THOMAS CARLYLE. We are fortunate in being able to lay before our readers the terms in which the writer, who differs the most widely from Leigh Hunt in his manner of regarding all human affairs, expresses his admiration and respect. Many years ago, Mr. Carlyle had occasion to put on record his estimate of Leigh Hunt; we extract the following passages for the instruction of our readers: "Mr. Hunt is a man of the most indisputably superior worth; a man of genius in a very strict sense of that word, and in all the senses which it bears or implies; of brilliant, varied gifts; of graceful fertility; of clearness, lovingness, truthfulness; of childlike, open character, also of most pure and even exemplary private deportment; a man who can be other than loved only by those who have not seen him, or seen him from a distance through a false medium. "Well seen into, he has done much for the world; as every man possessed of such qualities, and freely speaking them forth in the abundance of his heart, for thirty years long, must needs do; how much, they that could judge best would perhaps estimate highest.” We extract these two paragraphs from a paper of some length, both because testimony from such a quarter will have weight with the whole world; and because, with characteristic vigour and insight, they paint for us the whole character of the man. Every word tells; and our readers who may have perseveringly attained—with the vaguest notions of what our author was like-to this stage of the present paper, will at least thank us for giving them an opportunity of knowing the man as he was, by reading and re-reading his character by Mr. Carlyle. We wish we were warranted in publishing also what now lies before us-Mr. Carlyle's opinion of the book in which, in the evening of his days, Leigh Hunt gave to the world a completer portrait of himself than was possible, even for him, in any other work-the Autobiography. Neither party would be dishonoured by the widest publication of these tender and beautiful words; but we must not trespass on the private correspondence even of so great a man as Mr. Carlyle. We think we are guilty of no indiscretion, however, in recording that he finds chiefly in that good book-what the reader may find there also if he please-"the image of a gifted, gentle, patient and valiant human soul, as it buffets its way through the billows of time, and will not drown though often in danger; cannot be drowned, but conquers, and leaves a track of radiance behind it."--North British Review, November, 1860. CHARLES DICKENS. One of the completest specimens of the almost extinct literary man, in the most rigorous sense of the expression, was Leigh Hunt. He passed the seventy-five years of his life in a region of books; journeying from land to land in that immortal territory, with all the enthusiasm and ever-fresh wonder and delight of the old travellers in the marvel-haunted East, and receiving the very elements of his character from the sources that fed his mind. His recently published correspondence (to which we propose to devote a few columns) shows very clearly the nature and habits of the man, and will remove a world of misapprehension, by simply presenting facts in their right aspect. Such was the man who was sometimes described, by those who misunderstood the southern vivacity that occasionally ran over in his published writings in the pleasurable glow of composition, as a person of unthinking levity, incapable of perceiving the great facts of life! We have purposely dwelt on the sadder passages of his existence, because of the singular misapprehensions with regard to his character which have prevailed in many minds. His life was, in several respects, a life of trouble, though his cheerfulness was such that he was, upon the whole, happier than some men who have had fewer griefs to wrestle with. Death and domestic dissensions, as we have seen, often stabbed him in his tenderest affections; and, in addition to those trials, he had to confront the repeated presence of pecuniary distress, owing partly to the heavy fine imposed on account of the libel on the Prince Regent, partly to a want of the business faculty, and partly to the extreme independence of spirit of the man, which, all through his career, kept him to a great extent sequestered from the broad outer world. The fact comes out so frequently in the present volumes, that there need be no delicacy in alluding to it here. Mournfully, however, as a large part of the correspondence strikes upon the reader, it must not be supposed that it refers entirely to painful details. Leigh Hunt's was an essentially human nature, rich and inclusive; and it is reflected with great completeness in the letters here given to the public. We see the writer in their varied contents, as those who knew him familiarly saw him in his every-day life : sometimes overclouded with the shadow of affliction, but more often bright and hopeful, and at all times sympathetic: taking a keen delight in all beautiful things-in the exhaustless world of books and art, in the rising genius of young authors, in the immortal language of music, in trees and flowers, and old memorial nooks of London and its suburbs; in the sunlight which came, as he used to say, like a visitor out of heaven, glorifying humble places; in the genial intercourse of mind with mind; in the most trifling incidents of daily life that spoke of truth and nature; in the spider drinking from the water-drop which had fallen on his letter from some flowers while he was writing; in the sunset lighting up his "little homely black mantelpiece" till it kindled into "a solemnly gorgeous presentment of black and gold;" in the domesticities of family life, and in the general progress of the world. A heart and soul so gifted could not but share largely in the happiness with which the Divine Ruler of the universe has compensated our sorrows; and he had loving hearts about him to the last, to sweeten both. His letters to his daughters, to his son Vincent, and to some of his grandchildren, are exquisite specimens of parental tenderness- -the loving playfulness of a wise and fresh-spirited old age. And the extreme tolerance and charity of his declining years brought him a host of new friends from all parts of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and even from America; some belonging to political parties totally distinct from that to which he remained unalterably attached to the latest breath he drew. This devotion to liberal ideas, which made him hail the French Revolution of 1848 as something "divine," and which excited in his mind so profound an interest in the recent uprising of Italy that he inquired eagerly of its progress only an hour or two before his death, contrasts very agreeably with the fluctuations of other authors. It has been said occasionally that Leigh Hunt was a weak man. He had, it is true, particular weaknesses, as evinced in his want of business knowledge, and in a certain hesitation of the judgment on some points, which his son has aptly likened to the ultra-deliberation of Hamlet, and which was the result of an extreme conscientiousness. But a man who had the courage to take his stand against power on behalf of right—who, in the midst of the sorest temptations, maintained his honesty unblemished by a single stain-who, in all public and private transactions, was the very soul of truth and honour-who never bartered his opinion or betrayed his friend-could not have been a weak man; for weakness is always treacherous and false, because it has not the power to resist. From all such misunderstandings he is now released by death; and, -in closing this article, we cannot do better than repeat the passage from his beloved Spenser which has been happily selected as the motto of his Correspondence-a passage which, though put by the poet into the mouth of Despair, is in truth full of a fine suggestion of a hope beyond the hopes of earth: What if some little payne the passage have, That makes frayle flesh to feare the bitter wave? Is not short payne well borne that brings long ease, Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas, Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please. “All the Year Round," April 12, 1862. [In "All the Year Round," of December 24, 1859, is an article by Mr. Dickens, called forth by a statement that Mr. Leigh Hunt was the original of Harold Skimpole, in "Bleak House." In The Critic of January, 1860, p. 86, appears an article on "The Autobiography of Leigh Hunt," in which the reviewer questions Mr. Dickens's assurance that he did not draw the bad parts of the Skimpole Philosophy from Mr. Leigh Hunt. After giving his reasons for this opinion, with extracts from Bleak House," The Critic says:-"We are puzzled to understand how he (Mr. Dickens) can reconcile those passages with the statement that he has not magnified the failing of the real man into the vice of the ideal character."] LORD MACAULAY. We have a kindness for Mr. Leigh Hunt. We form our judgment of him, indeed, only from events of universal notoriety, from his own works, and from the works of other writers, who have generally abused him in the most rancorous manner. But, unless we are greatly mistaken, he is a very clever, a very honest, and a very good-natured man. We can clearly discern, together with many merits, many faults, both in his writings and in his conduct. But we really think that there is hardly a man living whose merits have been so grudgingly allowed, and whose faults have been so cruelly expiated. In some respects Mr. Leigh Hunt is excellently qualified for the task which he has now undertaken. His style, in spite of its mannerism, nay, partly by reason of its mannerism, is well suited for light, garrulous, desultory ana, half critical, half biographical. We do not always agree with his literary judgments; but we find in him, what is very rare in our time, the power of justly appreciating and heartily enjoying good things of very different kinds. He can adore Shakspeare and Spenser, without denying poetical genius to the author of "Alexander's Feast," or fine observation, rich fancy, and exquisite humour to him who imagined Will Honeycomb and Sir Roger de Coverley. He has paid particular attention to the history of the English drama, from the age of Elizabeth down to our own time, and has every right to be heard with respect on that subject.-Lord Macaulay. Essays contributed to the Edinburgh Review." ("The Dramatic Works of Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar; with Biographical and Critical Notices, by Leigh Hunt." 1840.) WILLIAM HAZLITT. To my taste, the author of "Rimini" and editor of the Examiner is among the best and least-corrupted of our poetical prose writers. In his light but well-supported columns we find the raciness, the sharpness, and sparkling effect of poetry, with little that is extravagant or far-fetched, and no turgidity or pompous pretension. Perhaps there is too much the appearance of relaxation and trifling (as if he had escaped the shackles of rhyme), a caprice, a levity, and a disposition to innovate in words and ideas. Still, K the genuine master-spirit of the prose-writer is there; the tone of lively, sensible conversation; and this may in part arise from the author's being himself an animated talker. Mr. Hunt wants something of the heat and earnestness of the political partizan; but his familiar and miscellaneous papers have all the ease, grace, and point of the best style of essay writing. Many of his effusions in the Indicator show that, if he had devoted himself exclusively to that mode of writing, he inherits more of the spirit of Steele than any man since his time.- William Hazlitt. "The Plain Speaker;" ""On the Prose Style of Poets." 1826. From great sanguineness of temper, from great quickness and unsuspecting simplicity, he runs on to the public as he does at his own fireside, and talks about himself, forgetting that he is not always among friends. His look, his tone are required to point many things that he says: his frank, cordial manner reconciles you instantly to a little over-bearing, over-weening☛ self-complacency. "To be admired, he needs but to be seen;" but perhaps he ought to be seen to be fully appreciated. No one ever sought his society who did not come away with a more favourable opinion of him: no one was ever disappointed, except those who had entertained idle prejudices against him. He sometimes trifles with his readers, or tires of a subject (from not being urged on by the stimulus of immediate sympathy)—but in conversation he is all life and animation, combining the vivacity of the school-boy with the resources of the wit and the taste of the scholar. He is the only poet or literary man we ever knew who puts us in mind of Sir John Suckling or Killigrew, or Carew; or who united rare intellectual acquirements with outward grace and natural gentility. Mr. Hunt ought to have been a gentleman born, and to have patronised men of letters. He might then have played, and sung, and laughed, and talked his life away; have written manly prose, elegant verse; and his "Story of Rimini" would have been praised by Mr. Blackwood. As it is, there is no man now living who at the same time writes prose and verse so well, with the exception of Mr. Southey (an exception, we fear, that will be little palatable to either of these gentlemen). His prose writings, however, display more consistency of principle than the laureate's: his verses more taste. We will venture to oppose his third canto of the "Story of Rimini" for classical elegance and natural feeling to any equal number of lines from Mr. Southey's Epics or from Mr. Moore's "Lalla Rookh." In a more gay and conversational style of writing, we think his "Epistle to Lord Byron," on his going abroad, is a master-piece: and the "Feast of the Poets" has run through several editions. A light, familiar grace, and mild unpretending pathos, are the characteristics of his more sportive or serious writings, whether in poetry or prose. A smile plays round the features of the one; a tear is ready to start from the thoughtful gaze of the other He perhaps takes too little pains, and indulges in too much wayward caprice in both. A wit and a poet, Mr. Hunt is also distinguished by fineness of tact and sterling sense: he has only been a visionary in humanity, the fool of virtue. What then is the drawback to so many shining qualities, that has made them useless, or even hurtful to their owner? His crime is, to have been editor of the Examiner ten years ago, when some allusion was made in it to the age of the present king, and that, though his Majesty has grown older, our luckless politician is no wiser than he was then!-William Hazlitt; "The Spirit of the Age; or, Contemporary Portraits." 1825. W. J. FOX. The author of "Leigh Hunt's Poems" has rendered valuable service to the cause of political freedom and human progress, by the fact that he is Leigh Hunt, and that the Examiner newspaper blends his name with recollections of an important period in the history of our country, and of a faithful, earnest, and honourable advocacy of the rights and interests of the people. His poems do not come into our hands unconnected with associations and recollections. They do not show themselves to the world after the manner of the stage direction: "Enter a song, and sings itself." They have in them a truth, freshness, and beauty, in which they will live; which will long render them-especially such poems as his "Story of Rimini," and his play, "A Legend of Florence"-which will long render them valuable, and a source of mental refreshment and enjoyment to numerous readers. But they cannot be separated from our recollection of the man, and what he has done, deserved, and, I may add, suffered, in the people's cause for at the time when, under his editorship, the Examiner was the champion of every good object-when it feared not to expose any iniquity in high places-when it grappled with every question in an honest and inquiring spirit-at that time people were living under a very different state of things with regard to the public press from what prevails in our own day. Those were really times of peril. The power which Pitt established, when he quelled the first great efforts in the cause of reform, was yet exercised in its plenary influence and its wide extent. The nation was mad with the war-spirit: what were most looked for in the newspapers were reports of the last battle, The statistics of that day were returns of killed and wounded: the maps of that day were chiefly of the seat of hostilities. A more rigid hand was held by government over whatever could be brought within the net-the large net-of the libel law. Proprietors and editors of papers had to lay their account with penalties and imprisonments; and, as Leigh Hunt himself found, it was not safe even to jest at a royal Adonis. was, as he himself has said of the Examiner, the Robin Hood of the cause, in all things except plunder; living in the green places of poetry, with sharpened arrows to pierce every flitting folly, or every giant iniquity. Severe to the luxurious hypocrite or the proud oppressor, generous towards the poor, always at hand for an act of friendship and kindness to individuals or classes that needed such a demonstration, and gathering round himself a body as distinguished in literature as the merry men of Robin Hood in the annals of song. He For it was one remarkable character of the Examiner, that it brought so many men into notice, or afforded a sphere for the exercise of their powers. There it was that Hazlitt wrote those true and fine criticisms which made the public understand the genius of Kean. There it was that Charles Lamb had often inserted some of those wise pleasantries of his, which, whilst they played around the imagination, penetrated into the heart; there that Shelley became first known to the British public; and Keats-the gentle Keats-whose soul was doomed afterwards to feel so much of a different spirit of criticism; and there that others of name in after times first made their exertions in the public cause. Why, the earliest proclamations of Daniel O'Connell to "hereditary bondsmen" were in the pages of the Examiner. And over all, the true and guiding mind of the editor gave to the paper a character which, raising it in the literary world, augmented its force in the political world; making the time when, throughout the country, the truest reformers used to look on its appearance with delight and satisfaction-a time that cannot cease to live in their recollections. One is glad to see men uniting the characters of poet and politician; showing that the conflicts of political strife are not mere brute exertions, irreconcilable with whatever is gentlest in feeling or most playful |