; and your 
 mistress, I will undertake to say, will not be sorry 
 to be convinced of both. Women like to begin 
 with merriment well enough ; but they prefer 
 coming to a grave conclusion. 
 
THE PRINCE ON ST. PATRICK'S DAY. 135 
 
 THE PRINCE ON ST. PATRICK'S 
 DAY. 
 
 ["Examiner, 
 1850.] 
 
 March 22nd, 1812. "Autobiography," 
 
 I HE same page [of "The Morning Post "] 
 contained also a set of wretched com 
 monplace lines in French, Italian 
 Spanish, and English, literally address 
 Prince Regent in the following terms 
 among others : — "You are the Glory of the people 
 — " You are the Protector of the Arts" — " You are 
 the Macetias of the age " — " Wherever you appear 
 you conquer all hearts, wipe away tears, excite 
 desire and love, and win beauty towards you " — 
 "You breathe eloquence'^ — "You inspire the 
 Graces " — " You are Adonis in loveliness. " " Thus 
 gifted " it proceeds in English, — 
 
 Thus gifted with each grace of mind, 
 Born to delight and bless mankind ; 
 Wisdom, with Pleasure in her train, 
 Great Prince ! shall signalize thy reign : 
 To Honour, Virtue, Truth allied ; 
 The nation's safeguard and its pride ; 
 With monarchs of immortal fame 
 Shall bright renown enrol the name. 
 
 What person, unacquainted with the true state of 
 the case, would imagine, in reading these astound- 
 ing eulogies, that this " Glory of the people " was 
 the subject of millions of shrugs and reproaches ! 
 — that this *^ Protector of the Arts" had named a 
 wretched foreigner for his historical painter, in 
 
236 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 disparagement or in ignorance of the merits of his 
 own countrymen ! — that this ^^ Macenas of the age" 
 patronized not a single deserving writer ! that this 
 ** Breather of eloquence " could not say a few decent 
 extempore words — if we are to judge, at least, from 
 what he said to his regiment on its embarkation 
 for Portugal ! — that 'Ocixa''^ Conqueror of hearts'"'' \i?& 
 the disappointer of hopes ! — that this ^'•Exciter of 
 desire'''' [bravo ! Messieurs of the " Post ! "] — this 
 ^^ Adonis in lovelittess'''' was a corpulent man of 
 fifty ! — in short, that this delightful^ blissful, wise, 
 pleasurable^ honourable, virtuous, true, and im- 
 mortal prince, was a violator of his word, a liber- 
 tine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of 
 domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and 
 demireps, a man who has just closed half a cen- 
 tury without one single claim on the gratitude of 
 his country, or the respect of posterity ! ^ 
 
 1^ " This article, no doubt, was very bitter and contemp- 
 tuous ; therefore in the legal sense of the term very libellous ; 
 the more so, inasmuch as it was very true .... it did but 
 express what all the world were feeling." — " Autobiography 
 of L. H.," 1850. 
 
 The above is the most stinging portion of the article for 
 which Leigh Hunt and his brother John (the proprietor 
 and publisher of " The Examiner ") were imprisoned from 
 Feb. 1813 to Feb. 1815. Lord Brougham's eloquent de- 
 fence of the libel is a masterpiece of ingenious irony. See 
 " Bibliography," No. 62. — Ed. 
 

 ^ 
 
1'^HAT IS POETRY i la? 
 
 AN ANSWER TO THE QUESTION, 
 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 ["Imagination and Fancy," 1844.] 
 
 fOETRY, Strictly and artistically so 
 called, that is to say, considered not 
 1^^ merely as poetic feeling, which is more 
 or less shared by all the world, but as 
 the operation of that feeling, such as we see it in 
 the poet's book, is the utterance of a passion for 
 truth, beauty, and power, embodying and illustrat- 
 ing its conceptions by imagination and fancy, and 
 modulating its language on the principle of variety 
 in uniformity. Its means are whatever the universe 
 contains ; and its ends, pleasure and exaltation. 
 Poetry stands between nature and convention, 
 keeping alive among us the enjoyment of the ex- 
 ternal and the spiritual world : it has constituted 
 the most enduring fame of nations; and, next to 
 Love and Beauty, which are its parents, is the 
 greatest proof to man of the pleasure to be found 
 in all things, and of the probable riches of in- 
 finitude. . . . 
 
 Poetry is imaginative passion. The quickest 
 and subtlest test of the possession of its essence is 
 in expression ; the variety of things to be expressed 
 shows the amount of its resources ; and the con- 
 tinuity of the song completes the evidence of its 
 strength and greatness. He who has thought, 
 feeling, expression, imagination, action, character, 
 and continuity, all in the largest amount and highest 
 degree, is the greatest poet. . . . 
 
»30 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 and hubbubs of Animal Spirits ; — all so general 
 yet particular, so demanding distinct recognition, 
 and yet so baffling the attempt with their numbers 
 and their confusion, that a thousand masquerades 
 in one would have seemed to threaten less torment 
 to the pen of a reporter. 
 
 « « * « • 
 
 [It is not to be supposed] that everything witty or 
 humorous excites laughter. It may l?e accompa- 
 nied with a sense of too many other things to do 
 so ; with too much thought, with too great a per- 
 fection even, or with pathos and sorrow. All ex- 
 tremes meet ; excess of laughter itself runs into tears, 
 and mirth becomes heaviness. Mirth itself is too 
 often but melancholy in disguise. The jests of the 
 fool in " Lear" are the sighs of knowledge. But 
 as far as Wit and Humour affect us on their own 
 accounts, or unmodified by graver considerations, 
 laughter is their usual result and happy ratifica- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 Wit is the clash and reconcilement of incongrui- 
 ties ; the meeting of extremes round a corner ; the 
 flashing of an artificial light from one object to 
 another, disclosing some unexpected resemblance 
 or connection. It is the detection of likeness in 
 unlikeness, of sympathy in antipathy, or of the 
 extreme points of antipathies themselves, made 
 friends by the very merriment of their introduc- 
 tion. The mode, or form, is comparatively of no 
 consequence, provided it give no trouble to the 
 apprehension : and you may bring as many ideas 
 together as can pleasantly assemble. But a single 
 one is nothing. Two ideas are as necessary to 
 
 % 
 
IVIT AND HUMOUR. 131 
 
 Wit,^ as couples are to marriages ; and the union 
 is happy in proportion to the agreeableness of the 
 offspring. . . . 
 
 Humour^ considered as the object treated of by 
 the humorous writer, and not as the power of 
 treating it, derives its name from the prevailing 
 quality of moisture in the bodily temperament ; and 
 is a tendency of the mind to run in particular direc- 
 tions of thought or feeling more amusing than 
 accountable ; at least in the opinion of society. It 
 is, therefore, either in reality or appearance, a 
 thing inconsistent. It deals in incongruities of 
 character and circumstance, as Wit does in those 
 of arbitrary ideas. The more the incongruities the 
 better, provided they are all in nature ; but two, 
 at any rate, are as necessary to Humour, as the 
 two ideas are to Wit ; and the more strikingly 
 they differ yet harmonize, the more amusing the 
 result. Such is the melting together of the pro- 
 pensities to love and war in the person of exquisite 
 Uncle Toby; of the gullible and the manly in 
 Parson Adams ; of the professional and the indi- 
 vidual, or the accidental and the permanent, in 
 the Canterbury Pilgrims; of the objectionable and 
 the agreeable, the fat and the sharp-witted, in 
 FalstafT ; of honesty and knavery in Gil Bias ; of 
 pretension and non-performance in the Bullies of 
 the dramatic poets ; of folly and wisdom in Don 
 Quixote ; of shrewdness and doltishness in Sancho 
 
 1 "That active combination of ideas, called wit, which 
 like the needle finds sympathy in the most remote objects, 
 and almost unites logic with fancy."— Essay on Mackenzie. 
 " Classic Tales.* 
 
132 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Panza; and, it may be added, in the discordant 
 yet harmonious co-operation of Don Quixote and 
 his attendant, considered as a pair. . . . 
 
 THE REPRESENTATION OF 
 TRAGEDY. 
 
 [*' The News," 1805. " Critical Essays on the Per- 
 formances of the London Theatres," 1807.] 
 
 [HE drama is the most perfect imitation 
 of human life ; by means of the stage it 
 ^ represents man in all his varieties of 
 mind, his expressions of manner, and his 
 power of action, and is the first of moralities be- 
 cause it teaches us in the most impressive way the 
 knowledge of ourselves When its lighter species, 
 which professes to satirize, forsakes this imitation 
 for caricature it becomes farce, whether it still be 
 denominated comedy, as we say the comedies of 
 Reynolds, or whether it be called opera, as we 
 say the operas of Cherry and Cobb : the actors 
 in these pieces must act unnaturally or they will do 
 nothing, but in real comedy they will act naturally 
 for the same reason. In the graver kind of drama, 
 however, their imitation of life is perfect ; not as 
 it copies real and simple manners, but as it accords 
 with our habitual ideas of human character ; those 
 who have produced the general idea that tragedy 
 and comedy are equally direct imitations of human 
 life, have mistaken their habitual for their experi- 
 mental knowledge. The loftier persons of tragedy 
 require an elevation of language and manner, which 
 
THE REPRESENTA TION OF TRAGEDY. 133 
 
 they never use in real life. Heroes and sages speak 
 like other men, they use their action as carelessly 
 and their looks as indifferently, and are not dis- 
 tinguished front their fellow-mortals by their per- 
 sonal but by their mental character ; but the popular 
 conception of a great man delights in dignifying 
 his external habits, not only because great men are 
 rarely seen, and therefore acquire dignity by con- 
 cealment, but because we conclude that they who 
 excel us so highly in important points can have 
 nothing unimportant about them. We can hardly 
 persuade ourselves, for instance, that Shakespearb 
 ever disputed in a club, or that MiLTON was fond of 
 smoking : the ideas of greatness and insignificance 
 associate with difficulty, and as extreme associations 
 are seldom formed but by minds of peculiar fancy 
 and vigorous thought, it is evident they will be 
 rarely entertained by the majority of the world. 
 A tragic hero, who called for his follower or his 
 horse, would in real life call for him as easily and 
 carelessly as any other man, but in tragedy such a 
 carelessness would become ludicrous : the loftiness 
 of his character must be universal ; an artist who 
 would paint the battles of Frederic of Prussia in a 
 series of pictures would study to maintain this im- 
 portant character throughout, he would not repre- 
 sent the chief sitting on horseback in a slovenly 
 manner and taking snuff, though the snuff-box 
 no doubt was of much importance in those days to 
 his majesty, who as Pope says of Prince Eugene, 
 was as great a taker of snuff as of towns : so great 
 a violence of contrast would become caricature in 
 painting, and in tragedy it would degenerate into 
 
134 " LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 burlesque. Tragedy is an imitation of life In 
 passions; it is comedy only which imitates both 
 passions and habits. 
 
 A tragic actor then is to be estimated, not as he 
 always copies nature, but as he satisfies the general 
 opinion of life and manners. He must neither on 
 the one hand debase his dignity by too natural a 
 simplicity of manner, nor on the other give it a 
 ridiculous elevation by pompousness and bombast. 
 He cannot draw much of his knowledge from real 
 life, because the loftier passions are rarely exhibited 
 in the common intercourse of mankind ; but never- 
 theless he should not indulge himself in novelties 
 of invention, because the hearts of his audience 
 will be able to judge where their experience has 
 no power. Much study should strengthen his 
 judgment, since he must perfectly understand before 
 he can feel his author and teach others to feel ; 
 where there is strong natural genius, judgment will 
 usually follow in the development of great passions, 
 but it may fail in the minute proprieties of the 
 stage : where there is not a strong natural genius, 
 the contrary will be generally found. For the 
 common actions of great characters he must study 
 the manner of the stage, for their passions nothing 
 but nature. 
 
TABLE TALK. 
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 ["The Atlas," March 14th, 1846. "Table Talk," 1851. 
 C Kent, 1889.] 
 
 [ABLE-TALK, to be perfect, should be 
 sincere without bigotry, differing with- 
 out discord, sometimes grave, always 
 agreeable, touching on deep points, 
 dwelling most on seasonable ones, and letting every- 
 body speak and be heard. During the wine after 
 dinner, if the door of the room be opened, there 
 sometimes comes bursting up the drawing-room 
 stairs a noise like that of a tap-room. Everybody 
 is shouting in order to make himself audible ; argu- 
 ment is tempted to confound itself with loudness ; 
 and there is not one conversation going forward, but 
 six, or a score. This is better than formality and 
 want of spirits ; but it is no more the right thing, 
 than a scramble is a dance, or the tap-room chorus 
 a quartette of Rossi ni. The perfection of conversa- 
 tional intercourse is when the breeding of high life 
 is animated by the fervour of genius. 
 
»3fr LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 SPENSER.' 
 [born 1552— died 1598.] 
 
 [From an article on his poetrj' in "Tait's Edinburgh 
 Magazine," Sept. 1833, being "The Wishing Cap "(New 
 Series), No. VI.] 
 
 [I VINE Poet ! sitting in the midst of thy 
 endless treasures, thy luxurious land- 
 scapes, and thy descending gods ! Fan- 
 tastic as Nature's self in the growth of 
 some few flowers of thy creation ; beauteous and 
 perfect as herself, [in] the rest. We have found 
 consolation in thee at times when almost everything 
 pained us, and when we could find it in no other 
 poet of thy nation, because the world into which 
 they took us was not equally remote. Shakespeare, 
 with all our love and reverence for him, has still 
 kept us among men and their cares, even in his 
 enchanted island and his summer-night dreams. 
 Milton will not let us breathe the air of his Para- 
 dise, undistressed by the hauntings of theology, 
 and the shadows of what was to come. Chaucer 
 has left his only romance unfinished, and will not 
 relieve us of his emotion but by mirth, and that 
 not always such as we can be merry with, or as 
 he would have liked himself had he fallen upon 
 times worthier of him. But in coming to thee, we 
 have travelled in one instant thousands of miles, 
 
 1 Leigh Hunt imitated Spenser in his youth, and praised 
 him throughout his life, see his works— /assivt, especially 
 the sonnet, " The Poets," in vol. ii.— Ed. 
 
SHAKESPEARE. 137 
 
 and to a quarter in which no sin of reality is heard. 
 Even its warfare is that of poetical childien ; of 
 demi-gods playing at romance. Around us are 
 the woods ; in our distant ear is the sea ; the 
 glimmering forms that we behold are those of 
 nymphs and deities ; or a hermit makes the loneli- 
 ness more lonely ; or we hear a horn blow, and 
 the ground trembling with the coming of a giant ; 
 and our boyhood is again existing, full of belief, 
 though its hair be turning grey ; because thou, a 
 man, hast rewritten its books, and proved the sur- 
 passing riches of its wisdom. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.^ 
 [born 1564— died 1616.] 
 
 ["Wit and Humour," 1846. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 [HAKESPEARE had as great a comic 
 genius as tragic ; and everybody would 
 think so, were it possible for comedy to 
 impress the mind as tragedy does. It 
 is true, the times he lived in, as Hazlitt has re- 
 marked, were not so foppish and ridiculous as those 
 of our prose comic dramatists, and therefore he 
 had not so much to laugh at : and it is observed 
 by the same critic, with equal truth, that his genius 
 was of too large and magnanimous a description to 
 delight in satire. But who doubts that had Shake- 
 speare lived in those inferior times, the author of 
 the character of Mercutio could have written that 
 
 1 See also *' Imagination and Fancy."— Ed. 
 
,38 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 of Dorimant ? of Benedick and Beatrice, the dia- 
 logues of Congreve? or of ** Twelfth Night" and 
 the " Taming of the Shrew," the most uproarious 
 farce ? I certainly cannot think with Dr. Johnson 
 that he wrote comedy better than tragedy ; that 
 •'his tragedy seems to be skill, and his comedy 
 instinct." I could as soon believe that the instinct 
 of Nature was confined to laughter, and that her 
 tears were shed upon principles of criticism. Such 
 may have been the Doctor's recipe for writing 
 tragedy; but "Irene" is not *' King Lear." 
 Laughter and tears are alike born with us, and so 
 was the power of exciting them with Shakespeare ; 
 because it pleased Nature to make him a complete 
 human being. 
 
 Shakespeare had wit and humour in perfection ; 
 and like every possessor of powers so happy, he 
 rioted in their enjoyment. Moliere was not fonder 
 of running down a joke : Rabelais could not give 
 loose to a more " admirable fooling." His mirth 
 is commensurate with his melancholy ; it is founded 
 on the same knowledge and feeling, and it furnished 
 him with a set-off to their oppression. WTien he 
 had been too thoughtful with Hamlet, he " took it 
 out " with Falstaff and Sir Toby. Not that he was 
 habitually melancholy. He had too healthy a 
 brain for that, and too great animal spirits ; but 
 in running the whole circle of thought, he must of 
 necessity have gone through its darkest as well as 
 brightest phases ; and the sunshine was welcome 
 in proportion. Shakespeare is the inventor of the 
 phrase, "setting the table in a roar;" of the 
 memory of Yorick ; of the stomach of Falstaff, 
 
SHAKESPEARE. ^ 139 
 
 Stuffed as full of wit as of sack. He '* wakes the 
 night-owl with a catch ; " draws ** three souls out 
 of one weaver ; " passes the ** equinoctial of Queu- 
 bus " (some glorious torrid zone, lying beyond three 
 o'clock in the morning) ; and reminds the "unco 
 righteous" for ever, that virtue, false or true, is 
 not incompatible with the recreations of "cakes 
 and ale," Shakespeare is said to have died of 
 getting out of a sick-bed to entertain his friends 
 Drayton and Ben Jonson, visitors from London. 
 He might have died a later and a graver death, 
 but he could not well have had one more genial, 
 and therefore more poetical. Far was it from dis- 
 honouring the eulogizer of " good men's feasts ; " 
 the recorder of the noble friends Antonio and 
 Bassanio ; the great thorough-going humanist, who 
 did equal justice to the gravest and the gayest mo- 
 ments of life. 
 
 It is a remarkable proof of the geniality of Shake- 
 speare's jesting, that even its abundance of ideas 
 does not spoil it ; for, in comedy as well as tragedy, 
 he is the most reflective of writers. I know but of one 
 that comes near him in this respect ; and very near 
 him (I dare to affirm) he does come, though he has 
 none of his poetry, properly so called. It is Sterne; 
 in whose " Tristram Shandy" there is not a word 
 without meaning — often of the profoundest as well 
 as kindliest sort. The professed fools of Shake- 
 speare are among the wisest of men. They talk 
 i^sop and Solomon in every jest. Yet they amuse 
 as much as they instruct us. The braggart Parolles, 
 whose name signifies words, as though he spoke 
 nothing else, scarcely utters a sentence that is not 
 
I40 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 rich with ideas ; yet his weakness and self-com- 
 mittals hang over them all like a sneaking infec^ 
 tion, and hinder our laughter from becoming re- 
 spectful. The scene in which he is taken blind- 
 fold among his old acquaintances, and so led to 
 vilify their characters, under the impression that he 
 is gratifying their enemies, is almost as good as the 
 screen-scene in the " School for Scandal." 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 [BEAUMONT, 1585— 1613. FLETCHER, 1 579 
 — J625.] 
 
 [" Wit and Humour," 1846.] 
 
 iINCE expressing, in the above volume,* 
 %jA the surprise which everybody feels at 
 % the astounding mixture of license and 
 refinement displayed by these poets (for 
 the grossness of earlier writers is but a simplicity 
 compared with it), I have come to the conclusion 
 that it was an excess of animal spirits, encouraged 
 by the demand of the times, and the intoxication 
 of applause. They were the sons of men of rank ; 
 they had been thrown upon the town in the hey- 
 day of their blood, probably with a turn for lavish 
 expenditure ; they certainly wanted money as they 
 advanced, and were glad to get it of gross audiences ; 
 they had been taught to confound loyalty with 
 servility, which subjected them to the dissolute in- 
 fluence of the court of James the First ; they came 
 
 I i.e. " Imagination and Fancy." 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. J41 
 
 among the actors and the playwrights, with ad- 
 vantages of position, perhaps of education and 
 accomplishments, superior to them all : their con- 
 fidence, their wit, their enjoyment was unbounded; 
 everybody was glad to hear what the gay gentle- 
 men had to say ; and forth they poured it accord- 
 ingly, without stint or conscience. Beaumont died 
 young ; but Fletcher, who went writing on, appears 
 to have taken a still greater license than his friend. 
 The son of the bishop had probably been tempted 
 to go farther out of bounds than the son of the 
 judge ; for Dr. Fletcher was not such a bishop as 
 Grindall or Jewel. The poet might have been 
 feught hypocrisy by his father ; and, in despising 
 it as he grew up, had gone to another extreme. 
 
 The reader of [these plays] will observe the diffe- 
 rence between the fierce weight of the satire of 
 Volpone, in which poison and suffocation are 
 brought in to aggravate, and the gayer Caricature 
 of Beaumont and Fletcher. It is equally founded 
 on truth — equally wilful and superabundant in the 
 treatment of it, but more light and happy. You 
 feel that the writers enjoyed it with a gayer laugh. 
 The pretended self-deception with which a coward 
 lies to his own thoughts — the necessity for support 
 which induces him to apply to others as cowardly 
 as himself for the warrant of their good opinion, 
 and the fascinations of vanity which impels such 
 men into the exposure which they fancy they have 
 taken the subtlest steps to guard against — are most 
 entertainingly set forth in the interview of Bassws 
 with the two bullies, and the subsequent catastrophe 
 of all three in the hands of Bacurius. The nice 
 
142 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 balance of distinction and difference in which the 
 bullies pretend to weigh the merits of kicks and 
 beatings, and the impossibility which they affect of 
 a shadow of imputation against their valours, or 
 even of the power to assume it hypothetically, 
 are masterly plays of wit of the first order. * 
 
 1 For a more particular account of Leigh Hunt's opinion 
 of these authors, and especially of the " offences against 
 decency" in their plays, see the "Remarks" prefixed to 
 his selections from them " to the exclusion of whatever is 
 morally objectionable," 1855. " [Where], in a word, is all 
 the best passion and poetry of the two friends, such as I 
 hope and believe they would have been glad to see 
 brought together ; such as would have reminded them of 
 those happiest evenings which they spent in the same 
 room, not perhaps when they had most wine in their 
 heads, and were loudest, and merriest, and least pleased, 
 but when they were most pleased both with themselves 
 and with all things, — serene, sequestered, feeling their com- 
 panionship and their poetry sufficient for them, without 
 needing the ratification of it by its fame, or echo ; such 
 evenings as those in which they wrote the description 
 of the boy by the fountain's side, or his confession as 
 Euphrasia, or Caratach's surrender to the Romans, or the 
 address to Sleep in * Valentinian,' or the divine song on 
 'Melancholy,' which must have made them feel as if they 
 had created a solitude of their own, and heard the whisper 
 of it stealing by their window." —Ed. 
 
 Jm 
 
BUTLER. J43 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 [born i6i2 — DIED 1680.] 
 ["Wit and Humoxir," 1846. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 UTLER is the wittiest of English poets, 
 and at the same time he is one of the 
 most learned, and what is more, one of 
 the wisest. His " Hudibras," though 
 naturally the most popular of his works from its 
 size, subject, and witty excess, was an accident of 
 birth and party compared with his Miscellaneous 
 Poems ; yet both abound in thoughts as great and 
 deep as the surface is sparkling ; and his genius 
 altogether, having the additional recommendation 
 of verse, might have given him a fame greater 
 than Rabelais, had his animal spirits been equal to 
 the rest of his qualifications for a universalist. At 
 the same time, though not abounding in poetic sen- 
 sibility, he was not without it. He is author of 
 the touching simile, . 
 
 Tnie as the dial to the sun. 
 Although it be not shin'd upon. 
 
 The following is as elegant as anything in Love- 
 lace or Waller : — 
 
 — What security's too strong 
 
 To guard that gentle heart from wrong. 
 
 That to its friend is glad to pass 
 
 Itself away, and all it has. 
 
 And like an anchorite, gives over 
 
 This world,y<?r the heaven of a lover 1 
 
 And thiSf if read with the seriousness and single- 
 
144 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 ness of feeling that become it, is, I think, a com- 
 parison full of as much grandeur as cordiality, — 
 
 Like Indian widows, gone to bed 
 Inflaming curtains to the dead. 
 
 You would sooner have looked for it in one of 
 Marvell's poems, than in " Hudibras." 
 
 Butler has little humour. His two heroes, 
 Hudibras and Ralph, are not so much humourists 
 as pedants. They are as little like their proto- 
 types, Don Quixote and Sancho, as two dreary 
 puppets are unlike excesses of humanity. They 
 are not even consistent with their other prototypes, 
 the Puritans, or with themselves, for they are dull 
 fellows unaccountably gifted with the author's wit. 
 In this respect, and as a narrative, the poem is a 
 failure. Nobody ever thinks of the story, except 
 to wonder at its inefficiency ; or of Hudibras him- 
 self, except' as described at his outset. He is no- 
 thing but a ludicrous figure. But considered as a 
 banter issuing from the author's own lips, on the 
 wrong side of Puritanism, and indeed on all the 
 pedantic and hypocritical abuses of human reason, 
 the whole production is a marvellous compound of 
 wit, learning, and felicitous execution. The wit is 
 pure and incessant ; the learning as quaint and 
 out-of-the-way as the subject ; the very rhymes are 
 echoing scourges, made of the peremptory and the 
 incongruous. This is one of the reasons why the 
 rhymes have been so much admired. They are 
 laughable, not merely in themselves, but from the 
 masterly will and violence with which they are 
 made to correspond to the absurdities they lash. 
 
POPE. 145 
 
 The most extraordinary license is assumed as a 
 matter of course; the accentuation jerked out of its 
 place with all the indifference and effrontery of a 
 reason "sufficing unto itself." The poem is so 
 peculiar in this respect, the laughing delight of the 
 reader so well founded, and the passages so sure to 
 be accompanied with a full measure of wit and 
 knowledge, that I have retained its best rhymes 
 throughout, and thus brought them together for 
 the first time, 
 
 Butler, like the great wit of the opposite party. 
 Marvel, was an honest man, fonder of his books 
 than of worldly success, and superior to party itself 
 in regard to final principles. He wrote a satire on 
 the follies and vices of the court, which is most 
 likely the reason why it is doubted whether he ever 
 got anything by " Hudibras;" and he was so little 
 prejudiced in favour of the schola;^hip he pos- 
 sessed, that he vindicated the born poet above the 
 poet of books, and would not have Shakespeare 
 tried by a Grecian standard. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 [born 1688— died 1744.] 
 
 t" Wit and Humour," 1846. C. Kent, 1889. j 
 
 5^ ESIDES being an admirable wit and 
 ^ satirist, and a man of the most exquisite 
 good sense. Pope was a true poet ; and 
 though in all probability his entire 
 nature could never have made him a great one 
 I. L 
 
146 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 (since the whole man contributes to form the 
 genius, and the very weakness of his organization 
 was in the way of it), yet in a different age the boy 
 who wrote the beautiful verses — 
 
 Blest be the man whose wish and care, 
 
 would have turned out, I think, a greater poet th?in 
 he was. ' He had more sensibility, thought, and 
 fancy, than was necessary for the purposes of his 
 school ; and he led a sequestered life with his 
 books and his grotto, caring little for the manners 
 he drew, and capable of higher impulses than had 
 been given him by the wits of the time of Charles 
 the Second. It was unlucky for him (if indeed it 
 did not produce a lucky variety for the reading 
 world) that Dryden came immediately before him. 
 Dryden, a robuster nature, was just great enough 
 to mislead Pope ; and French ascendancy com- 
 pleted his fate. Perhaps, after all, nothing better 
 than such a honey and such a sting as this exqui- 
 site writer developed, could have been got out of 
 his little delicate pungent nature ; and we have 
 every reason to be grateful for what they have done 
 for us. Hundreds of greater pretensions in poetry 
 have not attained to half his fame, nor did they 
 deserve it ; for they did not take half his pains. 
 Perhaps they were unable to take them, for want 
 of as good a balance of qualities. Success is gene- 
 rally commensurate with its grounds. 
 
 Pope, though a genius of a less masculine order 
 
 1 " What numbers of men, of similar constitutions witL 
 Pope, have died of surfeits, and done nothing !" — " Wishing 
 Cap Papers," 1874. 
 
AN EVENING WITH POPE. 147 
 
 than Dryden, and not possessed of his numbers or 
 his impulsiveness, had more delicacy and fancy, 
 has left more passages that have become pro- 
 verbial, and was less confined to the region of 
 matter of fact. Dryden never soared above earth, 
 however nobly he walked it. The little fragile 
 creature had wings ; and he could expand them at 
 will, and ascend, if to no great imaginative height, 
 yet to charming fairy circles just above those of the 
 world about him, disclosing enchanting visions at 
 the top of drawing-rooms, and enabling us to see 
 the spirits that wait on coffee-cups and hoop- 
 petticoats. ^ 
 
 AN EVENING WITH POPE.^ 
 
 [From "Family Journal," No. 7, June, 1825. "The 
 New Monthly Magazine." "London Journal," Sept. 5th, 
 1835. "Table Talk," 1851. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 July 4th, 1727. 
 [ESTERDAY was a day of delight. I 
 dined with Mr. Pope. The only persons 
 piresent were the venerable lady his 
 »S mother, Mrs. Martha Blount, and Mr. 
 Walscott, a great Tory, but as great a lover of 
 
 1 See also " Conversations of Pope and Swift " at the end 
 of "Table Talk," and the next essay.— Ed. 
 
 ' Supposed to have been written by Aspley Honeycomb, 
 nephew of the "Simon Honeycomb, who wrote a letter to 
 the Spectator (No. 154), which put Will into a great 
 taking." The whole " Family Journal " is edited by one 
 Harry H., "the lineal descendant of the famous Will 
 Honeycomb, of 'Spectator' [Sir Roger de Coverley] me- 
 mory." — Ed. 
 
148 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Dryden ; which Mr. Pope was pleased to infonn 
 me was the reason he had invited me to meet him. 
 Mr. Pope was in black, with a tie-wig. I could 
 not help regarding him, as he sat leaning in his 
 armchair before dinner, in the light of a portrait 
 for posterity. When he came into the room, after 
 kindly making me welcome, he took some flowers 
 out of a little basket that he had brought with him, 
 and presented them, not to Mrs. Martha, who I 
 thought looked as if she expected it, but to Mrs. 
 Pope ; which I thought very pretty and like a 
 gentleman, not in the ordinary way. But the 
 other had no reason to be displeased ; for turning 
 to her with the remainder, he said, " I was think- 
 ing of a compliment to pay you ; so I have done 
 it." He flatters with as much delicacy as Sir 
 Richard Steele ; and the ladies like it as much 
 from him. What fine-shaped fellows have I seen, 
 who could not call up half such looks into their 
 eyes ! 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 [born 1 716 — DIED 1 77 1.] 
 
 [Put together from the prefaces to various extracts from 
 Gray in " Book for a Corner," 1849.] 
 
 'RAY appears to us to be the best letter- 
 writer in the language. Others equal 
 him in particular qualities, and surpass 
 him in amount of entertainment ; but 
 none are so nearly faultless. Chesterfield wants heart, 
 and even his boasted " delicacy ; " Bolingbroke and 
 
GRAV. 149 
 
 Pope want simplicity ; Cowper is more lively than 
 strong ; Shenstone reminds you of too many rainy 
 days, Swift of too many things which he affected 
 to despise, Gibbon too much of the formalist and 
 litterateur. The most amusing of all our letter- 
 writers are Horace Walpole and Lady Mary 
 Wortley Montagu ; but though they had abun- 
 dance of wit, sense, and animal spirits, you are not 
 always sure of their veracity. Now, the " first 
 quality in a companion," as Sir William Temple 
 observes, "is truth;" and Gray's truth is as 
 manifest as his other good qualities. He has sin- 
 cerity, modesty, manliness (in spite of a somewhat 
 effeminate body), learning, good-nature, playful- 
 ness, a perfect style ; and if an air of pensiveness 
 breathes over all, it is only of that resigned and 
 contemplative sort which completes our sympathy 
 with the writer. . . . 
 
 Gray is the "melancholy Jacques" of English 
 literature, without the sullenness or causticity. 
 His melancholy is of the diviner sort of Milton and 
 Beaumont, ajid is always ready to assume a kindly 
 cheerfulness. . . . [His] Ode on a distant prospect 
 of Eton College .... is full of thought, tenderness, 
 and music, and should make the writer beloved by 
 all persons of reflection, especially those who 
 know what it is to visit the scenes of their school- 
 days. They may not all regard them in the same 
 melancholy light ; but the melancholy light will 
 cross them, and then Gray's lines will fall in upon 
 the recollection, at once like a bitter and a balm. . . . 
 We desire to say as little as possible about this 
 affecting and noble poem [the *' Elegy in a Country 
 
ISO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Churchyard "]. It is so sweet, so true, and so uni- 
 versally appreciated, that we feel inclined to be as 
 silent before it, as if listening to the wind over the 
 graves. . . . 
 
 [It] is as sweet as if written by Coleridge, and 
 as pious and universal as if religion had uttered it, 
 undisturbed by polemics. It is a quintessence of 
 humanity. 
 
 GOLDSMITH.^ 
 
 [born 1728 — DIED 1774.] 
 
 [From the Essay on Goldsmith in "Classic Tales," 
 
 1806.] 
 
 I F Goldsmith were characterized in a few 
 words, I would describe him as a writer 
 generally original, yet imitative of the 
 best models ; from these he gathered 
 all the chief qualities of style, and became elegant 
 and animated in his language ; while from ex- 
 perience ^ rather than from books he obtained his 
 knowledge, and became natural and original in his 
 thoughts. His poetry has added little to English 
 literature, because nothing that is not perfectly 
 and powerfully original can be said to add to the 
 poetical stock of a nation ; but his prose exhibits 
 this quality in the highest degree : if he was more 
 
 1 See also essay in "Wit and Humour." — Ed. 
 
 2 "Experience, which is the logic of fact." See another 
 part of the same essay. 
 
BURNS. 151 
 
 of the humourist than the wit, it was not for want 
 of invention ; humour was the familiar delight, 
 wit the occasional exercise of his genius. In short, 
 he was one of those happy geniuses who are welcome 
 to a reader in every frame of mind, for his serious- 
 ness and his gaiety are equally unaffected and 
 equally instructive. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 [born 1759 — DIED 1796.] 
 
 ["Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla," 1847. Reprinted 
 from " Ainsworth's Magazine," 1844.] 
 
 E [Burns] was pastoral poetry itself, in 
 the shape of an actual, glorious peasant, 
 vigorous as if Homer had written him, 
 and tender as generous strength or as 
 memories of the grave. Ramsey .... is but a 
 small part of Burns — is but a field in a corner com- 
 pared with the whole Scots pastoral region. He 
 has none of Burns' pathos ; none of his grandeur ; 
 none of his burning energy ; none of his craving 
 after universal good. How universal is Burns ! 
 What mirth in his cups ! What softness in his 
 tears ! What sympathy in his very satire ! What 
 manhood in everything ! If Theocritus, the inventor 
 of a loving and affecting Polyphemus, could have 
 foreseen the verses on the "Mouse" and the 
 "Daisy" turned up with the plough, the "Tarn 
 o' Shanter," " O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut," 
 
152 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 •' Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon," &c. (not 
 to mention a hundred others, which have less to 
 do with our subject), tears of admiration would 
 have rushed into his eyes. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 [born 1770— died 1850.] 
 
 [From the I^reface to the second edition of " The Feast 
 of the Poets," July nth, 1815.] 
 
 jHE author does not scruple to confess, 
 that his admiration of him [Wordsworth] 
 has become greater and greater between 
 every publication of " The Feast of the 
 He has become a convert, not indeed 
 to what he still considers as his faults, but, to use 
 a favourite phrase of these times, to the ' ' immense 
 majority " of his beauties ; — and here, it seems to 
 him, lies the great mistake, which certain intelli- 
 gent critics persist in sharing with others of a very 
 different description. It is to be observed by the 
 way, that the defects of Mr. Wordsworth are the 
 result of theory, not incapacity ; and it is with their 
 particular effect on those most calculated to under- 
 stand him that we quarrel, rather than with any- 
 thing else. But taking him as a mere author to be 
 criticised, the writers in question seem to regard 
 him as a stringer of puerilities, who has so many 
 faults that you can only wonder now and then at 
 
 1 This being the third. It appeared first in " The Re- 
 flector," 181 1. —Ed. 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 his beauties ; whereas the proper idea of him is 
 that of a noble poet, who has so many beauties that 
 you are only apt now and then, perhaps with no 
 great wisdom, to grow impatient at his faults. 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 [born 1773— died 1834.] 
 
 [" Imagination and Fancy," 1844. C. Kent, 1889.] 
 
 [OLERIDGE lived in the most extraor- 
 dinary and agitated period of modern 
 history ; and to a certain extent he was 
 so mixed up with its controversies, that 
 he was at one time taken for nothing but an apos- 
 tate republican, and at another for a dreaming 
 theosophist. The truth is, that both his politics 
 and theosophy were at the mercy of a discursive 
 genius, intellectually bold but educationally timid, 
 which, anxious, or rather willing, to bring convic- 
 tion and speculation together, mooting all points 
 as it went, and throwing the subtlest glancing 
 lights on many, ended in satisfying nobody, and 
 concluding nothing. Charles Lamb said of him, 
 that he had ** the art of making the unintelligible 
 appear intelligible." He was the finest dreamer, 
 the most eloquent talker, and the most original 
 thinker of his day ; but for want of complexional 
 energy, did nothing with all the vast prose part of 
 his mind but help the Germans to give a subtler 
 tone to criticism, and sow a few valuable seeds of 
 thought in minds worthy to receive them. Nine- 
 
154 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 tenths of his theology would apply equally well to 
 their own creeds in the mouths of a Brahmin or a 
 Mussulman. 
 
 His poetry is another matter. It is so beautiful, 
 and was so quietly content with its beauty, making 
 no call on the critics, and receiving hardly any 
 notice, that people are but now beginning to awake 
 to a full sense of its merits. Of pure poetry, strictly 
 so called, that is to say, consisting of nothing but 
 its essential self, without conventional and perish- 
 ing helps, he was the greatest master of his time. 
 If you could see it in a phial, like a distillation of 
 roses (taking it, I mean, at its best), it would be 
 found without a speck. The poet is happy with 
 so good a gift, and the reader is " happy in his 
 happiness." Yet so little, sometimes, are a man's 
 contemporaries and personal acquaintances able or 
 disposed to estimate him properly, that while 
 Coleridge, unlike Shakespeare, lavished praises on 
 his poetic friends, he had all the merit of the gene- 
 rosity to himself ; and even Hazlitt, owing perhaps 
 to causes of political alienation, could see nothing 
 to admire in the exquisite poem of " Christabel," 
 but the description of the quarrel between the 
 friends! After speaking, too, of the "Ancient 
 Mariner" as the only one of his poems that he 
 could point out to anyone as giving an adequate 
 idea of his great natural powers, he adds, "It is 
 High German, however, and in it he seems to 
 conceive of poetry but as a drunken dream, reck- 
 less, careless, and heedless of past, present, and to 
 come. " This is said of a poem, with which fault 
 has been found for the exceeding conscientiousness 
 
COLERIDGE. i5S 
 
 of its moral ! O ye critics, the best of ye, what 
 havoc does personal difference play with your 
 judgments ! It was not Mr. Hazlitt's only or most 
 unwarrantable censure, or one which friendship 
 found hardest to forgive. But peace, and honour 
 too, be with his memory ! If he was a splenetic 
 and sometimes jealous man, he was a disinterested 
 politician and an admirable critic : and lucky were 
 those whose natures gave them the right and the 
 power to pardon him. 
 
 Coleridge, though a born poet, was in his style 
 and general musical feeling the disciple partly of 
 Spenser, and partly of the fine old English ballad- 
 writers in the collection of Bishop Percy. But if 
 he could not improve on them in some things, how 
 he did in others, especially in the art of being 
 thoroughly musical ! Of all our writers of the 
 briefer narrative poetry, Coleridge is the finest 
 since Chaucer ; and assuredly he is the sweetest of 
 all our poets. Waller's music is but a court- 
 flourish in comparison ; and though Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, Collins, Gray, Keats, Shelley, and others, 
 have several as sweet passages, and Spenser is in 
 a certain sense musical throughout, yet no man has 
 written whole poems, of equal length, so perfect in 
 the sentiment of music, so varied with it, and yet 
 leaving on the ear so unbroken and single an 
 effect. 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw ; 
 It was an A byssinian maid, 
 And on her dulcimer she play' d, 
 
 Singing of Mount A bora. 
 
156 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 That is but one note of a music ever sweet, yet 
 never cloying. . . . 
 
 We see how such a poet obtains his music. Such 
 forms of melody can proceed only from the most 
 beautiful inner spirit of sympathy and imagination. 
 He sympathizes, in his universality, with antipathy 
 itself. If Regan or Goneril had been a young and 
 handsome witch of the times of chivalry; and at- 
 tuned her violence to craft, or betrayed it in veno- 
 mous looks, she could not have beaten the soft- 
 voiced, appalling spells, or sudden, snake-eyed 
 glances of the Lady Geraldine, — looks which the 
 innocent Christabel, in her fascination, feels com- 
 pelled to "imitate." . . . 
 
 Oh ! it is too late now ; and habit and self-love 
 blinded me at the time, and I did not know (much 
 as I admired him) how great a poet lived in that 
 grove at Highgate ; or I would have cultivated its 
 walks more, as I might have done, and endeavoured 
 to return him, with my gratitude, a small portion 
 of the delight his verses have given me. 
 
 I must add, that I do not think Coleridge's 
 earlier poems at all equal to the rest. Many, in- 
 deed, I do not care to read a second time ; but 
 there are some ten or a dozen, of which I never 
 tire, and which will one day make a small and 
 precious volume to put in the pockets of all enthu- 
 siasts in poetry, and endure with the language. 
 Five of these are " The Ancient Mariner," " Chris- 
 tabel," "Kubla Khan," "Genevieve," and "Youth 
 and Age." Some, that more personally relate to 
 the poet, will be added for the love of him, not 
 omitting the "Visit of the Gods," from Schiller, 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 157 
 
 and the famous passage on the Heathen Mythology, 
 also from Schiller. A short life, a portrait, and 
 some other engravings perhaps, will complete the 
 book, after the good old fashion of Cooke's and 
 Bell's editions of the Poets ; and then, like the 
 contents of the Jew of Malta's casket, there 
 will be 
 
 Infinite riches in a little room.* 
 
 CHARLES LAMB.» 
 [born 1775— died 1834.] 
 
 ["Lord Byron and his Contemporaries," 1828. "Auto- 
 biography," 1850,] 
 
 IHARLES lamb has a head worthy of 
 Aristotle, with as fine a heart as ever 
 jg^ beat in human bosom, and limbs very 
 fragile to sustain it. There was a carica- 
 ture of him sold in the shops, which pretended to 
 be a likeness. P[rocto]r went into the shop in a 
 passion, and asked the man what he meant by 
 putting forth such a libel. The man apologized, 
 and said that the artist meant no offence. Mr. 
 Lamb's features are strongly yet delicately cut : 
 he has a fine eye as well as forehead ; and no face 
 carries in it greater marks of thought and feeling. 
 It resembles that of Bacon, with less worldly 
 vigour and more sensibility. 
 
 As his frame, so is his genius. It is as fit for 
 
 1 See also the brief memoir in " Lord Byron and his 
 Contemporaries," reprinted in " Autobiography."— Ed. 
 
 2 See also "Epistle to Charles Lamb," in vol. ii. 
 
xsi LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 thought as can be, and equally as unfit for action ; 
 and this renders him melancholy, apprehensive, 
 humorous, and willing to make the best of every- 
 thing as it is, both from tenderness of heart and 
 abhorrence of alteration. His understanding is 
 too great to admit an absurdity ; his frame is not 
 strong enough to deliver it from a fear. His 
 sensibility to strong contrasts is the foundation of 
 his humour, which is that of a wit at once melan- 
 choly and willing to be pleased. He will beard a 
 superstition, and shudder at the old phantasm 
 while he does it. One could imagine him cracking 
 a jest in the teeth of a ghost, and then melting into 
 thin air himself, out of sympathy with the awful. 
 His humour and his knowledge both, are those of 
 Hamlet, of Moliere, of Carlin, who shook a city 
 with laughter, and, in order to divert his melan- 
 choly, was recommended to go and hear himself. 
 Yet he extracts a real pleasure out of his jokes, 
 because good-heartedness retains that privilege, 
 when it fails in everything else. I should say he 
 condescended to be a punster, if condescension 
 were a word befitting wisdom like his. Being told 
 that somebody had lampooned him, he said, *' Very 
 well, I'll Lamb-pun him." His puns are ad- 
 mirable, and often contain as deep things as the 
 wisdom of some who have greater names. Such a 
 man, for instance, as Nicole, the Frenchman, 
 was a baby to him. He would have cracked a 
 score of jokes at him, worth his whole book of 
 sentences ; pelted his head with pearls. Nicole 
 would not have understood him, but Rochefoucault 
 would, and Pascal too ; and some of our old Eng- 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 159 
 
 lishmen would have understood him still better. 
 He would have been worthy of hearing Shake- 
 speare read one of his scenes to him, hot from the 
 brain. Commonplace finds a great comforter in 
 him, as long as it is good-natured ; it is to the ill- 
 natured or the dictatorial only that he is startling. 
 Willing to see society go on as it does, because he 
 despairs of seeing it otherwise, but not at all agree- 
 ing in his interior with the common notions of 
 crime and punishment, he '''^ dumbfounded^'' a long 
 tirade one evening, by taking the pipe out of 
 his mouth, and asking the speaker, "Whether 
 he meant to say that a thief was not a good 
 man?" To a person abusing Voltaire, and in- 
 discreetly opposing his character to that of Jesus 
 Christ, he said admirably well (though he by no 
 means overrates Voltaire, nor wants reverence in 
 the other quarter), that " Voltaire was a very good 
 Jesus Christ for the French." He likes to see the 
 church-goers continue to go to church, and has 
 written a tale in his sister's admirable little book 
 (*' Mrs. Leicester's School ") to encourage the 
 rising generation to do so ; but to a conscientious 
 deist he has nothing to object ; and if an atheist 
 found every other door shut against him, he would 
 assuredly not find his. I believe he would have 
 the world remain precisely as it is, provided it 
 innovated no farther ; but this spirit in him is any- 
 thing but a worldly one, or for his own interest. 
 He hardly contemplates with patience the fine new 
 buildings in the Regent's Park : and, privately 
 speaking, he has a grudge against official heaven- 
 expounders, or clergymen. He would rather, how- 
 
X58 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 thought as can be, and equally as unfit for action ; 
 and this renders him melancholy, apprehensive, 
 humorous, and willing to make the best of every- 
 thing as it is, both from tenderness of heart and 
 abhorrence of alteration. His understanding is 
 too great to admit an absurdity ; his frame is not 
 strong enough to deliver it from a fear. His 
 sensibility to strong contrasts is the foundation of 
 his humour, which is that of a wit at once melan- 
 choly and willing to be pleased. He will beard a 
 superstition, and shudder at the old phantasm 
 while he does it. One could imagine him cracking 
 a jest in the teeth of a ghost, and then melting into 
 thin air himself, out of sympathy with the awful. 
 His humour and his knowledge both, are those of 
 Hamlet, of Moliere, of Carlin, who shook a city 
 with laughter, and, in order to divert his melan- 
 choly, was recommended to go and hear himself. 
 Yet he extracts a real pleasure out of his jokes, 
 because good-heartedness retains that privilege, 
 when it fails in everything else. I should say he 
 condescended to be a punster, if condescension 
 were a word befitting wisdom like his. Being told 
 that somebody had lampooned him, he said, *' Very 
 well, I'll Lamb-pun him." His puns are ad- 
 mirable, and often contain as deep things as the 
 wisdom of some who have greater names. Such a 
 man, for instance, as Nicole, the Frenchman, 
 was a baby to him. He would have cracked a 
 score of jokes at him, worth his whole book of 
 sentences ; pelted his head with pearls. Nicole 
 would not have understood him, but Rochefoucault 
 would, and Pascal too ; and some of our old Eng- 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 159 
 
 lishmen would have understood him still better. 
 He would have been worthy of hearing Shake- 
 speare read one of his scenes to him, hot from the 
 brain. Commonplace finds a great comforter in 
 him, as long as it is good-natured ; it is to the ill- 
 natured or the dictatorial only that he is startling. 
 Willing to see society go on as it does, because he 
 despairs of seeing it otherwise, but not at all agree- 
 ing in his interior with the common notions of 
 crime and punishment, he ^^dumbfounded" a long 
 tirade one evening, by taking the pipe out of 
 his mouth, and asking the speaker, "Whether 
 he meant to say that a thief was not a good 
 man ? " To a person abusing Voltaire, and in- 
 discreetly opposing his character to that of Jesus 
 Christ, he said admirably well (though he by no 
 means overrates Voltaire, nor wants reverence in 
 the other quarter), that *' Voltaire was a very good 
 Jesus Christ for the French. " He likes to see the 
 church-goers continue to go to church, and has 
 written a tale in his sister's admirable little book 
 (" Mrs. Leicester's School ") to encourage the 
 rising generation to do so ; but to a conscientious 
 deist he has nothing to object ; and if an atheist 
 found every, other door shut against him, he would 
 assuredly not find his. I believe he would have 
 the world remain precisely as it is, provided it 
 innovated no farther ; but this spirit in him is any- 
 thing but a worldly one, or for his own interest. 
 He hardly contemplates with patience the fine new 
 buildings in the Regent's Park : and, privately 
 speaking, he has a grudge against official heaven- 
 expounders, or clergymen. He would rather, how- 
 
i6o LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 ever, be with a crowd that he disliked, than feel 
 himself alone. He said to me one day, with a face 
 of great solemnity, "What must have been that 
 man's feelings, who thought himself M^y?rj/ deist ?^' 
 Finding no footing in certainty, he delights to con- 
 found the borders of theoretical truth and falsehood. 
 He is fond of telling wild stories to children, en- 
 grafted on things about them ; writes letters to 
 people abroad, telling them that a friend of theirs 
 [Mr. Alsager, the commercial editor of the 
 "Times"] has come out in genteel comedy; and 
 persuaded G[eorge] D[yer] that Loi'd Castlereagh 
 was the author of " Waverley" ! The same excel- 
 lent person walking one evening out of his friend's 
 house into the New River, Mr. Lamb (who was from 
 home at the time) wrote a paper under his signature 
 of Elia (now no longer anonymous), stating, that 
 common friends would have stood dallying on the 
 bank, have sent for neighbours, &c. , but that he^ in 
 his magnanimity, jumped in, and rescued his friend 
 after the old noble fashion. He wrote in the same 
 magazine two lives of Liston and Munden, which 
 the public took for serious, and which exhibit an 
 extraordinary jumble of imaginary facts and truth 
 of bye-painting. Munden he made born at " Stoke 
 Pogis : " the very sound of which is like the actor 
 speaking and digging his words. He knows how 
 many false conclusions and pretensions are made 
 by men who profess to be guided by facts only, 
 as if facts could not be misconceived, or figments 
 taken for them ; and therefore, one day, when 
 somebody was speaking of a person who valued 
 himself on being a matter-of-fact man, " Now," 
 
SHELLEY. i6i 
 
 said he, *' I value myself on being a matler-of-lie 
 man." This does not hinder his being a man of 
 the greatest veracity, in the ordinary sense of the 
 word; but "truth," he says, "is precious, and 
 ought not to be wasted on everybody." Those who 
 wish to have a genuine taste of him, and an insight 
 into his modes of life, should read his essays on 
 "Hogarth "and "King Lear," [his "Letters,"] 
 his article on the " London Streets," on " Whist- 
 Playing," which he loves, and on " Saying Grace 
 before Meat," which he thinks a strange moment 
 to select for being grateful. He said once to a 
 brother whist-player, whose hand was more clever 
 than clean, and who had enough in him to afford 
 the joke, "M., if dirt were trumps, what hands 
 you would hold." 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 [born 1792 — DIED 1822.] 
 
 [A Preface to the "Masque of Anarchy," 1832.! 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 }R. SHELLEY'S writings have since 
 aided the general progress of knowledge 
 in bringing about a wiser period ; and 
 an effusion, which would have got him 
 cruelly misrepresented a few years back, ' will now 
 do unequivocal honour to his memory, and show 
 
 1 i.e. in 1819, when the poem was first sent to Leigh 
 Hunt for the "Examiner," where he did not publish it on 
 the ground that the people were not ready for it.— Ed. 
 I. ■ M 
 
i62 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 everybody what a most considerate and kind, as 
 well as fervent heart, the cause of the world has 
 lost. 
 
 The poem, though written purposely in a lax 
 and familiar measure, is highly characteristical of 
 the author. It has the usual ardour of his tone, 
 the unbounded sensibility by which he combines 
 the most domestic with the most remote and 
 fanciful images, and the patience, so beautifully 
 checking, and in fact produced by the extreme im- 
 patience of his moral feeling. His patience is the 
 deposit of many impatiences, acting upon an equal 
 measure of understanding and moral taste. His 
 wisdom is the wisdom of a heart overcharged with 
 sensibility, acquiring the profoundest notions of 
 justice from the completest sympathy, and at once 
 taking refuge from its pain, and working out its 
 extremest purposes, in the adoption of a stubborn 
 and loving fortitude which neutralizes resistance. 
 His very strokes of humour, while they startle with 
 their extravagance and even ghastliness, cut to the 
 heart with pathos. The fourth and fifth stanzas, 
 for instance, of this poem, involve an allusion 
 which becomes affecting from our knowing what 
 he must have felt when he wrote it. It is to his 
 children, who were taken from him by the late 
 Lord Chancellor, under that preposterous law by 
 which every succeeding age might be made to 
 blush for the tortures inflicted on the opinions of its 
 predecessor. 
 
 "Anarchy the skeleton," riding through the 
 streets, and grinning and bowing on each side of 
 him, 
 
SHELLEY. 163 
 
 As well as if his education 
 
 Had cost ten millions to the nation, 
 
 is another instance of the union of ludicrousness 
 with terror. Hope, looking "more like Despair," 
 and laying herself down before his horse's feet to 
 die, is a touching image. The description of the 
 rise and growth of Public Enlightenment, 
 
 — upborne on wings whose grain 
 Was as the light of sunny rain, 
 
 and producing ** thoughts " as he went. 
 
 As stars from night's loose hair are shaken, 
 
 till on a sudden the prostrate multitude look up, 
 
 and ankle-deep in blood, 
 Hope, that maiden most serene. 
 Was walking with a quiet mien, 
 
 is rich with the author's usual treasure of imagery 
 and splendid words. The sixty-third ' is a deli- 
 cious^ stanza, producing a most happy and comfort- 
 
 1 Science, and Poetry, and Thought, 
 Are thy lamps ; they make the lot 
 Of the dwellers in a cot 
 
 So serene, they curse it not. 
 
 2 In another passage Leigh Hunt has taken some pains 
 to justify this use of the word "delicious." In "Lord 
 Byron and his Contemporaries," 1828, after speaking of 
 James Smith (author of the "Rejected Addresses"), he 
 says: "His brother Horace was delicious. Lord Byron 
 used to say, that this epithet should be applied only to 
 eatables ; and that he wondered a friend of his (I forget 
 who) that was critical in matters of eating, should use it in 
 any other sense. I know not what the present usage may 
 be in the circles, but classical authority is against his lord- 
 ship, from Cicero doAvnwards ; and I am content with the 
 modern warrant of another noble wit, the famous Lord 
 
i64 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 ing picture in the midst of visions of blood and 
 tumult. We see the light from its cottage window. 
 The substantial blessings of Freedom are nobly de- 
 scribed ; and, lastly, the advice given by the poet, 
 the great national measure recommended by him, 
 is singularly striking as a political anticipation. It 
 advises what has since taken place, and what was 
 felt by the grown wisdom of the age to be the only 
 thing which could take place, with effect, as a final 
 rebuke and nullification of the Tories ; to wit, a 
 calm, lawful, and inflexible preparation for resis- 
 tance in the shape of a protesting multitude — the 
 few against the many ' — the laborious and suffering 
 against the spoilt children of monopoly — Mankind 
 against Tory-kind. It is true the poet recom- 
 mends there should be no active resistance, come 
 what might ; which is a piece of fortitude, however 
 effective, which we believe was iiot contemplated 
 by the political unions : yet, in point of the spirit 
 of the thing, the success he anticipates has actually 
 occurred, and after his very fashion ; for there really 
 
 Peterborough, who, in his fine, open way, said of Fendlon, 
 that he was such a "delicious creature, he was forced to 
 get away from him, else he would have made him pious ! " 
 I grant there is something in the word delicious which may 
 be said to comprise a reference to every species of pleasant 
 taste. It is at once a quintessence and a compound ; and a 
 friend, to deserve the epithet, ought, perhaps, to be capable 
 of delighting us as much over our wine, as on graver occa- 
 sions. Fenelon himself could do this, with all his piety ; 
 or rather he could do it because his piety was of the true 
 sort, and relished of everything that was sweet and affec- 
 tionate."— Ed. 
 
 I Surely a misprint for "the many against the few." — 
 Ed. 
 
SHELLEY. 165 
 
 has been no resistance, except by multitudinous 
 protest. The Tories, however desirous they 
 showed themselves to draw their swords, did not 
 draw them. The battle was won without a blow. 
 Mr. Shelley's countrymen know how anxious he 
 was for the advancement of the coming good, but 
 they have yet to become acquainted with his 
 anxiety in behalf of this particular means of it — 
 Reform. The first time I heard from him was 
 upon the subject ; it was before I knew him, and 
 while he was a student at Oxford, in the year 
 181 1. So early did he begin his career of philan- 
 thropy ! Mankind, and their interests, were 
 scarcely ever out of his thoughts.^ It was a moot 
 point, when he entered your room, whether he 
 would begin with some half-pleasant, half-pensive 
 joke, or quote something Greek, or ask some 
 question about public affairs. I remember his 
 coming upon me when I had not seen him for 
 a long time, and after grappling my hands with 
 both his, in his usual fervent manner, sitting do\\7i 
 and looking at me very earnestly, with a deep 
 though not melancholy interest in his face. We 
 were sitting in a cottage study, with our knees to 
 the fire, to which we had been getting nearer and 
 nearer in the comfort of finding ourselves together ; 
 the pleasure of seeing him was my only feeling at 
 the moment ; and the air of domesticity about us 
 was so complete, that I thought he was going to 
 
 1 ' ' Shelley, who was shocked at [the beggar's] appearance, 
 and gave him money out of his very antipathy ; for he thought 
 nobody would help such an ill-looking person, if he did 
 not." — " Autobiography." 
 
 i 
 
i66 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 speak of some family matter — either his or my 
 own ; when he asked me, at the close of an inten- 
 sity of pause, what was "the amount of the 
 National Debt." 
 
 I used to rally him on the apparent inconsequen- 
 tiality of his manner upon these occasions ; and he 
 was always ready to carry on the joke, because he 
 said that my laughter did not hinder me from being 
 in earnest. With deepest love and admiration was 
 my laughter mixed, or I should not have ventured 
 upon paying him the compliment of it. 
 
 I have now before me his corrected proof of an 
 anonymous pamphlet which he wrote in the year 
 1817, entitled " A Proposal for Putting Reform to 
 the vote through the Country," . . . .^ [which 
 shows] how zealous he was on the subject ; how 
 generous in the example which he offered to set in 
 behalf of Reform ; and how judicious as well as 
 fervent this most calumniated and noble spirit could 
 be in recommending the most avowed of his 
 opinions. The title-page of the proof is scrawled 
 over with sketches of trees and foliage, which was 
 a habit of his in the intervals of thinking, when- 
 ever he had pen or pencil in hand. He would 
 indulge in it while waiting for you at an inn, or in 
 a doorway, scratching his elms and oak-trees on the 
 walls. He did them very spiritedly, and with what 
 the painters ^ call a gusto, particularly in point of 
 
 1 In the place of these dots stood a promise to give some 
 extracts from this pamphlet, which are omitted below. — Ed. 
 
 2 Hunt had some acquaintance with the habits and talk 
 of painters through his intimacy %vith West, for which see 
 "Autobiography," p. 77.— Ed. 
 
SHELLEY. 167 
 
 grace. If he had room, he would add a cottage 
 and a piece of water, with a sailing boat mooring 
 among the trees. This was his beau idial of a life, 
 the repose of which was to be earned by zeal for 
 his species, and warranted by the common good. 
 What else the image of a boat brings to the memory 
 of those who have lost him, * I will not say, especi- 
 ally as he is still with us in his writings. But it is 
 worth observing how agreeably this habit of sketch- 
 ing trees and bowers evinced the gentleness of my 
 friend's nature, the longing he had for rest, and the 
 smallness of his personal desires. 
 
 It has been hastily implied in a late notice of 
 him, in a periodical work, that he was an aristocrat 
 by disposition as well as birth ; a conclusion natural 
 enough even with intelligent men, who have been 
 bred among aristocratical influences ; but it is a 
 pity that such men should give it as their opinion, 
 because it tends to confirm inferior understandings 
 in a similar delusion, and to make the vulgarity of 
 would-be refinement still more confident in its 
 assumptions. It is acknowledged on all hands, that 
 Mr. Shelley's mind was not one to be measured by 
 common rules, — not even by such as the vulgar, 
 great and small, take for uncommon ones, or for 
 cunning pieces of corporate knowledge snugly kept 
 between one another. If there is anything which 
 I can affirm of my beloved friend, with as much 
 confidence as the fact of his being benevolent and 
 a friend, it is that he was totally free from mistakes 
 of this kind ; that he never for one moment con- 
 
 1 For a touching account of Shelley's death and burial, 
 see the "Autobiography," p. 290. — Ed. 
 
i68 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 founded the claims of real and essential, with those 
 of conventional refinement ; or allowed one to be 
 substituted for the other in his mind by any com- 
 promise of his self-love. 
 
 I will admit it to be possible, that there were 
 moments in which he might ihave been deceived in 
 his estimation of people's manners, in consequence 
 of those to which he had been early accustomed ; 
 but the charge implied against him involves a con- 
 scious or at least an habitual preference of what are 
 
 'Called high-bred manners, for their own sakes, 
 apart from the natures of those who exhibited them, 
 and to the disadvantage of those to whom they had 
 not been taught. I can affirm that it is a total 
 mistake, and that he partook of no such weakness. 
 I have seen him indeed draw him^self up with a 
 sort of irrepressible air of dignified objection, when 
 moral vulgarity was betrayed in his presence, what- 
 ever might have been the rank of the betrayer ; 
 but nobody could hail with greater joy and simpli- 
 city, or meet upon more equal grounds, the instinct 
 of a real delicacy and good intention, come in 
 what shape it might. Why should he have done 
 otherwise ? He was Shelley ; and not merely a 
 man of that name. What had ordinary high life, 
 and its pretensions, and the getting together of a 
 few people for the sake of giving themselves a little 
 
 'importance, to do with his universal affinities? It 
 was finely said one day in my hearing by Mr. 
 Hazlitt, when asked why he could not temporize a 
 little now and then, or make a compromise with an 
 untruth, that it was "not worth his while." It 
 was not v^orth Mr. Shelley's while to be an aristo- 
 
SHELLEY. 169 
 
 crat. His spirit was large enough to take ten 
 aristocracies into the hollow of his hand, and look 
 at them as I have seen him look at insects from a 
 tree, certainly with no thought of superiority or the 
 reverse, but with a curious interest. 
 
 The quintessence of gentlemanly demeanour 
 which was observable in Mr. Shelley, in drawing- 
 rooms, when he was not over-thoughtful, was 
 nothing but an exquisite combination of sense, 
 moral grace, and habitual sympathy. It was more 
 dignified than what is called dignity in others, 
 because it was the heart of the thing itself, or 
 intrinsic worth, graced by the sincerest idealism ; 
 and not a response made by imputed merit to the 
 homage of the imputors. The best conventional 
 dignity could have no more come up to it than the 
 trick of an occasion tolhe truth of a life.^ 
 
 But if an aristocracy of intellect and morals were 
 
 1 The consciousness of possessing the respect of others, 
 apart from any reason for it but a conventional one, will 
 sometimes produce a really fine expression of countenance, 
 where the nature is good. On the other hand, I have seen 
 Mr. Shelley, from a doubt of the sympathy of those around 
 him, suddenly sink from the happier look above described, into 
 an expressioh of misgiving and even of destitution, that was 
 extremely touching. It arose out of a sudden impression 
 that all the sympathy was on his side. Sympathy is un- 
 doubtedly the one thing needful and final ; and though the 
 receipt of it on false grounds appears the most formidable 
 obstacle in the way of its true ascendancy, and is so, yet out 
 of the very spirit of the fact will come the salvation of the 
 world ; for when once a right view of it gets into fashion, 
 the prejudices as well as the understandings of mankind will 
 be as much on that side as they are against it now, and the 
 acceleration of good be without a drawback. 
 
^^o LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 required, he was the man for one of their leaders. 
 High and princely was the example he could set to 
 an aristocracy of a different sort, as the reader 
 [may] see ... . from his pamphlet. The late 
 death of an extraordinary man of genius, the delight 
 of nations, and the special glory of his country, has 
 just shown the blushing world what little things 
 could be done for him, dead or alive, by the 
 "great men" whom he condescended to glorify. 
 The manager of a Scottish theatre (to his immortal 
 credit)^ has contributed, in furtherance of the 
 erection of a monument to him, precisely the same 
 sum as was drawn forth out of the money bags of 
 a Scottish duke in the receipt of nearly a thousand 
 pounds a day. . . .^ The delight of talking about 
 my friend has led me into a longer preface than I 
 intended to write. I did not think of detaining 
 the reader so long from his poem : most probably, 
 indeed, I have not detained him. . . .2 [I shall 
 not] stop to inquire how far Mr. Shelley would 
 have thought the feasibilities of improvement 
 hastened by the events that have taken place of 
 late years — events, one of them in particular (the 
 Glorious Three Days), which it would have re- 
 paid him for all his endurances had he lived to 
 see. 
 
 And who shall say that he has not seen them ? 
 
 1 Mr, Murray. I remember the gentlemanly paternity of 
 his father's manner on the English stage, and the fine eyes 
 of his sister (Mrs. H. Siddons) ; and was not surprised to 
 find generosity in such a stock. 
 
 2 Here are omitted some passages from Shelley's pamphlet. 
 —Ed. 
 
THE COLMAN FAMILY. 171 
 
 For if ever there was a man upon earth, of a more 
 spiritual nature than ordinary, partaking of the 
 errors and perturbations of his species, but seeing 
 and working through them with a seraphical pur- 
 pose of good, such an one was Percy Bysshe 
 Shelley. 
 
 [Note.— On the subject of Shelley Leigh Hunt was always 
 roused to an enthusiasm which found many a generous ex- 
 pression in his published writings. " If you ask me how it 
 is that I bear all this," he writes, in one of the saddest letters 
 of the " Correspondence," " I answer, that I love nature and 
 books, and think well of the capabilities of human kind. I 
 have known Shelley, I have known my mother." Leigh 
 Hunt's most lengthy notice of Shelley appeared in " Lord 
 Byron and his Contemporaries," 1828, was reprinted in the 
 " Autobiography," 1850, and prefixed to the "First Series" 
 of John Camden Hotteu's * ' Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe 
 Shelley" (1871).— Ed.] 
 
 THE COLMAN FAMILY. 
 
 [The " Edinburgh Review," July, 1841. C. Kent, 
 1889.] 
 
 jHE only productions of Colman, besides 
 ■the "Connoisseur," that have attained 
 ^ any stability, and are likely to keep it, 
 are the comedies of the "Jealous 
 Wife" and the "Clandestine Marriage." The 
 former was written before the decease of Lord 
 
 1 From a review under this heading of " Memoirs of the 
 Colman Family, including their correspondence with the 
 most distinguished Personages of their Time. By Richard 
 Brinsley Peake. " 2 vols. Svo. London, 1841. — Ed. 
 
172 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Bath, to whom it was dedicated ; but his lordship 
 knew nothing of its existence, till success gave the 
 author courage to disclose his secret. Colman 
 was still practising at the bar, and he continued to 
 do so, at least ostensibly, till his supposed call 
 from it by General Pulteney ; but a compliment to 
 Garrick, in a pamphlet, had brought him ac- 
 quainted with the sovereign of the stage ; and after 
 he had anonymously picked his way upon it, with 
 the help of Garrick's confidence, in the farce of 
 "Polly Honeycomb," the "Jealous Wife" was 
 produced at Drury Lane in the month of February, 
 1 76 1. It is said to have met with greater success 
 than any new play since the "Suspicious Hus- 
 band." It is at the head of what may be called 
 comedies of negative excellence in style, and un- 
 superfluous truth in the action. There is no in- 
 correctness of language, no false or forced wit, no 
 violation of propriety of any sort ; and the plot 
 flows as naturally onward as possible, carrying 
 along with it a variety of amusing if not original 
 characters, and enlivened occasionally with smart 
 points of situation. It has been objected that the 
 husband is too tame, and the wife too much of a 
 termagant ; not delicate enough for the loving pas- 
 sion of jealousy. But jealousy is by no means 
 always a loving passion. It is doubtless often 
 found in connection with love ; but inasmuch as, 
 per se, it is nothing but a dread of the loss of 
 power, it has often nothing to do with love, what- 
 ever it may pretend. We have seen people who 
 cared nothing whatsoever for their husbands and 
 wives, very jealous of their attention to others, 
 
THE COLMAN FAMILY. 173 
 
 purely out of the fear of the diminution of tyranni- 
 cal influence ; a mixed motive of a similar kind 
 animates perhaps a good half of ordinary jealou- 
 sies ; and Colman did good service against this 
 arrogant and worst fonn of the passion, by dividing 
 with it the better feelings of his heroine. The 
 husband was also bound over to be a good deal 
 henpecked, in order that he might show the evil to 
 its full extent, as far as comedy allows. In his 
 advertisement to the play, the author confessed his 
 obligations to Fielding, to the " Spectator," and 
 to the "Adelphi" of Terence; and said that he 
 had received great benefit from the advice of Gar- 
 rick. The fair Mrs. George Anne Bellamy, some- 
 v/here in her Memoirs, calls him the " modern 
 Terence ; " and, in truth, he merited a comparison 
 with his favourite classic more than she was aware 
 of, or than he would altogether have liked to be 
 shown. As Julius Csesar, in his fine great way, 
 gx)ing to the heart of the matter at once, called 
 Terence a " half-Menander," so Colman might 
 have been called a half-Terence, and this comedy' 
 adduced as the proof of it. There is not the sen- 
 tentiousness of Terence ; nothing very quotable ; 
 there is certainly no pathos (nor is it wanted), and 
 the style is not eminent for expression. But on the 
 other hand the language is pure and terse ; the 
 chief passages and situations are more sketchy than 
 filled up (except in Mrs. Oakley's denouncements 
 of her husband) — leaving a great deal to be done 
 by the performers ; and the characters, it must be 
 confessed, are faint copies of their originals. 
 Russet is but a small Squire Western, a dwindled 
 
174 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 •brother of the family ; and Lord Trinket is an un- 
 acknowledged Lord Foppington,^ without the 
 vigour even of the other's false calves. Colman 
 was a very little man; diminutive, we mean, in his 
 person ; without the bone and muscle common to 
 distinguished aspirants of that class ; not one of 
 the Liliputian heroes recorded in Clarendon's his- 
 tory, and pleasantly referred to by himself in one 
 of his fugitive papers.^ He was weakly and ner- 
 vous. A clergyman with whom he had had a dis- 
 pute (a personage very unworthy of the gentle- 
 manly cloth of the Church of England) once gave 
 him a severe beating ; for which Colman very pro- 
 perly exhibited against him articles of the peace. 
 Men's physical, moral, and intellectual faculties 
 all hang together in more subtle connection than is 
 commonly supposed ; and as Terence in person 
 was very slender, and probably but "half a Me- 
 nander " in that respect as well as in comedy, so 
 Colman appears, every way, to have been a sort of 
 Terence cut down. 
 
 ***** 
 We confess we cannot feel an equal liking for his 
 son, George Colman "the Younger, "as he delighted 
 to call himself. He was proud of his father, and, we 
 dare say, loved him as well as he could ; but such 
 was his total want of seriousness, that during his 
 
 1 A character in Vanbrugh's "The Relapse."— Ed. 
 
 -' "The Genius," No. II., originally published in "St. 
 James's Chronicle," and gathered into the miscellaneous 
 collection called the "Connoisseur" [described as written 
 by " Mr. Town," a signature which Leigh Hunt himself 
 adopted.— Ed.]. 
 
THE COLMAN FAMILY. 17S 
 
 very accounts of the calamity we have just noticed,^ 
 he cannot help indulging in his usual jests. This is 
 not what Yorick would have done ; nor Hamlet, 
 with all his insight into the melancholy of mirth, 
 have loved. 
 
 George Colman the Younger was born in the 
 year 1762 ; educated (a little) at Westminster, 
 Oxford, and Aberdeen (for he contrived to neutra- 
 lize his father's endeavours at all three places) ; 
 wrote his first piece in 1784; succeeded to his 
 father's management when the latter fell ill, and to 
 the property of the Haymarket at his death ; was 
 fortunate enough to secure the attachment of an 
 amiable woman and agreeable actress (Mrs. 
 Gibbs), whom he afterwards married ; wrote up- 
 wards of twenty pieces, chiefly for the Haymarket, 
 in the midst of equal difficulties and jovialties ; 
 was the author of some Peter-Pindaric tales, equally 
 merry and indecorous ; and died in the year 1836, 
 Examiner of Plays, and denouncer of the most harm- 
 less liberties which he himself had practised. 
 
 We do not like to find fault with him ; for though 
 the pretensions he made to "poetry" and the 
 serious drama were ridiculous, his conduct in the 
 office above' mentioned mercenary and provoking, 
 and his character altogether defective as to high 
 and estimable qualities, except gratitude to those 
 who well treated him (which indeed is something), 
 there must have been a good deal of stuff of some 
 sort in a writer who could carry on a theatre, as he 
 did for several years, almost upon the strength of 
 
 1 Of his father going mad under unskilful medical treat- 
 ment.— Ed. 
 
176 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 his own productions. Such at least is the impres- 
 sion upon our memory. Those who remember the 
 Haymarket Theatre in his day, when the perform- 
 ances were confined to the summer-time, and what 
 a joyous little place it was — how merrily oppres- 
 sive, and how everybody went there to complain of 
 the heat, and to forget it in the laughter — must 
 remember the endless repetitions of the " Moun- 
 taineers," and the " Heir at Law," and the 
 "Battle of Hexham," and the "Wags of Wind- 
 sor," and "Blue Devils," and " Love Laughs at 
 Locksmiths," and many others. Who can ever 
 forget the sweet song and good-natured little 
 dumpiness of Mrs. Bland ? or the straw hats and 
 black stuff mittens of Mrs. Gibbs, with her 
 dimpled pastoral face ? or the dry humour, cover- 
 ing a rich oil, of Elliston ? or the trampling, 
 brazen-fronted onsets, and harsh, merry, grinding 
 voice of Fawcett in Caleb Quotem ? Who did not 
 carry away half the farces by heart, and hazard the 
 suffocation of their families with it next morning 
 over the breakfast-table ? And all this (let him 
 have his due) was owing to George Colman the 
 Younger, and his unquestioned powers of drollery 
 and entertainment. He was not so interesting a 
 man as his father, for he had not a particle of 
 gravity ; and there can be no depth of sympathy 
 where there is no serious feeling. . . . [As to 
 his discharge of the duties of Examiner of Plays,] 
 the secret of Colman's face-making about pretended 
 impieties, is to be found in that want of all 
 seriousness of feeling and belief, which turned his 
 dramatic sentiment into cant, and his blank verse 
 
THE COLMAN FAMILY. 177 
 
 into commonplace. He thought all gravity con- 
 sisted in words. He could discern none of the 
 different shades of feeling which rendered the use 
 of a questionable word more or less proper ; and 
 therefore the word was to be cut out at once, to 
 save him trouble. He was to go counter to his 
 own past, and, in private, existing habit ; because 
 he had never made use of such words but in a 
 spirit of levity and pretension, and therefore he 
 thought nobody else could do otherwise. He had 
 also, he thought, a character to sustain — that is to 
 say, an official face to make ; and every grimace 
 was to pay for the fees he had extorted in the other 
 part of his capacity, and show how constitutionally 
 he had done it ; and his pecuniary difficulties were 
 constant, and his shame nothing; and so con- 
 cluding that not to practise a "humbug" and get 
 money, would itself be a "humbug," and, un- 
 like what was done by everybody else in the world, 
 he forgot that every new trade requires apprentice- 
 ship, and has its principles of decency and honour ; 
 and plunged into an extreme of impudent incon- 
 sistency, which only exposed him to scorn and 
 laughter. A less licentious writer than Colman 
 could not hav^ pretended to be so afraid of a little 
 liberty, for he does not so confound it with want 
 of innocence. A more pious man could not so 
 violently have objected to all mention of the object 
 of his piety ; for he is in the habit of thinking about 
 it in ordinary, and of associating it with his pieties 
 towards nature, and with the affections of his 
 heart. To affect to shudder at the mention, on all 
 occasions but set and formal ones, is in truth to do 
 I. N 
 
178 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 the very reverse of what is pretended ; it is to turn 
 the sentiment itself into a word instead of a feel- 
 ing, and to hazard the most irreligious of all con- 
 clusions, in seeming to think that it could not be 
 maintained but on such a condition ! And, after 
 
 all, Colman himself but the extravagance is too 
 
 absurd for more comment. Never surely did clever 
 rogue make so clumsy a mistake. 
 
 JOHN BUNGLE. 
 
 ['* Book for a Comer," 1849.] 
 
 [HE Life of John Buncle, Esq. ; con- 
 taining various Observations and Reflec- 
 tions made in several parts of the World, 
 and many Extraordinary Relations," is a 
 book unlike any other in the language, perhaps in 
 the world ; . . . John's Life is not a classic : it 
 contains no passage which is a general favourite : 
 no extract could be made from it of any length, to 
 which readers of good taste would not find objec- 
 tions. Yet there is so curious an interest in all its 
 absurdities ; its jumble of the gayest and gravest 
 considerations is so founded in the actual state of 
 things ; it draws now and then such excellent por- 
 traits from life ; and above all, its animal spirits 
 are at once so excessive and so real, that we defy 
 the best readers not to be entertained with it, and 
 having had one or two specimens, not to desire 
 more. Buncle would say, that there is *' cut and 
 come again " in him, like one of his luncheons of 
 
JOHN B UNCLE. 179 
 
 cold beef and a foaming tankard. . , . John is a 
 kind of innocent Henry the Eighth of private life, 
 without the other's fat, fury, and solemnity. He 
 is a prodigious hand at matrimony, at divinity, at 
 a song, at a loud ** hem," and at turkey and chine. 
 He breaks with the Trinitarians as confidently and 
 with as much scorn as Henry did with the Pope ; 
 and he marries seven wives, whom he disposes of 
 by the lawful process of fever and small-pox. His 
 book is made up of history, mathematics (literally), 
 songs, polemics, landscapes, eating and drinking, 
 and characters of singular men, all bound together 
 by his introductions to and marriages with these 
 seven successive ladies, every one of whom is a 
 charmer, a Unitarian, and cut off in the flower of 
 her youth. Buncle does not know how to endure 
 her loss ; he shuts his eyes '* for three days ; " is 
 stupified ; is in despair ; till suddenly he recollects 
 that Heaven does not like such conduct ; that it is 
 a mourner's business to bow to its decrees ; to be 
 devout ; to be philosophic ; in short, to be jolly, 
 and look out for another dear, bewitching partner 
 *'on Christian principles" .... [Most of his 
 ladies] are discovered in lovely places reading 
 books, and are always prepared for nice little 
 suppers. . . . 
 
 It is impossible to be serious with John Buncle, 
 Esquire, jolly dog. Unitarian, and Blue Beard ; 
 otherwise, if we were to take him at his word, we 
 should pronounce him, besides being a jolly dog, 
 to be one of a very selfish description, with too 
 good a constitution to correct him, a prodigious 
 vanity, no feeling whatever, and a provoking con- 
 
tSo LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 tempt for everything unfortunate, or opposed to his 
 whims. He quarrels with bigotry, and is a bigot ; 
 with abuse, and riots in it. He hates the cruel 
 opinions held by Athanasius, and sends people to 
 the devil as an Arian. He kills off seven wives 
 out of pure incontinence and love of change, yet 
 cannot abide a rake or even the poorest victim of 
 the rake, unless both happen to be his acquain- 
 tances. The way in which he tramples on the 
 miserable wretches in the streets, is the very rage 
 and triumph of hard-heartedness, furious at seeing 
 its own vices reflected on it, unredeemed by the 
 privileges of law, divinity, and success. But the 
 truth is, John is no more responsible for his opinions 
 than health itself, or a high-mettled racer. He 
 only " thinks he's thinking." He does, in reality, 
 nothing at all but eat, drink, talk, and enjoy him- 
 self. Amory, Buncle's creator, was in all prob- 
 ability an honest man, or he would hardly have 
 been innocent enough to put such extravagance 
 on paper. What Mrs. Amory thought of the seven 
 wives does not appear. Probably he invented them 
 before he knew her ; perhaps was not anxious to 
 be reminded of them afterwards. ^Vhen he was 
 in the zenith of his health and spirits, he must have 
 been a prodigious fellow over a bottle and beef- 
 steak. 
 
MV BOOKS. i8r 
 
 MY BOOKS.^ 
 
 [*' Literary Examiner," July 5th and 12th, i8?3. " In- 
 dicator and Companion," 1834. A. Symons, 1888. C. Kent, 
 1889.] 
 
 ITTING, last winter, among my books, 
 and walled round with all the comfort 
 and protection which they and my fire- 
 side could afford me ; to wit, a table of 
 high-piled books at my back, my writing-desk on 
 one side of me, some shelves on the other, and the 
 feeling of the warm fire at my feet ; I began to 
 consider how I loved the authors of those books : 
 how I loved them, too, not only for the imagina- 
 tive pleasures they afforded me, but for their making 
 me love the very books themselves, and delight to 
 be in contact with them. I looked sideways at my 
 Spenser, my Theocritus, and my Arabian Nights ; 
 then above them at my Italian poets ; then behind 
 me at my Dryden and Pope, my romances, and my 
 Boccaccio ; then on my left side at my Chaucer, who 
 lay on a writing-desk ; and thought how natural 
 it was in C[harles] L[amb] to give a kiss to an old 
 folio, as I once saw him do to Chapman's Homer. 
 At the same time I wondered how he could sit in 
 that front room of his with nothing but a few un- 
 feeling tables and chairs, or at best a few engravings 
 in trim frames, instead of putting a couple of arm- 
 
 1 This, so far as I can discover, is the first time that this 
 essay has been reprinted in its complete form. It was ab- 
 breviated in the volume collected from the " Indicator," and 
 that edition has always been followed.— Ed. 
 
x82 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 chairs into the back-room with the books in it, 
 where there is but one window. Would I were 
 there, with both the chairs properly filled, and one 
 or two more besides ! " We had talk, Sir," — the 
 only talk capable of making one forget the books. 
 
 Good God ! I could cry like one of the Children 
 in the Wood to think how far I and mine are from 
 home ; but this would not be " decent or manly;" 
 so I smile instead, and am philosophical enough to 
 make your heart ache. Besides, I shall love the 
 country I am in more and more, and on the very 
 account for which it angers me at present. 
 
 This is confessing great pain in the midst of my 
 books. I own it ; and yet I feel all the pleasure 
 in them which I have expressed. 
 
 Take me, my book-shelves, to your arms, 
 And shield me from the ills of life. 
 
 No disparagement to the arms of Stella ; but in 
 neither case is pain a reason why we should not 
 have a high enjoyment of the pleasure. 
 
 I entrench myself in my books equally against 
 sorrow and the weather. If the wind comes through 
 a passage, I look about to see how I can fence it off 
 by a better disposition of my moveables ; if a melan- 
 choly thought is importunate, I give another glance 
 at my Spenser. When I speak of being in contact 
 with my books, I mean it literally. I like to lean 
 my head against them. Living in a southern 
 climate, though in a part sufficiently northern to 
 feel the winter, I was obliged, during that season, 
 to take some of the books out of the study, and 
 hang them up near the fireplace in the sitting-room. 
 
MV BOOKS. 183 
 
 which is the only room that has such a convenience. 
 I therefore walled myself in, as well as I could, in 
 the manner above-mentioned. I took a walk every 
 day, to the astonishment of the Genoese, who used 
 to huddle against a bit of sunny wall, like flies on 
 a chimney-piece ; but I did this only that I might 
 so much the more enjoy xci:^ English evening. The 
 fire was a wood fire instead of a coal ; but I ima- 
 gined myself in the country. I remembered at the 
 very worst, that one end of my native land was not 
 nearer the other than England is to Italy. 
 
 While writing this article I am in my study 
 again. Like the rooms in all houses in this country 
 which are not hovels, it is handsome and orna- 
 mented. On one side it looks towards a garden 
 and the mountains; on another, to the mountains 
 and the sea. What signifies all this ? I turn my 
 back upon the sea ; I shut up even one of the side 
 windows looking upon the mountains, and retain 
 no prospect but that of the trees. On the right 
 and left of me are book-shelves ; a bookcase is 
 affectionately open in front of me ; and thus kindly 
 inclosed with my books and the green leaves, I 
 write. If all this is too luxurious and effeminate, 
 of all luxuries it is the one that leaves you the most 
 "Strength. And this is to be said for scholarship in 
 general. It unfits a man for activity, for his bodily 
 part in the world ; but it often doubles both the 
 power and the sense of his mental duties ; and 
 with much indignation against his body, and more 
 against those who tyrannize over the intellectual 
 claims of mankind, the man of letters, like the 
 magician of old, is prepared " to play the devil " 
 
i84 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 with the great men of this world, in a style that 
 astonishes both the sword and the toga. 
 
 I do not like this fine large study, I like ele- 
 gance. I like room to breathe in, and even walk 
 about, when I want to breathe and walk about. 
 I like a great library next my study ; but for the 
 study itself, give me a small snug place, almost 
 entirely walled with books. There should be only 
 one window in it, looking upon trees. Some prefer 
 a place with few, or no books at all— nothing but 
 a chair or a table, like Epictetus ; but I should 
 say that these were philosophers, not lovers of 
 books, if I did not recollect that Montaigne was 
 both. He had a study in a round tower, walled as 
 aforesaid. It is true, one forgets one's books 
 while writing — at least they say so. For my part, 
 I think I have them in a sort of sidelong mind's 
 eye ; like a second thought, which is none — like a 
 waterfall, or a whispering wind. 
 
 I dislike a grand library to study in. I mean an 
 immense apartment, with books all in Museum 
 order, especially wire-safed. I say nothing against 
 the Museum itself, or public libraries. They are 
 capital places to go to, but not to sit in ; and talk- 
 ing of this, I hate to read in public, and in strange 
 company. The jealous silence ; the dissatisfied 
 looks of the messengers ; the inability to help your- 
 self ; the not knowing whether you really ought to 
 trouble the messengers, much less the Gentleman 
 in black, or brown, who is, perhaps, half a trustee ; 
 with a variety of other jarrings between privacy 
 and publicity, prevent one's settling heartily to 
 work. They say ' ' they manage these things better 
 
f 
 
 MV BOOKS. xSs 
 
 in France ; " and I dare say they do ; but I think I 
 should feel still more distrait in France, in spite of 
 the benevolence of the servitors, and the generous 
 profusion of pen, ink, and paper. I should feel as 
 if I were doing nothing but interchanging amenities 
 with polite writers. 
 
 A grand private library, which the master of the 
 house also makes his study, never looks to me like 
 a real place of books, much less of authorship. I 
 cannot take kindly to it. It is certainly not out of 
 envy ; for three parts of the books are generally 
 trash, and I can seldom think of the rest and the 
 proprietor together. It reminds me of a fine gentle- 
 man, of a collector, of a patron, of Gil Bias and the 
 Marquis of Marialva ; of anything but genius and 
 comfort. I have a particular hatred of a round table 
 (not the Round Table, for that was a dining one) 
 covered and irradiated with books, and never met 
 with one in the house of a clever man but once. 
 It is the reverse of Montaigne's Round Tower. 
 Instead of bringing the books around you, they all 
 seem turning another way, and eluding your hands. 
 
 Conscious of my propriety and comfort in these 
 matters, I take an interest in the bookcases as well 
 as the books of my friends. I long to meddle, and 
 dispose them after my own notions. When they 
 see this confession, they will aclcnowledge the 
 virtue I have practised. I believe I did mention 
 his book-room to C. L., and I think he told me 
 that he often sat there when alone. It would be 
 hard not to believe him. His library, though not 
 abounding in Greek or Latin (which are the only 
 things to help some persons to an idea of literature). 
 
i86 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 is anything but superficial. The depths of philosophy 
 and poetry are there, the innermost passages of the 
 human heart. It has some Latin too. It has also 
 a handsome contempt for appearance. It looks 
 like what it is, a selection made at precious intervals 
 from the book-stalls ; — now a Chaucer at nine and 
 twopence ; now a Montaigne or a Sir Thomas 
 Browne at two shillings ; now a Jeremy Taylor ; a 
 Spinoza ; an old English Dramatist, Prior, and Sir 
 Philip Sidney ; and the books are *' neat as im- 
 ported." The very perusal of the backs is a '* dis- 
 cipline of humanity. " There Mr. Southey takes his 
 place again with an old Radical friend : there Jeremy 
 Collier is at peace with Dryden : there the lion, 
 Martin Luther, lies down with the Quaker lamb, 
 Sewell : there Guzman d'Alfarache thinks himself 
 fit company for Sir Charles Grandison, and has his 
 claims admitted. Even the "high fantastical" 
 Duchess of Newcastle, with her laurel on her head, 
 is received with grave honours, and not the less for 
 declining to trouble herself with the constitutions of 
 her maids. There is an approach to this in the library 
 of W. C, who also includes Italian among his 
 humanities. ■W[illiam] H[azlitt], I believe, has no 
 books, except mine ; but he has Shakespeare and 
 Rousseau by heart. [Vincent] N[ovello], who though 
 not a bookman by profession, is fond of those who 
 are, and who loves his volume enough to read it across 
 the fields, has his library in the common sitting-room, 
 which is hospitable. H, R. 's '^ books are all too 
 modern and finely bound, which however is not his 
 fault, for they were left him by will, — not the most 
 
 1 Henry Robinson, the treasurer of Cove nt Garden 
 Theatre. (A. Symons, p. 313.) 
 
My BOOK'S. sSr 
 
 kindly act of the testator. Suppose a man were to 
 bequeath us a great japan chest three feet by four, 
 with an injunction that it was always to stand on 
 the tea-table. I remember borrowing a book of 
 H. R. which, having lost, I replaced with a copy 
 equally well bound. I am not sure I should have 
 been in such haste, even to return the book, had it 
 been a common-looking volume ; but the splendour 
 of the loss dazzled me into this ostentatious piece 
 of propriety. I set about restoring it as if I had 
 diminished his fortunes, and waived the privilege a 
 friend has to use a man's things as his own. I may 
 venture upon this ultra-liberal theory, not only be- 
 cause candour compels me to say that I hold it to a 
 greater extent, with Montaigne, but because I have 
 been a meek son in the family of book-losers. I 
 may affirm, upon a moderate calculation, that I 
 have lent and lost in my time (and I am eight -and- 
 thirty), half-a-dozen decent-sized libraries, — I mean 
 books enough to fill so many ordinary bookcases.^ 
 I have never complained ; and self-love, as well as 
 gratitude, makes me love those who do not com^ 
 plain of me. 
 
 But, like other patient people, I am inclined to 
 burst out now that I grow less strong, — now that 
 writing puts a hectic to my cheek. Publicity is 
 nothing nowadays "between friends." There is 
 R. , not H. R. , who in return for breaking my set 
 of English Poets, makes a point of forgetting me, 
 whenever he has poets in his eye ; which is carrying 
 his conscience too far. But W[illiam] II[azlitt] 
 treated me worse ; for not content with losing other 
 
 1 See "A Shelf of Old Books," by Mrs. Fields, in 
 " Scribner's Magazine " for March, 1888, p. 292. — Ed, 
 
i88 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 of said English Poets, together with my Philip 
 Sidney (all in one volume) and divers pieces of 
 Bacon, he vows I never lent them to him ; which 
 is ' ' the unkindest cut of all. " This comes of being 
 magnanimous. It is a poor thing after all to be 
 "pushed from a level consideration" of one's 
 superiority in matters of provocation. But W[illiam] 
 H[azlitt] is not angry on this occasion though he is 
 forgetful ; and in spite of his offences against me and 
 mine (not to be done away with by his. good word at 
 intervals), I pardon the irritable patriot and meta- 
 physician, who would give his last penny to an ac- 
 quaintance, and his last pulse to the good of man- 
 kind. Why did he fire up at an idle word from 
 one of the few men,^ who thought as deeply as him- 
 self, and who "died daily" in the same awful cause? 
 But I forgive him, because he forgave him, and yet 
 I know not if I can do it for that very reason. 
 
 " Come, my best friends, my books, and lead me on : 
 
 'Tis time that I were gone." 
 
 I own I borrow books with as much facility as I 
 lend. I cannot see a work that interests me on 
 another person's shelf, without a wish to carry it 
 off: but, I repeat, that I have been much more 
 sinned against than sinning in the article of non- 
 return ; and am scrupulous in the article of inten- 
 tion. I never had a felonious intent upon a book 
 but once ; and then I shall only say, it was under 
 circumstances so peculiar, that I cannot but look 
 upon the conscience that induced me to restore it, 
 as having sacrificed the spirit of its very self to the 
 letter ; and I have a grudge against it accordingly. 
 1 No doubt Shelley.— Ed. 
 
• MV BOOKS. 189 
 
 Some people are unwilling to lend their books. I 
 have a special grudge against them, particularly 
 those who accompany their unwillingness with 
 uneasy professions to the contrary, and smiles like 
 Sir Fretful Plagiary. The friend who helped to 
 spoil my notions of property, or rather to make 
 them too good for the world " as it goes," taught 
 me also to undervalue my squeamishness in refusing 
 to avail myself of the books of these gentlemen. 
 He showed me how it was doing good to all parties 
 to put an ordinary face on the matter ; though I 
 know his own blushed not a little sometimes in 
 doing it, even when the good to be done was for 
 another. (Dear SQielley], in all thy actions, small 
 as well as great, how sure was the beauty of thy 
 spirit to break forth.) I feel, in truth, that even 
 when anger inclines me to exercise this privilege of 
 philosophy, it is more out of revenge than contempt. 
 I fear that in allowing myself to borrow books, I 
 sometimes make extremes meet in a very sinful 
 manner, and do it out of a refined revenge. It is 
 like eating a miser's beef at him. 
 
 I yield to none in my love of bookstall urbanity, 
 I have spent as happy moments over the stalls 
 (until the woman looked out), as any literary ap- 
 prentice boy who ought to be moving onwards. 
 But I confess my weakness in liking to see some of 
 my favourite purchases neatly bound. The books 
 I like to have about me most are, Spenser, Chaucer, 
 the minor poems of Milton, the Arabian Nights, 
 Theocritus, Ariosto, and such old good-natured 
 speculations as Plutarch's Morals. For most of 
 these I like a plain good old binding, never mind 
 
190 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 how old, provided it wears well ; but my Arabian 
 Nights may be bound in as fine and flowery a 
 style as possible, and I should love an engraving 
 to every dozen pages. Book-prints of all sorts, 
 bad and good, take with me as much as when I 
 was a child : and I think some books, such as 
 Prior's Poems, ought always to have portraits of 
 the authors. Prior's airy face with his cap on, is 
 like having his company. From early association, 
 no edition of Milton pleases me so much, as that 
 in which there are pictures of the Devil with brute 
 ears, dressed like a Roman General : nor of Bun- 
 yan, as the one containing the print of the Valley 
 of the Shadow of Death, with the Devil whispering 
 in Christian's ear, or old Pope by the way side, and 
 Vanity Fair, 
 With the Pilgrims suffering there. 
 
 I delight in the recollection of the puzzle I used to 
 have with the frontispiece of the " Tale of a Tub," 
 of my real horror at the sight of that crawling old 
 man representing Avarice, at the beginning of 
 ** Enfield's Speaker," the "Looking Glass," or 
 some such book ; and even of the careless school- 
 boy hats, and the prim stomachers and cottage 
 bonnets, of such golden-age antiquities as the 
 "Village School." The oldest and most worn- 
 out woodcut, representing King Pippin, Goody 
 Two Shoes, or the grim Soldan, sitting with three 
 staring blots for his eyes and mouth, his sceptre in 
 one hand, and his other five fingers raised and 
 spread in admiration at the feats of the Gallant 
 London Prentice, cannot excite in me a feeling of 
 ingratitude. Cooke's edition of the British Poets 
 
MV BOOKS. 191 
 
 and Novelists came out when I was at school : 
 for which reason I never could put up with 
 Suttaby's or Walker's publications, except in the 
 case of such works as the *' Fairy Tales," which 
 Mr. Cooke did not publish. Besides, they are too 
 cramped, thick, and mercenary ; and the pictures 
 are all frontispieces. They do not come in at the 
 proper places. Cooke realized the old woman's 
 deau ideal of a prayer-book, — " A little book, 
 with a great deal of matter, and a large type : " — 
 for the type was really large for so small a volume. 
 Shall I ever forget his Collins and his Gray, books 
 at once so "superbly ornamented " and so incon- 
 ceivably cheap ? Sixpence could procure much 
 before ; but never could it procure so much as 
 then, or was at once so much respected, and so 
 little cared for. His artist Kirk was the best 
 artist, except Stothard, that ever designed for 
 periodical works ; and I will venture to add (if his 
 name rightly announces his country) the best artist 
 Scotland ever produced, except Wilkie, but he un- 
 fortunately had not enough of his country in him 
 to keep him from dying young. His designs for 
 Milton and the Arabian Nights, his female ex- 
 tricated from the water in the "Tales of the 
 Genii," and his old hag issuing out of the chest of 
 the Merchant Abadah in the same book, are 
 before me now, as vividly as they were then. He 
 possessed elegance and the sense of beauty in no 
 ordinary degree ; though they sometimes played a 
 trick or so of foppery. I shall never forget the 
 gratitude with which I received an odd number of 
 Akenside, value sixpence, one of the set of that 
 
iga LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 poet, which a boarder distributed among three or 
 four of us, *' with his mother's compliments." The 
 present might have been more lavish, but I hardly 
 thought of that. I remember my number. It 
 was the one in which there is a picture of the poet 
 on a sopha, with Cupid coming to him, and the 
 words underneath, " Tempt me no more, insidious 
 Love ! " The picture and the number appeared 
 to me equally divine. I cannot help thinking to 
 this day, that it is right and natural in a gentleman 
 to sit in a stage dress, on that particular kind of 
 sopha, though on no other, with that exclusive hat 
 and feathers on his head, telling Cupid to begone 
 with a tragedy air. Cowley says that even when 
 he was "a very young boy at school, instead of 
 his running about on holidays, and playing with 
 his fellows, he was wont to steal from them and 
 walk into the fields, either alone with a book, or 
 with some one companion, if he could find one of 
 the same temper." When I was at school, I had 
 no fields to run into, or I should certainly have 
 gone there ; and I must own to having played a 
 great deal ; but then I drew my sports as much as 
 possible out of books, playing at Trojan wars, 
 chivalrous encounters with coal-staves, and even 
 at religious mysteries. When I was not at these 
 games, I was either reading in a corner, or walking 
 round the cloisters with a book under one arm and 
 my friend ^ linked with the other, or with my 
 thoughts. It has since been my fate to realize all 
 the romantic notions I had of a friend at that time, 
 and just as I had embraced him in a distant coun- 
 1 See poems to him in "Juvenilia."— Ed. 
 
MV BOOKS. 193 
 
 try, to have him torn from me.^ This it is that 
 sprinkles the most cheerful of my speculations now 
 with tears, and that must obtain me the reader's 
 pardon for a styleunusually chequered and egoistical. 
 No man was a greater lover of books than he. He 
 was rarely to be seen, unless attending to other 
 people's affairs, without a volume of some sort, 
 generally of Plato or one of the Greek tragedians. 
 Nor will those who understand the real spirit of 
 his scepticism, be surprised to hear that one of his 
 companions was the Bible. He valued it for the 
 beauty of some of its contents, for the dignity of 
 others, and the curiosity of all ; though the philo- 
 sophy of Solomon he thought too Epicurean, and 
 the inconsistencies of other parts afflicted him. 
 His favourite part was the book of Job, which he 
 thought the grandest of tragedies. He projected 
 founding one of his own upon it ; and I will under- 
 take to say, that Job would have sat in that tragedy 
 with a patience and profundity of thought worthy 
 of the original. Being asked on one occasion, what 
 book he would save for himself if he could save no 
 other ? he answered, " The oldest book, the Bible." 
 It was a monument to him of the earliest, most 
 lasting, and most awful aspirations of humanity. 
 But more of this on a fitter occasion. ^ 
 
 1 Shelley again. — Ed. 
 
 2 I will mention, however, in this place, that an advantage 
 of a very cunning and vindictive nature was taken of Mr. 
 Shelley's known regard for the Bible, to represent him as 
 having one with him at the time he was drowned. Nothing 
 was more probable ; and it is true that he had a book in hi.'; 
 pocket, the remains of which, at the request of the author of 
 this article, were buried with him, but it was the volume of 
 
 I. O 
 
.J94 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 ^ I love an author the more for having been him- 
 self a lover of books. The idea of an ancient 
 library perplexes our sympatfiy by its map-like 
 volumes, rolled upon cylinders. Our imagination 
 cannot take kindly to a yard of wit, or to thirty 
 inches of moral observation, rolled out like linen 
 in a draper's shop. But we conceive of Plato as 
 of a lover of books ; of Aristotle certainly ; of 
 Plutarch, Pliny, Horace, Juhan, and Marcus 
 Aurelius. Virgil, too, must have been one ; and, 
 after a fashion, Martial. May I confess, that the 
 passage which I recollect with the greatest plea- 
 sure in Cicero, is where he says that books delight 
 us at home, and are no impediment abroad ; travel 
 .with us, ruralize with us. His period is rounded 
 off to some purpose : *^ Delectant domi, non impe- 
 diunt /oris ; peregrinantur, rusticanttir." I am 
 so much of this opinion, that I do not care to be 
 anywhere without having a book or books at hand, 
 and like Dr. Orkbome, in the novel of " Camilla," 
 stuff the coach or post-chaise with them whenever 
 I travel. As books, however, become ancient, the 
 love of them becomes more unequivocal and con- 
 spicuous. The ancients had little of what we call 
 learning. They made it. They were also no very 
 eminent buyers of books — they made books for 
 posterity. It is true, that it is not at all necessary 
 
 Mr. Keats' poems, containing " Hyperion," of which he 
 was a great admirer. He borrowed it of me when I went 
 away, and knowing how I valued it also, said that he 
 would not let it quit him till he saw me again. 
 
 ' This is the beginning of the second article of July 12th. 
 -Ed. 
 
MV BOOKS. 195 
 
 to love many books, in order to love them much. 
 The scholar, in Chaucer, who would rather have 
 
 At his beddes head 
 A twenty bokes, clothed, in black and red. 
 Of Aristotle and his philosophy. 
 Than robes rich, or fiddle, or psaltry— 
 
 doubtless beat all our modern collectors in his 
 passion for reading ; but books must at least exist, 
 and have acquired an eminence, before their lovers 
 can make themselves known. There must be a 
 possession, also, to perfect the communion ; and 
 the mere contact is much, even when our mistress 
 speaks an unknown language. Dante puts Homer, 
 the great ancient, in his Elysium, upon trust ; 
 but a few years afterwards, "Homer," the book, 
 made its appearance in Italy, and Petrarch, in a 
 transport, put it upon his book-shelves, where he 
 adored it, like ** the unknown Gpd." Petrarch 
 ought to be the god of the Bibliomaniacs, for he 
 was a collector and a man of genius, which is an 
 union that does not often happen. He copied out, 
 with his own precious hand, the manuscripts he 
 rescued from time, and then produced others for 
 time to reverence. With his head upon a book he 
 died. Boccaccio, his friend, was another ; nor can 
 one look upon the longest and most tiresome works 
 he wrote (for he did write some tiresome ones, in 
 spite of the gaiety of his *' Decameron "), without 
 thinking, that in that resuscitation of the world of 
 letters, it must have been natural to a man of 
 genius to add to the existing stock of volumes, at 
 whatsoever price. I always pitch my completest 
 
196 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 idea of a lover of books, either in these dark ages, 
 as they are called, 
 
 (Cui cieco a torto il cieco volgo appella — ) 
 
 or in the gay town days of Charles II. , or a little 
 afterwards. In both times the portrait comes out 
 by the force of contrast. In the first, I imagine an 
 age of iron warfare and energy, with solitary re- 
 treats, in which the monk or the hooded scholar 
 walks forth to meditate, his precious volume under 
 his arm. In the other, I have a triumphant 
 example of the ix)wer of lx>oks and wit to contest 
 the victory with sensual pleasure : — Rochester, 
 staggering home to pen a satire in the style of 
 Monsieur Boileau ; Butler, cramming his jolly 
 duodecimo with all the learning that he laughed 
 at ; and a new race of book poets come up, who, 
 in spite of their periwigs and petit-maltres, talk as 
 romantically of "the bays," as if they were priests 
 of Delphos. It was a victorious thing in books to 
 beguile even the old French of their egotism, or at 
 least to share it with them. Nature never pre- 
 tended to do as much. And here is the difference 
 between the two ages, or between any two ages in 
 which genius and art predominate. In the one, 
 books are loved because they are the records of 
 nature and her energies ; in the other, because 
 they are the records of those records, or evidences 
 of the importance of the individuals, and proofs of 
 our descent in the new and imperishable aristo- 
 cracy. This is the reason why rank (with few ex- 
 ceptions) is so jealous of literature, and loves to 
 appropriate or withhold the honours of it, as if 
 
MV BOOKS. 197 
 
 they were so many toys and ribbons, like its own. 
 It has an instinct that the two pretensions are in- 
 compatible. When Montaigne (a real lover of 
 books) affected the order of St. Michael, and 
 pleased himself with possessing that fugitive little 
 piece of importance, he did it because he would 
 pretend to be above nothing that he really felt, or 
 that was felt by men in general ; but at the same 
 time he vindicated his natural superiority over this 
 weakness by praising and loving all higher and 
 lasting things, and by placing his best glory in 
 doing homage to the geniuses that had gone before 
 him. He did not endeavour to think that an im- 
 mortal renown was a fashion, like that of the cut 
 of his scarf; or that by undervaluing the one, 
 he should go shining down to posterity in the 
 other, perpetual lord of Montaigne and of the 
 ascendant. 
 
 There is a period of modern times, at which the 
 love of books appears to have been of a more de- 
 cided nature than at either of these — I mean the 
 age just before and after the Reformation, or 
 rather all that period when book-writing was con- 
 fined to the learned languages. Erasmus is the 
 god of it. Bacon, a mighty book-man, saw, among 
 his other sights, the great advantage of loosening 
 the vernacular tongue, and wrote both Latin and 
 English. I allow this is the greatest closeted age 
 of books ; of old scholars sitting in dusty studies ; 
 of heaps of '* illustrious obscure," rendering them- 
 selves more illustrious and more obscure by retreat- 
 ing from the " thorny queaches " of Dutch and 
 German names into the '* vacant interlunar caves " 
 
198 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 of appellations latinized or translated. I think I 
 see all their volumes now, filling the shelves of a 
 dozen German convents. The authors are bearded 
 men, sitting in old woodcuts, in caps and gowns, 
 and their books are dedicated to princes and states- 
 men, as illustrious as themselves. My old friend 
 Wierus, who wrote a thick book, " De Praestigiis 
 Daemonum," was one of them, and had a fancy 
 worthy of his sedentary stomach. I will confess, 
 once for all, that I have a liking for them all. It 
 is my link with the bibliomaniacs, whom I admit 
 into our relationship, because my love is large, and 
 my family pride nothing. But still I take my idea 
 of books read with a gusto, of companions for bed 
 and board, from the two ages before-mentioned. 
 The other is of too book-worm a description. 
 There must be both a judgment and a fervour ; a 
 discrimination and a boyish eagerness ; and (with 
 all due humility) something of a point of contact 
 between authors worth reading and the reader. 
 How can I take Juvenal into the fields, or Val- 
 carenghius "De Aortce Aneurismate" to bed 
 with me? How could I expect to walk before 
 the face of nature with the one ; to tire my elbow 
 properly with the other, before I put out my 
 candle, and turn round deliciously on the right 
 side? Or how could I stick up Coke upon 
 Littleton against something on the dinner-table, 
 and be divided between a fresh paragraph and a 
 mouthful of salad ? 
 
 I take our four great English poets to have all 
 been fond of reading. Milton and Chaucer pro- 
 claim themselves for hard sitters at books. Spen- 
 
MV BOOKS. 199 
 
 ser's reading is evident by his learning ; and if 
 there were nothing else to show for it in Shake- 
 speare, his retiring to his native town, long before 
 old age, would be a proof of it. It is impossible 
 for a man to live in solitude without such assis- 
 tance, unless he is a metaphysician or mathe- 
 matician, or the dullest of mankind ; and any 
 country town would be solitude to Shakespeare, 
 after the bustle of a metropolis and a theatre. 
 Doubtless he divided his time between his books, 
 and his bowling-green, and his daughter Susanna. 
 It is pretty certain, also, that he planted, and rode 
 on horseback ; and there is evidence of all sorts to 
 make it clear, that he must have occasionally joked 
 with the blacksmith, and stood godfather for his 
 neighbours' children. Chaucer's account of him- 
 self must be quoted, for the delight and sympathy 
 of all true readers : — 
 
 And as for me, though that I can but lite, 
 
 On book^s for to rede I me delite. 
 
 And to hem yeve I faith and full credence, 
 
 And in mine herte have hem in reverence 
 
 So hertely, that there is game none. 
 
 That fro my bookes maketh me to gone, 
 
 But it is seldome on the holy daie ; 
 
 Save certainly whan that the month of May 
 
 Is comen, and that I hear the foules sing, 
 
 And that the floures ginnen for to spring. 
 
 Farewell my booke and my devocion. 
 
 TAe Legend of Good Women. 
 
 And again, in the second book of his ** House 
 of Fame," where the eagle addresses him : — 
 
 Thou wilt make 
 
 At night full oft thine head to ake. 
 
200 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 And in thy study as thou writest. 
 
 And evermore of Love enditest, 
 
 In honour of him and his praisings, 
 
 And in his folkes furtherings, 
 
 And in his matter all devisest, ' 
 
 And not him ne his folke despisest, 
 
 Although thou mayst go in the daunse 
 
 Of hem, that him list not advance ; 
 
 Therefore as I said, ywis, 
 
 Jupiter considreth well this. 
 
 And also, beausire, of other things ; 
 
 That is, thou hast no tidings 
 
 Of Loves folke, if they be glade, 
 
 Ne of nothing else that God made, 
 
 And not only fro ferre countree, 
 
 But no tidings commen to thee. 
 
 Not of thy very neighbouris, 
 
 That dwellen almost at thy dores ; 
 
 Thou hearest neither that ne this, 
 
 For whan thy labour all done is. 
 
 And hast made all thy rekenings,! 
 
 Instead of rest and of new things, 
 
 Thou goest home to thine house anone, 
 
 And all so dombe as anie stone. 
 
 Thou sittest at another booke. 
 
 Till fully dazed is thy looke. 
 
 After I think of the bookishness of Chaucer and 
 Milton, I always make a great leap to Prior and 
 Fenton. Prior was first noticed, when a boy, by 
 Lord Dorset, sitting in his uncle's tavern, and 
 reading Horace. He describes himself, years 
 after, when Secretary of Embassy at the Hague, 
 as taking the same author with him in the Satur- 
 day's chaise, in which he and his mistress used to 
 escape from town cares into the country, to the 
 
 1 Chaucer at this time had an office undtr the govern- 
 ment. 
 
Mr BOOKS. 20I 
 
 admiration of Butch beholders. Fenton was a 
 martyr to contented scholarship (including a sir- 
 loin and a bottle of wine), and died among his 
 books, of inactivity. "He rose late," says John- 
 son, "and when he had risen, sat down to his 
 books and papers. " A woman that once waited 
 on him in a lodging, told him, as she said, that he 
 would " lie a-bed and be fed with a spoon." He 
 must have had an enviable liver, if he was happy. 
 I must own (if my conscience would let mc), that 
 I should like to lead, half the year, just such a life 
 (woman included, though not that woman), the 
 other half being passed in the fields and woods, 
 with a cottage just big enough to hold us. Dacier 
 and his wife had a pleasant time of it ; both fond 
 of books, both scholars, both amiable, both wrapt 
 up in the ancient world, and helping one another 
 at their tasks. If they were not happy, matrimony 
 would be a rule even without an exception. Pope 
 does not strike me as being a book-man ; he was 
 curious rather than enthusiastic ; more nice than 
 wise ; he dabbled in modern Latin poetry, which 
 is a bad symptom. Swift was decidedly a reader ; 
 the " Tale of a Tub," in its fashion as well as sub- 
 stance, is the work of a scholarly wit ; the " Battle 
 of the Books " is the fancy of a lover of libraries. 
 Addison and Steele were too much given up to 
 Button's and the town. Periodical writing, though 
 its demands seem otherwise, is not favourable to 
 reading ; it becomes too much a matter of business, 
 and will either be attended to at the expense of the 
 writer's books, or books, the very admonishers of 
 his industry, will make him idle. Besides, a 
 
aoa LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 periodical work, to be suitable to its character, 
 and warrant its regular recurrence, must involve 
 something of a gossiping nature, and proceed upon 
 experiences familiar to the existing community, or 
 at least likely to be received by them in conse- 
 quence of some previous tinge of inclination. You 
 do not pay weekly visits to your friends to lecture 
 them, whatever good you may do their minds. 
 There will be something compulsory in reading 
 the " Ramblers," as there is in going to church. 
 Addison and Steele undertook to regulate the 
 minor morals of society, and effected a world of 
 good, with which scholarship had little to do. 
 Gray was a book -man ; he wished to be always 
 lying on sofas, reading "eternal new novels of 
 Crebillon and Marivaux." This is a true hand. 
 The elaborate and scientific look of the rest of his 
 reading was owing to the necessity of employing 
 himself: he had not health and spirits for the 
 literary voluptuousness he desired. Collins, for 
 the same reason, could not employ himself; he 
 was obliged to dream over Arabian tales, to let the 
 light of the supernatural world half in upon his 
 eyes. " He loved," as Johnson says (in that strain 
 of music, inspired by tenderness), " fairies, genii, 
 giants, and monsters ; he delighted to rove through 
 the meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the 
 magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by the 
 waterfalls of Elysian gardens." If Collins had had 
 a better constitution, I do not believe that he 
 would have written his projected work upon the 
 ** Restoration of Literature," fit as he was by 
 scholarship for the task, but he would have been 
 
MV BOOKS. 203 
 
 the greatest poet since the days of Milton. If his 
 friend Thomas Warton had had a little more of his 
 delicacy of organization, the love of books would 
 almost have made him a poet. His edition of the 
 minor poems of Milton is a wilderness of sweets. 
 It is the only one in which a true lover of the 
 original can pardon an exuberance of annotation ; 
 though I confess I am inclined enough to pardon 
 any notes that resemble it, however numerous. 
 The " builded rhyme" stands at the top of the 
 page, like a fair edifice with all sorts of flowers 
 and fresh waters at its foot. The young poet lives 
 there, served by the nymphs and fauns. 
 
 Hinc atque hinc glomerantur Oreades. 
 Hue ades, o formose puer : tibi lilia plenis 
 Ecce ferunt nymphas calathis : tibi Candida Nais 
 Pallentes violas et summa papavera carpens, 
 Narcissum et florem jungit bene olentis anethi. 
 
 Among the old writers I must not forget Ben 
 Jonson and Donne. Cowley has been already 
 mentioned. His boyish love of books, like all the 
 other inclinations of his early life, stuck to him to 
 the last ; which is the greatest reward of virtue. I 
 would mention Izaak Walton, if I had not a 
 grudge against him. His brother fishermen, the 
 divines, were also great fishers of books. I have 
 a grudge against them and their divinity. They 
 talked much of the devil and divine right, and yet 
 forgot what Shakespeare says of the devil's friend 
 Nero, that he is "an angler in the lake of dark- 
 ness." Selden was called " the walking library of 
 our nation." It is not the pleasantest idea of him ; 
 but the library included poetry, and wit, as well as 
 
204 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 heraldry and the Jewish doctors. His *• Table 
 Talk " is equally pithy and pleasant, and truly 
 worthy of the name, for it implies other speakers. 
 Indeed it was actually what it is called, and trea- 
 sured up by his friends. Selden wrote complimen- 
 tary verses to his friends the poets, and a com- 
 mentary on Drayton's ' ' Polyolbion. " Drayton was 
 himself a reader, addicted to all the luxuries of 
 scholarship. Chapman sat among his books, like 
 an astrologer among his spheres and altitudes. 
 
 How pleasant it is to reflect, that all these 
 lovers of books have themselves become books ! 
 What better metamorphosis could Pythagoras havo 
 desired ! How Ovid and Horace exulted in antici- 
 pating theirs ! And how the world have justified 
 their exultation ! They had a right to triumph 
 over brass and marble. It is the only visible 
 change which changes no farther ; which generates 
 and yet is not destroyed. Consider : mines them- 
 selves are exhausted ; cities perish ; kingdoms are 
 swept away, and man weeps with indignation to 
 think that his own body is not immortal. 
 
 Muoiono le citta, muoiono i regni, 
 
 E r uom d' esser mortal par che si sdegni. 
 
 Yet this little body of thought, that lies before 
 me in the shape of a book, has existed thousands 
 of years, nor since the invention of the press can 
 anything short of an universal convulsion of nature 
 abolish it. To a shape like this, so small yet so 
 comprehensive, so slight yet so lasting, so insigni- 
 ficant yet so venerable, turns the mighty activity of 
 Homer, and so turning, is enabled to live and 
 
AfV BOOKS. 205 
 
 warm us for ever. To a shape like this turns the 
 placid sage of Academus : to a shape like this the 
 grandeur of Milton, the exuberance of Spenser, 
 the pungent elegance of Pope, and the volatility of 
 Prior. In one small room, like the compressed 
 spirits of Milton, can be gathered together 
 
 The assembled souls of all that men held wise. 
 
 May I hope to become the meanest of these exis- 
 tences ? This is a question which every author 
 who is a lover of books, asks himself some time in 
 his life ; and which must be pardoned, because it 
 cannot be helped. I know not. I cannot exclaim 
 with the poet. 
 
 Oh that my name were number'd among theirs, 
 Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 
 
 For my mortal days, few and feeble as the rest of 
 them may be, are of consequence to others. But 
 I should like to remain visible in this shape. The 
 little of myself that pleases myself, I could wish to 
 be accounted worth pleasing others. I should like 
 to sur\-ive so, were it only for the sake of those 
 who love me in private, knowing as I do what a 
 treasure is the possession of a friend's mind, when 
 he is no more. At all events, nothing while I live 
 and think, can deprive me of my value for such 
 treasures. ' I can help the appreciation of them 
 while I last, and love them till I die ; and perhaps, 
 if fortune turns her face once more in kindness 
 upon me before I go, I may chance, some quiet 
 day, to lay my overheating temples on a book, 
 and so have the death I most envy. 
 
ao6 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 OF "foliage," i8i8, to sir JOHN EDWARD 
 SWINBURNE, BART. 
 
 My dear Sir John, 
 
 J HIS book belongs to you, if you will 
 accept it. You are not one of those 
 who pay the strange compliment to 
 heaven of depreciating this world, be- 
 cause you believe in another: you admire its 
 beauties both in nature and art ; you think that a 
 knowledge of the finest voices it has uttered, ancient 
 as well as modern, ought, even in gratitude, to be 
 shared by the sex that has inspired so many of 
 them ; — a rational piety and a manly patriotism 
 does not hinder you from'putting the Phidian Jove 
 over your organ, or flowers at the end of your 
 room ;— in short, you who visit the sick and the 
 prisoner, for the sake of helping them without 
 frightening, cannot look more tenderly after others, 
 than you are regarded by your own family ; nor 
 can any one of the manly and amiable friends that 
 I have the happiness of possessing, more fitly re- 
 ceive a book, the object of which is to cultivate a 
 love of nature out of doors, and of sociality within. 
 Pray pardon me this public compliment for my 
 own sake, and for sincerity's. That you may long 
 continue to be the centre of kind happy looks, and 
 an example to the once cheerful gentry of this war 
 and money-injured land, is the constant wish of 
 Your obliged 
 
 and affectionate servant, 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
A SCHOOLBOY'S FIRST LOVE. 207 
 
 A SCHOOLBOY'S FIRST LOVE. 
 
 ["Lord Byron and his Contemporaries," 1828. "Auto- 
 biography," 1850.] 
 
 lY strolls about the fields with a book 
 were full of happiness : only my dress 
 used to get me stared at by the villagers. 
 Walking one day by the little river 
 Wandle, I came upon one of the loveliest girls I 
 ever beheld, standing in the water with bare legs, 
 washing some linen. She turned as she was stoop- 
 ing, and showed a blooming oval face with blue 
 eyes, on either side of which flowed a profusion of 
 flaxen locks. With the exception of the colour of 
 the hair, it was like Raphael's own head turned 
 into a peasant girl's. The eyes were full of gentle 
 astonishment at the sight of me ; and mine must 
 have wondered no less. However, I was prepared 
 for such wonders. It was only one of my poetical 
 visions realized, and I expected to find the world 
 full of them. What she thought of my blue skirts 
 and yellow stockings is not so clear. She did not, 
 however, taunt me with my "petticoats," as the 
 girls in the streets of London would do,^ making 
 me blush, as I thought they ought to have done 
 instead. My beauty in the brook was too gentle 
 and diffident ; at least I thought so, and my own 
 
 ^ " For the Christ's Hospital boy feels that he is no 
 charity-boy .... in the respect, and even kindness, which 
 his well-known garb never fails to procure him in the streets 
 of the metropolis." — C. Lamb's Recollections of Christ's 
 Hospital, 
 
2o8 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 heart did not contradict me. I then took every 
 beauty for an Arcadian, and eveiy brook for a 
 fairy stream ; and the reader would be surprised if 
 he knew to what an extent I have a similar tendency 
 still. I find the same possibilities by another 
 path. 
 
 It was then that I fell in love with my cousin 
 Fan. However, I would have fought all her young 
 acquaintances round for her, timid as I was, and 
 little inclined to pugnacity. 
 
 Fanny was a lass of fifteen, with little laughing 
 eyes, and a mouth like a plum. I was then (I feel 
 as if I ought to be ashamed to say it) not more 
 than thirteen, if so old ; but I had read Tooke's 
 " Pantheon," and came of a precocious race. My 
 cousin came of one too, and was about to be married 
 to a handsome young fellow of three-and-twenty. I 
 thought nothing of this, for nothing could be more 
 innocent than my intentions. I was not old enough, 
 or grudging enough, or whatever it was, even to 
 be jealous. I thought everybody must love Fanny 
 Dayrell ; and if she did not leave me out in per- 
 mitting it, I was satisfied. It was enough for me 
 to be with her as long as I could ; to gaze on her 
 with delight as she floated hither and thither ; and 
 to sit on the stiles in the neighbouring fields, think- 
 ing of Tooke's " Pantheon." My friendship was 
 greater than my love. Had my favourite school- 
 fellow been ill, or otherwise demanded my return, 
 I should certainly have chosen his society in pre- 
 ference. Three-fourths of my heart were devoted 
 to friendship ; the rest was in a vague dream of 
 beauty, and female cousins, and nymphs, and 
 
A SCHOOLBOY'S FIRST LOVE. 209 
 
 green fields, and a feeling which, though of a 
 warm nature, was full of fear and respect. 
 
 Had the jade put me on the least equality of 
 footing as to age, I know not what change might 
 have been wrought in me ; but though too young 
 herself for the serious duties she was about to bring 
 on her, and full of sufficient levity and gaiety not 
 to be uninterested with the little black-eyed school- 
 boy that lingered about her, my vanity was well 
 paid ofT by hers, for she kept me at a distance by 
 calling me petit garfon. This was no better than 
 the assumption of an elder sister in her teens over 
 a younger one ; but the latter feels it, nevertheless ; 
 and I persuaded myself that it was particularly cruel. 
 . . . There would she come in her frock and tucker 
 (for she had not yet left off either), her curls 
 dancing, and her hands clasped together in the 
 enthusiasm of something to tell me, and when I 
 flew to meet her, forgetting the difference of ages, 
 and alive only to my charming cousin, she would 
 repress me with a little fillip on the cheek, and say, 
 *' Well, petit gajyon, what do you think of that ? " 
 The worst of it was, that this odious French phrase 
 sat insufferably well upon her plump little mouth. 
 She and I used to gather peaches before the house 
 were up. I held the ladder for her ; she mounted 
 like a fairy ; and when I stood doating on her as 
 she looked down and threw the fruit in my lap, she 
 would cry, ^^ Petit gar^ott, you will let 'em all 
 drop ! " On my return to school, she gave me a 
 locket for a keepsake, in the shape of a heart ; 
 which was the worst thing she ever did to the petti 
 garfon, for it touched me on my weak side, and 
 
 I. P 
 
aio LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 looked like a sentiment. I believe I should have 
 had serious thoughts of becoming melancholy, had 
 I not, in returning to school, returned to my friend, 
 and so found means to occupy my craving for sym- 
 pathy. However, I wore the heart a long while. 
 I have sometimes thought there was more in her 
 French than I imagined ; but I believe not. She 
 naturally took herself for double my age, with a 
 lover of three-and-twenty. Soon after her marriage, 
 fortune separated us for many years. My passion 
 had almost as soon died away ; but I have loved 
 the name of Fanny ever since ; and when I met 
 her again, which was under circumstances of 
 trouble on her part, I could not see her without 
 such an emotion as I was fain to confess to a person 
 "near and dear," who forgave me for it ; which is 
 one of the reasons I have for loving the said person 
 so well. Yes ! the " black ox" trod on the fairy 
 foot of my light-hearted cousin Fan ; of her, whom 
 I could no more have thought of in conjunction 
 with sorrow, than of a ball-room with a tragedy. 
 To know that she was rich and admired, and 
 abounding in mirth and music, was to me the same 
 thing as to know that she existed. How often did 
 I afterwards wish myself rich in turn, that I might 
 have restored to her all the graces of life ! She 
 was generous, and would not have denied me the 
 satisfaction. 
 
 This was ray first love. 
 
^..^- J/n^-^ 
 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF CHRIST-HOSPITAL. 211 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF CHRIST- 
 HOSPITAL. 
 
 ["Lord Byron and his Contemporaries," 1828. "Auto- 
 biography," 1850.] 
 
 lERHAPS there is not a foundation in 
 the country so truly English, taking 
 ^<^ that word to mean what Englishmen 
 ^ wish it to mean — something solid, un- 
 pretending, of good character, and free to all. 
 More boys are to be found in it, who issue from a 
 greater variety of ranks, than in any school in the 
 kingdom ; and as it is the most various, so it is the 
 largest, of all the free schools. Nobility do not go 
 there, except as boarders. Now and then a boy 
 of a noble family may be met with, and he is 
 reckoned an interloper, and against the charter ; 
 but the sons of poor gentry and London citizens 
 abound ; and with them an equal share is given to 
 the sons of tradesmen of the very humblest descrip- 
 tion, not omitting servants. I would not take my 
 oath — but I have a very vivid recollection, that in 
 my time there were two boys, one of whom went up 
 into the drawing-room to his father, the master of 
 the house ; and the other, down into the kitchen 
 to his father, the coachman. One thing, however, 
 I know to be certain, and that is the noblest of all : 
 it is, that the boys themselves (at least it was so in 
 my time) had no sort of feeling of the difference of 
 one another's ranks out of door's. The cleverest 
 boy was the noblest, let his father be who he might. 
 In short Christ-Hospital is known and respected 
 by thousands as a nursery of tradesmen, of mer- 
 
212 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 chants, of naval officers, of scholars, of some of the 
 most eminent persons of the day ; and the feeling 
 among the boys themselves is, that it is a medium, far 
 apart indeed, but equally so, between the patrician 
 pretension of such schools as Eton and Westminster, 
 and the plebeian submission of the charity schools. 
 In point of university honours it claims to be equal 
 with the best ; and though other schools can show 
 a greater abundance of eminent names, I know 
 not where will be many who are a greater host 
 in themselves. One original author is worth a 
 hundred transmitters of elegance : and such a one 
 is to be found in Richardson, who here received 
 what education he possessed. . . . 
 
 In the time of Henry VIII. Christ- Hospital was 
 a monastery of Franciscan friars. Being dissolved 
 among the others, Edward VI. , moved by a sermon 
 of Bishop Ridley's, assigned the revenues of it to 
 the maintenance and education of a certain number 
 of poor orphan children, born of citizens of London. 
 I believe there has been no law passed to alter the 
 letter of this intention ; which is a pity, since the 
 alteration has taken place. An extension of it was 
 probably very good, and even demanded by circum- 
 stances. I have reason, for one, to be grateful for 
 it. But tampering with matters-of-fact among 
 children is dangerous. They soon learn to dis- 
 tinguish between allowed poetical fiction and that 
 which they are told, under severe penalties, never 
 to be guilty of ; and this early sample of contradic- 
 tion between the thing asserted and the obvious 
 fact, can do no good even in an establishment so 
 plain-dealing in other respects as Christ-Hospital. 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF CHRIST-HOSPITAL. 213 
 
 The place is not only designated as an Orphan- 
 house in its Latin title, but the boys, in the prayers 
 which they repeat every day, implore the pity of 
 heaven upon " us poor orphans." I remember the 
 perplexity this caused me at a very early period. 
 It is true, the word orphan may be used in a sense 
 implying destitution of any sort ; but this was not 
 its original meaning in the present instance ; nor do 
 the younger boys give it the benefit of that scholarly 
 interpretation. There was another thing (now, I 
 believe, done away) which existed in my time, and 
 perplexed me still more. It seemed a glaring in- 
 stance of the practice likely to result from the other 
 assumption, and made me prepare for a hundred 
 falsehoods and deceptions, which, mixed up with 
 contradiction, as most things in society are, I some- 
 times did find, and oftener dreaded. I allude to a 
 foolish custom they had in the ward which I first 
 entered, and which was the only one that the com- 
 pany at the public suppers were in the habit of 
 going into, of hanging up, by the side of every bed, 
 a clean white napkin, which was supposed to be 
 the one used by the occupiers. Now these napkins 
 were only for show, the real towels being of the 
 largest and coarsest kind. If the masters had been 
 asked about them, they would doubtless have told 
 the truth ; perhaps the nurses would have done so. 
 Bur the boys were not aware of this. There they 
 saw these "white lies" hanging before them, a 
 conscious imposition ; and I well remember how 
 alarmed I used to feel, lest any of the company 
 should direct their inquiries to me.' . . . 
 J " The Christ's Hospital boy's sense of right and wrong 
 
214 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 To each of these wards [or sleeping-rooms] a 
 nurse was assigned, who was the widow of some 
 decent liveryman of London, and who had the 
 charge of looking after us at night-time, seeing to 
 our washing, &c., and carving for us at dinner : 
 all of which gave her a good deal of power, more 
 than her name warranted. They were, however, 
 almost invariably very decent people, and performed 
 their duty ; which was not always the case with 
 the young ladies, their daughters. There were five 
 schools ; a grammar-school, a mathematical or 
 navigation-school (added by Charles II. [through 
 the zeal of Mr. Pepys]), a writing, a drawing, and 
 a reading school. Those who could not read when 
 they came on the foundation, went into the last. 
 There were few in the last-but-one, and I scarcely 
 know what they did, or for what object. The 
 writing-school was for those who were intended for 
 trade and commerce ; the mathematical, for boys 
 who went as midshipmen into the naval and East 
 India service ; and the grammar-school for such as 
 were designed for the Church, and to go to the 
 University. The writing-school was by far the 
 largest ; and, what is very curious (which is not 
 the case now), all the schools were kept quite dis- 
 tinct ; so that a boy might arrive at the age of 
 fifteen in the grammar-school, and not know his 
 multiplication-table.^ . . . 
 
 is peculiarly tender and apprehensive." — C. Lamb's Recol- 
 lections of Chris fs Hospital. 
 
 1 "Which was the case with L. H. himself, and the cause 
 of much trouble to him in after life." See " Auto- 
 biography." 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF CHRIST-HOSPITAL. 215 
 
 Most of these schools had several masters ; be- 
 sides whom there was a steward, who took care of 
 our subsistence, and had a general superintendence 
 over all hours and circumstances not connected 
 with schooling. The masters had almost all been 
 in the school, and might expect pensions or livings 
 in their old age. Among those in my time, the 
 mathematical master was Mr. Wales, a man well 
 known for his science, who had been round the 
 world with Captain Cook ; for which we highly 
 venerated him. He was a good man, of plain, 
 simple manners, with a heavy large person and a 
 benign countenance. When he was at Otaheite, 
 the natives played him a trick while bathing, and 
 stole his small-clothes ; which we used to think an 
 enormous liberty, scarcely credible. The name of 
 the steward, a thin stiff man of invincible formality 
 of demeanour, admirably fitted t<^ render encroach- 
 ment impossible, was Hathaway.^ We of the 
 grammar-school used to call him "the Yeoman," 
 on account of Shakespeare having married the 
 daughter of a man of that name, designated as " a 
 substantial yeoman." . . . 
 
 The persons who were in the habit of getting up 
 in our church pulpit and reading-desk, might as 
 well have hummed a tune to their diaphragms. 
 They inspired us with nothing but mimicry. The 
 name of the morning reader was Salt. He was a 
 worthy man, I believe, and might, for aught we 
 knew, have been a clever one ; but he had it all 
 
 I Charles Lamb tells a characteristic anecdote of this Mr. 
 Hathaway, "with that patient sagacity that tempered all his 
 conduct." 
 
2i6 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 to himself. He spoke in his throat, with a sound 
 as if he were weak and corpulent ; and was famous 
 among us for saying •' murracles " instead of 
 "miracles." When we imitated him, this was 
 the only word we drew upon : the rest was unin- 
 telligible suffocation. Our usual evening preacher 
 was Mr. Sandiford, who had the reputation of 
 learning and piety. It was of no use to us, except 
 to make us associate the ideas of learning and 
 piety in the pulpit with inaudible humdrum. Mr. 
 Sandiford's voice was hollow and low ; and he 
 had a habit of dipping up and down over his book, 
 like a chicken drinking. Mr. Salt was eminent 
 for a single word. Mr. Sandiford surpassed him, 
 for he had two audible phrases. There was, it is 
 true, no great variety in them. One was ** the 
 dispensation of Moses ; " the other (with a due in- 
 terval of hum), "the Mosaic dispensation." These 
 he used to repeat so often, that in our caricatures 
 of him they sufficed for an entire portrait. The 
 reader may conceive a large church (it was Christ 
 Church, Newgate Street), with six hundred boys, 
 seated like charity-children up in the air, on each 
 side of the organ, Mr. Sandiford humming in the 
 valley, and a few maid-servants who formed his 
 afternoon congregation. We did not dare to go to 
 sleep. We were not allowed to read. The great 
 boys used to get those that sat behind them to play 
 with their hair. Some whispered to their neigh- 
 bours, and the others thought of their lessons and 
 tops. I can safely say, that many of us would 
 have been good listeners, and most of us attentive 
 ones, if the clergyman could have been heard. As 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF CHRIST-HOSPITAL. 817 
 
 it was, I talked as well as the rest, or thought of 
 my exercise. Sometimes we could not help joking 
 and laughing over our weariness; and then the 
 fear was, lest the steward had seen us. It was 
 part of the business of the steward to preside over 
 the boys in church-time, lie sat aloof, in a place 
 where he could view the whole of his flock. There 
 was a ludicrous kind of revenge we had of him, 
 whenever a particular part of the Bible was read. 
 This was the parable of the Unjust Steward. The 
 boys waited anxiously till the passage commenced ; 
 and then, as if by a general conspiracy, at the 
 words " thou unjust steward," the whole school 
 turned their eyes upon this unfortunate officer, 
 who sat 
 
 Like Teneriff or Atlas unremoved. 
 
 We persuaded ourselves, that the more uncon- 
 scious he looked, the more he was acting. . . . 
 
 "But what is a Deputy Grecian?" Ah, 
 reader ! to ask that question, and at the same 
 time to know anything at all worth knowing, 
 would at one time, according to our notions, have 
 been impossible. When I entered the school, I 
 was shown three gigantic boys, young men rather 
 (for the eldest was between seventeen and eigh- 
 teen), who, ,1 was told, were going to the Univer- 
 sity. These were the Grecians. They are the 
 three head boys of the Grammar School, and are 
 understood to have their destiny fixed for the Church. 
 The next class to these, and like a College of Car- 
 dinals to those three Popes (for every Grecian was 
 in our eyes infallible), are the Deputy Grecians, 
 
•i8 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 The fonner were supposed to have completed their 
 Greek studies, and were deep in Sophocles and 
 Euripides. The latter were thought equally com- 
 petent to tell you anything respecting Homer and 
 Demosthenes. These two classes, and the head 
 boys of the Navigation School, held a certain 
 rank over the whole place, both in school and out. 
 Indeed, the whole of the Navigation School, upon 
 the strength of cultivating their valour for the navy, 
 and being called King's Boys,^ had succeeded in 
 establishing an extraordinary pretension to respect. 
 This they sustained in a manner as laughable to 
 call to mind as it was grave in its reception. It 
 was an etiquette among them never to move out of 
 a right line as they walked, whoever stood in their 
 way. I believe there was a secret understanding 
 with Grecians and Deputy Grecians, the former of 
 whom were unquestionably lords paramount in 
 point of fact, and stood and walked aloof when all 
 the rest of the school were marshalled in lx)dies. I 
 do not remember any clashing between these civil 
 and naval powers ; but I remember well my 
 astonishment when I first beheld some of my little 
 comrades overthrown by the progress of one of 
 these very straightforward [marine] personages, who 
 walked on with as tranquil and unconscious a face 
 as if nothing had happened. It was not a fierce- 
 looking push ; there seemed to be no intention in 
 it. The insolence lay in the boy not appearing to 
 know that such an inferior human being existed, 
 
 1 See also C. Lamb's "Recollections of Christ's Hospital," 
 for an account of these King's Boys, whom he calls the Janis- 
 saries of the school. 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF CHRIST-HOSPITAL. ai9 
 
 It was always thus, wherever they came. If aware, 
 the boys got out of their way ; if not, down they 
 went, one or more ; away rolled the top or the 
 marbles, and on walked the future captain — 
 
 In maiden navigation, frank and free. 
 
 They wore a badge on the shoulder, of which 
 they were very proud; though in the streets it 
 must have helped to confound them with charity 
 boys. For charity boys, I must own, we all had a 
 great contempt, or thought so. We did not dare 
 to know that there might have been a little 
 jealousy of our own position in it, placed as we 
 were midway between the homeliness of the 
 common charity-school and the dignity of the 
 foundations. We called them ^* chizzy-wags,^^ 2SiA 
 had a particular scorn and hatred of their nasal 
 tone in singing. 
 
 The under grammar-master was the Rev. Mr. 
 Field.* He was a good-looking man, very gentle- 
 manly, and always dressed at the neatest. I be- 
 lieve he once wrote a play. He had the reputa- 
 tion of being admired by the ladies. A man of a 
 more handsome incompetence for his situation 
 perhaps did not exist. He came late of a morn- 
 ing ; went away soon in the afternoon ; and used 
 
 1 In Charles Lamb's " Christ's Hospital five-and-thirty 
 Years ago," a very similar account is given of the Rev. 
 Matthew Field, whose character is thus summarized : 
 " [He] belonged to that class of modest divines who affect 
 to mix in equal proportion the s^ntlentan, the scholar, and 
 the Christian; but, I know not how, the first ingredient is 
 generally found to be the predominating dose in the com- 
 position." 
 
3M LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 to walk up and down, languidly bearing his cane, 
 as if it were a lily, and hearing our eternal Domi- 
 nuses and As in prcesentHs with an air of ineffable 
 endurance. Often he did not hear at all. It was 
 a joke with us, when any of our friends came to 
 the door, and we asked his permission to go to 
 them, to address him with some preposterous ques- 
 tion wide of the mark ; to which he used to assent. 
 We would say, for instance, " Are you not a great 
 fool, sir ? " or, " Isn't your daughter a pretty girl?" 
 to which he would reply, "Yes, child." When 
 he condescended to hit us with the cane, he made 
 a face as if he were taking physic. Miss Field, 
 an agreeable-looking girl, was one of the goddesses 
 of the school ; as far above us as if she had lived 
 on Olympus. Another was Miss Patrick, daughter 
 of the lamp-manufacturer in Newgate Street. I do 
 not remember her face so well, not seeing it so 
 often ; but she abounded in admirers. 1 write 
 the names of these ladies at full length, because 
 there is nothing that should hinder their being 
 pleased at having caused us so many agreeable 
 visions. We used to identify them with the picture 
 of Venus in Tooke's ** Pantheon." . . . 
 
 The scald that I speak of, as confining me to 
 bed,^ was a bad one. I will give an account of it, 
 because it furthers the elucidation of our school 
 manners. I had then become a monitor, or one 
 of the chiefs of a ward ; and was sitting before 
 the fire one evening, after the boys had gone to 
 bed, wrapped up in the perusal of the " Wonder- 
 
 1 Which gave him an opportunity for a good deal of 
 reading. — Ed. 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF CHRIST-HOSPITAL. aai 
 
 ful Magazine," and having in my ear at the same 
 time the bubbling of a great pot, or rather caul- 
 dron, of water, containing what was by courtesy 
 called a bread pudding ; being neither more nor 
 less than a loaf or two of our bread, which, with a 
 little sugar mashed up with it, was to serve for my 
 supper. And there were eyes, not yet asleep, 
 which would look at it out of their beds, and regard 
 it as a lordly dish. From this dream of bliss I was 
 roused up on the sudden by a great cry, and a 
 horrible agony in my legs. A "boy," as a fag 
 was called, wishing to get something from the 
 other side of the fireplace, and not choosing either 
 to go round behind the table, or to disturb the 
 illustrious legs of the monitor, had endeavoured to 
 get under them or between them, and so pulled 
 the great handle of the pot after him. It was a 
 frightful sensation. The whole of my being seemed 
 collected in one fiery torment into my legs. 
 Wood, the Grecian (afterwards Fellow of Pem- 
 broke, at Cambridge), who was in our ward, and 
 who was always very kind to me (led, I believe, 
 by my inclination for verses, in which he had a 
 great name), came out of his study, and after help- 
 ing me off with my stockings, which was a horrid 
 operation, the stockings being very coarse, took 
 me in his arms to the sick ward. I shall never 
 forget the enchanting relief occasioned by the cold 
 air, as it blew across the square of the sick ward. 
 I lay there for several weeks, not allowed to move 
 for some time ; and caustics became necessary 
 before I got well. The getting well was delicious. 
 I had no tasks— -no master ; plenty of books to 
 
Ma LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 read ; and the nurse's daughter {ahsit calumnia) 
 brought me tea and buttered toast, and encouraged 
 me to play the flute. My playing consisted of a 
 few tunes by rote ; my fellow-invalids (none of 
 them in very desperate case) would have it rather 
 than no playing at all ; so we used to play and tell 
 stories, and go to sleep, thinking of the blessed 
 sick holiday we should have to-morrow, and of the 
 bowl of milk and bread for breakfast, which was 
 alone worth being sick for. The sight of Mr. 
 Long's probe was not so pleasant. We preferred 
 seeing it in the hands of his pupil, Mr. Vincent, 
 whose manners, quiet and mild, had double effect 
 on a set of boys more or less jealous of the mixed 
 humbleness and importance of their school. This 
 was most likely the same Mr. Vincent who now 
 (1828) lectures at St. Bartholomew's. He was 
 dark, like a West Indian, and I used to think him 
 handsome. Perhaps the nurse's daughter taught 
 me to think so, for she was a considerable ob- 
 server. 
 
 I was fifteen when I put off my band and blue 
 skirts for a coat and neckcloth. I was then first 
 Deputy Grecian, and I had the honour of going 
 out of the school in the same rank, at the same 
 age, and for the same reason, as my friend Charles 
 Lamb. The reason was, that I hesitated in my 
 speech. I did not stammer half so badly as I 
 used ; and it is very seldom that I halt at a 
 syllable now ; but it was understood that a Grecian 
 was bound to deliver a public speech before he 
 left school, and to go into the Church afterwards ; 
 and as I could do neither of these things, a 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF CHRIST-HOSPITAL. 223 
 
 Grecian I could not be. So I put on my coat and 
 waistcoat, and, what was stranger, my hat ; a 
 very uncomfortable addition to my sensations. 
 For eight years I had gone bareheaded ; save now 
 and then a few inches of pericranium, when the 
 little cap, no larger than a crumpet, was stuck on 
 one side, to the mystification of the old ladies in 
 the streets. I then cared as little for the rains as 
 I did for anything else. I had now a vague sense 
 of worldly trouble, and of a great and serious 
 change in my condition ; besides which, I had 
 to quit my old cloisters, and my playmates, and 
 long habits of all sorts ; so that what was a very 
 happy moment to schoolboys in general, was to 
 me one of the most painful of my life. I surprised 
 my schoolfellows and the master with the melan- 
 choly of my tears. I took leave of my books, of 
 my friends, of my seat in the grammar-school, of 
 my good-hearted nurse and her daughter, of my 
 bed, of the cloisters, and of the very pump out of 
 which I had taken so many delicious draughts, as 
 if I should never see them again, though I meant 
 to come every day. The fatal hat was put on ; my 
 father was come to fetch me. 
 
 We, hand in hand, with strange new steps and slow. 
 Through Holbom took our meditative way. 
 
LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 HIS JAILERS. 
 
 ["Lord Byron and his Contemporaries," 1828. "Auto- 
 biography," 1850.] 
 
 I Y jailer's name was Ives. I was told he 
 was a very self-willed person, not the 
 more accommodating for being in a bad 
 state of health ; and that he called 
 everybody Mister. '* In short," said one of the 
 tipstaves, " he is one as may be led, but he'll 
 never be drtiv.'^ 
 
 The sight of the prison-gate and the high wall 
 was a dreary business. I thought of my horseback 
 and the downs of Brighton;' but congratulated 
 myself, at all events, that I had come thither with 
 a good conscience. After waiting in the prison- 
 yard as long as if it had been the ante-room of a 
 minister, I was at length ushered into the presence 
 of the great man. He was in his parlour, which 
 was decently furnished, and had a basin of broth 
 before him, which he quitted on my appearance, 
 and rose with much solemnity to meet me. He 
 seemed about fifty years of age; had a white 
 night-cap on, as if he was going to be hung, and a 
 great red face, which looked ready to burst with 
 blood. Indeed, he was not allowed by his physi- 
 cian to speak in a tone above a whisper. The first 
 thing he said was, *' Mister, I'd ha' given a matter 
 of a hundred pounds, that you had not come to this 
 place — a hundred pounds ! " The emphasis which 
 
 1 To which he had been ordered on account of his health 
 —Ed. 
 
HIS JAILERS 225 
 
 he had laid on the word "hundred" was enor- 
 mous. 
 
 I forget what I said. I endeavoured, as usual, 
 to make the best of things ; but he recurred over 
 and over again to the hundred pounds ; and said 
 he wondered, for his part, what the Government 
 meant by sending me there, for the prison was not 
 a prison fit for a gentleman. He often repeated 
 this opinion afterwards, adding, with a peculiar 
 nod of his head, " And, Mister, they knows it." 
 
 I said, that if a gentleman deserved to be sent 
 to prison, he ought not to be treated with a greater 
 nicety than anyone else : upon which he corrected 
 me, observing very properly (though, as the phrase 
 is, it was one word for the gentleman and two for 
 his own apartments), that a person who had been 
 used to a better mode of living than *' low people" 
 was not treated with the same justice, if forced to 
 lodge exactly as they did. I told him his observa- 
 tion was very true ; which gave him a favourable 
 opinion of my understanding ; for I had many occa- 
 sions of remarking, that abstractedly considered he 
 looked upon nobody whomsoever as his superior, 
 speaking even of members of the royal family as 
 persons whom he knew very well, and whom he 
 estimated at no higher rate than became him. One 
 Royal Duke had lunched in his parlour, and another 
 he had laid under some polite obligation. *' They 
 knows me," said he, " very well. Mister ; and, 
 Mister, I knows them." This concluding sentence 
 he uttered with great particularity and precision. 
 
 He was not proof, however, against a Greek 
 Pindar, which he happened to light upon one day 
 
 1. Q 
 
226 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 among my books. Its unintelligible character 
 gave him a notion that he had got somebody to 
 deal with, who might really know something which 
 he did not. Perhaps the gilt leaves and red 
 morocco binding had their share in the magic. 
 The upshot was, that he always showed himself 
 anxious to appear well with me, as a clever fellow, 
 treating me with great civility on all occasions but 
 one, when I made him very angry by disappoint- 
 ing him in a money amount. The Pindar was a 
 mystery that staggered him. I remember very 
 well, that giving me a long account one day of 
 something connected with his business, he hap- 
 pened to catch with his eye the shelf that contained 
 it, and, whether he saw it or not, abruptly finished 
 by observing, " But, Mister, you knows all these 
 things as well as I do." 
 
 Upon the whole, my new acquaintance was as 
 strange a person as I ever met with. A total want 
 of education, together with a certain vulgar acute- 
 ness, conspired to render him insolent and pedantic. 
 Disease sharpened his tendency to violent fits of pas- 
 sion, which threatened to suffocate him ; and then 
 in his intervals of better health he would issue forth, 
 with his cock-up-nose and his hat on one side, as 
 great a fop as a jockey. I remember his coming to 
 my rooms, about the middle of my imprisonment, 
 as if on purpose to insult over my ill health with 
 the contrast of his own convalescence, putting his 
 arms in a gay manner a-kimbo, and telling me I 
 should never live to go out, whereas he was riding 
 about as stout as ever, and had just been in the 
 country. He died before I left prison. 
 
HIS JAILERS. 227 
 
 The woid jail, in deference to the way in which 
 it is sometimes spelt, he pronounced ^(3/<?; and Mr. 
 Brougham he always spoke of as Mr. Bruffam. 
 He one day apologized for this mode of pro- 
 nunciation, or rather gave a specimen of vanity 
 and self-will, which will show the reader the 
 high notions a jailer may entertain of him- 
 self. "I find," said he, "that they calls him 
 Broom; but, Mister" (assuming a look from 
 which there was to be no appeal), '*/ calls him 
 Brtiffamr' .... 
 
 On taking possession of my garret, I was treated 
 with a piece of delicacy, which I never should have 
 thought of finding in a prison. When I first en- 
 tered its walls, I had been received by the under- 
 jailer, a man who seemed an epitome of all that 
 was forbidding in his office. He was short and 
 very thick, had a hook-nose, a great severe coun- 
 tenance, and a bunch of keys hanging on his 
 arm. A friend stopped short at sight of him, 
 and said, in a melancholy tone, " And this is the 
 jailer ! " 
 
 Honest old Cave I thine outside would have 
 been unworthy of thee, if upon farther acquaintance 
 I had not found it a very hearty outside — ay, and 
 in my eyes, a very good-looking one, and as fit to 
 contain the milk of human kindness that was in 
 thee, as the husk of a cocoa. Was, did I say ? I 
 hope it is in thee still ; I hope thou art alive to read 
 this paper, and to perform, as usual, a hundred 
 kind offices, as exquisite in their way as they are 
 desirable and unlocked for. To finish at once the 
 character of this man, — I could never prevail on 
 
223 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 him to accept any acknowledgment of his kind- 
 ness, greater than a set of tea-things, and a piece or 
 two of old furniture, which I could not well carr^ 
 away. I had, indeed, the pleasure of leaving him 
 in possession of a room I had papered ; but this 
 was a thing unexpected, and which neither of us 
 had supposed could be done. Had I been a prince, 
 I would have forced on him a pension ; being a 
 journalist, I made him accept an "Examiner" 
 weekly, which he lived for some years to relish his 
 Sunday pipe with. 
 
 This man, in the interval between my arrival 
 and my introduction to the head-jailer, had found 
 means to give me farther information respecting my 
 condition, and to express the interest he took in it. 
 I thought little of his offers at the time. He be- 
 haved with the greatest air of deference to his prin- 
 cipal ; moving as fast as his body would allow him, 
 to execute his least intimation ; and holding the 
 candle to him while he read, with an obsequious 
 zeal.. But he had spoken to his wife about me, and 
 his wife I found to be as great a curiosity as him- 
 self. Both were more like the romantic jailers 
 drawn in some of our modern plays, than real 
 Horsemonger-lane palpabilities. The wife, in her 
 person, was as light and fragile as the husband was 
 sturdy. She had the nerves of a fine lady, and yet 
 went, through the most unpleasant duties with the 
 patience of a martyr. Her voice and look seemed 
 to plead for a softness like their own, as if a loud 
 reply would have shattered her. Ill-health had 
 made her a Methodist, but this did not hinder her 
 sympathy with an invalid who was none, or her 
 
MA /A NO. 429 
 
 love for her husband who was as little of a saint 
 as need be. Upon the whole, such an extra- 
 ordinary couple, so apparently unsuitable, and yet 
 so fitted for one another ; so apparently vulgar on 
 one side, and yet so naturally delicate on both ; so 
 misplaced in their situation, and yet for the good 
 of others so admirably put there, I have never met 
 with before or since. 
 
 It was the business of this woman to lock me up 
 in my garret ; but she did it so softly the first night, 
 that I knew nothing of the matter. The night fol- 
 lowing, I thought I heard a gentle tampering with 
 the lock. I tried it, and found it fastened. She 
 heard me as she was going down-stairs, and said 
 the next day, " Ah, sir, I thought I should have 
 turned the key so as for you not to hear it ; but I 
 found you did." The whole conduct of this couple 
 towards us, from first to last, was of a piece with 
 this singular delicacy. 
 
 MAIANO. 
 
 ["Lord Byron and his Contemporaries," 1828. "Auto- 
 biography," 1850.] 
 
 [T Maiano] I passed a very disconso- 
 late time ; 1 yet the greatest comfort I 
 experienced in Italy was living in that 
 neighbourhood, and thinking, as 1 
 went about, of Boccaccio. Boccaccio's father had 
 
 1 After the break up of the " Liberal ' and the death 
 of Shelley, and when Hunt's health wag poor. — Ed. 
 I. Q2 
 
230 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 a house at Maiano, supposed to have been situated 
 at the Fiesolan extremity of the hamlet. That 
 divine writer (whose sentiment outweighed his 
 levity a hundredfold, as a fine face is oftener 
 serious than it is merry) was so fond of the place, 
 that he has not only laid the two scenes of the 
 " Decameron" on each side of it, with the valley 
 his company resorted to in the middle, but has 
 made the two little streams that embrace Maiano, 
 the Affrico and the Mensola, the hero and heroine of 
 his "Nimphale Fiesolano." A lover and his vestal 
 mistress are changed into them, after the fashion of 
 Ovid. The scene of another of his works is on the 
 banks of the Mugnone, a river a little distant ; and 
 the ** Decameron " is full of the neighbouring vil- 
 lages. Out of the windows of one side of our 
 house we saw the turret of the Villa Gherardi, to 
 which, according to his biographers, his "joyous 
 company" resorted in the first instance. A house 
 belonging to the Macchiavelli was nearer, a little 
 to the left ; and farther to the left, among the blue 
 hills, was the white village of Settignano, where 
 Michael Angelo was born. The house is still re- 
 maining in possession of the family. From our 
 windows on the other side we saw, close to us, the 
 Fiesole of antiquity and of Milton, the site of the 
 Boccaccio-house before mentioned still closer, the 
 Valley of Ladies at our feet ; and we looked over 
 towards the quarter of the Mugnone and of a house 
 of Dante, and in the distance beheld the moun- 
 tains of Pistoia. Lastly, from the terrace in front, 
 Florence lay clear and cathedralled before us, with 
 the scene of Redi's " Bacchus " rising on the other 
 
MAI A NO. 231 
 
 side of it, and the Villa of Arcetri, illustrious for 
 Galileo. 
 
 But I stuck to my Boccaccio haunts, as to an old 
 home. I lived with the divine human being, with 
 his friends of the Falcon and the Basil, and 
 my own not unworthy melancholy ; and went 
 about the flowering lanes and hills, solitary indeed, 
 and sick to the heart, but not unsustained. In 
 looking back to such periods of one's existence, 
 one is surprised to find how much they surpass 
 many seasons of mirth, and what a rich tone of 
 colour their very darkness assumes, as in some fine 
 old painting. My almost daily walk was to Fiesole, 
 through a path skirted with wild myrtle and cycla- 
 men ; and I stopped at the cloister of the Doccia, 
 and sat on the pretty melancholy platform behind 
 it, reading or looking through the pines down to 
 Florence. In the Valley of Ladies I found some 
 English trees (trees, not vine and olive), and even 
 a meadow ; and these, while I made them furnish 
 me with a bit of my old home in the north, did no 
 injury to the memory of Boccaccio, who is of 
 all countries, and finds his home wherever we 
 do ourselves, in love, in the grave, in a desert 
 island. 
 
 But I had other friends, too, not far off, English, 
 and of the right sort. My friend, Charles Armi- 
 tage Brown [Keats's friend, and the best commen- 
 tator on Shakespeare's Sonnets], occupied for a 
 time the little convent of St. Baldassare, near 
 Maiano, where he represented the body corporate 
 of the former possessors, with all the joviality of a 
 comfortable natural piety. The closet in his study. 
 
232 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 where the church treasures had most likely been 
 kept, was filled with the humanities of modern 
 literature, not the less Christian for being a little 
 sceptical : and we had a zest in fancying that we 
 discoursed of love and wine in the apartments of 
 the Lady Abbess. I remember I had the pleasure 
 of telling an Italian gentleman there the joke 
 attributed to the Reverend Mr. Sydney Smith, 
 about sitting next a man at table, who pos- 
 sessed a "seven-parson power;" and he under- 
 stood it, and rolled with laughter, crying — 
 *' Oh, ma bello ! ma bellissimo ! " There, too, 
 I had the pleasure of dining in company with 
 an English beauty (Mrs. W.), who appeared to be 
 such as Boccaccio might have admired, capable 
 both of mirth and gravity ; and she had a child 
 with her that reflected her graces. The appear- 
 ance of one of these young English mothers among 
 Italian women is like domesticity among the pas- 
 sions. It is a pity when you return to England, 
 that the generality of faces do not keep up the 
 charm. You are then too apt to think, that an 
 Italian beauty among English women would look 
 like poetry among the sullens. 
 
THE RELIGION OF A LOVER OF TRUTH. 233 
 
 THE RELIGION OF A LOVER 
 OF TRUTH. 
 
 [From the manuscript, formerly in the possession of Mr. 
 A. Ireland.] 
 
 I. 
 roVJIgY:^ TAKE nothing for granted. 
 S;,;!^!©^*^ 2. I make no coinpromise with the 
 r^^^^ truth, because the compromise itself is 
 t^^Ri^ a lie, and because it is by lies of this 
 sort that schisms and quarrels are kept up, and 
 men are perpetually seeking to defend wrong points 
 instead of agreeing to find out right ones, V' 
 
 3. I assume nothirigras'-being wiser than others, ,/^ 
 or fancying that I have a right of any sort to keep 
 them in a delusion. This is a principle of vanity, 
 
 or of an idle despair greatly allied to it, and tends 
 not only to make men hypocrites, but to maintain 
 them in a belief that all clever men are so ; which 
 is the worst thing for huinanity that can possibly 
 be. 
 
 4. I have nevertheless a strong, and I may add, 
 in the largest use of the term, a pious sense both 
 of the natural and the supernatural world ; that is, 
 I am strongly sensible of the good that is in the 
 world, greatly desirous to increase it, and can look 
 with affectionate eyes into the great space and the 
 other worlds about us, earnestly wishing that all 
 which we suppose of good and beautiful maybe true. 
 
 5. I believe in a spirit of good strongly and per- 
 petually at work, though I know not how to de- 
 fine it, and I dare not give it a name that has been 
 
834 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 SO disputed and degraded by human passions. But 
 I believe in [this] spirit, because of the good that I 
 see and the yearnings for most that I feel. 
 
 6. I acknowledge the mixture of evil, because I 
 see it also, but I do not believe in a malignant 
 spirit or in malignity of any sort, because evil, I 
 think, in the first place, is not always an evil as it is 
 thought, and because all evil can be accounted for 
 on principles, depending on circumstances and in- 
 firmity, quite distinct from anything like a prin- 
 ciple of the love of all. 
 
 ALIVE. 
 
 [From the manuscript, formerly in possession of Mr. 
 A. Ireland.] 
 
 ABANDON myself to you, my pen. 
 Hitherto [you] have been under [my] 
 guidance ; do you guide me now your- 
 self, and be the master of your master. 
 The sultan, of thousand and one memory, ap- 
 plied to the fair Dinarzade ^ for amusement ; the 
 giant Molinos to his ram ; entertain me in like 
 manner, and tell me something I have not heard 
 before. You may begin, as you please, at the 
 middle or the end. 
 
 As for you, gentle readers, I give you notice, 
 that I write for my own pleasure, not yours. You 
 are surrounded by friends, mistresses, lovers. I am 
 
 1 It was however the sister Scheherazade who related the 
 tales.— Ed. 
 
ALIVE. 235 
 
 alone, and must contrive to entertain myself. 
 Harlequin, in a like case, would have called upon 
 Marcus Aurelius, a Roman emperor, to help him 
 to go to sleep. The Queen of Golconda shall come 
 to me, and help to keep me awake. 
 
 I was at an age, when faculties newly developed 
 find another world about them ; when new sym- 
 pathies unite us more closely with the beings 
 around us ; when senses more awakened, and 
 imagination on fire, impel us to seek the truest 
 pleasure in the sweetest illusions : in short, I was 
 fifteen, one day ; — when I found myself, at a dis- 
 tance from my tutor, galloping on a great English 
 horse, with twenty hounds before me, and an old 
 boar in the prospect. — ^Judge whether or not I was 
 happy. 
 
CHISWICK PRESS :— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. 
 
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