Read CHAPTER VII - LEIGH HUNT of Essays in English Literature‚ 1780-1860 , free online book, by George Saintsbury, on

To compare the peaceful and home-keeping art of criticism to the adventurous one of lighthouse-building may seem an excursion into the heroi-comic, if not into the tragic-burlesque.  Neither is it in the least my intention to dwell on a tolerably obvious metaphorical resemblance between the two.  It is certainly the business of the critic to warn others off from the mistakes which have been committed by his forerunners, and perhaps (for let us anticipate the crushing wit) from his own.  But that is not my reason for the suggestion.  There is a story of I forget what lighthouse which Smeaton, or Stevenson, or somebody else, had unusual difficulty in establishing.  The rock was too near the surface for it to be safe or practicable to moor barges over it; and it was uncovered for too short a time to enable any solid foundations to be laid or even begun during one tide.  So the engineer, with other adventurous persons, got himself landed on it, succeeded after a vain attempt or two in working an iron rod into the middle, and then hung on bodily while the tide was up, that he and his men might begin again as soon as it receded.  In a mild and unexciting fashion, that is what the critic has to do ­to dig about till he makes a lodgment in his author, hang on to it, and then begin to build.  It is not always very easy work, and it is never less easy than in the case of the author whom somebody has kindly called “the Ariel of criticism.”  Leigh Hunt is an extremely difficult person upon whom to make any critical lodgment, for the reason that (I do not intend any disrespect by the comparison) he has much less of the rock about him than of the shifting sand.  I do not now speak of the great Skimpole problem ­we shall come to that presently ­but merely of the writer as shown in his works.

The works themselves are not particularly easy to get together in any complete form, some of them being almost inextricably entangled in defunct periodicals, and others reappearing in different guises in the author’s many published volumes.  Mr. Kent’s bibliography gives forty-six different entries; Mr. Alexander Ireland’s (to which he refers) gives, I think, over eighty.  Some years ago I remember receiving the catalogue of a second-hand bookseller who offered what he very frankly confessed to be far from a complete collection of the first editions, at the price of a score or two of pounds; and here at least the first are in some cases the only issues.  Probably this is one reason why selections from Leigh Hunt, of which Mr. Kent’s is the latest and best, have been frequent.  I have seen two certainly, and I think three, within as many years.  Luckily, however, quite enough for the reader’s if not for the critic’s purpose is easily obtainable.  The poems can be bought in more forms than one; Messrs. Smith and Elder have reprinted cheaply the “Autobiography,” “Men, Women, and Books,” “Imagination and Fancy,” “The Town,” “Wit and Humour,” “Table Talk,” and “A Jar of Honey.”  Other reprints of “One Hundred Romances of Real Life” (one of his merest pieces of book-making) and of his “Stories from the Italian Poets,” one of his worst pieces of criticism, but agreeably reproduced in every respect save the hideous American spelling, have recently appeared.  The complete and uniform issue, the want of which to some lovers of books (I own myself among them) is never quite made up by a scratch company of volumes of all dates, sizes, and prints, is indeed wanting.  But still you can get a working Leigh Hunt together.

It is when you have got him that your trouble begins; and before it is done the critic, if he be one of those who are not satisfied with a mere compte rendu, is likely to acknowledge that Leigh Hunt, if “Ariel” be in some respects too complimentary a name for him, is at any rate a most tricksy spirit.  The finest taste in some ways, contrasting with what can only be called the most horrible vulgarity in others; a light hand tediously boring again and again at obviously miscomprehended questions of religion, philosophy, and politics; a keen appetite for humour condescending to thin and repeated jests; a reviler of kings going out of his way laboriously to beslaver royalty; a man of letters, of talent almost touching genius, who seldom writes a dozen consecutive good pages: ­these are only some of the inconsistencies that meet us in Leigh Hunt.

He has related the history of his immediate and remoter forbears with considerable minuteness ­with more minuteness indeed by far than he has bestowed upon all but a few passages of his own life.  For the general reader, however, it is quite sufficient to know that his father, the Reverend Isaac Hunt, who belonged to a clerical family in Barbados, went for his education to the still British Provinces of North America, married a Philadelphia girl, Mary Shewell, practised as a lawyer till the Revolution broke out, and then being driven from his adopted country as a loyalist, settled in England, took orders, drifted into Unitarianism or anythingarianism, and ended his days, after not infrequent visits to the King’s Bench, comfortably enough, but hanging rather loose on society, his friends, and a pension.  Leigh Hunt (his godfathers and godmothers gave him also the names of James Henry, which he dropped) was the youngest son, and was born on 19th October 1784.  His best youthful remembrance, and one of the most really humorous things he ever said, was that he used, after a childish indulgence in bad language, to think to himself with a shudder when he received any mark of favour, “Ah! they little suspect I’m the boy who said ‘d ­n.’” But at seven years old he went to Christ’s Hospital, and continued there for another seven.  His reminiscences of that seminary, put down pretty early, and afterwards embodied in the “Autobiography,” are even better known from the fact that they served as a text, and as the occasion of a little gentle raillery, to Elia’s famous essay than in themselves.  For some years after leaving school he did nothing definite but write verses, which his father (who seems to have been gifted with a plentiful lack of judgment in most incidents and relations of life) published when the boy was but sixteen.  They are as nearly as possible valueless, but they went through three editions in a very short time.  It ought to be remembered that except Cowper, who was just dead, and Crabbe, who had for years intermitted writing, the public had only Rogers and Southey for poets, for it would none of the “Lyrical Ballads,” and the “Lay of the Last Minstrel” had not yet been published.  So that it did not make one of its worst mistakes in taking up Leigh Hunt, who certainly had poetry in him, if he did not put it forth quite so early as this.  He was made a kind of lion, but, fortunately or unfortunately for him, only in middle-class circles where there were no patrons.  He was quite an old man ­nearly twenty ­when he made regular entry into the periodical writing which kept him (with the aid of his friends) for nearly sixty years.  “Mr. Town, Junior” (altered from an old signature of Colman’s) contributed theatrical criticisms, which do not seem to have been paid for, to an evening paper, the Traveller, now surviving as a second title to the Globe.  His bent in this direction was assisted by the fact that his elder brother John had been apprenticed to a printer, and had desires to be a publisher.  In January 1808 the two brothers started the Examiner, and Leigh Hunt edited it with a great deal of courage for fourteen years.  He threw away for this the only piece of solid preferment that he ever had, a clerkship in the War Office which Addington gave him.  The references to this act of recklessness or self-sacrifice in the Autobiography are rather enigmatical.  His two functions were no doubt incompatible at best, especially considering the violent Opposition tone which the Examiner took.  But Leigh Hunt, whatever faults he had, was not quite a hypocrite; and he hints pretty broadly that if he had not resigned he might have been asked to do so, not from any political reasons, but simply because he did his work very badly.  He was much more at home in the Examiner (with which for a short time was joined the quarterly Reflector), though his warmest admirers candidly admit that he knew nothing about politics.  In 1809 he married a Miss Marianne Kent, whose station was not very exalted, and whose son admits with unusual frankness that she was “the reverse of handsome, and without accomplishments,” adding rather whimsically that this person, “the reverse of handsome,” had “a pretty figure, beautiful black hair and magnificent eyes,” and though “without accomplishments” had “a very strong natural turn for plastic art.”  At any rate she seems to have suited Leigh Hunt admirably.  The Examiner soon became ill-noted with Government, but it was not till the end of 1812 that a grip could be got of it.  Leigh Hunt’s offence is in the ordinary books rather undervalued.  That he (or his contributor) called the Prince Regent, as is commonly said, “a fat Adonis of fifty” (the exact words are, “this Adonis in loveliness is a corpulent man of fifty”) may have been the chief sting, but was certainly not the chief legal offence.  Leigh Hunt called the ruler of his country “a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of demi-reps, a man who had just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country or the respect of posterity.”  It might be true or it might be false; but certainly there was then not a country in Europe where it would have been allowed to be said of the chief of the state.  And I am not sure that it could be said now anywhere but in Ireland, where considerably worse things were said with impunity of Lord Spencer and Sir George Trevelyan.  At any rate the brothers were prosecuted and fined five hundred pounds each, with two years’ imprisonment.  The sentence was carried out; but Leigh Hunt’s imprisonment in Horsemonger Lane Gaol was the merest farce of incarceration.  He could not indeed go beyond the prison walls.  But he had a comfortable suite of rooms which he was permitted to furnish and decorate just as he liked; he was allowed to have his wife and family with him; he had a tiny garden of his own, and free access to that of the prison; there was no restriction on visitors, who brought him presents just as they chose; and he became a kind of fashion with the Opposition.  Jeremy Bentham came and played at battledore and shuttlecock with him ­an almost appalling idea, for it will not do to trust too implicitly to Leigh Hunt’s declaration that Jeremy’s object was to suggest “an improvement in the constitution of shuttlecocks.”  The Examiner itself continued undisturbed, and except for the “I can’t get out” feeling, which even of itself cannot be compared for one moment to that of a modern prisoner condemned to his cell and the exercising-ground, it is rather difficult to see much reason for Leigh Hunt’s complaints.  The imprisonment may have affected his health, but it certainly brought him troops of friends, and gave him leisure to do not only his journalist’s work, but things much more serious.  Here he wrote and published his first poem since the Juvenilia, “A Feast of the Poets” (not much of a thing), and here he wrote, though he did not publish it till his liberation, the “Story of Rimini,” by far his most important poem, both for intrinsic character and for influence on others.  He had known Lamb from boyhood, and Shelley some years; he now made the acquaintance of Keats, Hazlitt, and Byron.

In the next five years after his liberation he did a great deal of work, the best by far being the periodical called the Indicator, a weekly paper which ran for sixty-six numbers.  The Indicator was the first thing that I ever read of Hunt’s, and, by no means for that reason only, I think it the best.  Its buttonholing papers, of a kind since widely imitated, were the most popular; but there are romantic things in it, such as “The Daughter of Hippocrates” (paraphrased and expanded from Sir John Mandeville with Hunt’s peculiar skill), which seem to me better.  It was at the end of these five years that Leigh Hunt resolved upon the second adventure (his imprisonment being the first and involuntary) of his otherwise easy-going life ­an adventure the immediate consequences of which were unfortunate in many ways, but which supplied him with a good deal of literary material.  This was his visit to Italy as a kind of literary attache to Lord Byron, and editor of a quarterly magazine, the Liberal.  The idea was Shelley’s, and if Shelley had lived, it might not have resulted quite so disastrously, for Shelley was absolutely untiring as a helper of lame dogs over stiles.  As it was, the excursion distinctly contradicted the saying (condemned by some as immoral) that a bad beginning makes a good ending.  The Hunt family, which now included several children, embarked, in November of all months in the year, on a small ship bound for Italy.  They were something like a month getting down the Channel in tremendous weather, and at last when their ship had to turn tail from near Scilly and run into Dartmouth, Hunt, whose wife was extremely ill of lung-disease, made up his mind to stay for the winter in Devonshire.  He passed the time pleasantly enough at Plymouth, which they left once more in May 1822, reaching Leghorn at the end of June.  Shelley’s death happened within ten days of their arrival, and Byron and Leigh Hunt were left to get on together.  How badly they got on is pretty generally known, might have been foreseen from the beginning, and is not very profitable to dwell on.  Leigh Hunt’s mixture of familiarity and “airs” could not have been worse mixed to suit the taste of Byron.  The “noble poet” too was not a person who liked to be spunged upon; and his coolest admirers may sympathise with his disgust when he found that he had upon his hands a man of letters with a large family whom he was literally expected to keep, whose society was disagreeable to him, who lampooned his friends, who differed with him on every point of taste, and who did not think it necessary to be grateful.  For Leigh Hunt, somewhat on Lamb’s system of compensation for coming late by going away early, combined his readiness to receive favours with a practice of not acknowledging the slightest obligation for them.  Byron’s departure for Greece was in its way lucky, but it left Hunt stranded.  He remained in Italy for rather more than three years and then returned home across the Continent.  The Liberal, which contains work of his, of Byron’s, of Shelley’s, and of Hazlitt’s, is interesting enough and worth buying in its original form, but it did not pay.  Of the unlucky book on his relations with Byron which followed ­the worst act by far of his life ­I shall not say much.  No one has attempted to defend it, and he himself apologises for it frankly and fully in his Autobiography.  It is impossible, however, not to remark that the offence was much aggravated by its deliberate character.  For the book was not published in the heat of the moment, but three years after Hunt’s return to England and four after Byron’s death.

The remaining thirty years of Hunt’s life were wholly literary.  As for residences, he hovered about London, living successively at Highgate, Epsom, Brompton, Chelsea, Kensington, and divers other places.  At Chelsea he was very intimate with the Carlyles, and, while he was perhaps of all living men of letters most leniently judged by those not particularly lenient judges, we have nowhere such vivid glimpses of Hunt’s peculiar weaknesses as in the memoirs of Carlyle and his wife.  Why Leigh Hunt was always in such difficulties is not at first obvious, for he was the reverse of an idle man; he seems, though thriftless, to have been by no means very sumptuous in his way of living; everybody helped him, and his writing was always popular.  He appears to have felt not a little sore that nothing was done for him when his political friends came into power after the Reform Bill ­and remained there for almost the whole of the rest of his life.  He had certainly in some senses borne the burden and heat of the day for Liberalism.  But he was one of those reckless people who, without meaning to offend anybody in particular, offend friends as well as foes; the days of sinécures were even then passing or passed; and it is very difficult to conceive any office, even with the lightest duties, in which Leigh Hunt would not have come to grief.  As for his writing, his son’s earnest plea as to his not being an idle man is no doubt true enough, but he never seems to have reconciled himself to the regular drudgery of miscellaneous article writing for newspapers which is almost the only kind of journalism that really pays, and his books did not sell very largely.  In his latter days, however, things became easier for him.  The unfailing kindness of the Shelley family gave him (in 1844 when Sir Percy Shelley came into his property) a regular annuity of L120; two royal gifts of L200 each and in 1847 a pension of the same amount were added; and two benefit nights of Dickens’s famous amateur company brought him in something like a cool thousand, as Dickens himself would have said.  Of his last years Mr. Kent, who was intimate with him, gives much the pleasantest account known to me.  He died on 28th August 1859, surviving his wife only two years.

I can imagine some one, at the name of Dickens in the preceding paragraph, thinking or saying, that if the author of Bleak House raised a thousand pounds for his old friend, he took the value of it and infinitely more out of him.  It is impossible to shirk the Skimpole affair in any really critical notice of Leigh Hunt.  To put unpleasant things briefly, that famous character was at once recognised by every one as a caricature, perhaps ill-natured but certainly brilliant, of what an enemy might have said of the author of “Rimini.”  Thornton Hunt, the eldest of Leigh Hunt’s children, and a writer of no small power, took the matter up and forced from Dickens a contradiction, or disavowal, with which I am afraid the recording angel must have had some little difficulty.  Strangely enough the last words of Macaulay’s that we have concern this affair; and they may be quoted as Sir George Trevelyan gives them, written by his uncle in those days at Holly Lodge when the shadow of death was heavy on him.

December 23, 1859. An odd declaration by Dickens that he did not mean Leigh Hunt by Harold Skimpole.  Yet he owns that he took the light externals of the character from Leigh Hunt, and surely it is by those light externals that the bulk of mankind will always recognise character.  Besides, it is to be observed that the vices of H. S. are vices to which L. H. had, to say the least, some little leaning, and which the world generally attributed to him most unsparingly.  That he had loose notions of meum and tuum; that he had no high feeling of independence; that he had no sense of obligation; that he took money wherever he could get it; that he felt no gratitude for it; that he was just as ready to defame a person who had relieved his distress as a person who had refused him relief ­these were things which, as Dickens must have known, were said, truly or falsely, about L. H., and had made a deep impression on the public mind.

Now Macaulay has not always been leniently judged; but I do not think that, with the single exception of Croker’s case, he can be accused of having borne hardly on the moral character of any one of his contemporaries.  He had befriended Leigh Hunt in every way; he had got him into the Edinburgh; he had lent (that is to say given) him money freely, and I do not think that his fiercest enemy can seriously think that he bore Hunt a grudge for having told him, as he himself records, that the “Lays” were not so good as Spenser, whom Macaulay in one of the rare lapses of his memory had unjustly blasphemed, and whom Leigh Hunt adored.  To my mind, if there were any doubt about Dickens’s intention, or about the fitting in a certain sense of the cap, this testimony of Macaulay’s would settle it.  But I cannot conceive any doubt remaining in the mind of any person who has read Leigh Hunt’s works, who has even read the Autobiography.  Of the grossest faults in Skimpole’s character, such as the selling of Jo’s secret, Leigh Hunt was indeed incapable, and the insertion of these is at once a blot on Dickens’s memory and a kind of excuse for his disclaimer; but as regards the lighter touches the likeness is unmistakable.  Skimpole’s most elaborate jests about “pounds” are hardly an exaggeration of the man who gravely and more than once tells us that his difficulties and irregularities with money came from a congenital incapacity to appreciate arithmetic, and who admits that Shelley (whose affairs he knew very well) once gave him no less than fourteen hundred pounds (that is to say some sixteen months of Shelley’s income at his wealthiest) to clear him, and that he was not cleared, though apparently he gave Shelley to understand that he was.

There are many excuses for him which Skimpole had not.  His own pleas of tropical blood and so forth will not greatly avail.  But the old patron-theory and its more subtle transformation (the influence of which is sometimes shown even by Thackeray in the act of denouncing it), to the effect that the State or the public, or somebody, is bound to look after your man of genius, had bitten deep into the being of the literary man of our grandfathers’ time.  Anybody who has read Thomas Poole and his Friends must have seen how not merely Coleridge, of whose known liability to the weakness the book furnished new proofs, but even, to some extent and vicariously, the austere Wordsworth, cherished the idea.  But for the most part, men kept it to themselves.  Leigh Hunt never could keep anything to himself, and he has left record on record of the easy manner in which he acted on his beliefs.

For this I own that I care little, especially since he never borrowed money of me.  There is a Statute of Limitations for all such things in letters as well as in law.  What is much harder to forgive is the ill-bred pertness, often if not always innocent enough in intention, but rather the worse than the better for that, which mars so much of his actual literary work.  When almost an old man he wrote ­when a very old man he quotes, with childlike surprise that any one should see anything objectionable in them ­the following lines: 

    Perhaps you have known what it is to feel longings,     To pat buxom shoulders at routs and mad throngings ­     Well ­think what it was at a vision like that!      A grace after dinner! a Venus grown fat!

It would be almost unbelievable of any man but Leigh Hunt that he placidly remarks in reference to this impertinence that “he had not the pleasure of Lady Blessington’s acquaintance,” as if that did not make things ten times worse.  He had laid the foundation of not a few of the literary enmities he suffered from, by writing, thirty years earlier, a “Feast of the Poets,” on the pattern of Suckling, in which he took, though much more excusably, the same kind of ill-bred liberties; and similar things abound in his works.  It is scarcely surprising that the good Macvey Napier (rather awkwardly, and giving Macaulay much trouble to patch things up) should have said that he would like a “gentleman-like” article from Mr. Hunt for the Edinburgh; and the taunt about the Cockney School undoubtedly derived its venom from this weakness of his.  Lamb was not descended from the kings that long the Tuscan sceptre swayed, and had some homely ways; Keats had to do with livery-stables, Hazlitt with shady lodging-houses and lodging-house keepers.  But Keats might have been, whatever his weaknesses, his own and Spenser’s Sir Calidore for gentle feeling and conduct; the man who called Lamb vulgar would only prove his own vulgarity; and Hazlitt, though he had some darker stains on his character than any that rest on Hunt, was far too potent a spirit for the fire within him not to burn out mere vulgarity.  Leigh Hunt I fear must be allowed to be now and then merely vulgar ­a Pogson of talent, of genius, of immense amiability, of rather hard luck, but still of the Pogsons, Pogsonic.

As I shall have plenty of good to say of him, I may as well despatch at once whatever else I have to say that is bad, which is little.  The faults of taste which have just been noticed passed easily into occasional, though only occasional, faults of criticism.  I do not recommend anybody who has not the faculty of critical adjustment, and who wants to like Leigh Hunt, to read his essay on Dante in the Italian Poets.  For flashes of crass insensibility to great poetry it is difficult to match anywhere, and impossible to match in Leigh Hunt.  His favourite theological doctrine, like that of Beranger’s hero, was, Ne damnons personne.  He did not like monarchy, and he did not understand metaphysics.  So the great poet, who, more than any other great poet except Shakespeare, grows on those who read him, receives from Leigh Hunt not an honest confession, like Sir Walter’s, that he does not like him, which is perhaps the first honest impression of the majority of Dante’s readers, but tirade upon tirade of abuse and bad criticism.  Further, Leigh Hunt’s unfortunate necessity of preserving his own journalism has made him keep a thousand things that he ought to have left to the kindly shade of the newspaper files ­a cemetery where, thank Heaven, the tombs are not open as in the other city of Dis.  The book called Table Talk, for instance, contains, with a little better matter, chiefly mere rubbish like this section: 


Beaumarchais, author of the celebrated comedy of “Figaro,” an abridgment of which has been rendered more famous by the music of Mozart, made a large fortune by supplying the American republicans with arms and ammunition, and lost it by speculations in salt and printing.  His comedy is one of those productions which are accounted dangerous, from developing the spirit of intrigue and gallantry with more gaiety than objection; and they would be more unanimously so, if the good humour and self-examination to which they excite did not suggest a spirit of charity and inquiry beyond themselves.

Leigh Hunt tried almost every conceivable kind of literature, including a historical novel, Sir Ralph Esher, several dramas (one or two of which, the “Legend of Florence” being the chief, got acted), and at nearly the beginning and nearly the end of his career two religious works, or works on religion, an attack on Methodism and “The Religion of the Heart.”  All this we may not unkindly brush away, and consider him first as a poet, secondly as a critic, and thirdly as what can be best, though rather unphilosophically, called a miscellanist.

Few good judges nowadays, I think, would deny that Leigh Hunt had a certain faculty for poetry, and fewer still would rank it very high.  To something like, but less than, the tunefulness of Moore, he joined a very much better taste in models and an infinitely wider and deeper study of them.  There is no doubt that his versification in “Rimini” (which may be described as Chaucerian in basis with a strong admixture of Dryden, further crossed and dashed slightly with the peculiar music of the followers of Spenser, especially Browne and Wither) had a very strong influence both on Keats and on Shelley, and that it drew from them music much better than itself.  This fluent, musical, many-coloured verse was a capital medium for tale-telling, and Leigh Hunt is always at his best when he employs it.  The more varied measures and the more ambitious aim of “Captain Sword and Captain Pen” seem to me very much less successful.  Not only was Leigh Hunt far from strong enough for a serious argument, but the cheery, sentimental optimism of which he was one of the most persevering exponents ­the kind of thing which vehemently protests that in the good time coming nobody shall be damned, or starved, or put in prison, or subjected to the perils of villainous saltpetre, or prevented from doing just what he likes, and that all existence ought to be and shortly will be a vaguely refined beer and skittles ­did not lend itself very well to verse.  Nor are Hunt’s lyrics particularly strong.  His best thing by far is the charming trifle (the heroine being, it has been said and also denied, Mrs. Carlyle) which he called a “rondeau,” though it is not one.

    Jenny kissed me when we met,     Jumping from the chair she sat in:      Time, you thief, who love to get     Sweets into your list, put that in!      Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,     Say that health and wealth have missed me,     Say I’m growing old ­but add,         Jenny kissed me.

Even here it may be noticed that though the last four lines could hardly be bettered, the second couplet is rather weak.  Some of Leigh Hunt’s sonnets, especially that which he wrote on the Nile in rivalry with Shelley and Keats, are very good.

It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream; And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands; ­ Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd-bands That roamed through the young earth, the glory extreme Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam, The laughing queen that caught the world’s great hands. Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong, As of a world left empty of its throng, And the void weighs on us; and then we wake, And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along ’Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake.

This was written in 1818, and I think it will be admitted that the italicised line is a rediscovery of a cadence which had been lost for centuries, and which has been constantly borrowed and imitated since.

Every now and then he had touches of something much above his usual style, as in the concluding lines of the whimsical “flyting,” as the Scotch poets of the fifteenth century would have called it, between the Man and the Fish: 

    Man’s life is warm, glad, sad, ’twixt loves and graves,       Boundless in hope, honoured with pangs austere,     Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves:        The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear,     A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapped in round waves,       Quickened with touches of transporting fear.

As a rule, however, his poetry has little or nothing of this kind, and he will hold his place in the English corpus poetarum, first, because he was an associate of better poets than himself; secondly, because he invented a medium for the poetic tale which was as poetical as Crabbe’s was prosaic; thirdly, because of all persons perhaps who have ever attempted English verse on their own account, he had the most genuine affection for, and the most intimate and extensive acquaintance with, the triumphs of his predecessors in poetry.  Of prose he was a much less trustworthy judge, as may be instanced once for all by his pronouncing Gibbon’s style to be bad; but of poetry he could tell with an extraordinary mixture of sympathy and discretion.  And this will introduce us to his second faculty, the faculty of literary criticism, in which he is, with all his drawbacks, on a level with Coleridge, with Lamb, and with Hazlitt, his defects as compared with them being in each case made up by compensatory, or more than compensatory, merits.

How considerable a critic Leigh Hunt was, may be judged from the fact that he himself confesses the great critical fault of his principal poem ­the selection, for amplification and paraphrase, of a subject which has once for all been treated with imperial and immortal brevity by a great poet.  With equal ingenuousness and equal truth he further confesses that, at the time, he not only did not see this fault, but was critically incapable of seeing it.  For there is that one comfort about this discomfortable and discredited art of ours, that age at any rate does not impair it.  The first sprightly runnings of criticism are never the best; and in the case of all really great critics, from Dryden to Sainte-Beuve, the critical faculty has gone on constantly increasing.  The chief examples of Leigh Hunt’s critical accomplishment are to be found in the two books called respectively, Wit and Humour, and Imagination and Fancy, both being selections from the English poets, with critical remarks interspersed as a sort of running commentary.  But hardly any book of his is quite barren of such examples; for he neither would, nor indeed apparently could, restrain his desultory fancy from this as from other indulgences.  His criticism is very distinct in kind.  It is almost purely and in the strict and proper sense aesthetic ­that is to say, it does hardly anything but reproduce the sensations produced upon Hunt himself by the reading of his favourite passages.  As his sense of poetry was extraordinarily keen and accurate, there is perhaps no body of “beauties” of English poetry to be found anywhere in the language which is selected with such uniform and unerring judgment as this or these.  Even Lamb, in his own favourite subjects and authors, misses treasure-trove which Leigh Hunt unfailingly discovers, as in the now pretty generally acknowledged case of the character of De Flores in Middleton’s “Changeling.”  And Lamb had a much less wide and a much more crotchety system of admissions and exclusions.  Macaulay was perfectly right in fixing, at the beginning of his essay on the dramatists of the Restoration, upon this catholicity of Hunt’s taste as the main merit in it; and it is really a great pity that the two volumes referred to were not, as they were intended to be, followed up by others respectively devoted to Action and Passion, Contemplation, and Song.  But Leigh Hunt was sixty when he planned them, and age, infirmity, perhaps also the less pressing need which the comparative affluence of his later years brought, prevented the completion.  It has also to be remarked that Hunt is much better as a taster than as a professor or expounder.  He says indeed many happy things about his favourite passages, but they evidently represent rather afterthought than forethought.  He is not good at generalities, and when he tries them is apt, instead of flying (as an Ariel of criticism should do), to sprawl.  Yet it was impossible for a man who was so almost invariably right in particulars, to go very wrong in general; and the worst that can be said of Leigh Hunt’s general critical axioms and conclusions is that they are much better than the reasons that support them.  For instance, he is probably right in calling the famous “intellectual” and “henpecked you all” in “Don Juan,” “the happiest triple rhyme ever written.”  But when he goes on to say that “the sweepingness of the assumption completes the flowing breadth of the effect,” he goes very near to talking nonsense.  For most people, however, a true opinion persuasively stated is of much more consequence than the most elaborate logical justification of it; and it is this that makes Leigh Hunt’s criticism such excellent good reading.  It is impossible not to feel that when a guide (which after all a critic should be) is recommended with cautions that, though an invaluable fellow for the most part, he is not unlikely in certain places to lead the traveller over a precipice, it is a very dubious kind of recommendation.  Yet this is the way in which one has to speak of Jeffrey and Hazlitt, of Wilson and De Quincey.  Of Leigh Hunt it need hardly ever be said; for in the unlucky diatribes on Dante above cited, the most unwary reader can see that his author has lost his temper and with it his head.  As a rule he avoids the things that he is not qualified to judge, such as the rougher and sublimer parts of poetry.  Of its sweetness and its music, of its grace and its wit, of its tenderness and its fancy, no better judge ever existed than Leigh Hunt.  He jumped at such things, when he came near them, almost as involuntarily as a needle to a magnet.

He was, however, perhaps most popular in his own time, and certainly he gained most of the not excessive share of pecuniary profit which fell to his lot, as what I have called a miscellanist.  One of the things which have not yet been sufficiently done in the criticism of English literary history, is a careful review of the successive steps by which the periodical essay of Addison and his followers during the eighteenth century passed into the magazine-paper of our own days.  The later examples of the eighteenth century, the “Observers” and “Connoisseurs,” the “Loungers” and “Mirrors” and “Lookers-On,” are fairly well worth reading in themselves, especially as the little volumes of the “British Essayists” go capitally in a travelling-bag; but the gap between them and the productions of Leigh Hunt, of Lamb, and of the Blackwood men, with Praed’s schoolboy attempts not left out, is a very considerable one.  Leigh Hunt is himself entitled to a high place in the new school so far as mere priority goes, and to one not low in actual merit.  He relates himself, more than once, with the childishness which is the good side of his Skimpolism, how not merely his literary friends but persons of quality had special favourites among the miscellaneous papers of the Indicator, like (he would certainly have used the parallel himself if he had known it or thought of it) the Court of France with Marot’s Psalms.  This miscellaneous work of his extends, as it ought to do, to all manner of subjects.  The pleasantest example to my fancy is the book called The Town, a gossiping description of London from St. Paul’s to St. James’s, which he afterwards followed up with books on the West End and Kensington, and which, though of course second-hand as to its facts, is by no means uncritical, and by far the best reading of any book of its kind.  Even the Autobiography might take rank in this class; and the same kind of stuff made up the staple of the numerous periodicals which Leigh Hunt edited or wrote, and of the still more numerous books which he compounded out of the dead periodicals.  It may be that a severe criticism will declare that, here as well as elsewhere, he was more original than accomplished; and that his way of treating subjects was pursued with better success by his imitators than by himself.  Such a paper, for instance, as “On Beds and Bedrooms” suggests (and is dwarfed by the suggestion) Lamb’s “Convalescent” and other similar work.  “Jack Abbott’s Breakfast,” which is, or was, exceedingly popular with Hunt’s admirers, is an account of the misfortunes of a luckless young man who goes to breakfast with an absent-minded pedagogue, and, being turned away empty, orders successive refreshments at different coffee-houses, each of which proves a feast of Tantalus.  The idea is not bad; but the carrying out suits the stage better than the study, and is certainly far below such things as Maginn’s adventures of Jack Ginger and his friends, with the tale untold that Humphries told Harlow.  “A Few Remarks on the Rare Vice called Lying” is a most promising title; he must be a very good-natured judge who finds appended to it a performing article.  “The Old Lady” and “The Old Gentleman” were once great favourites; they seem to have been studied from Earle’s Microcosmography, not the least excellent of the books that have proceeded from foster-children of Walter de Merton, but they are over-laboured in particulars.  So too are “The Adventures of Carfington Blundell” and “Inside of an Omnibus.”  Leigh Hunt’s humour is so devoid of bitterness that it sometimes becomes insipid; his narrative so fluent and gossiping that it sometimes becomes insignificant.  His enemies called him immoral, which appears to have been a gross calumny so far as his private life was concerned, and is certainly a gross exaggeration as regards his writing.  But he was rather too much given to dally about voluptuous subjects with a sort of chuckling epicene triviality.  He is so far from being passionate that he sometimes becomes almost offensive.  He is terribly apt to labour a conceit or a prettiness till it becomes vapid; and his “Criticism on Female Beauty,” though it contains some extremely sensible remarks, also contains much which is suggestive of Mr. Tupman.  Yet his miscellaneous writing has one great merit (besides its gentle playfulness and its untiring variety) which might procure pardon for worse faults.  With no one perhaps are those literary memories which transform and vivify life so constantly present as with Leigh Hunt.  Although the world was a perfectly real thing to him, and not by any means seen only through the windows of a library, he took everywhere with him the remembrances of what he had read, and they helped him to clothe and colour what he saw and what he wrote.  Between him, therefore, and readers who themselves have read a good deal, and loved what they have read not a little, there is always something in common; and yet probably no bookish writer has been less resented by his unbookish readers as a thruster of the abominable things ­superior knowledge and superior scholarship ­upon them.  Some vices of the snob Leigh Hunt undoubtedly had, but he was never in the least a pretentious snob.  He quotes his books not in the spirit of a man who is looking down on his fellows from a proper elevation, but in the spirit of a kindly host who is anxious that his guests should enjoy the good things on his table.

It is this sincere and unostentatious love of letters, and anxiety to spread the love of letters, that is the redeeming point of Leigh Hunt throughout:  he is saved quia multum amavit.  It was this which prompted that rather grandiose but still admirable palinode of Christopher North, in August 1834, ­“the Animosities are mortal:  but the Humanities live for ever,” ­an apology which naturally enough pleased Hunt very much.  He is one of those persons with whom it is impossible to be angry, or at least to be angry long.  “The bailiff who took him was fond of him,” it is recorded of Captain Costigan; and in milder moments the same may be said of the critical bailiffs who are compelled to “take” Leigh Hunt.  Even in his least happy books (such as the “Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla,” where all sorts of matter, some of it by no means well known to the writer, have been hastily cobbled together) this love, and for the most part intelligent and animated love, for literature appears.  If in another of his least happy attempts, the critical parts of the already mentioned Stories from the Italian Poets, he is miles below the great argument of Dante, and if he is even guilty to some extent of vulgarising the lesser but still great poets with whom he deals, he never comes, even in Dante, to any passage he can understand without exhibiting such a warmth of enthusiasm and enjoyment that it softens the stoniest readers.  He can gravely call Dante’s Hell “geologically speaking a most fantastical formation” (which it certainly is), and joke clumsily about the poet’s putting Cunizza and Rahab in Paradise.  He can write, in the true spirit of vulgarising, that “the Florentine is thought to have been less strict in his conduct in regard to the sex than might be supposed from his platonical aspirations,” heedless of the great confessions implied in the swoon at Francesca’s story, and the passage through the fire at the end of the seventh circle of Purgatory.  But when he comes to things like “Dolce color d’oriental zaffiro,” and “Era già l’ora,” it is hardly possible to do more justice to the subject.  The whole description of his Italian sojourn in the Autobiography is an example of the best kind of such writing.  Again, of all the people who have rejoiced in Samuel Pepys, Leigh Hunt “does it most natural,” being indeed a kind of nineteenth-century Pepys himself, whom the gods had made less comfortable in worldly circumstances and no man of business, but to whom as a compensation they had given the feeling for poetry which Samuel lacked.  At different times Dryden, Spenser, and Chaucer were respectively his favourite English poets; and as there was nothing faithless in his inconstancy, he took up his new loves without ceasing to love the old.  It is perhaps rather more surprising that he should have liked Spenser than that he should have liked the other two; and we must suppose that the profusion of beautiful pictures in the “Faerie Queen” enabled him, not to appreciate (for he never could have done that), but to tolerate or pass over the deep melancholy and the occasional philosophisings of the poet.  But the attraction of Dryden and Chaucer for him is very easily understood.  Both are eminently cheerful poets, Dryden with the cheerfulness born of manly sense, Chaucer with that of youth and abounding animal spirits.  Leigh Hunt seems to have found this cheerfulness as akin to his own, as the vigour of both was complementary and satisfactory to his own, I shall not say weakness, but fragility.  Add yet again to this that Hunt seems ­a thing very rarely to be said of critics ­never to have disliked a thing simply because he could not understand it.  If he sometimes abused Dante, it was not merely because he could not understand him, though he certainly could not, but because Dante trod (and when Dante treads he treads heavily) on his most cherished prejudices.  Now he had not very many prejudices, and so he had an advantage here also.

Lastly, as he may be read with pleasure, so he may be skipped without shame.  There are some writers whom to skip may seem to a conscientious devotee of letters both wicked and unwise ­wicked because it is disrespectful to them, unwise because it is quite likely to inflict loss on the reader.  Now nobody can ever think of respecting Leigh Hunt; he is not unfrequently amiable, but never in the least venerable.  Even at his best he seldom or never affects the reader with admiration, only with a mild pleasure.  It is at once a penalty for his sins and a compliment to his good qualities, that to make any kind of fuss over him would be absurd.  Nor is there any selfish risk run by treating him, in the literary sense, in an unceremonious manner.  His writing of all kinds carries desultoriness to the height, and may be begun at the beginning, or at the end, or in the middle, and left off at any place, without the least risk of serious loss.  He is excellent good company for half an hour, sometimes for much longer; but the reader rarely thinks very much of what he has said when the interview is over, and never experiences any violent hunger or thirst for its renewal, though such renewal is agreeable enough in its way.  Such an author is a convenient possession on the shelves:  a possession so convenient that occasionally a blush of shame may suggest itself at the thought that he should be treated so cavalierly.  But this is quixotic.  The very best things that he has done hardly deserve more respectful treatment, for they are little more than a faithful and fairly lively description of his own enjoyments; the worst things deserve treatment much less respectful.  Yet let us not leave him with a harsh mouth; for, as has been said, he loved the good literature of others very much, and he wrote not a little that was good literature of his own.