it be of the winter parlour with its 'sea-coal fire' and its warmlycushioned seat in the oriel, to hear the wind pining outside which is so luxurious an enhancement of comfort-or the summer parlour, with its open window, mantled, curtained, by woodbine draperies or veiled with jessamine flowers." "MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE."-"A refined, if not a very vigorous imagination, an exquisite sensibility and susceptibility, a certain southern warmth and colour, a brilliant, beautiful, harmonious nature, strangely united with the manly energy, the 'passionate diligence' which, in his case, ennobled the life which presents most temptation to effeminate idleness, the trying and difficult career of literature; this is the character we see manifested in the writings of Leigh Hunt. Some of these qualities are charmingly displayed in his poetry. The highest and noblest can be seen nowhere but in the 'Autobiography."" CHARLES OLLIER. -"God bless you for ever, for all the great good you have done your fellow creatures." THORNTON HUNT thus concludes the introduction to his father's "Autobiography:" "To promote the happiness of his kind, to minister to the more educated appreciation of order and beauty, to open more widely the door of the library, and more widely the window of the library looking out upon nature-these were the purposes that guided his studies and animated his labour to the very last." FROM THE "Quarterly Review" for January, 1867: ARTICLE— "CHARLES LAMB AND SOME OF HIS COMPANIONS:" (Referred to at page xii.) WILLIAM HAZLITT. "But amidst all these intolerant prejudices and this wild extravagance of apparent hate, there are in Hazlitt from time to time-those times not unfrequent-outbursts of sentiment scarcely surpassed among the writers of our century for tender sweetness, rapid perceptions of truth and beauty in regions of criticism then but sparingly cultured-nay, scarcely discovered— and massive fragments of such composition as no hand of ordinary strength could hew out of the unransacked mines of our native language. "It is not as a guide that Hazlitt can be useful to any man. His merit is that of a companion in districts little trodden-a companion strong and hardy, who keeps our sinews in healthful strain; rough and irascible, whose temper will constantly offend us if we do not steadily preserve our own; but always animated, vivacious, brilliant in his talk; suggestive of truths, even where insisting on paradoxes; and of whom when we part company we retain impressions stamped with the crown-mark of indisputable genius. "But gladly would we welcome among the choicer prose works of our age and land some three or four volumes devoted to the more felicitous specimens of Hazlitt's genius. He needs but an abstract of his title-deeds to secure a fair allotment in the ground, already overcrowded, which has been quaintly described by a Scandinavian poet as the garden-land lying south between Walhalla and the sea." LEIGH HUNT. "In one of his most delightful essays, entitled 'My Books,' Hunt, speaking of the great writers who were book-lovers like himself, exclaims, 'How pleasant it is to reflect that all these lovers of books have themselves become books.' And after pursuing that thought through 'links of sweetness long drawn out,' concludes with a modest pathos, May I hope to become the meanest of these existences?' 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 survive 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.' "We think few can read this very lovely passage and not sympathise cordially in the wish so nobly conceived and so tenderly expressed. Something not to be replaced would be struck out of the gentler literature of our century, could the mind of Leigh Hunt cease to speak to us in a book." TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM HAZLITT. THROUGH good and ill report, honour and blame, High in the annals of his native land! Oh! say not then that Hazlitt died too soon, Since he had fought and conquered-though the strife Freely he yielded up the noble boon : And closed his eyes-but on the rising day. MRS. BRYAN, 1836. ON HEARING OF LEIGH HUNT'S DEATH. THE world grows empty; fadingly and fast A sense of desolation sharp as knife Unfruitful desert which the earth becomes An aching want of consciousness that dumbs And yet not so would'st thou thyself have viewed Nice, MARY COWDen Clarke. UNIV. OF Recollections of Charles Lamb.* HE admirers and lovers of Charles Lamb (and in his case, more perhaps than in that of any other name in the world of literature, are these terms synonymous) will, no doubt, hail with peculiar satisfaction and gratitude this fresh contribution to a further knowledge of his life and genius-emanating, as it does, from a gifted friend, who, at the venerable age of seventy-seven, records his thoughts and recollections of "Elia." Mr. Procter is the only person now surviving, who knew Lamb intimately. His acquaintance with him extended over the last seventeen or eighteen years of his life—namely, from 1817 to 1834. He mingled on equal terms with most of the rare spirits who were Lamb's friends and contemporaries, and was himself not the least distinguished of that memorable circle, which included Coleridge, Wordsworth, Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, Southey, Godwin, Cary, Talfourd, and many others. Mr. Procter is himself an accomplished author. Many years ago (under the nom de plume of Barry Cornwall), he enriched the literature of the present century with some exquisite verses. His critical prose compositions—including a "Memoir and Essay on the Genius of Shakespeare," on "English Tragedy," on "English Poetry," "A Defence of Poetry,' &c.—are also characterised by singular delicacy and elegance, and have been reprinted in America. His "Songs and Minor Poems," and "Dramatic Scenes," particularly the former, contain poetic gems not to be surpassed. * Charles Lamb: a Memoir. By Barry Cornwall. London: Edward Moxon and Co., Dover-street, 1866. NO VINU : [ 4 ] Those well acquainted with "Talfourd's Life and Letters of Lamb," and "Final Memorials of Lamb," and with the numerous articles, essays, and notices of his life and genius which have appeared during the last thirty years, will not find in this volume much new information; but it is welcome, from the earnest, genial, and loving spirit in which it is written, and the singularly modest and unaffected tone of the author. The first chapter is devoted to general remarks on the characteristics of Lamb, the qualities of his mind and heart, his early tendency to literature, his tastes and sympathies, his likings and dislikings, the sad blight that fell upon his youth, and the noble self-sacrifice with which he devɔted himself to his sister. Nothing better has been said on these subjects than will be found in this volume. Mr. Procter does not indulge in long disquisitions or elaborate criticisms, but tells us his opinions of Lamb and his genius with a simplicity and homely truthfulness which well befit a venerable man of letters recording, for the benefit of a new generation, his recollections and impressions of a dear friend with whom he was on close terms of intimacy nearly half a century ago. The six succeeding chapters contain the history of Lamb's life and writings, briefly told; reminiscences of his friends and associates, employments and habits, with specimens of his wit and humour. There is an appendix, giving the opinions of Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, John Forster, Talfourd, and Mr. Procter himself, on the subject of Lamb's genius and character, for the most part written not long after his death, showing a remarkable unanimity of opinion regarding their friend on the part of writers differing so much from each other. Here are MR. PROCTER'S RECOLLECTIONS OF LAMB ON HIS FIRST ACQUAINTANCE Persons who had been in the habit of traversing Covent Garden at that time (seven-and-forty years ago), might by extending their walk a few yards. into Russell-street, have noted a small spare man, clothed in black, who went out every morning, and returned every afternoon, as regularly as the hands of the the clock moved towards certain hours. You could not mistake him. He was somewhat stiff in his manner, and almost clerical in dress, which indicated much wear. He had a long, melancholy face, with keen penetrating eyes; and he walked with a short, resolute step, citywards. He looked no one in the face for more than a moment, yet contrived to see everything as he went on. No one who ever studied the human features could pass by without recollecting his countenance; it was |