THE


AUTOBI0 GRAPHY
OF
LEIGH HUNT,
WITH
tlminio~i C11~
OF FRIENDS AND CONTEMPORARIES
"Most men, when drawn to speak about themselves,
Are moved by little and little to say more
Than they first dream'd; until at last they blush,
And can but hope to find secret excuse
In the self-knowledge of their auditors."
WALTER SCOTT'S Old Play.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
186 0,








CONTENTS OF VOL. Ile
CHAPTER XV.
FREE AGAIN.-SHELLEY IN ENGLAND.
Dignified neighbor and landlord.-Visits from. Lord Byron and Mr.
Wordsworth.-Infernal conduct of the angels in Paradise Lost.-.
Return of hypochondria.-Descent of Liberty.-Story of Rimini.United States.-Visits to Lord Byron.-History of Shelley while in
England......................9
CHAPTER XVI.
XEATS, LAM1,37AND COLERIDGE.
Charles Cowden Clarke.-Keats and Shelley.-Mr. Monekton Milne's
Letters and Remains of Keats.-" Other-worldliness. "-Armitage,
Brown.-Keats and Lamb.-Wordsworth on Shakspeare.-'Milton
dining.-Keats and Byron.-Keats in Italy.-His death and personal appearance.-" Foliage."-The Indicator.-Tasso's Aminta.
-Foolish ignorance of business.-Mr. Lockhart.-Personal appearance of Lamb.-Character of his genius.-His hon-mots and imaginary notices of his friends.-Person of Coleridge.-Character of his
genius.-Coleridge and Hazlitt.-Coleridge's conversation and daily
habits....................................$so*......36
CHAPTER XVII.
VOYAGE TO ITALY.
Reasons of the author's voyage to Italy --Desiderata in accounts of
voyagers.-Gunpowder.-Setting off.-Noisy navigation of small
vessels.-Cabin and herthis.-Sea-captains.-Deal pilots and boatmen.-Puttinga mnat Ramsgate.-C ondorcet's " Progress of Society."
-A French vessel and its occupants.-Setting off again -Mem orable stormy season.-Character of the captain and mate.-Luigri
Rivarola.-Notices of the sailors.-Watchling at night.-IDiscomforts of sea in winter.-A drunken cook.-A goat and ducks.Hypochondria.-Dullness and superstition of sailors.-A gale of
fifty-six hours.........&.See*%***." se................to.. 54




vi


CONTENTS.


CHAPTER XVIII.
RETURN TO FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH LORD BYRON AND THOMAS
MOORE.
First sight of Lord Byron.-Jackson the prize-fighter.-Bathing at
Westminster.-Sympathy with early poems.-More prison recollections.-Lord Byron and the House of Peers.-Thomas Moore and
the Liberal.-Mistaken conclusions of his.-His appearance, manners, and opinions..-Letters of Lord Byron................ 104
CHAPTER XIX.
LORD BYRON IN ITALY-SHELLEY-PISA.
Alamanni and the Emperor Charles the Fifth.-Present feelings of the
Author with regrard to Lord Byron.-Circumstances that -modified
his Lordship's character.-Singula~r adventure at Monte. Nero.Lord Byron and the Gambas.-Lecvhorn and Smollett.-Domicile in
Pisa.-Vacca' and consu'mption.-Oper'atic scene in a drawingr-room.
-Death of Shelley, and burning of his remains.-Mirth most melancholy.-Person and character of Shelley.-Lord Byron's and
Author's mode of life at Pisa.-Exterior and interier of that city.Ever young look of Italy.-Italian mansions.-Leaningr tower of
Pisa............................................ 121
CHAPTER XX.
GENOA.
Removal to Genoa.-Shelley's house at Lerici.-Earthquake at
L erici.-Reputation of Englishmen in Italy for mad courage.Courage of Italians.-Porto Venere.-Fishy population.-Maritime Apennines.-Domiciles at Albaro.-Account of the "Liberal."-Awkward mistake respecting two of its writers.-Lord
Byron and Dr. Johnson................................ 154
CHAPTER XXI.
FLORENCE-BACCHUS IN TUSCANY-THE VENUS DE'I MEDICI-AND
ITALY IN GENERAL.
Florence.-Music at night.-Maiano.-Boccaccio.-May-day at
Malano.-An English "snuggery" in the Convent of St. Baldassare.-Landor.-Mr. Kirkup.-Lord Dillon.-Bacchus in Tuscany.




CONTE~NTS.


Vil


-Tuscan and English landscape.-Proposed English magazine
at Florence -Christianism.-Maddalena de Medici.-The Venus
de' Medici.-Finger of Galileo.-An involuntary bumper at parting
with- Flore~nce.-The cicala.-The flre-fly.-Trees of Italy.-Manners and. morals of the people.-A]lfieri.-Mac caroni.-The movement.-The Pope.......0 000....... 0....................183
CHAPTER XXII.
RETURN TO ENGLAND.
Traveling by vettura.-The driver.-The Apennines.-Le Masehere.
-Covigliaio.-Pietra Mala.-Poggioli.-S'tory of the Ants.-Skepticism generated in postillions by traveling.-Bologna.-Modena.Contrasted character of their inhahitants.-Parma.-Piacenza.
-Asti and Alfieri.-The Pu and the Alps.-Poirino.-Prudent
friars.-Turin.-French and Italian dancers.-Sant-Ambrogio.Ancient and Modern Italy.-Passage of the Alps.-Savoy.-Lanslebourg.-Chambedry and Rousseau.-Lyons and Auxerre.-Statue
of Louis the Fourteenth.-Moat -Blaac.-Paris.-Place of the
guillotine.-Book-stalls.-French people.-French, Italian, and English women.-Arrival in England....................... 224
CHAPTER XXIII.
AT HOME IN ENGLAND.
Highgate and Harnpstead.-Italian and Engrlish landscape.-Verses
to June.-Traveling domiciles.-The Parnaso Italiano.-Idealisms
familiarized.-The Arcadians of Italy.-Spenser, Milton, and other
cockney poets.-Graces and anxieties of pig-drivingr.-Exhausted
and befriended fortunes.-The Comipanion.-Sir Ralph Esher.Composition of verse.-A poem with a commentary.-Active molecules.-Inaudihle utterance.-A poetical project............ 236
CHAPTER XXIV.
LITERARY TROJEOTS.
The Tatler.-Chat of the Week.-M. Van de Weyer.-The Gentle
Armor.-The True Sun.-Laman Blanchard.-Residence in Chelsea.-Thomas Carlyle.-The London Journal.-The Seer.-Egerton Webbe.-His Parodies of Martial.-Captain Sword and Captain
Pen.-Paganini.-Monthly Repository.-Blue-Stocking Revels.Lady Blessington.......258




viii                     CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XXV.
PLAY-WRITING.-CONCLUSION.
Difficulty of meeting the literary acquirements of times and editors.
-Play-writing and present condition of the stage.-Actors out of
their place as managers.-Reasons why their profession is not more
esteemed.-Delusions practiced by them respecting the " Shakspearian," 'the "legitimate," and the "national" drama.-Only
remedy for such abuses.-The Legend of Florence, and four other
dramas by the Author.-Lord Melbourne and the Author's pension.
-Ideas ass6ciated in the latter's mind with the Queen.-Amateur
acting.-Removal to Kensington.-Author's latest productions and
daily habits.-Question of the Laureateship.-Political and religious
opinions............................................  277
APPENDIX.
Letters of Thomas Moore.................................  305
Letters of Shelley.......................................... 317




AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF LEIGH HUNT
CHAPTER XV.
FREE AGAIN.-SHELLEY IN             ENGLAND
Dignified neighbor and landlord.-Visits from Lord Byron and Mr.
Wordsworth.-Infernal conduct of the angels in Paradise Lost.Return of hypochondria.-Descent of Libelrty.-Story of Rimini.United States.-Visits to Lord Byron.-History of Shelley while in
England.
ON leaving prison, I went to live in the Edgware-road,
because my brother's house was in the neighborhood. When
we met, we rushed into each other's arms, and tears of manhood bedewed our cheeks.
Not that the idea of the Prince Regent had any thing to
do with such grave emotions.  His Royal Highness continued to affect us with any thing but solemnity, as we took
care to make manifest in the Examiner.  We had a hopeful
and respectful word for every reigning prince, but himself; and
I must say, that with the exception of the Emperor Alexander, not one of them deserved it.
The lodging which my family occupied (for the fine, and
the state of my health, delayed our resumption of a house)
was next door to a wealthy old gentleman, who kept a handsome carriage, and spoke very bad grammar. My landlord,
who was also a dignified personage after his fashion, pointed
him out to me one day, as he was getting into this carriage;
adding, in a tone amounting to the awful, " He is the great.
est plumber in London." The same landlord, who had a
A*




10


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


splendid turn for anti-climax, and who had gifted his children
with names proportionate to his paternal sense of what became him, called out to one of them from his parlor window,
"( You, sir, there-Maximilian-come out of the gutter."
He was a good-natured sort of domineering individual; and
would- say to his wife, when he went out, " Damn it, my
love, I insist on having the pudding."
In this house, Lord Byron continued the visits which he
made me in prison.  Unfortunately, I was too, ill to return
them. He pressed me very much to go to the theatre with
him; but illness, and the dread of committing my critical
independence, alike prevented me. His lordship was one of
a management that governed Drury-lane Theatre at that
time, and that were not successful. He got nothing by it,
but petty vexations and a good deal of scandal.
Lord Byron's appearance at that time was the finest I
ever saw it.  He was fatter than before his marriage, but
only just enough so to complete the elegance of his person;
and the turn of his head and countenance had a spirit and
elevation in it, which, though not unmixed with disquiet,
gave him altogether a very noble look. His dress, which
was black, with white trowsers, and which he wore buttoned
close over the body, completed the succinctness and gentlemanliness of his appearance. I remember one day, as he
stood looking out of the window, he resembled in a lively
manner 1he portrait of him by Phillips, by far the best that
has appeared; I mean the best of him at his best time of
life, and the most like him in features as well as expression.
He sat one morning so long, that Lady Byron sent up twice
to let him know she was waiting. Her ladyship used to go
on in the carriage to Henderson's nursery-ground, to get
flowers. I had not the honor of knowing her, nor ever saw
her but once, when I caught a glimpse of her at the door.
I thought she had a pretty, earnest look, with her "c pippin"
face; anl epithet by which she playfully designated herself.
I had a little study overlooking the fields to Westbourne
-a sequestered spot at that time embowered in trees.  The
study was draperied with white and green, having furniture
to match; and as the noble poet had seen me during my




LORD BYRON.


11


imprisonment in a bower of roses, he might here be said,
with no great stretch of imagination, to have found me in a
box of lilies. I mention this, because he took pleasure in
the look of the little apartment.  Also, because my wife's
fair cousin, V. K. now, alas! no more, who was as good as
she was intelligent, and as resolute as gentle, extinguished
me there one morning when my dressing-gown had caught
fire.  She was all her life, indeed, taking painful tasks upon
herself, to save trouble to others.
In a room at the end of the garden to this house was a
magnificent rocking-horse, which a friend had given my little
boy; and Lord Byron, with a childish glee becoming a poet,
would ride upon it. Ah! why did he ever ride his Pegasus,
to less advantage?  Poets should never give up their privilege of surmounting sorrow with joy.
It was here also I had the honor of a visit from Mr.
Wordsworth.    He came to thank me for the zeal I had
shown in advocating the cause of his genius.  I had the
pleasure of showing him his book on my shelves by the side
of Milton; a sight which must have been the more agreeable, inasmuch as the visit was unexpected. He favored
me, in return, with giving his opinion of some of the poets,
his contemporaries, who would assuredly rot have paid him
a visit on the same grounds on which he was pleased to
honor myself.  Nor do I believe, that from that day to this,
he thought it becoming in him to reciprocate the least part
of any benefit which a word in good season may have done
for him. Lord Byron, in resentment for my having called
him the,"prince of the bards of his time," would not allow
him to be even the c one-eyed monarch of the blind."  He
said he was the "blind monarch of the one-eyed."  I must
still differ with his lordship on that point; but I must own,
that, after all which I have seen and read, posterity, in my
opinion, will differ not a little with one -person respecting the
amount of merit to be ascribed to Mr. Wordsworth; though
who that one person is, I shall leave the reader to discover.
Mr. Wordsworth, whom Mr. Hazlitt designated as one
that would have had the wide circle of his humanities made
still wider, and a good deal more pleasant, by dividing a




12


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


little more of his time between his lakes in Westmoreland
and the hotels of the metropolis, had a dignified manner,
with a deep and roughish but not unpleasing voice, and an
exalted mode of speaking. He had a habit of keeping his
left hand in the bosom of his waistcoat; and in this attitude,
except when he turned round to take one of the subjects of
his criticism from the shelves (for his contemporaries were
there also), he sat dealing forth his eloquent but hardly
catholic'judgments.   In his "father's house," there were
not " many mansions." He was as skeptical on the merits
of all kinds of poetry but one, as Richardson was on those
of the novels of Fielding.
Under the study in which my visitor and I were sitting
was an archway, leading to a nursery-ground; a cart happened to go through it while I was inquiring whether he
would take any refreshment; and he uttered, in so lofty a.voice, the words, c" Any thing which is going forwvard," that
I felt inclined to ask him whether he would take a piece of
the cart.  Lamb would certainly have done it.      But this
was a levity which would neither have been so proper on
my part, after so short an acquaintance, nor very intelligible
perhaps, in any sense of the word, to the serious poet. There
are good-humored warrants for smiling, which lie deeper even
than Mr. Wordsworth's thoughts for tears.
I did not see' this distinguished person again till thirty
years afterward; when, I should venture to say, his manner
was greatly superior to what it was in the former instance;
indeed, quite natural and noble, with a cheerful air of animal
as well as spiritual confidence; a gallant bearing, curiously
reminding one of a certain illustrious duke, as I have seen
him walking some dozen years ago by a lady's side, with no
unbecoming oblivion of his time of life. I observed, also,
that he no longer committed himself in scornful criticisms,
or, indeed, in any criticisms whatever, at least as far as I
knew.    He had found out that he could, at least, afford to
be silent.  Indeed, he spoke very little of any thing.  The
conversation turned upon Milton, and I fancied I had opened
a subject that would have c"brought him out," by remarking,
that the most diabolical thing in all Paradise Lost was a




WORDSWORTH.


13


feeling attribute! to the angels.  cc Ay!" said Mr. Wordsworth, and inquired what it was.   I said it was the passage
in which the angels, when they observed Satan journeying
through the empyrean, let down a set of steps out of heaven,
on purpose to add to his misery-to his despair of ever being
able to re-ascend them; they being angels in a state of iWss,
and he a fallen spirit doomed to eternal punishmert. '1he
passage is as follows:
" Each stair was meant mysteriously, nor stood
There always, but, drawn up to heaven sometim
Viewless; and underneath a bright sea flow'd
Of jasper, or of liquid pearl, whereon
Who after came from earth sailing arriv'd
Wafted by angels, or flew o'er the lake
Rapt in a chariot drawn by fiery steeds.
The stairs were then let down, whether to dare
The fiend by easy ascent, or aggravate
His sad exclusion from the doors of bliss."
Mr. Wordsworth pondered, and said nothing.     I thought
to myself, what pity for the poor devil would not good
uncle Toby have expressed! Into what indignation would
not Burns have exploded!   What knowledge of themselves
would not have been forced upon those same coxcombical
and malignant angels by Fielding or Shakspeare!
Walter Scott said, that the eyes of Burns were the finest,
he ever saw.    I can not say the same of Mr. Wordsworth; that is, not in the sense of the beautiful, or even of
the profound.   But certainly I never beheld eyes that
looked so inspired or supernatural.   They were like fires
half burning, half smouldering, with a sort of acrid fixture of
regard, and seated at the further end of two caverns.
One might imagine Ezekiel or Isaiah to have had such
eyes.
It was for a good while after leaving prison that I was
unable to return the visits of the friends who saw me there.
Two years'- confinement, and illness in combination, had
acted so injuriously upon a sensitive temperament, that for
many months I could not leave home without a morbid wish
to return, and a fear of being seized with some fit or other
in the streets, perhaps with sudden death; and this was one




14


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT


of the periods when my hypochondria came back. In company, however, or at the sight of a friend, animal spirits
would struggle even with that; and few people, whatever
ill-health I showed in my face, had the slightest idea of
what I suffered. When they thought I was simply jaundiced, I was puzzling myself with the cosmogony. When
they fancied me wholly occupied in some conversation on a
poem or a pot of flowers, I would be haunted with the
question respecting the origin of evil.  What agonies, to be
sure-what horrible struggles between wonder and patience
-I suffered then! and into what a heaven of reliance and
of gladness have I been since brought, by.a little better
knowledge of the tuning of the instruments of this existence,
whether bodily or mental, taking right healthy spirits as the
key-note, and harmonizing every thing else. with those!  But
I have treated this point already. Let me repeat my advice, however, to any one who may be suffering melancholy
of the same sort, or of any sort, to take this recollection of
mine to heart, and do his best to derive comfort from it.  I
thought I should die early, and in suffering; and here I am,
thirty years afterward, writing these words.
"For thilke ground, that beareth the weed's wick,
Beareth also these wholesome herbs as oft;
And next to the foul nettle, rough and thick,
The rose ywaxeth sweet, and smooth, and soft;
And next the valley is the hill aloft;
And next the darky night is the glad morrow,
And also joy is next the fine of sorrow."
CHAUCER.
In the spring of the year 1816 I went to reside again in
Hampstead, for the benefit of the air, and of my old field
walks; and there I finished the Story of Rimini, which
was forthwith published. I have spoken of a masque on
the downfall of Napoleon, called the Descent of Liberty,
which I wrote while in prison.   Liberty descends in it from
heaven, to free the earth from the burthen of an evil magician. It was a compliment to the Allies, which they
deserved well enough, inasmuch as it was a failure; otherwise they did not deserve it at all; for it was founded on a




"STORY OF RIMINI."


15


belief in promises which they never kept.    There was a
vein of something true in the Descent of Liberty, particularly in passages where the domestic affections were touched
upon; but the poetry was too much on the surface.    Fancy
(encouraged by the allegorical nature of the mask) played
her part too entirely in it at the expense of imagination.  I
had not yet got rid of the self-sufficiency caused by my
editorial position, or by the credit, better deserved, which
political courage had obtained for me.  I had yet to learn
in what the subtler spirit of poetry consisted.
Nor had I discovered it when I wrote the Story of
Rimini.    It was written in what, perhaps, at my time of
life, and after the degree of poetical reputation which has been
conceded me, I may be allowed, after the fashion of painters,
to call my c" first manner;" not the worst manner conceivable, though far from the best; as far from it (or at whatever
greater distance modesty may require it to be put) as Dryden's Flower and the Leaf, from -the story in Chaucer
which Dryden    imitated.   I must take leave, however,
to regard it as a true picture, painted after a certain mode;
and I can never forget the comfort I enjoyed in painting it,
though I think I have since executed some things with a
more inward perception of poetical requirement.
This poem, the greater part of which was written, in
prison, had been commenced a year or two before, while I
was visiting the sea-coast at Hastings, with my wife and our
first child. I was very happy: and looking among my books
for some melancholy theme of verse, by which I could steady
my felicity, I unfortunately chose the subject of Dante's
famous episode.   I did not consider, indeed at that time
was not critically aware, that to enlarge upon a subject
which had been treated with exquisite sufficiency, and to
his immortal renown, by a great master, was not likely, by
any merit of detail, to save a tyro in the art from the charge
of presumption, especially one who had not yet even studied
mastery itself, except in a subordinate shape.  Dryden, at
that time, in spite of my sense of Milton's superiority, and
my early love of Spenser, was the most delightful name to
me in English poetry. I had found in him more vigor, and




16


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


music too, than in Pope, who had been my closest poetical
acquaintance; and I could not rest till I had played on his
instrument. I brought, however, to my task a sympathy
with the tender and the pathetic, which I did not find in
my master; and there was also an impulsive difference now
and then in the style, and a greater tendency to simplicity of
words.  My versification was not so vigorous as his.  There
were many weak lines in it.  It succeeded best in catching
the variety of his cadences; at least so far as they broke up
the monotony of Pope.   But I had a greater love for the
beauties of external nature; I think also I partook of a
more southern insight into the beauties of color, of which I
made abundant use in the procession which is described in
the first canto; and if I invested my story with too many
circumstances of description, especially on points not essential
to its progress, and thus took leave in toto of the brevity, as
well as the force of Dante, still the enjoyment which led me
into the superfluity was manifest, and so far became its
warrant.   I had the pleasure of supplying my friendly
critic, Lord Byron, with a point for his Parisina (the incident of the heroine talking in her sleep); of seeing all the
reigning poets, without exception, break up their own heroic
couplets into freer modulation (which they never afterward
abandoned); and of being paid for the resentment of the Tory
critics in one single sentence from the lips of Mr. Rogers,
who told me, when I met him for the first time at Lord
Byron's house, that he had " just left a beautiful woman
sitting over my poem in tears."
I was then between twenty and thirty: I am now between
sixty and seventy; and I have just been told by a friend, that
he lately heard one of the most distinguished of living authoresses say she had shed " tears of vexation " on finding that I
had recast the conclusion of the poem, and taken away so
much of the first matter.
Let it be allowed me to boast of tears of this kind, and
to say what balm they have given me for many a wound.
That re-casting of the poem was not a wise thing.  The
improvement which it received from the invigoration of weak
lines, was injudiciously purchased by the change in the




" STORY OF RIMINI."


17


heroine's character, and the diminution of the pathos.  I
found I had not even attained the principal object of the
alteration--the real truth of the events on which the story
was founded; and nobody welcomed the pains I had taken
to obv'iate those charges of too attractive a sympathy with
error, which had surprised me when the poem first appeared, and which the c" tears of vexation" in the eyes of a
morality the most received would alone have sufficed to
nullify. f The danger of the time, indeed the danger of all
times, is, not too great a sympathy with error, but ignorance
of the first causes of error.
I need hardly advert, at the present time of day, to the
objections of this kind, or of any kind, which were made to
the poem, when it first appeared, by the wrath of the Tory
critics.  In fact, it would have met with no such hostility,
or indeed any hostility at all, if politics had not judged it.
Critics might have differed about it, of course, and reasonably have found fault; but had it emanated from the circles,
or been written by any person not obnoxious to political
objection, I believe there is nobody at this time of day, who
will not allow, that the criticism in all quarters would have
been very good-natured, and willing to hail whatever merit
it possessed. I may therefore be warranted in having spoken
of it without any greater allusion to quarrels which have
long been over, and to which I have confessed that I gave
the first cause of provocation.
In a new edition of the poem, which is meditated, I propose to retain the improvement in its versification, while I
restore the narrative to its first course.  With its historical
truth, or otherwise, I shall no longer trouble myself; and I
shall request the readers, if they can, to dismiss Dante 'from
their minds, and to consider the story as a fiction having as
little in common with his ferocity as with his sublimity; a
design altogether different in its pretensions; a picture, by
an immature hand, of sunny luxuriance overclouded; not of
a cloud, no less brief than beautiful, crossing the gulfs of Tartarus. Those who, after having seen lightning, will tolerate
no other effect of light, have a right to say so, and may have
the highest critical reason on their side; but those who will




18


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


do otherwise, have perhaps more; for they can enjoy lightning, and a bask in the sunshine too.
The Story of Rimini had not long appeared, when I received a copy of it, which looked like witchcraft. It was
the identical poem, in type and appearance, bound in calf,
and sent me without any explanation; but it was a little
smaller. I turned it over a dozen times, wondering what it
could be, and how it could have originated.  The simple solution of the puzzle I did not consider, till I had summoned
other persons to partake my astonishment.  At length we
consulted the title-page, and there saw the names of" Wells
and Lilly, Boston; and.MI. Carey, Philadelphia."  I thought
how the sight would have pleased my father and mother. A
few years ago I received a copy of another Boston edition,
preceded by the like piracy of another poem, the publisher of
which was so good as to say, that he had heard of a new
one from my pen, which he should be very happy to print
also, if I would send it him. Not a syllable did he add about
the happiness of disbursing a doit for the permission. How
many poems of mine, or editions of poems, or editions of prosewritings, have appeared in America, before or since, I can
not say; but I believe the booksellers there have republished
every thing which I have written; and I confess I can not
but be sensible even of the shabby honor thus done me, and
heartily glad of every genial hand into which my productions
may be carried in consequence; but I should like to know,
what an American publisher would say, if some English
traveler were to help himself to the fruits of his labor out
of the till, and make offwith them on board ship.  Being a
cousin-germane of the Americans, I am very popular in their
country, and receive from them every compliment imaginable,
except a farthing's payment. How came my mother to be
born in such a country? I love the women there for her
sake, especially the Philadelphia women; I respect, also,
every American that differs with his bookseller; and I hold
in due favor their Bryants, their Emersons, their Lowells,
and their embassadors.  But I wish I could get rid of the
impression which I have before mentioned; to wit, that one
great shop-counter extends all down their coast from 1Massa



LADY BYRON.


19


chusetts to Mexico. Why do they not get a royal court or
two among them, and thus learn that there is something else
in the world besides huffing and money-getting? To be slaveholding in the south, payment-shirking in the north, and arrogant every where, is not to " go ahead" of the nations, but
to fall back into the times of colonial Dutchmen. Moneygetting republics may be the millennium of the mercantile;
but they are neither the desires of human nature, nor of merchants themselves when they come to be lords in posse. The
world, before it be satisfied with its governmental arrangements, must settle itself into something very different, either
from feudality's men of iron, or Sydney Smith's " men of
drab."
I now returned the visits which Lord Byron had made
me in prison.  His wife's separation from him had just taken
place, and he had become ill himself; his face was jaundiced
with bile; he felt the attacks of the public severely; and, to
crown all, he had an execution in his house.  I was struck
with the real trouble he manifested, compared with what
the public thought of it.  The adherence of his old friends
was also touching.   I saw Mr. Hobhouse (Sir John) and
Mr. Scrope Davies (college friends of his) almost every time
I called. - Mr. Rogers was regular in his daily visits; and
Lord Holland, he told me, was very kind.
Lord Byron, at this juncture, took the blame of the quarrel upon himself.  He even enlisted the self-love of his new
visitor so far on the lady's side, as to tell him ( that she liked
my poem, and had compared his temper to that of Giovanni,
the heroine's consort."*  He also showed me a letter which
* "The worst of Prince Giovanni, as his bride
Too quickly found, was an ill-temper'd pride.
Bold, handsome, able (if he chose) to pleasePunctual and right in common offices,
He lost the sight of conduct's only worth,
The scattering smiles on this uneasy earth
And, on the strength of virtues of small weight,
Claim'd tow'rds himself the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then, if pleas'd to cheer himself a space,
Look for the immediate rapture in your face,




20


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


she had written him after her departure from the house, and
when she was on her way to the relations who persuaded her
not to return.   It was signed with the epithet before mentioned; and was written in a spirit of good-humor, and even
of fondness, which, though containing nothing but what a
wife ought to write, and is the better for writing, was, I
thought, almost too good to show. But a certain over-communicativeness was one of those qualities of his lordship,
which equally became the child-like simplicity of a poet, and
startled you in proportion as it led to disclosures of questionable propriety.
I thought I understood the circumstances of this separation at the time, and still better some time afterward; but
I have since been. convinced, and the conviction grows
stronger every day, that no domestic dispute, even if it were
desirable or proper to investigate it, can ever be thoroughly
understood unless you hear both parties, and know their
entire relative situations, together with the interests and passions of those about them. You must also be sure of their
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience-so design'd to keep
Stern, central watch, though all things else may sleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self there lies
Cored, after all, in self complacencies,
That no suspicion would have touch'd him more
Than that of wanting on the generous score:
He would have whelm'd you with a weight of scornBeen proud at eve inflexible at mornIn short, ill-temper'd for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit,
But not the patience, nor the genial spirit:
And so he made, 'twixt virtue and defect,
A sort of fierce demand on your respect,
Which, if assisted by his high degree,
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,
And struck a meaner deference in the many,
Left him, atlast, unlovable with any."
Giovanni, however, would not have had the candor to refer to any
such description of himself as this; neither had he any of the wit and
pleasantry of my noble friend.




SHELLEY.


21


statements; and see whether the statements on all sides
themselves are prejudiced or the reverse.  Indeed you can
not know individuals themselves truly, unless you have lived
with them; at all events, unless you have studied them long
enough to know whether appearances are realities; and
although you may, and to a certain degree must, draw your
own conclusions respecting people from  statements which
they give to the world, whether for or against themselves,
yet it is safer, as well as pleasanter, to leave that question
as much as possible in the place where it ought ever to have
abided, unless brought forward on the highest and noblest
grounds;(namely, in the silence of the heart that has most
suffered under its causes. i
I shall, therefore, say nothing more of a business which
nobody ought to have heard of.  Lord Byron soon afterward
left England, and I did not see him again, or hear from him,
scarcely of him, till he proposed my joining him in Italy. I
take my leave of him, therefore, till that period, and proceed
to speak of the friends with whom I became intimate in the
mean while-Shelley and Keats.
I first saw Shelley during the early period of the Examiner, before its indictment on account of the Regent; but it
was only for a few short visits, which did not produce intimacy.   He was then a youth, not come to his full growth;
very gentlemanly, earnestly gazing at every object that interested him, and quoting the Greek dramatists. Not long
afterward he married his first wife; and he subsequently
wrote to me while I was in prison, as I have before mentioned.  I renewed the correspondence a year or two afterward, during which period one of the earliest as well as most
beautiful of his lyric poems, the Hymn to Intellectual Beauty
had appeared in the Examiner.      Meantime, he and his
wife had parted; and now he re-appeared before me at.
Hampstead, in consequence of the calamity which I am about
to mention.
But this circumstance it will be proper to introduce with
some remarks, and a little previous biography.
It is hardly necessary to inform the reader at this present
day, that Percy Bysshe Shelley was the eldest son of Sir




22


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Timothy Shelley, Bart., of Castle-Goring, in Sussex. He
was born at Field-Place, in that county, the 4th of August 1792.
It is difficult, under any circumstances, to speak with
proper delicacy of the living connections of the dead; but it
is no violation of decorum 'to observe, that the family connections of Mr. Shelley belonged to a small party in the
House of Commons itself belonging to another party. They
were Whig aristocrats, voting in the interest of the Duke of
Norfolk. To a man of genius, endowed with a metaphysical
acuteness to discern truth and falsehood, and a strong sensibility to give way to his sense of it, such an origin, however
respectable in the ordinary point of view, was not the very
luckiest that could have happened for the purpose of keeping
him within ordinary bounds. With what feelings is Truth
to open its eyes upon this world among the most respectable
of our mere party gentry? Among licensed contradictions
of all sorts? among the Christian doctrines and the worldly
practices? Among fox-hunters and their chaplains? among
beneficed loungers, rakish old gentlemen, and more startling
young ones, who are old in the folly of knowingness? people not, indeed, bad in themselves; not so bad as their
wholesale and unthinking decriers, much less their hypocritical decriers; many excellent by nature, but spoilt by those
professed demands of what is right and noble, and those
inculcations, at the same time, of what is false and wrong,
which have been so admirably exposed by a late philosopher
(Bentham), and which he has fortunately helped some of our
best living statesmen to leave out of the catalogue of their
ambitions.
Shelley began to think at a very early age, and to think,
too, of these anomalies. He saw that at every step in life
some compromise was expected between a truth which he
was told not to violate, and a coloring and double-meaning
of it which forced him upon the violation.
Doubtless there are numbers of young men who discern
nothing of all this; who are, comparatively, even unspoilt
by it; and who become respectable tellers of truth in its
despite.  These are the honorable part of the orthodox:




SHELLEY.


23


good-natured fathers and husbands, conscientious though
not very inquiring clergymen, respectable men in various
walks of life, who, thinking they abide by the ideas that
have been set before them, really have very few ideas of
any thing, and are only remarkable for affording specimens
of every sort of commonplace, comfortable or unhappy.     On
the other hand, numbers of young men get a sense of this
confusion of principles, if not with a direct and logical consciousness, yet with an instinct for turning it to account.
Even some of these, by dint of a genial nature, and upon
the same principle on which a heathen priest would eschew
the vices of his mythology, turn out decent members of
society.  But how many others are spoilt forever!      How
many victims to this confusion of truth and falsehood, apparently flourishing, but really callous or unhappy, are to be
found in all quarters of the community; men who profess
opinions which contradict their whole lives; takers of oaths,
which they dispense with the very thought of; subscribers
to articles which they doubt, or even despise: triflers with
their hourly word for gain; statesmen of mere worldliness;
ready hirelings of power; sneering disbelievers in good;
teachers to their own children of what has spoilt themsolves, and has rendered their existence a dull and selfish
mockery.
Whenever a character like Shelley's appears in society, it
must be considered with reference to these abuses.    Others
may consent to be spoilt by them, and to see their fellow-creatures spoilt. He was a looker-on of a different
nature.
With this jumble, then, of truth and falsehood in his head,
and a genius born to detect it, though perhaps never quite able
to rid itself of the injury (for if ever he deviated into an
error unworthy of him, it was in occasionally condescending,
though for the kindest purposes, to use a little double-dealing), Shelley was sent to Eton, and afterward to the University of Oxford. At Eton, a Reviewer recollected him setting trees on fire with a burning-glass; a proceeding which
the critic set down to his natural taste for destruction.
Perhaps the same Reviewer (if we are not mistaken as to




24


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


the person) would now, by the help of his own riper faculties, attribute it to the natural curiosity of genius.  At the
same school, the young reformer rose up in opposition to the
system  of fagging.   Against this custom   he formed a conspiracy; and for a time he made it pause, at least as far as
his own person was concerned.      His feelings at this period
of his life are touchingly and powerfully described in the
dedication of the Revolt of Islam.
" Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear friend, when first
The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass.
I do remember well the hour which burst
My spirit's sleep: a fresh May-day it was,
When I walk'd forth upon the glitering grass,
And wept, I knew not why, until there rose
From the near schoolroom, voices, that, alas!
Were but one ehco from a world of woesThe harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.
" And then I clasp'd my hands, and looked aroundBut none was near to mock my streaming eyes,
Which pour'd their warm drops on the sunny ground:
So without shame I spake: 'I will be wise,
And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies
Such power; for I grow weary to behold
The selfish and the strong still tyrannize
Without reproach or cheek.' I then controll'd
My tears; my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold.
" And from that hour did I, with earnest thought,
Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore;
Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught
I cared to learn; but from that secret store
Wrought linked armor for my soul, before
It might walk forth to war among mankind."
Shelley, I believe, was taken from Eton before the regular
period for leaving school.   His unconventional spirit-penetrating, sincere, and demanding the reason and justice of
things-was found to be inconvenient.       At Oxford it was
worse. Logic was there put into his hands; and he used
it in the most uncompromising manner.       The more important the proposition, the more he thought himself bound to
investigate it: the greater the demand upon his assent, the
less, upon their own principle of reasoning, he thought him



SHELLEY.


'5


self bound to grant it: for the university, by its ordinances,
invited scholars to ask questions which they found themselves unable to answer.   Shelley did so; and the answer
was expulsion. It is true, the question he asked was a very
hard one. It was upon the existence of God. - But could
neither Faith, Hope, nor Charity find a better answer than
that? and in the teeth, too, of their own challenge to inquiry?
Could not some gentle and loving nature have been found to
speak to him in private, and beg him at least to consider and
pause over the question, for reasons which would have had
their corresponding effect?  The Church of England has
been a blessing to mankind, inasmuch as it has discountenanced the worst superstitions, and given sense and improvement leave to grow; but if it can not learn still further to
sacrifice letter to spirit, and see the danger of closing its lips
on the greatest occasions and then proceeding to open them
on the smallest, and dispute with its very self on points the
most " frivolous and vexatious," it will do itself an injury it
little dreams of with the new and constantly growing intelligence of the masses; who are looking forward to the
noblest version of Christianity, while their teachers are thus
fighting about the meanest.
Conceive a young man of Mr. Shelley's character, with
no better experience of the kindness and sincerity of those
whom he had perplexed, thus thrown forth into society, to
form  his own judgments, and pursue his own career.      It
was Emilius out in the World, but formed oy his own
tutorship.  There is a novel, under that title, written by
the German La Fontaine, which has often reminded me of
him.   The hero of another, by the same author, called the
Reprobate, still more resembles him.   His way of proceeding was entirely after the fashion of those guileless, but
vehement hearts, which not being well replied to by their
teachers, and finding them hostile to inquiry, add to a natural love of truth all the passionate ardor of a generous and
devoted protection of it. Shelley had met with Godwin's
Political Justice; and he seemed to breathe, for the first
time, in an open and bright atmosphere.     Hle resolved to
square all his actions by what he conceived to be the strictVOL. II.-B




26


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT


est justice, without any consideration for the opinions of
those whose little exercise of that virtue toward himself illfitted them, he thought, for better teachers, and as ill warranted him in deferring to the opinions of the world whom
they guided.  That he did some extraordinary things in
consequence, is admitted: that he did many noble ones,
and all with sincerity, is well known to his friends, and
will be admitted by all sincere persons. Let those who are
so fond of exposing their own natures, by attributing every
departure from ordinary conduct to bad motives, ask themselves what conduct could be more extraordinary in their
eyes, and at the same time less attributable to a bad motive,
than the rejection of an estate, for the love of a principle.
Yet Shelley rejected one.  He had only to become a yea
and nay man in the House of Commons, to be one of the
richest men in Sussex.'  He declined it, and lived upon a
comparative pittance.  Even the fortune that he would
ultimately have inherited, as secured to his person, was
petty in the comparison.
I will relate another anecdote, which the uncharitable
ill not find it so difficult to quarrel with.  It trenches
Aupon that extraordinary privilege to indulge one sex at the
expense of the other, which they guard with so jealous a
care, and so many beggings of the question. The question,
I grant, is weighty.  Far am I from saying that it is here
settled; but very far are they themselves from having settled it;as their own writings and statistics, their own
morals, romances, tears, and even comedies, testify.  The
case, I understood, was this; for I am bound to declare that
I forget who told it me; and I never asked Shelley whether
it was true.  But it is quite in character, and not likely to
have been invented. Shelley was present at a ball, where
he was a person of some importance.    Numerous village
ladies were there, old and young; and none of the passions
were absent that are accustomed to glance in the eyes, and
gossip in the tongues, of similar gatherings together of talk
and dress.  In the front were seated the rank and fashion
of the place. The virtues diminished, as the seats went
backward; and at the back of all, unspoken to, but not




SHELLEY.


27


unheeded, sat blushing a damsel who had been seduced. It
is not stated by whom; probably by some well-dressed gentleman in the room, who thought himself entitled, nevertheless, to the conversation of the most flourishing ladies present,
and who naturally thought so, because he had it.   That
sort of thing happens every day.  It was expected that the
young squire would take out one of these ladies to dance.
What is the consternation, when they see him making his
way to the back benches, and handing forth, with an air of
consolation and tenderness, the object of all the virtuous
scorn of the room! the person whom that other gentleman,
wrong as he had been toward her, and " wicked" as the
ladies might have allowed him to be toward the fair sex in
general, would have shrunk from touching!-The young
reformer, it was found, was equally unfit for school tyrannies,
for university inconsistencies, and for the chaste orthodoxy
of squires' tables.  So he went up to town.
Had he now behaved himself pardonably in the eyes of
the conventional in those days (for it is wonderful in how
short a time honest discussion may be advanced by a court
at once correct and unbigoted, and a succession of calmly
progressing ministries; and all classes are now beginning to
suffer the wisdom of every species of abuse to be doubted),
Shelley would have gone to London with the resolution of
sowing his wild oats, and becoming a decent member of
society; that is to say, he would have seduced a few maidservants, or at least haunted the lobbies, and then bestowed
the remnant of his constitution upon some young lady of his
own rank in life, and settled into a proper church-and-king
man of the old leaven, perhaps a member of the Society for
the Suppression of Vice.  This used to be the proper routine, and gave one a right to be didactic.  Alas! Shelley
did not do so; and bitterly had he to repent, not that he did
not do it, but that he married while yet a stripling, and
that the wife whom he took was not of a nature to appreciate his understanding, or, perhaps, to come from contact
with it uninjured in what she had of her own.  They separated by mutual consent, after the birth of two children.
To this measure his enemies would hardly have demurred;




28


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


especially as the marriage was disapproved by the husband's
family, and the lady was of inferior rank. It might have
been regarded even as something like making amends.  But
to one thing they would strongly have objected. He proceeded, in the spirit of Milton's doctrines, to pay his court
to another lady.  I wish I could pursue the story in the
same tone; but now came the greatest pang of his life.
He was residing at Bath, when news came to him that his
wife had destroyed herself. It was a heavy blow to him;
and he never forgot it. For a time, it tore his being to
pieces; nor is there a doubt, that, however deeply he was
accustomed to reason on the nature and causes of evil, and
on the steps necessary to be taken for opposing it, he was
not without remorse for having no better exercised his judgment with regard to the, degree of intellect he had allied
himself with, and for having given rise to a premature independence of conduct in one unequal to the task. The lady
was greatly to be pitied; so was the survivor. Let the
collegiate refusers of argument, and the conventional sowers
of their wild oats, with myriads of unhappy women behind
them, rise up in judgment against him  I Honester men will
not be hindered from doing justice to sincerity wherever
they find it; nor be induced to blast the memory of a man
of genius and benevolence, for one painful passage in his life,
which he might have avoided, had he been no better than
his calumniators.
On the death of this unfortunate lady, Shelley married
the daughter of Mr. Godwin, and resided at Great Marlow
in Buckinghamshire, where my family and myself paid him
a visit, and where he was a blessing to the poor.    His
charity, though liberal, was not weak.  He inquired personally into the circumstances of his petitioners; visited the
sick in their beds (for he had gone the round of the hospitals
on purpose to be able to practice on occasion), and kept a
regular list of industrious poor, whom he assisted with small
sums to make up their accounts.
Here he wrote the Revolt of Islam, and A Proposal for
putting Reform to the Vote through the Country. He
offered to give a tenth part of his income for a year toward




SHELLEY.


29


the advancement of the project. He used to sit in a study
adorned with casts, as large as life, of the Vatican Apollo
and the celestial Venus.  Between whiles he would walk
in the garden, or take strolls about the country, or a sail
in a boat, a diversion of which he was passionately fond.
Flowers, or the sight of a happy face, or the hearing of a
congenial remark would make his eyes sparkle with delight.
At other times he would suddenly droop into an aspect of
dejection, particularly when a wretched face passed him, or
when he saw the miserable looking children of a lace-making
village near him, or when he thought of his own children, of
whom he had been deprived by the Court of Chancery. He
once said to me during a walk in the Strand, c" Look at all
these worn and miserable faces that pass us, and tell me what
is to be thought of the world they appear in?" I said, c" Ah,
but these faces are not all worn with grief. You must take
the wear and tear of pleasure into the account; of secret
joys as well as sorrows; of merry-makings, and sittings-up
at night."  He owned that there was truth in the remark.
This was the sort of consolation which I was in the habit
of giving him, and for which he was thankful because I was
sincere.
As to his children, the reader perhaps is not aware, that
in this country of England, so justly called free on many accounts, and so proud of its <' Englishman's castle"-of the
house, which nothing can violate, a man's offspring can be
taken from  him to-morrow, who holds a different opinion
from the Lord Chancellor in faith and morals. Hume's, if
he had any, might have been taken. Gibbon's might have
been taken.   The virtuous Condorcet, if he had been an
Englishman and a father, would have stood no chance.
Plato, for his Republic, would have stood as little; and
Mademoiselle de Gournay might have been torn from the
arms of her adopted father Montaigne, convicted beyond redemption of seeing farther than the walls of the Court of
Chancery.   That such things are not done often, I believe;
that they may be done oftener than people suspect, I believe
also; for they are transacted with closed doors, and the
details are forbidden to transpire.




30


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Queebn Jab, Shelley's earliest poetical production, written
before he was out of his teens, and regretted by him    as a
crude production, was published without his consent. Yet
he was convicted from it of holding the opinion which his
teachers at the University had not thought fit to reason him
out of. He was also charged with not being of the received
opinions with regard to the intercourse of the sexes; and his
children, a girl and a boy, were taken from     him.   They
were transferred to the care of a clergyman of the Church
of England.    The circumstance deeply affected Shelley: so
much so, that he never afterward-dared to trust himself with
mentioning their names in my hearing, though I had stood
at his   side throughout the business: probably for that
reason.*   Shelley's manner of life suffered greatly in its repute from this circumstance. He was said to be keeping a
seraglio at Marlow; and his friends partook of the scandal.
This keeper of a seraglio, who, in fact, was extremely difficult to please in such matters, and who had no idea of love
unconnected with sentiment, passed his days like a hermit.
He rose early in the morning, walked and read before breakfast, took that meal sparingly, wrote and studied the greater
part of the morning, walked and read again, dined on vegetables (for he took neither meat nor wine), conversed with
his friends (to whom his house was ever open), again walked
out, and usually finished with reading to his wife till ten
o'clock, when he went to bed. This was his daily existence.
His book was generally Plato, or Homer, or one of the
Greek tragedians, or the Bible, in which last he took a
great, though peculiar, and often admiring interest.  One of
his favorite parts was the book of Job. The writings at* The boy is since dead; and Shelley's son by his second wife, the
daughter of Godwin, has succeeded to the baronetcy. It seldom falls
to the lot of a son to have illustrious descent so heaped upon him; his
mother a woman of talentt, his father a man of genius, his grandfather,
Godwin, a writer secure of immortality; his grandmother, Godwin's
wife, the celebrated Mary Wollstonecraft: and on the side of his
father's ancestors he partakes of ine blood of the intellectual as well
as patrician family of the Sackvilles. But, what is most of all, his
own intelligent and liberal nature makes him worthy of all this
lustre.




SHELLEY.


31


tributed to Solomon he thought too Epicurean in the modern
sense of the word; and in his notions of St. Paul, he agreed
with the writer of the work entitled Not Paul but Jesus.
For his Christianity, in the proper sense of the word, he
went to the gospel of St. James, and to the Sermon- on the
Mount by Christ himself, for whose truly divine spirit he
entertained the greatest reverence. There was nothing
which embittered his enemies against him more than the
knowledge of this fact.  His want of faith, indeed, in the
letter, and his exceeding faith in the spirit of Christianity,
formed a comment, the one on the other, very formidable to
those who choose to forget what scripture itself observes on
that point.*
As an instance of Shelley's extraordinary generosity, a
friend of his, a man of letters, enjoyed from him at that
period a pension of a hundred a year, though he had but a
thousand of his own; and he continued to enjoy it till fortune rendered it superfluous. But the princeliness of his
disposition was seen most in his behavior to another friend,
the writer of this memoir, who is proud to relate, that with
money raised by an effort, Shelley once made him a present
of fourteen hundred pounds, to extricate him from debt.  I
was not extricated, for I had not yet learned to be careful:
but the shame of not being so, after such generosity, and the
pain which my friend afterward underwent when I was in
trouble and he was helpless, were the first causes of my
thinking of money-matters to any purpose. His last sixpence was ever at my service, had I chosen to share it. In
a poetical epistle written some years afterward, and published in the volume of Posthumous Poems, Shelley, in alluding to his friend's circumstances, which for the second time
were then straitened, only made an affectionate lamentation
that he himself was poor; never once hinting that he had
already drained his purse for his friend.
To return to Hampstead.    Shelley often came there to
see me, sometimes to stop for severaldays.  He delighted in
the natural broken ground, and in the fresh air of the place,


*  "For the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life."'




32


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


especially when the wind set in from the northwest, which
used to give him an intoxication of animal spirits. Here
also he swam his plaper boats on the ponds, and delighted to
play with my children, particularly with my eldest boy, the
seriousness of whose imagination, and his susceptibility of a
" grim" impression (a favorite epithet of Shelley's), highly
interested him.   He would play at " frightful creatures"
with him, from which the other would snatch ': a fearful joy,"
only begging him occasionally " not to do the horn," which
was a way that Shelley had of screwing up his hair in front,
to imitate a weapon of that sort. This was the boy (now a
man of forty, and himself a fine writer) to whom Lamb took
such a liking on similar accounts, and addressed some charming verses as his " favorite child."  I have already mentioned him during my imprisonment.
As an instance of Shelley's playfulness when he was in
good spirits, he was once going to town with me in the
Hampstead stage, when our only companion was an old lady,
who sat silent and still after the English fashion.  Shelley
was fond of quoting a passage from Richard the Second, in
the commencement of which the king, in the indulgence of
his misery, exclaims,
" For Heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
Shelley, who had been moved into the ebullition by something
objectionable which he thought he saw in the face of our
companion, startled her into a look of the most ludicrous astonishment, by suddenly calling this passage to mind, and in
his enthusiastic tone of voice, addressing me by name with
the first two lines, " Hunt!" he exclaimed,
"For Heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings."
The old lady looked on the coach-floor, as if expecting to see
us take our seats accordingly.
But here follows a graver and more characteristic anecdote.
Shelley was not only anxious for the good of mankind in
general.  We have seen what he proposed on the subject of
Reform in Parliament, and he was always very desirous of
the national welfare. It was a moot point when he enter



SHELLEY.


33


ed your room, whether he would begin with some half-pleasant, half-pensive joke, or quote something Greek, or ask some
question about public affairs.  He once came upon me at
Hampstead, when I had not seen him for some time; and
after grasping my hands into both his, in his usual fervent
manner, he sat down, and looked at me very earnestly, with
a deep, though not melancholy interest in his face.  We
were sitting 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 speak of
some family matter, either his or my own, when he asked
me, at the close of an intensity of pause, what was " the
amount of the National Debt."
I used to rally him on the apparent inconsequentiality of
his manner upon those occasions, and he was always ready
to carry on the jest, because he said that my laughter did
not hinder my being in earnest.
But here follows a crowning anecdote, into which I shall
close my recollections of him at this period.  We shall meet
him again in Italy, and there, alas! I shall have to relate
events graver still.
I was returning home one night to Hampstead after the
opera.  As I approached the door, I heard strange and
alarming shrieks, mixed with the voice of a man.     The
next day, it was reported by the gossips that Mr. Shelley,
no Christia: (for it was he who was there), had brought,eome ( very strange female" into the house, no better, of
course, than she ought to be.  The real Christian had puzzled them.   Shelley, in coming to our house that night, had
Ibund a woman lying near the top of the hill in fits.  It was
a fierce winter night, with snow upon the ground; and winter
loses nothing of its fierceness at Hampstead.  My friend, always the promptest as well as most pitying on these occasions,
knocked at the first houses he could reach, in order to have
the woman taken in.   The invariable answer, was, that they
could not do it.  He asked for an outhouse to put her in,
while he went for a doctor.  Impossible! In vain he assured
BS




34


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


them that she was no impostor. They would not dispute the
point with him; but doors were closed, and windows were
shut down. Had he lit upon worthy Mr. Park, the philologist, he would assuredly have come, in spite of his Calvinism.
But he lived too far off. Had he lit upon my friend, Armitage Brown, who lived on another side of the heath; or on
his friend and neighbor, Dilke; they would, either of them,
have jumped up from amidst their books or their bed-clothes,
and have gone out with him.   But the paucity of Christians
is astonishing, considering the number of them. Time flies:
the poor woman is in convulsions; her son, a young man,
lamenting over her.  At last my friend sees a carriage driving
up to a house at a little distance.  The knock is given; the
warm door opens; servants and lights pour forth.    Now,
thought he, is the time. He puts on his best address, which
any body might recognize for that of the highest gentleman
as well as of an interesting individual, and plants himself in
the way of an elderly person, who is stepping out of the carriage with his family.  He tells his story.  They only press
on the faster.  " Will you go and see her?"    " No, sir;
there's no necessity for that sort of thing, depend on it.  Impostors swarm every where: the thing can not be done; sir,
your conduct is extraordinary."  " Sir," cried Shelley, assuming a very different manner, and forcing the flourishing
householder to stop out of astonishment, "I am sorry to say
that your conduct is not extraordinary; and if my own seems
to amaze you, I will tell you something which may amaze
you a little more, and I hope will frighten you. It is such
men as you who.madden the spirits and the patience of the
poor and wretched; and if ever a convulsion comes in this
country (which is very probable), recollect what I tell you:
you will have your house, that you refiuse to put the miserable woman into, burnt over your head.", God bless me, sirI
Dear me, sir!" exclaimed the poor frightened man, and flut
tered into his mansion.  The woman was then brought to
our house, which was at some distance, and down a bleak
path; and Shelley and her son were obliged to hold her till
the doctor could arrive.  It appeared that she had been attending this son in London, on a criminal charge made against




SHELLEY.                     35
him, the agitation of which had thrown her into the fits on
her return.  The doctor said that she would have perished,
had she lain there a short time longer. The next day my
friend sent mother and son comfortably home to Hendon,
where they were known, and whence they returned him
thanks full of gratitude.




CHAPTER XVI.


KEATS, LAMVB, AND COLERIDGE.
Charles Cowden Clarke.-Keats and Shelley.-Mr. Monckton Milnes's
Letters and Remains of Keats.-" Other-worldliness. "-Armitage
Brown.-Keats and Lamb.-Wordsworth on Shakspeare.-Milton
dining.-Keats, and Byron.-Keats in Italy.-His death and per-.sonal appearance.-" Foliage."-The Indicator.-Tasso's Aininta.
-Foolish ignorance of business.-Mr. Lockhart.-Personal appearance of Lamb.-Character of his genius.-llisibon-mnots and imaginary notices -of his friends.-Person of Coleridge. -Character of his
genius.-Coleridge and llazlitt.-Coleridge's conversation and daily
habits.
AND now to speak of Keats, who was introduced to me
by his schoolmaster's son, Charles Cowden Clarke, a man
of a most genial. nature, and corresponding poetical taste,
admirably well qualified to nourish the genius of his pupil.
I had not known the young poet long, when Shelley and
he, became acquainted under my roof. Keats did not take
to Shelley as kindly as Shelley did to him.  Shelley's only
thoughts of his new acquaintance, were such as regarded his
bad health, with which he sympathized, and his poetry, of
which he has left such a monument of his admiration in
Adonais.   Keats, being a little too sensitive on the score of
his origin, felt inclined to see in every man of birth a sort
of natural enemy.    Their styles in writing also were very
different; and. Keats, notwithstanding his iinbou~ided sym--
pathies with ordinary flesh and blood, and even the transcendental cosmopolitics of HUyperion, was so far inferior in
universality to his great acquaintance, that he could not
accompany him in his deadal rounds with nature, and his
Archimedean endeavors to move the globe with his own
hands.   I am bound to state thus much; because, hopeless
of recovering his health, under circumstances that made the




KEATS.


37


feeling extremely bitter, an irritable morbidity appears even
to have driven his suspicions to excess; and this not only
with regard to the acquaintance whom he might reasonably
suppose to have had some advantages over him, but to myself, who had none; for I learned the other day, with
extreme pain, such as I am sure so kind and reflecting a
man as Mr. Monckton Milnes would not have inflicted on
me could he have foreseen it, that Keats at one period of his
intercourse with us suspected both Shelley and myself of a
wish to see him undervalued!     Such are the tricks which
constant infelicity can play with the most noble natures.
For Shelley, let Adonais answer.     For myself, let every
word answer which I uttered about him, living and dead,
and such as I now    proceed to repeat.   I might as well
have been told, that I wished to see the flowers or the stars
undervalued, or my own heart that loved him.
But it was sickness, and passed away.     It appears, by
Mr. Milnes's book, that all his friends dissatisfied him in
the course of those trials of his temper; and my friend, Mr.
Milnes (for that distinguished person honors me with his
friendship, and can afford the objection), will allow me to
say, that those Letters and Remains of the young poet were
not among his happiest effusions, nor wanting to supply a
certain force of character to his memory.    That memory
possessed force enough already for those who were qualified
to discern it; and those who were not, hardly deserved to
have their own notions of energy flattered at the poet's expense.  He was already known to have personally chastised
a blackguard, and to have been the author of Hyperion;
" That large utterance of the early gods."
What more could have been necessary to balance the trembling excess of sensibility in his earlier poems?  The world
has few enough incarnations of poets themselves in Arcadian
shapes, to render necessary any deterioration of such as it
has the luck to possess.
But perhaps my own personal feelings induce me to carry
this matter too far.  In the publication alluded to is a contemptuous reference (not by Mr. Milnes) to a paper in the




3 3


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Examniner on the season of Christmas.  I turned to it with
new feelings of anxiety; and there, besides finding no warrant for such reference (unless a certain tone of self-complacency, so often regretted in this autobiography, can have
justified it), I had the good fortune to be compensated with
discovering a phrase, which reminded me of one of the most
consolatory passages of my life.  I hope I am not giving
fresh instance of a weakness which I suppose myself to have
out-grown; much less appropriating an invention which does
not belong to me; but an accomplished authoress one day
(Mrs. Jameson), at the table of my friend Barry Cornwall,
quoted the term ( other-worldliness" from Coleridge.  I said
Coleridge was rich enough not to need the transferrence to
him  of other men's property; and that I felt so much
honored by the supposition in this instance, that I could not
help claiming the word as my own.   If Coleridge, indeed,
used it before me, I can only say that I was not aware of
it, and that my own reflections, very much accustomed to
that side of speculation, would have suggested an identical
thought.  And I should be glad if any reader would tell me
in what part of his writings it is to be found.
Now, one of my reasons for alluding to this circumstance
is, that a stranger once came up to me in company, and
said he had to thank me for a great benefit done him by a
single word in one of my papers.  I inquired, with no little
interest, what it was; and 'he said it was the word in
question; probably in the passage just quoted.  He told me
it had relieved him, by one flash of light, from a long load
of mistake and melancholy; for it had shown him the real
character of those aspirations after heaven in a certain class
of minds (his teachers), which are as grossly self-seeking as
the earthliest, and even set it up as a merit and a sanctification.
Keats appears to have been of opinion, that I ought to
have taken more notice of what the critics said against him.
And perhaps I ought.   My notices of them may not have
been sufficient.  I may have too much contented myself
with panegyrizing his genius, and thinking the objections to
it of no ultimate importance.  Had he given me a hint to




KEATS


39


another effect, I should have acted upon it.  But in truth,
as I have before intimated, I did not see a twentieth part of
what was said against us; nor had I the slightest notion,
at that period, that he took criticism so much to heart.  I
was in the habit, though a public man, of living in a world
of abstractions of my own; and I regarded him as of a nature
still more abstracted, and sure of renown.  Though I was a
politician (so to speak), I had scarcely a political work in
my library.    Spensers and Arabian Tales filled up the
shelves; and Spenser himself was not remoter, in my eyes,
from all the commonplaces of life than my new friend.  Our
whole talk was made up of idealisms.    In the streets we
were in the thick of the old woods.  I little suspected, as I
did afterward, that the hunters had struck him; and never
at any time did I suspect, that he could have imagined it
desired by his friends.  Let me quit the subject of so afflicting a delusion.
In every thing but this reserve, which was to a certain
extent encouraged by my own incuriousness (for I have no
reserve myself with those whom   I love)-in every -other
respect but this, Keats and I might have been taken for
friends of the old stamp, between whom there was no such
thing even as obligation, except the pleasure of it.  I could
not love him as deeply as I did Shelley.  That, was impossible. But my affection was only second to the one which
I entertained for that heart of hearts.  Keats, like Shelley
himself, enjoyed the usual privilege of greatness with all
whom he knew, rendering it delightful to be obliged by him,
and an equal, but not greater, delight to oblige.  It was a
pleasure to his friends to have him in their houses, and he
did not grudge it.  When Endymion was published, he was
living at Hampstead with, his friend, Charles Armitage
Brown, who attended him most affectionately through a
severe illness, and with whom, to their great mutual enjoyment, he had taken a journey into Scotland.    The lakes
and mountains of the north delighted him exceedingly.  He
beheld them with an epic eye.    Afterward, he went into
the south, and luxuriated in the Isle of Wight.  On Brown's
leaving home a second time, to visit the same quarter, Keats,




40


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


who was too ill to accompany him, came to reside with me,
when his last and best volume of poems appeared, containing Larmia, Isabella, the Eve of St. Agnes and the noble
fragment of Hyperion.     I remember Lamb's delight and
admiration on reading this book; how pleased he was with
the designation of Mercury as "c the star of Lethe" (rising
as it were, and glittering as he came upon that pale region);
and the fine daring anticipation in that passage of the second
poem,
" So the two brothers and their murdered man
Rode past fair Florence."
So also the description, at once delicate and gorgeous, of
Agnes praying beneath the painted window. The public
are now well acquainted with those and other passages, for
which Persian kings would have filled a poet's mouth with
gold. I remember Keats reading to me with great relish
and particularity, conscious of what he had set forth, the
lines describing the supper, and ending with the words,
" Lucent syrops tinct with cinnamon."
Mr. Wordsworth would have said that the vowels were not
varied enough; but Keats knew where his vowels were not
to be varied.   On the occasion above alluded to, Wordsworth found fault with the repetition of the concluding sound
of the participles in Shakspeare's line about bees
" The singing masons building roofs of gold."
This he said,, was a line which Milton would never have
written.   Keats thought, on the other hand, that the repetition was in harmony with the continued note of the singers,
and that Shakspeare's negligence (if negligence it was) had
instinctively felt the thing in the best manner.  The assertion about Milton is startling, considering the tendency of
that great poet to subject his nature to art; yet I have
dipped, while writing this, into Paradise Lost, and at the
second chance have lit on the following:
" The gray
Dawn, and the Pleiades before him danced,
Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon,
But opposite, in levelled west, was set
His mirror, with full force borrowing her light."




KEATS.


41


The repetition of the e in the fourth line is an extreme
case in point, being monotonous in order to express oneness
and evenness. Milton would have relished the supper, which
his young successor, like a page for him, has set forth.  It
was Keats who observed to me, that Milton, in various parts
of his writings, has shown himself a bit of an epicure, and
loves to talk of good eating.  That he was choice in his food,
and set store by a good cook, there is curious evidence to be
found in the proving of his Will; by which it appears, that
dining one day <' in the kitchen," he complimented Mrs.
Milton, by the appropriate title of " Betty," on the dish she
had set before him; adding, as if he could not pay her too
well for it, "4 Thou knowest I have left thee all."  Henceforth let a kitchen be illustrious,, should a gentleman choose
to take a cutlet in it.  But houses and their customs were
different in those days.
Keats had felt that his disease was mortal, two or three
years before he died.  He had a constitutional tendency to
consumption; a close attendance on the death-bed of a beloved brother, when he ought to have been nursing himself
in bed, gave it a blow which he felt for months. Despairing love (that is to say, despairing of living to enjoy it, for
the love was returned) added its hourly torment; and,
meanwhile, the hostile critics came up, and roused an indignation in him, both against them and himself, which on so
many accounts he could ill afford to endure.
When I was in Italy, Lord Byron showed me in manuscript the well-known passage in Don Juan, in which
Keats's death is attributed to the Quarterly Review; the
couplet about the " fiery particle," that was "snuffed out by
an article."  I told him the real state of the case, proving
to him that the supposition was a mistake, and therefore, if
printed, would be a misrepresentation.  But a stroke of wit
was not to be given up.
Seeing him once change countenance in a manner more
alarming than usual, as he stood silently eying the country
out of window, I pressed him to let me know how he
felt, in order that he might enable me to do what I could
for him; upon which he said, that his feelings were almost




42


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


more than he could bear, and that he feared for his senses.
I proposed that we should take a coach, and ride about the
country together, to vary, if possible, the immediate impression, which was sometimes all that was formidable, and would
come to nothing.  He acqaiesced, and was restored to himself.  It was, nevertheless, on the same day, that sitting on
the bench in Well Walk, at Hampstead, nearest the Heath,*
that he told me, with unaccustomed tears in his eyes, that
" his heart was breaking."  A doubt, however, was upon
him at the time, which he afterward had reason to know
was groundless; and during his residence at the last house
which he occupied before he went abroad, he was at times
more than tranquil.  At length, he was persuaded by his
friends to try the milder climate of Italy.  He thought it
better for others as well as himself, that he should go.  He
was accompanied by Mr. Severn, then a young artist of a
promise equal to his subsequent repute, and who possessed
all that could recommend him for a companion-old acquaintanceship, great animal spirits, active tenderness, and a
mind capable of appreciating that of the poet.  They went
first to Naples, and afterward to Rome; where, on the 27th
of December 1820, our author died in the arms of his friend,
completely worn out, and longing for the release.  He suffered so much in his lingering, that he used to watch the
countenance of the physician for the favorable and fatal sentence, and express his regret when he found it delayed.  Yet
no impatience escaped him.  He was manly and gentle to
the last, and grateful for all services.  A little before he
died, he said that he " felt the daisies growing over him."
But he made a still more touching remark respecting his
epitaph.  " If any," he said, " were put over him, he wished
it to consist of nothing but these words: 'Here lies one
whose name was writ in water:' " so little did he think of
the more than promise he had given; of the fine and lasting things he had added to the stock of poetry.  The physicians expressed their astonishment that he had held out so
long, the lungs turning out, on inspection, to have been
almost obliterated.  They said he must have lived upon the
* The one against the wall.




KEATS,


43


mere strength of the spirit within him. He was interred
in the English burying-ground at Rome, near the monument
of Caius Cestius, where his great mourner, Shelley, was
shortly to join him.
Keats, when he died, had just completed his four-andtwentieth year. He was under the middle height; and his
lower limbs were small in comparison with the upper, but
neat and well turned. His shoulders were very broad for
his size: he had a face in which energy and sensibility were
remarkably mixed up; an eager power, checked and made
patient by ill health.  Every feature was at once strongly
cut, and delicately alive.  If there was any faulty expression it was in the mouth, which was not without something
of a character of pugnacity. The face was rather long than
otherwise; the upper lip projected a little over the under;
the chin was bold, the cheeks sunken; the eyes mellow and
glowing; large, dark, and sensitive. At the recital of a
noble action, or a beautiful thought, they would suffuse with
tears, and his mouth trembled.  In this, there was ill health
as well as imagination, for he did not like these betrayals
of emotion; and he had great personal as well as moral
courage.  He once chastised a butcher, who had been insolent, by a regular stand-up fight. His hair, of a brown color,
was fine, and hung in natural ringlets.  The head was a
puzzle for the phrenologists, being remarkably small in the
skull; a singularity which he had in common with Byron
and Shelley, whose hats I could not get on.   Keats was
sensible of the disproportion above noticed, between his upper
and lower extremities; and he would look at his hand,
which was faded, and swollen in the veins, and say it was
the hand of a man of fifty.  He was a seven month's child.
His mother, who was, a lively woman, passionately fond of
amusement, is supposed to have hastened her death by too
great an inattention to hours and seasons.  Perhaps she
hastened that of her son. His father died of a fall from his
horse in the year 1804.
I have endeavored in another publication,* to characterize the poetry of Keats, both in its merits and defects.  It
* Imagination and Fancy, p. 312.




44


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


is not necessary to repeat them  here.- The public have
made up their minds on the subject; and such of his first
opponents as were men of genius themselves, but suffered
their perceptions to be obscured by political prejudice (as
who has not in such times?) have long agreed with, or anticipated the verdict. Sir Walter Scott confessed to Mr. Severn at Rome, that the truth respecting Keats had prevailed; and it would have been strange, indeed, when the heat
of the battle was over, had not Christopher North stretched
out his large and warm hand to his memory.  Times arrive
under the hallowing influences of thought and trouble, when
genius is as sure to acknowledge genius, as it is to feel its
own wants, and to be willing to share its glory.  A man's
eyes, the manlier they are, perceive at last, that there is
nothing nobler in them than their tears.
It was during my intimacy with Keats that I published a hasty set of miscellaneous poems, under the title of
Foliage, and wrote the set of essays that have since become
popular-under that of the Indicator.  About this time also,
I translated the Aminta of Tasso, a poem (be it said with
the leave of so great a name) hardly worth the trouble,
though the prologue is a charming presentment of love in
masquerade, and the Ode on the Golden Age a sigh out of
the honestest part of the heart of humanity.  But I translated it to enable me to meet some demands, occasioned by
the falling off in the receipts of the Examiner, now declining under the twofold vicissitudes of triumphant ascendency
in the Tories, and the desertion of reform by the Whigs.
The Indicator assisted me still more, though it was but published in a corner, owing to my want of funds for advertising
it, and my ignorance of the best mode of circulating such
things: an ignorance so profound, that I was not even
aware of its very self; for I had never attended, not only
to the business part of the Examiner, but to the simplest
money-matter that stared at me on the face of it.  I could
never tell any body who asked me, what was the price of its
stamp!
Do I boast of this ignorance?  Alas! I have no such
respect for the pedantry of absurdity as that.  I blush for




THE "INDICATOR."


45


it; and I only record it out of a sheer painful movement of
conscience, as a warning to those young authors who might
be led to look upon such folly as a fine thing; which at all
events is what I never thought it myself. I did not think
about it at all, except to avoid the thought; and I only wish
that the strangest accidents of education, and the most inconsiderate habit of taking books for the only ends of life, had
not conspired to make me so ridiculous.  I am feeling the
consequences at this moment, in pangs which I can not
explain, and which I may not live long enough, perhaps, to
escape.
Let me console myself a little by remembering how much
Hazlitt and Lamb, and others, were pleased with the Indicator.  I speak most of them, because they talked most
to me about it.  Hazlitt's favorite paper (for they liked it
enough to have favorite papers) was the one on Sleep; perhaps because there is a picture in it of a sleeping despot;
though he repeated, with more enthusiasm than he was
accustomed to do, the conclusion about the parent and the
bride. Lamb preferred the paper on Coaches and their
Horses, that on the Deaths of Little Children and (I think),
the one entitled Thoughts and Guesses on Human Nature.
Shelley took to the story of the Fair Revenge; and the
paper that was most liked by Keats, if I remember, was the
one on a hot summer's day, entitled A Now.  He was with
me while I was writing and reading it to him, and contributed one or two of the passages.  Keats first published
in the Indicator his beautiful poem La Belle Dame sans
Mercy, and the Dream after reading Dante's Episode oJ
Paulo and Francesca. Lord Holland, I was told, had a
regard for the portraits of the Old Lady and the Old Gentleman, &c., which had appeared in the Examiner; and a
late gallant captain in the navy was pleased to wonder how
I became so well acquainted with seamen (in the article
entitled Seamen on Shore).  They had" sat to me" for their
portraits.  The common sailor Was a son of my nurse at
school, and the officer a connection of my own by marriage.
One of my pleasantest recollections of the Indicator is
associated with one of my quondam critical enemies--one




46


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


indeed, who had the greatest right to be such, for he was a
connection of Sir Walter Scott.  I never inquired what particular part he took in his hostility.  I never, in fact, made
the inquiry respecting any body; and there is an excellent
old Scottish saying, "< Let bygones be bygones."  I allude to
the author of Valerius.  Mr. Clowes, Jun., told me, that
Mr. Lockhart happening to see the Indicator lying one day
in his father's office, stood reading in it a little, and then
said (either to his father or himself), " There is good matter in this book, Mr. Clowes." The young printer, in his
right gentleman's spirit, was good enough to make me acquainted with this circumstance; and I hope it may be as
pleasant to Mr. Lockhart to see, as it is to me to record it.
Let me take this opportunity of recording my recollections
in general of my friend Lamb; of all the world's friend,
particularly of his oldest friends, Coleridge and Southey; for
I think he never modified or withheld any opinion (in private
or bookwards) except in consideration of what he thought
they might not like.
Charles Lamb had a head worthy of Aristotle, with as
fine a heart as ever beat in human bosom, and limbs very
fragile to sustain it. There was a caricature of him sold in
the shops, which pretended to be a likeness.  Proctor 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 offense.  There never was
a true portrait of Lamb.   His features were strongly yet
delicately cut: he had a fine eye as well as forehead; and
no face carried in it greater marks of thought and feeling.
It resembled that of Bacon, with less worldly vigor and
more sensibility.
As his frame, so was his genius. It was as fit for thought
as could be, and equally as unfit for action; and this rendered him melancholy, apprehensive, humorous, and willing to
make the best of every thing as it was, both from tenderness
of heart and abhorrence of alteration.  His understanding
was too great to admit an absurdity: his frame was not
strong enough to deliver it from a fear.  His sensibility to
strong contrasts was the foundation of his humor, which was




CHARLES LAMB.


47


that of a wit at once melancholy and willing to be pleased.
He would beard a superstition, and shudder at the old phantasm. while he did it. One could have imagined him cracking a jest in the teeth of a ghost, and then melting into thin
air himself, out of a sympathy with the awful.  His humor
and-his knowledge both, were those of Hamlet, of Moliere,
of Carlin, who shook a city with laughter, and, in order to
divert his melancholy, was recommended to go and hear
himself.  Yet he extracted a real pleasure out of his jokes,
because good-heartedness retains that privilege when it fails
in every thing else.  I should say he condescended to be a
punster, if condescension had been a word befitting wisdom
like his..Being told" that somebody had lampooned him, he
said, " Very well, I'll Lamb-pun him."    His puns were
admirable, and often contained as deep things as the wisdom
of some who have greater names; such a man, for instance, as
Nicole the Frenchman, who 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 Englishmen would have understood
him still better. He would have been worthy of hearing
Shakspeare read one of his scenes to him, hot from the brain.
Commonplace found a great comforter in him, as long as it
was good-natured; it was to the ill-natured or the dictatorial
only that he was stariling.  Willing to see society go on as
it did, because he despaired of seeing it otherwise, but not
at all agreeing in his interior with the common notions of
crime and punishment, he c dumb-foundered" 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 indiscreetly opposing his character to that of Jesus Christ, he
said admirably well (though he by no means overrated Voltaire, nor wanted reverence in the other quarter), that " Voltaire was a very good Jesus Christ for the French." He
liked to see the church-goers continue to go to church, and
wrote a tale in his sister's admirable little book (Mrs. Leicester's School) to encourage the rising generation to do so;




48


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


but to a conscientious deist he had nothing to object; and if
an atheist had found every other door shut against him, he
would assuredly not have found his. I believe he would have
had the world remain precisely as it was, provided it innovated
no farther; but this spirit in him was any thing but a worldly
one, or for his own interest.  He hardly contemplated with
patience the new buildings in the Regent's Park: and, privately speaking, he had a grudge against official heavenexpounders, or clergymen. He would rather, however, have
been with a crowd that he disliked, than felt himself alone.
He said to me one day, with a face of great solemnity,
i( What must have been that man's feelings, who thought
himself the first deist?"  Finding no footing in certainty,
he delighted to confound the borders of theoretical truth and
'falsehood.  He was fond of telling wild stories to children,
engrafted on things about them; wrote letters to people
abroad, telling them that a friend of theirs had come out in
genteel comedy; and persuaded George Dyer that Lord
Castlereagh was the author of Waverley! The same excellent person walking one evening out of his friend's house
into the New River, Lamb (who was from home at the time)
wrote a paper under his signature of Elia, stating, that common friends would.have stood dallying on the bank, have
sent for neighbors, &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 by-painting.  Munden he made born at Stoke Pogeis;"
the very sound of which was like the actor speaking and
digging his. words.  He knew 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 somo
body was speaking of a person who valued himself on being
a matter-of-fact man, " Now," said he, " I value myself on
being a matter-of-lie man."  This did not hinder his being a
man of the greatest veracity, in the ordinary sense of the
word; but " truth," he said, " was precious, and not to be




COLERIDGE.


49


wasted on every body."   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, i" M.,
if dirt were trumps, what hands you would hold."
Lamb had seen strange faces of calamity; but they did
not make him love those of his fellow-creatures the less.
Few persons guessed what he had suffered in the course of
his life, till his friend Talfourd wrote an account of it, and
showed the hapless warping that disease had given to the
fine brain of his sister.
I will append to this account of Lamb, though I had not
the good fortune to know much of him personally, my impression respecting his friend Coleridge.
Coleridge was as little fitted for action as Lamb, but on
a different account.  His person was of a good height, but
as sluggish and solid as the other's was light and fragile.
He had, perhaps, suffered it to look old before its time, for
want of exercise. His hair was white at fifty; and as he
generally dressed in black, and had a very tranquil demeanor, his appearance was gentlemanly, and for several years
before his death was reverend. Nevertheless, there was
something invincibly young in the look of his face. It was
round and fresh-colored, with agreeable features, and an open,
indolent, good-natured mouth. This boy-like expression was
very becoming in one who dreamed and speculated as he did
when he was really a boy, and who passed his life apart from
the rest of the world, with a book, and his flowers. His
forehead was prodigious-a great piece of placid marble; and
his fine eyes, in which all the activity of his mind seemed
to concentrate, moved under it with a sprightly ease, as if it
was pastime to them to carry all that thought.
And it was pastime. Hazlitt said, that Coleridge's genius appeared to him like a spirit all head and wings, eternally floating about in etherealities.  He gave me a different
VOL. II.-C




50               LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.
impression. I fancied him a good-natured wizard, very
fond of earth, and conscious of reposing with weight enough
in his easy chair, but able to conjure his etherealities about
him in the twinkling of an eye.  He could also change them
by thousands, and dismiss them as easily when his dinner
came. It was a mighty intellect put upon a sensual body;
and the reason why he did little more with it than talk and
dream was, that it is agreeable to such a body to do little
else. I do not mean that Coleridge was a sensualist in an
ill sense.  He was capable of too many innocent pleasures,
to take any pleasure in the way that a man of the world
would take it. The idlest things he did would have had a
warrant. But if all the senses, in their time, did not find
lodging in that humane plenitude of his, never believe that
they did in Thomson or in Boccaccio. Two affirmatives in
him made a negative. He was very metaphysical and very
corporeal; so in mooting every thing, he said (so to speak)
nothing.  His brains pleaded all sorts of questions before
him, and he heard them with so much impartiality (his
spleen not giving him any trouble) that he thought he might
as well sit in his easy chair and hear them forever, without
coming to a conclusion.  It has been said (indeed, he said
himself) that he took opium to deaden the sharpness of his
cogitations.  I will venture to affirm, that if he ever took
any thing to deaden a sensation within him, it was for no
greater or more marvelous reason than other people take it;
which is, because they do not take enough exercise, and so
plague their heads with their livers. Opium, perhaps, might
have settled an uneasiness of this sort in Coleridge, as it did
in a much less man with a much greater body-the Shadwell of Dryden. He would then resume his natural ease,
and sit, and be happy, till the want of exercise must be
again supplied. The vanity of criticism, like all other vanities, except that of dress (which, so far, has an involuntary
philosophy in it, is always forgetting that we are half made
up of body. Hazlitt was angry with Coleridge for not
being as zealous in behalf of progress as he used to be when
young.  I was sorry for it too; and if other men as well as
Hazlitt had not kept me in heart, should have feared that




COLERIDGE.


51


the world was destined to be forever lost, for want either of
perseverance or calmness. But Coleridge had less right to
begin his zeal in favor of liberty, than he had to leave it
off. He should have bethought himself, first, whether he
had the courage not to get fat.
As to the charge against him, of eternally probing the
depths of his own mind, and trying what he could make of
them beyond the ordinary pale of logic and philosophy, surely there was no harm in a man taking this new sort of experiment upon him, whatever little chance there may have
been of his doing any thing with it. Coleridge, after all,
was but one man, though an extraordinary man; his faculties inclined him to the task, and were suitable to it; and
it is impossible to say what new worlds may be laid open
some day or other, by this apparently hopeless process.  The
fault of Coleridge, like that of all thinkers indisposed to
action, was, that he was too content with things as they
were-at least, too fond of thinking that old corruptions
were full of good things, if the world did but understand
them.
Now, here was the dilemma; for it required an understanding like his own to refine upon and turn them to good as he
might do; and what the world requires is not metaphysical
refinement, but a hearty use of good sense. Coleridge, indeed,
could refine his meaning so as to accommodate it with great
good-nature to every one that came across him; and, doubtless, he found more agreement of intention among people of
different opinions, than they themselves were aware of; which
it was good to let them see.  But when not enchained by
his harmony, they fell asunder again, or went and committed the greatest absurdities for want of the subtle connecting
tie; as was seen in the books of Mr. Irving, who, eloquent
in one page, and reasoning in a manner that a child ought
to be ashamed of in the next, thought to avail himself, in
times like these, of the old menacing tones of damnation,
without being thought a quack or an idiot, purely because
Coleridge had shown him, last Friday, that damnation was
not what its preachers took it for. With the same subtlety
and good-nature of interpretation, Coleridge would persuade




52


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


a deist that he was a Christian, and an atheist that he be.
lieved in God; all which would be very good, if the world
could get on by it, and not remain stationary; but, meanwhile, millions are wretched with having too little to eat,
and thousands with having too much; and these subtleties
are like people talking in their sleep, when they should be
up and helping.
However, if the world is to remain always as it is, give
me to all eternity new talk of Coleridge, and new essays of
Charles Lamb. They will reconcile it beyond all others;
and that is much.
Coleridge was fat, and began to lament, in very delightful verses, that he was getting infirm.  There was no old
age in his verses. I heard him one day, under the Grove
at Highgate, repeat one of his melodious lamentations, as he
walked up and down, his voice undulating in a stream  of
music, and his regrets of youth sparkling with visions ever
young. At the same time, he did me the honor to show
me that he did not think so ill of all modern liberalism as
some might suppose, denouncing the pretensions of the
money-getting in *a style which I should hardly venture
upon, and never could equal; and asking with a triumphant
eloquence, what chastity itself were worth, if it were a casket, not to keep love in, but hate, and strife, and worldliness?  On the same occasion, he built up a metaphor out
of a flower, in a style surpassing the famous passage in Milton; deducing it from its root in religious mystery, and carrying it up into the bright, consummate flower, ( the bridal
chamber of reproductiveness." Of all " the Muse's mysteries," he was as great a high priest as Spenser; and Spenser himself might have gone to Highgate to hear him talk,
and thank him for his "t Ancient Mariner." His voice did
not always sound very sincere; but perhaps the humble and
deprecating tone of it, on those occasions, was out of consideration for the infirmities of his hearers rather than produced
by his own.  He recited his "( Kubla Khan," one morning
to Lord Byron, in his lordship's house in Piccadilly, when I
happened to be in another.room.  I remember the other's
coming away from him, highly struck with his poem, and




COLERIDGE.


53


saying how wonderfully he talked. This was the impression of every body who heard him.
It is no secret that Coleridge lived in the Grove at Highgate with a friendly family, who had sense and kindness
enough to know that they did themselves honor by looking
after the comforts of such a man. His room looked upon 'a
delicious prospect of wood and meadow, with colored gardens
under the window, like an embroidery to the mantle.' I
thought, when I first saw it, that he had taken up his
dwelling-place like an abbot.   Here he cultivated his flowers, and had a set of birds for his pensioners, who came to
breakfast with him. He might have been seen taking his
daily stroll up and down, with his black coat and white
locks, and a book in his hand; and was a great acquaintance of the little children. His main occupation, I believe,
was reading. He loved to read old folios, and to make old
voyages with Purchas and Marco Polo; the seas being in
good visionary condition, and the vessel well stocked with
botargoes.*
* For a more critical summary of my opinions respecting Coleridge's
poetry (which I take upon the whole to have been the finest of its time;
that is to say, the most quintessential, the most purely emanating from
imaginative feeling, unadulterated by "thoughts" and manner), the
reader may, if he pleases, consult Imagination and Fancy, p. 276.




CHAPTER XVII.


VOYAGE TO ITALY.
Reasons of the author's voyage to Italy.-Desiderata in accounts of
voyagers.-Gunpowder.-Setting off.-Noisy navigation of small
vessels.-Cabin and berths.-Sea-captains.-Deal pilots and boatmen.-Putting in at Ramsgate.-Condorcet's "Progress of Society."
-A French vessel and its occupants.-Setting off again.-Memorable stormy season.-Character of the captain and mate.-Luigi
Rivarola.-Notices of the sailors.-Watching at night.-Discomforts of sea in winter.-A drunken cook.-A goat and ducks.Hypochondria.-Dullness and superstition of sailors.-A gale of
fifty-six hours.
IT was not at Hampstead that I first saw Keats.  It was
in York-buildings in the New-road (No. 8), where I wrote
part of the Indicator; and he resided with me while in
Mortimer-terrace, Kentish-town (No. 13), where I concluded
it. I mention this for the curious in such things; among
whom I am one.
I proceed to hasten over the declining fortunes of the
Examiner. Politics different from ours were triumphing
all over Europe; public sympathy (not the most honorable
circumstance of its character) is apt to be too much qualified
by fortune.  Shelley, who had been for some time in Italy,
had often invited me abroad; and I had as repeatedly
declined going, for the reason stated in my account of him.
That reason was done away by a proposal from Lord Byron
to go and set up a liberal periodical publication in conjunction with them both.   I was ill; it was thought by many
I could not live; my wife was very ill too; my family was
numerous; and it was agreed by my brother John, that
while a struggle was made in England to reanimate the
Examiner, a simultaneous endeavor should be made in Italy
to secure new aid to our prospects, and new friends to the




VOYAGE TO ITALY.


55


cause of liberty. MVy family, therefore, packed up such goods
and chattels as they had a regard for, my books in particular, and we took, with strange new thoughts and feelings,
but in high expectation, our journey by sea.
It was not very discreet to go many hundred miles by
sea in winter-time with a large family; but a voyage was
thought cheaper than a journey by land. Even that, however, was a mistake. It was by Shelley's advice that I
acted: and, I believe, if he had recommended a balloon, 1
should have been inclined to try it. " Put your music and
your books on board a vessel" (it was thus that he wrote
to us), " and you will have no more trouble."  The sea was
to him a pastime; he fancied us bounding over the waters,
the merrier for being tossed; and thought that our will
would carry us through any thing, as it ought to do, seeing
that we brought with us nothing but good things-books,
music, and sociality.  It is true, he looked to our coming
in autumn, and not in winter; and so we should have done,
but for the delays of the captain.  We engaged to embark
in September, and did not set off till November the 16th.
I have often thought that a sea-voyage, which is generally the dullest thing in the world, both in experiment and
the description, might be turned to different account on paper,
if the narrators, instead of imitating the dullness of their predecessors, and recording that it was four o'clock P.m. when
they passed Cape St. Vincent, and that on such-and-such-a
day they beheld a porpoise or a Dutchman, would look into
the interior of the floating-house they inhabited, and tell us
about the seamen and their modes of living; what adventures they have had---their characters and opinions, how
they eat, drink, and sleep, &c.; what they do in fine
weather, and how they endure the sharpness, the squalidness, and inconceivable misery of bad. With a large family
around me to occupy my mind, I did not think of this till
too late: but I am sure that this mode of treating the
subject would be interesting; and what I remember to such
purpose, I will set down.
Our vessel wps a small brig of a hundred and twenty
tons burden, a good tight sea-boat, nothing more. Its cargo




56


LIIE OP LEIGH HUNT.


consisted of sugar; but it took in also a surreptitious stock
of gunpowder, to the amount of fifty barrels, which was destined for Greece.  Of this intention we knew nothing, till
the barrels were sent on board from a place up the river
otherwise, so touchy a companion would have been objectec
to, my wife, who was in a shattered state of health, nevel
ceasing to entertain apprehensions on account of it, except
when the storms that came upon us presented a more obvious peril. There were nine men to the crew, including
the mate. We numbered as many souls, though with
smaller bodies, in the cabin, which we had entirely to ourselves; as well we might, for it was small enough.
On the afternoon of the 15th of November (1821), we
took leave of some friends, who accompanied us on board;
and next morning were awakened by the motion of the
vessel, making its way through the shipping in the river.
The new life in which we thus, as it were, found ourselves
inclosed, the clanking of iron, and the cheerly cries of the
seamen, together with the natural vivacity of the. time of
day, presented something animatiing to our feelings; but
while we thus moved off, not without encouragement, we
felt that the friend whom we were going to see was at a
great distance, while others were very near, whose hands it
would be a long while before we should touch again, perhaps
never.  We hastened to get up and busy ourselves; and
great as well as small found a novel diversion in the spectacle that presented itself from the deck, our vessel threading
its way through the others with gliding bulk.
The next day it blew strong from the southeast, and
even in the river (the navigation of which is not easy) we
had a foretaste of the alarms and bad weather that awaited
us at sea.  The pilot, whom we had taken in over-night,
(and who was a jovial fellow with a whistle like a blackbird, which, in spite of the dislike that sailors have to whistling, he was always indulging), thought it prudent to remain at anchor till two in the afternoon; and at six, a
vessel meeting us carried away the jib-boom, and broke in
one of the bulwarks.  My wife, who had had a respite from
the most alarming part of her illness, and whom it was sup



CAPTAIN AND CABINS OF SMALL SHIPS.


57


posed that a sea-voyage, even in winter, might benefit, again
expectorated blood with the fright; and I began to regret
that I had brought my family into this trouble.  Even in
the river we had a foretaste of the sea; and the curse of
being at sea to a landman is, that you know nothing of what
is going forward, and can take no active part in getting rid
of your fears.  You can not "lend a hand."  The business
of these small vessels is not carried on.with the orderliness
and tranquillity of greater ones, or of men-of-war. The crew
are not very wise; the captain does not know how to make
them so; the storm roars; the vessel pitches and reels; the
captain, over your head, stamps and swears, and announces
all sorts of catastrophes.  Think of a family hearing all this,
and parents in alarm for their children!
On Monday, the 19th, we passed the Nore, and proceeded
down Channel amidst rains and squalls.   We were now
out at sea; and a rough taste we had of it.  I had been
three times in the Channel before, once in hard weather;
but I was then a bachelor, and had only myself to think of.
Let the reader picture to his imagination the little backparlor of one of the shops in Fleet-street or the Strand, attached or let into a great moving vehicle, and tumbling
about the waves from   side to side, now sending all the
things that are loose this way, and now that.  This will
give him an idea of a cabin at sea, such as we occupied.
It had a table fastened down in the middle; places let into
the walls on each side, one over the other, to hold beds: a
short, wide, sloping window, carried off over a bulk, and
looking out to sea; a bench, or locker, running under the
bulk from one side of the cabin to the other; and a little
fireplace opposite, in which it was impossible to keep a fire
on account of the wind. The weather, at the same time,
was bitterly cold, as well as wet.  On one side of the fireplace was the door, and on the other a door leading into a
petty closet dignified with the title -of the state-room.  In
this room we put our servant, the captain sleeping in another
closet outside. The berths were occupied by the children,
and my wife and myself lay, as long as we could manage to
do so, on the floor.  Such was the trim, with boisterous wet
c*




58


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


weather, cold days, and long evenings, on which we set out
on our sea-adventure.
At six o'clock in the evening of the 19th, we came to in
the Downs, on a line. with Sandown Castle. The wind
during the night increasing to a gale, the vessel pitched and
labored considerably; and the whole of the next day it blew
a strong gale, with hard squalls from the westward.  The
day after, the weather continuing bad, the captain thought
proper to run for Ramsgate, and took a pilot for that purpose.
Captains of vessels are very unwilling to put into
harbor, on' account of the payment they have to make, and
the necessity of supporting the crew for nothing while they
remain.  Many vessels are lost on this account; and a wonder is naturally expressed, that men can persist in putting
their lives into jeopardy, in order to save a few pounds.
But when we come to know what a seaman's life is, we see
that nothing but the strongest love of gain could induce a
man to take to such a mode of existence; and he is naturally
anxious to save what he looks upon as the only tangible
proof that he is not the greatest fool in existence.  His life,
he thinks, is in God's keeping; but his money is in his own.
To be sure, a captain who has been to sea fifty times, and
has got rich by it, will go again, storms or vows to the contrary notwithstanding; for he does not know what to do
with himself on shore; but unless he had the hope of adding
to his stock, he would blunder into some other way of business, rather than go, as he would think, for nothing. Occupation is his real necessity, as it is that of other moneygetters; but the mode of it, without the visible advantage,
he would assuredly give up. I never met with a seaman
(and I have put the question to several) who did not own to
me that he hated his profession. One of them, a brave and
rough subject, told me that there was not a "pickle" of a
midshipman, not absolutely a fool, who would not confess
that he had rather eschew a second voyage, if he had but
the courage to make the avowal.
I know not what the Deal pilot, whom we took on board
in the Downs, thought upon this point.  If ever there was




DEAL PILOTS.


59


a bold fellow, it was he; and yet he could eye a squall
with a grave look. I speak not so much from what he had
to do on the present occasion, though it was a nice business
to get us into Ramsgate harbor; but he had the habit of
courage in his face, and was altogether one of the most interesting-looking persons I have seen.
The Deal boatmen are a well-known race; reverenced
for their matchless intrepidity, and the lives they have saved.
Two of them came on board the day before, giving opinions
of the weather, which the captain was loth to take, and at
the same time insinuating some little contraband notions,
which he took better.  I thought how little these notions
injured the fine manly cast of their countenances, than which
nothing could be more self-possessed and even innocent.
They seemed to understand the first principles of the thing,
without the necessity of inquiring into it; their useful and
noble lives standing them in stead of the pettier ties and
sophisms of the interested.
Our pilot was a prince, even of his race. He was a tall
man, in a kind of frock-coat, thin but powerful, with high
features, and an expression of countenance fit for an Argonaut.
When he took the rudder in hand, and stood alone, guiding
the vessel toward the harbor, the crew being all busied at a
distance from him, and the captain, as usual, at his direction,
he happened to put himself into an attitude the most graceful as well as commanding; and a new squall coming up in
the horizon, just as we were going to turn in, he gave it a
look of lofty sullenness-threat, as it were, for threatwhich was the most magnificent aspect of resolution I ever
beheld. Experience and valor assumed their rights, and put
themselves on a par with danger.   In we turned, to the
admiration of the spectators who had come down to the
pier, and to the satisfaction of all on board, except the poor
captain, who, though it was his own doing, seemed, while
gallantly congratulating the lady, to be eying, with sidelong
pathos, the money that was departing from him.
We stopped for a change of weather nearly three weeks
at Ramsgate, where we had visits from more than one London friend, to whom I only wish we could give a tenth part




0o               LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.
of the consolation when they are in trouble, which they
afforded to us.  At Ramsgate I picked up Condorcet's View
of the Progress of Society, which I read with a transport
of gratitude to the author, though it had not entered so
deeply into the matter as I supposed. But the very power
to persevere in hopes for mankind, at a time of life when
individuals are in the habit of reconciling their selfishness and
fatigue, by choosing to think ill of them, is a great good to
any man, and achieves a great good if it act only upon one
other person. A few such instances of perseverance would
alter the world.
For some days we remained on board, as it was hoped
that we should be able to set sail again.  Ramsgate harbor
is very shallow; and though we lay in the deepest part of
it, the vessel took to a new and ludicrous species of dance,
grinding and thumping upon the chalky ground.  The consequence was, that the metal pintles of the rudder were all
broken, and new ones obliged to be made; which the sailors
told us was very lucky, as it proved the rudder not to be in
a good condition; and it might have deserted us at sea.
We lay next a French vessel, smaller than our own, the
crew of which became amusing subjects of remark.  They
were always whistling, singing, and joking. The men shaved
themselves elaborately, cultivating heroic whiskers; and they
strutted up and down, when at leisure, with their arms
folded, and the air of naval officers. A woman or two,
with kerchiefs and little curls, completed the picture.  They
all seemed very merry and good-humored.
At length, tired of waiting on board, we took a quiet
lodging at the other end of the town, and were pleased to
find ourselves sitting still, and secure of a good rest at night.
It is something, after being at sea, to find one's self not running the fork in one's eye at dinner, or suddenly sliding down
the floor to the other end of the room.  My wife was in a
very weak state; but the rest she took was deep and tranquil, and I resumed my walks.
Few of the principal bathing-places have any thing worth
looking at in the neighborhood, and Ramsgate has less than
most,  Pegwell Bay is eminent for shrimps.  Close by was




MEMORABLE BAD SEASON.


61


Sir William Garrow, and a little farther on was Sir William Curtis. The sea is a grand sight, but it becomes tiresome and melancholy-a great monotonous idea; at least
one thinks so, when not happy. I was destined to see it
grander, and dislike it more.  With great injustice; for all
the works of nature are beautiful, and their beauty is not
to be subjected to our petty vicissitudes.
On Tuesday the 11th of December, we set forth again,
in company with nearly a hundred vessels, the white sails
of which, as they shifted and presented themselves in different quarters, made an agreeable spectacle, exhibiting a kind
of noble minuet. My wife was obliged to be carried down
to the pier in a sedan; and the taking leave, a second time,
of a dear friend, rendered our new departure a melancholy
one. I would have stopped and waited for summer-time,
had not circumstances rendered it advisable for us to persevere; and my wife herself fully agreed with me, and even
hoped for benefit, as well as a change of weather.
Unfortunately, the promise to that effect lasted us but a
day. The winds recommenced the (lay following, and there
ensued such a continuity and vehemence of bad weather as
rendered the winter of 1821 memorable in the shipping
annals.  It strewed the whole of the northwestern coast of
Europe with wrecks. Some readers may remember that
winter. It was the one in which Mount Heela burst out into
flame, and Dungeness lighthouse was struck with lightning.
The mole at Genoa was dilapidated. Next year there were
between fourteen and fifteen thousand sail less upon Lloyd's
books; which, valued at an average at ~1500, made a loss
of two millions of money; the least of all the losses, considering the feelings of survivors.  Fifteen hundred sail (colliers) were wrecked on the single coast of Jutland.
Of this turmoil we were destined to have a sufficient experience; and I will endeavor to give the reader a taste of
it, as he sits comfortably in his chair.  He has seen what
sort of cabin we occupied. I will now speak of the crew
and their mode of living, and what sort of trouble we partook
in common. The reader may encounter it himself afterward
if he pleases, and it may do him good; but again I exhort




62


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


him not to think of taking a family with him if he can go
by land.
Our captain, who was also proprietor of the vessel, had
been master of a man-of-war; and he was more refined in
his manners than captains of small merchantmen are used
to be. He was a clever seaman, or he would not have occupied his former post; and I dare say he conducted us well
up and down Channel. The crew, when they were exhausted, accused him of a wish of keeping us out at sea, to
save charges-perhaps unjustly; for he became so alarmed
himself, or was so little able to enter into the alarms of
others, that he would openly express his fears before my wife
and children. He was a man of connections superior to his
calling; and the consciousness of this, together with success
in life, and a good complexion and set of features which he
had had in his time, rendered him, though he was getting
old, a bit of a coxcomb.  When he undertook to be agreeable, he assumed a cleaner dress, and a fidgety sort of effeminacy, which contrasted ludicrously with his old clothes and
his doleful roughness during a storm.  While it was foul
weather, he was roaring and swearing at the men, like a
proper captain of a brig, and then grumbling and saying,
"c Lord bless us and save us!" in the cabin. If a glimpse
of promise re-appeared, he put on a coat and aspect to correspond, paid compliments to the lady, and told stories of
other fair passengers whom he had conveyed charmingly to
their destination. He wore powder; but this not being
sufficient to conceal the color of his hair, he told us it had
turned gray when he was a youth, from excessive fright in
being left upon a rock.  This confession made me conclude
that he was a brave man, in spite of his exclamations. I
saw him among his kindred, and he appeared to be an object
of interest to some respectable maiden sisters, whom he
treated kindly, and for whom all the money, perhaps, that
he, scraped together, was intended.  He was chary of his
", best biscuit," but fond of children; and he was inclined to
take me for a Jonah for not reading the Bible, while he
made love to the maid-servant.  Of such incongruities are
people made, from the great captain to the small!




SPECIMENS OF THE CREW.


63


Our mate was a tall, handsome young man, with a countenance of great refinement for a seaman. He was of the
humblest origin: yet a certain gentility was natural in him,
as he proved by a hundred little circumstances of attention
to the women and children, when consolation was wanted,
though he did not do it ostentatiously or with melancholy.
If a child was afraid, he endeavored to amuse him with
stories. If the women asked him anxiously how things
were going on, he gave them   a cheerful answer; and he
contrived to show by his manner, that he did not do so in
order to make a show of his courage at their expense. He
was attentive without officiousness, and cheerful with quiet.
The only fault I saw in him, was a tendency to lord it over
a Genoese boy, an apprentice to the captain, who seemed
ashamed of being among the crew, and perhaps gave himself airs.  But a little tyranny will creep into the best
natures (if not informed enough), under the guise of a manly
superiority; as may be seen so often in boys at school.
The little Genoese was handsome, and had the fine eyes
of the Italians. Seeing he was a foreigner, when we first
went on board, we asked him whether he was not an Italian.
He said, no; he was a Genoese. It is the Lombards, I
believe, that are more particularly understood to be Italians,
when a distinction of this kind is made; but I never heard
it afterward. He complained to me one day, that he
wanted books and poetry; and said that the crew were a,,brutta gente" (a vulgar set).  I afterward met him in
Genoa, when he looked as gay as a lark, and was dressed
like a gentleman.  His name was a piece of music, Luigi
Rivarola.
There was another foreigner on board, a Swede, as rough
a subject and northern, as the Genoese was full of the
"c sweet south."  He had the reputation of being a capital
seamen, which enabled him to grumble to better advantage
than the others. A coat of the mate's hung up to dry in a
situation not perfectly legal, was not to be seen by him
without a comment. The fellow had an honest face withal, but brute and fishy, not unlike a Triton's in a picture.
He gaped up at a squall, with his bony look, and the hair




64


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


over his eyes, as if he could dive out of it in case of necessity.
Very different was a fat, fair-skinned carpenter, with a
querulous voice, who complained openly on all occasions, and
in private was very earnest with the passengers to ask the
captain to put into port. And very different again from him
was a jovial, straightforward seaman; a genuine Jack Tar,
with a snub nose, and an under-lip thrust out such as we see
in caricatures.  He rolled about with the vessel, as if his
feet had suckers; and he had an oath and a jest every
morning for the bad weather. He said he would have
been "d-d" before he had come to sea this time, if he
had known what sort of weather it was to be; but it was
not so bad for him as for the gentlefolks with their children.
The crew occupied a little cabin at the other end of the
vessel, into which they were tucked in their respective cribs,
like so many herrings. The weather was so bad, that a
portion of them, sometimes all, were up at night, as well as
the men on watch. The business of the watch is to see that
all is safe, and to look out for vessels ahead.  He is very
apt to go to sleep, and is sometimes waked with a pail of
water chucked over him. The tendency to sleep is very
natural, and the sleep in fine weather delicious. Shakspeare
may well introduce a sailor boy sleeping on the top-mast,
dnd enjoying a luxury that kings might envy.  But there is
no doubt that the luxury of the watcher is often the destruction of the vessel.  The captains themselves, glad to
get to rest, are careless.  When we read of vessels run
down at sea, we are sure to find it owing to negligence.
This was the case with regard to a steam-vessel, the Comet,
which excited great interest at this time.  A  passenger,
anxious and kept awake, is surprised to see the eagerness
with which every seaman, let the weather be what it may,
goes to bed when it comes to his turn.  Safety, if they can
have it; but sleep at all events.  This seems to be their
motto. If they are to be drowned, they would rather have
the two beds together, the watery and the worsted. Dry
is too often a term inapplicable to the latter.  In our ves




DISCOMFORTS AT SEA.


65


sel, night after night, the wet penetrated into the seamen's
berths; and the poor fellows, their limbs stiff and aching
with cold, and their hands blistered with toil, had to get
intp beds, as wretched as if a pail of water had been
thrown over them.
Such were the lives of our crew from the 12th till the
22d of December, during which time we were beaten up
and down Channel, twice touching the Atlantic, and driven
back again like a hunted ox.  One of the gales lasted without intermission, fifty-six hours; blowing all the while as if
it would ( split its cheeks."  The oldest seaman on boaid,
had never seen rougher weather in Europe. In some parts
of the world, both east and west, there is weather of sudden
and more outrageous violence; but none of the crew had
experienced tempests of longer duration, or more violent for
the climate.
The worst of being at sea in weather like this, next to
your inability to do any thing, is the multitude of petty discomforts with which you are surrounded.  You can retreat
into no comfort, great or small.  Your feet are cold; you
can take no exercise on account of the motion of the vessel;
and a fire will not keep in.  You can not sit in one posture.
You lie down because you are sick; or if others are more
sick, you must keep your legs as well as you can, to help
them. At meals, the plates and dishes slide away, now to
this side now that; making you laugh, it is true; but you
laugh more out of spleen than merriment.  Twenty to one
you are obliged to keep your beds, and chuck the cold meat
to one another; or the oldest and strongest does it for the
rest, desperately remaining at table, and performing all the
slides, manaeuvres, and sudden rushes, which the fantastic
violence of the cabin's movements has taught him.   Tea
(which, for the refreshment it affords in toil and privation,
may be called the traveler's wine) is taken as desperately as
may be, provided you can get boiling water; the cook
making his appearance when he can, with his feet asunder,
clinging to the floor, and swaying to and fro with the
kettle.
By the way, I have not mentioned our cook; he was a




LIFE OF LEIGf HUNT.


mulatto, a merry knave, constantly drunk.  But the habit
of drinking, added to a quiet, and sly habit of uttering his
words, had made it easy to him to pretend sobriety when he
was most intoxicated; and I believe he deceived the whole
of the people on board, except ourselves.  The captain took
him for a special good fellow.  He felt particularly grateful
for his refusals of a glass of rum; the secret of which was,
that the man could get at the rum whenever he liked, and
was never without a glass of it in his head.  He stood behind you at meals, kneading the floor with his feet, as the
vessel rolled; drinking in all the jokes or would-be jokes,
that were uttered; and laughing like a goblin.  The captain, who had eyes for nothing but what was right before
him, seldom noticed his merry devil; but if you caught his
eye, there he was shaking his shoulders without a word,
while his twinkling eyes seemed to run over with rum and glee.
This fellow, who swore horrid oaths in a tone of meekness,
used to add to my wife's horrors by descending, drunk as he
was, with a lighted candle into the " Lazaret," which was
a hollow under the cabin, opening with a trap-door, and con
taining provisions and a portion of the gunpowder.  The portion was small, but sufficient, she thought, with the assistance
of his candle, to blow us up.  Fears for her children occupied
her mind from morning till night, when she sank into an uneasy sleep. While she was going to sleep I read, and did
not close my eyes till toward morning, thinking (with a wife
by my side, and seven children around me) what I should do
in case of the worst. My imagination, naturally tenacious,
and exasperated by ill health, clung, not to every relief, but
to every shape of ill that I could fancy.  I was tormented
with the consciousness of being unable to divide myself into
as many pieces as I had persons requiring assistance; and
must not scruple to own that I suffered a constant dread,
which appeared to me very unbecoming a man of spirit.
However, I expressed no sense of it to any body. I did my
best to do my duty and keep up the spirits of those about
me; and your nervousness being a great dealer in your joke
fantastic, I succeeded apparently with all, and certainly with
the children:




CALAMITIES OF DUCKS.


67


The most uncomfortable thing in the vessel was the constant wet.  Below it penetrated, and on deck you could not
appear with dry shoes but they were speedily drenched.
Mops being constantly in use at sea (for seamen are very
clean in that respect, and keep their vessels as nice as a pet
infant), the sense of wet was always kept up, whether in
wetting or drying; and the vessel, tumbling about, looked
like a wash-house in a fit.
We had a goat on board, a present from a kind friend,
anxious that we should breakfast as at home.  The storms
frightened away its milk, and Lord Byron's dog afterward
bit off its ear.  But the ducks had the worst of it.  These
were truly a sight to make a man hypochondriacal. They
were kept in miserable narrow coops, over which the sea constantly breaking, the poor wretches were drenched and beaten to death. Every morning, when I came upon deck, some
more were killed, or had their legs and wings broken. *The
captain grieved for the loss of his ducks, and once went so far
as to add to the number of his losses by putting one of them
out of its misery; but nobody seemed to pity them otherwise.
This was not inhumanity, but want of thought. The
idea of pitying live-stock when they suffer, enters with as
much difficulty into a head uneducated to that purpose,
as the idea of pitying a diminished piece of beef or a stolen
pig.
I took care not to inform the children how much the
creatures suffered.  My family, with the exception of the
eldest boy, who was of an age to acquire experience, always
remained below; and the children, not aware of any danger
(for I took care to qualify what the captain said, and they
implicitly believed me), were as gay, as confinement and
uneasy beds would allow them to be. With the poor
ducks I made them very merry one night, by telling them
to listen when the next sea broke over us, and they would
hear an acquaintance of theirs laughing.  The noise they
made with their quacking, when they gathered breath after
the suffocation of the salt water, was exactly like what I
said: the children listened, and at every fresh agony there




68


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


was a shout. Being alarmed one night by the captain's
open expression of his apprehension, I prepared the children
for the worst that might happen, by telling them that the
sea sometimes broke into a cabin, and then there was a dip
over head and ears for the passengers, after which they
laughed and made merry.      The only time I expressed
apprehension to any body was to the mate one night, when
we were wearing ship off the Scilly rocks, and every body
was in a state of anxiety.  I asked him, in case of the
worst, to throw open the lid of the cabin-stairs, that the sea
might pour in upon us as fast as possible. He begged me
not to have any sad thoughts, for he said I should give
them to him, and he had none at present. At the same
time, he turned and severely rebuked the carpenter, who
was looking doleful at the helm, for putting notions into the
heads of the passengers.  The captain was unfortunately
out of hearing.
I did wrong at that time not to " feed better," as the
phrase is.  My temperance was a little ultra-theoretical and
excessive; and the mate and I were the only men on board
who drank no spirits. Perhaps there were not many men
out in those dreadful nights in the Channel, who could say
as much.   The mate, as he afterward let me know, felt the
charge upon him too great to venture upon an artificial state
of courage; and I feared that what courage was left me,
might be bewildered. The consequence was, that from
previous illness and constant excitation, my fancy was sickened into a kind of hypochondriacal investment and shaping
of things about me. A little more, and I might have irmagined the fantastic shapes which the action of the sea is
constantly interweaving out of the foam at the vessel's side,
to be sea-snakes, or more frightful hieroglyphics. The white
clothes that hung up on pegs in the cabin, took, in the
gloomy light from above, an aspect like things of meaning;
and the winds and rain together, as they ran blind and howling along by the vessel's side, when I was on deck, appeared
like frantic spirits of the air, chasing and shrieking after one
another, and tearing each other by the hair of their heads.
"t The grandeur of the glooms" on the Atlantic was majestic




AN AMERICAN PIRATE.


69


indeed: the healthiest eye would have seen them with awe.
The sun rose in the morning, at once fiery and sicklied over;
a livid gleam played on the water like the reflection of lead;
then the storms would recommence; and during partial
clearings off, the clouds and fogs appeared standing in the
sky, moulded into gigantic shapes, like antediluvian wonders,
or visitants from the zodiac; mammoths, vaster than have
yet been thought of; the first ungainly and stupendous ideas
of bodies and legs, looking out upon an unfinished world.
These fancies were ennobling, from their magnitude. The
pain that was mixed with some of the others, I might have
displaced by a fillip of the blood.
Two days after we left Ramsgate, the wind blowing violently from the southwest, we were under close-reefed topsails; but on its veering to westward, the captain was induced to persevere, in hopes that by coming round to the
northwest, it would enable him to clear the Channel.  The
ship labored very much, the sea breaking over her; and the
pump was constantly going.
The next day, the 14th, we shipped a great deal of
water, the pump going as before. The fore-topsail and foresail were taken in; the storm staysail set; and the captain
said we were "( in the hands of God."  We now wore ship
to southward.
On the 15th, the weather was a little moderated, with
fresh gales and cloudy. The captain told us to-day how his
hair turned white in a shipwreck; and the mate entertained
us with an account of the extraordinary escape of himself
and some others from an American pirate, who seized their
vessel, plundered and made it a wreck, and confined them
under the hatches, in the hope of their going down with it.
They escaped in a rag of a boat, and were taken up by a
Greek vessel, which treated them with the greatest humanity.
The pirate was afterward taken and hung at Malta, with
five of his men.  This story, being tragical without being
tempestuous, and terminating happily for our friend, was very
welcome, and occupied us agreeably.  I tried to elicit some
ghost stories of vessels, but could hear of nothing but the
Flying Dutchman; nor did I succeed better on another




70


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


occasion.  This dearth of supernatural adventure is remarkable, considering the superstition of sailors.  But their wits
are none of the liveliest; the sea blunts while it mystifies;
and the sailor's imagination, driven in, like his body, to the
vessel he inhabits, admits only the petty wonders that come
directly about him in the shape of storm-announcing fishes
and birds.  His superstition is that of a blunted and not of
an awakened ignorance.   Sailors had rather sleep than see
visions.
On the 16th, the storm was alive again, with strong gales
and heavy squalls. We set the fore storm-staysail anew,
and at night the jolly-boat was torn from the stern.
The afternoon of the 17th brought us the gale that lasted
fifty-six hours, " one of the most tremendous," the captain
said, "that he had ever witnessed."   All the sails were
taken in, except the close-reefed topsail and one of the trysails. At night, the wind being at southwest, and Scilly
about fifty miles north by east, the trysail sheet was carried
away, and the boom and sail had a narrow escape. We
were now continually wearing ship.   The boom was unshipped, as it was; and it was a melancholy sight to see it
lying next morning, with the sail about it, like a wounded
servant who had been fighting. The morning was occupied
in getting it to rights. At night we had hard squalls with
lightning.
We lay-to under main-topsail until the next morning, the
19th, when at ten o'clock we were enabled to set the reefed
foresail, and the captain prepared to run for Falmouth; but
finding he could not get in till night, we hauled to the wind,
and at three in the afternoon, wore ship to southwestward.
It was then blowing heavily; and the sea, breaking over the
vessel, constantly took with it a part of the bulwark.  I believe we had long ceased to have a duck alive. The poor
goat had contrived to find itself a corner in the long-boat,
and lay frightened and shivering under a piece of canvas.
I afterward took it down in the cabin to share our lodging;
but not having a berth to give it, it passed a sorry time, tied
up and slipping about the floor. At night we had lightning
again, with hard gales, the wind being west and northwest,




A GOAT AND BISCUIT.


71


and threatening to drive us on the French coast.  It was a
grand thing, through the black and turbid atmosphere, to
see the great fiery eye of the lighthouse at the Lizard Point;
it looked like a good genius with a ferocious aspect.. Ancient
mythology would have made dragons of these noble structures-dragons with giant glare, warning the seaman off the
coast.
The captain could not get into Falmouth: so he wore
ship, and stood to the westward with fresh hopes, the wind
having veered a little to the north; but after having run
above fifty miles to the south and west, the wind veered
again in our teeth, and at two o'clock on the 20th, we were
reduced to a close reefed main top-sail, which, being new
fortunately held, the wind blowing so hard that it could not
be taken in without the greatest risk of losing it.  The sea
was very heavy, and the rage of the gale tremendous, accompanied with lightning.  The children on these occasions
slept, unconscious of their danger.  My wife slept, too, from
exhaustion. I remember, as I lay awake that night, looking
about to see what help I could get from imagination, to
furnish a moment's respite from the anxieties that beset me,
I cast my eyes on the poor goat; and recollecting how she
devoured some choice biscuit I gave her one day, I got up,
and going to the cupboard took out as much as I could find,
and occupied myself in seeing her eat.  She munched the
fine white biscuit out of my hand, with equal appetite and
comfort; and I thought of a saying of Sir Philip Sidney's
that we are never perfectly miserable when we can, do a
good-natured action.
I will not dwell upon the thoughts that used to pass
through my mind respecting my wife and children.  Many
times, especially when a little boy of mine used to weep in
a manner equally sorrowful and good-tempered, I thought
of Prospero and his infant Miranda in the boat, " me and
thy crying self;" and many times of a similar divine fragment of Simonides. It seemed as if I had no right to bring
so many little creatures into such jeopardy, with peril to
their lives and to all future enjoyment; but sorrow and
trouble suggested other reflections too; consolations, which




72


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


even to be consoled with is calamity. However, I will not
recall those feelings any more.  Next to tragical thoughts
like these, one of the modes of tormenting one's self at sea, is
to raise those pleasant pictures of contrast, dry and firmfooted, which our friends are enjoying in their warm rooms
and radiant security at home.  I used to think of them one
after the other, or of several of them together, reading, chatting, and laughing, playing music, or complaining that they
wanted a little movement and must dance; then retiring to
easy beds amidst happy families; and perhaps, as the wind
howled thinking of us. Perhaps, too, they thought of us
sometimes in the midst of their merriment, and longed for
us to share it with them. That they did so, is certain; but,
on the other hand, what would we not have given to be sure
of the instant at which they were making these reflections;
and how impossible was it to attain to this, or to any other
dry-ground satisfaction!  Sometimes I could npt help smiling to think how Munden would have exclaimed in the
character of Croaker, "c We shall all be blown up!" The
gunpowder I seldom thought of; but it seemed to give my
feet a sting sometimes, as I remembered it in walking the
deck.  The demand for dry land was considerable.   That
is the point with landsmen at sea; something unwet, unconfined, but, above all, firm, and that enables you to take
your own steps, physical and moral. Panurge has it in
Rabelais.
But I must put an end to this mirth; for   a large vesxel is coming right down upon us;-lights-lights!"  This
was the cry at eleven o'clock at night, on the 21st December, the gale being tremendous, and the sea to match.
Lanterns were handed up from the cabin, and, one after
the other, put out.  The captain thought it was owing to
the weather; but it was the drunken steward, who jolted
them out as he took them up the ladder.    We furnished
more, and contrived to see them kept in; and the captain
afterward told me that we had saved his vessel.  The ship,
discerning us just in time, passed ahead, looking very huge
and terrible. Next morning, we saw her about two miles on
our lee-bow, lying-to under trysails. It was an Indiaman.




ANCIENT POETS' DISLIKE OF THE SEA.


73


There was another vessel, a smaller, near us in the night.
I thought the Indiaman looked very comfortable, with its
spacious and powerful body: but the captain said we were
better off a great deal in our own sea-boat; which turned
out to be too true, if this was the same Indiaman, as some
thought it, which was lost the night following off the coast
of Devonshire.  The crew said, that in one of the pauses of
the wind they heard a vessel go down. We were at that
time near land. While drinking tea, the keel of our ship
grated against something, perhaps a shoal. The captain
afterward very properly made light of it; but at the time,
being in the act of raising a cup to his mouth, I remember
he turned very grave, and, getting up, went upon deck.
Next day, the 22d, we ran for Dartmouth, and succeeding this time, found ourselves, at twelve o'clock at noon, in
the middle of Dartmouth harbor.
"Magno telluris amore
Egressi, optata potiuntur Trois arena."
" The Trojans, worn with toils, and spent with woes,
Leap on the welcome land, and seek their wish'd repose.'
Dryden had never been at sea, or he would not have translated the passage in that manner.   Virgil knew better;
and besides, he had the proper ancient hydrophobia to endear
his fancy to dry ground.  He says, that the Trojans had got
an absolute affection for terraJ rma, and that they now enjoyed what they had longed for.   Virgil, it fmust be confessed, talks very tenderly of the sea for an epic poet.
Homer grapples with it in a different style.  The Greek
would hardly have recognized his old acquaintance /Eneas
in that pious and frightened personage, who would be designated, I fear, by a modern sailor, a psalm-singing milksop. But Homer, who was a traveler, is the only poet
among the ancients who speaks of the sea in a modern spirit.
He talks of brushing the waves merrily; and likens them,
when they are dark, to his Chian wine.  But Hesiod, though
he relates with a modest grandeur that he had once been to
sea, as far as from Aulis to Chalcis, is shocked at the idea
of any body venturing upon the water except when the air
VL, IT.--D




74


LIFE OtF LEIGH HUNT.


is delicate and the water harmless.  A spring voyage distresses him, and a winter he holds to-be senseless.  Moschus
confesses that the very sight of the ocean makes him retreat
into the woods; the only water he loves being a fountain to
listen to, as he lies on the grass.  Virgil took a trip to Athens,
during which he may be supposed, to have undergone all
the horrors which he holds to be no disgrace to his hero.
Horace's distress at his friend's journey, and amazement at
the hard-hearted wretch who first ventured to look upon the
sea on ship-board, are well known.  A Hindoo could not
have a greater dread of the ocean.  Poor Ovid, on his way
to the place of his exile, wonders how he can write a line.
These were delicate gentlemen at 'the court of Augustus;
and the ancients, it may be said, had very small and bad
vessels, and no compass.  But their moral courage appears
to have been as poor in this matter as their physical.  Nothing could have given a Roman a more exalted idea of
Caesar's courage, than his famous speech to the pilot: " You
carry Cwesar and his fortunes!"
The poets who take another road to glory, and think no
part of humanity alien from them, spoke out in a different
manner.   Their office being to feel with all, and their iature
disposing them to it, they seem to think themselves privileged
to be bold or timid, according to circumstances; and doubtless they are so, imagination being the moving cause in both
instances.  They perceive, also, that the boldest of men are
timid under circumstances in which they have no experience;
and this helps the agreeable insolence of their candor.
Rochester said, that every man would confess himself a
coward, if he had but courage enough to do so: a saying
worthy of an ingenious debauchee, and as false with respect
to individuals, as it is, perhaps, true with regard to the circumstances under which any one may find himself.   The
same person who shall turn pale in a storm at sea, shall
know not what it is to fear the face of man; and the most
fearless of sailors shall turn pale (as I have seen them do)
even in storms of an unusual description.  I have related a
scuffle with a party of fishermen on the Thames, when in
the height of their rage they were checked and made civil




MODERN POETS' DITTO.


75


by the mention of the word law.    Rochester talked like the
shameless coward that he had made himself; but even Sir
Philip Sidney, the flower of chivalry, who would have gone
through any danger out of principle (which, together with
the manly habits that keep a man brave, is the true courage),
does not scruple to speak, with a certain dread, of ships and
their strange lodgings.
" Certainly," says he, in his Arcadia (Book II.), "there
is no danger carries with it more horror, than that which
grows in those floating kingdoms. For that dwelling-place
is unnatural to mankind; and then the terribleness of the
continual motion, the desolation of the being far from comfort, the eye and the ear having ugly images ever before
them, doth still vex the mind, even when it is best armed
against it."
Ariosto, a soldier as well as poet, who had fought bravely
in the wars, candidly confesses that he is for taking no sea
voyages, but is content to explore the earth with Ptolemy,
and travel in a map.    This, he thinks, is better than putting up prayers in a storm.    (Satire 3.   Chi vuol andar
intorno, &c.)   But the most amusing piece of candor on
this point is that of Berni, in his Orlando Innamorato, one
of the models of the Don Juan style. Berni was a good
fellow for a rake; and bold enough, though a courtier, to
refuse aiding a wicked master in his iniquities. He was
also stout of body, and a great admirer of achievements in
others, which he dwells upon with a masculine relish.  But
the sea he can not abide.  He probably got a taste of it in
the Adriatic, when he was at Venice.    He is a fine describer of a storm, and puts a hero of his at the top of one in a
very elevated and potent manner: (See the description of
Rodomonte, at the beginning of one of his cantos.) But
in his own person, he disclaims all partnership with such
exaltations; and earnestly exhorts the reader, on the faith of
his experience, not to think of quitting dry land for an instant.
"Se vi poteste un uomo immaginare,
II qual non sappia quel che sia paura;
E se volete un bel modo trovare
Da spaventar ogni anima sicura;




o6


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Quando e fortuna, mettetel' in mare.
Se non lo teme, se non se ne cura,
Colui per pazzo abbiate, e non ardito,
Perch' C diviso da la morte un dito.
" E un' orribil cosa il mar crocciato:
E meglio udirlo, che fame la prova.
Creda ciascun a chi dentro v' e stato;
E per provar, di terra non si mova."
CANTo 64, st. 4.
Reader, if you suppose that there can be,
In nature, one that's ignorant of fear;
And if you'd show the man, as prettily
As possible, how people can feel queerWhen there's a tempest, clap him in the sea.
If he's not frightened, if he doesn't care,
Count him a stupid idiot, and not brave,
Thus with a straw betwixt him and the grave.
A sea in torment is a dreadful thing:
Much better lie and listen to, than try it.
Trust one who knows its desperate pommeling;
And while on terra firma, pray stick by it.
Full of Signor Berni's experience, and having, in the
shape of our children, seven more reasons than he had to
avail ourselves of it, we here bade adieu to our winter voyage, and resolved to put forth again in a better season.     It
was a very expensive change of purpose, and cost us more
trouble than I can express; but I had no choice, seeing
my wife was so ill.    A few days afterward, she was obliged
to have forty ounces of blood taken from her, to save her
life.
Dartmouth is a pretty, forlorn place, deserted of its importance.   Chaucer's " Schippmann" was born there, and
it still produces excellent seamen; but, instead of its former
dignity as a port, it looks like a petty town deserted of its
neighborhood, and left to grow wild and solitary. The
beautiful vegetation immediately about it, added to the bare
hills in the background, completes this look of forlornness,
and produces an effect like that of the grass growing in the
streets of a metropolis.  The harbor is land-locked with hills
and wood, and a bit of an old castle at the entrance; form



DARTMOUTH.


77


ing a combination very picturesque. Among the old families
remaining in that quarter, the Prideaux, relations of the
ecclesiastical historian, live in this town; and going up a solitary street on the hill-side, I saw on a door the name of
Wolcot, a memorandum of a different sort.  Peter Pindar's
family, like the divine's, are from Cornwall.
We left Dartmouth, where no ships were in the habit of
sailing for Italy, and went to Plymouth; intending to set
off again with the beginning of spring, in a vessel bound for
Genoa. But the mate of it who, I believe, grudged us the
room we should deprive him of, contrived to tell my wife a
number of dismal stories, both of the ship and its captain,
who was an unlucky fellow that seemed marked by fortune.
Misery had also made him a Calvinist--the most miserable
of all ways of getting comfort; and this was no additional
recommendation.    To say the truth, having a pique against
my fears on the former occasion, I was more bent on allowing myself to have none on the present; otherwise, I should
not have thought of putting forth again till the fine weather
was complete.  But the reasons that prevailed before, had
now become still more imperative; my wife being confined
to her bed, and undergoing repeated bleedings; so, till summer we waited.
Plymouth is a proper commercial town, unpicturesque in
itself, with an overgrown suburb, or dock, which has become a town distinct, and other suburbs carrying other towns
along the coast.  But the country up the river is beautiful;
and Mount-Edgecumbe is at hand, with its enchanted island,
like a piece of old poetry by the side of new money-getting.
Lord Lyttelton, in some pretty verses, has introduced the
gods, with Neptune at their head, and the nymphs of land
and sea, contesting for the proprietorship of it; a dispute
which Jupiter settles by saying, that he made Mount-Edgecumbe for them all.  But the best compliment paid it was
by the Duke of Medina Sidonia, admiral of the Spanish Armada, who, according to Fuller, marked it out from the sea
as his portion of the booty.  " But," says Fuller, " he had
catched a great cold, had he had no other clothes to wear
than those which were to be made of a skin of a bear not




78


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


killed."  In the neighborhood is a seat of the Carews, the
family of the historian of Cornwall, and kinsmen of the poet.
Near it, on the other side of the river, was the seat of the
Killigrews; another family which became celebrated in the
annals of wit and poetry.* The tops of the two mansions
looked at one another over the trees.  In the grounds of the
former is a bowling-green, the scene of a once fashionable
amusement, now grown out of use; which is a pity.
Fashion can not too much identify itself with what is healthy;
nor has England been " merryEngland" since late hours
and pallid faces came into vogue.   But our sedentary
thoughts, it is to be hoped, will assist their own remedy, and
in the end leave us better off than before.
The sea upon the whole had done me good, and I found
myself able to write again, though by driblets. We lived
very quietly at Stone-house, opposite Mount-Edgecumbe,
nursing our hopes for a new voyage, and expecting one of a
very different complexion, in sailing toward an Italian summer. My wife kept her bed almost the whole time, and
lost a great deal of blood; but the repose, together with the
sea-air, was of service to her, and enabled her to receive
benefit on resuming our journey.
Thus quietly we lived, and thus should have continued,
agreeably to both of our inclinations; but some friends of
the Exanminer heard of our being in the neighborhood, and
the privatest of all public men (if I may be ranked among
the number) found himself complimented by his readers, face
to face, and presented with a silver cup.  I then had a taste
of the Plymouth hospitality, and found it friendly and cordial
to the last degree, as if the seaman's atmosphere gave a new
spirit to the love of books and liberty. Nor, as the poet
would say, was music wanting; nor fair faces, the crown of
welcome. Besides the landscapes in the neighborhood, I
had the pleasure of seeing some beautiful ones in the painting-room of Mr. Rogers, a very clever artist and intelligent
man, who has traveled, and can think for himself. But
my great Examiner friend, who afterward became a per

* Worthies of England, vol. i. p. 208. Edit. 1811.




MEN OF DEVONSHIRE.


79


sonal one, was Mr. Hine, subsequently master of an academy
near the metropolis, and the most attentive and energetic
person of his profession that I ever met with.  My principal
visitors, indeed, at Plymouth consisted of schoolmasters; one
of those signs of the times, which has not been so ill regarded since the accession of a lettered and liberal minister
to the government of this country, as they were under the
supercilious ignorance, and (to say the truth) well-founded
alarm of some of his predecessors.
The Devonshire people, as far as I had experience of
them were pleasant and good-humored.    Queen Elizabeth
said of their gentry, that they were " all born courtiers with
a becoming confidence." I know not how that may be,
though she had a good specimen in Sir Walter Raleigh.
But the private history of modern times might exhibit instances of natives of Devonshire winning their way into regard and power by the force of a well-constituted mixture
of sweet and strong; and it is curious that the milder climate of that part of England should have produced more
painters, perhaps, of a superior kind, than any other two
counties can show. Drake, Jewel, Hooker, and old Fortescue, were also Devonshire-men; William Browne, the
most genuine of Spenser's disciples; and Gay, the enjoying
and the good-hearted, the natural man in the midst of the
sophisticate.
We left Plymouth on the 13th of May 1822, accompanied by some of our new friends who would see us on board;
and set sail in a fresh vessel, on our new summer voyage, a
very different one from the last.  Short acquaintances sometimes cram as much into their intercourse, as to take the
footing of long ones; and our parting was not without pain.
Another shadow was cast on the female countenances by the
observation of our boatman, who, though an old sailor, who
ought to have known better, bade us remark how heavily
laden our ship was, and how deep she lay in the water: so
little can ignorance afford to miss an opportunity of being
important.
Our new captain, and, I believe, all his crew, were
W i1sh, with the exception of one sailor, an unfortunate




80


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Scotchman, who seemed pitched among them to have his
nationality put to the torture.  Jokes were unceasingly
cracked on the length of his person, the oddity of his dialect,
and the uncouth manner in which he stood at the helm.
It was a new thing to hear Welshmen cutting up the barbarism of the ", Modern Athens"; but they had the advantage of the poor fellow in wit, and he took it with a sort of
sulky patience, that showed he was not destitute of one
part of the wisdom of his countrymen. To have made a
noise would have been to bring down new shouts of laughter;
so he pocketed the affronts as well as he might, and I could
not help fancying that his earnings lay in the same place
more securely than most of those about him. The captain'
was choleric and brusque, a temperament which was none
the better for an inclination to plethora; but his enthusiasm
in behalf of his brother tars, and the battles they had fought,
was as robust as his frame; and he surprised us with
writing verses on the strength of it. Very good heart and
impart verses they were too, and would cut as good a figure
as any in the old magazines.    While he read them, he
rolled the r's in the most rugged style, and looked as if he
could have run them down the throats of the enemy. The
objects'of his eulogy he called,"our gallant herroes."
We took leave of Plymouth with a fine wind at northeast; and next day, on the confines of the Channel, spoke
the Two Sisters of Guernsey, from Rio Janeiro.  On a long
voyage, ships lose their longitude; and our information enabled the vessel to enter the Channel with security.  Ships
approaching and parting from one another present a fine
spectacle, shifting in the light,, and almost looking conscious
of the grace of their movements.
Sickness here began to prevail again among us, with all
but myself, who am never sea-sick. I mention it in order
to notice a pleasant piece of thanks which I received from
my eldest boy, who, having suffered dreadfully in the former voyage, was grateful for my not having allowed him
to eat butter in the interval. I know not whether my paternity is leading me here into too trifling a matter; but
I mention the circumstance, because there may be intelli



CALMS AND FINE WEATHER.


81


gent children among my readers, with whom it may turn to
account.
We were now on the high Atlantic, with fresh health
and hopes, and the prospect of an easy voyage before us.
Next night, the 15th, we saw, for the first time, two grampuses, who interested us extremely with their unwieldy
gambols. They were very large, in fact, a small kind of
whale; but they played about the vessel like kittens, dashing
round, and even under it, as if in scorn of its progress.  The
swiftness of fish is inconceivable.  The smallest of them
must be enormously strong: the largest are as gay as the
least. One of these grampuses fairly sprang out of the water,
bolt upright.
The same day, we were becalmed in the Bay of Biscay;
a pleasant surprise. A. calm in the Bay of Biscay, after
what we had read and heard of it, sounded to us like repose
in a boiling caldron.  But a calm, after all, is not repose:
it is a very unresting and unpleasant thing, the ship taking
a great gawky motion from side to side, as if playing the
buffoon; and the sea heaving in huge oily-looking fields, like
a carpet lifted.  Sometimes it appears to be striped into
great ribbons; but the sense of it is always more or less
unpleasant, and to impatient seamen is torture.
The next day we were still becalmed. A small shark
played all day long about the vessel, but was shy of the bait.
The sea was swelling, and foul with putrid substances, which
made us think what it would be if a calm continued a
month.   Coleridge has touched upon that matter, with the
hand of a master, in his Ancient Mariner. (Here are
three words in one sentence beginning with nz and ending
with r, to the great regret of fingers that can not always
stop to make corrections. But the compliment to Coleridge
shall be the greater, since it is at my own expense.) During
a calm, the seamen, that they may not be idle, are employed
in painting the vessel: an operation that does not look well,
amidst the surrounding aspect of sickness and faintness.
The favorite colors are black and yellow; I believe, because
they are the least expensive.  The combination is certainly
the most ugly.




82


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


On the 17th, we had a fine breeze at northeast.  There
is great enjoyment in a beautiful day at sea.  You quit all
the discomforts of your situation for the comforts; interchange
congratulations with the seamen, who are all in good humor,
seat yourself at ease on the deck, enjoy the motion, the getting
on, the healthiness of the air; watch idly for new sights;
read a little, or chat, or give way to a day-dream; then look
up again, and expatiate on the basking scene around you,
with its ripples of blue and green, or of green and gold, what
the old poet beautifully calls the innumerable smile of the
waters.
" rovriov re KV/cTyv
av ptOleov ye*aoaua."
PROMETHEUS VINCTUS.
The appearance of another vessel sets conjecture alive: it is
"a Dane" 'a Frenchman," " a Portuguese," and these
words have o new effect upon us, as though we suddenly
became intimate with the country to which they belong.
A more striking effect, of the same sort is produced by the
sight of a piece of land; it is Flamborough Head, Ushant,
Cape Ortegal: you see a part of another country, one perhaps on which you have never set foot; and even this is a
great thing: it gives you an advantage; others have read
of Spain or Portugal; you have seen it, and are a grown man
and a traveler, compared with those little children of books.
These novelties affect the dullest; but to persons of any
imagination, and such as are ready for any pleasure or consolation that nature offers them, they are like pieces of a new
morning of life. The world seems begun again, and our
stock of knowledge recommencing on a new plan.
Then at night-time, there are those beautiful fires on the
water, by the vessel's side, upon the nature of which people
seem hardly yet agreed. Some take them for animal decay,
some for living animals, others for electricity.  Perhaps all
these causes have to do with it.  In a fine blue sea, the foam
caused by the ship at night seems full of stars.  The white
fermentation, with golden sparkles in it, is beautiful beyond
conception. You look over the side of the vessel, and devour




THE SEA AT NIGHT-TIME.


83


it with your: eyes, as you would so much ethereal syllabub.
Finally, the stars in the firmament issue forth, and the
moon; always the more lovely the farther you get south.
Or when there is no moon on the sea, the shadows at a little
distance become grander and more solemn, and you watch
for some huge fish to lift himself in the middle of them, a
darker mass, breathing and spouting water.
The fish appear very happy.   Some are pursued indeed,
and others, pursue; there is a world of death as well as life
going on. The mackerel avoids the porpoise, and the porpoise eschews the whale; there is the sword-fish, who runs
a-muck; and the shark, the cruel scavenger. These are
startling considerations; but it is impossible, on reflection,
to separate the idea of happiness firom that of health and
activity.  The fishes are not sick or sophisticate; their blood
is pure, their strength and agility prodigious; and a little
peril, for aught we know, may serve to keep them moving,
and give a relish to their vivacity.  I looked upon the sea
as a great tumbling wilderness, full of sport.  To eat fish
at sea, however, hardly looked fair, though it was the fairest
of occasions: it seemed as if, not being an inhabitant, I had
no right to the produce. I did not know how the dolphins
might take it.  At night-time, lying in a bed beneath the
level of the water, I fancied sometimes that a fellow looked
at me as he went by with his great side-long eyes, gaping
objection. It was strange, I thought, to find one's self moving
onward cheek by jowl with a porpoise, or yawning in a concert with a shark.
On the 21st, after another two days of calm, and one of
rain, we passed Cape Finisterre. There was a heavy swell
and rolling.  Being now on the Atlantic, with not even
any other name for the part of it that we sailed over to interrupt the widest association of ideas, I thought of America,
and Columbus, and the chivalrous squadrons that set out from
Lisbon, "and the old Atlantis of Plato, formerly supposed to
exist off the coast of Portugal.  It is curious, that the Portuguese have a tradition to this day, that there is an island
occasionally seen off the coast of Lisbon.  The story of the
Atlantis looks like some old immemorial tradition of a country




84


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


that has really existed; nor-is it difficult- to suppose that
there was formerly some great tract of land, or even continent, occupying these now watery regions, when we consider
the fluctuation of things, and those changes of dry to moist,
and of lofty to low, which are always taking place all over
the globe.  Off the coast of Cornwall, the mariner, it has
been said, now rides over the old country of Lyones, or whatever else it was called, if that name be fabulous; and there
are stories of doors and casements, and other evidences of
occupation, brought up from   the bottom.   These, indeed,
have lately been denied, or reduced to nothing: but old
probabilities remain.  In the eastern seas, the gigantic work
of creation is visibly going on, by means of those little creatures, the coral worms; and new lands will as assuredly be
inhabited there after a lapse of centuries, as old ones have
vanished in the west.
" So, in them all, raignes mutabilitie."
22d. Fine breeze to-day from the N. E.    A great shark
went by. One longs to give the fellow a great dig in the
mouth.   Yet he is only going " on his vocation."    Without him, as without the vultures on land, something would
be amiss. It is only moral pain and inequality which it is
desirable to alter, that which the mind of man has an invincible tendency to alter.
To-day the seas remind me of the,"marmora pelagi," of
Catullus (the " marbles of the ocean"). They looked, at a
little distance, like blue water petrified. You might have
supposed, that by some sudden catastrophe the mighty main
had been turned into stone; and the huge animals, whose
remains we find in it, fixed there forever.
A shoal of porpoises broke up the fancy. Waves might
be classed, as clouds have been; and more determination
given to the pictures of them.   We ought to have waves
and wavelets, billows, fluctuosities, &c., a marble sea, a sea
weltering.  The sea varies its look at the immediate side of
the vessel, according as the progress is swift or slow. Sometimes it is a crisp and rapid flight, hissing; sometimes an interweaving of the foam in snake~.ike characters; sometimes




SLEEPING INSTEAD OF WATCHING.


85


a heavy weltering, shouldering the ship on this side and that.
In what is called " the trough of the sea," which is a common
state to be in during violent weather, the vessel literally appears stuck and laboring in a trough, the sea looking on
either side like a hill of yeast. This was the gentlest sight
we used to have in the Channel; very different from our
summer amenities. I never saw what are called waves
" mountains high."  It is a figure of speech; and a very
violent one.
A fine breeze all night, with many porpoises. Porpoises
are supposed to portend a change of weather, bad or good:
they are not prognosticators of bad alone.  At night there
was a " young May moon," skimming between the dark
clouds, like a boat of silver. I was upon deck, and found
the watcher asleep.  A vessel might have tipped us all into
the water for anything that he knew, or perhaps cared.
There ought to be watchers on board ship, exclusively for
that office. It is not to be expected that sailors, who have been
at work all day, should not sleep at night, especially out in
the air.  It is as natural to these children of the sea, as to
infants carried out of doors.  The sleeper in the present instance had had a pail thrown over him one night, which
only put him in a rage, and perhaps made him sleep out of
spite next time.  He was a strong, hearty, Welsh lad,
healthy and good-looking, in whose veins life coursed it so
happily, that, in order to put him on a par with less fortunate constitutions, fate seemed to have brought about a state
of warfare between him and the captain, who thought it
nece'ssary to be always giving him the rope's end. Poor
John used to dance and roar with the sting of it, and take
care to deserve it better next -time.  He was unquestionably
"very aggravating," as the saying is; but, on the other hand,
the rope was not a little provoking.
23d. A strong breeze from the N. and N.E., with clouds
and rain. The foam by the vessel's side was full of those
sparkles I have mentioned, like stars in clouds of froth.  On
the 24th, the breeze increased, but the sky was fairer, and
the moon gave a light.  We drank the health of a friend in
England, whose birthday it was; being great observers of




86


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


that part of religion,    The 25th brought. us beautiful
weather, with a wind right from the north, so that we ran
down the remainder of the coast of Portugal in high style.
Just as we desired it, too, it changed to N.W., so as to
enable us to turn the Strait of.Gibraltar merrily.  Cape St.
Vincent (where the battle took place), just before you come
to Gibraltar, is a beautiful lone promontory jutting out upon
the sea, and crowned with a convent.    It presented itself to
my eyes the first thing when I came upon deck in the morning-clear, solitary, blind-looking; feeling, as it were, the
sea air and the solitude forever, like something between stone
and spirit, It reminded me of a couplet, written not long
before, of
" Ghastly castle, that eternally
Holds its blind visage out to the lone sea."
Such things are beheld in one's day-dreams, and we are almost startled to find them real.
Between the Cape and Gibraltar were some fishermen,
ten or twelve in a boat, fishing with a singular dancing motion of the line.  These were the first c" Southrons" we had
seen in their own domain; and they interested us accordingly.  One man took off his cap.    In return for this politeness, the sailors joked them in bad Portuguese, and shouted
with laughter at the odd sound of their language when they
replied. A seaman, within his ship and his limited horizon,
thinks he contains the whole circle of knowledge. Whatever
gives him a hint of any thing else, he looks upon as absurdity; and is the first to laugh at his own ignorance, without
knowing it in another shape. That a Portuguese should not
be able to speak English, appears to him the most ludicrous
thing in the world; while, on his part, he affects to think
it a condescension to speak a few rascally words of Portugese, though he is in reality very proud of them. The
more ignorance and inability, the more pride and intolerance!   A  servant-maid whom we' took with us to Italy,
could not c< abide" the disagreeable sound of Tuscan; and
professed to change the word grazie into grochy, because it
was prettier.




POETS ON THE SEA.


87


All this corner of the Peninsula is rich in ancient and
modern interest.  There is Cape St. Vincent, just mentioned; Trafalgar, more illustrious; Cadiz, the-city of Geryon;
Gibraltar and the other pillar of Hercules: Atlantis, Plato's
Island, which he puts hereabouts; and the Fortunate
Islands, Elysian Fields, or Gardens of the Hesperides, which,
under different appellations, and often confounded with one
another, lay in this part of the Atlantic, according to Pliny.
Here, also, if we are to take Dante's word for it, Ulysses
found a grave, not 'unworthy of his life in the Odyssey.
Milton ought to have come this way from  Italy instead of
twice going through France.   He would have found himself in a world of poetry, the unaccustomed grandeur of the
sea, keeping it in its original freshness, unspoilt by the commonplaces that beset us on shore; and his descriptions
would have been still finer for it.  It is observable that
Milton does not deal much in descriptions of the ocean, a
very epic part of poetry. He has been at Homer and
Apollonius, more than at sea. In one instance, he is
content with giving us an ancient phrase in one-half of his
line, and a translation of it in the other:
" On the clear hyaline-the glassy sea."
The best describer of the sea, among our English poets, is
Spenser, who was conversant with the Irish Channel.
Shakspeare, for an inland poet, is wonderful; but his astonishing sympathy with every thing, animate and inanimate,
made him lord of the universe, without stirring from his
seat.  Nature brought her shows to him like a servant
and drew back for his eye the curtains of time and place.
Milton and Dante speak of the ocean as of a great plain.
Shakspeare talks as if he had ridden upon it and felt its unceasing motion.
"The still-vext Bermoothes."
What a presence is there in that epithet! He draws a
rocky island with its waters about it, as if he had lived
there all his life; and he was the first among our dramatists to paint a sailor-as he was to lead the way in those




88


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


national caricatures of Frenchmen, Scotchmen, and Irishmen,
"You by whose aid,"
says Prospero,
"Weak masters though ye be, I have be-dimm'd
The noon-tide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war."
He could not have said it better, had he been buffeted with
all the blinding and shrieking of a Channel storm.      As to
Spenser, see his comparisons of " billows in the Irish
sounds;" his
"World of waters, wide and deep,"
in the first book-much better than " the ocean floor"
(suol marino) of Dante; and all the sea-pictures, both fair
and stormy, in the wonderful twelfth canto of Book the
Second with its fabulous ichthyology, part of which I must
quote here for the pleasure of poetical readers: for the seas
ought not to be traversed without adverting to these other
shapes of their terrors:
" All dreadfull pourtraicts of deformitie;
Spring-headed hydras, and sea-shouldering whales;
Great whirle-pooles which all fishes make to flee;
Bright scolopendras, arm'd with silver scales.
Mighty monoceros with immeasured tayles.*
The dreadfull fish that hath deserved the name
Of Death, and like him looks in dreadfull hew;
The griesly wasserman, that makes his game
The flying ships with swiftness to pursew;
The horrible sea-satyre, that doth shew
His fearefull face in time of greatest storm;
Huge ziffius whom mariners eschew
No less than rocks, as travelers informe;
(How he loads his verses with a weight of apprehension,
as if it was all real!)
And greedy rosmarines, with visages deforme.
* This is the smisurato of the Italians. In the Orlando Innamorato somebody comes riding on a smisurato cavallone, an immeasurable
horse.




SIGHT OF AFRICLA.


89


" All these, and thousand thousands many more,
And more deformed monsters, thousand-fold,
With dreadfull noise and hollow rumbling rore
Came rushing, in the fomy waves enroll'd
Which seemed to fly for feare them to behold.
No wonder if these did the knight appall:
For all that here on earth we dreadfull hold,
Be but as bugs to fearen babes withall,
Compared to the creatures in the sea's enthrall."
Five dreaclfydls in the course of three stanzas, and not
one too many, any more than if a believing child were talking to us.
Gibraltar has a noble look, tall, hard, and independent
But you do not wish to live there: it is a fortress, and an
insulated rock; and such a place is but a prison.      The inhabitants feed luxuriously, with the help of their fruits and
smugglers.
The first sight of Africa is an achievement. Voyagers in
our situation are obliged to be content with a mere sight of
it; but that is much.    They have seen another quarter of
the globe.  "< Africa!"   They look at it, and repeat the
word, till the whole burning and savage territory, with its
black inhabitants and its lions, seems put into their possession. Ceuta and Tangier bring the old Moorish times before you; "Apes' Hill," which is pointed out, sounds fantastic and remote, "< a wilderness of monkeys;" and as all
shores on which you do not clearly distinguish objects have
a solemn and romantic look, you get rid of the petty effect
of those vagabond Barbary States that occupy the coast, and
think at once of Africa, the country of deserts and wild
beasts, the " dry-nurse of lions, as Horace, with a vigor beyond himself, calls it.
At Gibraltar you first have a convincing proof of the
rarity of the southern atmosphere, in the near look of the
Straits, which seem but a few miles across, though they are
thirteen.
But what a crowd of thoughts face one on entering the
Mediterranean!     Grand    as the sensation    is in  passing
through the classical and romantic memories of the sea off
the western coast of the Peninsula, it is little compared with




90


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


this. Countless generations of the human race, from three
quarters of the world, with all the religions, and the mythologies, and the genius, and the wonderful deeds, good and
bad, that have occupied almost the whole.attention of mankind, look you in the face from the galleries of that oceanfloor, rising one above another, till the tops are lost in
heaven. The water at your feet is the same water that
bathes the shores of Europe, of Africa, and of Asia--of Italy
and Greece, and the Holy Land, and the lands of chivalry
and romance, and pastoral Sicily, and the Pyramids, and old
Crete, and the Arabian city of Al Cairo, glittering in the
magic lustre of the Thousand and One Nights.       This soft
air in your face comes from     the grove of " Daphne by
Orontes;" these lucid waters, that part from before you like
oil, are the same from which Venus arose, pressing them out
of her hair.  In that quarter Vulcan fell,
" Dropt from the zenith like a falling star:"
and there is Circe's Island, *and Calypso's, and the promontory of Plato, and Ulysses wandering, and       Cimon   and
Miltiades fighting, and Regulus crossing the sea to Carthage,
and
"Damasco and Morocco, and Trebisond;
And whom Biserta sent from Afric shore,
When Charlemagne with all his peerage fell
By Fontarabbia."
The mind hardly separates truth from fiction in thinking of
all these things, nor does it wish to do so. Fiction is Truth
in another shape, and gives us close embraces. You may
shut a door upon a ruby, and render it of no color; but the
color shall not be the less enchanting for that, when the sun,
the poet of the world, touches it with his golden pen.
What we glow at and shed tears over, is as real as love and
pity.
At night the moon arose in a perfection of serenity, and
restored the scene to the present moment.  I could not help
thinking, however, of Anacreon (poets are of all moments),
and fancying some connection with moonlight in the very




COAST OF GRANADA.


91


sound of the beautiful verse in which he speaks of that vernal
softness of the waves.
" Apalunetai galene."
I write the verse in English characters, that every reader
may taste it.
All our Greek beauties why should schools engross?
I used to feel grateful to Fielding and Smollett, when a boy,
for writing their Greek in English. It is like catching a
bit of a beautiful song, though one does not know the words.
27th. Almost a calm.   We proceeded at no greater rate
than a mile an hour. I kept repeating to myself the word
c" Mediterranean;" not the word in prose, but the word in
verse, as it stands at the beginning of the line:
" And the sea
Mediterranean."
We saw the mountains about Malaga, topped with snow.
Velez Malaga is probably the place at which Cervantes
landed on his return from captivity at Algiers.  (See Don
Quixote, vol. ii.) I had the pleasure of reading the passage,
while crossing the line betwixt the two cities. It is something to sail by the very names of Granada and Andalusia.
There was a fine sunset over the hills of Granada.  I imagined it lighting up the Alhambra.  The clouds were like
great wings of gold and yellowand rose-color, with a smaller
minute sprinkle in one spot, like a shower of glowing stones
from  a volcano.  You see very faint imitations of such
lustre in England.  A heavy dew succeeded; and a contrary wind at southeast, but very mild. At night, the reflection of the moon on the water was like silver snakes.
We had contrary winds for several days in succession,
but nothing to signify after our winter. On the 28th we
saw a fire at night on the coast of Granada, and similar
lights on the hills.  The former was, perhaps, made by
smugglers; the latter, in burning charcoal or heath.  A
gull came to us next day, hanging in the air, like the dove
in the picture, a few yards' distance from the trysail, and




92


LIFE OF LEIGH HbNT.


occasionally dipping in the water for fish.  It had a small
head, and long beak, like a snipe's; wings tipped with black.
It reminded us of Coleridge's poem; which my eldest boy,
in the teeth of his father's rhymes, had the impudence to
think the finest poem in the world. We may say of the
Ancient Mariner, what is only to be said of the very finest
poems, that it is equally calculated to please the imaginations of the most childlike boy and the profoundest man;
extremes, which meet in those superhuman places; and
superhuman, in a sense exquisitely human, as well as visionary.  I believe Coleridge's young admirer would have been
as much terrified at shooting this albatross, as the one the
poet speaks of; not to mention that he could not be quite
sure it was a different one.
30th. Passed Cape de Gata. My wife was very ill, but
observed that illness itself was not illness, compared to what
she experienced in the winter voyage. She never complained,
summer or winter.    It is very distressing not to be able to
give perfect comfort to patients of this generous description.
The Mediterranean Sea, after the Channel, was like a basin
of gold fish; but when the winds are contrary, the waves of
it have a short uneasy motion, that fidget the vessel, and
make one long for the nobler billows of the Atlantic. The
wind, too, was singularly unpleasant-moist and feverish.
It continued contrary for several days, but became more
agreeable, and sank almost into a calm on the 3d of June.
It is difficult for people on shore, in spite of their geographical knowledge, not to suppose that the view is very extensive
at sea.  Intermediate objects being out of the way, and the
fancy taking wing like the dove of Noah, they imagine the
*, ocean-floor," as the poets call it, extending itself interminably
all round, or bounded by an enormous horizon; whereas, the
stretch of vision is limited to a distance of about seven miles,
and the uninterrupted concave of the horizon, completes the
look of inclosure and limitation.  A  man on the top of a
moderate hill may see four or five times as far as from the
mainmast of a man-of-war.    In the thin atmosphere of the
south, the horizon appears to be still more circumscribed.
You seem to have but a very few miles around you, and can




WRITINGS OF BAYLE.


93


hardly help fancying that the sea is on a miniature scale, proportioned to the delicacy of its behavior.
On the day above mentioned, we saw the land between Cape
St. Martin and Alicant.  The coast hereabouts is all of the
same rude and gray character.  From this night to the next
it was almost a calm, when a more favorable wind sprang
up at east-southeast.  The books with which I chiefly
amused myself in the Mediterranean, were Don Quixote
(for reasons which will be obvious to the reader), Ariosto
and Berni (for similar reasons, their heroes having to do
with the coasts of France and Africa), and Bayle's admirable
Essay on Comets, which I picked up at Plymouth.    It is
the book that put an end to the superstition about comets.
It is full of amusement, like all his dialectics; and holds
together a perfect chain-armor of logic, the handler of which
may cut his fingers with it at every turn, almost every link
containing a double edge.  A generation succeeds quietly to
the good done it by such works, and its benefactor's name is
sunk in the washy pretensions of those whom he has enriched.  As to what seems defective in Bayle on the score of
natural piety, the reader may supply that.  A benevolent
work, tending to do away real dishonor to things supernatural, will be no hinderance to any benevolent addition which
others can bring it; nor would Bayle, with his good-natured
face, and the scholarly simplicity of his life, have found fault
with it.  But he was a soldier, after his fashion, with qualities, both positive and negative, fit to keep him one; and
some things must be dispensed with on the side of what
is desirable, for the sake of the part that is taken in the
overthrow of what is detestable. Him whom inquisitors
hate, angels may love.
A.11 day, on the 5th, we were off the island of Yvica.
The wind was contrary again till evening.    Yvica was
about ten miles off, when nearest.  It has a barren look,
with its rock in front.  Spain was in sight; before and
beyond, Cape St. Martin. The high land of Spain above
the clouds had a look really mountainous. After having
the sea to ourselves for a long while, we saw a vessel in our
own situation, beating to wind and tide.  Sympathy is some



94


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


times cruel as well as kind. One likes to have a compani, n
in misfortune. At night fell a calm.
6th. It was a grand thing this evening, to see on one side
of us the sunset, and on the other side, night-time, already
on the sea.  " Ruit oceano nox" (night rushes on the sea).
It is not true that there is no twilight in the south, but it is
very brief.  Before the day is finished on one side, night is
on the other.  You turn and behold it unexpectedly-a black
shade that fills one end of the horizon, and seems at once
brooding and coming on.   One sight like this, to a Hesiod
or a Thales, is sufficient'to fill poetry for ever with those
images of brooding, and of raven wings, and the birth of
chaos, which are associated with the mythological idea of
night.
To-day we hailed a ship bound for Nice, which would not
tell us the country she came from.  Questions put by one
vessel to another are frequently refused an answer, for reasons of knavery or policy.  It was curious to hear our rough
and informal captain speaking through his trumpet with all
the precision and loud gravity of a preacher.  There is a
formula in use on these occasions that has an old scriptural
effect.  A ship descried, appears to the sailors like a friend
visiting them in prison.  All hands are interested: all eyes
turn to the same quarter; the business of the vessel is suspended: and such as have license to do so, crowd on the
gangway; the captain, with an air of dignity, having his
trumpet brought him.   You think that " What cheer, ho?"
is to follow, or, ", Well, my lads, who are you? and where
are you going?"  Not so; the captain applies his mouth
with a pomp of preparation, and you are startled with the
following primitive shouts, all uttered in a high formal tone,
with due intervals between, as if a Calvinistic Stentor were
questioning a man from the land of Goshen:
"What is your name?"
" Whence come you?"
" Whither are you bound?"
After the question " What is your name?" all ears are bent
to listen.  The answer comes, high and remote, nothing, per.




ANGELICA AND MEDORO.


95


haps, being distinguished of it but the vowels. The c" Sallof-Hym," you must translate into the Sally of Plymouth.,"Whence come you?"   All ears bent again. c" Myr" or,, Mau," is Smyrna or Malta.
i Whither are you' bound?"   All ears again.  No answer.    D--d if he'll tell," cries the captain, laying down
at once his trumpet and his scripture.
7th. Saw the Colombrettes, and the land about Tortosa.
Here commences the ground of Italian romance.  It was on
this part of the west of Spain, that the Paynim chivalry
used to land, to go against Charlemagne. Here Orlando
played him the tricks that got him the title of Furioso; and
from the port of Barcelona, Angelica and Medoro took ship
for her dominion of Cathay.   I confess I looked at these
shores with a human interest, and could not help fancying
that the keel of our vessel was crossing a real line, over
which knights and lovers had passed. And so they have,
both real and fabulous; the former not less romantic, the
latter scarcely less real; to thousands, indeed, much nmore
so; for who knows not of hundreds of real men and women
that have crossed these waters, and suffered actual passion
on those shores and hills? And who knows not Orlando
and all the hard blows he gave, and the harder blow than
all given him by two happy lovers; and the lovers themselves, the representatives of all the young love that ever
was. I had a grudge of my own against Angelica, looking
upon myself as jilted by those fine eyes which the painter
has given her in the English picture; for I took her for a
more sentimental person; but I excused her, seeing her beset and tormented by all those knights, who thought they
earned a right to her by hacking and hewing; and I more
than pardoned her, when I found that Medoro, besides being
young and handsome, was a friend and devoted follower.
But what of that?  They were both young and handsome;
and love, at that time of life, goes upon no other merits,
taking all the rest upon trust in the generosity of its wealth,
and as willing to bestow a throne as a ribbon, to show the
all-sufficiency of its contentment. Fair speed your sails over
the lucid waters, ye lovers, on a lover-like sea?  Fair speed




96


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


them, yet never land; for where the poet has left you, there
ought ye, as ye are, to be living for ever-for ever gliding
about a summer-sea, touching at its flowery islands, and reposing beneath its moon.
The blueness of the water about these parts was excessive,
especially in the shade next the vessel's side.  The gloss of
the sunshine was there taken off, and the color was exactly
that of the bottles sold in the shops with gold stoppers.  In
the shadows caused by the more transparent medium of the
sails, an exquisite radiance was thrown up, like light struck
out of a great precious stone.  These colors, contrasted with
the yellow of the horizon at sunset, formed one of those
spectacles of beauty, which it is difficult to believe not intended to delight many more spectators than can witness
them with human eyes. Earth and sea are full of gorgeous
pictures, which seem made for a nobler, and certainly a
more numerous admiration, than is found among ourselves.
Individuals may roam the loveliest country for a summer's
day, and hardly meet a person bound on the same enjoyment
as themselves.   Does human nature flatter itself that all
this beauty was made for its dull and absent eyes, gone elsewhere to poke about for pence?   Or, if so, is there not to
be discerned in it a new and religious reason for being more
alive to the wholesome riches of nature, and less to those
carking cares and unneighborly emulations of cities?
8th. Calm till evening, when a fairer wind arose, which
continued all night. There was a divine sunset over the
mouth of the Ebro-majestic, dark-embattled clouds, with
an intense sun venting itself above and below like a Shekinah, and the rest of the heaven covered with large flights
of little burnished and white clouds. It was what is called
in England a mackerel sky, an appellation which may serve
to show how inferior it is to a sky of the same mottled description in the south. All colors in the north are comparatively cold and fishy. You have only to see a red cap under
a Mediterranean sun, to be convinced that our painters will
never emulate those of Italy as our poets have done.  They
are birds of a different clime, and are modified accordingly.
They do not live upon the same lustrous food; therefore will




INFLUENCE OF CLIMATE ON MIND.


97


never show it in their plumage.  Poetry is the internal part,
or sentiment, of what is material; and therefore, our thoughts
being driven inward, and rendered imaginative by these very
defects of climate which discolor to us the external world, we
have had among us some of the greatest poets that ever
existed.  It is observable, that the greatest poets of Italy
came from Tuscany, where there is a great deal of inclemency
in the seasons.  The painters were from Venice, Rome, and
other quarters; some of which, though more northern, are
more genially situated.  The hills about Florence made
Petrarch and Dante well acquained with winter; and they
were also travelers, and unfortunate. These are mighty
helps to reflection.  Titian and Raphael had nothing to do
but to paint under a blue sky half the day, and play with
their mistress's locks all the rest of it.  Let a painter in
cloudy and bill-broking England do this if he can.
9th. Completely fair wind at southwest. Saw Montserrat. The sunshine, reflected on the water from the lee
studding-sail, was like shot silk. At half-past seven in the
evening, night was risen in the east, while the sun was setting opposite.,' Black night has come up already," said
our poetical captain. A fair breeze all night and all next
day, took us on at the rate of about five miles an hour, very
refreshing after the calms and foul winds. We passed the
Gulf of Lyons still more pleasantly than we did the Bay of
Biscay, for in the latter there was a calm.  In both of these
places, a little rough handling is generally looked for. A
hawk settled on the main-yard, and peered about the birdless
main.
11lth. Light airs not quite fair, till noon, when they returned and were somewhat stronger. (I am thus particular
in my daily notices, both to complete the reader's sense of
the truth of my narrative, and to give him the benefit of
them  in case he goes the same road).  The land about
Toulon was now visible, and then the Hieres Islands, a
French paradise of oranges and sweet airs,
"Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles."
The perfume exhaling from these and other flowery coasts
VOL. II.--,




98


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


is no fable, as every one knows who has passed Gibraltar
and the coast of Genoa.   M. le Franc de Pompignan, in
some verses of the commonest French manufacture, tells us,
with respect to the Hieres Islands, that Vertumnus, Pomona,
Zephyr, &c., " reign there always." and that the place is
" the asylum of their loves and the throne of their empire."
Very private and public!
"Vertumne, Pomone, Z6pyhre
Avec Flore y regnent toujours;
C'est 1'asyle de leurs amours,
Et le trone de leur empire."
It was the coast of Provence we were now looking upon,
the land of the Troubadours.  It seemed but a short cut
over to Tripoli, where Geoffrey Rudel went to look upon his
mistress and die.  But our attention was called off by a less
romantic spectacle, a sight unpleasant to an Englishmanthe union flag of Genoa and Sardinia-hoisted on a boat.
An independent flag of any kind is something; a good old
battered and conquered one is much; but this bit of the
Holy Alliance livery, patched up among his brother servants
by poor Lord Castlereagh, and making its bow in the very
seas where Andrew Doria feasted an emperor and refused a
sovereignty, was a balk of a very melancholy kind of burlesque. The Sardinian was returning with empty wine casks
from the French coast; a cargo which, at the hour of day
when we saw it, probably bore the liveliest possible resem
blance to the heads whom he served.  The wind fell in the
evening, and there was a dead calm all night. At eleven
o'clock, a grampus was heard breathing very hard, but we
could not see it on account of the mists, the only ones we
had experienced in the Mediterranean.  These sounds of
great fish in the night-time are very imposing, the creature
displacing a world of water about it, as it dips and rises at
intervals on its billowy path.
12th. During the night we must have crossed the path
which Bonaparte took to Antibes from Elba. We went
over it as unconsciously as he now travels round with the
globe in his long sleep. Talking with the captain to-day, I
learned that his kindred and he monopolize the whole em



FIRST SIGHT OF MOUNTAINS.


99


ployment of his owner, and-that his father served in it thirtythree years out of fifty.  There is always something respectable in continuity and duration.  If this family should continue to be masters and conductors of vessels for two or three
generations, more especially in the same interest, they will
have a sort of moral pedigree to show, far beyond those of
many proud families, who do nothing at all because their
ancestors did something a hundred years back.
I will here set down a memorandum, with regard to vessels, which may be useful.   The one we sailed in was
marked A. 1, in the shipping list: that is to say, it stood in
the first rank of sea-worthy vessels; and it is in vessels of this
class that people are always anxious to sail.  In the present
instance, the ship was worthy of the rank it bore; so was the
one we buffeted the Channel in; or.it would not have held
out. But this mark of prime worthiness, A. 1, a vessel is
allowed to retain only ten years; the consequence of which
is, that many ships are built to last only that time; and
goods and lives are often intrusted to a weak vessel, instead
of one which, though twice as old, is in twice as good a condition.  The best way is to get a friend who knows something of the matter, to make inquiries; and the sea-worthiness of the captain himself, his standing with his employers,
&c., might as well be added to the list.
13th. The ALPS! It was the first time I had seen
mountains.   They had a fine sulky look, up aloft in the
sky-cold, lofty, and distant.  I used to think that mountains would impress me but little; that by the same process
of imagination reversed, by which a brook can be fancied a
mighty river, with forests instead of verdure on its banks, a
mountain.,ould be made a mole-hill, over which we step.
But one look convinced me to the contrary. I found I could
elevate better than I could pull down; and I was glad of it.
It was not that the sight of the Alps was necessary to convince
me of   the being of a God," as it is said to have done somebody, or to put me upon any reflections respecting infinity
and first causes, of which I have had enough in my time;
but I seemed to meet for the first time a grand poetical
thought in a material shape-to see a piece of one's book



100


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


wonders realized-something very earthly, yet standing between earth and heaven, like a piece of the antediluvian
world looking out of the coldness of ages. I remember reading in a review a passage from some book of travels, which
spoke of the author standing on the sea-shore, and being led
by the silence and the abstraction, and the novel grandeur
of the objects around him, to think of the earth, not in its
geographical relations but as a planet in connection with
other planets, and rolling in the immensity of space.  With
these thoughts I have been familiar, as I suppose every
one has been who knows what solitude is, and has an imagination and perhaps not the best health. But we grow used
to the mightiest aspects of thought, as we do to the immortal visages of the moon and stars; and therefore the first
sight of the Alps, though much less things than any of
these, and a toy as I had fancied, for imagination to recreate
itself with after their company, startles us like the disproof
of a doubt, or the verification of an early dream-a ghost,
as it were, made visible by daylight, and giving us an enormous sense of its presence and materiality.
In the course of the day, we saw the table land about
Monaco.    It brought to my mind the ludicrous distress of
the petty prince of that place, when on his return from interchanging congratulations with his new masters and legitimates, he suddenly met his old master, Napoleon, on his
return from Elba. Or did he meet him when going to Elba?
I forget which; but the distresses and confusion of the prince
were at all events as certain as the superiority and amusement of the great man. In either case this was the natural
division of things, and the circumstances would have been
the same. A large grampus went by, heaping 'the water
into clouds of foam.  Another time, we saw a shark with
his fin above water, which, I believe, is his constant way of
going. The Alps were now fully and closely seen, and a
glorious sunset took place. There was the greatest grandeur
and the loveliest beauty. Among others was a small string
of clouds, like rubies with facets, a very dark tinge being
put here and there, as if by a, painter to set off the rest.
Red is certainly the color of beauty and ruby the most beau



BRILLIANT CLOUDS AT SUNSET.


101


tiful of reds.  It was in no commonplace spirit that Marlowe, in his list of precious stones, called them (< beauteous
rubies," but with exquisite gusto;
"Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts,
Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds,
Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds," &c.
They come upon you, among the rest, like the women of
gems. All these colors we had about us in our Mediterranean sunsets; and as if fortune would add to them by a
freak of fancy, a little shoal of fish, sparkling as silver, leaped
out of the water this afternoon, like a sprinkle of shillings.
They were the anchovies, or Sardinias, that we eat.  They
give a burlesque title to the sovereign of these seas, whom
the Tuscans call cc King of the Sardinias."
We were now sailing up the angle of the Gulf of Genoa,
its shore looking as Italian as possible, with groves and white
villages. The names, too, were alluring, Oneglia, Albenga,
Savona; the last, the birthplace of a sprightly poet (Frugoni), whose works I was acquainted with.  The breeze was
the strongest we had had yet, and not quite fair, but we
made good head against it; the queen-like city of Genoa,
crowned with white palaces, sat at the end of the gulf, as
if to receive us in state; and at two o'clock, the waters
being as blue as the sky, and all hearts rejoicing, we entered our Italian harbor, and heard Italian words.
Luckily for us, these first words were Tuscan.  A pilot
boat came out.   Somebody asked a question which we did
not hear, and the captain replied to it.  " VA BENE," said
the pilot in a fine open voice, and turned the head of the
boat with a tranquil dignity. "Va bene," thought I, indeed.
<( All goes well," truly.  The words are delicious, and the
omen good.   My family have arrived so far in safety; we
have but a little more voyage to make, a few steps to measure back in this calm Mediterranean; the weather is glorious; Italy lodks like what we expected; in a day or two
we shall hear of our friends: health and peace are before us,
pleasure to others and profit to ourselves; and it is hard if
we do not enjoy again, before long, the society of all our




102


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


friends both abroad and at home,  In a day or two we received a letter from Shelley, saying that winds and waves,
he hoped, would never part us more.  Alas! for that saying.
In the harbor of Genoa, we lay next a fine American
vessel, the captain of which, I thought, played the great
man in a style beyond any thing I had seen in our English
merchantmen.   On the other side of us, was an Englishman,
as fragile as the other was stout built.  Yet the captain,
with a dialect more uncouth than any of us had heard,
talked of its weathering the last winter capitally, and professed not to care any thing for a gale of wind, which he
called a "gal o' wined."  We here met with our winter
vessel, looking as gay and summery as possible, and having
an awning stretched over the deck, under which the captain
invited us to dine.  I went and had the pleasure of meeting
our friend the mate, and a good-natured countryman, residing
at Genoa, who talked much of a French priest whom he
knew, and whom     he called "the prate" (pretre).  Our
former companions, in completing their voyage, had had a
bad time of it in the Gulf of Lyons, during which the ship
was under water, the cook-house and bulwarks, &c., carried
away, and the men obliged to be taken aft into the cabin
two nights together.  We had reason to bless ourselves that
my wife was not there; for this would infallibly have put
an end to her.
On the 28th of June, we set sail for Leghorn.    The
weather was still as fine as possible, and our concluding
trip as agreeable; with the exception of a storm of thunder
and lightning one night, which was the completest I ever
saw.   Our newspaper friend, "the oldest man living," ought
to have been there to see it.  The lightning fell in all parts
of the sea, like pillars; or like great melted fires, suddenly
dropped from a giant torch.  Now it pierced the sea like
rods; now fell like enormous flakes or tongues, suddenly
swallowed up. At one time, it seemed to confine itself to a
dark corner of the ocean, making formidable shows of gigantic and flashing lances (for it was the most perpendicular
lightning' I ever saw): then it dashed broadly at the whole




BRITISH SEAMEN FRIGHTENED.


103


sea, as if it would sweep us away in flame; and then came
in random   portions about the vessel, treading the waves
hither and thither, like the legs of fiery spirits descending in
wrath.
I now had a specimen (and confess I was not sorry to see
it) of the fear which could enter even into the hearts of our
" gallant heroes," when thrown into an unusual situation.
The captain, almost the only man unmoved, or apparently
so (and I really believe he was as fearless on all occasions,
as his native valor, to say nothing of his brandy-and-water,
could make him), was so exasperated with the alarm depicted
in the faces of some of his crew, that he dashed his hand
contemptuously at the poor fellow at the helm   and called,
him a coward.    For our parts, having no fear of thunder
and lightning, and not being fully aware perhaps of the
danger to which vessels are exposed on these occasions, particularly if, like our Channel friend, they carry gunpowder
(as most of them do, more or less), we were quite at our
ease compared with our inexperienced friends about us, who
had never witnessed any thing of the like before even in
books. Besides, we thought it impossible for the Mediterranean to play us any serious trick-that sunny and lucid
basin, which we had beheld only in its contrast with a
northern and a winter sea. Little did we think, that in so
short a space of time, and somewhere about this very spot,
a catastrophe would take place, that should put an end
to all sweet thoughts, both of the Mediterranean and the
south.




CHAPTER XVIII.


RETURN TO FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH LORD
BYRON     AND   THOMAS MOORE.
First sight of Lord Byron.-Jackson the prize-fighter.-Bathing at
Westminster.-Sympathy with early poems.-More prison recollections.-Lord Byron and the House of Peers.-Thomas Moore and
the Liberal.-Mistaken conclusions of his.-His appearance, man.
ners, and opinions.-Letters of Lord Byron.
LORD BYRON was at Leghorn; the bad weather has disappeared; the vessel is about to enter port; and as every
thing concerning the noble lord is interesting, and the like
may be said of his brother wit and poet, Thomas Moore,
who introduced me to him, I will take this opportunity of
doing what had better, perhaps, been done when I first
made his lordship's acquaintance; namely, state when it
was that I first saw the one, and how I became acquainted
with the other. My intimady with Lord Byron is about to
become closer; the results of it are connected both with him
and his friend, and as these results are on the eve of commencing, my own interest in the subject is strengthened,
and I call things to mind which I had suffered to escape
me.
The first time I saw Lord Byron, he was rehearsing the
part of Leander, under the auspices of Mr. Jackson the prizefighter. It was in the river Thames, before he went to
Greece. There used to be a bathing-machine stationed on
the eastern side of Westminster Bridge; and I had been bathing, and was standing on this machine adjusting my clothes,
when I noticed a respectable-looking, manly person, who.
was eying something at a distance.  This was Mr. Jackson
waiting for his pupil. The latter was swimming with
somebody for a wager. I forget what his tutor said of him;




LORD BYRON AND THE AUTHOR.


5


ut he spoke in terms of praise.  I saw nothin' i" Lord
Byron at that time, but a young man who, like r. jAe', had
written a bad volume of poems; and though I hea   a sympathy with him on this account, and more respect for his
rank than I was willing to suppose, my sympathy was not
an agreeable one; so, contenting myself with seeing his
lordship's head bob up and down in the water, like a buoy,
I came away.
Lord Byron, when he afterward came to see me in prison,
was pleased to regret that I had not staid. He told me,
that the sight of my volume at Harrow had been one of his
incentives to write verses, and that he had had the same
passion for friendship which I had displayed in it.  To my
astonishment he quoted some of the lines, and would not
hear me speak ill of them. His harbinger in the visit was
Moore. Moore told me, that, besides liking my politics, his
lordship liked the Feast of the Poets, and would be glad to
make my acquaintance. I said I felt myself highly flattered,
and should be proud to entertain his lordship as well as a
poor patriot could.  He was accordingly invited to dinner.
His friend only stipulated that there should be c" fish and
vegetables for the noble bard;" his lordship at that time
being anti-carnivorous in his eating. He came, and we
passed a very pleasant afternoon, talking of books, and school,
and of their friend and brother poet the late Rev. Mr.
Bowles; whose sonnets were among the early inspirations
of Coleridge.
Lord Byron, as the reader has seen, subsequently called on
me in the prison several times. He used to bring books for
the Story of Rimini, which I was then writing.  He would
not let the footman bring them in. He would enter with
a couple of quartos under his arm; and give you to understand that he was prouder of being a friend and a man of
letters, than a lord.  It was thus that by flattering one's
vanity he persuaded us of his own freedom from it; for he
could see very well that I had more value for lords than I
supposed.
In the correspondence which will be given hereafter,
the reader will find some letters addressed to me at this
E*




106


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


period by Lord Byron. The noble poet was a warm politician,
earnest in the cause of liberty;  His failure in the House of
Lords is well known. He was very candid about it; said
he was much frightened, and should never be able to do
any thing that way.  Lords of all parties came about him,
and consoled him.   He particularly mentioned Lord Sidmouth, as being unexpectedly kind.
It was very pleasant to see Lord Byron and Moore
together. They harmonized admirably: though their knowledge of one another began in talking of a duel, in consequence
of his lordship attacking the license of certain early verses.
Moore's acquaintance with myself (as far as concerned correspondence by letter), originated in the mention of him in
the Feast of the Poets.  He subsequently wrote an opera,
called the Blue Stocking, respecting which he sent me a
letter, at once deprecating and warranting objection to it.
I was then editor of the Examiner; I did-object to it,
though with all acknowledgment of his genius. He came
to see me, saying I was very much in the tight; and an
intercourse took place, which was never ostensibly iAterrupted
till I thought myself aggrieved by his opposition to.the
periodical work proposed to me by his noble friend.  I say
" thought myself aggrieved," because I have loig since
acquitted him of any intention toward me, more liele than
that of zeal in behalf of what he supposed best for his lordship. He was desirous of preventing him from coming
before the Tory critics under a new and irritating aspect, at
a time when it might be considered prudent to keep quiet,
and propitiate objections already existing.  The only thing
which remained for me to complain of, was his not telling
me so frankly; for this would have been a confidence which
I deserved; and it would either have made me, of my own
accord, object to the project at once, without the least hesitation, or, at all events, have been met by me with such a
hearty sense of the plain dealing, and in so friendly a spirit
of difference, that no ill-will, I think, could have remained
on either side.  Moore, at least, was of too generous a spirit
for it; and I was of too grateful a one.
Unfortunately, this plan was not adopted by his lordship's




MISTAKEN CONCLUSIONS OF MOORE'S.


107


friends; and hence a series of bitter feelings on both sides,
which, as I was the first to express them, so I did not hesitate to be the first to regret publicly, when on both sides
they had tacitly been done away.
Moore fancied, among other things, that I meant to pain
him by speaking of his small stature; and perhaps it was
wrong to hazard a remark on so delicate a subject, however
inoffensively meant; especially as it led to other personal
characteristics, which might have seemed of less doubtful
intention.  But I felt only a painter's pleasure in taking
the portrait; and I flattered myself that, as far as externals
went, I abundantly evinced my good-will, not only by doing
justice to all that was handsome and poetical in his aspect,
and by noticing the beauty reported of his childhood, but by
the things which I said of-the greatness observable in so
many little men in history, especially as recorded by Clarendon.  In fact, this had been such a favorite subject with me,
that some journalists concluded I must be short myself,
which, I am bound to say, is not the case. Men of great
action, I suspect, including the most heroical soldiers, have
been for the most part of short stature, from the fabulous
Tydeus, to Alexander and Agesilaus, and so downward to
Wellington and Napoleon.    Nor have sages and poets, or
any kind of genius, been wanting to the list; from   the
ancient philosopher who was obliged to carry lead in his
pockets lest he should be blown away, down to Michael
Angelo, and Montaigne, and Barrow, and Spenser himself,
and the Falklands and Haleses of Clarendon, and Pope,
and Steele, and Reynolds, and Mozart.
Moore's forehead was bony and full of character, -vith
( btimps" of wit, large and radiant enough to transport a
phrenologist.  Sterne had such another.  His eyes were as
dark and fine as you would wish to see under a set of vineleaves; his mouth generous and good-humored, with dimples;
and his manner as bright as his talk, full of the wish to please
and be pleased.  He sang and played with great taste on the
piano-forte, as might be supposed from his musical compositions.  His voice, which was a little hoarse in speaking (at
least I used to think so), softened into a breath, like that of




108.


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


the flute, when singing. In speaking he was emphatic in
rolling the letter r, perhaps out of a despair of being able to
get rid of the national peculiarity.  The structure of his
versification, when I knew him, was more artificial than it
was afterward; and in his serious compositions it suited
htim better. He had hardly faith enough to give way to his
impulses in writing, except when they were festive and witty;
and artificial thoughts demand a similar embodiment. Both
patriotism  and personal experience, however, occasionally
inspired him with lyric pathos; and in his naturally musical
perception of the right principles of versification, he contemplated the fine, easy playing,, muscular style of Dryden, with
a sort of perilous pleasure. I remember his quoting with
delight a couplet of Dryden's which came with a particular
grace out of his mouth:
" Let honor and preferment go for gold;
But glorious beauty isn't to be sold."
Beside the pleasure I took in Moore's society as a man
of wit, I had a great esteem for him as a man of candor and
independence. His letters * were full of all that was pleasant in him.   As I was a critic at that time, and in the
habit of giving my opinion of his works in the, Examiner,
he would write me his opinion of the opinion, with a
mixture of good-humor, admission, and deprecation, so truly
delightful, and a sincerity of criticism on my own writings
so extraordinary for so courteous a man, though with abundance of balm    and eulogy, that never any subtlety of
compliment could surpass it; and with all my self-confidence
I never ceased to think that the honor was on my side, and
that I could only deserve such candor of intercourse by being
as ingenuous as himself. This admiring regard for him he
completed by his behavior to an old patron of his, who, not
thinking it politic to retain him openly by his side, proposed
to facilitate his acceptance of a place under the Tories; an
accommodation which Moore rejected as an indignity. I
thought, afterward, that a man of such a spirit should not
have condescended to attack Rousseau and poor foolish
* Some of thlnm are given subsequently,




LETTERS OF LORD BYRON.


109


Madame de Warrens, out of a desire to right himself with
polite life and with the memory of some thoughtless productions of his own.   Polite life was only too happy to possess
him in his graver days; and the thoughtless productions,
however to be regretted on reflection, were reconcilable to
reflection itself on the same grounds on which Nature herself
and all her exuberance is to be reconciled.   At least, without presuming to judge nature in the abstract, an ultrasensitive and enjoying poet is himself a production of nature;
and we may rest assured, that she will no more judge him
with harshness ultimately, than she will condemn the excess
of her own vines and fig-trees.
I will now lay before the reader the letters which I had
received from Lord Byron during the period of my first
acquaintance with    him.    Other circumstances originally
called for their publication; but they are of a nature not to
go counter to new feelings, or rather to the renewal of the
oldest and best; and they furnish also, I think, the most
appropriate introduction to the resumption of my intercourse
with his lordship.
LETTER I.
[Lord Byron's Domestic Affairs and Friendships.]
4 Bennet-street, Dec. 2d, 1813.
MY DEAR SIR-Few things could be more welcome than your note;
and on Saturday morning I will avail myself of your permission to
thank you for it in person. My time has not been passed, since we
met, either profitably or agreeably. A very short period after my
last visit, an incident occurred with which, I fear, you are not unacquainted, as report in many mouths and more than one paper was
busy with the topic. That naturally gave me much uneasiness. Then
I nearly incurred a lawsuit on the sale of an estate; but that is now
arranged: next-but why should I go on with a series of selfish and
silly details? I merely wish to assure you, that it was not the frivolous forgetfulness of a mind occupied by what is called pleasure (not
in the true sense of Epicurus) that kept me away; but a perception
of my then unfitness to share the society of those whom I value and
wish not to displease. I hate being larmoyant, and making a serious
face among those who are cheerful.
It is my wish that our acquaintance, or, if you please to accept it,
friendship, may be permanent. I have been lucky enough to preserve
some friends from a very early period, and I hope, as I do not (at least




110


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


now) select them lightly, I shall not lose them capriciously. I have
a thorough esteem for that independence of spirit which you have
maintained with sterling talent, and at the expense of some suffering.
You have not, I trust, abandoned the poem you were composing when
Moore and I partook of your hospitality in the summer?  I hope a
time will come, when he and I may be able to repay you in kind for
the latter; for the rhyme, at least in quantity, you are in arrear to
both.
Believe me very truly and affectionately yours,
BYRoN.
LETTER II.
[Debts of the Regent-alrs. Leigh-Mr. Brougham-Mr. Moore.]
Dec. 22d, 1813.
MY DEAR SIR-I am, indeed, "in your debt," and, what is still
worse, am obliged to follow royal example (he has just apprized his
creditors that they must wait till the meeting), and intreat your indulgence for, "I hope, a very short time. The nearest relation, and
almost the only friend I possess, has been in London for a week, and
leaves it to-morrow with me for her own residence. I return immediately; but we meet so seldom, and are so 'minuted when we meet at
all, that I give up all engagements till now without reluctance. On
my return, I must see you to console myself for my past disappointments. I should feel highly honored in Mr. B-   's* permission to
make his acquaintance, and there you are in my debt, for it is a promise of last summer which I still hope to see performed. Yesterday I
had a letter from Moore: you have probably heard from him lately;
but if not, you will be glad to learn that he is the same in heart, head,
and health.
LETTER III.
[Notes to the Feast of the Poets-Italian School of Poetry-A.ttacks
on Lord Byron in the Newspapers.]
Feb. 9th, 1814.
MY DEAR SIm-I have been snow-bound and thaw-swamped (two
compound epithets for you) in the "valley of the shadow" of Newstead
Abbey for nearly a month, and have not been four hours returned to
London. Nearly the first use I make of my benumbed fingers is to
thank you for your very handsome note in the volume you have just put
forth; only, I trust, to be followed by others on subjects more worthy
* The noble poet and Lord Brougham not long afterward met in
my rooms, and seemed mutually pleased.




LETTERS OF LORD BYRON.


111


your notice than the works of contemporaries. Of myself, you speak
only too highly, and you must think me strangely spoiled, or perversely peevish, even to suspect that any remarks of yours, in the
spirit of candid criticism, could possibly prove unpalatable. Had they
been harsh, instead of being written, as they are, in the indelible ink
of good sense and friendly admiration, had they been the harshest-as
I knew and know that you are above any personal bias, at least against
your fellow-bards-believe me, they would not have caused a word
of remonstrance, nor a moment of rankling on my part. Your poem*
I redde t long ago in the Reflector, and it is not much to say it is the
best " Session" we have-and with a more difficult subject-for we
are neither so good nor so bad (taking the best and worst) as the wits
of the olden time.
To your smaller pieces I have not yet had time to do justice by
perusal, and I have a quantity of unanswered, and, I hope, unanswerable letters to wade through, before I sleep; but to-morrow will see
me through your volume. I am glad to see you have tracked Gray
among the Italians. You will, perhaps, find a friend or two of yours
there also, though not to the same extent; but I have always thought
the Italians the only poetical moderns: our Milton, and Spenser, and
Shakspeare (the last through translations of their tales), are very
Tuscan, and surely it is far superior to. the French school....
Murray has, I hope, sent you my last bantling, The Corsair. I have
been regaled at every inn on the road by lampoons and other merry
conceits on myself in the ministerial gazettes, occasioned by the republication of two stanzas inserted in 1812, in Perry's paper. t The
hysterics of the Morning Post are quite interesting; and I hear (but
have not seen) of something terrific in a last week's Courier; all
which I take with "the calm indifference" of Sir Fretful Plagiary.
The Morning Post has one copy of devices upon my deformity, which
certainly will admit of no "historic doubts," like " Dickon my master's;" another upon my atheism, which is not quite so clear; and
another, very downrightly, says I am the devil (boiteux they might
have added), and a rebel, and what not: possibly my accuser of diabolism may be Rosa Matilda, and if so, it would not be difficult to
convince her I am a mere man. I shall break in upon you in a day
or two-distance has hitherto detained me; and I hope to find you
well and myself welcome.
Ever your obliged and sincere,
BYaoN.
P.S.-Since this letter was written, I have been at your text, which
has much good humor in every sense of the word. Your notes are of
a very high order indeed, particularly on Wordsworth.
* The Feast of the Poets.                t Sic in MS.
t Morning Chroniclei




112


LIFE OF LEIGH HI;UNT.


LETTER IV.
[Lord Byron's approaching Marriage.]
October 15, 1814.
MY DEAR HUNT-I send you some game, of which I beg your
acceptance. I specify the quantity as a security against the porter:
a hare, a pheasant, and two brace of partridges, which,I hope are
fresh. My stay in town has not been long, and I am in all the agonies
of quitting it again next week on business, preparatory to "a change
of condition," as it is called by the talkers on such matters. I am
about to be married, and am, of course, in all the misery of a man
in pursuit of happiness.  My intended is two hundred miles off:
and the efforts I am making with lawyers, &c., &c., to join my future
connections are, for a personage of my single and inveterate habitsto -say nothing of indolence-quite prodigious! I sincerely hope you
are better than your paper intimated lately, and that your approaching
freedom will find you in full health to enjoy it.
Yours, ever,          BYRON.
LETTER V.
[Drury-Lane Theatre-Parisian Correspondence--Lady Byron-The
Descent of Liberty-Lara.]
13 Piccadilly-terrace, May-June 1st, 1815.
MY DEAR HUNT-I am as glad to hear from, as I shall be to see
you. We came to town what is called late in the season; and since
that time, the death of Lady Byron's uncle (in the first place, and her
own delicate state of health, have prevented either of us from going
out much; however, she is now better, and in a fair way of going
credibly through the. whole process of beginning a family.
I have the alternate weeks of a private box at Drury-Lane Theatre:
this is my week, and I send you an admission to it for Kean's nights,
Friday and Saturday next, in case you should like to see him quietly:
it is close to the stage; the entrance by the private box-door, and you
can go without the bore of crowding, jostling, or dressing. I also inclose you a parcel of recent letters from Paris; perhaps you may find
some extracts that may amuse yourself or your readers. I have only
to beg you will prevent your copyist, or printer, from mixing up
any of the English names, or private matter contained therein, which
might lead to a discovery of the writer; and, as the Examiner is sure
to travel back to Paris, might get him into a scrape, to say nothing
of his correspondent at home. At any rate I hope and think the
perusal will amuse you. Whenever you come this way, I shall be
happy to make you acquainted with Lady Byron, whom you will find
any thing but a fine lady--a species of animal which you probably do
not affect more than myself. Thanks for the Mask; there is not only
poetry and thought in the body, but much research and good old




LETTERS OF LORD BYRON.


113


reading in your prefatory matter. I hope you have not given up your
narrative poem, of which I neard you speak as in progress.    It
rejoices me to hear of the well-doing and regeneration of the Feast,
setting aside my own selfish reasons for wishing it success. I fear
you stand almost single in your liking of Lara: it is natural that 1
should, as being my last and most unpopular effervescence: passing
by its other sins, it is too little narrative, and too metaphysical to
please the greater number of readers. I have, however, much consolation in the exception with which you furnish me. From Moore I
have not heard very lately. I fear he is a little humorous, because I
am a lazy correspondent; but that shall be mended.
Ever your obliged and very sincere friend,
BYRON.
P.S.-" Politics!"  The barking of the war-dogs for their carrion
has sickened me of them for the present.
LETTER VI.
[Twopenny Post-Lord Byron's opinion of Wordsworth.]
13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 7th, 1815.
MY DEAR HUNT-I had written a long answer to your last, which I
put into the fire; partly, because it was a repetition of what I have
already said-and next, because I considered what my opinions are
worth, before I made you pay double postage, as your proximity lays
you within the jaws of the tremendous "Twopenny," and beyond the
verge of franking-the only parliamentary privilege (saving one other)
of much avail in these " costermonger days."
Pray don't make me an exception to the " Long live King Richard"
of your bards in the Feast. I do allow him to be " prince of the bards
of his time," upon the judgment of those who must judge more impartially than I probably do. I acknowledge him as I acknowledge
the Houses of Hanover and Bourbon-the-not the " one-eyed monarch
of the blind," but the blind monarch of the one-eyed. I merely take
the liberty of a free subject to vituperate certain of his edicts-and that
only in private.
I shall be very glad to see you, or your remaining canto; if both
together, so much the better.
I am interruptedLETTER VII.
[" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers."]
Oct. 15th, 1815.
DEAR HUNT-I send you a thing whose greatest value is its present
rarity; * the present copy contains some manuscript corrections pre

* A copy of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.




114


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


vious to an edition which was printed, but not published; and in short,
all that is in the suppressed edition, the fifth, except twenty lines in
addition, for which there was not room in the copy before me. There
are in it many opinions I have altered, and some which I retain; upon
the whole, I wish that it had never been written, though my sending
you this copy (the only one in my possession, unless one of Lady B.'s
be excepted) may seem at variance with this statement: but-my reason
for this is very different: it is, however, the only gift I have made of
the kind this many a day.*
P.S.-You probably know that it is not in print for sale, nor ever will
be (if I can help it) again.
LETTER VIII.
[The Story of Rimini-History of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers
-Lord and Lady Holland.]
Oct. 22, 1815.
MY DEAR HUNT-You have excelled yourself-if not all your contemporaries, in the canto t which I have just finished. I think it
above the former books; but that is as it should be; it rises with the
subject, the conception appears to me perfect, and the execution perhaps as nearly so as verse will admit. There is more originality than
I recollect to have seen elsewhere within the same compass, and frequent and great happiness of expression. In short, I must turn to the
faults, or what appear such to me: these are not many, nor such as
may not be easily altered, being almost all verbal; and of the same
kind as I pretended to point out in the former cantos, viz., occasional
quaintness and obscurity, and a kind of a harsh and yet colloquial compounding of epithets, as if to avoid saying common things in the common way; dificile est proprie communia dicere, seems at times to have
met with in you a literal translator. I have made a few, and but a
few, pencil marks on the MS., which you can follow or not, as you
please.
The poem, as a whole, will give you a very high station; but
where is the conclusion?  Don't let it cool in the composition! You
can always delay as long as you like revising, though I am not sure,
in the very face of Horace, that the "nonum," &c., is attended with
advantage, unless we read "months" for "years."  I am glad the
book sent$ reached you. I forgot to tell you the story of its suppres* The absence of the signature to this letter, as to others, is owing
to my having given it away. Letters have been given away also, or
I should have had more for the reader's amusement.
t One of the cantos of the story of Rimini-I believe, the third.
t English Bards, &c.




LETTERS OF LORD BYRON.


115


sion, which sha'n't be longer than I can make it. My motive for
writing that poem was, I fear, not so fair as you are willing to believe
it; I was angry, and determined to be witty, and, fighting in a crowd,
dealt about my blows against all alike, without distinction or discernment. When I came home from the east, among other new acquaintances and friends, politics and the state of the Nottingham rioters(of which county I am a land-holder, and Lord Holland recorder of
the town)-led me by the good offices of Mr. Rogers into the society
of Lord Holland, who, with Lady Holland, was particularly kind to
me: about March, 1812, this introduction took place, when I made
my first speech on the Frame Bill, in the same debate in which Lord
Holland spoke. Soon after this, I was correcting the fifth edition of
E. B. for the press, when Rogers represented to me that he knew
Lord and Lady Holland would not be sorry if I suppressed any further
publication of that poem; and I immediately acquiesced, and with
great pleasure, for I had attacked them upon a fancied and false provocation, with many others; and neither was, nor am sorry, to have
done what I could to stifle that ferocious rhapsody. This was subsequent to my acquaintance with Lord Holland, and was neither expressed nor understood as a condition of that acquaintance. Rogers
told me, he thought I ought to suppress it; I thought so, too, and did
it as far as I could, and that's all. I sent you my copy, because I consider your having it much the same as having it myself. Lady Byron
has one; I desire not to have any other; and sent it only as a curiosity
and a memento.
LETTER IX.
[Subject of Wordsworth resumed-His Mistakes about Greece-Pope's
Simile of the Moon from Homer-Morbid Feelings-Drury Lane
Theatre-Story of Rimini.]
13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept.-Oct.* 30th, 1815.
MY DEAR HUNT-Many thanks for your books, of which you already
know my opinion. Their external splendor should not disturb you as
inappropriate-they have still more within than without.
I take leave to differ from you on Wordsworth, as freely as I once
agreed with you; at that time I gave him credit for a promise, which
is unfulfilled. I still think his capacity warrants all you say of it only
-but that his performances since Lyrical Ballads, are miserably inadequate to the ability which lurks within him: there is undoubtedly
much natural talent spilt over the Excursion; but it is rain upon
rocks-where it stands and stagnates, or rain upon sands-where it
falls without fertilizing. Who can understand him? Let those who


* Sic in MS.




116


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


do, make him intelligible. Jacob Behmen, Swedenborg, and Joanna
Southcote, are mere types of this arch-apostle of mystery and mysticism;
but I have done-no, I have not done, for I have two petty, and perhaps unworthy objections in small matters to make to him, which, with
his pretensions to accurate observation and fury against Pope's false
translation of the "Moonlight scene in Homer," I wonder he should
have fallen into: these be they: He says of Greece in the body of his
book-that it is a land of
" Rivers, fertile plains, and sounding shores,
Under a cope of variegated sky."
The rivers are dry half the year, the plains are barren, and the shores
still and tideless as the Mediterranean can make them; the sky is any
thing but variegated, being for months and months but " darkly, deeply,
beautifully blue."  The next is in his notes, where he talks of our
" Monuments crowded together in the busy, &c. of a large town," as
compared with the "still seclusion of a Turkish cemetery in some remote
place." This is pure stuff: for one monument in our church-yards
there are ten in the Turkish, and so crowded, that you can not walk
between them; they are always close to the walls of the towns, that
is, merely divided by a path or road; and as to "remote places," men
never take the trouble, in a barbarous country, to carry their dead,very
far; they must have lived near to where they are buried. There are
no cemeteries in "remote places," except such as have the cypress
and the tombstone still left, where the olive and the habitation of the
living have perished.....
These things I was struck with, as coming peculiarly in my own way;
and in both of these he is wrong; yet I should have noticed neither
but for his attack on Pope for a like blunder, and a peevish affectation
about him, of despising a popularity which he will never obtain. I
write in great haste, and, I doubt, not much to the purpose; but you
have it hot and hot, justas it comes, and so let it go.
By the way, both he and you go too far against Pope's " So when
the moon," &c.; it is no translation, I know; but it is not such false
description as asserted. I have read it on the spot: there is a burst,
and a lightness, and a glow about the night in the Troad, which makes
the "planets vivid," and the "pole glowing:" the moon is-at least
the sky is, clearness itself; and I know no more appropriate expression
for the expansion of such a heaven-o'er the scene--the plain-the
sea-the sky--Ida-the Hellespont-Simois-Scamander-and the
Isles-than that of a "flood of glory."  I am getting horribly lengthy,
and must stop; to the whole of yonr letter I say " ditto to Mr. Burke,"'
as the Bristol candidate cried by way of electioneering harangue.
You need not speak of morbid feelings and vexations to me; I have
plenty; for which I must blame partly the times, and chiefly myself:
but let us forget them. I shall be very apt to do so when I see you
next. Will you come to the theatre and see our new management?
You shall cut it up to your heart's content, root and branch, after




LETTERS OF LORD BYRON.


117


wards, if you like; but come and see it! If not, I must come and
see you.
Ever yours, very truly and affectionately,
BYRON.
P.S.-Not a word from Moore for these two months. Pray let me
have the rest of Rimini. You have two excellent points in that poem
-originality and Italianism. I will back you as a bard against half
the fellows on whom you have thrown away much good criticism and
eulogy: but don't let your bookseller publish in quarto; it is the
worst size possible for circulation. I say this on bibliopolical authority.
Again, yours ever,
B.
LETTER X.
[Story of Rimini-Murray-House of Lords-Lord Byron's Politics.]
January 29th, 1816.
DEAR HUNT-I return your extract with thanks for the perusal,
and hope you are by this time on the verge of publication. My
pencil-marks on the margin of your former MSS. I never thought
worth the trouble of deciphering, but I had no such meaning as you
imagine for their being withheld from Murray, from whom I differ
entirely as to the terms of your agreement; nor do I think you asked a
piastre too much for the poem. However, I doubt not he will deal
fairly by you on the whole: he is really a very good fellow, and his
faults are merely the leaven of his "trade"-".the trade!" the slavetrade of many an unlucky writer.
The said Murray and I are just at present in no good humor with
each other; but he is not the worse for that. I feel sure that he will
give your work as fair or a fairer chance in every way than your late
publishers; and what he can't do for it, it will do for itself.
Continual laziness and occasional indisposition have been the causes
of my negligence (for I deny neglect) in not writing to you immediately. These are excuses: I wish they may be more satisfactory to
you than they are to me. I opened my eyes yesterday morning on
your compliment of Sunday. If you knew what a hopeless and
lethargic den of dullness and drawling our hospital is  during a
debate, and what a mass of corruption in its patients, you would
wonder, not that I very seldom speak, but that I ever attempted it,
feeling, as I trust I do, independently. Howvever, when a proper
spirit is manifested "without doors," I will endeavor not to be idle
within. Do you think such a time is coming?  Methinks there are


* The House of Lords.




118


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


gleams of it. My forefathers were of the other side of the question in
Charles's days, and the fruit of it was a title and the loss of an
enormous property.
If the old struggle comes on, I may lose the one, and -shall never
regain the other; but no matter; there are things, even in this world,
better than either.
Very truly, ever yours,
B.
LETTER XI.
[Domestic Affairs.-Dedication qf the Story of Rimini.-Pamphlets.]
Feb. 26, 1816.
DEAR HUNT-Your letter would have been answered before, had I
not thought it probable that, as you were in town for a day or so, I
should have seen you. I don't mean this as a hint at reproach for not
calling, but merely that of course I should have been very glad if you
had called in your way home or abroad, as I always would have been,
and always shall be.* With regard to the circumstances to which
you allude, there is no reason why you should not speak openly to me
on a subject already.sufficiently rife in the mouths and minds of what
is called "the world." Of the " fifty reports," it follows that fortynine must have more or less error and exaggeration; but I am sorry
to say, that on the main and essential point of an intended, and, it may
be, an inevitable separation, I can contradict none. At present I shall
say no more-but this is not from want of confidence; in the mean
time, I shall merely request a suspension of opinion. Your prefatory
letter to Rimini, I accepted as it was meant-as a public compliment
and a private kindness. I am only sorry that it may, perhaps, operate
against you as an inducement, and, with some, a pretext, for attack on
the part of the political and personal enemies of both: not that this can
be of much consequence, for in the end the work must be judged by
its merits, and in that respect you are well armed. Murray tells me
it is going on well, and, you may depend upon it, there is a substratum
of poetry, which is a foundation for solid and durable fame. The
objections (if there be objections, for this is a presumption, and not an
assumption) will be merely as to the mechanical part, and such, as I
stated before, the usual consequence of either novelty or revival. I
desired Murray to forward to you a pamphlet with two things of mine
in it, the most part of both of them, and of one in particular, written
before others of my composing, which have preceded them in publication; they are neither of them of much pretension, nor intended for it.
You will, perhaps, wonder at my dwelling so much and so frequently
* I was never in town " for a day. or two "-never for a longer
time than I could help. I was too ill.




LETTERS OF LORD BYRON.


119


on former subjects and scenes; but the fact is, that I foind them
fading fast from my memory; and I was, at the same time, so partial
to their place (and events connected with it), that I have stamped them,
while I could, in such colors as I could trust to now, but might have
confused and misapplied hereafter, had I longer delayed the attempted
delineation.*
LETTER XII.
[Drury Lane Theatre.]
March 14, 1816.
DEAR HUNT-I send you six orchestra tickets for Drury Lane,
countersigned by me, which makes the admission free-which I explain, that the door-keeper may not impose upon you; they are for the
best place in the house, but can only be used one at a time. I have
left the dates unfilled, and you can take yqur own nights, which I should
suppose would be Kean's: the seat is in the orchestra. I have
inserted the name of Mr. H-,t a friend of yours, in case you like
to transfer to him-do not forget to fill up the dates for such days as
you choose to select.
Yours, ever truly,
BYRON.
FRAGMENTS OF LETTERS,
The rest of which has been mutilated or lost.
FRAGMENT I.
[Story of Rimini-Sir Henry Englefield-Mrs. Leigh and the present
Lord Byron-Hookham Frere.]
-    good of Rimini-Sir Henry Englefield, a mighty man in the
blue circles, and a very clever man any where, sent to Murray, in
terms of the highest eulogy; and with regard to the common reader,
my sister and cousin (who are now all my family, and the last since
gone away to be married) were in fixed perusal and delight with it,
and they are " not critical," but fair, natural, unaffected, and understanding persons.
Frere, and all the arch-literati, I hear, are also unanimous in a high
opinion of the poem. " I hear this by the way-but I will send."
* I forget what these pamphlets were. In all probability, some of
the poems connected with Greece and the Levant.
t I think it was Hazlitt.




120


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


FRAGMENT II.
[English Bards and Scotch Reviewers-Hazlitt on Methodism-Dis.
eases of Poets.]
With regard to the E. B. I have no concealments, nor desire to
have any, from you or yours: the suppression occurred (I am as sure
as I can be of any thing) in the manner stated: I have never regretted
that, but very often the composition-that is the humeur of a great
deal in it. As to the quotation you allude to, I have no right, nor
indeed desire, to prevent it, but on the contrary, in common with all
other writers, I do and ought to take it as a compliment.
The paper on the Methodists * was sure to raise the bristles of the
godly. I redde it, and agree with the writer on one point in which
you and he perhaps differ; that an addiction to poetry is very generally
the result of "an uneasy mind in an uneasy body:" disease or deformity have been the attendants of many of our best. Collins madChatterton, I think, mad-Cowper mad-Pope crooked-Milton blind
-Gray (I have heard that the last was afflicted by an incurable and
very grievous distemper, though not generally known)-and others-.
I have somewhere redde, however, that poets rarely go mad. I suppose the writer means that their insanity effervesces and evaporates
in verse: may be so.t
I have not had time nor paper to attack your system, which ought
to be done, were it only because it is a system. So, by-and-by, have at
you.                                         Yours, ever,
BYRON
* By Hazlitt, in the Round Table; which was first published in
the Examiner.
t I know not who the writer was that is here alluded to; perhaps
myself, probably Hazlitt, or one of many others; for I suspect the
remark to have been as often made as it seems well-founded. Genius
may require some delicacies of organization to refine the natural faculty; but if it were a disease, it should be oftener found to accompany
disease. Hospitals, indeed, ought to be its nursery-beds, and odes and
elegies traceable to fever and jaundice. A pleasant corresponding
list might be drawn up on such an assumption. Madness in men of
genius must originate in causes common to their fellow-creatures; otherwise, the greater the genius the greater would be the mental aberration,
which has never yet been found to be the case. Hazlitt observed,
that the most mechanical understandings were more liable to such a
calamity than others, because they are less accustomed to the regions
of wonder and emotion, and therefore can make less allowance for the
surprises they meet there.




CHAPTER XIX.


LORD BYRON IN ITALY-SHIELLEY-PISA.
Alamanni and the Emperor Charles the Fifth.-Present feelings of the
Autho, with regard to Lord Byron.-Ciroumstances that modified
his Lordship's character.-Singular adventure at Monte Nero.Lord Byron and the Gamhas.-Leghorn and Smollett.-Domicile in
Pisa.-Yacca' and consumption.-Operatic scene in a drawing-room.
-Death of Shelley, and hurning of his remains.-Mirth most melancholy.-Person and character of Shelley.-Lord Byron's and
Author's mode of life at Pisa.-Exterior and interior of that city.Ever young look of Italy.-Italian mansions.-Leanin'g, tower of
Pisa.
As I am now about to re-enter into the history of my connection with Lord Byron, I will state ein wh at spirit I 'mean
to do it.
It is related of an Italian poet (Alamanni), that having in
his younger days bitterly satirized the house of Austria, he
found -himself awkwardly situated in more advanced- life,
when being in exile, and employed by Francis the First,
the king sent him on an embassy to the court of Charles the
Fifth. One of his sarcasms in particular had been very
offensive.  Alluding to the Austrian Crest, the two headed
eagle, he had describeld the imperial house as a monstrous
creature,
Which bore two beaks, the better to devour.
(" Che per piii divorar, due becchi porta.")
Charles had treasured this passagfe in his mrind; and when
the embassador, perhaps forgetting- it altogether, or trusting
to its being forgotten, had terminated a fine oration, full of
compliments to the power which he had so angrily painted,
the emperor, without making any other observation calmly
said,
"Which bore two beaks, the. better to devour."
VOL, ir-.-F




122


LIFE OF LEGH HUNT.


" Sir," said Alamanni, not hesitating or betraying any confusion (which. shows that he was either prepared for the
rebuke, or was a man of great presence of mind), "' when I
wrote that passage, I spoke as a poet, to whom it is permit4
tead to use fictions; but now I speak as an embassador, who
is bound to utter truth. I spoke then as a young man, but
I now speak as a man advanced in years. I spoke as one
who was agitated by grief and passion at the wretched condition of my country; but now I am calm, and free from
passion."  Charles rose from his seat, and laying his hand
on the shoulder of the embassador, said, in the kindest manner, that the loss of his country ought not to grieve him,
since he had found such a patron in Francis; and that to
an honest man every place was his country.
I would apply this anecdote to some things which I have
formerly said of Lord Byron.   I do not mean that I ever
wrote any fictions about him.  I wrote nothing which I did
not feel to be true, or think so.  But I can say with Alamanni, that I was then a young man, and that I am now
advanced in years.  I can say, that I was agitated by grief
and anger, and that I am now free from anger. I can say,
that I was far more alive to other people's defects than to
my own, and that I am now sufficiently sensible of my own
to show to others the charity which I need myself.   I can
say, moreover, that apart from a little allowance for provocation, I do not think it right to exhibit what is amiss, or
may be thought amiss, in the cha -acter of a fellow-creature,
out of any feeling but unmistakable sorrow, or the wish to
lessen evils which society itself may have caused.
Lord Byron, with respect to tI e points on which he erred
and suffered (for on all others, a man like himself, poet and
wit, could not but give and receive pleasure), was the victim
of a bad bringing up, of a series of false positions in society,
of evils arising from the mistakes of society itself, of a per.
sonal disadvantage (which his feelings exaggerated), nay, of
his very advantages of person, and of a face so handsome as
to render him an object of admiration.  Even the lameness,
of which he had such a resentment, only softened the admiration with tenderness.




FEELINGS TOWARD LORD BYRON.


123


But he did not begin life under good influences.  He had
a mother, herself, in all probability, the victim of bad training, who would fling the dishes from table at his head, and
tell him he would be a scoundrel like his father.  His father, who was cousin to the previous lord, had been what is
called a man upon town, and was neither very rich nor respectable.  The young lord, whose means had not yet recovered themselves, went to school, noble but poor, expected
to be in the ascendant with his title, yet kept down by the
inconsistency of his condition.  He left school to put on the
cap with the gold tuft, which is worshiped at college: he
left college to fall into some of the worst hands on the town:
his first productions were contemptuously criticised, and his
genius thus provoked into satire: his next were over-praised,
which increased his self-love: he married when his temper
had been soured by difficulties, and his will and pleasure
pampered by the sex: and he went companionless into a
foreign country, where all this perplexity could repose without being taught better, and where the sense of a lost popularity could be drowned in license.
Should we not wonder that he retained so much of the
grand and beautiful in his writings? that the indestructible
tendency of the poetical to the good should have struggled
to so much purpose through faults and inconsistencies?.rather than quarrel with his would-be misanthropy and his
effeminate wailings? The worst things which he did were
to gird resentfully at women, and to condescend to some
other pettinesses of conduct which he persuaded himself
were self-defenses on his own part, and merited by his fellowcreatures.  But lie was never incapable of generosity: he
was susceptible of the tenderest emotions; and though I
doubt, from a certain proud and stormy look about the
upper part of his face, whether his command of temper could
ever have been quite-relied on;," yet I can not help thinking,
that had he been properly brought up, there would have
been nobody capable of more lasting and loving attachments
The lower part of the face was a model of beauty.
I am sorry I ever wrote a syllable respecting Lord Byron
which might have been spared. I have still to relate my




124


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


connection with him, but it will be related in a different
manner.   Pride, it is said, will have a fall: and I must own
that on this subject I have experienced the truth of the saying.  I had prided myself-I should pride myself now, if I
had not been thus rebuked-on not being one of those who
talk against others.  I went counter to this feeling in a book;
and to crown the absurdity of the contradiction, I was foolish enough to suppose, that the very fact of my so doing
would show that I -had done it in no other instance! that
having been thus public in the error, credit would be given
me for never having been privately so!  Such are the delusions inflicted on us by self-love.  When the consequence
was represented to me, as characterized by my enemies, I
felt, enemies though they were, as if I blushed from head to
foot.  It is true, 1 had been goaded to the task by misrepresentations: I had resisted every other species of temptation
to do it: and after all, I said more in his excuse, and less
to his disadvantage, than many of those who reproved me
But enough.   I owed the acknowledgement to him and to
myself; and I shall proceed on my course with a sigh for
both, and a trust in the good-will of the sincere.
To return, then, to my arrival at Leghorn.
In the harbor of Leghorn, I found Mr. Trelawney, of the
old Cornish family of that name, since known as the author
of the Younger Brother. He was standing with his knighterrant aspect, dark, handsome, and mustached, in Lord
Byron's boat, the Bolivar, of which he had taken charge
for his lordship.  In a day or two I went to see my noble
acquaintance, who was in what the Italians call villeggiatura
at Monte Nero; that is to say, enjoying a country-house for
the season.  I there became witness to a singular adventure,
which seemed to make me free of Italy and stilettos, before
I had well set foot in the country.
The day was very hot; the road to Monte Nero was
very hot, through dusty suburbs; and when I got there, I
found the hottest looking house I ever saw. It was salmon
color.  Think of this, flaring over the country in a hot
Italian sun!
But the greatest of all the heats was within  Upon see



AN ITALIAN ADVENTURE.


125


ing Lord Byron, I hardly knew him, he was grown so fat;
and he was longer in recognizing me, I had grown so thin.
He took me into an inner room, and introduced me to
Madame Guiccioli, then very young as well as handsome,
who was in a state of great agitation. Her face was flushed,
her eyes lit up, and her hair (which she wore in that fashion), streaming as if in disorder.  The Conte Pietro, her
brother, came in presently, also in a state of agitation, and
having his arm in a sling. I then learned that a quarrel
having taken place among the servants, the young count had
interfered, and been stabbed. He was very angry; Madame Guiccioli was more so, and could not admit the charitable comments of Lord Byron, who was for making light of
the matter.  They seemed to think the honor of their nation
at stake.  Indeed, there was a look in the business not a
little formidable; for though the stab was not much, the
inflictor of it threatened more, and was at that minute keeping watch outside with the avowed intention of assaulting
the first person that issued forth. I looked out of the window, and met his eye glaring upward like a tiger.  He
had a red cap on like a sans-culotte, and a- most sinister aspect, dreary and meagre-that of a proper caitiff.
How long things had continued in this state I can not
say; but the hour was come when Lord Byron and his
friend took their evening drive, and the thing was to be
put an end to somehow.   A servant had been dispatched
for the police, and was not returned.
At length we set out, the lady earnestly entreating his
lordship to keep back, and all of us uniting to keep in advance of Conte Pietro, who was exasperated.
It was a curious moment for a stranger from England.
I fancied myself pitched into one of the scenes in the Mysteries of  Udolpto.  Every thing was new, foreign, and
vehement.   There was the lady, flushed and disheveled,
exclaiming against the " scelerato;" the young count, wounded and threatening; and the assassin waiting for us with his
knife. Nobody, however, could have put-a better face on
the matter than Lord Byron did-composed, and endeavoring to compose: and as to myself, I was so occupied with




126


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


the whole scene, that I had npt time to be frightened.
Forth we issue at the house door, all squeezing to have the
honor of being first, when a termination is put to the tragedy
by the man's throwing himself on a bench, extending his
arms, and bursting into tears. His cap was half over his
eyes; his face gaunt, ugly, and unshaved; his appearance
altogether more squalid and miserable than an Englishman
would conceive it possible to find in such an establishment.
This blessed figure reclined weeping and wailing, and asking
pardon for his offense; and to crown all, he requested Lord
Byron to kiss him!
The noble lord conceived such an excess of charity superfluous. He pardoned him, but said he must not think of
remaining in his service; upon which the man renewed his
weeping and wailing, and continued kissing his hand. I
was then struck with seeing the footing on which the gentry
and their servants stand with each other in Italy, and the
good-nature with which the strongest exhibitions of anger
can be followed up.  Conte Pietro, who was full of good
qualities (for though he was here with his sister's lover, we
must not judge of Italian customs by English), accepted the
man's hand, and even shook it heartily; and Madame Guiccioli, though unable to subside so quickly from her state of
indignant exaltation, looked in relenting sort, and speedily
accorded him  her grace also, seeing my lord had forgiven
him.   The man was all penitence and wailing, but he was
obliged to quit. The police would have forced him, if he
had not been dismissed. He left the country, and called in
his way on Shelley, who was shocked at his appearance,
and gave him some money out of his very antipathy: for
he thought nobody would help such an ill-looking fellow, if
he did not.
The unpleasant part of the business didnot end here.  It
was, remotely, one of the causes of Lord Byron leaving Italy;
for it increased the awkwardness of his position with the
Tuscan government, and gave a farther unsteadiness to his
proceedings.  His friends, the Gambas, were already only
upon sufferance in Tuscany.   They had been obliged to
quit their native country, Romagna, on account of their




LEGHORN.


127


connection with the Carbonari; and Lord Byron, who had
identified himself with their fortunes, became a party to their
wanderings, and to the footing on which they stood where
ever they were permitted to abide.     The Grand Duke's
government had given him to understand that they were at
liberty to reside in Tuscany, provided they were discreet. A
fracas which happened in the streets of Pisa, a little before
I came, had given a shock to the tranquillity of this good
understanding; the retinue of the Gambas having been the
foremost persons concerned in it: and now, another of their
men having caused a disturbance, the dilemma was completed. Lord Byron's residence in Tuscany was made uneasy to him. It was desired that he should separate himself
from the Gambas: and though it was understood that a
little courtesy on his part toward the Grand Duke and
Duchess, the latter of whom was said to be particularly desirous of seeing him at court, would have produced a carteblanche for all parties, yet he chose to take neither of those
steps; he therefore returned to his house at Pisa, only to reside there two or three months longer; after -which he quitted
the grand-ducal territory, and departed for Genoa.
I returned to Leghorn; and, taking leave of our vessel, we
put up at an hotel. Mr. Shelley then came to us from his
villeggiatura at Lerici. His town abode, as well as Lord
Byron's, was at Pisa. I will not dwell upon the moment.
Leghorn is a polite Wapping, with a square and a theatre.
The country around is uninteresting when you become acquainted with it; but to a stranger the realization of any
thing he has read about is a delight, especially of such things
as vines hanging from trees, and the sight of Apennines. It
is pleasant, too, to a lover of books, when at Leghorn, to
think that Smollett once lived there; not, indeed, happily,
for he was very ill, and besides living 'there, died there.
But genius gives so much pleasure (and must also have received so much in the course of its life) that the memory of
its troubles is overcome by its renown.  Smollett once lived,
as Lord Byron did, at Monte Nero; and he was buried in
the Leghorn cemetery.
Mr. Shelley accompanied us from Leghorn to Pisa, in




128


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


order to see us fixed in our new abode. Lord Byron left
Monte Nero at the same time, and joined us.   We occupied
the ground-floor of his lordship's house, the Casa Lanfranchi,
on the river Arno, which runs through the city. Divided
tenancies of this kind are common in Italy, where few houses
are in possession of one family. The families in this instance,
as in others, remained. distinct.  The ladies at the respective
heads of them never exchanged even a word. It was set
to the account of their want of acquaintance with their respective languages; and the arrangement, I believe, which
in every respect thus tacitly took place, was really, for many
reasonable considerations, objected to by nobody.
The Casa Lanfranchi, which had been the mansion of
the great Pisan family whose ancestors figure in Dante, is
said to have been built by Michael Angelo, and is worthy of
him. It is in a bold and broad style throughout, with those
harmonious graces of proportion which are sure to be found
in an Italian mansion. The outside is of rough marble.
Lower down the river, on the same side of the way, is a
mansion cased with polished marble. But I will speak of
Pisa and its localities by-and-by.
We had not been in the house above an hour or two,
when my friend brought the celebrated surgeon, Vacca, to
see Mrs. Hunt. He had a pleasing, intelligent face, and
was the most gentlemanlike Italian I ever saw. Vacca pronounced his patient to be in a decline; and little hope was
given us by others that she would survive beyond the
year.   She is alive to this day, and Vacca has been dead
many years. I do not say this to his disparagement, for he
was very skillful, and deserved his celebrity.  But it appears
to me, from more than one remarkable instance, that there
is a superstition about what are called declines and consumptions, from which the most eminent of the profession are not
free.  I suspect, that people of this tendency, with a proper
mode of living, may reach to as good a period of existence
as any others.  The great secret in this as in all other cases,
and, indeed, in almost all moral as well as physical cases of
ill, seems to be in diet and regimen. If some demi-god could
regulate for mankind what they should eat and drink, and




SHELLEY'S DEPARTURE FOR LERICI.


129


by what bodily treatment circulate their blood, he would
put an end to half the trouble which the world undergo,
some of the most romantic sorrows with which they flatter
themselves not excepted.
The next day, while in the drawing-room with Lord.
Byron, I had a curious specimen of Italian manners.  It
was like a scene in an opera.  One of his servants, a young
man. suddenly came in smiling, and was followed by his
sister, a handsome brunette, in a bodice and sleeves, and her
own hair. She advanced to his lordship to welcome him
back to Pisa, and present him with a basket of flowers.  In
doing this, she took his hand and kissed it; then turned to
the stranger, and kissed his hand also.  I thought we ought
to have struck up a quartette.
It is the custom in Italy, as it used to be in England, for
inferiors to kiss your hand in coming and going. There is
an air of good-will in it that is very agreeable, though the
implied sense of inferiority is hardly so pleasant.  Servants
have a custom also of wishing you a " happy evening" (felice
sera) when they bring in lights.  To this you may respond
in like manner; after which it seems impossible for the sun
to "go down on the wrath," if there is any, of either party.
In a day or two Shelley took leave of us to return to
Lerici for the rest of the season, meaning, however, to see us
more than once in the interval.  I spent one delightful afternoon with him, wandering about Pisa, and visiting the cathedral. On the night of the same day he took a post-chaise
for Leghorn, intending next morning to sign his will in that
city, and then depart with his friend Captain Williams for
Lerici. I entreated him, if the weather was violent, not to
give way to his daring spirit and venture to sea. He promised me he would not; and it seems that he did set off later
than he otherwise would have done, and apparently at a
more favorable moment. I never beheld him more.
The. superstitious might discern something strange in that
connection of his last will and testament with his departure;
but the will, it seems was not to be found. The same night
there was a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning,
which made us very anxious; but we hoped our friend had
F*




130


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


arrived before then. When Trelawny came to Pisa, and
told us he was missing, I underwent one of the sensations
"which we read of in books, but seldom experience; I was
tongue-tied with horror.
A dreadful interval took place of more than a week, during which, every inquiry and every fond hope were exhausted.  At the end of that period our worst fears were confirmed.  A body had been washed on shore, near the town of
Via Reggio, which, by the dress and stature was known to
be our friend's.  Keats's last volume also (the Lamia, &c.),
was found open in the jacket pocket. He had probably been
reading it, when surprised by the storm. It was my copy.
I had told him to keep it till he gave it me again with his
own hands.   So I would not have it from any other. It
was burned with his remains. The body of his friend Mr.
Williams was found near a tower, four miles distant from
its companion.  That of the other third party in the boat,
Charles Vivian, the seaman, was not discovered till nearly
three weeks afterward.
The remains of Shelley and Mr. Williams were burned,
after the good ancient fashion, and gathered into coffers.
Those of Mr. Williams were subsequently taken to England.
Shelley's were interred at Rome, in the Protestant burialground, the place which he had so touchingly described in recording its reception of Keats.  The ceremony of the burning
was alike beautiful and distressing. Trelawney, who had been
the chief person concerned in ascertaining the fate of his
friends, completed his kindness by taking the most active part
on this last mournful occasion.' He and his friend Captain
Shenley were first upon the ground, attended by proper assistants. Lord Byron and:myself arrived shortly afterward.
His lordship got out of his carriage, but wandered away
from the spectacle, and did not see it.  I remained inside
the carriage, now looking on, now drawing back with feelings that were not to be witnessed.
None of the mourners, however, refused themselves the
little comfort of supposing, that lovers of books and antiquity,
like Shelley and his companion, Shelley in particular with
his Greek enthusiasm, would not have been sorry to foresee




SHELLEY'S FUNERAL PYRE.


131


this part of their fate. The mortal part of him, too, was
saved from corruption; not the least extraordinary part of
his history. Among: the materials for burning, as many
of the gracefuller and more classical articles as could
be procured-frankincense, wine, &c.--were not forgotten;
and to these Keats's volume was added. The beauty of the
flame arising from the funeral pile was extraordinary. The
weather was beautifully fine. The Mediterranean, now soft
and lucid, kissed the shore as if to make peace with it. The
yellow sand and blue sky were intensely contrasted with one
another: marble mountains touched the air with coolness;
and the flame of the fire bore away toward heaven in vigorous amplitude, waving and quivering with a brightness of
inconceivable beauty. It seemed as though it contained the
glassy essence of vitality.  You might have expected a
seraphic countenance to look out of it, turning once more
before it departed, to thank the friends that had done their
duty.
Yet see how extremes can appear to meet even on occasions the most overwhelming; nay, even by reason of them;
for as cold can perform the effect of fire, and burn us, so can,
despair put on the monstrous aspect of mirth. On returning
from one of our visits to the sea-shore, we dined and drank;
I mean Lord Byron and myself-dined little and drank too
much. Lord Byron had not shone that day even in his
cups, which usually brought out his best qualities. As to
myself, I had bordered upon emotions which I have never
suffered myself to indulge, and which, foolishly as well as
impatiently render calamity, as somebody termed it, c" an affront and not a misfortune."  The barouche drove rapidly
through the forest of Pisa. We sang, we laughed, we
shouted.  I even felt a gayety the more shocking, because it
was real and a relief. What the coachman thought of us,
God knows: but he helped to make up a ghastly trio. He
was a good-tempered fellow, and an affectionate husband
and father; yet he had the reputation of having offered his
master to kill a man.   I wish to have no such waking
dream again. It was worthy of a German ballad.
Shelley, when he died, was in his thirtieth year. His fig.




132


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


ure was tall and slight, and his constitution consumptive.
He was subject to violent spasmodic pains, which would
sometimes force him to lie on the ground till they were
over; but he had always a kind word to give to those about
him, when his pangs allowed him to speak.  In this organization, as well as in some other respects, he resembled the
German poet, Schiller. Though well-turned, his shoulders
were bent a little, owing to premature thought and trouble.
The same causes had touched his hair with gray; and
though his habits of temperance and exercise gave him a remarkable degree of strength, it is not supposed that he could
have lived many years. He used to say that he had lived
three times as long as the calendar gave out; which he
would prove, between jest and earnest, by some remarks on
Time,
"That would have puzzled that stout Stagyrite."
Like the Stagyrite's, his voice was high and weak.   His
eyes were large and animated, with a dash of wildness in
them; his face small, but well-shaped, particularly the
mouth and chin, the turn of which was very sensitive and
graceful.  His complexion was naturally fair and delicate,
with a color in the cheeks. He had brown hair, which,
though tinged with gray, surmounted his face well, being in
considerable quantity, and tending to a curl.  His side-face
upon the whole was deficient in strength, and his features
would not have told well in a bust; but when fronting and
looking at you attentively, his aspect had a certain seraphical character that would have suited a portrait of John the
Baptist, or the angel whom Milton describes as holding a
reed ( tipt with fire."  Nor would the most religious mind,
had it known him, have objected to the comparison; for,
with all his skepticism, Shelley's disposition was truly said
to have been any thing but irreligious. A person of much
eminence for piety in our times has well observed, that the
greatest want of religious feeling is not to be found among
the greatest infidels, but among those who never think of
religion except as a matter of course.  The leading feature
of Shelley's character may be said to have been a natural




SHELLEY'S TASTES AND AMUSEMENTS.


133


piety.  He was pious toward nature, toward his fiiends, toward the whole human race, toward the meanest insect of
the forest.  He did himself an injustice with the public, in
using the popular name of the Supreme Being inconsiderately.  He identified it solely with the most vulgar and
tyrannical notions of a God made after the worst human
fashion; and did not sufficiently reflect, that it was often
used by a juster devotion to express a sense of the great
Mover of the universe. An impatience in contradicting
worldly and pernicious notions of a supernatural power, led
his own aspirations to be misconstrued; for though, in the
severity of his dialectics, and particularly in moments of despondency, he sometimes appeared to be hopeless of what he
most desired-and though he justly thought that a Divine
Being would prefer the increase of benevolence and good
before any praise, or even recognition of himself (a reflection
worth thinking of by the intolerant), yet there was in reality
no belief to which he clung with more fondness than that of
some great pervading, Spirit of Intellectual Beauty;" as
may be seen in his aspirations on that subject.  He assented
warmly to an opinion which I expressed in the cathedral at
Pisa, while the organ was playing, that a truly divine
religion might yet be established, if charity were really made
the principle of it, instead of faith.
Music affected him deeply.  He had also a delicate perception of the beauties of sculpture.  It is not one of the
least evidences of his conscientious turn of mind, that, with
the inclination and the power to surround himself in Italy
with all the graces of life, he made no sort of attempt that
way; finding other use for his money, and not always satisfied with himself for indulging even in the luxury of a boat.
When he bought elegancies of any kind,, it was to give
away.   Boating was his great amusement.   He loved the
mixture of action and repose which he found in it; and delighted to fancy himself gliding away to Utopian isles, and
bowers of enchantment. But he would give up any pleasure to do a deed of kindness.  Indeed, he may be said to
have made the whole comfort of his life a sacrifice to what
he thought the wants of society.




134


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Temperament and early circumstances conspired to make
him a reformer, at a time of life when few begin to think
for themselves; and it was his misfortune, as far as immediate reputation was concerned, that he was thrown upon
society with a precipitancy and vehemence, which rather
startled them with fear for themselves, than allowed them
to become sensible of the love and zeal that impelled him.
He was like a spirit that had darted out of its orb, and
found itself in another world.  I used to tell him that he
had come from the planet Mercury. When I heard of the
catastrophe that overtook him, it seemed as if this spirit,
not sufficiently constituted like the rest of the world, to obtain their sympathy, yet gifted with a double portion of love
for all living things, had been found dead in a solitary corner
of the earth, its wings stiffened, its Warm  heart cold; the
relics of a misunderstood nature, slain by the ungenial elements.
We remained but three months at Pisa subsequently to
this calamitous event. We then went to Genoa, where we
received the first number of the periodical work, the Liberal,
which Lord Byron had invited me to set up, and in which
Shelley was to have assisted.  He did assist; for his beautiful translation of the May Day Night, from Goethe, appeared in the first number.
But more of this publication when I come to Genoa. I
will first say a few words respecting the way in which we
passed our time at Pisa, and then speak of the city itself and
its highly interesting features, which are not so well known
as they should be.
Our manner of life was this: Lord Byron, who used to
sit up at night, writing Don Juan (which he did under the
influence of gin and water), rose late in the morning. He
breakfasted; read; lounged about, singing an air, generally
out of Rossini; then took a bath, and was dressed; and
coming down stairs, was heard, still singing, in the courtyard, out of which the garden ascended, by a few steps, at
the back of the house. The servants, at the same time,
brought out two or three chairs. My study, a little room in
a corner, with an orange-tree at the window, looked upon




MADAME GUICCIOLI.


135


this court-yard. I was generally at my writing when he
came down, and either acknowledged his presence by getting
up and saying something from the window, or he called out
( Leontius!" (a name, into which Shelley had pleasantly
converted that of "( Leigh Hunt") and came up to the
window with some jest, or other challenge to conversation.
His dress, as at Monte Nero, was a nankin jacket, with
white waistcoat and trowsers, and a cap, either velvet or
linen, with a shade to it.  In his hand was a tobacco-box,
from  which he helped himself occasionally to what he
thought a preservative from getting too fat.  Perhaps also
he supposed it good for the teeth.  We then lounged about,
or sat and talked, Madame Guiccioli with her sleek tresses
descending after her toilet to join us.  The garden was
small and square, but plentifully stocked with oranges and
other shrubs; and, being well watered, it looked very green
and refreshing under the Italian sky.  The lady generally
attracted us up into it, if we had not been there before.
Her appearance might have reminded an English spectator
of Chaucer's heroine,
" Yclothed was she, fresh for to devise.
Her yellow hair was braided in a tress
Behind her back, a yard6 long, I guess:
And in the garden (as the sun uprist)
She walketh up and down, where as her list:"
And then, as Dryden has it:
" At every turn she made a little stand,
And thrust among the thorns her lily hand."
Madame Guiccioli, who was at that time about twenty,
was handsome and lady-like, with an agreeable manner, and
a voice not partaking too much of the Italian fervor to be
gentle.  She had just enough of it to give her speaking a
grace.  None of her graces appeared entirely free from art;
nor, on the other hand, did they betray enough of it to give
you an ill opinion of her sincerity and good-humor.  I was
told, that her Romagnese dialect was observable; but to
me, at that time, all Italian in a lady's mouth was
Tuscan pearl; and she trolled it over her lip, pure or not,




136


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


with that sort of conscious grace, which seems to belong to
the Italian language as a matter of right. I amused her
with speaking bad Italian out of Ariosto, and saying speme
for speranza; in which she good-naturedly found something
pleasant and pellegrino; keeping all the while that considerate countenance, for which a foreigner has so much reason
to be grateful. Her hair was what the poet has described,
or rather blond, with an inclination to yellow; a very fair
and delicate yellow at all events, and within the limits of
the poetical.  She had regular features, of the order properly
called handsome, in distinction to prettiness or to piquancy;
being well proportioned to one another, large rather than
otherwise, but without coarseness, and more harmonious than
interesting.  Her nose was the handsomest of the kind I
ever saw; and I have known her both smile very sweetly,
and look intelligently, when Lord Byron has said something
kind to her.
In the evening we sometimes rode or drove out, generally
into the country.  The city I first walked through in company with Shelley, but speedily, alas! explored it by myself,
or with my children.  The state of my wife's health would
not suffer her to quit her apartment.
Let the reader imagine a small white city, with a tower
leaning at one end of it, trees on either side, and blue mountains for the background; and he may fancy he sees Pisa, as
the traveler sees it in coming from Leghorn.  Add to this,
in summer-time, fields of corn on all sides, bordered with
hedge-row trees, and the festoons of vines, of which he has
so often read, hanging from tree to tree; and he may judge
of the impression made upon an admirer of Italy, who is in
Tuscany for the first time.
In entering the city, the impression is not injured.  What
looked white in the distance, remains as pure and fair on
closer acquaintance.  You cross a bridge, and cast your eye
up the whole extent of the city one way, the river Arno
(the river of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio) winding
through the middle of it under two more bridges; and fair
elegant houses of good size bordering the wide pavement on
either side.  This is the Lung'arno, or street "Along the




DESCRIPTION OF PISA.


137


Arno." The mountains, in which you fancy you see the
marble veins (for it is from these that the marble of Carrara
comes), tower away beautifully at the further end, and,
owing to the clear atmosphere, seem to be much nearer than
they are.   The Arno, which is about as wide perhaps as
the, Isis at Oxford, is sandy colored, and in the summertime shrunken; but still it is the river of the great Tuscan
writers, the visible possessor of the name we have all heard
a thousand times; and we feel what a true thing is that
which is called ideal.
The first novelty that strikes you, after your dreams and
matter-of-fact have recovered from the surprise of their introduction to one another, is the singular fairness-and new
look of houses that have been standing hundreds of years.
This is owing to the dryness of the Italian atmosphere.
Antiquity refuses to look ancient in Italy.  It insists upon
retaining its youthfulness of aspect.  The consequence at first
is a mixed feeling of admiration and disappointment; for
we miss the venerable. The houses seem as if they ought
to have sympathized more with humanity, and were as cold
and as hard-hearted as their materials.   But you discover
that Italy is the land, not of the venerable, but the beautiful; and cease to look for old age in the chosen country of
the Apollo and the Venus.     The only real antiquities are
those in Dante and the oldest painters, who treat of the
Bible in an ancient style.   Among the mansions on the
Lung'arno is one entirely fronted with marble, and marble
so pure and smooth that you can see your face in it.   It is
in a most graceful style of architecture; and over the door
has a mysterious motto and symbol. The symbol is an
actual fetter, attached with great nicety to the middle stone
over the door-way: the motto, Alla Giornata (For the Day,
or the Day's Work).     The allusion is supposed to be to
some captivity undergone by one of the Lanfreducci family,
the proprietors: but -nobody knows.    Further up on the
same side of the way, is the old ducal palace, said to be the
scene of the murder of Don Garcia by his father, which is
the subject of one of Alfieri's tragedies. and between both, a
little before you come to the old palace, is the mansion before




138


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


mentioned, in which he resided, and which still belongs to
the family of the Lanfranchi, formerly one of the most powerful in Pisa. They were among the nobles who conspired
against the -ascendency of Count Ugolino, and who were
said, but not truly, to have wreaked that revenge on him
and his children, recorded without a due knowledge of the
circumstances by Dante.    The tower in which Ugolino
perished was subsequently called the Tower of Famine.
Chaucer, who is supposed to have been in Italy, says that
it stood cc a littel out" of Pisa; Villani says, in the Piazza
of the Anziani.  It is understood to be no longer in existence, and even its site is disputed.
It is curious to feel one's self sitting quietly in one of the
old Italian houses, and think of. all the passions that have
agitated the hearts of so many generations of its tenants; all
the revels and the quarrels that have echoed along its walls;
all the guitars that have tinkled under its windows; all the
scuffles that have disputed its doors.  Along the great halls,
how many feet have hurried in alarm! how many stately
beauties have drawn their trains! how many torches have
ushered magnificence up the staircase! how much blood
perhaps been shed!    The ground-floors of all the great
houses in Pisa, as in other Italian cities, have iron bars at
the windows.   They were for security in time of trouble.
The look is at first very gloomy and prison-like, but you get
used to it.  The bars also are thin, round, and painted white,
and the interstices are large; and if the windows look toward a garden, and are bordered with shrubs and ivy, as
those at the back were in the Casa Lanfranchi, the imagination makes a compromise with their prison-like appearance, and persuades itself they are but comforts in times
of war, and trellises during a peace-establishment. All
the floors are made for separate families, it having been
the custom in Italy from time immemorial for fathers and
mothers, sons and daughters-in-law, or vice versa, with as
many other relations as might be "agreeable," to live under
the same roof.   Spaciousness and utility were the great
objects, with the builder; and a stranger is sometimes surprised with the look of the finest houses outside, particularly




PISAN HOUSES.


139


that of the ground-floor.  The stables used often to be there,
and their place is now as often occupied by shops. In the
inside of the great private houses there is always a certain
majestic amplitude; but the entrances of the rooms, and
the staircase on the ground-floor, are often placed irregularly,
so as to sacrifice every thing to convenience.  In the details
there is sure to be a noble eye to proportion.  You can not
look at the elevation of the commonest door-way, or the
ceiling of a room appropriated to the humblest purposes, but
you recognize the land of the fine arts.  You think Michael
Angelo has been at the turning of those arches-at the
harmonizing of those beautiful varieties of shade, which by
the secret principles common to all arts and sciences, affect
the mind like a sort of inaudible music.  The very plasterer
who is hired to give the bare walls of some old disused
apartment an appearance of ornament, paints his door-ways,
his pilasters, and his borders of leaves, in a bold style of relief and illusion, which would astonish the doubtful hand
of many an English student " in the higher walks of art."
It must be observed, however, that this is a piece of good taste
which seems to have survived most others, and to have been
kept up by the objects on which it works; for the arts
are at present lying fallow in Italy, waiting for better times.
I was so taken up, on my arrival at Pisa, with friends
and their better novelties, that I forgot even to look about
me for the Leaning Tower. You lose sight of it on entering the town, unless you come in at the Lucca gate.     On
the Sunday following, however, I went to see it, and the
spot where it stands in illustrious company. Forsythe, a
late traveler of much shrewdness and pith (though a want
of ear, and an affectation of ultra good sense, rendered him
in some respects extremely unfit for a critic on Italy-as
when he puts music and perfumery on a level!) had been
beforehand with the spot in putting this idea in my head
"' Pisa," says he, "i while the capital of a republic, was celebrated for its profusion of marble, its patrician towers, and
its grave magnificence.   It still can boast some marble
churches, a marble palace, and a marble bridge. Its towers, though no longer a mark of nobility, may be traced in




140


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


the walls of modernized houses.  Its gravity pervades every
street; but its magnificence is now confined to one sacred
corner.  There stands the Cathedral, the Baptistery, the
Leaning Tower, and the Campo Santo; all built of the
same marble, all varieties of the same architecture, all venerable with years, and fortunate both in their society and
in their solitude."
I know not whether my first sensation at the sight of the
Leaning Tower, was admiration of its extreme beauty, or
astonishment at its posture.  Its beauty has never been
sufficiently praised.  Its overhanging seems to menace the.
houses beneath it with destruction.   The inclination is
fourteen feet out of the perpendicular.  We are amazed
that people should build houses underneath it, till we recollect that it has probably stood thus ever since it was built,
that is to say, for nearly six hundred and fifty years; and
that habit reconciles us to any thing. "The Leaning Tower at first sight," says Mr. Matthews in his Diary of' an
In-valid, (is quite terrific, and exceeds expectation. " There
is, I believe, no doubt of the real history of this tower.
The foundation-ground gave way during the progress of the
building, and the architect completed his work in the direction thus accidentally given to it.  Accordingly, we find
in the construction of the upper part, that the weight is
supported in a way to support the equilibrium." He means
that something of a curve backwards is given to it.  Mr.
Forsythe seems to ridicule opinions to this effect; but I can
only say, that such was the impression on my own eyes,
before I called to mind any thing that had been said about
it.  The structure was begun by a German artist, William
of Inspruck, and finished by Italians.  Several other towers
in Pisa, including the observatory, have a manifest inclination, owing to the same cause-the sinking of the soil, which
is light, sandy, and full of springs; and surely nothing is
more probable than an attempt on the part of the builders
of so beautiful a structure to counteract the consequences of
the foundation having given way. The tower is a campanile, or belfry, to the cathedral.  It was the custom in
Italy to make the belfry a separate building, and the custom




COMBINATION OF PISAN RARITIES.


141


was a good one; for it afforded variety, and prevented the
barbarism  of steeples.  The height of the tower is about
150 feet, but it looks more, on account of its happy situation, and the lowness of the houses near it,  Let the reader
imagine the Monument of London sheathed in an open
work of eight stories of little columns, and leaning in a
fine open situation, and he will have some idea of this noble
cylinder of marble. The sheath is its great beauty, and
gives it an extraordinary aspect of richness and simplicity.
With regard to the company in which it stands, let the
ieader imagine a broad grass-walk, standing in the solitary
part of a country town.  Let him suppose at one end of this
walk the Leaning Tower, with a row of small but elegant
houses right under the inclination, and looking down the
grass-plot; the baptistery, a rotunda, standing by itself at
the opposite end; the public hospital, an extremely neat and
quiet building, occupying the principal length of the road
which borders the grass plot on one side; on the other side,
and on the grass itself, the cathedral, stretching between the
Leaning Tower and the baptistery; and lastly, at the back
of the cathedral, and visible between the openings at its two
ends, the Campo Santo (Holy Field) or burial-ground, walled
in with marble cloisters full of the oldest paintings in Italy.
All these buildings are detached; they all stand in a free,
open situation; they all look as if they were built but a
year ago; they are all of marble; the whole place is kept
extremely clean-the very grass in a state of greenness not
common to turf in the south; and there are trees looking
upon it over a wall next the baptistery.   Let the reader
add to this scene a few boys playing about, all ready to
answer your questions in pure Tuscan-women occasionally
passing with vails or bare heads, or now and then a couple
of friars; and though finer individual sights may be foui~d
in the world, it will be difficult to come upon an assemblage
of objects more rich in their'combination.
The baptistery is a large rotunda, richly carved, and appropriated solely to the purpose after which it was christened.
It is in a mixed style, and was built in the twelfth century.
Forsythe, who is deep in arches and polygons, objects to the




.142


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


crowd of unnecessary columns; to the "hideous tunnel which
conceals the fine swell of the cupola;" and to the appropriation of so large an edifice to a christening.  The "tunnel"
may deserve his wrath: but his architectiural learning sometimes behaves as ill as the tunnel.  It obscures his better
taste.  A christening, in the eyes of a good Catholic, is at
least as important an object as a rotunda; and there is a
religious sentiment in the profusion with which ornament is
heaped upon edifices of this nature.  It forms a beauty of
itself, and gives even mediocrity a sort of abundance of intention that looks like the wealth of genius.  The materials
take leave of their materiality, and crowd together into a
worship of their own.  It is no longer "< let every thing" only
i" that has breath praise the Lord;" but let every thing else
praise him, and take a meaning and life accordingly. Let
column obscure column, as in a multitude of men; let arch
strain upon arch, as if to ascend to heaven; let there be infinite details, conglomerations, mysteries, lights, darknesses;
and let the birth of a new soul be celebrated in the midst
of all.
The cathedral is in the Greek style of the middle ages, a
style which this writer thinks should rather be called the
Lombard, " as it appeared in Italy first under the Lombard
princes."  He says, that it includes " whatever was grand
or beautiful in the works of the middle ages;" and that
" this was perhaps the noblest of them all."  He proceeds
to find fault with certain incongruities, among which are
some remains of Pagan sculpture left standing in a Christian
church; but he enthusiastically admires the pillars of ori
ental granite that support the roof. The outside of the
building consists of mere heaps of marble, mounting by huge
steps to the roof; but their simplicity as well as size gives
them  a new sort of grandeur; and Mr. Forsyth has overlooked the extraordinary sculpture of the bronze doors, worthy of the same hand that made those others at Fldrence,
which Michael Angelo said were fit to be the gates of Paradise.  It is divided into compartments, the subjects of which
are taken from Scripture. The relief is the most graceful
and masterly conceivable; the perspective astonishing, as if




THE CATHEDRAL.


143


in drawing; and equal justice is done to the sharp monstrosities of the devil with his bat-wings, and to the gentle
graces of Jesus.  There is a great number of pictures in the
cathedral, good enough to assist rather than spoil the effect,
but not remarkable.  I never was present when the churchseryice was at its best; but the leader did not seem to rely
much on his singers, by the noise which he made in beating
time. His vehement roll of paper sounded like the lashing
of a whip.
One evening, in August, I saw the whole inside of the
cathedral lit up with wax in honor of the Assumption. The
lights were disposed with much taste, but produced a great
heat.  There was a gigantic picture of the Virgin displayed
at the upper end, who was to be supposed sitting in heaven,
surrounded with the celestial ardors; but she was " dark
with excess of bright."  It is impossible to see this profusion
of lights, especially when one knows their symbolical meaning, without being struck with the source from which Dante
took his idea of the beatified spirits.  His heaven, filled
with lights, and lights, too, arranged in figures, which glow
with lustre in proportion to the beatitude of the souls within
them, is the sublimation of a Catholic church. And so far
it is heavenly indeed, for nothing escapes the look of materiality like fire.  It is so airy, joyous, and divine a thing,
when separated from the idea of pain and an ill purpose,
that the language of happiness naturally adopts its terms,
and can tell of nothing more rapturous than burning bosoms
and sparkling eyes. The Seraph of the Hebrew theology
was a fire. But then the materials of heaven and hell are
the same?  Yes; and a very fine piece of moral theology
might be made out of their sameness, always omitting the
brute injustice of eternal punishment.  Is it not by our
greater or less cultivation of health and benevolence, that we
all make out our hells and heavens upon earth? by a turning of the same materials and passions of which we are all
composed to different accounts? burning now in the horrors
of hell with fear, hatred, and uncharitableness, and now in the
joys, or at least the happiest sympathies of heaven, with
good effort and courage, with gratitude, generosity, and love?




144


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


The crowning glory of Pisa is the Campo Santo. I entered for the first time at twilight, when the indistinct shapes,
colors, and antiquity of the old paintings wonderfully harmonized with the nature of the place. I chose to go toward
evening, when I saw it again; and though the sunset came
upon me too fast to allow me to see all the pictures as
minutely as I could have wished, I saw enough to warrant
my giving an opinion of them; and I again had the pleasure
of standing in the spot at twilight.  It is an oblong inclosure, about the size of Stratford Place, and surrounded with
cloisters wider and lighter than those of Westminster.  At
least, such was my impression. The middle is grassed earth,
the surface of which, for some depth, is said to have been
brought from Palestine at the time of the crusades, and to
possess the virtue of decomposing bodies in the course of a
few  hours.   The tradition is, that Ubaldo Lanfranchi,
Archbishop of Pisa, who commanded the forces contributed
by his countryman, brought the earth away with him in
his ships; but though such a proceeding would not have
been impossible, the story is now, I believe, regarded as a
mere legend. The decomposition of the bodies might have
been effected by other means.  Persons are buried both in
this inclosure and in the cloisters, but only persons of rank
or celebrity.  Most of the inscriptions for instance (of which
there are som'e hundreds, all on marble, and mixed with
busts and figures), are to the memory of Pisans in the rank
of nobility; but there are several also to artists and men of
letters.  The most interesting grave is that of Benozzo, one
of the old painters, who lies at the foot of his own works.
Here is a handsome monument, with a profile, to Algarotti,
erected by Frederick of Prussia.  Pignotti, the fabulist, has
another; and Fabroni, a late good-natured critic and bishop,
has a bust so characteristic, and full of a certain jolly gusto,
that we long to have eaten maccaroni with him. In truth,
these modern gettings up of renown, in the shape of busts
and monuments to middling men of talent, appear misplaced
when you come to notice them.     They look in the way.
But the old pictures, which they seem to contradict and interfere with, reconcile them at last.  Any thing and every




GREAT AND SMALL RECONCILED.


145


thing mortal has its business here.     The pretensions of
mediocrity are exalted into the claims of the human being.
One blushes to deny to the writers of amiable books what
one would demand for one's own common nature; or to
think of excluding a man for doing better than hundreds of
the people there, merely because he has not done so well as
some who are not there.       Pignotti and Algarotti even
harmonize with some sprightly figures who play their harps
and their love-songs in the pictures, and who flourished hundreds of years ago, as their readers flourish now; and the
bustling and well-fed amenity of Monsignor Fabroni is but a
temporary contradiction, which will be rendered serious some
day by the crumbling away of his cheeks, or the loss of some
over-lively feature.  Let him, for Heaven's sake, <live in
inscription," and "tlook treats in stone."
Besides these modern pieces of sculpture, there is a collection of ancient marbles, chiefly urns and sarcophagi,
together with some fragments of the early Italian school.
It is so impossible to pay proper attention to any large collection of art, without repeated visits, that I do not pretend
to have given it to the old pictures, much less to the marbles.
The first impression is not pleasant.  Their orderly array,
the numerals upon them, and the names of the donors upon
the walls behind, give the whole too much the air of a
show-room or common gallery.     The pictures form part of
the sentiment of the place as a burial-ground, and would
be better by- themselves; but the antiquity of the marbles
reconciles the addition.  From the glance I took at them,
many appear to be poor enough, but several very good.     I
noticed in particular, one or two sarcophagi with reliefs of
Bacchus and Ariadne, and a head supposed to be of a Roman
emperor, very brutal. As to the Paganism, I do not quarrel,
like Mr. Forsythe, with the presence of things Pagan in a
Christian edifice; not only because the Pagan and Catholic
religions have much that is in common, their draperies,
altars, incense, music, winged genii, &c.; but because
there is an identity of interests and aspirations in all these
struggles of mortal man after a knowledge of things supernatural.
VOL: I --G




146


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


The paintings on the walls, the great glory of Pisa, are
by Orgagna, Simon Memmi, Giotto, Buffalmacco, Benozzo,
and others-all more or less renowned by illustrious pens;
all, with more or less gusto, the true and reverend harbingers of the greatest painters of Italy.  Simon Memmi is the
artist celebrated by Petrarch for his portrait of Laura;
Buffalmacco is the mad wag (grave enough here) who cuts
such a figure in the old Italian novels; and Giotto, the
greatest of them all, is the friend of Dante, the hander down
of his likeness to posterity, and himself the Dante of his art,
without the drawbacks of satire and sorrow.   His works
have the same real- character, the same imaginative mixture
of things familiar with things unearthly, the same strenuous
and (when they choose) gentle expression, in short, the same
true discernment of the " differences of things," now grappling
with a fiend or a fierce thought, now sympathizing with fear
and sorrow, now setting hard the teeth of grim warriors, now
dissolving in the looks and flowing tresses of women, or putting a young gallant in an attitude to which Raphael might
have traced his cavaliers.  And this is more or less the
character of the very oldest pictures in the Campo Santo.
They have the germs of beauty and greatness, however
obscured and stiffened; the struggle of true pictorial feeling
with the inexperience of art.  As you proceed along the
walls, you see gracefulness and knowledge gradually helping
one another, and legs and arms, lights, shades, and details
of all sorts taking their proper measures and positions, as if
every separate thing in the world of painting had been
created with repeated efforts, till it answered the fair idea.
They are like a dream of humanity during the twilight of
creation.
I have already mentioned that the pictures are painted on
the walls of the four cloisters.  They occupy the greater
part of the elevation of these walls, beginning at top and
finishing at a reasonable distance from the pavement.  The
subjects are from the Old Testament up to the time of Solomon, from the legends of the middle ages, particularly St
Ranieri (the patron saint of Pisa) and from the history of
the- Crucifixion, Resurrection, &c., with the Day of Judg



EARLY PAINTERS AND CHAUCER.


147


ment. There is also a Triumph of Death. T. ie colors of
some of them, especially of the sky and ship in the voyage
of St. Ranieri, are wonderfully preserved. The sky looks
as blue as the finest out of doors.  But others are much injured by the sea air, which blows into Pisa; and it is a pity
that the windows of the cloisters in these quarters are not
glazed, to protect them from further injury. The best idea,
perhaps, which I can give an Englishman of the general
character of the paintings, is by referring him to the engravings of Albert Durer, and the serious parts of Chaucer.
There is the same want of proper costume-the same intense
feeling of the human being, both in body and soul-tthe same
bookish, romantic, and retired character--the same evidences,
in short, of antiquity and commencement, weak (where it is
weak) for want of of a settled art and language, but strong
for that very reason in first impulses, and'in putting down
all that is felt.  An old poet, however, always has the advantage of an old painter, because he is not bound to a visible exhibition of arms, legs, and attitudes, and thus escapes
the artistical defects of the time. But they truly illustrate
one another.  Chaucer's Duke Theseus, clothed and behaving
accordingly-his yawning courtiers who thank King Cambuscan for dismissing them to bed-his god Janus keeping
Christmas with his fire-side and his dish of brawn, &c. ex
hibit the same fantastic mixtures of violated costume and
truth of nature.  The way in which the great old poet mingles together personages of all times, nations, and religions,
real and fictitious, Samson and Turnus with Socrates, Ovid
with St. Augustin, &c. and his descriptions of actual ", purtreyings on a wall," in which are exhibited, in one and the
same scene, Narcissus, Solomon, Venus, Crcesus, and " the
porter Idleness," resemble the manner in which some of the
pictures in the Campo Santo defy all perspective, and fill
one picture with twenty different solitudes.  There is a painting for instance devoted to the celebrated anchorites, or hermits of the desert.  They are represented according to their
several legends-reading, dying, undergoing temptations, assisted by lions, &c.  At first they all look like fantastic act
ors in the same piece; but you dream, and are reconciled




148


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


The contempt of every thing like interval, and of all which
may have happened in it, makes the ordinary events of life
seem of as little moment; and the mind is exclusively occupied with thu sacred old men and their solitudes, all at the
same time, and yet each by himself.  The manner in which
some of the hoary saints in these pictures pore over their
books and carry their decrepit old age, full of a bent and alýsorbed feebleness-the set limbs of the warriors on horseback
-the sidelong, 'unequivocal looks of some of the ladies playing
on harps, and conscious of their ornaments-the people of
fashion, seated in rows, with Time coming up unawares to
destroy them-the other rows of elders and doctors of the
church, forming part of the array of heaven-the uplifted
hand of Christ denouncing the wicked at the Day of Judgment-the daring satires occasionally introduced against
monks and nuns-the profusion of attitudes, expressions, incidents, broad draperies, ornaments of all sorts, visions,
mountains, ghastly-looking cities, fiends, angels, sybilline old
women, dancers, virgin brides, mothers and children, princes,
patriarchs, dying saints; it would be a simply blind injustice
to the superabundance and truth of conception in all this
multitude of imagery, not to recognize the real inspirers as
well as harbingers of Raphael and Michael Angelo, instead
of confining the honor to the Masaccios and Peruginos. The
Masaccios and Peruginos, for all that ever I saw, meritorious
as they are, are no more to be compared with them, than
the sonnetteers of Henry the Eighth's time are to be compared with Chaucer. Even in the very rudest of the pictures,
where the souls of the dying are going out of their mouths
in the shape of little children, there are passages not unworthy
of Dante or Michael Angelo---angels trembling at the blowing
of trumpets; men in vain attempting to carry their friends
into heaven; and saints, who have lived ages of temperance,
sitting in calm air upon hills far above the progress of Death,
who goes bearing down the great, the luxurious, and the
young. The picture by Titian (or Giorgione), in which he
has represented the three great stages of existence, bubbleblowing childhood, love-makihg manhood, and death-contemplating old age, is not better conceived, and hardly




GIOTTO AND ORGAGNA.


149


better made out, than some of the designs of Orgagna and
Giotto.
Since I have beheld the Campo Santo, I have enriched
my day-dreams and my stock of the admirable, and am
thankful that I have names by heart, to which I owe homage
and gratitude.  Giotto, be thou one to me hereafter, of a
kindred brevity, solidity, and stateliness, with that of thy
friend Dante, and far happier! Tender and noble Orgagna,
be thou blessed for ever beyond the happiness of thine own
heaven!
The air of Pisa is 9oft-and balmy to the last degree. Forsythe thinks it too moist; and countenance is given to his
opinion by the lowness and flatness of the place, which lies
in a plain full of springs and rivers, between the Apennines
and the sea.  The inhabitants have a proverb-Pisa pesa
a chi posa; which may be translated
Pisa sits ill.
On those who sit still.
To me the air seemed as dry as it is soft; and most people
will feel oppressed every where, if they do not take exercise.
The lower rooms of the houses are reckoned, however, too
damp in winter, at least on the Lung'arno; though the winter
season is counted delicious, and the Grand Duke goes there
to spend two months of it.
The noon-day sun in summer-time is formidable, resembling more the heat struck from burning metal, than any
thing we conceive of noon in England. But a sea-breeze
often blows of an evening, when the inhabitants take their
exercise.
A look out upon the Lung'arno at noon is curious.  A
blue sky is overhead-dazzling stone underneath-the yellow
Arno gliding along, generally with nothing upon it, sometimes a lazy sail; the houses on the opposite side, with their
green blinds down, appear to be asleep; and nobody passes
but a few laborers, carmen, or countrywomen in their vails
and handkerchiefs, hastening with bare feet, but never too
fast to lose a certain air of strut and stateliness.  Dante,
in one of his love poems, praises his mistress for walking




150


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


like a peacock; nay, even like a crane, straight above herself:
" Soave a guisa va di un bel pavone
Diritta sopra se, coma una grua."
Sweetly she goes, like the bright peacock; straight
Above herself, like to the lady crane.
This is the common walk of Italian women, rich and poor.
To an English eye, at first it seems wanting in a certain
modesty and moral grace; but you see what the grave poet
thinks of it, and it is not associated in an Italian mind with
any such deficiency.   That it has a" beauty of its own is
certain.
Solitary as Pisa may look at noon, it is only by comparison with what you find in very populous cities.  Its desolate
aspect is much exaggerated. The people, for the most part,
sit in shade at their doors in the hottest weather, so that it
can not look so solitary as many parts of London at the same
time of the year; and though it is true that grass grows in
some of the streets, it is only in the remotest.  The streets,
for the most part, are kept very neat and clean, not excepting the poorest alleys; a benefit arising not only from the
fine pavement which is every where to be found, but from
the wise use to which criminals are put. The punishment
of death, I believe is not kept up in Tuscany. Robbers, and
even murderers, are made to atone for the ill they have done
by the good works of sweeping and keeping clean.    A great
murderer on the English stage used formerly to be dressed
in, a suit of brick-dust.  In Tuscany, or at least in Pisa,
robbers condemned to this 'punishment are clothed in a red
livery, and murderers in a yellow.   A stranger looks with
a feeling more grave than curiosity at these saffron-colored
anomalies, quietly doing their duty in the streets, and not
seeming to avoid observation. But, in fact, they look just
like other men. They are either too healthy by temperance
and exercise to exhibit a conscience, or think they make up
by their labor for so trifling an ebullition of animal spirits.
And they have a good deal to say for themselves, considering
that circumstances modify all men, and that the labor is in
chains and for life.




ITALIAN MANNERS.


151


The inhabitants of Pisa, in general, are not reckoned a
favorable specimen of Tuscan looks. You are sure to meet
fine faces in any large assembly, but the common run is bail
enough.   They are hard, prematurely aged, and what expression there is, is worldly.  Some of them have no expression whatever, but are as destitute of speculation and feeling
as masks.  The bad Italian face and the good Italian face,
are the extremes of insensibility and the reverse.  But it is
rare that the eyes are not fine; and the females have a profusion of good hair.  Lady Morgan has remarked the promising countenances of Italian children, compared with what
they turn out to be as they grow older; and she adds,
with equal justice, that it is an evident affair of government
and education.  You doubly pity the corrupti6ns of a people
who, besides their natural genius, preserve in the very midst
of their sophistication a frankness distinct from'it, and an
entire freedom from  affectation.  An Italian annoys you
neither with his pride like an Englishman, nor with his vanity
like a Frenchman.   He is quiet, and natural, self-possessed
without wrapping himself up in a corner, and ready fbr
cheerfulness without grimace. His frankness sometimes
takes the air of a simplicity at once misplaced and touching.
A young man, who exhibited a taste for all good and generous sentiments, and who, according to the representation of
his friends, was a very worthy as well as ingenious person,
did not scruple to tell me one day, as a matter of course, that
he made a point of getting acquainted with rich families,
purely to be invited to their houses and partake of their good
things.  Many an Englishman would do this, but he would
hardly be so frank about it to a stranger; nor would an
Englishman of the same tastes in other respects be easily
found to act so.
But it is the old story of "( following the multitude to do
evil," and is no doubt accounted a matter of necessity and
common sense.
The Pisans claim the merit of speaking as pure Italian,
if not purer, as any people in Tuscany; and there is a claim
among the poorer orders in this part of Italy, which has
been too hastily credited by foreigners, of speaking a lan



LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


guage quite as pure as the educated classes.  It is certainly not true, whatever may be claimed for their Tuscan, as
ancient or popular Tuscan. The Pisans, in general, also
seem to have corrupted their pronunciation, and the Florentines too, if report is to be believed.  They use a soft aspirate instead of the c, as if their language were not genteel
and tender enough already.  Casa is hasa-cuoco (a cook),
hoho-locando, lohando-cocomero, hohomero-and even
crazie (a sort of coin), hrazie.  But they speak well out,
trolling the words clearly over the tongue.
There seems a good deal of talent for music among the
Pisans, which does not know how to make its way. You
never hear the poorest melody, but somebody strikes in with
what he can muster up of a harmony. Boys go about of
an evening and parties sit at their doors, singing popular
airs, and hanging as long as possible on the last chord.  It
is not an uncommon thing for gentlemen to play their guitars as they go along to a party.  I heard one evening a
voice singing past a window, that would not have disgraced
an opera; and I once walked be.ind a common post-boy,
who, in default of having another to help him to a harmony.
contrived to make chords of all his notes, by rapidly sounding the second and the treble, one after the other.  The
whole people are bitten with a new song, and hardly sing
any thing else till the next.  There were two epidemic airs
of this kind when I was there, which had been imported
from Florence, and which the inhabitants sang from morning
till night, though they were nothing remarkable.  Yet Pisa
is said to be the least fond of music, of any city in Tuscany.
I must not omit a great curiosity which is in the neighborhood of Pisa, toward the sea; namely, the existence of
a race of camels, which was brought from the east during
the crusades.  I have not seen them out of the city, though
the novelty of the sight in Europe, the sand of the sea-shore
and the vessels that sometimes combine with the landscape
in the distance, are said to give it a look singularly Asiatic.
They are used for agricultural purposes, and may be sometimes met within the walls. The forest between Pisa and
another part of the sea-shore, is extensive and woody.




GALILEO.                     153
Pisa is a tranquil, an imposing, and even now a beautiful and stately city.  It looks like what it is, the residence
of an -university: many parts of it seem made up of cobleges; and we feel as if we ought to "cwalk. gowned." It
possesses the Campo Santo; its' river- is the river of Tuscan
poetry, and furnished Michael Angelo with the subject of
his cartoon; and it disputes with Florence the birth of
Galileo. Here at. all events, the great astronomer studied
and taught: here his mind was born, and another great
impulse given to the progrelss, of philosophy and liberal
opinion.




CHAPTER XX.


GENOA.
Removal to Genoa.-Shelley's house at Lerici.-Earthquake at
Lerici.-Reputation of Englishmen in Italy for mad courage.Courage of Italians.-Porto Venere.-Fishy population.-Maritime Apennines.-Domiciles at Albaro.-Account of the " Liberal."-Awkward mistake respecting two of its writers.-Lord
Byron and Dr. Johnson.
TOWARD the end of September, Lord Byron and myself
in different parties, left Pisa for Genoa.   Tuscany had
been rendered uncomfortable to him by the misadventures
both there and at Leghorn; and at Genoa he would hover
on the borders of his inclination for Greece.  Perhaps he
had already made arrangements for going thither.
On our way to Genoa we met at Lerici.       He had an
illness at that place; and all my melancholy was put to its
height by seeing the spot which my departed friend had
lived in, and his solitary mansion on the sea-shore. Lerici
is wild and retired, with a bay and rocky eminences; the
people suited to it, something between inhabitants of sea
and land. In the summer time they will be up all night
dabbling in the water, and making wild noises.       Here
Trelawney joined us.     He took me to the Villa Magni
(the house just alluded to); and we paced over its empty
rooms, and neglected garden.   The sea fawned upon the
shore, as.though it could do no harm.
At Lerici we had an earthquake.     The shock was the
smartest we experienced in Italy.  At Pisa there had been
a dull intimation of one, such as happens in that city about
once in three years.  In the neighborhood of Florence we
had another less dull, but lasting only for an instant.  It
was exactly as if somebody with a strong hand had jerked a




AN EARTHQUAKE.


155


pole up against the ceiling of the lower room, right under
one's feet.  This was at Maiano, among the Fiesolan hills.
People came out of their rooms, and inquired of one another
what was the matter.    At Lerici I awoke at dawn with
an extraordinary sensation, and directly afterward the earthquake took place.  It was strong enough to shake the pictures on the wall; and it lasted a sufficient time to resem.ble the rolling of a wagon under an archway, which it did
both in noise and movement.    I got up and went to the
window.   The people were already collecting in the open
place beneath it; and I heard, in the clear morning air, the
word Terremoto (earthquake) repeated from one to another.
The sensation for the next ten minutes or so was very distressing.  You expected the shock to come again, and to be
worse. However we had no more of it.   We congratulated
ourselves the more, because there was a tower on a rock
just over our heads, which would have stood upon no ceremony with our inn.    They told us, if I remember, that
they had an earthquake on this part of the coast of Italy
about once every five years.  Italy is a land of volcanoes,
more or less subdued.  It is a great grapery, built over a
flue.  If the earthquake did not come, it was thought the
crops were not so good.
From Lerici, we proceeded part of our way by water, as
far as Sestri. Lord Byron went in a private boat; Trelawny in another; myself and family in a felucca.  It was
pretty to see the boats with their white sails, gliding by the
rocks over that blue sea. A little breeze coming on, our
seamen were afraid, and put into Porto Venere, a deserted
town a short distance from Lerici.  I asked them if they
really meant: to put in, upon which they looked very determined on that:jpoint, and said that "( Englishmen had no
sense of danger."  I smiled to think of the British Channel.
I thought also of the thunder and lightning in this very sea,
where they might have seen British tars themselves astonished with fear.  In Italy, Englishmen are called " the mad
English," from the hazards they run. They like to astonish
the natives by a little superfluous peril. If you see a man
coming furiously down the streets on horseback, you may be




LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


pretty certain he is an Englishman. An English mailcoach, with that cauliflower of human beings a-top of it,
lumping from side to side, would make the hearts of a Tuscan city die within them. Not that the Italians are less
brave than other nations. The modern Romans have lately
shown what they can do in the best old Roman spirit, in
spite of their having mounted guard so long under papal
umbrellas; and the Piedmontese were among the best soldiers of Napoleon.   But habit and imagination soften the
bravest, when there seems no necessity for resisting them.
Porto Venere is like a petrified town in a story-book.
The classical name allured us, and we roamed over it. It
was curious to pass the houses one after the other, and meet
not a soul.  Such inhabitants as there are, confine themselves to the sea-shore.
After'resting a few hours, we put forth again, and had a
lazy, sunny passage to Sestri, where a crowd of people assailed us, like savages at an island, for our patronage and
portmanteaus.   They were robust, clamorous, fishy fellows,
like so many children of the Tritons in Raphael's pictures;
as if those plebeian gods of the sea had been making love to
Italian chambermaids.    Italian goddesses have shown a
taste not unsimilar, and more condescending; and English
ones, too, in Italy, if scandal is to be believed.  But Naples
is the head-quarters of this over-growth of wild luxury.
Marino, a Neapolitan, may have had it in his eye, when he
wrote that fine sonnet of his, full of gusto, brawny and
bearded, about Triton pursuing Cymothoe.     (See Parnaso
Italiano, tom. 41, p. 10.)
From Sestri we proceeded over the maritime part of the
Apennines to Genoa. Their character is of the least interesting sort of any mountains, being neither distinct nor
wooded" but undulating, barren, and coarse; without any
grandeur but what arises from an excess of that appearance.
They lie in a succession of great doughy billows, like so
much enormous pudding, or petrified mud.
Genoa again! With what different feelings we beheld
it from those which enchanted us the first time! Mrs.
Shelley, who preceded us, had found houses both for Lord




THE " LIBERAL."


157


Byron's family and my own at Albaro; a neighboring village
on a hill.  We were to live in the same house with her;
and in the Casa Negroto we accordingly found an English
welcome. There were forty rooms in it, some of them such
as would be considered splendid in England, and all neat
and new, with borders and arabesques.   The balcony and
staircase were of marble; and there was a little flowergarden. The rent of this house was twenty pounds a year.
Lord Byron paid four-and twenty for his, which was oldei
and more imposing, with rooms in still greater plenty, and
a good piece of ground.  It was called the Casa Saluzzi.*
Mr. Landor and his family had occupied a house in the
same village-the Casa Pallavicini.   He has recorded an
interesting dialogue that took place in it.t  Of Albaro, and
the city itself, I shall speak more at large in the course of
the chapter.
The Genoese post brought us the first number of our new
quarterly, the Liberal, accompanied both with hopes and
fears, the latter of which were too speedily realized. Living
now in a separate house from Lord Byron, I saw less of him
than before; and, under all the circumstances, it was as
well: for though we had always been on what are called
" good terms," the cordiality did not increase.  His friends
in England, who, after what had lately taken place there
in his instance, were opposed, naturally enough, to his opening
new fields of publicity, did what they could to prevent his
taking a hearty interest in the Liberal; and I must confess,
that I did not mend the matter by my own inability to fall
in cordially with his ways, and by a certain jealousy of my
position, which prevented me, neither very wisely nor justly,
from manifesting the admiration due to his genius, and reading the manuscripts he showed me with a becoming amount
* Are the Saluzzi family from Chaucer's Country of Saluces, whose
"Markis" married the patient Griselda? Saluces was in the maritime Apennines, by Piedmont, and might have originated a family of
Genoese nobles. Classical and romantic associations meet us in such
abundance at every turn in Italy, that upon the least hint a book
speaketh.
t Imaginary Conversations, vol. i. p. 179, second edition.




158


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


of thanks and good words.   I think he had a right to. feel
this want of accord in a companion, whatever might be its
value.   A  dozen years later, reflection would have made
me act very differently.   At the same time, though the
Liberal had no mean success, he unquestionably looked to its
having a far greater; and the result of all these combined
circumstances was, that the interest he took in it cooled in
proportion as it should have grown warm, and after four
numbers it ceased.  They were all published during our residence in this part of Italy.  Lord Byron contributed some
poems, to which his customary publisher had objected on
account of their fault-finding in Church and State, and their
critical attacks on acquaintances. Among them was the
Vision of Judgment, the best satire since the days of Pope.
Churchill's satires, compared with it, are bludgeons compared
with steel of Damascus.    Hazlitt contributed some of the
most entertaining of his vigorous essays; and Shelley had
left us his masterly translation of the.May-day Night in
Faust. As to myself, if I may speak of my own articles
after these, I wrote by far the greater number, perhaps
nearly half the publication; but I was ill; and with the
exception of one or two, I hope they were not among my
best.  This, however, did not hinder great puzzlement
among the critics of that day.  I say it with not the slightest intention of self-compliment; and I should think him a
very dull fellow who supposed it.
Puzzlement and posement of various sorts awaited many
readers of the Liberal.  A periodical work which is understood to be written by 'known authors, whose names are
neverthelsss unaffixed to their contributions, has the disadvantage of hazarding uneasiness to the minds of such readers
as pique themselves on knowing a man's style without really
being sure of it.  They long to assign the articles to this
and that author, but they fear to be mistaken.    The perplexity irritates them; they are forced to wait the judgments
of others; and they willingly comfort the wound given to
their self-love by siding with such as are unfavorable, and
pronouncing the articles to be of an undistinguishable mediocrity. I do not know how far this kind of dilemma may




MISTAKE OF ONE WRITER FOR ANOTHER.


159


have injured the Liberal.    I suspect it had no little effect.
But what must have exasperated, while it consoled it, critics
of an opposite kind were sometimes as much in the wrong
as the former were afraid of being. A signal instance
occurred in the case of a writer not disesteemed in his day,
whose name I suppress, because the mention of it might disconcert some relation.   One of the poems in the Liberal is
entitled the Book of Beginnings.       Its subject is poetical
exordiums.    The writer in question attributed it to Lord
Byron; and after denouncing the " atheists and scoffers," by
whom, he said, his lordship had been " led into defiance of
the sacred writings, thus proceeded to notice a religious
passage from Dryden, which was quoted with admiration in
the notes to the poem:
"In vain was Lord Byron led into the defiance of the sacred writings; there are passages in his letters and in his works which show
that religion might have been in his soul. Could he recite the following lines, and resist the force of them? It is true, that he marks them
for the beauty of the verse, but no less for the sublimity of the conception; and I can not but hope that, had,he lived, he would have proved
another instance of genius bowing to the power of truth."
Now the poem in question, and the notes to it, were
written by myself, one of those "atheists and scoffers" (according to this gentleman), by whom the supposed writer of
the poem had beenr "led into defiance of the sacred writings."
This person knew as little of my religion as he knew of
an author's manner.     Among these same notes of mine is
the following passage:
"What divine plays would not Beaumont and Fletcher have left us,
if they had not been fine gentlemen about town, and ambitious to
please a perishing generation! Their muse is like an accomplished
country beauty, of the most exquisite kind, seduced up to town, and
made familiar with the most devilish parts of it, yet retaining, through
all her debauchery, a sweet regret, and an adoring fondness for nature.
She has lilies about her paint and patch-boxes, and loves them almost
as much as when she was a child."
I do not think that the author of Don' Juan was accustomed to make critical reflections of that sort.    I do not
allude, of course, to the writing, but to the sentiment.




160


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


But what could the gentleman have thought of the following passage in another of my notes?
"I have stood in that chapel (in South-street) under the influence
of that organ, and have felt the tears run down my cheeks at the
crowd of thoughts that came upon me..... I was struck to think of
all the miseries and bloody wars that had accompanied the spread of
the kindest of doctrines; and wondered how. it was possible for men
to look at the altar-piece before me, and hear the music that melted
toward it, and not find out, that to injure and damn one another to
eternity was unbecoming even the wrath of charity."
The noble poet, I think, was hardly accustomed to the
confession of tears of that sort.  He would have thought
them weak. But the poem was written in the stanza of
Don Juan, and, therefore, his lordship was to be complimented with the religion of it, at the expense of his
Juanity.
I will take this opportunity of recording some more anecdotes, as they occur to me. My neighbor and myself used
to walk in the grounds of the Casa Saluzzi; talking for the
most part of indifferent things, and endeavoring to joke away
the consciousness of our position.  We joked even upon our
differences of opinion.  It was a jest between us, that the
only book that was a thorough favorite on both sides, was
Boswell's Life of Johnson.  I used to talk of Johnson when
I saw him disturbed, or when I wished to avoid other subjects.
He asked me one day how I should have felt in Johnson's
company.   I said it was difficult to judge; because, living
in other times, and one's character being modified by them,
I could not help thinking of myself as I was now, and Johnson as he was in times previous: so that it appeared to me
that I should have been somewhat " Jacobinical" in his
company, and not disposed to put up with his ipse dixits.
He said, that "< Johnson would have awed him, he treated
lords with so much respect."    The reader, after what I
have lately said, will see what was at the bottom of these
remarks on both sides.  Had the question been asked me
now, I should have said, that I loved Johnson, and hope I
should have shown him all due homage; though I think I
should have been inclined sometimes to contest his conclu



LORD BYRON AND DR. JOHNSON.


161


sions more than they are contested by his interlocutors in
Boswell.   Lord Byron liked to imitate Johnson, and say,
" Why, sir," in a high mouthing way, rising, and looking
about him.     His imitation was very pleasant.        Yet he
hardly seemed to relish Peter Pindar's imitations, pleasant
too as they were. I used to repeat to him those laughable
passages out of Bozzy and Piozzy.
" Dear Dr. Johnson(It is Mrs. Thrale who speaks)" Dear Dr. Johnson was in size an ox
And of his uncle Andrew learnt to box;
A man to wrestlers and to bruisers dear,
Who kept the ring in Smithfield a whole year.
The doctor had an uncle too, ador'd
By jumping gentry, called Cornelius Ford;
Who jump'd in boots, which jumpers never choose,
Far as a famous jumper jump'd in shoes."
Again; Mrs. Piozzi says,
" Once at our house, amidst our Attic feasts,
We liken'd our acquaintances to beasts:
As for example-some to calves and hogs,
And some to bears and monkeys, cats and dogs.
We said (which charm'd the doctor much, no doubt)
His mind was like, of elephants, the snout;
That could pick pins up, yet possess'd the vigor
Of trimming well the jacket of a tiger.
Bozzy. When Johnson was in Edinburgh, my wife,
To please his palate, studied for her life;
With ev'ry rarity she fill'd her house,
And gave the doctor, for his dinner, grouse.
Piozzi. Dear Doctor Johnson left off drinks fermented,
With quarts of chocolate and cream contented;
Yet often down his throat's prodigious gutter,
Poor man! he pour'd whole floods of melted butter."
At these passages, which make me laugh whenever I repeat
them, Lord Byron had too invincible a relish of a good thing
not to laugh also; but he did not do it with good will.     I
attributed it at the time to a jealousy of the inferior wit;
but I have no doubt that it was because I seemed to expect




162


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


his admiration of the lines a little too confidently, and this,
too, while withholding the tribute due to his own.
Ah! how I should have loved him, had he treated me
with thorough candor himself, and set me that example of
heartiness which it was my business to wait for rather than
to originate, seeing that I was of the inferior rank, and in a
condition to be obliged.  It would have done, I think, a
world of good on both sides; and what would it not have
saved?  Still, I ought to have discovered some mode, nevertheless, of exciting it; and I should have done so, had I
known what was right and proper as well as I do now.
With the commiseration about the melted butter, we
agreed heartily.  When poor Lord Castlereagh killed himself, it was mentioned in the papers that he had taken his
usual tea and buttered toast for breakfast.  I said there
was no knowing how far even so little a thing as buttered
toast might not have fatally assisted in exasperating that ill
state of the stomach which is found to accompany melancholy
As ( the last feather breaks the horse's back," so the last
injury done to the organs of digestion may make a man kill
himself. He agreed with me entirely in this; and said,
the world were as much in the wrong, in nine cases out of
ten, respecting the immediate causes of suicide, as they were
in their notions about the harmlessness of this and that food,
and the quantity of it.
It is a credit to my noble friend, that he was by far the
pleasantest when he had got a little wine in his head. The
only time I invited myself to dine with him, I told him I
did it on that account, and that I meant to push the bottle
so that he should intoxicate me with his good company. He
said he would have a set-to; but he never did. It was a
little before he left Italy; and there was a point in contest
between us (not regarding myself) which he thought, perhaps I should persuade him to give up. When in his cups,
which was not often nor immoderately, he was inclined to
be tender; but not weakly so, nor lachrymose. I know not
how it might have been with every body, but he paid me
the compliment of being excited to his very best feelings:
and when I rose late to go away, he would hold me down,




BRAHAM'S " ENTOOZYMOOZY."


163


and say with a look of entreaty, "< Not yet."  Then it was
that I seemed to talk with the proper natural Byron as he
ought to have been; and I used to think there was not a
sacrifice which I could not have made to keep him in that
temper, and see his friends love him as much as the world
admired.  But I ought to have discovered the sacrifice at
once.  I should have broken the ice between us, that had
been generated on points of literary predilection; and admired, and shown that I admired, as I ought to have done,
his admirable genius.  It was not only an oversight in me;
it was a want of friendship.   Friendship ought to have
made me discover, what less cordial feelings had kept me
blind to.  Next morning the happy moment had gone, and
nothing remained but to despair and joke.
In his wine he would volunteer an imitation of somebody,
generally of Incledon. He was not a good mimic in the
detail, but he could give a lively broad sketch; and over
his cups his imitations were good-natured, which was not
always the case at other times. His Incledon was vocal.
I made pretensions to the oratorical part; and between us
we boasted that we made up the entire phenomenon. He
would sometimes, however, give a happy comprehensive
idea of a person's manner and turn of mind by the utterance of a single phrase, or even word. Thus he would
pleasantly pretend that Braham called,"enthusiasm" entoozymoozy; and in the extraordinary combination of lightness, haste, indifference and fervor with which he would
pitch out that single word from his lips, accompanied with
a gesture to correspond, he would really set before you the
admirable singer in one of his (then) characteristic passages
of stage dialogue. He did not live to see Braham become
an exception in his dialogue as in his singing.
Lord Byron left Italy for Greece, and our conversation
was at an end. I will, therefore, request the reader's company in a walk with me about Genoa.
Genoa is truly <" Genoa the Superb." Its finest aspect
is from the sea, and from t'ie sea I first beheld it.  Imagine
a glorious amphitheatre of vhite houses, with mountains on
each side and at the back.  The base is composed of the




164


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


city with its churches and shipping; the other houses are
country seats, looking out, one above the other, up the hill.
To the left are the Alps with their snowy tops: to the right,
and for the back, are the Apennines.  This is Genoa. It
is situate at the very angle of the pointed gulf, which is
called after its name, and which presents on either side, as
you sail up it, white villages, country seats, and olive
groves.
When we first saw Genoa, which was the first Italian
city we beheld, our notions of the Italian countenance were
formidably startled by the pilot-boat, which came out to
offer its assistance in conducting us by the mole.  The mole
had been injured greatly by the storms of the preceding
winter. The boat contained, I thought, as ugly a set of
faces as could well have been brought together.  It was a
very neat boat, and the pilots were singularly neat and clean
in their persons; but their faces! My wife looked at me
as much as to say, "Are these our fine southern heads?"
The children looked at me: we all looked at one another:
and what was very inhospitable, the pilots all looked at us.
The sun was in their eyes; and there they sat on their oars.
grinning up at us, and bargaining with the captain.  The
older ones were like monkeys; the younger like half-withered masks--hard, stony, and pale.  One young man, however, was handsome both in face and person: he had the
fine black eyes and brown color we expected to meet with;
and luckily driving a less hard bargain than the rest (which
was to be expected of him), the captain agreed with him,
and he came on board.  His dress and appearance we found
might be taken as a specimen, and by no means an uncommon specimen, of the better order of boatmen, upon this
and the Tuscan coast: for we soon had the pleasure of
being agreeably disappointed with regard to the slovenliness
we had looked for. It was that of a smart English apprentice, with his coat off. He had a very neat black hat
on, in the modern style, good shbes and silk handkerchief,
and blue linen pantaloons coming up high, and fastened over
his shoulders with braces.  Though aware that one style of
dress, with little modification, prevails nowadays all over




PUBLICITY OF BA fHING.


165


Europe, one can not help feeling a kind of disappointment,
and even surprise, at seeing Italians dressed like Englishmen.   It seems a disgrace to them, not because they are
like us, but because they look unlike themselves and their
climate, and disappoint us of a becoming variety. We
thought how well our pilot would have looked in his cap
and cloak.  But we were thankful for his face. I asked
him where the Doria palace stood.     " Behold it!" said
he, pointing to the left; and we looked upon the handsome
yet comparatively humble mansion, which Andrew Doria
built for himself and his descendants, when he was at
the height of his power. It is a low, long building, with
an arcade, and a garden before it, and looks over the harbor
which he rendered so eminent.
We had scarcely got rid of our ugly men, when we were
assailed with a much worse sight, a gang of ugly boys.
They were a set of young knaves, poking about for what
they could lay their hands on; and came loitering.and
hanging about the vessel under pretense of asking charity.
Their fathers and mothers, or their fathers and mothers, or
manners and customs from the beginning, had much to
answer for in contriving such a set of juvenile vagabonds.
They clung about the sides of the vessel, with faces and
hands too, like monkeys.    They had no foreheads, and
moved their hands as if they were paws. Never did we
see a more striking look of something removed from humanity; and the worst of it was, they had no sort of comfort
in their faces; their laugh was as melancholy, yet unfeeling, as their abject and canting whine. They looked like
impudent, squalid old men of the world, in the shape of
boys; and were as pale and almost as withered. They
were like the sordid imps of Massinger or Decker.  Sindbad's Old Man of the Sea would have had such children,
only stronger.
Boats with awnings were rowing backward and forward,
many of them, particularly as the afternoon advanced, containing bathers, who dressed and undressed themselves, as
they went along, in the most unscrupulous manner. One of
the very commonist sights was to see men in their shirts;




166


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


and not a very uncommon one, females in their company.
People bathed among the shipping at all times of the day,
and ladies would pass them, nothing wondering, in boats.
This grossness, which libertinism itself would diminish, I
witnessed afterward at Leghorn; and I have seen people
bathing in the Arno in the very middle of Pisa.  I am not
squeamish; and think some of our northern notions as gross
as any thing else; but where there is neither innocence nor
even a refined sensualism, there is something worse than indecent in these public expositions of the person.  The extreme of formality is better, inasmuch as it approaches nearer to one of the two.  But something, in the progress of
such customs, is to be allowed for difference of climate.
The first handsome countenance that came near us, after
the pilot's, was that of a boy who accompanied a customhouse officer, and who was going to bathe.  But he had no
modesty in his aspect, and the want of it was not bettered
by his ear-rings and the cut of his hair, which made him
look like a girl.  Numbers of lads had the same look, on
the same accounts; even when apparently seventeen or
eighteen years old.  The short, thick custom-house officer,
grave, obsequious, and yet indifferent, was like a man made
of dough; and he had the most exaggerated cocked-hat and
worsted epaulets which we had ever beheld out of the pale
of a pantomime.
The first sight of Italian women disappointed us almost
as much as Italian men, because we expected still more of
them. Of course, had we seen them first they would have
disappointed us more.  But I afterward found that as you
ascended among the more educated classes, the faces improved; and I have reason to believe, that most of the
women whom we saw in boats, deceived us as to their rank
in this respect.  In Italy, gentlemen do not look so much
like gentlemen as in England, but there are greater numbers
of women who look like ladies.  This is partly owing to
their dress.  In Genoa, particularly, the out-of-door head.
dress for women of all ranks is a white vail; and an Englishman, unaccustomed to see this piece of drapery upon
common heads, and observing besides, the stateliness with




ITALIAN FARE IN HARBOR.


167


which female Italians carry themselves, thinks he is oftener
looking at gentlewomen than he is.
We had not been long in harbor before we inquired, with
all the eagerness of voyagers, for our fresh provisions.  In
Italy, we also looked for our heaps of-fruit; and we had
them-in all the luxury of baskets and vine-leaves, and a
cheapness that made us laugh. Grapes were not in season;
but there were figs, apricots, fresh almonds, oranges, pears,
and gigantic cherries, as fine as they were large. We also
took leave of our biscuit for excellent bread: and had milk
brought to us in bottles, which were stopped with vineleaves. The mutton turned out to be kid, and lean enough;
but it was a novelty, and we ate it upon a principle of inquiry.  An excellent light wine accompanied our repast,
drunk, not in little cautious glasses, like our " hot intoxicating liquor," but out of tumblers.  It was just threepence
English a quart. It had, notwithstanding its lightness, a
real vinous body, and both looked and tasted like a sort of
claret; but we were sorry to find it was French, and not
Italian.  As to the fruit-to give a specimen in one word
-the apricots, very fine ones, were twopence a gallon.
The quay of Genoa is a handsome one, profuse of good
pavement, gate, &c., and the abundance of stone every where
the whiteness of the houses, the blueness of the sky, cast, at
first sight, an extraordinary look of lightness and cleanliness
upon every thing. Nor are you disappointed in Genoa, as
people are at Lisbon, between the fairness of the look outside, and the dirt within.  The large, wrinkled features of
the old women, with their uncapped gray hair, strike you at
first as singularly plain: so do the people in general; but
every thing looks clean and neat, and full of the smart bustle of a commercial city.  What surprises you-is the narrowness of the streets. As soon as you have passed the gate,
you think you have entered upon a lane, remarkably good
indeed for a lane-a sort of Bond-street of an alley-but
you have no conception that it is a street, and of the ordinary dimensions.  The shops, also, though neat, are entirely
open, like English potato shops, or at best like some of the
little comb shops now rarely to be seen in London. I mean




168


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


they have no windows, or such walls as would hold them.
After entering this street, you soon come upon the public
place, or exchange, which is a very fair one. You cross
over this into the principal street, or street of goldsmiths, full
of shops in which trinkets are sold, including a world of
crosses and other Christian emblems, and huge ear-rings.
It is the custom in several parts of Italy for girls to carry
their marriage portion about with them, in the shape of gold
ear-rings and crosses; and no maid-servant thinks herself
properly dressed on mass-days without announcing in this
way that she is equally fit for heaven and a husband. The
gold is very thin, but solidity is made up for by the length
and width of the ornaments; and the ear-rings are often
heavy enough to tear through the lobes of the ears.  Imagine a brown, black eyed girl, with her thick hair done up in
combs, a white vail over it, a colored, sometimes a white
gown, large dangling gold ornaments at her ears and bosom,
and perhaps bare feet and tattered shoes, and you have the
complete portrait of an Italian maid-servant or peasant girl,
issuing forth to church or to a dance. The men of all
classes dress more like the same classes in other countries,
with an exceptian, however, as before noticed, in favor of the
humbler ones. Yet you often see the old Genoese cap, and
you notice a set of porters from Bergamo, who wear a puckered kilt.  They are a good-looking race, and are esteemed
for their honesty.  The burdens they carry are enormous.
The laborer of Italy often shows his propensity to a piece of
drapery, by hanging his jacket over his shoulders with the
sleeves dangling; a custom naturally prompted by the heat.
In England we have delicate names for some of our
streets and alleys. There is Love-lane, Maiden-lane, Garden-court, Green Arbor-court, &c., but in Italy they beat
us hollow.   Pisa has not only Love-street and Lily-street,
but Beautiful Ladies'-lane, and the Lane of the Beautiful
Towers.   In Genoa, after passing through Goldsmith-street,
and another that leads up from it, you come out by the postoffice upon the Piazza delle Fontane Amorose-the Place
of the Amorous Fountains.    There is a magnificent mansion
in it, containing baths; and another, adorned on the outside




NAMES OF STREETS IN GENOA.


169


with paintings of festive women. But here all the houses
begin to be magnificent mansions, and you again recognize
" Genova la Superba."    From  the Piazza delle Fontane
Amorose you turn into the Strada Nuova, which leads
round through another sumptuous street into the Strada
Balbi, fit, says Madame de Stael, for a congress of kings.
The three streets are literally a succession of palaces on
each side of the way; and these palaces are of costly architecture, and are adorned inside with the works of the Italian
masters.  Marble is lavished every where.    It is like a
street raised by Aladdin, to astonish his father-in-law, the
Sultan.  Yet there is one lamentable deficiency.   Even
these streets are narrow.  I do not think the Strada Nuova
is wider than Bond-street without the pavements.     "A
lane!" you cry. Yes, a lane of Whitehalls, encrusted with
the richest architecture. Imagine how much the buildings
lose by this confinement, and then wonder how it could have
taken place.  The alleged reason is, that in a hot country
shade is wanted, and therefore beauty is sacrificed to utility.
But the reason is a bad one: for porticos might have been
used, as at Bologna, and the street made so wide as to
render the disadvantage to the architecture a comparative
nothing.  The circumstance probably originated in some
reasons connected with the ground, or the value of it, and
the pressure of the population within the then city-walls.
Some other magnificent streets, built subsequently, are wider,
though still a good deal too narrow. The Genoese have
found out, before ourselves, the folly of calling a street Newstreet; but they have not very wisely corrected it by
naming one of their last, Newest-street-Strada Nuovissima.
Upon this principle, they must call the next street they build
Newer-than-all-street,- or Extremely-new-street, or New-of
the-very-newest-description-street.  They seem to have no
idea of calling their streets, as we do, after the names of
obscure builders and proprietors; a very dull custom, and
idle piece of vanity; specially in a country which abounds
in great names.  The streets of a metropolis ought to exhaust the whole nomenclature of great men, national or
otherwise, before it begins with bricklayers.  Nay, it would
VOL. nI.--.H




170


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


be very handsome to see the names of illustrious foreigners
mingled with those of the nation; and I have no doubt that
as nations become fused together by intercourse, such compliments will take place.  They will be regarded, indeed,
as discharges of debts: for who does not feel grateful to the
wise and good of all countries?
In Genoa I first had the pleasure of seeing a religious
procession.  I found chairs brought out in one of the streets,
and well-dressed company seated on each side; as in a musicroom.   In Genoa some of the streets are paved all over.
In the rest, the flat pavement is in the middle, and used
both for traffic and walking, This, I suppose, originated in
a vile custom which they have in several cities of Italythe same which Smollet speaks of in the Edinburgh of his
time.  Accidents frequently occur in consequence; but any
thing is sooner mended than a habit originating in idleness
or moral indifference; and the inhabitants and the mules
go on in their old way.  But to return to the procession.
The reader must imagine a narrow street with the company,
as above-mentioned, and an avenue left for the passage of
the spectacle.  The curiosity expressed in the company's
faces was of a very mild description, the next thing to indifference.  The music was heard at a little distance, then
came a bustling sound of feet, and you saw the friars advancing.  Nearly at the head of the procession was a little live
Virgin about four years old, walking in much state, with a
silver-looking crown on her head, and a sceptre in her hand.
A pleased relation helped her along, occasionally righting
the crown and sceptre, which she bore with all that dignified
gravity which children so soon imitate.  By her side was
another grown person, equally pleased, supporting a still
smaller St. John, dressed in a lamb-skin, and apparently
selected for his office on account of his red little waxen
cheeks and curly flaxen hair.  He did not seem quite as
much au fait in the matter as the Virgin, but was as grave
as need be, and not a little heated.  A string of clergy followed in their gowns, carrying large lighted wax candles,
and each one assisted by a personage, whose appearance was
singularly striking to a foreigner from a Protestant country.




RELIGIOUS PROCESSION.


171


These coadjutors were neither more nor less than the very
raggedest and dirtiest fellows, old and young, in all Genoa.
There was one to every light.  His object was to collect
the wax that fell from the candles, which he did in a piece
of paper; and the candle seemed to be made to gutter on
purpose, in order to oblige him with as much of it as possible.
The wax is sold by the gainer. I dare say this accompaniment of pauperism has a reference to the best doctrines of
the Christian religion; but it is a singular mistake, and has
a most unedifying appearance. Poverty should not be in
this squalid condition, especially by the side of comfortable
clergymen.  The faces, too, of the poor fellows had, for the
most part, all the signs of bad education.  Now and then
there was a head like the beggar who sat for Sir Joshua's
Ugolino-a fine head, but still a beggar.  Some were of a
portentous raffishness.
As to the priests and friars (for there followed a variety),
I could not help observing,' that, with very few exceptions,
the countenances grew indifferent and worldly as they grew
old.  A few of the young ones were worthy of the heads in
Raphael.   One young man had a saint-like manner with
him, casting down his eyes, and appearing absorbed in
meditation; but I thought, when he did cast them up
(which he instantly followed by casting them down again),
it was in approaching the young ladies.  He had certainly
a head fit for an Abelard.
I spoke just now of a bustle of feet.  You do not know
at first to what the loudness of it is owing, but the secret is
explained as a large machine approaches, preceded by music.
This is a group of wax-work as large as life, carried on the
shoulders of ambling friars; for they are obliged to shuffle
into that step on account of the weight.  It represented, on
the present occasion, St. Antonio kneeling before the Virgin,
around whom were little angels fluttering like Cupids. It
is impossible not to be reminded of Paganism by these spectacles.  Indeed, as the Jupiter of the Capitol still sits there
under his new name of St. Peter, so there is no doubt that
the ancients, under other names, had these identical processions.  The Cupids remain unaltered.  The son of Myrrha




172


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


himself could not look more lover-like than St. Antonio, nor
Venus more polite than the Virgin; and the flowers stuck
all about (the favorite emblem of the Cyprian youth) completed the likeness to an ancient festival of Adonis.  So also
would the priests have looked in their ancient garments;
so would have come the music and the torches (paupers excepted); and so would the young priests have looked, in
passing by the young ladies.  To see the grandeurs of the
Catholic religion, you must consult its rarest and most serious festivals, its vpictures, and its poet Dante.  I must not
forget, that among the musical instruments were violins.
One set of friars wore cowls over their faces, having holes
only to see through, and looking extremely hideous, like executioners.  Or were they brethren of the benevolent order
of the Misericordia, who disguise themselves, only the more
nobly to attend to any disaster that calls upon them for aid?
If so, observe how people may be calumniated merely in
consequence of a spectator's ignorance. Among the persons
who showed their faces, and who did not seem at all ashamed of them, was one good-natured, active individual, who
ran back, with great vivacity, to encourage the machinebearers. He looked as much as to say, " It is hot enough
for you, Heaven knows!" and so it was.
Somebody has said, that in the south all the monks look
like soldiers, and all the soldiers like monks.  I dare say
this might have been the case before the spread of liberal
opinions; but it is so no longer. In Spain and Portugal it
can not be so; though the Sardinian troops quartered in
Genoa were for the most part under-grown and poor-looking
men.   The officers, however, were better.    They had a
propensity, common I am told in the south, to over-grown
caps and epaulets; but they had otherwise a manly aspect,
and looked more like gentlemen than any one else. This,
indeed, is always the case, where there is any difference;
military habits begetting an air of self-possession.   The
Piedmontese soldiery were remarkably well-dressed.   They
had a bad way of learning their exercise. They accompanied every motion-the whole set of men-with a loud Ho!
just as if a multitude of quick paviors were at work.  This,




VOTIVE OFFERINGS AND PREACHING FRIAR.         173
besides encouraging noise, must take away from a ready dependence on the eye.
I used often to go to the churches in Genoa and elsewhere.
I liked their quiet, their coolness, and their richness.  Besides,
I find my own religion in some. part or other of all imaginiative religions.  In one of the churches are pillars of porphyry,
and several are very imposing; but they struck me upon the
whole as exhibiting the genius of a commercial' rather than
a tasteful country; as being more weighty anid expensive
than beautiful.  There are some good piotmur'es; but by far
the greater number adorn the houses of the nobility.  In all
Catholic churches, there is an unfortunate mixture of petty
ornaments with great, of dusty artificial flowers with fine
altar-pieces, and of wretched little votive pictures, and silver
hearts and legs, stuck up by the side of the noblest pieces of
art.
This'-is another custom handed down from antiquity. I
was reminded of Ho'race's Ode to Pyrrha, by a painting of a
shipwre 'ck, in which the wind blew one away and the sails
another.  If a man has got rid 'pf a pain in the pericardium,
he dedicates a little silver heart to the saint whose assistance
he 'prayed for.  If a toe has been the complaining party, he
hangs up a toe.  The general feeling is good, but not so the
detail.  It is affecting, however, to think, that many of the
hearts hung up (and they- are by far the most numerous)
have been owing to the pangs of the spirit.
The most interesting thing I met with in the Genoese
churches, next to a picture by Raphael and Giulio Romano
in that of St. Stephen, was a sermon by a friar on Weeping.
He seemed a popular preacher, and. held the attention 'of his
audience for a good hour. His exordiumn was in a gentle
and restrained- voice, but he warmed as he went on, and became as loud and authoritative as the tenderness of his subject could well permit. He gave us an account of all sorts
of Tears-of the, tears_ of joy and the tears of sorrow, of penitent tears, tears of anger, spite, ill-temper, worldly regret,
love, patience, &c.; and from what I could collect, with an
ear -unaccustomed- to hear Italian spoken, a very true, as
well as full and particular account, it was. The style -was




174


LIFE OF LEIGh HUNT.


more florid than in our northern sermons.  He spoke of
murmuring rills and warbling nightingales, and admitted all
the merits of poetical luxury; but in denouncing luxury in
general, it was curious to hear a stout, jovial-looking friar
exhorting his auditors to value above all other enjoyments
that of weeping in solitude.  The natives are not likely to
be too much softenedi by injunctions of this description.
The houses in Genoa are very high as well as large.
Many of them   are painted on the outside, not only with
pictures, but with imitations of architecture; and whatever we may think of such a taste, these displays must have
looked magnificent when the paintirigs* were first executed.
Some of them look so now, colors in'this beautiful climate
retaining their vividness for centuries out of doors. But in
some instances, the paintings being done upon stucco, the
latter has partly crumbled away, and this gives a shabby,
dilapidated appearance to houses otherwise excellent.  Nobody seems to think of repairing them.  It is the same with
many of the houses unpainted, and with common garden
walls, most of which must have once made a splendid appearance.  The mere spirit of commerce has long succeeded
to its ancient inclusion of a better one; or Genoa would not
be what it is in many respects.   But a Genoese must
nevertheless have grand notions of houses; especially as in
this city, as well as the rest of Italy, shopkeepers sometimes
occupy the ground floors of the finest mansions.  You shall
see a blacksmith or a carpenter looking out of a window
where you might expect a duchess.
Neither Genoa nor even the country around it abounds in
trees.  It is a splendid sea-port of stone and marble, and the
mountains in the neighborhood are barren, though they soon
begin to be clothed with olive-trees. But among the gigantic houses and stone -walls you now and then detect a garden,
with its statues and orange trees; some of the windows have
vines trailed over them, not in the scanty fashion of our
creepers, but like great luxuriant green hair, hanging over
the houses' eyes; and sometimes the very highest stories
1have a terrace along the whole length of the house embowered with them. Calling one day upon a gentleman who




WINE-GARDENS.


175


resided in an elevated part of the suburbs, and to get at
whose abode I had walked through a hot sun and a city of
stone, I was agreeably surprised, when the door opened,
with a long yellow vista of an arcade of vines, at once
basking in the sun and defefiding from it.  In the suburbs
there are some orchards in all the southern luxuriance of
leaves and fruit. In one of these, I walked among heaps
of vines, olives, cherry, orange, and almond trees, and had
the pleasure of plucking fresh lemons from    the bough, a
merry old brown gardener, with a great straw hat and bare
legs, admiring all the while my regard for those commonplaces, and encouraging me with a good-natured paternity
to do what I pleased.    The cherries were Brobdignagian,
and bursting with juice. Next the orchard was a winegarden, answering to our tea-gardens, with vine-arbors and
seats as with us, where people drink wine and play at their
games.   Returning through the city, I saw a man in one
of the by-streets alternately singing anai playing on a pipe,
exactly as we conceive of the ancient shepherds.
One night I went to the opera, which was indifferent
enough, but I understand it is a good deal better sometimes. The favorite composer here, and all over Italy, is
Rossini, a truly national genius, full of the finest animal
spirits, yet capable of the noblest gravity.  My northern
faculties were scandalized at seeing men in the pit with
fans! Effeminacy is not always incompatible with courage,
but it is a very dangerous help toward it; and I wondered
what Doria would have said, had he seen a captain of one
of his galleys indulging his cheeks in this manner.    Yet
perhaps they did so in his own times. What would be
effeminate in a man of the north, unaccustomed to it, may
be a harmless trifle to a southern.
One night, on our first arrival in Genoa, the city was
illuminated, and bonfires arid rockets put in motion, in
honor of St. John the Baptist.  The effect from the harbor
was beautiful; fire, like the stars, having a brilliancy in
this pure atmosphere, of which we have no conception.
The scent of the perfumes employed in the bonfires was
very perceptible on board ship.




176


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


You learn for the first time m this climate, what colors
really are. No wonder it produces painters. An English
aitist of any enthusiasm might shed tears of vexation, to
think of the dull medium through which blue and red come
to him in his own atmosphere, compared- with this. One
day we saw ~ boat pass us, which instantly reminded us of
Titian, and accounted for him: and yet it contained nothing
but an old boatman in a red cap, and some women with
him in other colors, one of them in a bright yellow petticoat.
But a red cap in Italy goes by you, not like a mere cap,
much less any thing vulgar or butcher-like, but like what it
is, an intense specimen of the color of red. It is like a
scarlet bud in the blue atmosphere.  The old boatman,
with his brown hue, his white shirt, and his red cap, made
a complete picture; and so did the women and the yellow
petticoat. I have seen pieces of orange-colored silk hanging
out against a wall at a dyer's, which gave the eye a pleasure truly sensual.  Some of these boatmen are very fine
men.   I was rowed to shore one day by a man the very
image of Kemble. He had nothing but his shirt on, and it
was really grand to see the mixed power and gracefulness
with which all his limbs came into play as he pulled the
oars, occasionally turning his heroic profile to give a glance
behind him at other boats. They generally row standing,
and pushing from them.
The most interesting sight, after all, in Genoa, was the
one we first saw-the Doria palace.    Bonaparte lodged.
there when he was in Genoa; but this, which would have
been one of its greatest praises, had he done all he could for
liberty, is one of its least. Andrew Doria dwelt there after a
long life which he spent in giving security and glory to his
country, and which he crowned by his refusal of power. c, I
know the value," said he, " of the liberty I have earned for
my country, and shall I finish by taking it from her? "
When upward of eighty, he came forward and took the
command of an armament in a rough season. His friends
remonstrated.  " Excuse me," said he, c I have never yet
stopped for any thing when my duty was in, the way, and
at my time of life one can not get rid of ond's old habits."




OVERTHROW OF THE INQUISITION.


I1


This is the very perfection of a speech-a mixture of warrantable self-esteem, modesty, energy, pathos, and pleasantry; for it contains them all.  He died upward of ninety.
I asked for Doria's descendants, and was told they were
rich. The Pallavicini, with whom the Cromwell family
were connected, are extant.  I could ascertain nothing more
of the other old families, except that they had acquired a
considerable dislike of the English; which, under all circumstances at that time, was in their favor.  I found one thing,
however, which they did; and I must correct, in favor of
this one thing, what I have said about the Doria palace; for
the sight of it upon the whole gave me still greater satisfaction. This was the overthrow of the Genoese Inquisition.
There was a wish to rebuild it; but this the old families opposed; and the last ruins of it were being cleared away.  It
was pleasant to see the workmen crashing its old marble jaws.
Genoa has shown how much and how little can be done
by mere commerce.    A great man here and there in former
times is an exception; and the princely mansions, the foundations of schools and hospitals, and the erection of costly
churches, attest that in similar periods money-getting had
not degenerated into miserliness.  But the Genoese did not
cultivate mind enough to keep up the breed of patriots; and
it remained for an indignant spirit to issue out of a neighboring arbitrary monarchy and read them lectures on their absorption in money-getting.  Alfieri, in his Satire on Commerce, ranks them with their mules.  It avails nothing to a
people to be merely acquiring money, while the rest of the
world are acquiring ideas; a truth which England has
gloriously understood, and, it is to be trusted, will still more
gloriously illustrate.  It turns out, that Genoa and its
neighborhood have no pretensions to Columbus; which is
lucky for her. He was born at Cuccaro, in the province of
Aqui, not far from Asti-Alfieri's birth-place.  Chiabrera,
who is sometimes called the Italian Pindar, was born near
Genoa, at Savona.   I have read little of him; but he must
have merit to be counted an Italian classic; and it says
little for the Genoese, that I could not find a copy of his
works at their principal bookseller's.  Frugoni, their other
H1




178


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


poet, was born, I believe, in the same place.  He is easy
and lively, but wrote a great deal too much, probably for
bread.  There is a pleasant petition of his in verse to the
Genoese senate, about some family claims, in which he
gives an account of his debts, that must have startled the
faculties of that prudent and opulent body. A few more
Frugonis, however, and a few less rich men, would have
been better for Genoa.  The best production I ever met with
from  a Genoese pen, is a noble sonnet by Giambattista
Pastorini, a Jesuit; written after the bombardment of the
city by the troops of Louis XIV.  The poet glories in the
resistance made by Genoa, and kisses the ruins caused by
the bombardment with transport.   What must have been
his mortification, when he saw the Doge and a number of
senators set out for France, to go and apologize to Louis
XIV. for having been so erroneous as to defend their country
There is a proverb which says of Genoa,; that it has a sea
without fish, land without trees, men without faith, and
women without modesty.   Ligurian trickery is a charge as
old as Virgil.  But M. Millin very properly observes (Voyage en Savoie, &c.), that accusations of this description are
generally made by jealous neighbors, and that the Genoese
have most likely no more want of good faith than other
Italians who keep shops. I must confess, at the same time,
that the most barefaced trick ever attempted to be practiced
on myself, was by a Genoese.    The sea, it is said, has
plenty of fish, only the duty on it is very high, and the
people prefer butchers' meat. This is hardly a good'reason
why fish is not eaten at a seaport.  Perhaps it is naturally
scarce at the extreme point of a gulf like that of Genoa.
The land is naked enough, certainly, in the immediate vicinity, though it soon begins to be otherwise. As- to the
women, they have fine eyes and figures, but by no means
appear destitute of modesty; and modesty has much to do
with appearance.  Wholesale charges of want of modesty
are, at all times and in all places, most likely to be made by
those who have no modesty themselves.
The Genoese are not a musical specimen of the Italians;
though the national talent seems lurking wherever you go.




GENOESE DIALECT.


179


The most beggarly minstrel gets another to make out a harmony with him, or some sort of an instrument, if only a
gourd with a string or two.  Such, at least, appeared to me
a strange "c wild-fowl" of a fiddle, which a man was strumming one day-or rather, a gourd stuck upon a long fiddle
of deal.  They all sing out their words distinctly, some accompanying themselves all the while in the guitar style,
others putting in a symphony now and then, even if it be
nothing better than two notes always the same. There
was one blind beggar who seemed an enthusiast for Rossini.
Imagine a sturdy fellow in rags, laying his hot face upon
the. fiddle, rolling his blind eye-balls against the sun, and vociferating, with all the true open-mouthed and syllabical
particularity of the Italians, a part of one of the duets of
that splendid master. His companion having his eyesight,
and being therefore not so vivacious, sings his part with a
sedater vigor; though even when the former is singing a
solo, I have heard the associate throw in some unisons at
intervals, as though his help had been of necessity wanting
to the blind man, on vocal as well as corporal occasions.
I will conclude these remarks on Genoa with a specinen or two of its dialect, which is much disdained by the
Ttuscans, but which the Genoese say is the next best dialect in Italy to the Venetian.     I know   not.what the
Neapolitans and Sicilians would say to this; but it is certainly better than the Mantuan and Bergamasque, specimens of which (together with Venetian, Neapolitan, and
Paduan), are to be found in Coxe's Picture of Italy.  Dante
says, in his treatise on the Vulgar Tongue, that if the
Genoese were deprived of the letter z, they would be dumb.
But Dante's dislikes did not stand upon ceremony.   When
written, the dialect has a look of Provengal; and doubtless
it contains a good deal of old French, and has drawn upon
all its neighbors; z abounds in the shape of s and X, as well
as in its own; but not any thing to the extent that Dante
speaks of. They have the French u, which they write
ceu; and their diphthong without the u has also a petty
effect. The soft gl of the Tuscans they convert into a dg or
double g, which often occurs, and is very unpleasant. Thus




180


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


figlio, a son, isfiggiceu: and their words for pigliare pane
to get bread, sound as if they said pigger pang, the r at the
same time being heard very little, if at all, like the final one
of Londoners.  Indeed, I observe in their books, that they
write their infinitive moods without the r, putting a circumflex instead, as piggia, passa, spareg&, da f&.  I should
suppose they dropped this r, which adds so much strength
to the softness of the Tuscan, in order to diminish the roughness of their language, if they did not seem to take pains to
add to it in other instances.  The people, as in all commercial countries, have a tendency to cut their words short
for dispatch of business; and their pronunciation is harsh
and mean. There is a joke of a Neapolitan telling a man,
in a fine open-chested voice, that he had seen an eagle fly;
upon which the Genoese asks, in his pettier tones, whether
an eagle has wings.   But whether this is to ridicule the
boasting of the Neapolitan, or the ignorance of the Genoese,
I know not.
Neapolitan.   "( Haggio veduta un aquila volare."   (I
have seen an eagle fly).
Genoese.   ( A i Eeia i -ae?"  (Has an eagle wings?)
This brevity sounds still shorter than it looks: A-yea-aee-ai). The Genoese language seems copious and expressive, and I am told they have good translations of Tasso,
and of some of Moliere's comedies.   Serassi, Tasso's biographer, speaks highly of the former.    Their principal
native poet, Cavalli, lived in the time of Chiabrera, who
eulogizes him as a man of genius.
The following is a specimen of the Genoese dialect, preceded by Tuscan, in order to show the extraordinary nature
of the difference.
Tuscan.   Un signore cenando a un osteria in una piccola citta, quando fu sparecchiato, 1'oste gli domando, come
gli era piaciuta la cena.  (' Moltissimo," rispose quel signore; ' "posso dire d'aver cenato bene al par di qualunque
gran personaggio nel regno." " Eccettuato il Signor Governatore," disse 1'oste.  c< Io non eccettuo nessuno," rispose
egli. "< Ma voi dovete sempre eccettuare il Signor Governatore," replico l'oste.  "Ma io non voglio," sogglunse il




SPECIMEN OF TUSCAN AND GENOESE.


181


gentiluomo.  In breve, la loro disputa si accesse talmente
che I'oste, ii quale era un magistrato subalterno, ma non
pero simile a Solone o a Licurgo, fece chiamare ii gentiluomo
davanti al Governatore.  Questo magistrato, la cui capacita'
era in perfetto equilibrio con quella deli' oste, disse con aria
grave al gentiluomo, che 1'eccettnare ii Signor Governatore
in ogni cosa era in quella citta' un inveteratissimo costume;
e die a tal costume era obbligato ciascuno d'uniformarsi; e
perci6' lo condannava all'- amenda d'uno scellino per aver
ricusato di. farlo.  "cBenissimo,") rispose ii gentiluomo:
"ecco uno scellino; ma possa io morire se v' e' nel mondo
un piu6 gran pazzo dell' oste, Eccettuato ii Signor Governatore."
Genoese.  Cenando un scioii. otala t'unna piccola ýittee,
appenna a to-a fu desbarrag&, 1'oste ghe domand6' come
gh'era piaxua a gennha. "cMoltissimo," ghe rispose quello
scio U`; c"posso assegiiave d'avei 9ea6n. ben a-o* paro de.
qualunque gran personaggio do' regno.  cc E99ettu6u. 6 Scioui
Governo'n," ghe disse l'oste. "cMi non e~ettiio nisciun,"
ghe rispose o' scioui. c"Ma vui dovei sempre e~etta o
Scioii Govern6u," replic6 'Poste.  "cE mi non veuggcic eggetta un corno," soggiunse o'. gentilommo.. In poco tempo a
disputa a se aseado a. ta segno, che l'oste, u quale u l'era un
magistrato subalterno, non pero simile a Solon o a Licurgo,
o, fe~e ciamma o' gentilommo davanti o Govern6u,. Questo
magistrato, che in punto de capacitam o l'era in perfetto
equilibrio con P'oste, o disse con ala grave a-o gentilommo,
che in l'eggettua o' Govern6u. in tutte a,- cose l'era un uso
antighissimo in quella gittee; che ciascun era obblig6u. d'uniformase a quest' uso, e die per avoi recus6n. da faio, o 1o
condannava all'emenda d'un scellin. "cVa benissi-mo," rispose gentilommo, 4"cpiggie chi un scellia; ma vorrieiva ese
amnmass~u, se se treuva a-o mondo un ommo cui matto de
P'oste, Eq~ettu6u 6' Scioit Governbu."
Translation. A gentleman supping at -an inn in a petty
city, the landlord, when the things were cleared away, asked him whether his supper had prleased him. "cVery much,"
said the gentleman: 'c I may affirm that I have supped as
well as the greatest man -in the kingdom." "cExcept the.




182


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Signor Governor," said the landlord. c" I except nobody,"
returned the other. "' But you ought always to except the
Signor Governor," replied the host. "< But I will not," said
the gentleman. In short, the dispute grew so warm, that
the host who was a bit of a magistrate himself, not very like
Solon or Lycurgus, summoned his guest before the Governor.
This officer, whose capacity was on a level with that of his
informer, told the gentleman with the greatest solemnity,
that to except the Governor upon every occasion was a custom of the most ancient standing, to which all persons were
obliged to conform, and therefore he condemned him to the
penalty of a shilling for having refused to do so.  "c Mighty
well," replied the gentleman:   there's your shilling; but
hang me if there's a greater fool upon earth than the landlord-except the Signor Governor."
This Governor reminds me of another story, respecting
the then Governor of Genoa; a different sort of man, and
popular, notwithstanding his Sardinian office. He was a
Savoyard marquis of the name of D'Yennes, and is said to
have related the story himself with much glee. As he was
coming to take possession of his appointment, he stopped at
a town not far from Genoa, the.inhabitants of which were
ambitious of doing him honor. They accordingly gave him
an entertainment, at which was an allegorical picture containing a hycena surrounded with Cupids. The hymna was
supposed to be a translation of his name.  Upon requesting
an explanation of the compliment, he received the following
smiling reply:--, Les Amours, monsieur, sont nous; et
vous etes la bete."  ("C The loves, sir, are ourselves; the
beast is you.")




CHAPTER XXI.


FLORENCE--BACCHUS IN TUSCANY--THE VENUS
DE' MEDICI-AND ITALY IN GENERAL.
Florence.-Music at night.-Maiano.-Boccaccio.-May-day at
Maiano.-An English "snuggery" in the Convent of St. Baldassare.-Landor.-Mr. Kirkup.-Lord Dillon.-Bacchus in Tuscany.
-Tuscan and English landscape.-Proposed English magazine
at Florence.-Christianism.-Maddalena de Medici.-The Venus
de' Medici.-Finger of Galileo.-An involuntary bumper at parting
with Florence.-The cicala.-The fire-fly.-Trees of Italy.-Manners and morals of the people.-Alfieri.-Maccaroni.-The movement.-The Pope.
RESOLVING to remain a while in Italy, though not m
Genoa, we took our departure from that city in the summer
of the year 1823, and returned into Tuscany in order to live
at Florence.  We liked Genoa on some accounts, and none
the less for having a son born there, who, from that hour to
this, has been a comfort to us. But in Florence there were
more conveniences for us, more books, more fine arts, more
illustrious memories, and a greater concourse of Englishmen;
so that we might possess, as it were, Italy and England together. In Genoa we no longer possessed a companion of our
own country; for Mrs. Shelley had-gone to England; and
we felt strange enough at first, thus seeking a home by ourselves in a foreign land.
Unfortunately, in the first instance, the movement did us
no good; for it was the height of summer when we set out,
and in Italy this is not the time for being in motion. The
children, however, living temperately, and not yet being
liable to cares which temperance could not remove, soon recovered.  It was otherwise with the parents; but there is




184


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


a habit in being ill, as in every thing else; and we disposed
ourselves to go through our task of endurance as cheerfully
as might be.
In Genoa you heard nothing in the streets but the talk
of money. I hailed it as a good omen in Florence, that the
two first words which caught my ears were flowers and
women (Fiori and Donne).      The night of our arrival we
put up at a hotel in a very public- street, and were kept
awake (as agreeably as illness would let us be) by songs and
guitars.  It was one of our pleasantest experiences of the
south; and, for the moment, we lived in the Italy of books.
One performer to a jovial accompaniment sang a song about
somebody's fair wife, which set the street in roars of
laughter.
From   the hotel we went to a lodging in the street of
Beautiful Women-Via delle Belle Donne-a name which
it is a sort of tune to pronounce.   We there heard one
night a concert in the street; and looking out, saw musicstands, books, &c. in regular order, and amateurs performing
as in a room.  Opposite our lodgings was an inscription on
a house, purporting that it was the hospital of the monks of
Vallombrosa. Wherever you turned was music or a graceful memory.
From the Via delle Belle Donne we went to live in the
Piazza Santa Croce, in the corner house on the left side of
it next to the church of that name, which contains the ashes
of Galileo, Michael Angelo, Boccaccio, Macchiavelli, Alfieri,
and others. Englishmen call it the Florentine Westminster
Abbey, but it has not the venerable look of the Abbey, nor,
indeed, of any resemblance at all-but that of a building
half-finished; though it is several hundred years old. There
are so many of these unfinished old edifices in Florence owing
to decline in the funds left for their completion, that they
form a pe6uliar feature in this otherwise beautiful city, and
a whole volume has been devoted to the subject.    On the
other side of this sepulchre of great men is the monastery, in.
which Pope Sixtus the Fifth went stooping as if in decrepitude: < looking," as he said afterward, " for the keys of St.
Peter." We lodged in the house of a Greek, who came




FLORENCE-MAIANO.


185


from the island of Andros, and was called Dionysius: a name
which has existed there, perhaps, ever since the god who
bore it. Our host was a proper Bacchanalian, always
drunk, and spoke faster than I ever heard.   He had a
' fair Andrian" for his mother, old and ugly, whose name
was Bella.
The church of Santa Croce would disappoint you as much
inside as, out, if the presence of the remains of great men did
not always cast a mingled shadow of the awful and beautiful over one's thought.  Any large space, also, devoted to
the purposes of religion disposes the mind to the loftiest of
speculations. The vaulted sky out of doors, appears small,
compared with the opening into immensity represented by
that very inclosure-that larger dwelling than common, entered by a little door.  The door is like a grave, and the
inclosure like a vestibule of heaven.
Agreeably to our old rustic propensities, we did not stop
long in the city.  We left Santa Croce to live at Maiano, a
village on the slope of one of the Fiesolan hills, about two
miles off. It gives its name to one of the earliest of the Italian poets, precursor of the great Dante, called Dante of Maiano. He had a namesake living on the spot, in the person
of a little boy; a terrible rover out of bounds, whom his parents were always shouting for with the apostrophe of  0 -Dante!" he excelled in tearing his clothes and getting a dirty
face and hands.  I heard his mother one evening hail his
return home with the following welcome: "0 Dante, what
a brute beast you are "'  I thought how probable it was,
that the Florentine adversaries of the great poet, his namesake,
would have addressed their abuser in precisely the same
terms, after reading one of his infernal flayings of them in
the Lakes of Tartarus. Dante and Alfieri were great favorites
with a Hebrew family (jewelers, if I remember), who occupied the ground-floor of the house we lived in, the Villa Morandi, and who partook of the love of music in common with
their tribe.  Their little girls declaimed out of Alfieri in the
morning, and the parents led concerts in the garden of an
evening. They were- an interesting set of people, with
marked characters; and took heartily to some specimens




186


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


which I endeavored to give them of the genius of Shakspeare. They had a French governess, who, though a remarkably good speaker of English in general, told me one
day, in eulogizing the performance of one of the gentlemen
who was a player on the bassoon, that " his excellence lay
in the bason." It was the grandfather of this family whom
I have described in another work (Men, Women, and
Books), as hailed one May morning by the assembled merrymakers of the hamlet in verses which implied that he was
the efficient cause of the exuberance of the season.
The manners of this hamlet were very pleasant and
cheerful. The. priest used to come of an evening, and take
a Christian game at cards with his Hebrew friends. A
young Abate would dance round a well with the daughters
of the vine-growers, the whole party singing as they footed.
I remember the burden of one of the songs,
"Ne di giorno ne di sera,
Non passiamo la selva nera."
(Night and morn be it understood,
Nobody passes the darksome wood.)
One evening all the young peasantry in the neighborhood
assembled in the hall of the village, by leave of the proprietor (an old custom) and had the most energetic ball I ever
beheld.  The walls of the room seemed to spin round with
the waltz, as though it would never leave off-the whirling
faces all looking grave, hot, and astonished at one another.
Among the musicians I observed one of the apprentices of
my friend the bookseller, an evidence of a twofold mode of
getting money not unknown in England. I recollected his
face the more promptly, inasmuch as not many days previous
he had accompanied me to my abode with a set of books,
and astonished me by jumping on a sudden from one side of
me to the other.   I asked what was the matter, and he
said, "< A viper, sir," (una vipera, signore). He seemed to
think that an Englishman might as well settle the viper as
the bill.
Notwithstanding these amusements at Maiano, I passed
a very disconsolate time; yet the greatest comfort I ex



MEMORABLES OF MAIANO.


187


perienced in Italy (next to writing a book which I shall
mention) was living in that neighborhood, and thinking, as
I went about, of Boccaccio.  Boccaccio's father had a house
at Maiano, supposed to have been situated at the Fiesolan
extremity of the hamlet.  That many-hearted 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 which 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
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 neighboring villages. 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 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 Decameron's Valley of Ladies at our
feet; and we looked over toward the quarter of the Mugnone and of a house of Dante, and in the distance beheld
the mountains of Pistoia. Lastly, from the terrace in front,
Florence lay clear and cathedraled before us, with the scene
of Redi's Bacchus rising on the other side of it, and the Villa
of Arcetri, illustrious for Galileo. Hazlitt, who came to see
me there (and who afterward, with one of his felicitous
images, described the state of mind in which he found me,
by saying that I was "< moulting"), beheld the scene around
us with the admiration natural to a lover of old folios and
great names, and confessed, in the language of Burns, that
it was a sight to enrich the eyes.
But I stuck to my Boccaccio haunts, as to an old home.




188


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


I lived with the true 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 color 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 cyclamen; 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 who 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 Armitage Brown (Keats's
friend, and the best commentator on Shakspeare's Sonnets),
occupied for a time the little convent of San 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, where it is probable the church treasures had been kept, was filled with the
humanities of modern literature, not the less Christian for
being a little skeptical: 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 Sydney Smith,
about sitting next a man at table, who had "< a seven-parson
power;" and he understood it, and rolled with laughter,
crying out--"Oh, ma bello! ma bellissimo!"  (Beautiful!
exquisite!) There, too, I had the pleasure of dining in cornpany 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 appearance of one of these young English




ENGLISH FRIENDS.


189


mothers among Italian women, looks (to English eyes at
least) like domesticity among the passions. 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.
Our friend Brown removed to Florence; and together
with the books and newspapers, made me a city visitor. I
there became acquainted with Landor, to whose genius I
had made the amnende honorable the year before; and with
Mr. Kirkup, an English artist, who was poor enough, I fear,
neither in purse nor accomplishment, to cultivate his profession as he ought to have done; while at the same time he
was so beloved by his friends, that they were obliged to get
at a distance from him before they could tell him of it. Yet
I know not why they should; for a man of a more cordial
generosity, with greater delicacy in showing it, I never met
with: and such men deserve the compliment of openness.
They know how to receive it.
To the list of my acquaintances, I had the honor of adding Lord Dillon; who, in the midst of an exuberance of
temperament more than national, concealed a depth of understanding, and a genuine humanity of knowledge, to which
proper justice was not done in consequence.  The luxuriant
vegetation and the unstable ground diverted suspicion from
the ore beneath it. I remember him saying something one
evening about a very ill-used description of persons in the
London streets, for which Shakspeare might have taken him
by the hand; though the proposition came in so startling a
shape, that the company were obliged to be shocked in selfdefense.  The gallant Viscount was a cavalier of the old
school of the Meadowses and Newcastles, with something of
the O'Neal superadded; and instead of wasting his words
upon tyrants or Mr. Pitt, ought to have been eternally at
the head of his brigade, charging mercenaries on his warhorse, and meditating romantic stories.
When the Liberal was put an end to, I had contributed
some articles to a new work set up by my brother, called
the Literary Examiner. Being too ill at Florence to con



190


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


tinue those, I did what I could, and had recourse to the
lightest and easiest translation I could think of, which was
that of Redi's Bacco in Toscana.   The Bacco in Toscana
(Bacchus in Tuscany), is a mock-heroical account of the
Tuscan wines, put into the mouth of that god, and delivered
in dithyrambics.  It is ranked among the Italian- classics,
and deserves to be so, for its style and originality.  Bacchus
is represented sitting on a hill outside the walls of Florence,
in company with Ariadne and his usual attendants, and
jovially giving his opinion of the wines, as he drinks them
in succession.  He gets drunk after a very mortal fashion;
but recovers, and is born away into ecstasy by a draught of
Montepulciano, which he pronounces to be the King of
Wines.
I was the more incited to attempt a version of this poem,
inasmuch as it was thought a choke-pear for translators.
English readers asked me how I proposed to render the " fa
mous"
" Mostra aver poco giudizio,"
(a line much quoted); and Italians asked what I meant to
do with the ( compound words " (which are very scarce in
their language).  I laughed at the famous " mostra aver,"
which it required but a little animal spirits to " give as good
as it brought;" and I had the pleasure of informing Italians,
that the English language abounded in compound words,
and could make as many more as it pleased.
Here follows tho famous "mostra aver," which is very
pleasant.  Bacchus is telling his hearers what is good to be
taken after Barbarossa wine, if you drink too much of it. He
recommends more wine of another sort, and will not hear of
tea, coffee, or chocolate:
"Non fia gia, che il Cioccolatte
V'adoprassi, vovero il Te;
Medicine cost fatte
Non saran giammai per me:
Beverei prima il veleno,
Che un bicchier che fosse pieno
Dell'amaro e reo caffe.
Cola tra gli Arabi
E tra i Giannizzeri




DENOUNCEMENT OF COFFEE.


191 -

Liquor sl ostico,
Si nero e torbido,
Glilschiavi ingollino.
Giu' nel Tartaro,
Gui 'nell'Erebo,
L'empie Belidi l1inventarono;
E Tesifone, 'e l'altre Furie
A Proserpina ii ministrarono:
E se in Asia ii Musulmanno
Selo, cionca a precipizio,
Diostra aver poco giudizio."
Never think of taking chocolate,
Or the physic they call tea;
Med'cines made, ye gods! as they are,
Are no med'cines made for' me.
I'd as lief he serv'd with poison,
As a single cup set eyes on
Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye
Talk of by the name of coffee.
Let the Arabs and the'Turks
Count it 'mongst their cruel works:
Foe of mankind, black and turbid,
Let the throats of slaves absorb it.
Down in Tartarus,
Down in Erebus,
'Twas the detestable Fifty invented it:
The Furies then took it,
To grind and to cook it,
And to Prose'rpina all three presented it.
If the Mussulman in Asia
Doats on a beverage so unseemly,
I differ with the man extremely.
Redi was a celebrated naturalist as well as poet.        He
put an end to the doctrine of equivocal generation.         He
was physician to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Cosmo the
Third, whom he converted from      a corpulent invalid, in the
prime of life, into a hale and active survivor till fourscore.
His love of wine was in imagination, for he was a waterdrinker; but this did not hinder him from writing like the
gayest of bacchanals. Probably it made him the gayer;
though he knew well enougrh what melancholy was. His
experience of hypochondria had given me a. double regard for
him.    Our "~legs" in that matter, and in the gayety too,
were "1both of a- thickness." A poet, inasmuch as he is a




192


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


poet at all, that is to say, inasmuch as he has any c strus or
fervor in him, has wine in his blood. Redi published his
mock-heroic in a quarto volume, filled full of learned and
amusing notes. I had the good fortune, when in prison, to
find it in a catalogue full of divinity (a proper place): and
this catalogue was that of Sion College Library, the only
establishment of the kind which suffered its books to go out
of the house, till the London Library was founded; which
I mention in gratitude to the good old institution.  May it
flourish for ever, like a good example, with a librarian as fit
to be in it as Mr. Christmas.   From this volume I solaced
myself by copying out a selection of the notes, little thinking
I should one day have the pleasure of translating the poem
in its native country.
Maiano is mentioned in Redi's poem.    He couples it with
the house of his friend Salviati.
"Fiesole viva; e seco viva il nome
Del buon Salviati, ed il suo bel Maiano."
Long live Fiesole, green old name,
And with it long life to thy sylvan fame;
Lovely Maiano, lord of dells,
Where my gentle Salviati dwells.
The Salviati family, when I lived there, were still in
possession of their old villa.   So were the Bellini; the
kindred, in all probability, of another of Redi's friends, who
was a celebrated anatomist, and who is also mentioned in
his poem.
"Good wine's a gentleman;
He speedeth digestion all he can.
No headache hath he; no headache, I say,
For those who talk'd with him yesterday.
If Signor Bellini, besides his apes,
Would anatomize vines, and anatomize grapes,
He'd see, that the heart which makes good wine,
Is made to do good, and very benign.*
* Quando il vino c gentilissimo,
Digeriscesi prestissimo,
E per lui mai non molesta
La spranghetta nella testa:




DENOUNCEMENT OF BEER AND CIDER.


193


Besides chocolate, and coffee, and tea, the last of which
in Italy is still considered exclusively in a medical point of
view (at least when I have asked people to drink it, they
have said they were not unwell), Redi is very severe on our
English beverages, beer and cider, and upon northern liquors
in general.   He says" There's a squalid thing call'd beer:The man whose lips that thing comes near,
Swiftly dies; or falling foolish,
Grows at forty old and owlish.
She that in the ground would hide her,
Let her take to English cider;
He who'd have his death come quicker,
Any other northern liquor.
Those Norwegians and those Laps
Have extraordinary taps," &c.*
I can not say that I tasted many of Redi's Tuscan wines,
except in his verses.   I forget even the merits of his king
of wines, Montepulciano; but I can bear testimony to the
excellence of one of them-Chianti.       In his mention of it
he denounces the practice of training vines upon poles, instead of growing them on the ground; which is understood,
I believe, to be so much the better way, that it is surprising
the other mode is resorted to, however superior in look or
profuser of bunches.
"True son of the earth is Chianti wine,
Born, on the ground, of a gipsy vine;
E far fede ne potria
L'anatomico Bellini,
Se delPuve, e se de' vini
Far volesse notomia.
* Chi la squallida Cervogia
Alle labre sue congiugne,
Presto muore, o rado giugne
All' eta vecchia e barbogia.
Beva il Sidro d' Inghilterra,
Chi vuol gir presto sotterra
Chi vuol gir presto alla morte,
Le bevande usi del Norte,
Ques Norvegi e quei Lapponi
Hanno strani beni
VOL. 1r.-I




194


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Born on the ground for sturdy souls,
And not the lank race of one of your poles.
I should like to see a snake
Get up in August out of a brake,
And fasten with all his teeth and caustic,
Upon that sordid villain of a rustic,
Who, to load my Chianti's haunches
With a parcel of feeble bunches,
Went and tied her to one of these poles,
Sapless sticks without any souls.
'Like a king
In his conquering,
Chianti wine with his red flag goes
Down to my heart, and down to my toes:
He makes no noise he beats no drums,
Yet pain and trouble fly as he comes." *
I translated this poem as well as I could.    I added some
of Redi's amusing notes, with comments of my own, and a
life of the author: and I fancied that, taking these contents
together, the novelty of the book would procure it a sale.
I believe it fell dead born from the press. Perhaps it was
not to be expected that a sufficient number of English readers would interest themselves in liquors not their own, and
*.. Vin robusto, che si vanta
D'esser nato in mezzo al Chianti,
E tra sassi
Lo produsse
Per le genti pii bevone
Vite bassa, e non broncone.
Bramerei veder trafitto
Da un serpe in mezzo al petto
Quell' avaro villanzone,
Che per render la sua vite
Di piui grappoli feconda,
La ne' monti del buon Chianti,
Veramente villanzone,
Maritolla ad un broncone.
Del buon Chianti il vin decrepito,
Maestoso,
Imperioso,
Mi passeggia dentro il core,
E ne scaccia senza strepito
Ogni affanno e ogni dolore.




A BOOK OF ERRATA.


195


in times and places with which they had no sympathy.
Animal spirits also require to be read by animal spirits; or
at least by such a temperament as understands and likes
them; and at all events it is desirable for a new book that
it should be decently printed, and it is necessary for it that
it should be made known.      Now my poor dithyrambic, I
believe, was not advertised at all; and as Bell's edition of
Shakspeare is said to have been the worst edition ever put
forth of a British author, so, perhaps, the translation of
the Bacchus in Tuscany was the worst ever printed. It
was mystified with upwards of fifty mistakes. As times
are changed, and readers of Italian are grown more numerous, I can not help thinking, even now, that if a new edition
of this volume was put forth, with a portrait of Redi, a
vignette of Maiano, and some other such little helps to its
right vinous enjoyment, it would find a sufficient number of
genial readers to warrant it.   But it must absolutely be
better printed.  To show what errata were to be had in
those times, and how truly mystifying they must have been,
I will here give a specimen or two. Instead of," Bacchus's
true Indian conquest was in the West," the printer said,
"warms the West;" instead of Boccaccio was "<never close
and succinct," Boccaccio was " ever close and succinct;"
instead of " Phillips's cyder,"  < Phillips's cydes;" instead
of c" priests and students flitting about," " priests and students flirting about;" instead of a "poison," a " prison;"
instead of " and old stony Giggiano," with a capital G (a
mountain so called) " an old stony giggiano," a most perplexing mystery.   The author, however was in a foreign
country, and his hand-writing, perhaps, as bad as his health.
I used to be forced sometimes to hold the back of my head,
in order to steady my hand; owing, I believe, to what is
called neuralgia. The hand has never failed me but at
such times. I can, at this minute, though in a very bad
state of health, hold it forth as steady as a rock.*
* As to Redi's compound words, I had the pleasure, besides translating those in his text (which were too easy for an Englishman to
pique himself on rendering), of presenting my Italian friends with the
version of a Greek epigram against the sophists, which consists of




196


16LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


The following is an. amusing specimen of English printing
by an Italian    compositor.    It is a quotation in a Guide
Book, from a celebrated passage in Milton, which shall be
given first:
"Thick as autumnal leaves, which strew the brooks
In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades,
High over-arch'd, embower."
Not so, says the printer:
"Thick as autumnal scheaves which strew che brooks
In Vallombroso, where the Ehuian ihades
Stigh over orch d'emhrover.
At Maiano, I wrote the articles, which appeared in the
Examiner, under the title of the Wishing Cap. Probably
the reader knows nothing about them; but they contained
some germs of a book he may- not be unacquainted with,
little else, -and of which, in the notes. to his poem, he has given us a
Latin translation by Joseph Scaliger.,Here it is, with the Greek and
Latin preceding it:
O~6pvavaauwcat~at, /5tvYKa~a~rflstyevetot,
MaCK~oySeveerpooot, see? %wradap7raytdat,
Etpacrcvwnrepqflaaoto, vnlaelrotsae/tfleweLaeot,
NvsrtXa~paeto~ayot,. vvic~trurratir?~aytoc,
Metpatxqe'r~a~rat crc,. UvXa2Vtolravai2Lacf3,Taz,
Ao~ayzaratouoobot, 71raper/7jtcada.
Silenicaperones, vibrissasperomenti,
Manticobarbicoin, exterobropatime,
Planipedatquelucernit~ui, suffarcinamicti,
Noctilavernivori, noctidolostudii,
Pullipremoplagii, subtelocaptioricw,
Rumigeraucupidi, nugicanoricrepi.
Lofty-brow-flourishers,
Nose-in-bea'rd-wallowers,
Bag-and-beard-nourishers..Dish-.and-all-swallowersOld-cloak-investitors,
B-arefoot-look-fashioners,
Night-private-feast'eaters,
Craft-lucubrationers;
Youth-cheaters, word-catc'hers, vaingloryoso'phers;
Such are your seekers of virtue, philosophers.




ITALIAN AND ENGLISH LANDSCAPE.


197


called The Town, as well as some articles since approved
of in the volume entitled Men, Women, and Books.    The
title was very genuine.
When I put on my cap, and pitched myself in imagination into the thick of Covent Garden, the pleasure I received was so vivid-I turned the corner of a street so much
in the ordinary course of things, and was so tangibly present to the pavement, the shop-windows, the people, and a
thousand agreeable recollections which looked me naturally
in the face, that sometimes when I walk there now, the impression seems hardly more real.  I used to feel as if I actually pitched my soul there, and that spiritual eyes might
have seen it shot over from Tuscany into York-street, like a
rocket.  It is much pleasanter, however, on waking up, to
find soul and body together in one's native land: yes, even
than among thy olives -and vines, Boccaccio! I not only
missed "( the town" in Italy; I missed my old trees-oaks
and elms.  Tuscany, in point of wood, is nothing but oliveground and vineyard. I saw there, how it was, that some
persons when they return from Italy say it has no wood,
and some, a great deal.  The fact is, that many parts of it,
Tuscany included, have no wood to speak of; and it wants
larger trees interspersed with the small ones,. in the manner
of our hedge-row elms.  A tree of a reasonable height is a
godsend.  The olives are low and hazy-looking, like dry
sallows.  You have plenty of these; but to an Englishman, looking from a height, they appear little better than
brushwood.   Then there are nomeadows, no proper green
lanes (at least, I saw none), no paths leading over field and
style, no hay-fields in June, nothing of that luxurious combination of green and russet, of grass, wild flowers, and
woods, over which a lover of Nature can stroll for hours
with a foot as fresh as the stag's; unvexed with chalk, dust,
and an eternal public path; and able to lie down, if he will,
and sleep in clover. In short (saving, alas! a finer sky
and a drier atmosphere, great ingredients in good spirits),
we have the best part of Italy in books; and this we can
enjoy in England.  Give me Tuscany in Middlesex or Berk.
shire, and the Valley of Ladies between Harrow and Jack




198


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Straw's Castle. The proud names and flinty ruins above
the Mensola may keep their distance.  Boccaccio shall build
a bower for us out of his books, of all that we choose to import; and we will have daisies and fresh meadows besides.
An Italian may prefer his own country after the same
fashion; and he is right.  I knew a young Englishwoman,
who, having grown up in Tuscany, thought the landscapes
of her native country insipid, and could not imagine how
people could live without walks in vineyards. To me, Italy
had a certain hard taste in the mouth.  Its mountains were
too bare, its outlines too sharp, its lanes too stony, its voices
too loud, its long summer too dusty.  I longed to bathe myself in the grassy balm of my native fields. But I was ill,
unhappy, in a perpetual low fever; and critics, in such condition, or in any condition which is not laudatory, should
give us a list of the infirmities under which they sit down
to estimate what they differ with.   What a comfort, by
the way, that would be to many an author! What uncongenialities, nay, what incompetencies we should discover!
What a relief to us to find that it was '"only A's opinion!"
or <only B's!" and how we should laugh at him      while
giving it in his own person, viva voce, instead of the mysterious body corporate of ", We."  Nay, how we do laugh
-provided the bookseller's account will let us-provided
omissions of notice, or commissions of it, have not been the
ruin of our c" edition!" Thus may Italians laugh at me,
should they read my English criticisms on their beautiful
country.
Disappointed of transplanting Redi's Italian vines into
England, I thought I would try if I could bring over some
literature of modern English growth into Italy.  I proposed
to a Florentine bookseller to set up a quarterly compilation
from the English magazines. Our periodical publications
are rarely seen in Italy, though our countrymen are numerous.  In the year 1825, two hundred English families were
said to be resident in Florence. In Rome, visitors, though
not families, were more numerous: and the publication, for
little cost, might have been sent all over the Peninsula.
The plan was to select none but the very best articles, and




TUSCAN GOVERNMENT V. ENGLISH MAGAZINE. 199
follow them with an original one commenting upon their
beauties, so as to make readers in Italy well acquainted
with our living authors. But the Tuscan authorities were
frightened.
" You must submit the publication" (said my bookseller)
" to a censorship."
"Be it so."
" But you must let them see every sheet before it goes to
press, in order that there may be no religion or politics."
" Very well: to please the reverend censors, we will have
no religion. Politics also are out of the question."
" Ay, but politics may creep in."
" They shall not."
c" Ah, but they may creep in (say the authorities) without
your being aware; and then what is to be done?"
"Why, if neither the editor nor the censors are aware, I
do not see how any very vivid impression need be apprehended with regard to the public."
" That has a very plausible sound; but how if the censors do not understand English?"
"( There, indeed, they confound us.  All I can say is, that
the English understand the censors, and I see we must drop
our intended work."
This was the substance of a discourse which I had with
the bookseller, in answer to the communications which he
brought me from his government. The prospectus had been
drawn out; the bookseller had rubbed his hands at it, thinking of the money which the best writers in England were
preparing for him; but he was forced to give up the project.
"( Ah," said he to me in his broken English, as he sat in winter-time with cold feet and an irritable face, pretending to
keep himself warm by tantalizing the tips of his fingers over
a little basin of charcoal, "Ah, you are veree happee in
England. You can get so much money as you please."
I know not what the.Tuscan government would have said
to another book which I wrote at Maiano, and which English
readers have not yet heard of, at least not publicly; for,
though intended for publication, and the least faulty book,
perhaps, which I have written, it has hitherto been only




200


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


privately circulated.  It is entitled, Christianism, or Belief
and Unbelief Reconciled; and contains, among other matters, the conclusions which the author had then come to on
points of religious belief and practice.  I wrote it, because I
was in a state of health which I thought might terminate
fatally, and I was anxious before I died to do what good 1
could, as far as my reflections on those points had, in my
opinion, enabled me.  I shall say more of it toward the end
of this volume.   I had the consolation-I hope not the
unchristian one--of writing it at a window opposite the dissolved convent of the Doccia; for though I contemplated
with pleasure that image of departing superstition-then a
lay abode, beautifully overlooking the country-the book had
any design.in the world but that of grieving one gentle heart.
Attached, however, as associations of this nature, and
those with Boccaccio and Redi, contributed to make me to
my country walks, I often varied them     by going into
Florence; or rather, I went there whenever the graver
part of them became too much for me. I loved Florence,
and saw nothing in it but cheerfulness and elegance.   I
loved the name; I loved the fine arts and the old palaces;
I loved the memories of Pulci and Lorenzo de Medici, the
latter of whom I could never consider in any other light
than that of a high-minded patron of genius, himself a poet;
I loved the good-natured, intelligent inhabitants, who saw
fair play between industry and amusement; nay, I loved
the government itself, however afraid it was of English
periodicals; for it was good-natured also, and could "live
and let live," after a certain quiet fashion, in that beautiful
by-corner of Europe, where there were no longer any wars,
nor any great regard for the parties that had lately waged
them, illegitimate or legitimate.
The reigning family were Austrians, but with a difference,
long Italianized, and with no great family affection.  One
good-natured Grand Duke had succeeded another for several
generations; and the liberalism of the first Leopold was still
to be felt, in a general way, very sensibly, though it might
seem to have lost in some particulars since the triumph of
the allies, and the promises broken to the Carbonari.




THE VENUS DE' MEDICI.


201


Talking of Grand Dukes and de Medicis, be it known,
before I forget to mention it (so modest am I by nature),
that on one of these visits to Florence, and in the house of a
Medici himself, I had the happiness of folding to my bosom,
with reciprocal pleasure in our faces, no less a personage than
a certain lovely Maddalena de' Medici, daughter of said distinguished individual, and now, at this moment, in all probability, lovelier than ever; seeing, alas! that she was then
little more than a baby, just able to express her satisfaction
at being noticed by her admirers.
I wish I could equally have admired the famous Venus
de' Medici, in whom I expected to find the epitome of all
that was charming; for I had been led, by what I thought
the popular misrepresentations of her, to trust almost as
little to plaster-casts as to engravings.  But how  shall I
venture to express what I felt? how own the disappointment which I shared with the cc Smellfungus" of Sterne,
instead of the raptures which I had looked for in unison
with Sterne himself, and Thomson, and, perhaps, all the
traveled connoisseurs of the earth, Smollett alone and Hazlitt
excepted?
When the intelligent traveler approaches Florence, when
he ascends the top of the gentle mountains that surround it,
and sees the beautiful city lying in a plain full of orchards,
what are the anticipations in which he indulges? Not
surely those of a Grand Duke, however grand or even good
he may be, nor of divers other Grand Dukes that preceded
him, nor of the difference between tables d'hote, nor any such
local phenomena, eminent in the eyes of the postillion:
he thinks of the old glories of Florence: of Lorenzo de
Medici, of Dante, of Boccaccio, of Michael Angelo, of
Galileo, of the river Arno and Fiesole, of the rank which
that small city has challenged, by the sole power of wit,
among the greatest names of the earth; of the lively and
clever generations that have adorned it, playing their music,
painting their pictures, and pouring forth a language of
pearls; and last, but not least, he thinks of the goddess who
still lives there-the far-famed Venus de' Medici, triumphing
in her worshipers as if no such thing as a new religion had
1*




1202


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


taken place, and attracting adoration from all parts of the
earth.
He enters, and worships likewise.  I, too, entered and
worshiped, prepared to be the humblest of her admirers. I
did not even hurry to the gallery as soon as I arrived.  I
took a respectful time for going properly.  When I entered
the room, I retained my eyes a little on the objects around
her, willing to make my approaches like a devout lover, and
to prepare myself for that climax of delight.  It seemed too
great a pleasure to be vulgarly and abruptly taken.  At
length I look.  I behold, and I worship, indeed; but not
for the old reasons.  How shall I venture to state the new
ones? I must make a little further preface, and will take
the opportunity of noticing the gallery itself.
The celebrated Florentine Gallery is an oblong, occupying the upper story of a whole street of government offices.
The street is joined at the end, though opening into a portico underneath on the river Arno, so that the gallery runs
round the whole of the three sides. The two longer corridors
are each four hundred and thirty feet long (French), the intermediate one ninety-seven.  They are eleven feet broad,
twenty feet high, floored with variegated stucco, and painted
on the roof in fresco.
The windows are ample, curtained from the sun, and
generally opened to admit the air. The whole forms a combination of neatness and richness, of clear and soft light, of
silence, firmness and grace, worthy to be the cabinet of what
it contains.  These contents are statues, busts, pictures, sarcophagi: the paintings filling the interstices between the
sculptures, and occupying the continued space over their
heads. The first thing you behold on entering the gallery,
are busts of Roman emperors and their kindred.
But these more obvious portions of the gallery are not all.
These illustrious corridors present certain tempting-looking
doors, which excite curiosity, and these doors open into rooms
which are the very boudoirs of connoisseurship. They contain specimens of the different schools, collections of gems and
medals, and select assemblages from the whole artistic treasure. One of them called the Tribune, little more perhaps




THE FLORENTINE GALLERY.


203


than 20 feet in diameter, is a concentration of beauty and
wealth. It is an octagon, lighted from above, floored with
precious marble, and over-arched with a cupola adorned
with mother-o'-pearl. But I knew nothing of all this, till I
read it in a book.  I saw only the pictures and the statues.
Here, among other wonderful things, is the more wonderful
Venus of Titian.  Here is the Fornarina of Raphael; his
Julius the Second, with four other pictures, showing the progress of his hand: the Adoring Virgin of Correggio; the
Epiphany of Albert Durer; a master-piece of Vandyke;
another of Paul Veronese; another by Domenichino; another by Leonardo da Vinci. In the middle of the room,
forming a square, stands the famous Apollo, with his arm
over his head leaning on a tree; the Grinder, or Listening
Slave: the Wrestlers: and the Faun playing the Cymbals.
And as the climax of attraction to all this, with the statues
and paintings in attendance, elevated by herself, opposite
the doorway, and approached by a greater number of pilgrims than are now drawn to Italy by the Virgin herself,
presides the goddess of the place, the ancient deity restored
and ever young-the far-famed Venus de' Medici.
" So stands the statue which enchants the world."
Seeing what I saw, and feeling as I did, when I first beheld this renowned production, glittering with the admiration
of ages as well as its own lustre, it was easy to conceive the
indignation which the Florentines displayed when they saw
it take its departure for France, and the vivacity with which
Bonaparte broke out when he spoke of its acquisition.
(See Vol. I. p. 101).
After this second preface, which is another genuine, transcript of my'feelings on entering the room, I should again
be at a loss how to venture upon the opinion I am about to
express, if I did not recollect that the entire statue is acknowledged not to be antique, and that the very important
part which called forth my disappointment is by some supposed not to be so. The statue was originally dug up near
Tivoli, at Hadrian's Villa, and was then in a broken, as well
as in a mutilated state. Luckily the divisions were such as




204


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


to refit easily; but it is confessed that the whole right arm
was wanting, so was part of the left arm   from  the elbow
downward.
c" With the exception of a little bit of the body or so,"
says the French editor of the Guide, ", all the rest is evident
ly antique."
This, it appears, is disputable; but nobody doubts the
greater part of the body, and the body is certainly divine.
Luckily for me, I approached the statue on the left as you
enter the door, so that I first saw it from the point of view
which   shows it to most advantage.     The timid praises
which cold northen criticism ventures to bestow upon naked
beauty, are not calculated to do it justice.  The good faith
with Which I speak must warrant me in resorting to the
more pictorial allowances and swelling words of the Italians.
The really modest will forgive me, at all events; and I am
only afraid that the prudish will be disappointed at not having enough to blame. Hips and sides, however (if they understand such words), will do. We first vulgarize our terms
with a coarse imagination, and then are afraid to do justice
to what they express. It was not so with our ancient admirers of beauty, the Spensers and Philip Sidneys; and they,
I believe, were not worse men than ourselves. It would be
difficult nowadays to convey, in English, the impression of
the Italian word fianchi (flanks) with the requisite delicacy,
in speaking of the naked human figure. We use it to mean
only the sides of an army, of a fortified place, or of a beast.
Yet the words rilevati fianchi (flanks in relief) are used
by the greatest Italian poets to express a beauty, eminent
among all beautiful females who are not pinched and spoilt
by modern fashions; and this is particularly the case with
the figure which the sculptor presented to his mind in forming the Venus de' Medici. Fielding, in one of his passages
about Sophia, would help me out with the rest. But to
those who have seen the Venus of Canova, it is sufficient to
say, that in all which constitutes the loveliness of the female
figure, the Venus de' Medici is the reverse of that lank and
insipid personage.  Venus, above all goddesses, ought to be
a woman; whereas the statue of Canova, with its straight




FACE OF THE VENUS.


205


sides and Frenchified head of hair, is the image (if of any
thing at all) of Fashion affecting Modesty.    The finest
view of the Venus de' Medici is a three-quarter one, looking
toward the back of the head. Let the statue rest its fame
on this.  It is perfection, if indeed the shoulders are not a
thought too broad.   But the waist, and all thereunto belonging-I would quote. Sir Philip Sidney at once, if I were
sure I had none but an audience worthy of him. The feet
are very beautiful-round, light, and tender.   It is justly
said, that there is no cast of the Venus which gives a proper
idea of the original.  Perhaps the nature of the marble is
one of the reasons.   It has a warmth and a polish that
swims away with the eye; such as what Horace speaks of
in the countenance of his mistress:
"Vultus nimium lubricus aspici."
" Looks too slippery to be looked upon."
CIEECH.
Alas! not so the face, nor the gesture.  When I saw the
face, all the charms of the body vanished.  Thomson thought
otherwise:
"Bashful she bends; her well-taught look aside
Turns in enchanting guise, where dubious mix
Vain conscious beauty, a dissembled sense
Of modest shame, and slippery looks of love.
The gazer grows enamor'd; and the stone,
As if exulting in its conquest, smiles."
See the poem of Liberty, part the fourth.   But Thomson
writes like a poet who made what he went to find.   I was
not so lucky. I do not remember what it was that Smollett,
in his morbid spleen, said of the Venus.    Something, if
Sterne is to be believed, not very decent.  I hope I am not
going to behave myself as ill.  With all my admiration of
Smollett and his masterly writing, I would rather err with
the poetical Scotchman, than be right with the prose one;
but setting aside the body (which, if Smollett said any thing
indecent against, I say he spoke in a manner worthy of his
friend Peregrine Pickle), I must make bold to say, that I
think neither the gesture of the figure modest, nor the face
worthy even of the gesture.  Yes; perhaps it is worthy of




206


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


the gesture, for affected modesty and real want of feeling go
together; and, to my mind, the expression of the face (not
to mince the matter, now I must come to it) is pert, petty,
insolent, and fastidious.  It is the face of a foolish young
woman, who thinks highly of herself, and is prepared to be
sarcastic on all her acquaintance.
I cling eagerly to the supposition that the head is not an
antique; and, I must add, that if artists are warranted (as
they very probably are) in deducing a necessity of the present
position of the hands from the turn of the shoulders, the hands
were certainly not in their present finical taste.  A different
character given to them would make a world of difference in
the expression of the figure.  It is not to be supposed that
the sculptor intended to make a sophisticate pert Venus, such
as nobody could admire.  It is out of all probability.  There
is too much sentiment in the very body.    On the other
hand, the expression is neither graceful and good enough
for the diviner aspect of the Goddess of Love, nor sufficiently
festive and libertine for the other character under which
she was worshiped. It might be said, that the Greek
women, in consequence of the education they received, were
more famous for the beauty of their persons than for the expression of their faces; that the artist, therefore, copied this
peculiarity of his countrywomen; that it might not have
been his object to excel in expression of countenance; or that
he could not, perhaps, have made a face equal to the figure,
his talent not being equally turned for both.  But it is said,
on the other hand, that the women of Greece, owing to
moral causes of some kind, were inferior to the other sex in
beauty, so that artists took their models from among those of
a certain licensed order, who, strange to say, were the only
females that received a good education; and certainly it is
possible that the Venus de' Medici may have been a portrait
of one of those anomalous personages. The face, however,
has the very worst look of meretriciousness, which is want
of feeling; and this, we are bound to suppose, would at least
have been vailed under a pleasant and more winning aspect.
That it may not have been the sculptor's object to render
the face worthy of the figure, it is hardly possible to conceive;




REQUISITES TO THE LOOK OF VENUS.


207


though it may be conceded that he would have found it difficult to do so, especially in marble.  But the question lies,
not between a figure divine and a face unequal to it, but be
tween a figure divine and a face altogether unworthy. Apuleius has said, that if Venus herself were bald, she would no
longer be Venus. It is difficult not to agree with him.
And yet with much more truth might he have said, that
Venus could not be Venus without attractiveness of expression.  A beautiful figure is not all, nor even half.  It is far
more requisite to have beauty in the eyes, beauty in the
smile, and that graceful and affectionate look of approach,
or of meeting the approacher half-way, which the Latins
expressed by a word taken from the same root as her name,
Venustas.   The cestus was round the waist; but what gave
it its power?   Winning looks, tenderness, delightful discourse, the whole power of seduction and entertainment, such
as Homer has described it, in verses rich as the girdle.  Now,
there is nothing of. all this in the Venus de' Medici. Her
face seems to vilify and to vulgarize all which her person inspires.  Even the countenance of Titian's Venus, which
hangs on the wall behind the statue, just over its head, as
if on purpose to out-do it, succeeds in so doing; and yet this
naked figure, though called a Venus, is nothing more, I believe, than the portrait of somebody's mistress, not romantically delicate, and waiting till an old woman in the background brings her her clothes to get up.   But not to mention that it is an excellent painting, the expression of the
face is at least genuine and to the purpose, and the whole
figure worthy to be adored in the temple of the Venus Pandemos, if not of the diviner one.
The plaster-cast Venuses in England have often little or
no resemblance to the face of the original.  They are only
insipid. The exquisite turn of'the limbs is still less, I fear,
to be looked for; but it may be imagined, if you do not see
the face.
Upon the whole, I found the busts of the Roman emperors
far more interesting than this renowned statue.      Julius
Csesar leads them, with a thin face, traversed in all directions
with wrinkles.   I thought I had never beheld such a care



LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


worn countenance.   Such was the price he paid for ruling
his happier fellow-creatures.  Augustus, on the contrary, has
quite a prosperous aspect, healthy, elegant, and composed,
though, if I remember rightly, the expression was hard.
You thought he could easily enough put his sign-manual to
the proscription.  His daughter Julia (I speak on all these
points from memory) has a fat, voluptuous face, and (I
think) wore a wig; at all events, her hair was dressed in
some high, artificial manner. I think also she had a double
chin, though she was far from old.  You could well enough
fancy her letting Ovid out, at a back staircase. Somebody
-Hazlitt, I think-said that the Roman emperors in this
gallery had more of an ordinary English look than what we
conceive of the Roman; and, if I am not mistaken at this,
distance of time, I agreed with him. There was the good
English look with the good, the dull with the dull, and so
on.  Domitian had exactly the pert aspect of a footman peering about him in a doorway.    The look, however, of the
glutton Vitellius was something monstrous.  His fac< was
simply vulgar, but he had a throat like that of a pelican.
Nero's face it was sad to contemplate.  There is a series of
busts of him at different periods of his life; one, that of a
charming happy little boy; another, that of a young man
growing uneasy; and a third, that of the miserable tyrant.
You fancied that he was-thinking of having killed his
mother, and was trying to bully his conscience into no care
about it.
After all, I know not whether the most interesting sight
in Florence is not a little mysterious bit of something looking like parchment, which is shown you under a glass case
in the principal public library.  It stands pointing toward
heaven, and is one of the fingers of Galileo.  The hand to
which itbelonged is supposed to have been put to the torture by the Inquisition, for ascribing motion to the earth;
and the finger is now worshiped for having proved the motion.
After this, let no suffering reformer's pen misgive him.  If
his cause be good, justice will be done it some day.
But I must return to Maiano, in order to take leave of it
for England; for the fortunes of the Examiner, as far as




OUR LAST DAY IN ITALY.


209


its then proprietors were concerned, had now come to their
crisis; and constant anxiety in a foreign land for the very
subsistence of my family was not to be borne any longer. I
need not enter into some private matters which had tended
to produce this aggravation of a public result.  Suffice to
say, that the author's customary patron-the booksellerenabled me to move homeward; and that I did so with a
joy, which almost took away half my cares.
My last day in Italy was jovial.  I had a proper Bacchanalian parting with Florence. A stranger and I cracked
a bottle together in high style.  He ran against me with a
flask of wine in his hand, and divided it gloriously between
us.  My white waistcoat was drenched into rose color.  It
was impossible to be angry with his good-humored face; so
we complimented one another on our joviality, and parted on
the most flourishing terms.   In the evening I cracked
another flask, with equal abstinence of inside.  Mr. Kirkup
made me a present of a vine-stick. He came to Maiano,
with Brown, to take leave of us; so we christened a stick,
as they do a seventy-four, and he stood rod-father.
We set off next morning at six o'clock.  I took leave of
Maiano with a dry eye, Boccaccio and the Valley of Ladies
notwithstanding. But the grave face of Brown (who had
staid all night, and who was to continue doing us service
after we had gone, by seeing to our goods and chattels) was
not so easily to be parted with.  I was obliged to gulp
down a sensation in the throat, such as men can not very
well afford to confess "cin these degenerate days," though
Achilles and old Lear made nothing of owning it.
But before I quit Italy altogether, I will describe some
of our further impressions about it, both physical and moral,
and general as well as particular.
*You find yourself in Virgil's country the moment "ou see
the lizards running up the walls, and hear the cicadce (now
cicale) "bursting the bushes with their song."  This famous
" grasshopper" of Anacreon, as the translators call it, but
which is not a grasshopper but a beetle, sitting on the trees,
produces his "c song" by scraping a hollow part of his chest
with certain muscles. The noise is so loud, as well as in




210


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


cessant, during the heats of the summer-days, as to resemble
that of a stocking-manufactory.    Travelers in Sicily declare, that while conversing with a friend along a wood,
you sometimes can not be heard for them.
All the insect tribes, good and bad, acquire vigor and
size as they get southward. We found, however, but one
scorpion in-doors, and he was young.  We were looking on
him with much interest, and speculating upon his turn
of mind, when a female servant quietly took out her scissors, and cut him in two.   Her bile, with eating oil and
minestra, was as much exalted as his.      Scorpions, however, are no very dangerous things in Italy.    The gnats
are bad enough without them, and even the flies are almost
as bad as the gnats.   The zanzaliere (the bed-net against
the gnats) appeared almost as necessary against the flies
as against the enemy from whom it is named.
But there is one insect which is equally harmless and
beautiful.  It succeeds the noisy cicala of an evening; and
is of so fairy-like a nature and lustre, that it would be
almost worth coming into the south to look at it, if there
were no other attraction.  I allude to the fire-fly.  Imagine
thousands of flashing diamonds every night powdering the
ground, the trees, and the air, especially in the darkest
places, and in the corn-fields.  They give at once a delicacy
and brilliance to Italian darkness inconceivable.  It is the
glow-worm, winged, and flying in crowds.    In England it
is the female alone that can be said to give light; that of
the male, who is: the exclusive possessor of the wings, is
hardly perceptible.  cc Worm" is a wrong word, the creature being a real insect.   The Tuscan name is lucciola,
little-light. In Genoa they call them cmee-belle (chiare-belle),
clear and pretty.  When held in the hand, the little creature is discovered to be a dark-colored beetle, but without
the hardness or sluggish look of the beetle tribe. The light
is contained in the under part of the extremity of the abdomen, exhibiting a dull, golden-colored partition by day,
and flashing occasionally by daylight, especially when the
hand is shaken.   At night the flashing is that of the purest
and most lucid fire, spangling the vineyards and olive-trees,




THE FIRE-FLY.


211


find their dark avenues, with innumerable stars. Its use is
not known. In England, and I believe here, the supposition is that it is a signal of love.  It affords no perceptible
heat, but is supposed to be phosphoric.   In a dark room,
a single one is sufficient to flash a light against the wall.
I have read of a lady in the West Indies who could see to
read by the help of three under a glass, as long as they
chose to accommodate her. During our abode in Genoa a
few of them were commonly in our rooms all night, going
about like little sparkling elves.  It is impossible not to
think of something spiritual in seeing the progress of one of
them  through a dark room.      You only know    it by the
flashing of its lamp, which takes place every three or four
inches apart, sometimes oftener, thus marking its track in
and out of the apartment, or about it.    It is like a little
fairy taking its rounds.  These insects remind us of the lines
in Herrick, inviting his mistress to come to him at nighttime, and they suit them still better than his English ones:
"Their lights the glow-worms lend thee;
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow,
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee."
To me, who when I was in Italy passed more of my
time, even than usual, in the ideal world, the spiritual-looking little creatures were more than commonly interesting.
Shelley used to watch them for hours. I looked at them,
and wondered whether any of the particles he left upon
earth helped to animate their loving and lovely light. The
last fragment he wrote, which was a welcome to me on my
arrival from England, began with a simile taken from their
dusk look and the fire underneath it, in which he found a
likeness to his friend.  They had then just made their appearance for the season.
There is one circumstance respecting these fire-flies, quite
as extraordinary as any.   There is no mention of them   in
the ancient poets.  Now, of all insects, even southern, they
are, perhaps, the most obvious to poetical notice.    It is
difficult to conceive how any poet, much less a pastoral or




212


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


an amatory poet, could help speaking of them; and yet they
make their appearance neither in Greek nor Latin verse,
neither in Homer, nor Virgil, nor Ovid, nor Anacreon, nor
Theocritus.  The earliest mention of them, with which I
am acquainted, is in Dante (Inferno,. canto 21), where he
compares the spirits in the eighth circle of hell, who go about
swathed in fire, to the "lucciole" in a rural valley of an
evening.   A truly saturnine perversion of a beautiful object.
Does nature put forth a new production now and then, like
an author?  Or has the glow-worm been exalted into the
fire-fly by the greater heat of the modern Italian soil, which
appears indisputable?  The supposition is, I believe, that
the fire-fly was brought into Europe from the New World.
With respect to wood in Italy, olive-trees in particular,
travelers hearing so much of the latter, and accustomed to
their pickled fruit, are generally disappointed at sight of
them.   Whether my enthusiasm     was borne out by judgment, I can not say, but I liked them, at least in combination.  An olive-tree by itself is hardly to be called handsome, unless it is young, in which state it is very much so,
quite warranting Homer's comparison with it of the slain
youth.   It is then tender-looking and elegant.  When old
the leaves are stiff, hard, pointed, willow-like, dark above,
and of a light leathern color underneath; the trunk slight,
dry-looking, crooked; and it almost always branches off into
a double stem at a little distance from the ground. A
wood of olive-trees looks like a huge hazy bush, more light
than dark, and glimmering with innumerable specks, which
are the darker sides of the leaves. When they are in fruit
they seem powdered with myriads of little black balls.  My
wife said, that olive trees looked as if they only grew by
moonlight; which gives a better idea of their light, faded
aspect, than a more prosaical description.
The pine-tree is tall, dark, and comparatively branchless,
till it spreads at top into a noble, solid-looking head, wide
and stately. It harmonizes as beautifully with extended
landscape, as architectural towers, or as ships at sea.
The cypress is a poplar in shape, but more sombre, stately,
and heavy; not to be moved by every flippant air. It is




OIL IN COOKERY.


213


of a beautiful dark color, and contrasts admirably with trees
of a rounder figure.  Two or three cypress-trees by the side
of a white or yellow cottage, slated and windowed like our
new cottage-houses near London, the windows often without
glass, are alone sufficient to form a Tuscan picture, and
constantly remind you that you are at a distance from
home.
The consumption, by the way, of olive oil is immense.
It is probably no mean exasperator of Italian bile.    The
author of an Italian Art of Health approves a moderate use
of it, both in diet and medicine; but says, that as soon as it
is cooked, fried, or otherwise abused, it inflames the blood,
disturbs the humors, irritates the fibres, and produces other
effects very  superfluous in a stimulating climate.    The
notoriousness of the abuse makes him cry out, and ask how
much better it would be to employ this pernicious quantity
of oil in lighting the streets and roads.  He thinks it necessary, however, to apologize to his countrymen for this apparent inattention to their pecuniary profits, adding, that he
makes amends by diverting them into another channel. I
fear the two ledgers would make a very different show of
profit and loss: not to mention, that unless the oil were
consecrated, or the lamps hung very high, it would assuredly be devoured.  We had no little difficulty in keeping
the servants from disputing its food with our lamp-light.
Their lucubrations were of a more internal nature than
ours.
"The rather thou,
Celestial oil, shine inwards."
I was told that the olive trees grew finer and finer as you
went southward.
The chestnut trees are very beautiful; the spiky-looking
branches of leaves, long, and of a noble green, make a glorious show as you look up against the intense blue of the sky.
It is a commonplace to say that the castanets used in dancing,
evidently originated in the nuts of this tree, castagnette?
They are made in general, I believe, of cockle-shells, or an
imitation of them; but the name renders their vegetable




214


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


descent unequivocal. It is pleasant to observe the simple
origin of pleasant things.  Some loving peasants, time immemorial, fall dancing under the trees: they pick up the
nuts, rattle them   in their hands; and behold (as the
Frenchman says) the birth of the accompaniment of the
fandango.
Thus much for insects and trees. Among the human
novelties that impress a stranger in Italy, I have not before
noticed the vivacity prevalent among all clases of people.
The gesticulation is not French.   It has an air of greater
simplicity and sincerity, and has more to do with the eyes
and expression of countenance.  But after being used to it,
the English must look like a nation of scorners and prudes.
When serious, the women walk with a certain piquant
stateliness, the same which impressed the ancient as well as
modern poets of Italy, Virgil in particular; but it has no
haughtiness. You might imagine them walking up to a dance,
or priestesses of Venus approaching a temple. When lively,
their manner out of doors is that of our liveliest women within.  If they make a quicker movement than usual, if they
recognize a friend, for instance, or call out to somebody, or
dispatch somebody with a message, they have all the life,
simplicity, and unconsciousness of the happiest of our young
women, who are at ease in their gardens or parks.
On becoming intimate with Genoa, I found that it possesses multitudes of handsome women; and what surprised
me, many of them with beautiful northern complexions. But
an English lady told me, that for this latter discovery I was
indebted to my short sight.  This is probable.  I have often,
I confess, been in raptures at faces that have passed me in
London, whose only faults were being very coarse and considerably bilious.  It is not desirable, however, to have a
Brobdingnagian sight; and where the mouth is sweet and
the eyes intelligent, there is always the look of beauty with
a right observer. Now, I saw heaps of such faces in Genoa.
The superiority of 'the women over the men was indeed
remarkable, and is to be accounted for perhaps by the latter
being wrapt and screwed up in money-getting. Yet it is
just the reverse, I understand, at Naples; and the Neapoli



GENOESE WOMEN.


215


tans are accused of being as sharp at a bargain as any body.
What is certain, however, is, that in almost all parts of
Italy, gentility of appearance is on the side of the females.
The rarity of a gentlemanly look in the men is remarkable.
The commonness of it among women of all classes is equally
so.  The former was certainly not the case in old times, if
we are to trust the portraits handed down to us; nor, indeed,
could it easily have been believed, if left upon record. What
is the cause, then, of this extraordinary degeneracy?  Is it,
after all, an honorable one to the Italians?  Is it that the
men, thinking of the moral and political situation of their
country, and so long habituated to feel themselves degraded,
acquire a certain instinctive carelessness and contempt of
appearance; while the women, on the other hand, more
taken up with their own affairs, with the consciousness of
beauty, and the flattery which is more or less paid them,
have retained a greater portion of their self-possession and
esteem?  The alteration, whatever it is owing to, is of the
worst kind.   The want of gentility is not supplied, as it so
often is with us, by a certain homely simplicity and manliness, quite as good in its way, and better, where the former
does not include the better part of it.  The appearance, to
use a modern cant phrase, has a certain raffishness in it,
like that of a suspicious-looking fellow in England, who
lounges about with his hat on one side, and a flower in his
mouth. Nor is it confined to men of trade, whether high
or low; though at the same time I must observe, that
all men, high or low (with the exceptions, of course, that
take place in every case), are given to pinching and saving,
keeping their servants upon the lowest possible allowance,
and eating as little as need be themselves, with the exception
of their favorite minestra, of which I will speak presently,
and which being a cheap as well as favorite dish, they gobble in sufficient quantity to hinder their abstinence in other
things from being regarded as the effect of temperance.  In
Pisa, the great good of life was a hot supper; but at Pisa
and Genoa both, as in c the city " with us, if you overheard
any thing said in the streets, it vas generally about money.
Quatrini, soldi, and lire, were discussing at every step.  A




1216


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


stranger, full of the Italian poets and romances, is surprised
to find the southern sunshine teeming with this northern
buzz. One thinks sometimes that men would not know
what to do with their time, if it were not for that succession
of hopes and fears, which constitutes the essence of trade.
It looks like a good-humored invention of nature to save the
major part of mankind fron getting tired to death with themselves; but, in truth, it is a necessity of progression.  All
mankind must be fused together, before they know how to
treat one another properly, and to agree upon final good.
Prince Albert's project for next year is a great lift in this
direction. It was a most happy thought for combining
the ordinary and extraordinary interests of the world.
One of the greatest causes of the deterioration of the
modern Italian character, has been the chicanery, sensuality, falsehood, worldliness, and petty feeling of all sorts, exhibited by the Court of Rome.    Mazzini has denounced it
in eloquence, of which the earth has not yet seen the result; however extraordinary its consequences have been already in the events at Rome.    But the same things were
talked of when I was in Italy, and the truth very freely
uttered.
The Italians owned, that for centuries they had been accustomed to see the most exalted persons among them, and
a sacred court, full of the pettiest and most selfish vices;
that, while, they had instinctively lost their respect for those
persons, they had, nevertheless, beheld them the most flourishing of their countrymen; and that they had been taught,
by their example, to make such a distinction between belief
and practice, as would startle the saving grace of the most
lawless of Calvinists. From what I saw myself (and I
would not mention it if it had not been corroborated by
others who resided in Italy for years) there was a prevailing
contempt of truth in the country, that would have astonished even an oppressed Irishman.   It formed an awful comment upon those dangers of catechizing people into insincerity, which Bentham pointed out in his Church-of-Englandism.   We in England are far enough, God knows, from this
universality of evil yet; and some of the most conscientious




WANT OF TRUTH IN ITALY.


217


of our clergy themselves have lately been giving remarkable
indication of their disinterested horror on the subject.  May
such writers and such readers of them, always be found to
preserve us from it.  In Shelley's preface to the tragedy of
the Cenci, which was written at Rome, the religious nature
of this profanation of truth is pointed out.with equal acuteness and eloquence. I have heard instances of falsehood, not
merely in shops, but among " ladies and gentlemen," so
extreme, so childish, and apparently so unconscious of wrong,
that the very excess of it, however shocking in one respect,
relieved one's feelings in another. It showed how much
might be done by proper institutions, to exalt the character
of a people who are by nature so ingenuous. But received
Italian virtues, under their present governments, consist in
being catholic (that is to say, in going to confession), in not
being " taken in" by others, and in taking in every body
else.  Persons employed to do the least, or the greatest jobs,
will alike endeavor to cheat you through thick and thin.
Such, at least, was the case when I was in Italy. It was
a perpetual warfare, in which you were obliged to fight in
self-defense.  If you paid any body what he asked you, it
never entered into his imagination that you did it from any
thing but folly.  You were pronounced a minchione (a ninny) one of their greatest terms of reproach.  On the other
hand, if you battled -well through the bargain, a perversion
of the natural principle of self defense led to a feeling of respect for you.   Dispute might increase   the man might
grin,, stare, threaten; might pour out torrents of argument
and of " injured innocence," as they always do; but be firm,
and he went away equally angry and admiring. Did any
body condescend to take them in, the admiration as well as
the anger was still in proportion, like that of the gallant
kifights of old, when they were beaten in single combat.
An English lady told us a story which will show the
spirit of this matter at once.  A friend of hers at Pisa was
in the habit of dealing with a man, whose knaveries forced
her to keep a reasonable eye to her side of the bargain. She
said to this man one day, " Ah, so-and-so, no doubt you
think me a great minchione."     The man, at this speech
VOL. I,..-K




218


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


put on a look of the sincerest deference and respect; and in
a tone of deprecation, not at all intended for a joke, replied,
" Minchione! No! E granfurba lei."-((" You a ninny!
Oh, no, ma'am; you are a great thief!")    This man, to be
sure, was a Jew: but then what dealer in Italy was not?
The Jews,, like Shylock, might have pronounced the character to be Christian, from its commonness in that Christian
land.,"Christian," with a Jew, might have been as strong
a term of money-dealing reproach, as Jew was with a
Christian.
They say, that Jews could not find a living in Genoa.
I knew of one, however, who both lived and got fat. I asked him one day to direct me to somebody who dealt in a
particular article.  He did so; adding, in an under tone,
and clapping his finger against his nose, "He'll ask you such
and such a sum for it, but take care you don't pay it."  The
love of getting and saving pervaded all classes of the community, the female part, however, I have no doubt, much
less than the male. The love of ornament as well as a more
generous passion interfered.  The men seemed to believe in
nothing but the existence of power: and 'as they could not
attain to it in its grander shapes, they did all they could to
get it in its meanest.  The women retained a better and
more redeeming faith; and yet every thing was done to
spoil them.  The famous order of things called Cicisbeism
is the consequence of a state of society more inconsistent
than itself, though less startling to the habits of the world;
but it was managed in a foolish manner; and, strange to
say, it was almost as gross, more formal, and quite as hypocritical as what it displaced.  It is a stupid system.  The
poorer the people, the less, of course, it takes place among
them; but as thle husband, in all cases, has the most to do
for his family, ai d is the person least cared for, he is resolved
to get what he can before marriage; so a vile custom prevails
among the poorest, by which no girl can get married, unless
she brings a certain dowry.    Unmarried females are also
watched with exceeding strictness; and in order to obtain at
once a husband and freedom, every nerve is strained to get
this important dowry.   Daughters scrape up, and servants




ITALIAN MAID-SERVANTS


219


pilfer for it. "If they were not obliged to ornament themselves
as a help toward their object, I do not know whether even
the natural vanity of youth would not be sacrificed, and girls
hang out rags as a proof of their hoard, instead of the
(" outward and visible'sign" of crosses and ear-rings. Dress,
however, disputes the palm with saving; and as a certain
consciousness of their fine eyes and their natural graces survives every thing else among southern womankind, English
people have no conception of the high hand with which the
humblest females in Italy carry it at a dance or an evening
party.  Hair dressed up, white gowns, satins, flowers, fans,
and gold ornaments, all form a part of the glitter of the evening, and all, too, amidst as great, and perhaps as graceful a
profusion of compliments and love-making as takes place in
the most privileged ball-rooms. Yet it is twenty to one that
nine out of ten persons in the room have dirty stockings on,
and shoes out at heel.  Nobody thinks of saving up articles
of that description; and they are too useful, and not showy
enough, to be cared for en passant. Therefore Italian girls
may often enough be well compared to flowers; with head
and bodies all ornament, their feet are in the earth; and
thus they go nodding forth for sale, " growing, blowing, and
all alive." A foolish English servant whom we brought out
with us, fell into an absolute rage of jealousy at seeing my
wife give a.crown of flowers to a young Italian servant, who
was going to a dance. The latter, who was of the most
respectable sort, and looked as lady-like as you please when
dressed, received the flowers with gratitude, though without
surprise; but English and Italian both were struck speechless,
when, in addition to the crown, my wife presented the latter with a pair of her own shoes and stockings.  Doubtless,
they were the triumph of the evening. Next day we heard
accounts of the beautiful dancing; of Signor F., the English
valet, opening the ball with the handsome chandler's-shopkeeper, &c., and our poor countrywoman was ready to expire.
As the miscellaneous poetry of Alfieri is little known in
England, I will conclude this account of Italian love of
money with the commencement of a satire of his on the
subject. He does not spare the English; though he would




220


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


have found some distinction, I trust, between us and the
Dutch in this matter, could 'he have heard the objections
made the other day to Austrian and Russian loans. The
close of the passage presents a very ludicrous image.
E in te pur, d'ogni lucro Idolo ingordo,
Nume di -questo secolo borsale,
Un pocolin Ia. penna mia qul lordo:
Ch'ove ogagi tanto, oltre ii dover, prevale
Quest' acciecato culto, onde ti bei,
Dritt' 6, else ti saetti alcun mio strale.
Figlio. di mezza libertade, ii sei;
Nd ii niego io gia'; ma in un mostrarti padre
Vo' di servaggio doppio e d'usi rei.
Ecco, ingombri ha.di prepotenti squadre
La magra Europa i mari tutti, e mille
Terre fara di pianto e di sangue adre.
Sian belligere genti, o sian tranquille,
Abbiano o no metal1i, indaco, o pepe,
Di selve sieno o abitator de ville,
Stuzzicar tutti densi, ovunque repe
Quest' insetto tirannico Europdo,
Per impinguar le sua femelich' epe.
Stupidi e inguisti, noi sprezziam 1'Ebreo,
Che compra e vende, e vende e compra, e vende;
Ma siam ben noi popol piii vile e reo.
Che, non contenti a quanto ii suol ci rende,
Dell' altrui ladri ove ii furar sia lieve,
Facciam, pel globo tutto a chi pii - prende.
Tacio del sangue American, eui beve
L'atroce Ispano; e ii vitto agi' Indi tolto
Dali' Anglo, che ii suo vitto agi' Indi deve.
Se in fasce orrende al nascer suo0ravvolto
Mostrar volessi ii rio commercio, or fora
Ilmio sermone (e ivan) prolisso molto.
Basta ben sol, che la sua infamia d'ora
Per me si illustri, appalesando il come
L'iniqua Europa sue Jaidezze indora.
Annichillate, impoverite, o dome
Par lei le genti di remote spiagge,
Di alloro nso, di Baiccala' le chiome,
Orniamle,".' &c. &c.




ALFIERI VERSUS COMMERCE.


221


Yes, glutton of the land and sea,
Our pursy age's deity,
I'll dirt my pen a while with thee.
For since this gloating in a purse,
Which blinds mankind, grows worse and worse,
'Tis fit I smite thee with a verse.
Half-freedom's child, I know thou art:
I'll prove thee father, ere we part,
Of twofold slavery and no heart.
Lo, dry-drawn Europe sends her brood
Of traders out, like a new flood,
To sow the earth with tears and blood.
Whether a land's at war or peace,
Produces metals, tops, or teas,
Or lives in towns, or villages,
This vermin, mightiest thing alive,
Makes them all herd, and crowd, and drive,
To fatten up its hungry hive.
Unjust and stupid, we despise
The Jew that buys, and sells, and buys,
As if we acted otherwise!
Nay, we do worse; for not content,
Like other thieves, with a home rent,
We rob on every continent.
I pass the Americans that bled
For Spain's fierce thirst; and English bread
Torn from the slaves it should have fed:
Were I to track through all his woes
The monster to his swaddling clothes,
Where I should end, God only knows.
Enough for me, if I can tear
The mask off now, and show the care
Hag Europe takes to. be thought fair.
How should we crown her, having trod
Whole nations down for this her god?
With laurel?  No-with salted cod.
This species of dried fish being greatly in request in Cath
olic countries, the image becomes very ludicrous to an Italian.
Were satirists to make coins as well as verses, a head of
Catholic Europe some centuries hence, with a crown of dried
fish on it, would puzzle the antiquaries.




222


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


One anti-climax more. If Italy is famous at present for
any two things, it is for political uneasiness and minestra.*
Wherever you find shops, you see baskets full of a yellow
stuff, made up in long stripes like tape, and tied up in bundles. This is the main compound of minestra, or, to use
the Neapolitan term, it is our now growing acquaintance
maccaroni. Much of it is naturally of a yellowish color,
but the Genoese dye it deeper with saffron. When made
into a soup it is called minestra, and mixed sometimes with
meat, sometimes with oil, or btitter, but always, if it is to
be had, with grated cheese.    An Italian, reasonably to do
in the world, has no notion of eating any thing plain. If
he can not have his bit of roast and boiled, and, above all,
his minestra and his oil, he is thrown out of all his calculations, physical and moral.  He has a great abstract respect
for fasting; but he struggles hard to be relieved from it.
He gets, whenever he can, what is called an " indulgence."
The Genoese in particular, being but Canaanites or borderers
in Italy, and accustomed to profane intercourse by their
maritime situation, as well as to an heterodox appetite by
their industry and sea air, are extremely restive on the subject of fasting.  They make pathetic representations to the
Archbishop respecting beef and pudding, and allege their
health and their household economies.    Fish is luckily dear.
I have seen in a Genoese Gazette, an extract from the circular of the Archbishop respecting the Lent indulgences.
" The Holiness of Our Lord," he says (for so the Pope is
styled), " has seen with the greatest displeasure, that the
ardent desire which he has always cherished, of restoring the ancient rigor of Lent, is again rendered of no
effect by representations which he finds it impossible to resist. He therefore permits the inhabitants of the Archbishop's diocese to make " one meal a day of eggs and whitemeats (latticini) during Lent; and to such persons as have
really need of it, he allows the use of flesh:" but he adds,
* I used to think that cicisbeism was its main distinction; but
young Italy insists that it is going out of fashion; and, as Italians ought
to know more about the subject than I do, I shall not let certain
spectacles that were shown me in their country, pretend to refute it.




MAZZINI.


223


that this latter permission "c leaves a heavy load on his conscience," and that he positively forbids the promiscuous use
of flesh and fish.  I must add, for my part, I thought the
Pope had reason in this roasting of eggs.  In all countries
the devil (to speak after the received theory of good and ill)
seems to provide for a due diminution of health and happiness by something in the shape of meat and drink.    The
northern nations exasperate their bile with beer, the southern with oil, and all with butter and pastry.    I would
swear, that Dante was a greater eater of c" fries." Poor Lord
Castlereagh had had his buttered toast served up for breakfast
the day he killed himself; a very small looking irritant, it
is true, for so great a catastrophe; but not the less likely
for that. If wars have been made, and balances of power
overturned, by a quarrel about a pair of gloves, or the tap
of a fan from a king's mistress, it is little to expedite the
death of a minister by teasing his hypochondres with fried
butter., ~But this has been noticed before.
As to the political uneasiness, I should have so much
to say about it, if I entered upon the subject, tlat I dare
but occasionally allude to it in these volumes.  It would require a volume to itself. The whole two volumes, however-nay, all volumes which are now written-may be
said to be about it, inasmuch as they concern the transition
state of the human mind.   I shall advert again to the religious part 6f the subject before I conclude.
Meantime, I shall only say that Italy is a wonderful
nation, always at the head of the world in some respect,
great or small, and equally iall of life.  Division among its
children is its bane; and Mazzini's was the best note that
has been struck in its favor in modern times, because he
struck it at Rome, in the place of the very Pope, and
thus gave it the best chance for rallying under one summons.   Heaven ýforgive the French for the shameless vanity
of their interference! for it has delayed, under the most unwarrantable circumstances, what must assuredly take place
before long, as far as priests and priestly government are concerned.  The poor good Pope can no more keep it down, than
he could tread out a volcano with his embroidered slippers.




CHAPTER XXII.


RETURN      TO ENGLAND.
Traveling by vettura.-The driver.-The Apennines.-Le Maschere:
-Covigliaio.-Pietra Mala.-Poggioli.-Story of the Ants.-Skepticism generated in postillions by traveling.-Bologna.-Modena.Contrasted character of their inhabitants.-Parma.-Piacenza.
-Asti and Alfieri.-The Po and the Alps.-Poirino.-Prudent
friars.-Turin.-French and Italian dancers.-Sant-Ambrogio.Ancient and Modern Italy.-Passage of the Alps.-Savoy.-Lanslebourg.-Chambery and Rousseau.-Lyons and Auxerre.-Statue
of Louis the Fourteenth.-Mont Blanc.-Paris.-Place of the
guillotine.-Book-stalls.-French people.-French, Italian, and English women.-Arrival in England.
ON our return from Italy to England, we traveled not
by post, but by vettura; that is to say, by easy stages of
thirty or forty miles a day, in a traveling carriage; the
box of which is turned into a chaise, with a calash over it.
It is drawn by three horses, occasionally assisted by mules.
We paid about eighty-two guineas English, for which some
ten of us (counting as six, because of the children) were to
be taken to Calais; to have a breakfast and dinner every
day on the road; to be provided with five beds at night,
each containing two persons; and to rest four days during
the journey, without farther expense, in whatever places
and portions of time we thought fit. Our breakfast was
to consist of coffee, bread, fruit, milk, and eggs (plenty
of each), and our dinner of the four indispensable Italian
dishes, something roast, something boiled, something fried,
and what they call umido, which is a hash, or something
of that sort; together with vegetables, wine, and fruit.
Care, however, must be taken in these bargains, that the
vetturino does not crib from the allowance by degrees, other
wise the dishes grow fewer and smaller; meat disappears
on a religious principle, it being magro day, on which




THE VETTURINO.


225


cc nothing is to be had;" and the vegetables adhering to
their friend the meat in his adversity, disappear likewise.
The reason of this is, that the vetturino has two conflict.
ing interests within him.  It is his interest to please you in
hope of other custom; and it is his interest to make the
most of the sum   of money which his master allows him
for expenses.   Withstand, however, any change at first,
and good behavior may be reckoned upon.        We had as
pleasant a little Tuscan to drive us as I ever met with.
He began very handsomely: but finding us willing to make
the best of any little deficiency, he could not resist the temptation of giving up the remoter interest for the nearer one.
We found our profusion diminish accordingly; and at Turin,
after cunningly asking us, whether we cared to have an ini
not of the very highest description, he brought us to one of
which it could only be said that it was not of the very lowest.
The landlord showed us into sordid rooms on a second
story.  I found it necessary to be base and make a noise;
upon which little Gigi looked frightened, and the landlord
became slavish, and bowed us into his best apartments.
We had no more of the same treatment.
Our rogue of a driver had an excellent temper, and was
as honest a rogue, I will undertake to say, as ever puzzled
a formalist. He made us laugh with his resemblance to
Lamb, whose countenance, a little jovialized, he engrafted
upon an active little body and pair of legs, walking about
in his jack-boots as if they were pumps. But a man must
have some great object in life, to carry him so many times
over the Alps: and this, of necessity, is money.  We could
have dispensed easily enough with some of the fried and
roasted; but to do this would have been to subject ourselves
to other diminutions.   Our bargain was reckoned a good
one.   Gigi's master said (believe him  who will) that he
could not have afforded it, had he not been sure, at that
time of the year, that somebody would take his coach back
again; such is the multitude of persons that come to winter
in Italy.
We were told to look for a barren road from Florence to
Bologna, but were agreeably disappointed.      The vines,
K*




226


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


indeed, and the olives disappeared; but this was a relief to
us. Instead of these, and the comparatively petty ascents
about Florence, we had proper swelling Apennines, valley
and mountain, with fine sloping meadows of green interspersed with wood.
We stopped to refresh ourselves at noon at an inn called
Le Maschere, where there was an elegant prospect, a mixtuie of nature with garden ground; and we slept at Covigliaio, where three tall, buxom damsels waited upon us, who
romped during supper with the men-servants.  One of them
had a better tone in speaking than the others, upon the
strength of which she stepped about with a jaunty air in a
hat and feathers, and " did the amiable."  A Greek came
in with a long beard, which he poked into all the rooms by
way of investigation; as he could speak no language but his
own.   I asked one of the girls why she looked so frightened;
upon which she shrugged her shoulders and said, ( Oh Dio!"
as if Bluebeard had come to put her in his seraglio.
Our vile inn knocked us up; and we were half-starved.
Little Gigi, on being remonstrated with, said that he was
not aware till that moment of its being part of his duty, by
the agreement, to pay expenses during our days of stopping.
He had not looked into the agreement till then! The
rogue!   So we lectured him, and forgave him for his good
temper; and he was to be very honest and expensive for the
rest of the journey.
Next morning we set off at five o'clock, and passed a
volcanic part of the Apennines, where a flame issues from
the ground.  We thought we saw it.    The place is called
Pietra Mala (Evil Rock).  Here we enter upon the Pope's
territories; as if his Holiness was to be approached by an
infernal door.
We refreshed at Poggioli, in sight of a church upon a
hill, called the Monte dei Formicoli (Ant-Hill)., Sitting
outside the inn-door on a stone, while the postillion sat on
another, he told us of an opinion which prevailed among
travelers respecting this place.  They reported, that on a
certain day in the year, all the ants in the neighborhood
come to church in the middle of the service, and die during




SKEPTICISM OF POSTILLIONS.


227


the celebration of the mass. After giving me this information, I observed him glancing at me for some time with a
very serious face, after which he said abruptly, ", Do you believe this report, signore?" I told him, that I was loth
to differ with what he or any one else might think it proper
to believe: but if he put the question to me as one to be
sincerely answered,
<" Oh, certainly, signore."
"c Well, then, I do not believe it."
" No more," said little Gigi, "do I."
I subsequently found my postillion very skeptical on some
highly Catholic points, and he accounted for it like a philosopher.  Seeing that he made no sign of reverence in passing the images of the Virgin and Child, I asked him the
reason.
"c Sir," said he, "I have traveled."
Those were literally his words.  (Ho viaggiato, signore.)
He manifested, however, no disrespect for opinions on which
most believers are agreed; though whenever his horses
vexed him, he poured forth a series of the most blasphemous
execrations which I ever heard.  Indeed, I had never heard
any at all resembling them; though I was told they were
not uncommon with persons unquestionably devout. He
abused the divine presence in the sacrament.  He execrated
the body and-   but I must not repeat what he said, for
fear of shocking the reader and myself.   Nevertheless, I
believe he did it all in positive innocence and want of
thought, repeating the words as mere words which he heard
from others all his life, and to which he attached none of
the ideas which they expressed.  When a person d-ns another in English, he has no real notion of what he condemns
him to; and I believe our postillion had as little when he
devoted the objects of his worship to malediction.  He was
very kind to the children, and took leave of us at the end
of our journey in tears.
The same evening we got to Bologna, where we finished
for the present with mountains.  The best streets in Bologna are furnished with arcades, very sensible things, which
we are surprised to miss in any city in a hot country.  They




228


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


are to be found, more or less, as you travel north ward.
The houses were all kept in good looking order, owing, I
believe, to a passion which the Bolognese have for a gorgeous anniversary, against which every thing, animate and
inanimate, puts on its best.  I could not learn what it was.
Besides tapestry and flowers, they bring out their pictures
to hang in front of the houses.  Many cities in Italy disappoint the eye of the traveler.  The stucco and plaster outside the houses gets worn, and, together with the open windows, gives them a squalid and deserted appearance.    But
the name is always something.     If Bologna were nothing
of a city, it would still be a fine sound and a sentiment; a
thing recorded in art, in poetry, in stories of all sorts.
We passed next day over a flat country, and dined at
Modena, which is neither so good-looking a city, nor so well
sounding a recollection as Bologna; but it is still Modena,
the native place of Tassoni. I went to the cathedral to get
sight of the Bucket (La Secchia) which is hung up there,
but found the doors shut, and a very ugly pile of building.
The lions before the doors looked as if some giant's children
had made them in sport; wretchedly sculptured, and gaping
as if in agony at their bad legs. It was a disappointment
to me not to see the Bucket.    The poem called the Rape
of the Bucket (La Secchia Rapita), next to Metastasio's
address to Venus, is my oldest Italian acquaintance; and I
reckoned upon saying to the subject of it, " Ah, ha! There
you are!"  Pope imitated the title of this poem in his Rape
of the Lock; and, Dryden confessed to a yountr critic, that
he himself knew the poem, and had made use of it.      The
bucket was a trophy taken from the Modenese by their rivals
of Bologna, during one of the petty Italian wars.
There is something provoking, and yet something fine too,
in flitting in this manner from city to city.  You are vexed
at not being able to stop and see pictures, &c.; but you
have a sort of royal, taste of great pleasures in passing.
The best thing one can do to get at the interior of any thing
in this hurry, is to watch the countenances of the people.
I thought that the aspects of the Bolognese and Modenese
people singularly answered to their character in     books.




PEOPLE OF MODENA AND BOLOGNA.


229


What is more singular, is the extraordinary difference and
nationality of aspect in the people of two cities, at so little
distance from one another.  The Bolognese have a broad
steady look, not without geniality and richness.  You can
imagine them to give birth to painters. The Modenese are
crusty-looking and carking, with a narrow mouth, and a
dry twinkle at the corner of the eyes.  They are critics and
satirists on the face of them.  For my part I never took
very kindly to Tassoni, for all my young acquaintance with
him; and in the war which he has celebrated, I was
henceforward, whatever I was before, decidedly for the
Bolognese.
On the 12th of September, after dining at Modena, we
slept at Reggio, where Ariosto was born.  His father was
captain of the citadel.  Boiardo, the poet's worthy precursor
(in some respects, I think, his surpasser), was born at Scandiano, not far off.  I ran, before the gates were shut, to get
a look at the citadel, and was much the better for not missing it. Poets leave a greater charm than any men upon
places they have rendered famous, because they sympathize
more than any other men with localities, and identify themselves with the least beauty of art or nature-a turret or an
old tree.  The river Ilissus at Athens is found to be a sorry
brook; but it runs talking for ever of Plato and Sophocles.
At Parma, I tore my hair mentally at not being able to
see the Correggios.  Piacenza pleased us to be in it, on account of the name; but a list of places in Italy is always
like a set Of musical tones.  Parma, Piacenza, Voghera,
Tortona, Felizana---sounds like these convert a road-book
into a music-book.
At Asti, a pretty place, with a < west-end",full of fine
houses, I went to look at the Alfieri palace, and tried to remember the poet with pleasure; but I could not like him.
To me, his austerity is only real in the unpleasantest part
of it.. The rest seems affected.  The human heart in his
hands is a tough business; and he thumps and turns it
about in his short, violent, and pounding manner, as if it
were an iron on a blacksmith's anvil. Alfieri loved liberty
like a tyrant, and the Pretender's widow like a slave.




230


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


The first sight of the Po, of the mulberry-trees, the meadows, and the Alps, was at once classical, and Italian, and
northern.  It made us feel that we were taking a great step
nearer home.   Poirino, a pretty little place, presented us
with a sight like a passage in Boccaccio.  This was a set
of Dominican friars with the chief at their head, issuing out
of two coaches, and proceeding along the corridor of the inn
to dinner, each holding a bottle of wine in his hand, with
the exception of the abbot, who held two.  The wine was
doubtless their own, that upon the road not being sufficiently
orthodox.
Turin is a noble city, like a set of Regent-streets, made
twice as tall.  We found here some of the most militarylooking officers we ever saw, fine, tall, handsome fellows,
whom the weather had beaten but not conquered, very gentlemanly, and combining the officer and soldier as completely
as could be wished. They had served under Bonaparte.
When I saw them, I-could understand how it was that a
Piedmontese revolution was more dreaded by the legitimates
than any other movement in Italy.  The one concocted at
that time was betrayed by the heir apparent, then Prince
of Carignan, who undertook to make amends by his heading
another, as King Victor Emanuel. A second was lost the
other day.  Suspicion still clung to him during the vicissitudes of the war; but a death, looking very much like a
broken heart, appears to have restored his memory to respect.
At Turin was the finest dancer I had ever seen, a girl of
the name of De' Martini.   She united the agility of the
French school with all that,you would expect from the
Italian. Italian dancers are in general as mediocre as the
French are celebrated; but the French dancers, in spite of
all their high notions of the art and the severity of their
studies (perhaps that is the reason), have no mind with their
bodies.  They are busts in barbers' shops, stuck upon legs
full of vivacity.  You wonder how any lower extremities so
lively can leave such an absence of all expression in the
upper.  De' MVartini was a dancer all over.  Her countenance partook of the felicity of the limbs. When she came
bounding on the stage, in two or three long leaps like a




ANCIENT AND MODERN ITALY.


231


fawn, I should have thought she was a Frenchwoman; but
the style undeceived me.   She came bounding in front, as
if she would have pitched herself into the arms of the pit;
then made a sudden drop, and addressed three enthusiastic
courtesies to the pit and boxes, with a rapidity and yet a
grace, a self-abandonment yet a self-possession, quite extraordinary, and such, as to do justice to it, should be described
by a poet combining the western ideas of the sex with eastern
license.  She was beautiful too, both in face and figure, and
I thought was a proper dancer to appear before a pit full of
those fine fellows I have just mentioned.   She seemed as
complete in her way as themselves.   In short, I never saw
any thing like it before; and did not wonder, that she had
the reputation of turning people's.heads wherever she went.
At Sant-Ambrogio, a little town between Turin and Susa,
is a proper castle-topped mountain a la Radcliffe, the only
one we had met with. Susa has some remains connected
with Augustus; but Augustus is nobody, or ought to be nobody, to a traveler in modern Italy.  He, and twenty like
him, never gave me one sensation all the time I was there;
and even the better part of the Romans it is difficult to
think of.  There is something formal and cold about their
history, in spite of Virgil and Horace, and even in spite of
their own violence, which does not harmonize with the south.
They are men in northern iron, and their poets, even the best
of them, were copiers of the Greek poets, not originals, like
Dante and Petrarch. So we slept at Susa, not thinking of
Augustus, but listening to waterfalls, and thinking of the Alps.
Next morning we beheld a sight worth living for.    We
were now ascending the Alps; and while yet in the darkness before dawn, we beheld the top of one of the mountains
basking in the sunshine. We took it with delighted reverence into our souls, and there it is forever.  The passage of
the Alps (thanks to Bonaparte, whom a mountaineer, with
brightness in his eyes, called " Napoleon of happy memory,"
Napoleone di felice memoria) is now as easy as a road in
England. You look up toward airy galleries, and down
upon villages that appear like toys, and feel somewhat disappointed at rolling over it all so easily.




232


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


The moment we passed the Alps, we found ourselves in
France.   At Lanslebourg, French was spoken, and amorous
groups gesticulated on the papering and curtains.  Savoy is
a glorious country, a wonderful intermixture of savage precipices and pastoral meads; but the roads are still uneven
and bad. The river ran and tumbled, as if in a race with
our tumbling carriage. At one time you are in a road like
a gigantic rut, deep down in a valley; and at another, up
in the air, wheeling along a precipice I know not how many
times as high as St. Paul's.
At Chambery, I could not resist going to see the house
of Rousseau and Madame de Warens, while the coach stopped. It is up a beautiful lane, where you have trees all the
way, sloping fields, and a brook; as fit a scene as could be
desired.  I met some Germans coming away, who congratulated me on being bound, as they had been, to the house of
" Jean Jacques."  The house itself is of the humbler genteel
class, but neat and white, with green blinds.  The little
chapel, that cost its mistress so much, is still remaining.
We proceeded, through Lyons and Auxerre, to Paris.
Beyond Lyons, we met on the road the statue of Louis XIV.
going to that city to overawe it with Bourbon memories.
It was an equestrian statue, covered up, guarded with soldiers, and looking on that road like some mysterious heap.
Don Quixote would have attacked it, and not been thought
mad: so much has romance done for us. The natives
would infallibly have looked quietly on.  There was a riot
about it at Lyons, soon after its arrival. I had bought
in that city a volume of the songs of Beranger, and I
thought to myself, as I met the statue,, I have a little
book in my pocket, which will not suffer you to last long."
And, surely enough, down it went: for down went King
Charles.
Statues rise and fall; but, a little on the other side of
Lyons, our postillion exclaimed, "( Monte Bianco!" and turning round, I beheld, for the first time, Mont Blanc, which
had been hidden from us, when near it, by a fog.  It looked
like a turret in the sky, amber-colored, golden, belonging to
the wall of some ethereal world.  This, too, is in our mem



THE FRENCH PEOPLE.


233


ories forever, an addition to our stock, a light for memory
to turn to, when it wishes a beani upon its face
At Paris we could stop but two days, and I had but two
thoughts in my head; one of the Revolution, the other of
the times of Moliere and Boileau. Accordingly, I looked
about for the Sorbonne, and went to see the place where the
guillotine stood; the place, where thousands of spirits underwent the last pang of mortality; many guilty, many innocent, but all the victims of a re-action against tyranny, such
as will never let tyranny be what it was, unless a convulsion
of nature should swallow up knowledge, and make the world
begin over again.   These are the thoughts that enable us to
bear such sights, and that serve to secure what we hope for.
Paris, besides being a beautiful city in the quarter that
strangers most look to, the Tuileries, Quai de Voltaire, &c.,
delights the eye of a man of letters by the multitude of its
book-stalls.  There seemed to be a want of old books; but
the ne w were better than the shoal of Missals and Lives of
the Saints that disappoint the lover of duodecimos on the
stalls of Italy; and the Rousseaus. and Voltaires were endless.  I thought, if I were a bachelor, not an Englishman,
and had no love for old friends and fields, and no decided religious opinions, I could live very well, for the rest of my
life, in a lodging above one of the bookseller's shops on the
Quai de Voltaire, where I should look over the water to the
Tuileries, and have the Elysian fields'in my eye for my
evening walk.
I liked much what little I saw of the French people.
They are accused of vanity; and doubtless they have it, and
after a more obvious fashion than other nations; but their
vanity, at least, includes the wish to please; other people
are necessary to them; they are riot wrapped up in themselves; not.sulky; not too vain even to tolerate vanity.
Their vanity is too much confounded with self-satisfaction.
There -is a good deal of touchiness, I suspect, among them
-a good deal of ready-made heat, prepared to fire up in
case the little commerce, of flattery and sweetness is not.properly carried on.  But this is better than ill-temper, or than
such egotism as is not to be appeased by any thing short of




234


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


subjection.  On the other hand, there is more' melancholy
than one could expect, especially in old faces.  Consciences
in the south are frightened in their old age, perhaps for
nothing. In the north, I suspect, they are frightened earlier,
perhaps, from  equal want of knowledge.     The worst in
France is (at least, from all that I saw), that fine old faces
are rare.  There are multitudes of pretty girls; but the
faces of both sexes fall off deplorably as they advance in life;
which is not a good symptom.     Nor do the pretty faces,
while they last, appear to contain much depth, or sentiment,
or firmness of purpose. They seem made like their toys,
not to last, but to break up.
Fine faces in Italy are as abundant as cypresses.  However, in both countries, the inhabitants appeared to us amiable, as well as intelligent; and without disparagement to
the angel faces which you meet with in England, and some
of which are perhaps finer than any you see any where else,
I could not help thinking, that, as a race of females, the
countenances both of the French and Italian women announced more pleasantness and reasonableness of intercourse,
than those of my fair and serious countrywomen.       The
Frenchwoman looked as if she wished to please you at any
rate, and to be pleased herself.  She is too conscious; and
her coquetry is said, and I believe with truth, to promise
more, than an Englishman would easily find her to perform:
but at any rate she thinks of you somehow, and is smiling
and good-humored.   An Italian woman appears to think of
nothing, not even of herself. Existence seems enough for
her.  But she also is easy of intercourse, smiling when you
speak to her, and very unaffected.  Now, in simplicity of
character the Italian appears to me to have the advantage
of the English women, and in pleasantness of intercourse
both Italian and French.   When I came to England, after
a residence of four years abroad, I was grieved at the succession of fair sulky faces which I met in the streets of London.
They all appeared to come out of unhappy homes.         In
truth, our virtues, or our climate, or whatever it is, sit so
uneasily upon us, that it is surely worth while for our philosophy to inquire whether, in some points of moral and




CALAIS TO LONDON.                 235
political economy, we are not a little mistaken.  Gipsies
will hardly allow us to lay it to the climate.
It was a blessed moment, nevertheless, when we found
ourselves among those dear sulky faces, the countrywomen
of dearer ones, not sulky.  On the 12th of October, we set
out from Calais in the steam-boat, 'Which carried us rapidly
to London, energetically trembling all the way under us, as
if its burning body partook of the fervor of -our desire.  Here
(thought. we), in the neighborhood of London, we are; and
may we never be without our old fields again in this world,
or the old ccfamiliar faces" in this world or in the next.




CHAPTER XXIJT.


AT HOME TN ENGLAND.
llighgate and- Hampstead.-Italian and English ]ar~dscape.-Verses
to June.-Traveling domiciles.-The Parnaso Italiano.--Idealisms
familiarized.-The Arcadians of Italy.-Spenser, Milton, and other
cockney poets.-Graces and -anxieties of pig-driv-ing.-Exhausted
and befriended fortunes.-The Companion.-Sir Ralph Esher.Composition of verse.-A poem with a commentary.-Active molecules.-Inaudible utterance.-A poetical project
ON -returning to England, we lived a while at Highigate,
where I took possession of my old English scenery and my
favorite haunts, with a delight proportionate to the difference
of their beauty from  that of beautiful Italy.  For a true
lover Of nature-does not require the contrast of good and bad
in order to, be delighted; he is better pleased with harmonious variety.  He is content to wander from beauty to beauty,
not losing his love. for the one because he loves the other.
A variation on a fine. theme of music is better still than a
good song after a bad one.  It retains none of the bitterness
of fault-findingr.
I used, to think in Italy that 'I was tired of vines and
olives, and. the sharp outlines of things against indigo skies;
and so I was; but it was from old love, and not from neW'
hatred. I humored my dislike because I knew it was ill
fouild'd. I always loved the scenery at heart, as the
cousin-german of all other lovely scenery, especially of that
which delighted me in books.
But in Engliand I was. at home; and in English scenery
'I found my old friend "cpastoral"7 still more pastoral.  It
was like a breakfast of milk and cream -after yesterday's
wine. The word itself was more verified: for pastoral
comes from pasture; it implies cattle feeding, rather than
vines growing-, or even goats browsing on their tops; and




HIGHGATE AND HAMPSTEAD.


'37


here they were in plenty, very different from the stall-fed
and rarely seen cattle- of Tuscany.      The country around
was almost all pasture; and beloved Hampstead was near,
with home in its church-yard as well as in its meadows.
Again I wandered with transport through
" Each alley green,
And every bosky bourn from side to side,
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood."
Only for "bosky bourn" you must read the ponds in which
Shelley used to sail his boats, and very little brooks unknown
to all but the eyes of their lovers.    The walk across the
fields from Highgate to Hampstead, with ponds on one side,
and Caen Wood on the other, used to be (and I hope is still,
for I have not seen it for some years) one of the prettiest of
England.    Poets' (vulgarly called Millfield) Lane crossed
it on the side next Highgate, at the foot of a beautiful slope,
which in June was covered with daisies and buttercups;
and at the other end it descended charmingly into the Vale
of Health, out of which rose the highest ground in Hampstead.   It was in this spot, and in relation to it and about
this time (if I may quote my own verses in illustration of
what I felt), that I wrote some lines to "c Gipsy June,"
apostrophizing that brown and happy month on the delights
which   I found again in my native country, and on the
wrongs done him by the pretensions of the month of May.
"May, the jade, with her fresh cheek,
And the love the bards bespeak,
May, by coming first in-sight,
Half defrauds thee of thy right,
For her best is shared by thee
With a wealthier potency;
So that thou dost bring us in
A sort of May-time masculine,
Fit for action or for rest,
As the luxury seems the best,
Bearding now the morning breeze,
Or in love with paths of trees,
Or disposed, full length, to lie
With a hand-enshaded eye
On thy warm and golden slopes,
Basker in the butter-cups;




238


LIFE OF LEIGHI HUNT.


List'ning with nice distant ears
To the shepherd's clapping shears,
Or the next field's laughing play
In the. happy wars of hay,
While its perfume breathes all over,
Or the bean comes fine, or clover.
" 0 could I walk round the earth
With a heart to share my mirth,
With a look to love me ever,
Thoughtful much, but sullen never,
I could be content to see
June and no variety,
Loitering here, and living there,
With a book and frugal fare,
With a finer gipsy time,
And a cuckoo in the clime,
Work at morn, and mirth at noon,
And sleep beneath the sacred moon."
No offense, nevertheless, as John Buncle would have
said, to the " stationary domesticities."   For fancy, takes
old habits along with it in new shapes; domesticity itself
can travel; and I never desired any better heaven, in this
world or the next, than the old earth of my acquaintance
put in its finest condition, my own nature being improved,
of course, along with it.  I have often envied the household
wagon that one meets with in sequestered lanes-a cottage
on wheels-moving whithersoever it pleases, and halting for
as long a time as may suit it.     So, at least, one fancies;
ignoring all about parish objections, inconvenient neighborhoods, and want of harmony in the vehicle itself. The
pleasantest idea which I can conceive of this world, as far
as one's self and one's enjoyments are concerned, is to possess
some favorite home in one's native country, and then travel
over all the rest of the globe with those whom we love;
always being able to return, if we please; and ever meeting with new objects, as long as we choose to stay away.
And I suppose this is what the inhabitants of the world
will come to, when they have arrived at years of discretion,
and railroads will have hastened the maturity.*
*" There is a flock of pigeons at Maiano, which as they go careermg in and out among the olive-trees, look like the gentle spirits of the




IDEA LISMS FAMILIARIZED.


I seemed more at home in England, even with Arcadian
idealisms, than I had been in the land nearer their birthplace; for it was in England I first found them ini books,
and with England even my Italian books were more associated than with Italy itself.  When in prison, I had bought
the collection of poetry called *the Parnaso Italiano; a
work in fifty-six duodecimo volumes, adorned with vignettes.
The bookseller, by the way, charged me thirty pounds for
it; though I could have got it, had I been wise, for a third
part of the sum, albeit it was neatly bound.  But I thought
it cheap; and joyfully got rid of my thirty pounds for such
a southern treasure; which, I must own, has repaid me a
million times over, in the pleasure I have received from it.
In prison it was truly a lump of sunshine on my shelves;
and I have never since been without it.      I even took it
with me to its native land.
This book aided Spenser himself in filling my English
walks with visions of gods and nymphs-of enchantresses
and magicians; for the reader might be surprised to know
to what a literal extent such was the case.     I suspect I
had far more sights of " Proteus coming from the sea," than
Mr. Wordsworth himself; for he desired them      only in despair of getting any thing better out of the matter-of-fact
state of the world about him; whereas, the world had never
been able to 'deprive me, either of the best hopes for itself,
or of any kind of vision, sacred or profane, which I thought
suitable to heaven or earth: I saw fairies in every wood,
as I did the advent of a nobler Christianity in the churches;
and by the help of the beautiful universality which books
had taught me, I found those two classes of things not less
compatible than Chaucer and Boccaccio did, when they
talked of " Holy Ovid" and invoked the saints and the gods
in the same exordium. I found even a respectful corner in
Decameron again assembled in another shape. Alas! admire all this
as I may, and thankful as I am, I would quit it all for a walk over the
fields from Hampstead, to one or two houses I could mention. My
imagination can travel a good way; but, like the Tartar, it must
carry its tents along with it. New pleasures must have old warrants.
I can gain much; but I can afford to lose nothing."-Notes to " Bacchus in Tuscany," p. 174.




240


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


my imagination for those poetical grown children in Italy,
who (literally) played at "< Arcadians" in gardens made for
the purpose, an4 assumed names from imaginary farms in
old Greece. The " bays" upon poets' heads in old books
had prepared me when a boy, to like that image of literary
success.  I had myself played at it in dedications and household pastimes; and the names of Filicaia, Menzini, Guidi,
and other grave and classical Italian poets, who had joined
the masquerade in good faith, completed my willingness not
to disesteem it.
The meaning of all this is, that at the time of my life in
question, I know not in which I took more delight-the
actual fields and woods of my native country, the talk of
such things in books, or the belief which I entertained that
I should one day be joined in remembrance with those who
had talked it.  I used to stroll-about the meadows half the
day, with a book under my arm, generally a c" Parnaso" or
a Spenser, and wonder that I met nobody who seemed to
like the fields as I did.  The jests about Londoners and
cockneys did not affect me in the least, as far as my faith
was concerned.  They might as well have said that IIampstead was not beautiful, or Richmond lovely; or that Chaucer and Milton were cockneys when they went out of
London to lie on the.grass and look at the daisies.  The
Cockney school of poetryi is the most illustrious in England;
for, to say nothing of Pope and Gray, who were both veritable cockneys, "born within the sound of Bow Bell" Milton was so too; and Chaucer and Spenser were both natives
of the city.  Of the four greatest English poets, Shakspeare
only was not a Londoner.
But the charge of cockneyism frightened the booksellers.
I could never understand till this moment, what it was, for
instance, that made the editor of a magazine reject an article
which I wrote, with the mock-heroical title of The Graces
and Anxieties of Pig-Driving.   I used to think he found
something vulgar in the title.  He declared that it was
not he who rejected it, but the proprietor of the magazine.
The proprietor, on the other hand, declared that it was not
he who rejected it, but the editor.  I published it in a




SECRETS OF CRITICISM.


241


magazine of my own, and found it hailed as one of my best
pieces of writing.  But the subject was a man inducting a
pig into Smithfield through the intricacies of Cockney lanes
and alleys; and the names of Smithfield, and Barbican, and
Bell-alley, and Ducking Pond-row, were not to be ventured
in the teeth of my friends the Tories, under the signature
of the quondam  editor of the Examiner.   I subsequently
wrote a fictitious autobiography, of which I shall speak
presently, under the title of Sir Ralph Esher.   It was
republished the other day with my name to it for the first
time. The publisher in those days of Toryism and Tory
jesting would not venture to put it. I was at length irritated by misrepresentations on the subject of Lord Byron
to publish some autobiographical accounts of myself, and a
refutation of matters relating to his lordship; and to this
book, for obvious reasons, my name was suffered to be attached; but this only made matters worse; and it is inconceivable to what extent I suffered, in mind, body, and estate,
because the tide of affairs was against me, and because the
public (which is not the best trait in their character) are
inclined to believe whatever is said of a man by the prosperous.  I have since been lauded to the skies, on no other
account, for productions which at that period fell dead from
the press.  People have thought I wrote them yesterday;
and I have sometimes been at once'mystified and relieved,
to observe who the persons were that have so praised them,
and what they have omitted to notice for no better reason.
It is said, and I believe truly, that no man in the long run
can be written down, or up, except by himself; but it is
painful to think how much can be done to both purposes
in the mean time, and for those who deserve neither the
one nor the other.  A secret history of criticism, for some
twenty years at a time, with its favoritisms, its animosities,
and its hesitations, would make a very curious book; but
the subject would be so disagreeable, that it would require
almost as disagreeable a person to write it.
But adieu to records of this kind forever. It is not possible fobr many persons to have had greater friends than I have.
I am not aware that I have now a single enemy; and I
VOT.,




242


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


accept the fortunes which have occurred to me, bad and
good, with the same disposition to believe them the best
that could have happened, whether for the correction of
what was wrong in me, or the improvement of what was
right.
I struggled successfully with this state of things, as long
as their causes lasted.  It was not till Toryism began its
declension with the rise of Louis Philippe, and the small
stock of readers who never left me was increasing, that the
consequences of what I had battled with, forced me almost
to drop the pen for some years.  I had never lost cheerfulness of tone, for I had never ceased -to be cheerful in my
opinions.  I.had now reason to be more hopeful than ever;
but the wounds resulting from a long conflict, my old ignorance of business, and that very tendency to reap pleasure
from every object in creation, which at once reconciled me
to loss, retained me my few readers, and hindered me from
competing with the more prudential lessons of writers who
addressed the then state of society, conspired to set me at
the mercy of wants and creditors. The ailment from which
I suffered in Italy returned with double force; and I know
not what would have happened to me for some time, short
of what temperance and my opinions rendered impossible, if
friends, with a delicacy as well as generosity which I have
never been able to thank sufficiently to this day (for the
names of some with whom I was not conversant eluded my
gratitude), had not supplied the defects of fortune, and enabled me to smile retrospectively at editors who feared the
circles, and booksellers who stood in awe of reviews. Ought
I to blush for stating my obligations thus publicly?  I do,
if it be held fit that I should; for I am loth not to do what
is expected of me, even by a respectable prejudice, when it
is on the side of delicacy and self-respect.  But far more, I
conceive, should I have reason to blush, and upon those very
accounts, first, if I could not dare to distinguish between an
ordinary and an exceptional case; and secondly, and most
of all, if I could not subordinate a prejudice, however respectable, to the first principles of social esteem, and justify by
my gratitude the sympathies which my writings had excited.




THE "COMPANION" AND "SIR RALPH ESHER."          243
The little periodical work to which I have alluded-the
Companion-consisted partly of criticisms on theatres, authors, and public events, and partly of a series of essays in
the manner of the Indicator. Some of the latter have since
accompanied the republications of that work. They contained
some of what afterward turned out to be my most popular
writings. But I had no money to advertise the publication;
it did not address itself to any existing influence; and in
little more than half a year I was forced to bring it to a
conclusion.
The Companion was written at Highgate; but the opening of the court scenes in Sir Ralph Esher was suggested
by the locality of Epsom, to which place we had removed,
and which saw the termination of what it had commenced.
Those who are not acquainted with the work, may be
told that it is the fictitious autobiography of a gentleman of
the court of Charles the Second, including the adventures
of another, and notices of Cromwell, the Puritans, and the
Catholics.  It was given to the world anonymously, and,
notwithstanding my wishes to the contrary, as a novel; but
the publisher pleaded hard for the desirableness of so doing,
and as he was a good-natured man, and had liberally enabled
me to come from   Italy, I could not say nay.   It is not
destitute of adventure; and I took a world of pains to make
At true to the times which it pictured; but whatever interest
it may possess, is so entirely owing, I conceive, to a certain
reflecting exhibition of character, and to fac-simile imitations
of the courts of Charles and Cromwell, that I can never
present it to my mind in any other light than that of a
veritable set of memoirs.
The reader may judge of the circumstances under which
authors sometimes write, when I tell him that the publisher
had entered into no regular agreement respecting this work;
that he could decline receiving any more of it whenever it
might please him to do so; that I had nothing else at the
time to depend on for my family; that I was in very bad
health, never writing a page that did not put my nerves into
a state of excessive sensibility, starting at every sound; and
that whenever I sent my copy up to London for payment,




244


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


which I did every Saturday, I always expected, till I got a
good way into the work, that he would send me word he
had had enough.    I waxed and waned in spirits accordingly, as the weeks opened and terminated; now being
as full of them   as my hero, Sir Ralph, and now      as
much otherwise as his friend Sir Philip Herne; and these
two extremes of mirth and melancholy, and the analogous
thoughts which they fed, made a strange kind of harmony
with the characters themselves; which characters, by the
way, were wholly fictitious, and probably suggested by the
circumstance. Merry or melancholy, my nerves equally suffered by the tensity occasioned them in composition. I could
never (and I seldom ever could, or can) write a few hundred
words without a certain degree of emotion, which in a little
while suspends the breath, then produces a flushing in the
face, and, if persevered in, makes me wake up, when I have
finished, in a sort of surprise at the objects around me, and
a necessity of composing myself by patience and exercise.
When the health is at its worst, a dread is thus apt to be
produced at the idea of recommencing, and work is delayed,
only to aggravate the result.  I have often tried, and sometimes been forced to write only a very little while at a time,
and so escape the accumulation of excitement; but it is very
difficult to do this; for you forget the intention in the excitement itself; and when you call it to mind, you continue
writing, in the hope of concluding the task for the day.  A
few months ago, when I had occasion to look at Sir.alph
Esher again, after some lapse of time, I was not a little
pleased to find how glibly and at their ease the words
appeared to run on, as though I had suffered no more in
writing it than Sir Ralph himself. But thus it is with
authors who are in earnest.  The propriety of what they
are saying becomes a matter of as much nervous interest to
them as any other exciting cause; and I believe, that if a
writer of this kind were summoned away from his work to
be taken to the scaffold, he would not willingly leave his
last sentence in erroneous condition.
The reader may be surprised to hear, after these remarks,
that what I write with the greatest composure is verses.




DIFFICULTY OF SELF-CRITICISM.


245


He may smile, and say that he does not wonder, since the
more art the less nature, or the more artificiality the less
earnestness.  But it is not that; it is that I write verses
only when I most like to write; that I write them slowly,
with loving recurrence, and that the musical form is a perpetual solace and refreshment.  The earnestness is not the
less. In one respect it is greater, for it is more concentrated.
It is forced, by a sweet necessity, to say more things in less
compass.   But then the necessity is sweet. The mode, and
the sense of being able to meet its requirements, in however
comparative a degree, are more than a sustainment: they
are a charm. This is the reason why poetry, not of the
highest order, is sometimes found so acceptable. The author
feels so much happiness in his task, that he can not but
convey happiness to his reader.
I feel greatly perplexed in this work, when about to speak
of my writings.  The nature of it requires that I should do
so, and I find myself in a dilemma between readers to whom
they are known, and such as may hear of them without
knowing them.    To the former any account of them may
be superfluous, and passages more than unnecessary, besides
looking egotistical.  With the latter the case may be otherwise, yet it is hardly less puzzling. Perhaps the best way
will be to do what I think most authors would be glad of
an opportunity of doing, were they sure of a handsome construction of their motives, namely, give a brief occasional
extract, with remarks on the feelings under which it was
written, the objects it had in view, and the amount of artistic study which they may have brought to its treatment.
Young readers addicted to the like studies may, for obvious
reasons, not be sorry to hear such remarks; and an author's
most familiar readers, by very reason of their familiarity,
may give him   a more willing hearing than any.    I have
commented, in my time, on many a verse of my contemporaries. I will now do as much for one or two of my own.
The proceeding is not new in the poetical world. The
old Italian poets, with Dante at their head, set examples of
it; and, in truth, it is impossible not to wish that other
writers had done so, whether one's own proceeding be desira



246


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


ble or not.  What would I not have given at school for a
Gray and a Collins made double their size by the author's
elucidations of trains of thought, and the circumstances that
gave rise to them?  What fights among his commentators
might not Shakspeare's own comments have saved us? And
who would not have been glad of'elucidations from Spenser
respecting his Platonical mysticisms on the nature of man;
of divine gossip with him about his woods, and his solitudes,
and his nymphs, his oceans, and his heaven?
But I must quit the perilous neighborhood of those great
names.
A distinguished female novelist, in whose chapters I often
found myself quoted when my fortunes with the critics were
at their worst (which is one of the many instances of highmindedness given by her rare and cordial geniis), selected,
among others, one of the passages in the following lines.
Mrs. Gore believed them to be an effusion of actual enjoyment, called forth by the circumstances which they described;
and they were so. I was in one of my happiest Ralph Esher
moments. The publisher was propitious, and May had burst
forth in all its glory, after a bad season. I had just seen an
apple-tree in the garden filled with a swarm of bees; the
return of the blossoms suggested a new view of an old human
regret; and while I was in the act of enjoying it, a bee came
into the room as I have described, and put the thoughts into
my head with which the poem concludes.
LINES WRITTEN ON A BURST OF FINE WEATHER IN MAY.
"Reader! what soul that loves a verse, can see
The spring return, nor glow like you and me?
Hear the quick birds, and see the landscape fill,
Nor long to utter his harmonious will?
Comment. In the last edition of this poem, the epithet, I
see, which is applied to "will" is " melodious."  But I feel
convinced that in the manuscript it was such as I have here
given it. The allusion is not simply to musical harmony,
but to harmony with nature in general, and with the feeling
of the season.
The epithet "quick" is applied to birds, because if they




BIRDS AND BEES.


247


have any one prevailing characteristic above others, it is
that of suddenness and shortness in their movements.
" This more than ever leaps into the veins,
When spring has been delay'd by winds and rains,
And coming with a burst, comes like a shoW,
Blue all above,' and basking green below,
And all the people culling the sweet prime:
Then issues forth the bee to clutch the thyme,
And the bee poet rushes into rhyme.
That is to say, as the bee himself rushes into the flower.
And every body knows with what fervor the bee does it,
and how he clutches the thyme, I will not say with his legs,
for a bee's legs are as much arms as legs; members with
which he assists himself in doing a world of fine workpoetizing in wax and honey.
The phrase "( bee poet" is not taken from Plato, though
the philosopher has likened the poet to the bee; adding, that
he is " a light, a winged, and a sacred thing."    The bee
himself suggested the image, more particularly in reference
to the season; for no two things are more simultaneously
to be reckoned upon, than the bee issuing forth to the
spring flowers, and the poet doing the same, either in body
or soul.
The triplet at the end of this passage flows out of a certain
analogous inability to stop shorter, owing to the earnestness
and accumulating force of the impulse.
Note, also, for a like reason, and from the sense of oneness
or general impression in the midst of variety, the tendency
to alliteration:
"And coming with a burst, comes with a show,
Blue all above, and basking green below:
Then issues forth the bee to clutch the thyme,,
And the bee poet rushes into rhyme.
"For lo! no sooner has the cold withdrawn,
Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn:
There stood one before my window on a green, bright (so to
speak) as an emerald, with its full new foliage and the cloud
less sunshine.
"The merry sap has run up in the bowers,
And burst the windows of the buds in flowers:




248


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


That is to say, as people in-doors run up-stairs upon holidays,
to look out of window at some fine sight, and show theii
happy faces to their friends.
"With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er,
The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door,
And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive,
Burn with the golden chorus of the hive.
I had just seen the apple-tree beforementioned, full of a
swarm of bees, and literally seeming to burn with them,
both in sight and sound. There was a look of black and
burnished gold, thronging and fermenting throughout the
mass of sunny white blossom.
"Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze,
Is but one joy express'd a thousand ways;
And honey from the flowers, and songs from birds,
Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words.
With this overflowing, the long Alexandrine verse is intended to correspond.
As to the sentiment-the unity and identity of the joy
-the meaning applied is to be taken literally.     For nature
produces her wonderful variety from a few compounds, which
the more they are analyzed, turn out to have identical elements; and as all the senses are reducible to the sense of
touch, so it is not improbable that all feelings which excite
analogous ideas, not excepting moral feelings, have some
identity in their nature, and all other analogous results some
identity in their cause; birds uttering their songs from the
same impulse by which poets sing, and even the physical
sense of sweetness imparted by honey not being without a
corresponding sameness in the sweetness of moral perception.
Flowers themselves are great and living mysteries, built up
of apparently animated molecules, which seem to issue forth
in other compound forms at the top or climax of the flower,
the blossom; after which. they give birth to new ones, and
depart.:
* See, in the National Cyclopcedia, an account of the extraordinary
mystery, familiarly known among botanists under the name of "Brown's
dance." But I will lay it before the reader.
" Active molecules, in plants, are extremely minute, apparently




A HUMAN ORCHARD


249


"A Ah, friends! methinks it were a pleasant sphere,
If, like the trees, we blossom'd every year;
If locks grew thick again, and rosy dyes
Return'd in cheeks, and raciness in eyes,
And all around us, vital to the tips,
The human orchard laugh'd with cherry lips.
" Raciness" in eyes-to keep up the analogy with the garden; raciness being the first fresh, unadulterated quality of
any production, derivable through      its root from   its first
principles.
For "vitality    to the tips," observe the carnation      at
the end of healthy fingers (the " rosy-fingered" hands in
poetry), and the viscous and glistening buds at the tips
of some boughs in spring; those, for instance, of the horsechestnut.
The vowels in the above passage have been toned with
as great a variety as possible, in order to increase the sense
of vitality and will
spherical, moving particles, found in all vegetable matter when rubbed
in pieces and examined under very powerful microscopes. In size
they vary from the o-y  to -1  of an inch in diameter, and are only
to be detected with lenses capable of magnifying at least 300 diameters. Viewed under favorable circumstances, immersed in water,
and with transmitted light, they are seen to have a rapid motion of
an oscillating nature, so that a minute drop of fluid in which they
swim, seems to be, as it were, alive. In the pollen of plants they
are extremely numerous, and perfectly distinct from each other, so
that a grain of pollen crushed in water is one of the best subjects for
the observer to select; he will there find the active molecules mixed
with oblong or cylindrical particles of a larger size, and equally in
motion; the latter are the spermatic giranules, by the agency of which
the fertilization of plants probably takes place. To find the active
molecules in other parts of plants, it is necessary that they should be
crushed and rubbed in water till it becomes greenish; a drop of
colored fluid will be found to contain vast numbers of these molecules
moving about with great rapidity, and exhibiting every appearance
of animal life. Curious as these circumstances undoubtedly are, it is
still rimore singular that the movements of the molecules do not cease
with the life of a plant; on the contrary, they have been witnessed
by Dr. Brown even in the fossilized remains of vegetables, and may
be readily seen, by coloring water with the dead vegetable matter
called gamboge, when the molecules are instantly set at liberty, and
commence their motions."




250


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


" Lord, what a burst of merriment and play,
Fair dames, were that! and what a first of May
So natural is the wish, that bards gone by,
Have left it all in some immortal sigh.
A sigh seems one of the most evanescent of all things, and
yet the poet sighs, and we hear it forever.
g" And yet the winter months were not so well.
Who would like changing, as the seasons fell?
Fade every year? and stare, midst ghastly friends,
With falling hairs, and stuck-out fingers' ends?
That is to say, we are better as we are, with our simultaneous diversities of young and old, of dying and maturing,
and being born, than if we were all to be young-and young
only at one and the same time-and'then old and all dying,
without, perhaps, even knowing that we were to be renewed.
At preseni we hope for immortality when old, and have at the
same time the pleasure of seeing youth and health existing.
" Besides, this tale of youth that comes again,
Is no more true of apple-trees, than men,
The Swedish sage, the Newton of the flowers,*
Who first found out those worlds of paramours,
Tells us, that every blossom that we see
Holds in its walls a separate family;
So that a tree is but a sort of stand,
That holds those filial fairies in its hand;
Just as Swift's giant might have held a bevy
Of Lilliputian ladies, or a levee.
It is not he that blooms: it is his race,
Who honor his old arms, and hide his rugged face.
Naturalists are now agreed on this point.      The tree itself
can never be said to be renewed. After a certain growth,
it keeps regularly decaying, whatever new blossoms it may
put forth.   It is a father who continues to have children,
but has no childhood renewed of his own
" Ye wits and bards, then, pray discern your duty,
And learn the lastingness of human beauty:
A new lesson, I conceive, and one for which we have yet to
be sufficiently thankful.
* Linnaus.




LASTINGNESS OF BEAUTY.


251


" Your finest fruit to sbme two months may reach:
I've known a cheek at forty like a peach.
Brantome, speaking of Diana of Poitiers, says c"at fifty;"
nay, "at sixty."   And it is possible to conceive it, knowing
how long some persons have lived, and what a healthy and
easy life Diana seems to have led. At all events, the peach
will not do to compare with the cheek.      The cheek shall
see down forty good generations of peaches, besides living
and blooming during all their long intervals between their
autumns.
'But see! the weather calls me. Here's a bee
Comes bounding in my room imperiously;
And, talking to himself, hastily burns
About mine ear, and so in heat returns.
A literal description of the bee beforementioned, who came
as if to call me forth, and seemed very angry and remonstrative at my not obeying him on the instant.
" O little brethren of the fervid soul,
(the bees to-wit)
"Kissers of flowers, lords of the golden bowl,
I follow to your fields and tufted brooks:
Those were the three lines quoted by Mrs. Gore.
"Winter's the time to which the poet looks
For hiving his sweet thoughts, and making honeyed books."
Yes; if he can afford the time, and resist the pleasure
meanwhile, and has any great task to contemplate when
he sits down to work.      Otherwise, though he may well
pass his days in the fields during summer, and be content
with collecting food for his winter ruminations, it is difficult
not to feed a little as he goes-not to taste the honey which
he is collecting.
There are some other small poems of mine, which I would
willingly have collected into a volume by themselves, and
commented on in this manner, both for the pleasure of
dilating upon their topics, and for the sake of such readers
as are given to the like kind of reflection.    They might
have regarded it as a sort of conversation with them




252


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


Among others are the poem      entitled Our Cottage, the
Fish, the Man, and the Spirit, the Reflections of a Dead
Body, the Song of the Flowers, an effusion on Christmas,
an Ode to the Sun, and a few smaller pieces which have
not been published.   I would fain have shown, that some
of the poems which appear the lightest, were written with
intentions the gravest; those of the gravest appearance,
with tendencies the most cheerful; and all, indeed, with a
purpose to that end, which I believe to be Nature's own,
and to be the secret which she most wishes to see developed.
Among other advantages, comments of this kind would
sometimes give an author the opportunity of making explanations where he has been misconceived.
It has been thought, for instance, a blunder to speak of
inaudible utterances; utterances that, in the popular acceptation of the word, utter nothing; have no words.    It
is used in that sense in the opening of one of the- poems before mentioned, the Song of the Flowers.
"We are the sweet flowers,
Born of sunny showers;
~hink when'eer you see us, what our beauty saith;
Utterance mute and bright
Of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath.
All who see us, love us;
We befit all places;
Unto sorrows we give smiles, and unto graces, graces."
But the simple meaning of "c utterance" is outer-ance-putting out or forth; as "< utter darkness" is " outer darkness;"
and " utterance," in law, means publication of words or
exhibition of wares.  Thus flowers utter their beauty and
their fragrance, as much as birds utter their songs.
"Utterance mute and bright,
Of some unknown delight."
The delight is unknown; that is to say, we do not know
its cause, or even its nature-.the cause why its beauty and
its fragrance delight us.  This we do not behold; it does
not come out to us: but the flower does; the flower is
uttered; it is put forth by that mysterious cause; and the
mystery adds to the delight by increasing our wonder.




A POETICAL PROPOSAL.


253


Let me observe with regard to the line,
"All who see us, love us."
that flowers seem to be unique in attracting universal affection.  Many persons do not care for music or painting.
They think pictures daubs, and call music and singing,
strumming and squalling.   Mr. Forsythe, a traveler in Italy
(of all places!), and a very clever traveler too, ranks music
with perfumery.    But who ever speaks ill of flowers?
"We befit all places."
This, too, seems predicable of flowers only, if color be excepted; and color itself is a thing floral.  Flowers are alike
suitable in palaces and in huts, in the richest and the
barrenest places; in prisons, in cemeteries, in theatres, in
churches, in shops, in'offices, in markets, in courts of law,
on the lady's bosom, and in the button-hole of the veriest
blackguard.   Yes; for it shows that even he is not insensible to the beautiful.
"Unto sorrows we give smiles-and unto graces, graces."
When I wrote this poem, I fancied myself (so to speak)
writing also the music to it in the flow of the verses, in the
different placing of the accents, and in the toning of the
vowels. Hence the andante, or onward-going movement,
neither too quick nor too slow, to express something between
enthusiasm  and calmness.   Hence in this stanza tle monotonous sound of the proposition in the first line on the
words we and sweet; the contrast to it in the three different vowels of the second line; the accents, in the third, on
the words think, beauty, and saith; the same diversity in
the succeeding lines; and the repetition of the word graces
at the close.
The last verse is made one verse instead of two, in order
to preserve a feeling of the continuous, and send off the
cadence flowingly.
I have sometimes thought of venturing a novelty in
metrical composition, of which this stanza, perhaps, might
serve as a specimen.  The reader will conclude it to be no




254


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


very bold one.   Perhaps it is none at all, except in name.
The poets of other countries might be found to have done it
already, if we knew the principles onri which some of their
smaller effusions are grounded; such, for instance, as the
Italian madrigal, of which I never could disco'er the system.   The Rondeau is certainly one, thtdugh of a limited
kind.   It has a regular ritornello; and,'` indeed, it originated in words adapted to musical compositions of the same
name.    The design which I propose is to take up some one
thought or feeling, render it as new anrid as variously musical
as possible in the construction, and call it, by reason of that
intention, an Air or Melody; that is to say, a strain at
once brief and complete, analogous to the air in vocal music,
or to whatever else it may be called in instrumental. The
sonnet might be thought a poem of this kind; but it is too
long.. The poetry of all "songs" ought also, perhaps, to be
understood as belonging to the class; but the case is certainly not so.  The musical part of the intention is too often
left entirely to the musician.   Therie are, however, many
samples of it, whether intended or otherwise, in the lyrics
of Beaumont and Fletcher; and poetry abounds with them
in detached passages, thus completing the analogy with musical composition; airs of the, loveliest invention being of
frequent occurrence in the instrumental works of Mozart and
Beethoven.* A fancy or feeling occasionally crosses a poet's
mind, which, by reason of its lightness, or even of its depth
and voluminousness, he does not feel inclined to enlarge
upon. He loves it, however, and is disposed to dwell on it,
for its own sufficing sake.   It is a pity to lose it: why
should he not do it justice, and make the most of it?  Now
I think he could not do this better than by treating it in
the way proposed.    Suppose Mr. Browning, or Mr. Home,
or Tennyson, were to set it going. They are all emphaticS" Dans les opera P'on donne le nom d'airs a tous les chants mesures pour les distinguer du recitatif; et ge6nralement on appelle air
tout morceau complet de musique vocale ou instrumentale formant un
chant, soit que ce morceau fasse lui seul une piece entiere, soit qu'on
puisse le detacher du tout dont il fait partie, et 'executer separement."
-RoUssEEAU, DicbVonnaire de Musique.




NATURE'S LOVE OF COLOR.


255


ally musical poets; two of them players on instruments.
Or, suppose it to be done by some of the young poets now
coming up, such as Edmund Ollier, Mr. Sutton, or Mr.
Sydney Yendys.
To return a little to this poem: as flowers are universally
beloved, so color itself ought to be, for there is nothing more
universal in nature, or what she seems to love better herself.
I am sure that in this country of England we do not half
enough value it. We seem to think it incumbent on us to
grow dull, as the weather grows dull; though we can light
up the darkness fast enough, if business demand it. Nature
assuredly sets us no such example of insensibility. Hers is
any thing in general but a "drab-colored creation," whatever
our sulkiness may choose to think it in this English corner
of ours.
"See, and scorn all duller
Taste, how heav'n loves color,
How great Nature, clearly, j6ys in red and green;
What sweet thoughts she thinks
Of violets and pinks,
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen:
(That is to say, by us.  I know not what their other uses
may be; perhaps to temper light and shade to insects.)
" See her whitest lilies
Chill the silver showers,
And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of the flowers.
White lilies and silver showers are what the heralds call
'< color upon color," which is a thing they do not love, though
they ought upon occasion. I have seen a picture by Titian,
all yellow-and sunshine; and a divine picture it was.    In
this case as in others, " the same is not the same," but a
subtle difference and a harmony.   Besides, you may keep up
the sameness, in order to give greater zest to some difference
ensuing, as in the case of these lilies and roses.
As to the " thoughts" of Nature; if we are asked how
we know she thinks them, it is to be answered, By the same
rule we know the thoughts of men.       She " utters" them.
But you will say, " not in words."  No, truly; but in what




256


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


is far more palpable than words; in things themselves-solid
utterances, of which words are only invisible symbols. But
she thinks, also, pains and troubles! Yes, and so do the
kindest of men, and for the kindest purposes.  Let us, therefore, believe that Nature thinks them to the like end.
Meantime, here, at all events, are these profuse and beautiful thoughts of Nature, called "( flowers;" and if gladness of
aspect augurs in her what it does in us, with what delight
she utters them!
In another passage, of this poem, the beautiful mystery is
recurred to, which has been noticed at page 248.    The bee
and the butterfly are first mentioned, and then the phenomenon in question, as it may be seen in the corolla of the " poorest weed," as well as in that of the rose and lily,
" And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
That thief, the honey-maker,
What a house hath he by the thymy glen!
In his talking rooms
How the feasting fumes
(The inside of the bee-hive is very hot)
"Till his gold cups overflow, to the mouths of men
The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours,
And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.
"See those tops, how beauteous!
What fair service duteous
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine?
(Like the Muses round Apollo)
"Elfin court 'twould seem;
And taught perchance that dream,
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine.
(Mount Helicon or Parnassus.     The " dream is the one
that has just been mentioned-the Muses round Apollo,)
"To expound such wonder
Human speech avails not;
Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not."
" Weeds of glorious feature," as Spenser calls them.  For
there are no weeds in poetry, any more than in Nature's re



NATURE'S GERMS TENDER AND TOUCHING.           '257
spect for her works. What the gardener calls a weed, is
a wonder, built by those fairy-like things, the "cactive molecules," with as much elaboration as pinks and roses, and inhabited by the beautiful, perhaps by the loving, most likely by
innocent and happy creations of some kind, however perishing
-perishing, let us believe, softly, as accords with innocence.
One more passage from this Song of the Flowers, for the
sake of a reflection that has often struck me, when I have
been looking at hardness of any kind-mo.ral hardness not
excepted-and thinking how soft and tender may have been
its origin, and what sweetness may be lurking somewhere in
its core
"Trees themselves are ours;
Fruits- are born of flowers
Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the spring:
The lusty bee knows well
The news, and comes pell-mell,
And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome anthemingr."
This was another allusi on to my friend the apple-tree,
which I saw swarming with bees in our Epsom garden" A thing of beauty is a joy forever."
That apple-tree is always standing in a corner of the memory, to go to wherever I choose, and behold its white m-ass
of blossom, saturated with the dark and golden bees, all
buzzing and beatified. A nut was once a blossom.i. A
cocoa-nut was once a tender bud., not to be touched perhaps
without injury, and containing a quintessence of curious life.
Nature's first germs are always tender and touching. You
can not think of them with too reverent a gladness, nor too.
highly of what must ultimately result from all the grace
and beauty with which she thinks it worth her while to fill
her progressing planets.




CHAPTER XXIV.


LITERARY PROJECTS.
The Tatler.-Chat of the Week.-M. Van de Weyer.-The Gentle
Armor.-The True Sun.--Lamian Blanchard.-Residence in Chelsea.-Thomas Carlyle.-The London Journal.-The Seer.-Egerton Webbe.-His Parodies of Martial.-Captain Sword and Captain
Pen.-Paganini.-Monthly Repository.-Blue-Stocking Revels.Lady Blessington.
WE left Epsom to return to tne neighborhood of London,
which was ever the natural abiding place of men of letters,
till railroads enlarged their bounds. We found a house in
a sequestered corner of Old Brompton, and a landlord in the
person of my friend Charles Knight, with whom an intercourse commenced, which I believe has been a pleasure on
both sides.  I am sure it has been a good to myself.  If I
had not a reverence of a peculiar sort for the inevitable past,
I could wish that I had begun writing for Mr. Knight immediately, instead of attempting to set up another periodical
work of my own, without either means to promulgate it, or
health to render the failure of little consequence.  I speak
of a literary and theatrical paper called the Tatler.  It was
a very little work, consisting but of four folio pages; but it
was a daily publication: I did it all myself, except when
too ill; and illness seldom hindered me either from supplying the review of a book, going every night to the play, or
writing the notice of the play the same night at the printing-office. The consequence was, that the work, slight as
it looked, nearly killed me-; for it never prospered beyond
the coterie of play-going readers, to whom it was almost exclusively known; and I was sensible of becoming weaker
and poorer every day. When I came home at night, often




M. VAN DE WEYER.


259


at morning, I used to feel as if I could hardly speak; and
for a year and a. half afterward, a certain grain of fatigue
seemed to pervade my limbs, which I thought would never
go off.  Such, nevertheless, is a habit of mind, if it be but
cultivated, that my spirits never seemed better, nor did
I ever write theatricals so well, as in the pages of this most
unremunerating speculation.
I had attempted, just before, to set up a little work called
Chat of the Week; which was to talk, without scandal, of
any thing worth public notice. The Government put a
stop to this speculation by insisting that it should have a
stamp; which I could not afford. I was very angry, and
tilted against governments, and aristocracies, and kings, and
princes in general; always excepting King William, for
whom I had regard as a reformer, and Louis Phillipe, whom
I fancied to be a philosopher.  I also got.out of patience
with my old antagonists the Tories, to whom I resolved to
give as good as they brought;- and I did so, and stopped
every new assailant.  A daily paper, however small, is a
weapon that gives an immense advantage; you can make
your attacks in it so often.  However, I always ceased as
soon as my antagonists did.
In a year or two after the cessation of the Tatler, my
collected verses were published by subscription (not of
course, solicited); and as a re-action by this time had taken
place in favor of political and other progress, and the honest
portion of its opponents had not been unwilling to discover the
honesty of those with whom they differed, a very handsome
list of subscribers appeared in the Times newspaper, comprising names of all shades of opinion, some of my sharpest
personal antagonists not excepted.  It was by mere accident
that the list was omitted in the volume.  I was gratified
to hear that the first person who went and put down his
name at the bookseller's, was the present Belgian embassador, M. Van de Weyer.   I fancied that I saw in this proceeding the combined manifestation of a willing personal
reader and a corroborator of the good-will entertained toward me by the illustrious house which he served.  For,
in my desire to be loyal whenever I could, I had written




260


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


some verses on the death of the Princess Charlotte, not
without expressions due to the merits of the Prince her
husband; and it was only from a doubt of their being worthy of the subject, that they were not republished in the
volume. I had the honor, not a long time ago, of making
his Excellency's acquaintance; and I found in him precisely
the sort of man which the promptitude of his subscription,
and, to say the truth, his regard for my writings, had made
me suppose him; frank, cordial, out-spoken, a lover of books
and of his species, a worthy representative of one of the
most reasonable of kings. M. Van de Weyer speaks English like a native; and, among other evidences of his regard for our country, he possesses what it has often surprised
me has never yet been embodied in England, after the
fashion of our cc British Poets"; namely, a collection of the
writings of our moral philosophers. An embassador is
qualified indeed to maintain the good understanding of nations, when he comes among them with credentials like
these.
In this edition of my Poetical Works is to be found the
only printed copy of a poem, the title of which (The Gentle
Armor) has been a puzzle for guessers.   It originated in
curious notions of delicacy.  The poem  is founded on one
of the French fabliaux, entitled Les Trois Chevaliers et la
Chemise.   It is the story of a knight, who, to free himself
from an imputation of cowardice, fights against three other
knights in no stouter armor than a lady's garment thus indicated.  The late Mr. Way, who first introduced the story
to the British public, and who was as respectable and conventional a gentleman, I believe, in every point of view, as
could be desired, had no hesitation, some years ago, in rendering the French title of the poem by its (then) corresponding
English words, The Three Knights and the Smock; but so
rapid are the changes that take place in people's notions of
what is decorous, that not only has the word "smock" (of
which it was impossible to see the indelicacy, till people were
determined to find it) been displaced since that time by the
word "shift," but even that harmless expression for the act
of changing one garment for another, has been set aside in




THE " GENTLE ARMOR."


261


favor of the French word " chemise;" and at length not even
this word, it seems, is to be mentioned, nor the garment itself
alluded to, by any decent writer!  Such, at least, appears
to have been the dictum of some customer, or customers, of
the bookseller who published the poem. The title was altered
to please these gentlemen; and in a subsequent edition of the
Works, the poem itself was withdrawn from their virgin eyes.
The terrible original title was the Battle of the Shift;
and a more truly delicate story, I will venture to affirm,
never was written. Charles Lamb thought the new title
unworthy of its refinement,," because it seemed ashamed of
the right one."  He preferred the honest old word.  But
this was the author of Rosamond Gray.    The author of
Broad Grins, when he became dramatic licenser would
have ousted the word in terror. An old rake may be allowed to have different notions of such things from a harmless man of letters; but are readers in general, especially
those who are purest, to be supposed liable to the assbciations of ideas that degrade and stultify the minds of old
rakes?  Must nothing be accepted as pure, that has not
passed through the muddy alembic of an imagination " on
town?" of minds victimized by double entendres, and that
must see in every thing, or in nothing, whatever their monomania bids them  see?   I do not mean to say, that the
interferers in this instance were old rakes.  I know. not
who they were. Probably the rakes had frightened them.
But I say that such alarms are unworthy of participation
by the right-minded; and that such imputed delicacies, such
effeminate and gross misgivings, tend to lower and to enfeeble
a masculine literature.
I will quote the close of this poem, in order to show the
spirit in which it was written. The heroine had been led
to believe that her lover was a coward; he has an opportunity of showing her that he is none, and writes to her,
entreating for some little token of good-will, which he may
wear on the occasion-some ribbon, or glove, or other sign
of favor and encouragement, usually accorded by ladies to
their knights.  She sends him in contempt a shift.  Her
opinion is, that the only garment befitting him is a woman's,




262


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


not a man's.    The aggrieved, yet rejoicing lover fights, as
beforementioned; conquers in the most glorious, but exhausting manner, being nearly killed in the achievement; and
the lady, when he is cured and marries her, makes her unexpected appearance at the altar in the remorseful shift,
that had been cut up into tatters.
"What need I say? a loitering cure is his,
But full of sweets, and precious memories,
And whispers, laden from the land of bliss.
Sir Hugo with the lark has left-his bed;
'Tis June-tis lovers' month-in short, they wed.
But how? like other people you suppose,
In silks and state, as all good story goes.
The bridegroom did, and never look'd so well,
Not e'en when in the shift he fought pell-mell:
But the fair bride, instead of things that bless
Wedding-day eyes, displayed a marvelous dress
Marvelous, and homely, and in open sight;
The people were so moved, they wept outright.
For lo! with hair let loose about her ears,
And taper in her hand, the fair appears,
And naked feet, a rosy saint at shrift,
And round her bosom hangs the ruddy shift:
Tattered it hangs, all cut and carved to rags;
Not fairer droop, when the great organ drags
Its thunders forth, a church's hundred flags.
With glimmering tears she hastens to his feet,
And kneels, and kisses, in the public street;
Then takes his hand, and ere she will arise,
Entreats her pardon at his gracious eyes;
And hopes he will not scorn her love for life
As his most humble and most honor'd wife.
Awhile her lord, with manly deference, stood
Wrapt in the. sweetness of that angel mood;
Then stoop'd, and on her brow his soul impress'd;
And at the altar thus the bride was dress'd."
It has been said, and said truly, that there is no accounting for the imaginations of some people. But writers are
not to be supposed to address themselves to people of unaccountable imaginations. They look for their readers among
people of sense and feeling.
We had found that the clay soil of St. John's Wood did
not agree with us.    Or, perhaps, it was only the melancholy
state of our fortune: for the New Road, to which we again




THE " TRUE SUN."


263


returned, agreed with us as little.   It was there that I
thought I should have died, in consequence of the long fatigue which succeeded the working of the Tatler.
While in this quarter I received an invitation to write
in the new evening paper, called The True Sun.       I did
so; but nothing of what I wrote has survived, I believe;
nor can I meet with the paper any where, to ascertain.
Perhaps an essay or two originated in its pages, to which
I can not trace it.  I was obliged for some time to. be carried every morning to the True Sun office in a hackneycoach.   I there became intimate with Laman Blarichard,
whose death, not long ago, was such a grief and astonishment to his friends.   They had associated any thing but
such end, with his witty, joyous, loving, and beloved nature.
But the watch was over-wound, and it ran suddenly down.
What bright eyes he had! and what a kindly smile! How
happy he looked when he thought you were happy; or when
he was admiring somebody; or relating some happy story!
If suicide, bad as it often is, and full of recklessness and
resentment, had not been rescued from indiscriminate opprobrium, Laman Blanchard alone should have rescued it. I
never think of him without feeling additional scorn for the
hell of the scorner Dante; who has put all suicides into his
truly infernal regions, both those who were unjust to others,
and those who were unjust only to themselves.*Let me think of Mr. G., the proprietor of the True Sun,
whom calamities beset in vain. He seemed as if he could
not say nay to the most provoking of them, out of pure disinclination to the utterance of that monosyllable.  G. was
one of the most gentlemanly of men, with a countenance as
dulcet as it was handsome, and a tone of voice to match.
Fierce articles would appear in his columns, and he thought
he admired them.    He even fancied himself the bitter enemy of a brother journalist, whom he supposed to be his own.
But it was not in his nature to hate any body, or to dislike
any thing but the trouble of disliking it.  He was so anxious
* See the speech of the good Piero delle Vigne, who was driven
to kill himself by the envy of those that hated him for his fidelity to
his master.--Inferno, canto xiii.




264


LIFE )F LEIGH HUNT.


to be just in his censures, that he would choose the mildest
term possible for the most reprobate objects; while, on the
other hand, he wished to express himself in terms so exalted,
where exaltation was due, that he would fall into the most
curious depths of inapplicability, out of the pure meeting of
the extremes.   Thus, objecting one day to some speculations
respecting the Deity, which he conceived to be wanting in
due intensity of reverence (though assuredly nothing of the
sort was in the minds of the speakers), he said, that he,,must really beg leave to doubt, whether the turn which
the conversation had taken, was proceeding in a manner
quite accordant with the feelings which ought always to be
shown toward that-that-that-(laboring as he went, with
anxiety to find the proper word)-that-individual."
From the noise and dust of the New Road, my family
removed to a corner in Chelsea, where the air of the neighboring river was so refreshing, and the quiet of the " nothoroughfare" so full of repose, that although our fortunes
were at their worst, and my health almost of a piece with
them, I felt for some weeks as if I could sit still forever,
embalmed in the silence. I got to like the very cries in the
street, for making me the more aware of it for the'contrast.
I fancied they.were unlike the cries in other quarters of the
suburbs, and that they retained something of the old quaintness and melodiousness which procured them the reputation
of having been composed by Purcell and others. Nor is this
unlikely, when it is considered how fond those masters were
of sporting with their art, and setting the most trivial words
to music in their glees and catches.  The primitive cries of
cowslips, primroses, and hot cross-buns seemed never to have
quitted this sequestered region.  They were like daisies in
a bit of surviving field. There was an old seller of fish, in
particular, whose cry of " shrimps as large as prawns," was
such a regular, long-drawn, and truly pleasing melody, that
in spite of his hoarse, and I am afraid, drunken voice, I used
to wish for it of an evening, and hail it when it came.  It
lasted for some years; then faded, and went out; I suppose,
with the poor old weather-beaten fellow's existence.
This sense of quiet and repose may have been increased




REMOTENESS IN NEARNESS.


265


by an early association of Chelsea with something out of the
pale; nay, remote. It may seem strange to hear a man
who has crossed the Alps talk of one suburb as being remote
from another.  But the sense of distance is not in space
only; it is in difference and discontinuance. A little back
room in a street in London is farther removed from the noise,
than a front-room in a country town.  In childhood4 the
farthest local point which I reached any where, provided it
was quiet, always seemed to me a sort of end of the world;
and I remembered particularly feeling this, the only time
when I had previously visited Chelsea, which was at that
period of life.  So the green rails of the gardens in Paddington seemed as remote as if they were a thousand miles off
They represented all green rails and all gardens, at whatever
distance.  I have a lively recollection, when a little boy, of
having been with my mother one day walking out by Mile
End, where there was a mound covering the remains of
people who had died in the Plague. The weather had been
rainy; and there was a heavy mud in the road, rich with
the color of.brown (I suppose Mr. West had put his thought
in my head of finding color in mud.  Whoever it was, he
did me a great deal of good). I remember to the present
day looking at this rich mud color and admiring it, and seeing
the great broad wheels of some wagons go through it, and
thinking awfully of the mound, and the plague, and the dead
people; always feeling at the same time the delight of being
abroad with my mother, with whom I could have walked
through any peril, to say nothing of so many strange satisfactions.  Now, this region also looked the remotest in the
world.  Even the name of "( Mile End" had to do with the
impression; for it seemed to be, not the end of one mile, but
of many; the end of miles in general; of all miles.  Measurement itself terminated at that spot.  What there was beyond it, I did not conjecture.
I know not whether the corner I speak of remains as
quiet as it was. I am afraid not; for steam-boats have carried vicissitude into Chelsea, and Belgravia threatens it with
her mighty advent.   But to complete my sense of repose
and distance, the house was of that old old-fashioned sort
VOL. IT.--M




266


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


which I have always loved best, familiar to the eyes of my
parents, and associated with childhood. It had seats in the
windows, a small third room on the first floor, of which I
made a sanctum, into which no perturbation was to enter,
except to calm itself with religious and cheerful thoughts (a
room thus appropriated in a house appears to me an excellent
thing); and there were a few lime-trees in front, which in
their due season diffused a fragrance.
In this house we remained seven years; in the course of
which, besides contributing some articles to the Edinburgh
and Westminster Reviews, and producing a good deal of the
book since called The Town, I set up the London Journal,
endeavored to continue the Monthly Repository, and wrote
the poem entitled Captain Sword and Captain Pen, the
Legend of Florence, and three other plays which are yet
unpublished. Here, also, I became acquainted with Thomas
Carlyle, one of the kindest and best, as well as most eloquent
of men; though in his zeal for what is best he sometimes
thinks it incumbent on him to take not the kindest tone, and
in his eloquent demands of some hearty uncompromising creed
on our parts, he does not quite set the example of telling us
the amount of his own.  Mr. Carlyle sees that there is a
good deal of rough work in the operations of nature: he
seems to think himself bound to consider a good deal of it
devilish, after the old Covenanter fashion, in order that he
may find something angelical in giving it the proper quantity
of vituperation and blows; and he calls upon us to prove
our energies and our benevolence by acting the part of the
wind rather than the sun, of warring rather than peacemaking, of frightening and forcing rather than conciliating
and persuading. Others regard this view of the one thing
needful, however strikingly set forth, as an old and obsolete
story, fit only to be finally done with, and not worth the repetition of the old series of reactions, even for the sake of those
analogies with the physical economy of the world, which, in
the impulse which nature herself gives us toward progression,
we are not bound to suppose everlastingly applicable to its
moral and spiritual development.  If mankind are destined
never to arrive at years of discretion, the admonition is




DANGER OF THE HABIT OF FAULT-FINDING.            267
equally well-founded and unnecessary; for the old strife will
be continued, at all events, the admonition (at best) being a
part of them. And even then, I should say that the world
is still a fine, rich, strenuous, beautiful, and desirable thing,
always excepting the poverty that starves, and one or two
other evils which on no account must we consent to suppose
irremediable.  But if the case be otherwise, if the hopes
which nature herself has put into our hearts be something
better than incitements to hopeless action, merely for the
action's sake, and this beautiful planet be destined to work
itself into such a condition as we feel to be the only fit condition for that beauty, then, I say, with every possible respect for my admirable friend, who can -never speak but he is
worth hearing, that the tale which he condescends to tell
is no better than our old nursery figment of the Black M-an
and the Coal-hole, and that the growing desire of mankind
for the cessation of bitterness, and for the prevalence of the
sweets of gentleness and persuasion, is an evidence that the
time has arrived for dropping the thorns and husks of the
old sourness and austerity, and showing ourselves worthy
of "c the goods the gods provide us."
Mr. Carlyle's antipathy to ", shams" is highly estimable
and salutary. I wish heaven may prosper his denouncements of them, wherever they ekist.   But the danger of the
habit of denouncing-of looking at things from the antipathetic instead of the sympathetic side-is, that a man gets
such a love for the pleasure and exultation of fault-finding,
as tempts him, in spite of himself, to make what he finds;
till at length he is himself charged with being a "i sham;"
that is to say, a pretender to perceptions and virtues which
he does not prove, or at best a willing confounder of what
differs from modes and appearances of his own, with violations of intrinsical wisdom and goodness. Upon this principle of judgment, nature herself and the universe might be
found fault with; and the sun and the stars denounced for
appearing no bigger than they do, or for not confining the
measure of their operation to that of the taper we read by.
Mr. Carlyle adopted a peculiar semi-German style, from
the desire of putting thoughts on his paper instead of words,




268


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


and perhaps of saving himself some trouble in the process.
I feel certain that he does it from no other motive; and I
am sure he has a right to help himself to every diminution
of trouble, seeing how many thoughts and feelings he undergoes.  He also strikes an additional blow with the peculiarity, rouses men's attention by it, and helps his rare and
powerful understanding to produce double its effect.   It
would be hard not to dispense with a few verbs and nominative cases, in consideration of so great a result.  Yet, if
we were to judge him by one of his own summary processes,
and deny him the benefit of his notions of what is expedient
and advisable, how could he exculpate this style, in which
he denounces so many " shams," of being itself a sham? of
being affected, unnecessary, and ostentatious? a jargon got
up to confound pretension with performance, and reproduce
endless German talk under the guise of novelty?
Thus much in behalf of us dulcet signors of philanthropy,
and conceders of good intention, whom Mr. Carlyle is always
girding at, and who beg leave to say that they have not
confined their lives to words, any more than the utterers of
words more potential, but have had their," actions" too, and
their sufferings, and even their thoughts, and have seen the
faces of the gods of wonder and melancholy; albeit they end
with believing them to be phantoms (however useful) of bad
health, and think nothing finally potential but gentleness
and persuasion.
It has been well said, that love money as people may,
there is generally something which they love better; some
whim, or hobby-horse; some enjoyment or recreation; some
personal, or political, or poetical predilection; some good
opinion of this or that class of men; some club of one's fellows, or dictum of one's own; with a thousand other some's
and probabilities. I believe that what Mr. Carlyle loves
better than his fault-finding, with all its eloquence, is the
face of any human creature that looks suffering, and loving,
and sincere; and I believe further, that if the fellow-creature were suffering only, and neither loving nor sincere, but
had come to a pass of agony in this life, which put him at
the mercies of some good man for some last help and conso



CARLYLE'S PARAMOUNT HUMANITY.


269


lation toward his grave, even at the risk of loss to repute,
and a sure amount of pain and vexation, that man, if the
groan reached him in its forlornness, would be Thomas
Carlyle.
The London Journal was a miscellany of essays, criticism, and passages from books. Toward the close, it was
joined by the Printing Machine, but the note which it had
struck was of too Eesthetical a nature for cheap readers in
those days: and after attaining the size of a goodly folio
double volume, it terminated.  I have since had the pleasure
of seeing the major part of the essays renew their life, and
become accepted by the public, in a companion volume to
the Indicator, entitled the Seer.   But the reputation, as
usual, was too late for the profit.  Neither the Seer nor
the Indicator are mine.      The Seer does not mean a
prophet, or one gifted with second sight, but an observer of
ordinary things about him, gifted by his admiration of nature with the power of discerning what every body else may
discern by a cultivation of the like secret of satisfaction.  I
have been also pleased to see that the London Journal
maintains a good, steady price with my old friends, the
bookstalls.  It is in request, I understand, as a book for seavoyages; and assuredly its large, triple columned, eight
hundred pages, full of cheerful ethics, of reviews, anecdotes,
legends, table-talk, and romances of real life, make a reasonable sort of library for a voyage, and must look pleasant
enough, lying among the bulky things upon deck.        The
Romances of Real Life were, themselves, collected into a
separate volume.   They contain the best things out of the
Lounger's Common-Place Book, and other curious publica
tions, with the addition of comments by the editor.  These
romances are as little my property as the books of essays
just mentioned: but I venture to think that they are worth
recommending for their own sakes, and that the comments
contain some of my best reflections.
Alas! whither am    I going, thus talking about myself?
But I must finish what I have got so far with.
Among the contributors to the London Journal was a
young friend, who, had he lived, would have been a very




270


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


distinguished man.  I allude to Egerton Webbe, a name
well known in private circles of wit and scholarship. He
was a wit of the first water, a scholar writing elegant Latin
verse, a writer of the best English style, having philological
reason for every word he uttered-a reasoner, a humorist; a
politician, a cosmopolite, a good friend, brother, and son;
and to add a new variety to all this, he inherited from his
grandfather, the celebrated glee-composer, a genius for musical composition, which in his person took a higher and
wider range, being equally adapted for pathos and comedy.
He wrote a most humorous farce, both words and music;
and he was the author of a strain of instrumental music in the
funeral scene of the Legend of Florence, which was taken
by accomplished ears for a dirge of some Italian master.
Unfortunately, like Beethoven, he was deaf; but so delightful was his conversation, that I was glad to strain my
voice for it the whole evening to such an extent, that, on
his departure, my head would run round with the dizziness,
and I could not go to sleep.
Had he lived, he would have enriched a family too good
and trusting for the ordinary course of the world.  He died;
and their hopes and their elder lives, went with him, till
they all meet somewhere again.   Dear Egerton Webbe!
How astonished E. H. was to see him come into his house
with his fair and blooming face, after reading essays and
metaphysics, which he took for those of some accomplished
old gentleman.
I would not do my friend's memory such disservice as to
give the following jeux d'esprit by way of opinion of his
powers. They are samples only of his pastime and trifling.
But I fear, that such entertainment as my book may contain, has been growing less and less; and I put them in,
that he may still do for me what he has done before-give
my jaded spirits a lift.
Scholarly readers know Martial well enough; and therefore they know, that in pouring forth any thing which came
into his head, bad and good, he is sometimes bad indeed.
He realizes his own jest about the would-be slyfellow, who,
in order not to be thought poor, pretended a voluntary ap



WEBBE AND MARTIAL,


271


pearance of poverty.  Martial, on these occasions, utters his
nothings, with an air as if they were something on that
very account; as if they possessed a merit which stood in no
need of display.  Such are the c" epigrams" which my friend
bantered in the London Journal with the following exquisite
imitations.  He has not even forgotten (as the Journal observed) the solemn turn of the heads of the epigrams " Concerning Flavius"-On the Same--< To Antonius concerning Lepidus," &c, "( nor the ingenious art with which Martial contrives to have a reason asked him, for what he is
bent on explaining."   The banters, it is true, "have this
drawback; that being good jokes upon bad ones, they can not
possibly convey the same impression;" but the reader is
willing to guess it through the wit.
" CONCERNING JONES
Jones eats his lettuces undress'd;
D' you ask the reason? 'Tis confess'd,
That is the way Jones likes them best.
To SITH, CONCERNING THOMSON.
Smith, Thomson puts no claret on his board;
D'you ask the reason?  Thomson can't afford.
To GIBBS, CONCERNING IIIS POEMS.
You ask me if I think your poems good;
If I could praise your poems, Gibbs-I would.
CONCERNING THE SAME.
Gibbs says, his poems, a sensation make
But Gibbs, perhaps, is under a mistake.
To THOMSON, CONCERNING DIXON AND JACKSON.
How Dixon can with Jackson bear
You ask me, Thomson to declare;
Thomson, Dickson's Jackson's heir."
Were ever three patronymics jumbled so together! or
with'such a delightful importance?   It is like the jingling
of the money in Jackson's pocket.
How   strange to sit laughing at my fireside over these
epigrams, while he that wrote them, instead of coming to
drink tea with me, is...




272


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


But we are all bound somewhere together, as the sun and
the planets are bound in one direction toward another part
of the heavens; and the intervals between the departures
of the dead and the living are very small.
The London Journal was followed by the production of
Captain Sword and Captain Pen; a poem which, poem
though it was, and one which gave me a sense of my advance in imaginative culture, and consequent power of expression, nothing but a sense of duty could have enabled me
to persist in writing.  I have implied this before; but I
will now state, for reasons which may be of service, that I
was several times forced to quit my task by accesses of
wonder and horror so overwhelming, as to make me burst
out in perspirations (a thing very difficult in me to produce), and that nothing but the physical relief thus afforded
me, the early mother-taught lesson of subjecting the one to
the many, and perhaps the habit of thinking the. best in
worst, and believing that every thing would, somehow or
other, come right at last, could have given me courage
enough to face the subject again.
I remember three passages in particular, which tried me
to a degree almost unbearable. One was that in which the
shriek of the horse is noticed; another the description of the
bridegroom lying by the ditch, sabred, and calling for water;
and the third, the close of the fourth canto, where the horriblest thing occurs, that maddens a taken city. Men of
action are too apt to think that an author, and especially
a poet, dares and undergoes nothing as he peacefully sits by
his fireside "c indulging his muse." But the muse is sometimes an awful divinity.   With truest devotion, and with
dreadful necessity for patience, followed by what it prayed
for, were the last three lines of that canto written.*  Not
that the trusting belief, for which I owe an unceasing debt
of gratitude to my parents, failed me then or ever; but all
the horror of wonder (and in such visitations wonder is a
very horrible thing), passed over me with its black burden;
* "Oh God! let me breathe, and look up at thy sky.
Good is as hundreds, evil as one:
Round about goeth the golden sun."




TRIALS OF THE MIND IN WRITING.


273


and I looked back on it, as one might look upon the passage
of some tremendous spirit, whose beneficence, though you
still believed in it, had taken that astounding shape.  Firmly
do I believe, that all such sufferings, and far worse, those
under the very imagination of which they suffer-are for the
very best and happiest ends, whatever may be the darkness
which they cast on one as they go.
It was in that persuasion, as well as from need of relief,
and for the due variation of my theme, that I intermingled
these frightful scenes with passages of military gayety, of
festive enjoyment, and even of pleasantry; such as the description of the soldier's march, of the entertainments given to
Captain Sword, and of the various dances in the ball-room:
"The country-dance, small of taste;
And the waltz, that loveth the lady's waist;
And the gallopade, strange agreeable tramp,
Made of a scrape, a hobble, and stamp" &c.
Gibbon said, that his having been a captain of militia was
of use to him in writing his great work.  With due feelings
of subordination to the captain I can say, that my having
been a private in a regiment of volunteers was of use to me
in performing this painful duty.
"Steady! steady!-the masses of men
Wheel, and fall in, and wheel again,
Softly as circles drawn with pen."
I had been a part of the movement, and felt how soft and
orderly it was.
"Now for the flint, and the cartridge bite;
Darkly gathers the breath of the fight,
Salt to the palate, and stinging to sight."
Many a cartridge had I bitten, and thus learned the salt to
that dreadful dinner.
It was about this time that I projected a poem of a very
different sort, which was to be called A   Day with the
Reader.   I proposed to invite, the reader to breakfast, dine,
and sup with me, partly at home, and partly at a country
inn, in order to vary the circumstances.   It was to be
M*




274


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


written both gravely and gayly, in an exalted or in a lowly
strain, according to the topics of which it treated.   The
fragment on Paganini was a part of the exordium:
" So play'd of late to every passing thought
With finest change (might I but half as well
So write!) the pale magician of the bow," &c.
I wished to write in the same manner, because Paganini,
with his violin, could move both the tears and the laughter
of his audience, and (as I have described him doing in the
verses) would now give you the notes of birds in trees, and
even hens feeding in a farm-yard (which was a corner into
which I meant to take my companion), and now melt you
into grief and pity, or mystify you with witchcraft, or put
you into a state of lofty triumph like a conqueror.   That
phrase of " smiting" the chords,
" He smote;-and clinging to the serious chords
With godlike ravishment." &c.
was no classical commonplace; nor, in respect to impression
on the mind, was it exaggeration to say, that from a single
chord he would fetch out
i The voice of quires, and weight
Of the built organ."
Paganini, the first time I saw and heard him, and the
first moment he struck a note, seemed literally to strike it;
to give it a blow. The house was so crammed, that, being
among the squeezers in "standing room" at the side of the
pit, I happened to catch the first sight of his face through
the arm a-kimbo of a man who was perched up before me,
which made a kind of frame for it; and there, on the stage,
in that frame, as through a perspective glass, were the face,
bust, and raised hand of the wonderful musician, with his
instrument at his chin, just going to commence, and looking
exactly as I have described him.
"His hand,
Loading the air with dumb expectancy,
Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath.




VA~GANINIT.. 2 7


He smote;-and clinging to the serious chords
With godlike ravishment, drew forth a breath,So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love,Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers,
That Juno yearn'd with no diviner soul
To the first burthen of the lips of Jove.
The exceeding mystery of the loveliness
Sadden'd delight; and with his mournful look,
Dreary and gaunt,. hanging his pallid face
'Twixt his dark i flowing locks, he almost seem'd,
To feeble. or ltd" melancholy eyes,
One that had parted with his soul for pride,
And in the sable secret liv'd forlorn."
To show th e depth and identicalness of the impression- which
he made on every body, foreign or native, an Italian who stoodl
near me, said to himself, after a sigh, "cOh Dio!" and this had
not been said long, when another person,. in the same 'manner,
uttered the words, "cOh Christ!" Music~ians pressed forward,
from behind. the scenes, to get as close to him as possible;
and they could not sleep at night for thinking of him.
I have mentioned the.Minthly'Reposi~tory. It was originally a magazine in the Unitarian interest, and contained admirable papers by the present member for Oldham, Mr. John
Mill, and others; but it appeared, so to speak, in one of the
least though most respectable corners of influence, -and never
obtained the repu 'te it deserved.  Nor, if such writers as these
failed to counteract the drawback, could it be expected that
others would help it better. The author of Orion made the.attempt in vain; and so did the last of its editors, the present
writer, though Landor assisted him. In this publication, like
better things before it, was sunk. "cBlue Stocking Revels, or
the Feast. of the Violets"a-a kind of female Feast of the
Poets, which nobody took any notice of; though I had the
pleasure. of hearing, that a venerable living poet said it would.have been sufficient "cto set up half a dozen young men about
town in a reputation for wit and fancy."_
As- Apollo in the Feast of the Poets gave a dinner to
those gentlemen, in Blue-Stocking Revels he gives a ball
and.supper to literary ladies. The guests were so numerous
as to call forth a pleasant remark from Lord Holland, who,s




276


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


in a letter in which he acknowledged the receipt of the
poem, said, that "( the inspector of blue ankles under Phcebus" had, he perceived, " no sinecure."   I believe the fair
guests were not dissatisfied with their entertainment.   It
was thought by somebody, that objection was intended to
Mrs. Somerville, because it was said of her, that
SInstead of the little Loves, laughing at colleges,
Round her, in doctors' caps, flew little Knowledges."
But I did not mean to imply, either that the lady's knowledge was little, or that she was not a very amiable person.
It was only a commonplace jest in a new shape.     Perhaps
it ought to have been followed by a recommendation to look
into the faces of the " little Knowledges;" who are apt to
have more love in them, than people suspect.
A bookseller objected to publishing this poem on a very
different account..He thought that Lady Blessington would
take offense at the mention of her " shoulders," and at being
called a "( Venus grown fat."
"'Lady Blessington!' cried the glad usher aloud,
As she swam through the doorway, like moon from a cloud.
I know not which most her face beam'd with-fine creature!
Enjoyment, or judgment, or wit, or good nature.
Perhaps you have known what it is to feel longings
To pat buxom shoulders at routs and such throngings;
Well-think what it was, at a vision like that!
A Grace after dinner!-a Venus grown fat!"
It would be strange if any lady, grown stout, would object
to being thought a Venus notwithstanding: and it would be
still stranger, if after having her face lauded for so many
fine qualities, she should object to having her shoulderg'admired. Lady Blessington, at all events, had too much understanding to make such a mistake; and, though I had not the
honor of her acquaintance, I had good reason to know that
she took the passage in any thing but an offensive light.
Let me take this opportunity of saying that her ladyship's account of Lord Byron is by far the best and most sensible
I am acquainted with. Her writings indeed, throughout,
are remarkable for a judgment as well as kindness for which
many would not give credit to an envied beauty,




CHAPTER XXV.


PLAY-WRITING. -C ON C LUSION.
Difficulty of meeting the literary requirements of times and editors.Play-writing and present condition of the stage.-Actors out of their
place as managers.-Reason why their profession is not more esteemed.
-Delusions practiced by them respecting the " Shakspearian," the
"legitimate," and the "national" drama.-Only remedy for such
abuses.-The Legend of Florence, and four other dramas by the
Author.-Lord Melbourne and the Author's pension.-Ideas associated in the latter's mind with the Queen.-Amateur acting.Removal to Kensington.-Author's latest productions and daily habits.-Question of the Laureateship.-Political and religious opinions.
POEMS of the kind just mentioned were great solaces to
care; but the care was great notwithstanding.       I felt age
coming on me, and difficulties not lessened by failing projects:
nor was I able, had I been ever so inclined, to render my
faculties profitable " in the market."   It is easy to say to a
man, Write such and such a thing, and it is sure to sell.
Watch the public taste, and act accordingly.      Care not for
original composition; for inventions or theories of your own;
for iesthetics, which the many will be slow to apprehend.
Stick to the works of others.   Write only in magazines and
reviews. Or if you must write things of your dwn, compile.
Tell anecdotes.    Reproduce histories and biographies.     Do
any'thing but write to the few, and you may get rich.
There is a great deal of truth in all this.     But a man
can only do what he can, or as others will let him.       Suppose he has a conscience that will not suffer him to reproduce
the works of other people, or even to speak what he thinks
commonplace enough to have become common property.
Suppose this conscience will not allow him to accommodate
himself to the opinion of editors and reviewers.       Suppose
the editors and reviewers themselves will not encourage him
to write on the subjects he understands best, perhaps do not




278


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


understand the subjects themselves; or, at best, play with
him, and delay him, and keep him only as a resource when
their own circle fails them. Suppose he has had to work
his way up through animosities, political and religious, and
through such clouds of adversity, as,. even when they have
passed away, leave a chill of misfortune round his repute,
and make,c prosperity" slow to encourage him.   Suppose,
in addition to all this, he is in bad health, and of fluctuating,
as well as peculiar powers ' of a temperament easily solaced
in mind, and as easily drowsed in body; quick to enjoy every
object in creation, every thing in nature and in art, every
sight, every sound, every book, picture, and flower, and at
the same time really qualified to do nothing, but either to
preach the enjoyment of those objects in modes derived from
his own particular nature and breeding, or to suffer with
mingled cheerfulness and poverty the consequences of advocating some theory on the side of human progress.   Great
may sometimes be the misery of that man under the necessity
of requesting forbearance or undergoing obligation; and terrible will be his doubts, whether some of his friends may not
think he had better have had a conscience less nice, or an
activity less at the mercy of his physique.   He will be
forced to seek his consolotion in what can be the only final
consolation of any one who needs a charitable construction;
namely, that he has given what he would receive.
I did not -understand markets; I could not command
editors and reviewers; I therefore obeyed a propensity which
had never forsaken me, and wrote a play.     Plays are delightful things to write, and tempting things in the contemplation of their profits.  They seem to combine the agreeable
and the advantageous beyond any other mode of recruiting
an author's finances.
"c Little knows he of Calista."  No man, I believe at
least in England, ever delivered himself from difficulties by
writing plays. He may live by the stage as actor, or as
manager, or as author of all work; that is to say, as one
who writes entirely for the actors, and who takes every
advantage of times and seasons, and the inventions of other
men.   But if his heroes are real heroes, and not Jones; or




THE " LEGEND OF FLORENCE."


279


real heroines, and not Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Thomson; in
other words, if he thinks only of nature while he draws
them, and not of the wishes and self-loves of the reigning
performers, the latter will have nothing to say to him. He
must either concoct his plays under their direction, and for
their sole personal display (for in other respects the advice.
of the actor is desirable), or he must wait for the appearance
of some manager who is at once literary and independent,
and no actor himself; and that is a thing which does not
occur, perhaps, twice in a century.
But I anticipate.  I wrote the Legend of Florence; and
though it was rejected at one theatre, I had reason to congratulate myself on its* fortune at another.  Not that it did
for me what I was told it might have done, had I let the
husband retain his wife, or had less money perhaps been
laid out in its "getting up;" but it produced me two hundred
pounds, which was a great refreshment to my sorry purse;
it gave me exquisite pleasure in the writing; it received
the approbation of the entire weekly and monthly press (at
least I believe so, and I am sure Christopher North graced
it with a whole article), and lastly, it received crown upon
crown in the presence, twice over (a rare movement in
royalty), of her Majesty and Prince Albert, the former of
whom was pleased to express her satisfaction with it to the
manager, and the latter to a great statesman, who was so
kind as to let me know it.
I owe the performance of this play, first to a late excellent
actress and woman, Mrs. Orger, whom I had the pleasure
of knowing, and who obtained it a hearing from Mr. and
Mrs. Matthews (Madame Vestris); secondly, to the zealous
interest taken in it by those two cordial persons; and lastly,
to the talents and sympathy of Miss Ellen Tree (Mrs. Kean),
the tears down whose glowing cheeks encouraged me while
it was read, and who has since told me that she regarded
my heroine as her best performance.
I have since written four more dramatic pieces of which
the public know nothing; one, a blank verse play in five
acts; another, also blank verse, in three acts; the third, a
mixed piece of verse and prose, in two acts; and the fourth,




280


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


a farce or petty comedy, also in two acts.  In one of these
pieces, Mrs. Kean has taken voluntary and repeated interest;
of another, she has spoken in the highest terms; a third is in
the hands of Mrs. Mowatt, whose good-will to it was rendered
of no avail, by the closing of the theatre which she graced;
and the fourth has been nearly two years in the hands of an
applauding manager. Taking the pieces altogether, I have
been nine years attempting in vain to get them acted.
How is this to be explained, "( errors excepted;" that is
to say, mistakes of an author's self-love apart?  I think I
can explain it, and I will do so.
Actors are a pleasant generation, especially comic actors.
They are, for the most part, fond of their profession, intelligent, good-natured, humorous, full of sport and play, jealous
of, yet generous to their companions, and liberal in their
opinions, though with a leaning, for obvious reasons, to power
and patronage.  Instinctive and just indulgence is shown
them  by society on the score of morals, in consequence of
cheir liability to temptation; and it is one of the evidences
of advanced opinion, and creditable to the aristocracy, that
marriages from the stage with nobility and gentry have been
more handsomely treated within the last fifty years, than
before the French Revolution.
On the other hand, the leaning of actors toward power
and patronage, is sometimes apt to degenerate into servility,
and sometimes into double dealing; the courtesy waxing and
waning, in proportion to the wealth or supposed influence of
its object. They are seldom well bred; have often (very
excusably, considering the personal applause they receive) too
much vanity and self-importance, particularly tragic actors,
who deal in solemn words; and notwithstanding their better
treatment by society, the profession in general have this great
drawback, both in their own instinctive estimation, and that
of the public-that the footing on which the best of them
stand with society, is never very sure or comfortable; the
most respectable, even when men of genius, seldom being
admitted into the first circles in private, and never in public;
and the humblest being considered as no better than vagabonds and buffoons.




ACTORS AND THE DRAMA.


281


The reason of this is, not as people suppose, the buffoonery
itself, or the want of morals; for Garrick could play the
buffoon for his great friends, and plenty of immorality is received every where.   It lies in an instinctive, though unconscious understanding on all sides, that a talent for the stage
is not the rare or great thing which it is supposed to be,
but that it abounds undeveloped in all quarters of society.
And such is the fact.    Children have it.   Schoolboys exhibit it. Amateurs often manifest it to an amount which
only requires cultivation to render it superior to any thing
on the boards.   " Totus mundus agit histrionem."
" All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players."
A born genius, like Garrick or Edmund Kean, would be a
rarity always; but there is reason to believe, that even
' stars" like those would multiply under the inspector's tube:
and as to any thing less brilliant, with the exception of the
very greatest comedians, who are also born geniuses in their
way, and have original personal humors, they might be
manufactured by thousands out of the nebule of the ordinary
capabilities which lie crowded every where. The most respectable performers, out of the pale of genius, are in general
not to be compared with men of ordinary critical perception
or scholarly acquirement; and they are almost entirely made
up of theatrical training, and of what has been said and
done before them.
As the dramatist, however, can be read all the world
over for nothing, while the actor who personates his characters, and who, perhaps, does nothing but imposingly misrepresent them, can not even be seen under a shilling, often
for not less than four of five shillings, actors get rich while
dramatists remain poor: and the consequence is, that, forgetting what the circles never forget, and what they themselves may have read in histories of balancers of straws and
professors of legerdemain, they confound riches with merit,
assume the dictatorship in the admission and rejection of
plays, and even undertake to patronize Shakspeare, and to
uphold the " legitimate" and i national" dramas.       Such




282


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT


men of letters as condescend to serve to this delusion, or
who serve to. it without feeling the condescension, know not,
in either case, what they are doing, and how much they
injure others and themselves.
Actors know little, and generally care nothing, about the
drama, legitimate or illegitimate. Their only one object in
life, with the exception of a few enjoying spirits among them
(and they plentifully partake it), is to keep themselves, as
they phrase it, " before the lamps;" that is to say, in the
eyes of the audience, and in the receipt of personal applause.
The feeling is very natural and pardonable, for the reason
already given. The community get a great deal of good
and entertainment by it; the actor gets money, and fame
besides, after its sort, for want of a better; and no harm
would ensue to any body, if the interests of the drama were
not cunningly confounded in the public mind with the
ascendency of the green-room.
There never was a greater delusion than what has been
practiced upon the public of late years, in connection with
the fine-sounding phrases, " Shakspearian," " legitimate,"
and " national" dramas. When an actor tells you that he
loves Shakspeare, and that he will see justice done to his
wonderful dramas, he means that he is in love with himself,
and intends to monopolize all the principal characters.
When he talks of the " legitimate" drama, he means that
he will perform as many old plays as.possible, in order to
avoid paying for new ones; and when actors moaned and
roared the other day over the downfall that was coming to
the,"national" drama, because more French actors proposed to amuse us, going even to the foot of the throne "i in
forma pazuperis," and saying that the bread would be
taken out of their mouths, they meant, that they should
not monopolize the French drama itself in translations, and
grow rich at the expense of the national dramatists.  The
throne which had too many graver matters on its hands to
have considered the question, listened with its usual gracious
good-nature to the poor flourishing players, who had thus
dressed themselves in their pauper garb for the occasion,
and the doors of the very court were thrown open to them,




ACTORS AND AUTHORS.


283


as though they could not find a barn into which to put
their heads; so they went home to their suppers rejoicing,
and next day, perhaps, insulted one of the writers of the
drama which they pretended to be upholding.    With far
better reason, could dramatists have thought it became them
in the eyes of their royal mistress, might they have requested
her majesty to look into the conduct and real condition of
these her "servants" the actors, and signify her pleasure
that they should cease to combine censorship with acting,
and a monopoly of the stage exchequer to all but the few
of their own profession, with mockery to the national dramatist.
Accusation is not here intended against every one who was
a party to this preposterous movement.  Some of them had
really done what they could for the drama, till they found
that the French drama cost them less; others laughed at
the movement themselves; but none of them were sincere,
except in their fright. They were like children who had
got a cake to themselves which did not belong to them, and
then were enraged with the naughty Frenchman from whose
shop they had stolen it, and who only proposed to them to
let him partake.
Actors, of course, reply to authors, that authors can lie
under delusions as well as other men, and that their productions are not to be held suitable to the stage merely
because they think so. Nothing can be more true.    The
point is to be conceded in candor, and would be conceded
with pleasure, if it had not always been taken and acted
upon with every kind of assumption.  But the truism does
not alter that assumption, or make it less ridiculous.  The
other day an actor talked of being beset by " maniac"
authors; and he was at the very instant straining himself
to pull a house over his head after the usual legitimate
fashion; which he did.   Every other actor, of course, pronounced him a simpleton; and would have done it himself
next day; perhaps had done it, in metropolis or barn:
The whole stage, for many years past, has been " stage"
and little else, even when Shakspeare himself has seemed to
be most attended to.  Should authors have the luck to have




284


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


a play accepted, which is neither a farce nor from the
French, they are told that they would be paid better if
their piece did not take'so much in the " getting up;" that
is to say, in setting off the actors and the scenery.  Shakspeare himself must have his visions realized, though it is
impossible to do so; and spectacles, full of gorgeous error,
are substituted for appeals to the imagination, in order that
the manager may be complimented as showman, and the
imagination of dramatists in future limited to the powers of
his scene-painters and machinists; for how would Shakspeare have ventured upon his witches that vanish, or his
spirits that ",live under the blossom," and ride upon the
bat, if he had written for actors who swallowed up his
money in the invention of machinery to misrepresent those
creatures, and of landscapes, which, however charming, are
other men's pictures and not his poetry?  But this is the
least of the abuses; and the author himself, perhaps, is too
much pleased at the moment in finding his productions so
adorned; especially as money is never the first thing in his.mind, and he flatters himself that the poetry and the passion
must needs be attended to, for which so much appears to be
done.  Dramatists as well as actors, no doubt, have their
delusions, nor, deluded or. otherwise, would they change
places with those flourishing repeaters of their words, any
more than the performer would change places with the
scene-shifter. But it is a long while since truth has been
told in these matters, and it is high time that it should
speak.
The stage will never be in proper condition till actors
cease to be censors of plays; till the receipts of the theatre
are taken out of their hands, to be divided more equably
with their industrious brethren by a manager who is not an
actor; and till the manager himself be a man who combines
love of the drama with reading, with scholarship, and with
true critical discernment.  Reading he must have, in order
to know what has been written before; scholarship, in order
to judge even the verbal requisites of style; and true critical
discernment, in order to estimate the different claims and
feasibilities of the pieces offered him.  Or granting that




QUALIFICATIONS OF A MANAGER.


285


scholarship may be dispensed with,, the rest is absolutely
necessary.  Such a man would distribute their parts to the
respective performers without waiting for their egotistical
judgments.   He would proportion salaries to merits, and
not to vanities; he would, consequently, afford to bring out
new pieces, as well as old, and theatres would again flourish,
because they were conducted on the principles of equity and
common sense.
A manager confessed the other day, that he would never
bring out a new piece, if he could help it, as long as he could
make money enough by old ones.      He laughed at every
idea of a management but a commercial one; and held at
naught the public wish for novelty, provided he could get as
many persons to come to his theatre as would fill it. Being
asked why he brought out any thing new, when such were
his opinions, he complained, that people connected with the
press forced the compositions of themselves and their friends
upon him; and being asked what he meant by i" forced," he
replied, that the press would make a dead set at his theatre
if he acted otherwise, and so ruin him.  I know not, it is
true, how far a manager might not rather have invited than
feared a dramatist of so long a standing, and of such great
popularity as Douglas Jerrold; but it is to be doubted
whether even Douglas Jerrold, with all his popularity, and
all his wit to boot, would have found the doors of a theatre
opened to him with so much facility, had he not been a
journalist, and one of the leaders in Punch.
The press, indeed, have not been guiltless in respect to
the present state of the drama.  Its criticism for many years
past, as far as I am aware, has not been independent, and
at all events it has been light and careless.  It has been
made a matter either of personal intercourse, or of mere
facility for play-going and command of orders; things 4" all
very well," as the phrase is, both for critics and actors, as
long as the former are jovial, good-natured men, who never
think of the consequences in other respects, or who can not
discern them; but extremely pernicious to the final interests
of all parties connected with the drama, not excepting those
whom they at once enrich and spoil; for their worst faults




286


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


of pride and temper are flattered into excess; they are made
conscious parties to a delusion; and their prosperity is rendered at best uneasy.
As to the dramatist, he, if he is worthy of the name, does
not desire to be rich.  Riches are neither necessary to his
self-esteem, nor do they lie in the direction of his ambition.
He only wishes to be relieved from the alternative of being
no dramatist at all, in the sense of one who writes for the
stage; or of continuing to be at the mercy of those, his stage
organs, who without him are nothing.
The propensity to dramatic writing has been strong in me
from  boyhood.   I began to indulge it before my youthful
criticisms on the theatres.  Theatres gave me an insight
into plot and conduct, and I continued to write plays in
private till repeated failures, in my own critical judgment,
forced me to conclude I must be mistaken in supposing that
I had any call for it.  The propensity, however, came again
with great fervor upon me, when I was moved to write the
Legend of Florence. I wrote the play in six weeks, in a
state of delightful absorption, notwithstanding the nature of
the story, and of the cares which beset me; and it succeeded
only to make me fail in a new way; that is to say, in
vainly trying to get four other successive pieces performed.
Those pieces are called The Secret MIIarriage, which is the
play I have mentioned as being in blank verse and five acts;
Lovers' Amazements, the blank verse play in three acts;
The Double, the piece of mixed prose and verse in two; and
Look to your Morals, the prose afterpiece, or petty comedy.
The Secret Marriage is the story of a Prince of Navarre,
whose marriage with a lady not of blood royal is resented by
an envious nobility.  It is founded on the celebrated history
of Ines de Castro, of which, indeed, I first intended it to
consist; but in these effeminate days of the drama, I found
that its tragical termination would not be endured.     At
least the. actors told me so.  I said, that I had not intended
to crown her dead body (which was what her husband actually did, forcing the nobles who assassinated her to attend
the ceremony), my design was to crown her coffin; which
is done in the Secret Marriage; though matters in that




PLAYS IN MS. BY THE AUTHOR.


287


play, in deference to modern requirement, are still brought
happily about. I confess, that both as a critic and an Englishman, I am ashamed of this alleged weakness on the part
of the British public; this charge of not being able to endure a strong sensation, however salutary.  Nor do I believe
it. The strong Saxon people, who have carried the world
before them, are not the audiences to quail before a tragedy.
The only point is how to set it truly and nobly before them;
and not in that gratuitous and vulgar style of horror, which
it becomes manhood to repudiate.   How is it that they endure Othello and Lear?   "i Oh!" but say the actors, " that
is Shakspeare's writing." Yes; and thus, like the cunning
priests of a faith which they dishonor, they make a bug-bear
as well as a business of their idol; as if all worship of the
true and beautiful were to fail in its effects with others, because they are without it themselves.  I have heard actors
themselves say, notwithstanding this esoterical religion of
theirs, that Shakspeare himself would be damned to-morrow
if he were to write now.    The Secret Mlarriage was rejected by the same manager that rejected the Legend of
Florence; which is perhaps a good omen, if I could get it
performed.   But then it "costs money," pathetically say
these caterers for the public amusement.
Lovers' Amazements is an imbroglio of two ladies and
two gentlemen, who are constantly undergoing surprises,
which make them doubt the fidelity or the regard of one
another.  But then, in this beautiful modern state of the
British theatres, I am asked, with the like pathos, where
are two gentleman actors and two lady actresses to be found,
who could, or, if they could, would perform a play in which
they are all four put on a level perhaps in point of intellectual
pretension.  In vain I answer that one charming actress
took singular pains to get it performed, and that another
would have had it performed but for the closing of her
theatre.  I am   defied to get four gentlefolks of the stage
together, or any four together competent to perform the parts.
How different from what I have seen in former days!
The Double is founded on a story, from the Italian novelists, of a clever fisherman, who bears so strong a resemblance




288


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


to a gentieman who is drowned while bathing in his con.
pany, that he is tempted to personate the deceased, and to,
take possession of his house. To render the personation more
probable, I turned the fisherman into an actor.  But this
piece also was objected to, on the score of its not being
thoroughly " pleasant."  That, according to the actors, is
the great requisite now with the robust British public. You
must make every thing c pleasant" to them; give them
nothing but sops and honey.   At least, in polite theatres.
You may frighten the people in the borough; but you must
not think of startling the nerves of the aristocracy.
The two principal characters in Look to your ~lMorals,
are an English valet, and a French damsel whom he has
married.  He is very jealous; and in order to keep down
the attractiveness of her animal spirits, he has told her that
there is nothing but the most rigid propriety in England,
both in morals and demeanor, and that she is to regulate
her behavior accordingly.  The girl, who is a very innocent
girl, believes him; and the consequence is that she has to
undergo a series of attentions, which very much open her
French eyes.  I know not how far the impression of this is
to rank with the <(unpleasant" things that are not to be
risked with the British public. The stage, to be sure, is so
much in the habit of pampering the national self-love, especially on the side of its virtues and respectability, and this,
too, at the expense of our lively neighbors, that I can suppose
it possible for a theatre to see some danger in it.  At all
events, the manager in whose hands it has been put, keeps
it by him as safe as gunpowder.
About a dozen years ago, in consequence of disappointments of this kind, and of those before mentioned, some
friends renewed an application to Lord Melbourne, which
they had made in the reign previous.  It was thought that
my sufferings in the cause of reform, and my career as a
man of letters, rendered me not undeserving a pension. His
lordship received both the applications with a courtesy which
he does not appear to have shown in quarters where the
interest might have been thought greater; but the pension
was not granted. Perhaps the courtesy was on that account




AUTHOR'S ATTACHMENT TO THE QUEEN.


289


Perhaps he gave my friends these and other evidences of his
good-will toward me, knowing that he should advise nothing
further; for I had twice during his administration received
grants from the Royal Bounty Fund, of two hundred pounds
each; once during the reign of King William, and the second
after the accession of her Majesty.  It subsequently turned
out that Lord Melbourne considered it proper for no man to
have a pension given him by one sovereign, who had been
condemned in a court of law for opposing another. I will
not say " libeling," for Lord Melbourne's friends, and perhaps
himself, when a young wit,*had plentifully libeled sovereign
people. Had I been acquitted by the Carlton-House judge's
grand jury, the "< libel" would have gone for nothing. The
reason, in fact, was so futile, and indeed so dangerous to
royalty itself, and its hold upon the affections, considering
that a man may oppose one sovereign out of the very feelings
which render him the devoted subject of another (which was
the case in this very instance), that a more reflecting minister did not choose to abide by it, and the pension, as the
reader has seen, was subsequently given me. I have stated
the circumstance, and my feelings about it, in a previous
part of this work. I will take the opportunity of adding,
that nothing could be more disinterested than the rise of my
attachment to Queen Victoria. I had always, as a public
writer, treated King William.with the respect, and even the
zeal, due to the sovereign who had countenanced reform, and
who was a man of an almost entirely different sort from the
prince who preceded him; but the death of the mother of
his children in a foreign land, and under circumstances of
adversity, could never make me take to him with thorough
personal cordiality.  I do not presume to judge his conduct
on that occasion: first, because I do not know all the circumstances; secondly, because he took no positive steps toward the exile himself, as far as I then knew; thirdly, because
he certainly took no such steps as George the Fourth did
toward his poor wife (not, indeed, that there seems to have
been any pretense of reason for so doing); and, lastly, because
the mother herself is understood to have defended him against
his impugners (good and noble conduct in her, at all events,
VOL. II.--N




290


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


and such as might have been expected from her charming
acting).  But all which I saw and heard of his majesty's
heiress-presumptive had touched me on points which readers
of this personal history will not be slow to understand.  I
had seen her, when a child, walk lovingly hand-in-hand with
a female of her own age, which made me think she partook
of my own childhood's notion of friendship.  I afterward
heard some " romantic" stories (or what those who are not
lovers might call such) of the evidences of her mutual regard
for her cousin, which reminded me (for what does the heart
think of rank in such cases?) of'my own first loving attachment.   I beheld her, as it were, always in company, either
with friendship, or with love, or with her mother, under which
third aspect she was also associated with the earliest of my
affections; and when this personage, thus interesting to me,
came to be a sovereign, I found her twice coming with her
husband to see the play of the poor battered author that
loved her, and who would have given half its profits to have
been able to tell her what he felt.
Does any one take this for exaggeration or sentimentality?
Let him not do so, for his own sake; for in confining sincerity
to his own modes of feeling, or to his own measure of evidence,
he may only be forced to discover how far he may fall short
of an exaltation sincerer. I say this for particular reasons,
which will be seen presently.
Simultaneous with the latest movement about the pension,
was one on the part of my friend Dickens and others, who,
combining kindly purpose with an amateur inclination for
the stage, had condescended to show to the public what
excellent actors they could have been, had they so pleased,
what excellent actors, indeed, some of them were.  They
were of opinion that a benefit for myself at one of the metropolitan theatres would be a dishonor on neither side.  A
testimonial of a different sort, which had been proposed by
some other friends, was superseded by this form of one; and
preparations were being accordingly made, when the grant
of the pension seemed to render it.advisable that the locality
of the benefit should be transferred from London to a provincial stage, in acknowledgment to the superior boon, and




AMATEUR ACTORS.


291


for the avoidance of all appearance of competing with it.
The result was still of great use to me, and my name was
honored in a manner I shall never forget by an address from
the pens of Mr. Serjeant (now Justice) Talfourd and Sir
Edward Bulwer, and the plaudits of Birmingham       and
Liverpool.
If any thing had been needed to show how men of letters
include actors, on the common principle of the greater including the less, these gentlemen would have furnished it;
and this, too, to a negative as well as a positive extent, of
which they were probably not aware; for where they failed
most, except from pure inexperience, was in the imitation
which they condescended to make of actors themselves;
while, in their own peculiar merits, they not only equaled
the best reigning actors, but sometimes surpassed them.
Part of Mr. Dickens's Bobadil had a spirit in it of intellectual apprehension beyond any thing the existing stage has
shown: his farce throughout was admirable-quite rich and
filled up: and Mr. Forster delivered the verses of Ben
Jonson with a musical flow, and. a sense of their grace and
beauty, absolutely unknown to existing stage recitation.
At least I have never heard any thing like it since
Edmund Kean's. The lines came out of his lips as if he
loved them-not hacked and hewed into fragments, in order
to conceal insensibility to their beauty with shows of passion.  I allude particularly, in this instance, to his performance of the " Younger Brother." But he did it always,
when sweet verse required it.
Meantime, I had removed from Chelsea with my family
to the place where I now live; and, though my health has
not bettered, as I hoped it to be, by the change, but, on the
contrary, has been worse in respect to body than I ever experienced, and shown me the formidable line that is drawn
between being elderly and being old (and one single illness
drew it), yet I love Kensington, in spite of its want of
fields, and persuade myself that I may still rally, and get
another "lease" when I move, as I mean to do, to some
higher ground than the spot we occupy; for we unfortunately came into a place which has got into the books of




292


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


the Sanitary Commissioners; and it is lucky that we have
escaped the consequences with any thing short of death.
The district has now been improved, is improving, and.I
have no doubt will be throroughly cured; but people do not
willingly remain where they have so suffered; and change
of air is a desideratum which all should have, if they could
get it.  Ultimately, I have no doubt they will, thanks to
new inventions; and this beautiful globe be known, as it
ought to be, by all its inhabitants.  Let the imagination of
him who thinks otherwise sit forever with his unadvancing
legs in the ditches of his ancestors the ancient Britons.
We have assuredly got beyond Ditchington since their time;
but Heavisides has a right to think he can get no further.
Here, at Kensington, sometimes in the Gardens, sometimes in the quondam Nightingale-lane of Holland House
(now shut up), I have had the pleasure of composing the
Palfrey, the scenes of which are partly laid in the place.
Here, (with the exception of a short interval at Wimbledon)
I wrote, besides reviews and shorter articles, one of the dramatic pieces above mentioned, the criticism in Imagination
and Fancy, and Wit and Humor; the Storiesfrom the Ital-.ian Poets; the Jar of Honey; the criticism in the Bookfor a
Corner; a portion of the Town (most of which had been
produced long before); and lastly, the greater part of the
work which the reader is now perusing. It was at the
close of the second volume of the Italian Stories, that I had
the severe illness of which I have spoken. I had opposed a
lethargic tendency to which I am subject, the consequence
of hepatitis, with too free a use of coffee, which ended in a
dangerous attack of the loins, the effects of which appear to
be irrecoverable; but I shall hope otherwise as long as I
can. A friend, the late estimable Mr. Stritch, who often
looked in upon me and found me sitting with cold feet, and
with a bust, as it were, on fire, repeatedly warned me of
what would happen; but I am sanguine, and was foolish,
and down I went. I used to envy my friend for his being
able to walk leisurely in and out, and thought how sure he
was of living beyond me.   And now he is unexpectedly
gone.  Too many of such surprises have I had; but there




A BOOK TO COME.


293


is always good of some kind in evil.  My friend's last moments were as brief as they were unlooked for.  I had also
another consolation during my illness.  It has so happened
that several of my illnesses have taken place after I had been
writing on matters connected with religion, and in those
cases I have always had the comfort of knowing that I had
been doing my best to combat superstition. In the present
instance, I had been attacking the infernal opinions of
Dante; a task which no respect for his genius, or false considerations for the times in which he lived (for others who
lived in them were above them), can ever make me regard
but as a duty and a glory; for though I acknowledge the
true part of might to be right, yet might of any sort never
so much astonished me as that I could not discern in it
what was not might; and Dante's venturing on his ghastly
visions did not blind me to that false support and intoxicating spirit of vindictiveness, which enabled him to do it.
Dante (alas! that such a conjunction should be possible)
was one of the greatest poets and most childishly mistaken
men that ever existed; and if it requires an audacity like
his own to say it-here it is.
One more book I have written, small, and still in manuscript, which I can take no pride in-which I desire to
take no pride in-and yet which I hold dearer than all the
rest.  I have mentioned a book called Christianism, or
Belief and Unbelief Reconciled, which I wrote in Italy.
The contents of that book, modified, are appended to the
one I speak of; and the latter has the same object as the
former, with better provisions for practical result; that is
to say, it proposes to supply, not thoughts and aspirations
only, but a definite faith, and a daily set of duties, to such
humble, yet un-abject, and truly religious souls, as can not
accept unintelligible and unworthy ties of conscience, and
yet feel both their weakness and their earnestness with sufficient self-knowledge to desire ties of conscience, both as
bonds and encouragements.    Some friends and myself are
in accord upon the principles of this book; it has done us
good for a sufficient length of time to make us think it
would do good to others; and its publication, before long,




I94


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


is contemplated accordingly.   Meanwhile I shall say no
more about it, but this; that at no time will any name or
names be put to it, the book pretending to be, nothing but
an eclectical presentment of such helps to good intention,
as have already been furnished to mankind by the divine
spirits that have appeared among them, and controversy
being one of its things prohibited.
With the occasional growth of this book, with the production of others from  necessity, with the solace of verse,
and with my usual experience of sorrows and enjoyments, of
sanguine hopes and bitter disappointments, of bad health and
almost unconquerable spirits (for though my old hypochondria never returns, I sometimes undergo pangs of unspeakable will and longing, on matters which elude my grasp),
I have now passed, in one sequestered tenor of life, almost
the whole lapse of years since I lost my friend in Italy.
The same unvaried day sees me reading or writing, ailing,
jesting, reflecting, rarely stirring from.home but to walk,
interested in public events, in the progress of society, in the
it New Reformation" (most deeply), in things great and
small, in a print, in a plaster-cast, in a hand-organ, in the
stars, in the sun to which the sun is hastening, in the flower
on my table, in the fly on my paper while I write.     [He
crosses words, of which he knows nothing; and perhaps we
all do as much every moment, over divinest meanings.]
I read every thing that is readable, old and new, particularly fiction, and philosophy, and natural history; am
always returning to something Italian, or in Spenser, or in
themes of the east; lose no particle of Dickens, of Thackeray,
of Mrs. Gaskill (whose Mary Barton I have just read, with
emotions that required, more and more, the consideration of
the good which it must do), call out every week for my
Family Herald, a little penny publication, qualified to
inform the best of its contemporaries; hope the Leader will
prosper, for a like promise, nay for masterly performance
(always supposing it does not speak ill of a great and good
minister, whom  it is as easy to wish speedier with his reforms, as it is to demand the nullification of mighty weights,
when they are not in our own hands); rejoice in republi



AUTHOR'S HABITS OF READING.


295


cations of wise and witty Mrs. Gore, seeing she makes us
wait for something new; wonder when Bulwer will give
us more of his potent romances and prospective philosophies;
and hail every fresh publication of James, though I know
half what he is going to do with his lady, and his gentleman, and his landscape, and his mystery, and his orthodoxy,
and his criminal trial. But I am charmed with the new
amusement which he brings out of old materials. I look
on him as I should look upon a musician, famous for c" variations."  I am grateful for his vein of cheerfulness, for his
singularly varied and vivid landscapes, for his power of
painting woman at once lady-like and loving (a rare talent),
for his making lovers to match, at once beautiful and wellbred, and for the solace which all this has afforded me,
sometimes over and over again, in illness and in convalescence, when I required interest without violence, and entertainment at once animated and mild.
But I could at any time quit these writers, or any other,
for men, who, in their own persons, and in a spirit at once
the boldest and most loving, dare to face the most trying
and awful questions of the time-the Lamennais and Robert
Owens, the Parkers, the Foxtons, and the Newmans-noble
souls, who, in these times when Christianity is coming into
flower, are what the first Christians were when it was only
in the root-brave and good hearts, and self-sacrificing consciences, prepared to carry it as high as it can go, and thinking no earthly consideration paramount to the attainment
of its heavenly ends. I may differ with one of them in this
or that respect; I may differ with a second in another; but
difference with such men, provided we differ in their own
spirit, is more harmonious than accord with others;. nay,
would form a part of the highest music of our sphere, being
founded on the very principle of the beautiful, which combines diversity with sameness, and whose " service is perfect
freedom."   Nobody desires an insipid, languid, and monotonous world, but a world of animated moral beauty, equal
to its physical beauty, and an universal church, embracing
many folds.
I admire and love all hearty, and earnest, and sympa




LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


thizing men, whatever may be their creed-the admirable
Berkeleys and Whichcotes, the Father Mathews and Geddeses, the Mendelsohns, the Lavaters, the Herders, the
Williamses, and the Priestleys, the Channings, Adam
Clarkes, Halls, Carlyles, and Emersons, the Hares, Maurices, Whatelys, Foxes, and Vaughans; but, of course, I
must admire most those who have given the greatest proofs
of self-sacrifice, equal to them as the others may be, and
prepared to do the like if their conclusions demanded it.
Alas! how poor it seems, and how painfully against the
grain it is, to resume talk about one's self after adverting to
people like this. But my book must be finished; and of
such talk must autobiographies be made.      I assure the
reader, that, apart from emotions forced upon me, and unless I am self-deluded indeed, I take no more interest in the
subject of my own history, no, nor a twentieth part so much,
as I do in that of any other autobiography that comes before
me. The present work originated in necessity, was commenced with unwillingness, has taken three years of illness
and interruption to write, has repeatedly moved me to ask
the publisher to let me change it for another (which out of
what he was pleased to consider good for every body, he
would not allow), and I now send it into the world under
the sure and certain conviction that every autobiographer
must of necessity be better known to his readers than to
himself, let him have written as he may, and that that
better knowledge is not likely to lead to his advantage.  So
be it. The best will judge me kindliest; and I shall be
more than content with their conclusions.
Before I terminate, however, I have to notice the latest
literary circumstance connected with my name, and to follow up the remarks I have just made with an avowal of
such opinions as might have been expected from them. I
have no ambition to court danger, for I need not its excitement; neither have I the least desire to offend, for I hate
offending, and would willingly disconcert nobody, much less
any to whom    I am   grateful.  But there are motives to
action which the whole aggregate circumstances of one's
life render imperative.




QUESTION OF THE LAUREATESHIP.


297


Among the verses -with -which I solaced myself in the
course of these prose writings, were those which from time
to time appeared in the Morning Chronicle, on occasions
connected with the happiness of the queen, such as the
celebration of her majesty's birthday, the births of the royal
children, &c. I have mentioned the train of ideas which
circumstances had led me to associate with my thoughts of
the queen; and it was to those associations, joined perhaps
to the natural loyalty which every ungrudging man who is
not miserable, is inclined to entertain toward a female sovereign, that are to be attributed all those effusions of gratitude which constituted me for a time a cc volunteer laureate,"
and which are thought by many to have given me a claim
to the office.
I am not of their opinion. First, because gratitude makes
no claim: it is acknowledgment of a claim on itself.  And,
secondly, because the office may require conditions which I
am not competent to meet.  I do not mean with regard to
poetical qualifications; for without entering into comparisons
of myself with others, which neither my modesty nor my
pride will allow, it would be an affectation and a falsehood
in me to pretend, that I do not hold myself to possess them.
I venture even to think, and this, too, without any disparagement to court taste, that I should make a better court poet
than some who are superior to me in respects not courtly.
And sure I am, that in one respect I should make a very
rare poet-laureate, as far as the world has hitherto seen; for
I should write from the heart.  I have done so already.
But, on the other hand, courts are places in which the
qualifications for office must of necessity be considered with
reference to harmonious fitness of many kinds; such as the
association of ideas with things courtly, or with others in
the memories of the time; with the opinions, real or supposed, of the candidate; with the light which the candidate
himself is honestly bound to afford to the due estimate of
those opinions; and with the conclusions which would still
in, reason remain for the consideration of-those who had to
judge them, let their honesty be never so well proved. -For
it is not facts alone, whether right or wrong, that reasonably
N*




298


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


settle every thing in this world for the time being; but the
feelings, whether right or wrong, with which these facts are
regarded; just as a man could not with propriety expect to
be received at court in a garb that is not authorized at the
time, whatever may have been the case with it formerly, or
may hereafter be the case, or under any other circumstances.
And had it been becoming in me to suppose that the laureateship would have been offered me on the death of Mr. Wordsworth (which has taken place but a short time before these
words are written), I should have stated at once, in the
proper quarters, what I am observing at this moment.
The office of laureate may require that a man should be
understood to entertain aristocratical opinions in matters of
government, and I do not entertain those opinions. It may
require him to entertain the received opinions of orthodoxy
in matters of religious faith; and I am not orthodox in my
opinions. It may require him, however he may deserve a
pension, not to hazard the fancied indecorum of appearing in
a place, where any previous connection of it, however different
from its existing connections, may have been set by him in
a disadvantageous light. And however I might differ with
objectors on that point, I can not gainsay the feelings they
might have about it.
I consider myself a royalist of the only right English sort;
that is to say, as a republican, with royalty for his safeguard
and ornament.   I can conceive no condition of society, in
which some form of that tranquil, ornamental, and most useful thing called monarchy, will not be the final refuge of
political dispute and vicissitude; and this being my opinion,
and loving the queen as I do, I wish with all my heart that
her family may govern us in peace and security till the end
of time. But though I reverence the past, and can imagine
that aristocracies, like all other great facts, may have rendered great and necessary service in its time, and though I
would have no change from past to future take place by any
but the softest and most respectful degrees, yet, inasmuch as
I am for seeing no paupers in the land, I am for seeing no
ultra rich.  I love individuals among the aristocracy, and
bless and reverence the good they do with their riches; but




AUTHOR'S TRIBUTES TO THE QUEEN.


299


for their own sakes, as well as for that of the poor, I wish
the poor did not give so much trouble to their riches, nor
the riches of their less worthy brethren so many miserable
thoughts to the poor.   I feel just the same with respect to
great cotton-spinners, or to any other amassers of treasure,
by the side and by the means of the half starved. And I
do not hold myself at all answered by any reference to the
ordinations of Providence; for Providence, by the like reasoning, ordinates dreadful revenges and retributions; and I think
that in the instinctive efforts of humanity to advance, and to
advance quietly, Providence clearly ordinates, that we are to
dispense with any such references in either direction.
These opinions of mine will have been seen fully expressed
in many a previous publication, nor have they been intimated
even courtward for the first time.   They are implied in the
following passage from the lines on the birthday of the
Princess Alice:
"What a world, were human-kind
All of one instructed mind!
What a world to rule, to please;
To share 'twixt enterprise and ease!
Graceful manners flowing round
From the earth's enchanted ground:
Comfort keeping all secure,
None too rich, and none too poor."
I never addressed any congratulation to the queen, without implying something in this spirit; something in behalf
of progress and the poor.    I thought I could not pay her a
greater compliment, or (as far as lay in my power) do her a
more loyal and loving service.
"And this glad mother and great queen
Weeping for the poor was seen,
And vowing, in her princely will,
That they should thrive and bless her still.".  Lines on the Birth of the Prince of Wales,
" Growing harvests of all good,
Day by day, as planet should,
Till it clap its hands, and cry,
Hail, matur'd humanity!
Earth has outgrown want and war
Earth is now no childish star."
Lines on the Birth of the Princess Royal.




300


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


"Blest be the queen! Blest when the sun goes down;
When rises, blest. May love line soft her crown.
May music's self not more harmonious be
Than the mild manhood by her side and she.
May she be young forever; ride, dance, sing,
'Twixt cares of state, carelessly caroling;
And set all fashions healthy, blithe, and wise,
From whence good mothers and glad offspring rise.
May every body love her. May she be
As brave as will, yet soft as charity;
And on her coins be never laurel seen,
But only those fair, peaceful locks serene,
Beneath whose waving grace must mingle now,
The ripe Guelph cheek, and good straight Coburg brow,
Pleasure and reason! May she every day
See some new good winning its gentle way
By means of mild and unforbidden men!
And when the sword hath bow'd beneath the pen,
May her own line a patriarch scene unfold,
As far surpassing what these days behold,
E'en in the thunderous gods, iron and steam,
As they the skeptic's doubt, or wild man's dream.
(The benediction here passes from the political to the religious
future.)
And to this end-oh! to this Christian end,
And the sure coming of its next great friend,
May her own soul, this instant, while I sing,
Be smiling, as beneath some angel's wing,
O'er the dear life in life-the small, sweet, new,
Unselfish self-the filial self of two;
Bliss of her future eyes, her pillow'd gaze,
On whom a mother's heart thinks close, and prays."
Lines on her Majesty's Birthday.
This passage (for in my belief of the queen's truly elevated
and loving spirit I never hesitated to associate the idea of
her royalty with that of the wife and the mother) was
written in contemplation of the then approaching birth of an
heir to the throne. I meant to express a hope that the next
reigning sovereign would see a great advance in Christianity
itself, and be its friend accordingly.   But I did not state
what I expected that advance to be. I now feel it my duty
to be explicit on the subject; and the reader will see at once
how   "unorthodox" is my version of Christianity, when I
declare that I do not believe one single dogma, which the




AGAINST DEROGATORY OPINIONS OF GOD.


301


reason that God has put in our heads, or the heart that he
has put in our bosoms, revolts at.  For though reason can
not settle many undeniable mysteries that perplex us, and
though the heart must acknowledge the existence of others
from which it can not but receive pain, yet that is no reason
why mysteries should be palmed upon reason, of which it sees
no evidences whatever, or why pain should be forced upon, the
heart, for which it sees grounds as little. On the contrary,
the more mysteries there are with which I can not help being perplexed, the less will I gratuitously admit for the purpose of perplexing myself further; and the greater the number
of the pains that are forced upon my heart, the fewer will I be
absurd enough to invite out of the regions of the unprovable,
to afflict me in addition.  What evils there are, I find, for
the most part, relieved with many consolations: some I find
to be necessary to the requisite amount of good; and every one
of them I find to come to a termination; for either they are
cured and live, or are killed and die; and in the latter case I
see no evidence to prove that a little finger of them aches any
more. This palpable revelation, then, of God, which is called
the universe, contains no evidence whatsoever of the thing
called eternal punishment; and why should I admit any
assertion of it that is not at all palpable? If an angel were
to tell me to believe in eternal punishment, I would not do
it, for it would better become me to believe the angel a
delusion than God monstious; and we make Him monstrous
when we make him the author of eternal punishment, though
we have not the courage to think so.    For God's sake, let
us have. piety enough to believe him better. I speak thus
boldly, not to shock any body, which it would distress me
to think I did, but because opinions so shocking distress
myself, and because they ought, I think, to distress every
body else, and so be put an end to.   Of any readers whom
I may shock, I beg their forgiveness. Only I would entreat
them to reflect how far that creed can be in the right, which
renders it shocking in God's children to think the best of their
Father.
I respect all churches which are practically good. I respect the Church of England in particular, for its moderate




302


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


exercise of power, and because I think it has been a blessed
medium of transition from superstition to a right faith. Yet
inasmuch as I am of opinion that the "< letter killeth and the
spirit giveth life," I am looking to see the letter itself killed,
and the spirit giving life, for the first time, to a religion,
which need revolt and shock nobody.
If opinions like these are incompatible with any court
office, I am incompetent to hold that office.  If the avowal
itself be incompatible, still I think it becomes me to make
it, even because it proves me incompetent. I If the opinions
have "nothing to do with the office, I should rejoice to be
thought worthy of it; for, though I must own, that fault
may be found with its title, and that the office itself, as
hitherto discharged, might well be changed for some other,
vet I think, that poetry, in some shape of court service, at
once loyal and free, might be rendered no unworthy or useless addition to the links of attachment between prince and
people.
But it becomes me, before I close this book, to make a
greater avowal; for I think it may assist, in however small
a degree, toward smoothing the advent of a great and inevitable change.
It seems clear to me, from all which is occurring in Europe at this moment, from the signs in the papal church, in
our own church, in the universal talk and minds of men,
whether for it or against it, that the knell of the letter of
Christianity itself has struck, and that it is time for us t6
inaugurate and enthrone the spirit. I was in hopes, wheni
Pius the Ninth first made his appearance in Europe, that a
great as well as good man had arisen, competent to so noble
a task. Young Italy, let loose from prison, fell at his feet;
and I think, that had he persevered in what made it do so,
all Europe would have fallen at his feet, and the papal
power have thus profited by its greatest and only remaining
chance of retaining the sceptre of the Christian world.  But
the new Pope was frightened at being thought one of the
" New Christians" (as Lamartine called them); he hastened
to issue a bull declaring the unalterableness of every papal
dogma; and the moment he did that, he signed the death



THE NEW CHRISTIANITY.


303


warrant of his church.  Dogma, whatever may be the convulsive appearances to the contrary in certain feeble quarters, has ceased to be a vital European principle; and nothing again will ever be universally taken for Christianity, but
the religion of Love to God and Man: Love to God, as the
Divine Mind which brings good and beauty out of blindworking matter; and Love to Man, as God's instrument for
advancing the world we live in, and as partaker with his fellow-men of suffering, and endeavor, and enjoyment. c" Reason," says Milton, " is choice;" and where is to be found a
religion better to choose than this?  Immortality is a hope
for all, which it is not just to make a blessing for any less
number, or a misery for a single soul.  Faith depends for its
credibility on its worthiness; and without "cworks" is " dead."
But charity, by which lovely Greek word is not to be understood any single form of moral grace and kindness, but
every possible form of it conducive to love on earth, and its
link with heaven, is the only sine quc2 non of all final opin
ions of God and man.
(< Behold I give unto you a new commandment, Love one
another." c"In this ye fulfill the law and the prophets."
<( By their fruits ye shall know them." (< God is Love."
Such, and such only, are the texts upon which sermons
will be preached, to the exclusion of whatsoever is infernal
and unintelligible.  No hell.  No unfatherliness.  No monstrous exactions of assent to the incredible. No impious
Athanasian Creed.   No creed of any kind but such as
proves its divineness by the wish of all good hearts to believe
it if they might, and by the encouragement that would be
given them to believe it, in the acclamations of the earth.
The world has outgrown the terrors of its childhood, and no
spurious mistake of a saturnine spleen for a masculine necessity will induce a return to them. Mankind have become
too intelligent; too brave; too impatient of being cheated,
and threatened, and " put off;" too hungry and thirsty for a
better state of things in the. beautiful planet in which they
live, and the beauty of which has been an unceasing exhor-.tation and preface to the result.  By that divine doctrine
will all men gradually come to know in how many quarters




304


LIFE OF LEIGH HUNT.


the Divine Spirit has appeared among them, and what sufficing lessons for their guidance they have possessed in almost
every creed, when the true portions of it shall hail one
another from nation to nation, and the mixture of error
through which it worked has become unnecessary.   For
God is not honored by supposing him a niggard of his bounty.
Jesus himself was not divine because he was Jesus, but because he had a divine and loving heart; and wherever such
greatness has appeared, there has divineness appeared also,
as surely as the same sunshine of heaven is on the mountain
tops of east and west.
Such are the doctrines, and such only, accompanied by
expositions of the beauties and wonders of God's great book
of the universe, which will be preached in the temples of the
earth, including those of our beloved country, England, its
beautiful old ivied turrets and their green neighborhoods,
then, for the first time, thoroughly uncontradicted and heavenly; with not a sound in them more terrible than the
stormy yet sweet organ, analogous to the beneficent winds
and tempests; and no thought of here or hereafter, that can
disturb the quiet aspect of the graves, or the welcome of the
new-born darling.
And that such a consummation may come slowly but
surely, without intermission in its advance, and with not an
injury to a living soul, will be the last prayer, as it must
needs be among the latest words, of the author of this book.




APPENDIX.
LETTERS OF THOMAS MOORE, AND SHELLEY,
TO LEIGH HUNT.
LETTERS OF THOMAS MOORE.
(The Italics in all the following letters are the writers' own.)
LETTER I.
[On receiving a letter and some books.]
[1811.]
MY DEAR SIR-I am just about to step into the mail for a week's
absence from town, and have only time to say that I have received
your letter, which I have read with gratitude and admiration.-How
you, who write so much in public, can afford to write so well in
private, is miraculous-I shall take your book with me, and hope to
tell you all I think and feel about them, at Beckenham.*
Bury-street, Monday evening.
LETTER II.
[Opera of M.P., or the Blue Stocking.-Poems of Atys, from
Catulus.]
[Post-mark, 1811.]
My DEAR SiR-It was my intention upon receiving the last letter
with which you favored me, to answer it by a visit, and that immediately; but I was hurried off to the country by the sickness of a
friend; and since my return, I have been occupied in a way that
makes me very unfit society for you-namely, in writing bad jokes
for the galleries of the Lyceum. To make the galleries laugh, is in
itself sufficiently degrading; but to try to make them laugh and fail
(which I fear will be my destiny) is deplorable indeed. The secret
of it, however, is, that, upon my last return from Ireland, in one ot
those moments of weakness to which poets and their purses are too
* Where I then lived.




306


APPENDIX.


liable, I agreed to give Arnold a piece for the summer; and you may
perceive by the lateness of my appearance, with what reluctance I
have performed my engagement.
It will no doubt occur to you, upon reading the first page of this
note, that the whole purport of if is to ask for mercy; but the kind
terms in which you have spoken of some things I have written, make
me too much interested in your sincerity to ask for, or wish, the
slightest breach of it. I have no doubt that, in this instance, you will
treat me with severity; and I am just as sure that, if you do, I shall
have deserved it. Only say that you expected something better from
me, and I shall be satisfied.
I must (though late) thank you for your last Reflector-the poem
to which you were good enough to direct my attention, interested me
extremely; there is nothing so delightful as those alternate sinkings
and risings, both of feeling and style, which you have exhibited in
those verses, and you can not think how gracefully it becomes the high
philosophy of your mind to saunter now and then among the flowers
of poetry. Do indulge her with a few more walks, I beseech you.
I am afraid you look upon me as a bad politician, or you 'would
likewise have bid me read the fine article, entitled (if I recollect right)
"A Retrospect of Public Affairs."-It is most ably done-but you
write too well for a politician-and it is really a pity to go to the
expense of fulminating gold, when common gunpowder serves the
purpose just as well.
I shall not call upon you now till I have passed the ordeal-but till
then, and ever, believe me, my dear Sir,
Yours, with much esteem,
THOMAS MOORE.
Bury-street, Saturday.
The fragment which Carpenter told you I had for the Reflector was
wickedly political. Some of the allusions have now lost their hold;
but you shall see it, and perhaps something may, with your assistance,
be yet made of it.
LETTER III.
[On "M.P., or the Blue Stocking."]
MY DEAR SIR-I have not the least fear that you will make any
ungenerous use of the anxiety which I express with respect to your
good opinion of me. I dare say you have read in the Times of yesterday the very well-written, and (I confess) but too just account which
they give of the shooting of my fool's-bolt on Monday. The only misrepresentation I can accuse them of (and that I feel very sensibly) is
the charge of Royalism and courtiership, which they have founded
upon my foolish clap-trap with respect to the Regent;-this has astonished me the more, as the Opera underwent a very severe cutting
from the Licenser for a very opposite quality to courtiership; and it




LETTERS OF THOMAS MOORE.


307


is merely lest you should be led into a mistake (from the little consideration you can afford to give to such nonsense) that I trouble you
with this note.
If the child's plea, " I'll never do so again," could soften criticism,
I may be depended upon, from this moment, for a most hearty abjuration of the stage, and all its heresies of pun, equivoque, and claptrap. However humble I may be in other departments of literature, I
am quite conscious of being contemptible in this.
Yours, my dear Sir, very truly,
THOMAS MOORE.
27, Bury-street, Wednesday.
Did you receive the note I sent you about a week ago?
LETTER IV.
[On the Feast of the Poets.-Lord Moira.-Verses in the " Morning
Chronicle."]
[Post-mark, August 1812.]
MY DEAR SIm-I am very sorry to find, by your Examiner of last
Sunday, that you are ill, and I sincerely hope, both for the sake of
yourself and the world, that it is not an indisposition of any serious
nature. I have very often, since I left town, had thoughts of writing
to you; not that I had any thing to say, but merely to keep myself
alive in your recollection, till some lucky jostle in our life's journey
throws us closer together than we have hitherto been. It is not true,
however, that I have had nothing to say to you, for I have to thank
you for your poem in the Reflector, which I would praise for its beauty,
if my praises could be thought disinterested enough to please you; but
it has won my heart rather too much to leave my judgment fair play;
and the pleasure of being praised by you makes me incapable of returning the compliment. All that I can tell you is, that your good
opinion of me, in general, is paid back with interest tenfold, and that
my thoughts about you are so well known to those I live with, that
I have the pleasure of finding you acknowledged among them by no
other title than "Moore's Friend."  I suppose you have heard that I
suddenly burst upon my acquaintances last spring, in the new characters of husband and father; and I hope you will believe me when I
say that (though my little intercourse with you, might have made such
a confidence impertinent on my side), I often wished to make you one
of the very few friends who knew the secret of my happiness, and
witnessed my enjoyment of it. I rather think, too, that if you were
acquainted with the story of my marriage, it would not tend to lower me
fum" that place, which, I am proud to believe, I hold in your esteem.
I have got a house and large garden here in the neighborhood of Lord
Moira's fine library, and feel happy in the consciousness that I have
indeed " mended my notions of pleasure," and that I am likely, after
all, to be what men like you approve. Mrs. Moore and I have been




308


APPENDIX.


for these ten days past on a visit to our noble neighbor, who is at
length preparing for an old age of independence, by a manly and summary system of retrenchment. He has dismissed nearly all his servants, and is retiring to a small house in Sussex, leaving his park and
fine library here to solitude and me. How I have mourned over his
late negotiation! A sword looks crooked in water, and the weak
medium of Carlton House has given an appearance of obliquity even
to Lord Moira; but both the sword and he may be depended on stillat least I think so.
I was very much flattered by your taking some doggrel of mine
out of the Morning Chronicle some months since, called The Insurrection of the Papers. I don't know whether you saw The Plumassier
about the same time. It was mine also, but not so good. I hope next
year, when I have got over a work I am about, to help you with a
few shafts of ridicule in the noble warfare you are engaged in, since
I find that you have thought some of them not unworthy your notice.
With best regards to Mrs. Hunt and your little child, for whom I
could supply a companion picture, I am, my dear sir,
Most truly yours,
THOMAS MOORE.
Wednesday.
I shall take the liberty of paying the postage of this, lest it might
not be received at the office.
LETTER V.
[On Mr. Leigh Hunt's Imprisonment-Lord Moira, 48c.]
Kegworth, Leicestershire, Thursday.
Mv DEAR SIR-I was well aware that, on the first novelty of your
imprisonment, you would be overwhelmed with all sorts of congratulations and condolences, and therefore resolved to reserve my tribute,
both of approbation and sympathy, till the gloss of your chains was a
little gone off, and both friends and starers had got somewhat accustomed to them. If I were now to tell you half of what I have thought
and felt in your favor during this period, I fear it would be more than
you know enough of me to give me credit for; and I shall, therefore,
only say in true Irish phrase and spirit, that my heart takes you by the
hand most cordially, and that I only wish that heaven had given me a
brother whom I could think so well of, and feel so warmly about. I
hope to be in London in about four or five weeks, when one of my first
visits shall be to Horsemonger-lane; and I trust I shall find your restrictions so far relaxed, as to allow of my not merely looking at you
through the bars, but passing an hour or two with you in your room.
I have long observed, and (I must confess) wondered at your retenue
about Lord. Moira, and have sometimes flattered myself (forgive me
for being so vain, and so little just, perhaps, to your sense of duty)




LETTERS OF THOMAS MOORE.


309


that a little regard for me was at the bottom of your forbearance, for
you have always struck me as one whom nature never destined
" accusatoriam vitam vivere,"-and who, if you were to live much
among us Lilliputians of this world, would soon find your giant limbs
entangled with a multitude of almost invisible heart-strings; but be
this as it may, I must acknowledge (with a candor which is wrung
from me) that Lord Moira's conduct no longer deserves your approbation; and when I say this, I trust I need not add, that it no longer has
mine. His kindnesses to me, of course, I can never forget; but they
are remembered as one remembers the kindnesses of a faithless mistress; and that esteem, that reverence, which was the soul of all, is
fled. His thoughtfulness about me, indeed, remained to the last; and
in the interview which I had with him immediately on his coming
down here after his appointment, he said that, though he had nothing
sufficiently good in his Indian patronage to warrant my taking such
an expensive voyage, yet it was in his power, by exchange of patronage with ministers, to serve me at home, and that he meant to provide
for me in this way; to which I answered, with many acknowledgments
for his friendship, that "I begged he would not take the trouble of
making any such application; as I would infinitely rather struggle on
as I am, than accept of any thing under such a system." I must add
(because it is creditable to him) that this refusal, though so significantly
conveyed, and still more strongly afterward by letter, did not offend
him, and that he continued the most cordial attentions to us during the
remainder of his stay. I know you will forgive this egotism, and
would, perhaps, trouble you with a little more of it, if the unrelenting
post time were not very nearly at hand.
My Bessy has given me another little girl, which was one of the
very few wrong things she does, for I meant it to be a boy. If the
lively anxiety and interest of a very pure and natural heart be gratifying to you, you have had it from her throughout. Do you recollect
meeting me and her one day?  Best regards to Mrs. Hunt, from
Yours, ever,
THOMAS MOORE.
LETTER VI.
[Villages of Kegworth and Ashbourne-Song by Lovelace--Cockney
rhymes-Gretry's notion of the clarionet.]
Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne, Derbyshire.
MY DEAR HUNT-I take advantage of an envelope to send you
greeting from my new habitation, where I am sure you will be glad
to hear I am much more poetically situated than I was at Kegworth,
which, to say no worse of it, is a very unlovely village, and where (as
* I recollected it well, and the lady's unaffected and graceful demeanor.




310


APPENDIX.


the Kegworthies chiefly consist of manufacturers and methodists) I
heard nothing but hymns and stocking-frames all day long: here,
however, I have no such muse-less people near me, but have got into a
solitary little cottage in the fields, where the only thing like a habitation 1 see from my windows, is an old romantic church half a mile off
among the trees; really, without affectation, I think I begin to feel
that the " genius loci" has no inconsiderable influence on my mind;
and 'that I am writing all the better for the select company of trees,
cows, and birds I have got into. I have started afresh with my poem
(as the sailors term it)-" taken a new departure;" and I like myself
much better this time of setting out than I did before. How are you
getting on? singing away, I hope, "like committed linnets"-(by-theby, what a good parallel you might draw between the feelings described in this pretty prison poem of Lovelace's,* and your own, about
the "sweetness, mercy, majesty," &c.) I wish very much you would
copy out for me what you have done of your poem t since I left town,
and I wish this, more from my anxiety about your success, than from
any idea that my criticism could be of use to you; but I will tell you
honestly all I think and feel about it, and there is just a chance that
my remarks may be of some service, though my chief motive for asking
it is to gratify myself. I think what I am most likely to differ with
you about, is the use of some unusual words in which you appear inclined to indulge, and some of which struck me as ungraceful. Above
all things, too, I deprecate such rhymes as that you have made to aha!
-the gratuitous h of the cockneys after words ending in a is inadmissible, I think, even in doggrel rhymes, though poor Harry Greville
(the Pic Nic Colonel) thought the following rhymes verses, not only...... language"This heart is glowing with desire
For thee, my lovely, sweet Maria!"
Mind, whenever I presume to speak to you ex cathedrcE of poetry, you
must be generous enough not to throw his practice in the face of the
preacher, but listen to me as gravely as you would to a sermon of the
Rev. H. B. Dudley's against adultery, or a charge from Lord Ellenborough about indecorous expressions-or if you will institute odious
comparisons, in my present self-satisfied state (for "omnia nostra, dum
nascuntur, placent "), I would say, "compare with my present practice, not with my past."
If you consent to send me your verses as you write, and feel any
compunction about my paying postage for them, you may send your
packet under cover to the Marchioness Dowager of Donegal, 56 Daviesstreet, Berkeley-square, and she will get it franked to me.
* The celebrated song beginning "When love with unconfined wings." It had
been quoted in the Examiner.
t The Story of Rimini.
$ Some words have been lost here, owing to the cutting out of the signature on
the opposite side of the page.




LETTERS OF THOMAS MOCRE.


311


In the hope of soon hearing from you and your muse, I am, my dear
Hunt,
(Signature cut out.)
Thursday evening.
I have just been reading a very amusing work of Gretry upon music, and he says, speaking of a tristezza he imagines there is in the
sound of a clarionet, that if a man in prison should dance, it ought to
be to the clarionet-so, you know your instrument, whenever you feel
inclined to this exercise......
LETTER VII.
[Teux d'esprit in the Chronicle.]
Mayfield Cottage, Monday evening.
[Post-mark, August, 1813.]
MY DEAR HUNT-Since I wrote to you, I received the Examiner,
in which you impute two things from the Chronicle to my friend Mr.
Brown (himself). For once you are wrong. The "little man and
little soul" is his, but the other is not. It is not worth making a paragraph about; but if you can find an opportunity of setting your squibreaders right upon this important matter, I should be glad you would;
and you may cite Mr. Brown's authority, both, for the avowal and disavowal. This ballad about Abbot is the only flight of nonsense I have
taken since I left town.
I hope you see my friend Lord Byron often; one of the very few
London pleasures I envy him is the visit to Horsemonger-lane now and
then.
Faithfully yours,
THOMAS MOORE.
LETTER VIII.
[Excuse for an unpaid visit-Lalla Rookh.]
Sunday night.
MY DEAR HUNT-It is with very sincere regret that I find myself
compelled to leave town this time without seeing you. I have been
but a week here-in a whirl of business-and had set apart Thursday
last for a visit to you with Lord Byron, who expressed strong, and I
am sure, sincere, eagerness upon the subject; but he failed me, and I
have not had another moment since. Disappointed as I am myself,
however, I have the happiness of thinking that you are become more
independent of the attentions and visits of your friends, from the spirits
which the near approach of liberty must give you. That you may
long enjoy that liberty in health and happiness, and, at all events, never




3112


APPENDIX.


lose it in a worse cause than that you now suffer for, is the very warm
wish of your friend,
rTHOMAS MOORE.
I have just concluded with the Longmans for my poem-three thousand pounds I! but I do not come at (them) till this time twelvemonth.
LETTER IX.
[Expressions of friendship-Lalla Rookh.]
Mayfield Cottage, Monday morning.
MY DEAR HUNT-I have had an unquiet conscience ever since I
sent off my last letter to you-becausQ in my flippant tirade against
critics, I was led into a forgetfulness of two or three kind things you
have said, which are of more value to me than a whole legion of
Aristotles. In the first place, though you bid me not think any more
of the little glimpse of future glorification you have opened upon me,
you could not seriously expect that I should obey you-you may be
very sure I shall treasure up the promise most proudly, and if you depend upon my bad memory for an escape from it, you have but a very
poor chance indeed. Next to my pleasure in being your friend, is the
pride I should feel in letting the world knoiw that I am so.
I intended to have told you something about my poem,* which,
though often pulled down and rebuilt again, is now in a fair way of
progress; but I have not left myself room in this sheet, and it is not
worth beginning another; so good-by.
Ever yours,
T. MOORE.
LETTER X.
[On the Story of Rimini.]
Mayfield Cottage, March 7th, 1814.
MY DEAR HUNT-I do forgive you for your long silence, though
you have much less right to be careless about our non-intercourse than
I have-if I knew as little about you and your existence as you know
of me, I should not feel quite so patient under the privation-but I
have the advantage of communing with you, for a very delightful hour,
every Tuesday evening: of knowing your thoughts upon all that passes,
and of exclaiming, "right!-bravo!-exactly!" to every sentiment
you express; whereas, from the very few signs. of life I give in the


alla Rookk.




LETTERS OF THOMAS MOORE.


313


world, you can only take my existence for granted, as we do that of
the
"Little woman under the hill,
Who, if she's not gone, must live there still."
However, I do forgive you, and only wish I could pay you back a
millesimal part of the pleasure which-in various ways-as poet, as
politician, as partial friend, you have lately given me. Your Rimini
is beautiful, and its only faults such as you are aware of, and prepared
to justify. There is that maiden charm of originality about it-that
" integer, illibatusque succus," which Columella tells us the bees extract-that freshness of the living fount which we look in vain for in
the bottled-up Heliconian of ordinary bards: in short, it is poetry; and
notwithstanding the quaintnesses, the coinages, and even affectations,
with which, here and thereI had just got so far, my dear Hunt, when I was interrupted by a
prosing neighbor, who has putevery thing I meant to say out of my
head: so, there I must leave you, impaled on the point of this broken
sentence, and wishing you as little torture there as the nature of the
case will allow. I have only time to say again, that your poem is
beautiful, and that, if I do not exactly agree with some of your notions
about versification and language, the general spirit of the work has
more than satisfied my utmost expectations of you. If you go on thus,
you will soon make some of Apollo's guests "sit below the salt." The
additions to this latter poem  are excellent, and the lines on music at
the end are full of beauty.t
There are many of the lines of Rimini that "haunt me like a passion.'" I don't know whether I ought to own, that these are among
the number. I quote from memory:
"The woe was short, was fugitive, is past!
The song that sweetens it, may always last."
I am afraid you will set this down among your regular, sing-song
couplets-to me it is all music.
Is it true that your friend Lord B. has taken to the beautifully
"mammosa" Mrs. --?  Who, after this, will call him a "searcher
of dark bosoms?" Not a word to him, however, about this last question of mine.
Ever, my dear Hunt, most faithfully yours,
THOMAS MOORE
I hope to deliver my mighty work into Longman's hands in May;
but, of.course, it will not go to press till after the summer.t
* The Feast of the Poets.
t Some lines entitled Thoughts on.Mfusic, appended to a new edition of The Feast
of the Poets.
$ Lalla Rookh.
VOL. I.-O




314


APPENDIX


LETTER XT.
[Regrets at not meeting.]
11, Duke-street, St. James's, Ttesday.
MY DEAR HUNT-Here I have been for five or six days past, and
we have not met. When, where, or how is it to be achieved? I was
better off when you were in prison. Pray, let me have a line to say
whether you will come to town, on what days, what hours, &c., &c.,
and believe me,
Ever, yours truly,
THOMAS MOORE.
LETTER XII.
[Mask on the Descent of Liberty-Champion weekly newspaper, and
its editor, Mr. John Scott-Bonaparte on his road from Elba to
Paris--.rticles by Mr. Moore in the Edinburgh Review-Questions
elative to mothers.]
Mayfield Cottage, Thursday, March 30th, 1816.
My DEAR HUNT-Many thanks for the Mask*-you already know
my opinion of it-it will live in spite of the Congress and Bonaparte;
and though the principal maskers have shifted dresses a good deal
since, your poetry is independent of the politics. It has that kind of
general and fanciful character of Sir Joshua Reynolds's portraits,
which will make it long outlive the frail and foolish heads that sat for
it. I see you have been done justice to by a very interesting writer in
the Champion. His description of you in the prison-garden is done
well and feelingly. I was a good deal surprised, during a visit some
time ago to Chatsworth, to find how very little more than the reputation of the Champion had reachdd any of the various Whig lords there
assembled. They had all heard it was extremely clever; but I do not
think one of them had ever met with it, which I could not help considering a little stupid in their lordships. Your friend, Scott, is a fine
fellow, and I heartily hope he may have perfect success. I see your
imagination was affected, as mine was, by the description of Bonaparte's meeting with the Royal army.t If that account be true, it is
a fact as sublime as any thing that fiction ever thought of; and I am
not at all surprised at the overwhelming effects of such daring-such
apparent consciousness of irresponsibility. For my own part, I should
have thought that Fate herself was coming in that carriage. I perfectly agree with you on the subject of his restoration-or rather, I go
beyond you-for I am decidedly glad of it; but, then, I am an Irishman-ferm naturm--beyond the pale; and my opinions, I believe, are
more the result of passion than of reason. If, however, there is a


* Tire Descent of LIiberty.


t On his return from Elba.




LETTERS OF THOMAS MOORE.


315


single Norwegian, Genoese, Saxon, or Pole, that doesn t agree with
me, why-he's a very worthy, loyal sort of a gentleman, and I wish
his masters joy of him-that's all.
I supposed you recognized me (by my old pickled and preserved
joke about Southey) in the Edinburgh article on Lord Thurlow; but
I doubt whether I was equally well known to you as the orthodox
critic of the Fathers in the last number. Scott, I saw, gave an extract
from me, which was the only sign of life this last article has exhibited
since its appearance.
Mrs. Moore is much gratified by your remembrance of her. I have
had some difficulty in bringing her to bear her late loss with resignation, and I fear her health is paying for the efforts her mind has made.
If I had let her grieve more at first, I am sure she would have been
better now. Which hurts women most-having children or losing
them?   I sincerely hope Mrs. Hunt may always be unable to answer
as to the latter part of this question; and with best remembrances to
her, I am, my dear Hunt, very truly yours,
THOMAS MOORE.
Lord Byron is just gone to town. He has got, he tells me, the
Duchess of Devonshire's house in Piccadilly.
LETTER XIIL
[Overflow of ideas-Moral prejudices.]
Sloperton Cottage, Devizes, January 21st, 1818.
MY DEAR HuNT--Having the opportunity of a frank, I must write
you a line or two to thank you for your very kind notices of me; and
still more, to express my regret that in my short and busy visit to
town, I had not the happiness, to which I looked forward, of passing at
least one day with you and your family. I am always so thrown " in
medias res" when I go to London, that I have never a minute left for
any thing agreeable; but my next visit will, I hope, be one of pleasure,
and then you are sure to be brought in among the ingredients. For
the cordiality with which you have praised and defended me, I am, I
assure you, most deeply grateful; and, though less alive, I am sorry
to say, both to praise and blame, than I used to be, yet coming from a
heart and a taste like yours, they can not fail to touch me very sensibly.
You are quite right about the conceits that disfigure my poetry; bpt
you (and others) are quite as wrong in supposing that I hunt after
them--my greatest difficulty is to hunt them away. If you had ever
been in the habit of hearing Curran converse-though I by no means
intend to compare myself with him in the ready coin of wit-yet, from
the tricks which his imagination played him while he talked, you might
have some' idea of the phantasmagoria that mine passes before me
while I write. In short, St. Anthony's temptations were nothing to




316


APPENDIX.


what an Irish fancy has to undergo from all its own brood of Will-o'th'-wisps and hobgoblins.
I was sorry to find that Cobbett found such a sturdy defender in
your correspondent of last week; indeed, [ am grieved to the heart at
many things I see among the friends of liberty, and begin to fear much
more harm from the advocates of the cause than from its enemies.
You, however, are always right in politics; and if you would but keep
your theories of religion and morality a little more to yourself (the
mania on these subjects being so universal and congenital, that he
who thinks of curing it is as mad as his patients), you would gain influence over many minds that you unnecessarily shock and alienate. 1
would not say this of you in public (for I can not review my friends)
but I say it to you thus privately, with all the anxious sincerity of a
well-wisher both to yourself and the cause you so spiritedly advocate.
I intended to have written you a long letter, but the post-belle (an old
woman whom I employ for that purpose) is ringing her alarum below.
and I must finish. My best regards to Mrs. Hunt.
Yours, very faithfully,
THOMAS MOORE.
LETTER XIV.
[Irish Melodies-Expressions of friendship-Loss by the defalcation of
a deputy of Bermuda.]
Sloperton Cottage, Devizes, Oct. 10th, 1818.
Mr DEAR HUNT-I intended that a letter from me should accompany your copy of the 7th number of my Melodies; but I rather think,
from your paper of Sunday last, that Power has had the start of mei
and I only write now to get a little credit from you for my intentions,
'Which, in general, indeed, are the best things about me, but which,
unfortunately, the matter-of-fact people of the world are never satisfied
with. As you have imagination, however, as well as heart, I shall
leave you to fancy all the kind things I have felt toward you, during
the long, long time I have passed in saying nothing whatever about
them; and I am the more inclined just now to trust a good deal to
your imaginative power, as I am disabled from writing much from a
slight strain in my shoulder, which I received the night before lastwhen the world was near being a bad poet out of pocket by the upsetting of a carriage in which I was returning from Bowood.
Shall you be in London about the latter end of November? I hope
to be there about that time, and we must meet; for I have much to
say to you, much to give and receive sympathy abcut. I suppose you
have heard of the calamity that has befallen me through the defalcation
of my deputy at Bermuda, who has made free with the proceeds of
two or three ships and cargoes deposited in his hands, and I am likely
to be made responsible for the amount. You will, it is most probable,




LETTERS OF THOMAS MOORE.


317


have an opportunity of returning my prison visits; as, if it comes to
the worst, the Rules must be my residence. However (as I have just
written to Lord Byron), Unity of Place is one of Aristotle's Rules, and,
as a poet, I must learn to conform to it. By-the-by, he has made
many inquiries about you in his two last letters to me, and I should be
glad to hear from you before I write to him again. I hope you will
like my Irish Melodies better than you liked Lalla Rookh.
You were right about the verses to Sir H. Lowe.
Yours, my dear Hunt, very truly,
THOMAS MOORE.
LETTER XV.
[Compliment to the Examiner-Dr. Bowring.]
Paris, Aug. 20th, 1821.
MY DEAR HUNT--I take the opportunity of a frank to send you a hasty
line of acknowledgment for your kind mention of me. I was indeed
most happy to see the announcement of your recovery, for public as
well as private reasons; for, though you have right good auxiliaries,
there is but one Richmond in the field after, all.
This is a very delightful place to live in; and if I was not obliged
to stay in it, I should feel the time pass happily enough; for were
"E'en Paradise itself my prison,
Still I should long to leap the crystal walls."
Your friend Mr. Bowring and I were rather unlucky in our attempts to meet, but we did meet at last, and I liked him exceedingly.
(Signature cut off.)
LETTERS OF SHELLEY.
[I regret extremely, on the reader's account, as well as my own,
that I have not taken better and more grateful care of the letters
which my friend wrote to me. I can not conceive how so many have
been missing. Some were, doubtless, given away; others may have
been handed about, and detained. Such as I can lay before the public,
I do.]
LETTER I.
[Remonstrance for not being waked at parting-Lyons Weather in
March-Poem of the Nymphs.]
Lyons, March 22d, 1818.
MY DEAR FRIEND-Why did you not wake me that night before we
left England, you and Marianne?   I take this as rather an unkind




318


APPENDIX.


piece of kindness in you; but which, in consideration of the six hun
dred miles between us, I forgive.*
We have journeyed toward the spring that has been hastening to
meet us from the south; and though our weather was at first abominable, we have now warm, sunny days, and soft winds, and a sky of
deep azure, the most serene I ever saw. The heat in this city to-day,
is like that of London in the midst of summer. My spirits and health
sympathize in the change. Indeed, before I left London, my spirits
were as feeble as my health, and I had demands upon them which I
found it difficult to supply. I have read Foliage:-with most of the
poems I was already familiar. What a delightful poem the Nymphs
is! especially the second part. It is truly poetical, in the intense and
emphatic sense of the word. If six hundred miles were not between
us, I should say what pity that glib was- not omitted, and that the
poem is not as faultless as it is beautiful. But for fear I should spoil
your next poem, I will not let slip a word on the subject. Give my
love to Marianne and her sister, and tell Marianne she defrauded me
of a kiss by not waking me when she went away, and that as I have
no better mode of conveying it, I must take the best, and ask you to
pay the debt. When shall I see you all again?  Oh, that it might be
in Italy! I confess that the thought of how long we may be divided,
makes me very melancholy.   Adieu, my dear friends.  Write soon.
Ever most affectionately yours,
P. B. S.
LETTER II.
[Prometheus Unbound-the Mask of Anarchy-Julian and MaddaloFamiliar, vulgar, and ideal styles of writing-Rosalind and Helen]
Livorno, August 15th, 1819.
MY DEAR FRIEND-How good of you to write to us so often, and
such kind letters! But it is like lending to a beggar. What can I
offer in return? t
Though surrounded by suffering and disquietude, and latterly almost
overcome by our strange misfortune,   I have not been idle. My
Prometheus is finished, and I am also on the eve of completing another
work, totally different from any thing you might conjecture that I
should write; of a more popular kind; and, if any thing of mine could
* My wife and myself had taken leave of him in the negative manner alluded to,
in his lodgings in Great Russell-street. I wish I could tell the number of the house,
for the sake of my brother lovers of localities; but it was some doors up on the left
side of the way from Tottenham-court-road-perhaps as many as twenty-and the
name of the person of whom he rented the lodgings, was that of a distinguished connection of his own-Godwin.
t Such is the way in which the most generous of men used to talk to those whom
he had obliged.
I The taking away of his children by the Court of Chancery.




LETTERS OF SHELLEY.


319


deserve attention, of higher claims.* " Be innocent of the knowledge,
dearest chuck, till thou approve the performance."
I send you a little poem to give to Ollier for publication, but without
my name: Peacock will correct the proofs. I wrote it with the idea
of offering it to the Examiner, but I find it is too long.f  It was composed last year at Este: two of the characters you will recognize;
the third is also in some degree a painting from nature, but, with respect to time and place, ideal. You will find the little piece, I think,
in some degree consistent with your own ideas of the manner in which
poetry ought to be written. I have employed a certain familiar style
of language to express the actual way in which people talk with each
other, whom education and a certain refinement of sentiment have
placed above the use of vulgar idioms. I use the word vulgar in its
most extensive sense: the vulgarity of rank and fashion is as gross, in
its way, as that of poverty, and its cant terms equally expressive of
base conceptions, and therefore equally unfit for poetry. Not that the
familiar style is to be admitted in the treatment of a subject wholly
ideal, or in that part of any subject which relates to common life,
where the passion, exceeding a certain limit, touches the boundaries
of that which is ideal. Strong passion expresses itself in metaphor,
borrowed from objects 4like remote or near, and casts over all the
shadow of its own greatness. $ But what am I about? if my grandmother sucks eggs, was it I who taught her?
If you would really correct the proofs, I need not trouble Peacock,
who, I suppose, has enough. Can you take it as a compliment that I
prefer to trouble you?.I do not particularly wish this poem to be known as mine; but, at
all events, I would not put my name to it. I leave you to judge
whether it is best to throw it in the fire, or to publish it. So much
for self-self, that burr that will stick to one. Your kind expressions
about my Eclogue ~ gave me great pleasure; indeed, my great stimulus in writing, is to have the approbation of those who feel kindly toward me. The rest is mere duty. I am also delighted to hear that
you think of us, and form fancies about us. We can not yet come home.
Most affectionately yours,          P. B. SHELLEY.
LETTER III.
[The Author's portrait-Rosamond Gray-Raphael and Michael Angelo-The Cenci-Charles Oilier-Calendar of the Months.]
Livorno, September 3d, 1819.
MY DEAR FRIEND-At length has arrived Ollier's parcel, and with
* I think, the Mask of.Snarchy.
t Julian and.Maddalo, printed in the Posthumous Poems. Maddalo is Lord Byron;
Julian, himself.
t Let me admire with the reader (I do not pretend to be under the necessity of
calling his attention to it) this most noble image.  $ Rosalind and Helen.




320


APPENDIX.


it the portrait. What a delightful present! It is almost yourself;
and we sate talking with it, and of it, all the evening....... It is a
great pleasure to us to possess it, a pleasure in a time of need; coming
to us when there are few others. How we wish it were you, and not
your picture! How I wish we were with you! *
This parcel, you know, and all its letters, are now a year old; some
older. There are all kinds of dates, from March to August, 1818,
and "your date," to use Shakspeare's expression, " is better in a pie
or a pudding, than in your letter." " Virginity," Parolles says; but
letters are the same thing in another shape.
With it came, too, Lamb's works. I have looked at none of the
other books yet. What a lovely thing is his Rosamond Gray! how
much knowledge of the sweetest and deepest part of our nature is in
it! When I think of such a mind as Lamb's, when I see how unnoticed remain things of such exquisite and complete perfection, what
should I hope for myself, if I had not higher objects in view than
fame?
I have seen too little of Italy and of pictures. Perhaps Peacock has
shown you some of my letters to him. But at Rome I was very ill,
seldom able to go out without a carriage; and though I kept horses
for two months, yet there is so much to see! Perhaps I attended
more to sculpture than painting-its forms being more easily intelligible than those of the latter. Yet I saw the famous works of
Raphael, whom I agree with the whole world in thinking the finest
painter. Why, I can tell you another time. With respect to Michael
Angelo, I dissent, and think with astonishment and indignation on the
common notion that he equals, and in some respects exceeds Raphael.
He seems to me to have no sense of moral dignity and loveliness; and
the -energy for which he has been so much praised, appears to me to
be a certain rude, external, mechanical quality, in comparison with
any thing possessed by Raphael; or even much inferior artists. His
famous painting in the Sixtine Chapel, seems to me deficient in beauty
and majesty, both in the conception and the execution. He has been
called the Dante of painting; but if we find some of the gross and
strong outlines, which are employed in the few most distasteful passages of the Inferno, where shall we fi. 1 your Francesca?-where,
the spirit coming over the sea in  boat, like Mars rising from the
vapors of the horizon?-where, Mati.da gathering flowers, and all the
exquisite tenderness, and sensibility, and ideal beauty, in which Dante
excelled all poets except Shakspeare?
As to Michael Angelo's Moses-but you have seen a cast of that in
England.---I write these things, Heaven knows why!
I have written something and finished it, different from any thing
else, and a new attempt for me; and I mean to dedicate it to you. t
* The picture was a duplicate of one in crayons by Wildman, and universally
pronounced excellent. The original, unfortunately, got obliterated by being plt
away in a damp place, and the copy disappeared in Italy after my friend's death.
T The Cenci.




LETTERS OF SHELLEY.


321


I should not have done so without your approbation, but I asked your
picture last night and it smiled assent. If I did not think it in some
degree worthy of you, I would not make you a public offering of it.
I expect to have to write to you soon about it.* If Olfier is not turned
Christian, Jew, or become infected with the Murrain, he will publish
it. Don't let him be frightened, for it is nothing which by any courtesy
of language can be termed either moral or immoral. t
Mary has written to Marianne for a parcel, in which I beg you will
make Oilier inclose what you know would most interest me-your
Calendar (a sweet extract from which I saw in the Examiner), and
the other poems belonging to you; and, for some friends of mine, my
Eclogue. This parcel, which must be sent instantly, will reach me by
October; but don't trust letters to it, except just a line or so. When
you write, write by the post.
Ever your affectionate
P. B. S/
My love to Marianne and Bessy, and Thornton, too, and Percy, t
&c.; and if you could imagine any way in which I could be useful to
them here, tell me. I will inquire about the Italian chalk. You have
no idea of the pleasure this portrait gives us.
LETTER IV.
[Boccaccio-Italian Poets of the first and second order-Charles
Lloyd.]
Livorno, Sept. 27th, 1819.
MY DEAR FRIEND-We are now on the point of leaving this place
for Florence, where we have taken pleasant apartments for six months,
which brings us to the 1st of April; the season at which new flowers
and new thoughts spring forth uponAthe earth and in the mind. What
is then our destination is yet undecided. I have not yet seen Florence,
except as one sees the outside of the streets; but its physiognomy indicates it to be a city, which, though the ghost of a republic, yet possesses most amiable qualities.  i wish you could meet us there in the
spring, and we would try to mustei, up a "lieta brigata," which,
leaving behind them the pestilence of remembered misfortunes, might
act over again the pleasures of the interlocutors in Boccaccio. I have
been lately reading this most divine writer. He is, in the high sense
of the word, a poet, and his language has the rhythm and harmony of
* I need not say how deeply I felt the honor and glory done me by the loving dedication of my friend.
t Our friend Charles Oilier was not frightened. The author of Ferrers and Inesilla
has a veritable genius for fright; but he keeps it to inspire his interesting romances
and masterly diablerie.
I His little namesake, one of my sons, now a man of three-and-thirty, and worthy
of the name that was given him.
0*




322


APPENDIX.


verse. I think him not equal, certainly, either to Dante or Petrarch,
but far superior to Tasso and Ariosto, the children of a later and of a
colder day. I consider the three first as the productions of the vigor
of the infancy of a new nation, as rivulets from the same spring as that
which fed-the greatness of the Republics of Florence and Pisa, and
which checked the influence of the German emperors, and from which,
through obscurer channels, Raphael and Michael Angelo drew the
light and the harmony of their inspiration. When the second-rate
poets of Italy wrote, the corrupting blight of tyranny was already
hanging on every bud of genius. Energy, and simplicity, and unity
of idea were no more. In vain do we seek, in the fine passages of
Ariosto or Tasso, any expression which at all approaches, in this respect, to those of Dante and Petrarch. How much do I admire Boccaccio! What descriptions of nature are there in his little introductions to every new day! It is the morning of life, stripped of that
mist of familiarity whicih makes it obscure to us. Boccaccio seems to
me to have possessed a deep sense of the fair ideal of human life, considered in its social relations. His more serious theories of love agree
especially with mine. He often expresses things lightly, too, which
have serious meanings of a very beautiful kind. He is a moral casuist,
the opposite of the ready-made and worldly system of morals.
It would give me much pleasure to know Mr. Lloyd.* When I
was in Cumberland, I got Southey to borrow a copy of Berkeley from
him, and I remember observing some pencil notes in it, probably written
by Lloyd, which I thought particularly acute.
Most affectionately your friend,
P. B. S.
LETTER V.
[Birth of a Son-Probable return to England.]
Firenze, Dec. 2d, 1819.
MY DEAR FRIEND-Yesterday morning Mary brought me a little
boy. t She suffered but two hours' pain, and is now so well that it
seems a wonder that she stays in bed. The babe is also quite well,
and has begun to suck. You may imagine this is a great relief and a
great comfort to me, among all my misfortunes, past, present, and to
come.
Since I last wrote to you, some circumstances have occurred, not
necessary to explain by letter, which make my pecuniary condition a
very difficult one. The physicians absolutely forbid my traveling to
England in the winter, but I shall probably pay you a visit in the
* Charles Lloyd, the translator of.dlfieri. He was quite able to write the notes In
question.
t The present Sir Percy Florence Shelley.




LETTERS OF SHELLEY.


323


spring. With what pleasure, among all the other sources of regret
and discomfort with which England abounds for me, do I think of
looking on the original of that kind and earnest face, which is now opposite Mary's bed. It will be the only thing which Mary will envy
me, or will need to envy me, in that journey, for I shall come alone.
Shaking hands with you is worth all the trouble; the rest is clear loss.
I will tell you more about myself and my pursuits, in my next
letter.
Kind love to Marianne, Bessy, and all the children. Poor Mary
begins (for the first time) to look a little consoled. For we have
spent, as you may imagine, a miserable five months. Good-by, my
dear Hunt.
Your affectionate friend,
P. B. S.
I have had no letter from you for a month.
LETTER VI.
[Political State of England-Non-writing.]
Florence, Dec. 23d, 1819.
MY DEAR HUNT- Why don't you write to us?  I was preparing to
send you something for your Indicator, but I have been a drone instead
of a bee in this business, thinking that, perhaps, as you did not acknowledge any of my late inclosures, it would not be welcome to you,
whatever I might send.*
What a state England is in! But you will never write politics. I
don't wonder; but I wish, then, that you would write a paper in the
Examiner, on the actual state of the country, and what, under all the
circumstances of the conflicting passions and interests of men, we are
to expect. Not what we ought to expect, oir what, if so and so were
to happen, we might expect-but what, as things are, there is reason
to believe will come; and send it me for my information. Every word
a man has to say is valuable to the public now; and thus you will at
once gratify your friend, nay, instruct, and either exhilarate him or
force him to be resigned-and awaken the minds of the people.
I have no spirits to write what I do not know whether you will care
much about: I know well that if I were in great misery, poverty, &c.
you would think of nothing else but how to amuse and relieve me.
You omit me if I am prosperous.
I could laugh if I found a joke, in order to put you in good-humor
with me after my scolding; in good humor enough to write to us.
* Strange jest! I was, indeed, dilatory; but I was also in very bad health, and
writing with difficulty. I had, however, written to him, as the reader will see.




324


APPENDIX........ Affectionate love to and from all.. This ought not only to
be the Vale of a letter, but a superscription over the gate of life.
Your sincere friend,
P. B. SHELLEY.
I send you a sonnet. I don't expect you to publish it, but you may
show it to whom you please.
LETTER VII.
[Mask of Anarchy-Tasso's Amintas-Dramas of Calderon-Cyclops
of Euripides-and Symposium of Plato-State of England.]
December, 1819.
MY DEAR FRIEND-Two letters, both bearing date Oct. 20, arrive
on the same day-one is always glad of twins.
We hear of a box arrived at Genoa with books and clothes; it must
be yours. Meanwhile the babe is wrapped in flannel petticoats, and
we get on with him as we can. He is small, healthy, and pretty.
Mary is recovering rapidly. Marianne, I hope, is quite recovered.
You do not tell me whether you have received my lines on the
Manchester affair. They are of the exotic species, and are meant,
not for the Indicator, but the Examiner. I would send for the former,
if you like, some letters on such subjects of art as suggest themselves
in Italy. Perhaps I will, at a venture, send you a specimen of what I
mean next post. I inclose you in this a piece for the Examiner; or
let it share the fate, whatever that fate may be, of the Mask of Anarchy.
I am sorry to hear that you have employed yourself in translating
Aminta, though I doubt not it will be a just and beautiful translation.
You ougklt to write Amintas. You ought to exercise your fancy in
the perpetual creation of new forms of gentleness and beauty.
With respect to translation, even I will not- be seduced by it; although the Greek plays, and some of the ideal dramas of Calderon
(with which I have lately, and with inexpressible wonder and delight,
become acquainted), are perpetually tempting me to throw over their
perfect and glowing forms the gray vail of my own words. And you
know mi-e too well to suspect that I refrain from the belief that what I
would substitute for them would deserve the regret which yours would,
if suppressed. I have confidence in my moral sense alone; but that
is a kind of originality. I have only translated the Cyclops of Euripides
when I could absolutely do nothing else, and the Symposium of Plato,
which is the delight and astonishment of all who read it-I mean, the
original, or so much of the original as is seen in my translation, not
the translation itself.*
* The translation is worthy of the original.




LETTERS OF SHELLEY.


325


I think I have an accession of strength since my residence in Italy,
though the disease itself in the side, whatever it may be, is not subdued.
Some day we shall all return from Italy. I fear that in England things
will be carried violently by the rulers, and that they will not have
learned to yield in time to the spirit of the age. The great thing to
do is to hold the balance between popular impatience and tyrannical
obstinacy; to inculcate with fervor both the right of resistance and the
duty of forbearance. You know, my principles incite me to take all
the good I can get in politics, forever aspiring to something more. I
am one of those whom nothing will fully satisfy, but who am ready to
be partially satisfied by all that is practicable. We shall see.*
Give Bessy a thousand thanks from me for writing out, in that pretty
neat hand, your kind and powerful defense. Ask what she would like
best from Italian land. We mean to bring you all something; and
Mary and I have been wondering what it shall be. Do you, each of
you, choose.
Adieu, my dear friend,
Yours, affectionately ever,
P. B. S.
LETTER VIII.
[Visit to Lord Byron-His Lordship's proposal to set up a periodical
work-Horace Smith-Adonais-Prometheus Unbound-CenciSentiments of Lord Byron.]
Pisa, August 26th, 1821.
My DEAREST FRIEND-Since I last wrote to you, I have been on a
visit to Lord Byron at Ravenna. The result of this visit was a determination on his part to come and live at Pisa, and I have taken the
finest palace on the Lung' Arno for him. But the material part of
my visit consists in a message which he desires me to give you, and
which, I think, ought to add to your determination-for such a one I
hope you have formed-of restoring your shattered health and spirits
by a migration to these " regions mild of calm and serene air."
He proposes that you should come and go shares with him and me,
in a periodical work, to be conducted here; in which each of the contracting parties should publish all their original compositions, and share
the profits. He proposed it to Moore, but for some reason it was
never brought to bear. There can be no doubt that the profits of any
scheme in which you and Lord Byron engage, must, from various yet
co-operating reasons, be very great. As to myself, I am, for the
present, only a sort of link between you and him, until you can know
* Shelley would havte been pleased to see the change that took place under the
administration of Canning-a change, which is here described by anticipation. He
would have been still more pleased to see what is doing every day, by wise degrees,
under Lord John Russell.




326


APPENDIX.


each other and effectuate the arrangement; since (to intrust you with
a secret which, for your sake, I withhold from Lord Byron) nothing
would induce me to share in the profits, and still less in the borrowed,splendor, of such a partnership.* You and he, in different manners,
would be equal, and would bring, in a different manner, but in the;same proportion, equal stocks of reputation and success: do not let my
frankness with you, nor my belief that you deserve it more than Lord,Byron, have the effect of deterring you from assuming a station in.modern literature, which the universal voice of my contemporaries
forbids me either to stoop or aspire to. I am, and I desire to be,
nothing.
1 did not ask Lord Byron to assist me in sending a remittance for
your journey; because there are men, however excellent, from whom
we would never receive an obligation in the worldly sense of the word;
and I am as jealous for my friend as for myself. I, as you know, have
it not: but I suppose that at last I shall make up an impudent face,
and ask Horace Smith to add to the many obligations he has conferred
on me. I know I need only ask.
I think I have never told you how very much I like your Amintas;
it almost reconciles me to translations. In another sense I still demur.
You riight have written another such poem as the Nymphs, with no
great access of effort. I am full of thoughts and plans, and should do
something if the feeble and irritable frame which incloses it was willing
to obey the spirit. I fancy that then I should do great things. Before
this you will have seen Adonais. Lord Byron, I suppose from modesty
on account of his being mentioned in it, did not say a word of Adonais,
though he was loud in his praise of Prometheus: and, what you will
not agree with him in, censure of the Cenci. Certainly, if Marino
Faliero is a drama, the Cenci is not: but that between ourselves.
Lord Byron is reformed, as far as gallantry goes, and lives with a
beautiful and sentimental Italian lady, who is as much attached to him
as may be. I trust greatly to his intercourse with you, for his creed
to become as pure as he thinks his conduct is. He has many generous
and exalted qualities, but the canker of aristocracy wants to be cut
out.
* Shelley afterward altered his mind; but he had a reserved intention underneath
it, which he would have endeavored to put in practice, had his friend allowed him.




INDE X.


Actors, their character, position in
society, reason why their profession is not higher estimated, and
present false position in regard to
the drama, ii. 279, 281, et seq.;
amateur, ii. 291
Addington, Mr. (Lord Sidmouth) i.
20, 21
Addison, i. 52
Africa, first sight of, ii. 89
Air or melody, proposal of a new
species of a poem to be so called,
ii. 254
Alamanni, his answer to Charles V.,
ii. 122
Albert, Prince, ii. 216, 279, 300
Alfieri, ii. 177; his satire on commerce, ii. 219; his character, ii.
229
Algarotti, ii. 144
Allen, i. 89
Alps, the, first view of, ii. 99
Alsager, i. 295
Ambrogetti, i. 154
America, Anglo, its existing character questioned, i. 129; ii. 18; booksellers of, ii. 18
Anacreon, ii. 90
Angelica and Medoro, i. 103; ii. 95.
Angling, question of, i. 40
Anspach, Margravine of, i. 121
Anticlimax, climax of, ii. 264
Ariosto, i. 275; ii. 131
Arne, i. 57
Arne, Michael, i. 58
Atlantis, tradition of, ii. 84
Authors, difficulty of accommodating
their faculties to times and circumstances, ii. 277
Bannister, i. 155
Barnes, i. 201, 295
Bayle, ii. 93
Bell, John, i. 178, et seq.


Bentham, Jeremy, ii. 22
Berkeley, ii. 296
Berni, ii. 75
Betty, Master, i. 182, 183
Billington, Mrs. i. 150
Blanchard, Laman, ii. 263
Blandford, Marquis of, i. 164
Blessington, Lady, ii. 276
Boatmen, Deal, ii. 59
Bobart, Tillimant, i. 126
Boccaccio, ii. 187
Body, impiety of depreciating it, i. 50
Boiardo, ii. 229
Bonnycastle, i. 223-225
Boyer (Grammar-master of ChristHospital), i. 81, 97, et seq.
Boyer, Mrs. i. 86
Braham, i. 151
Brown, Charles Armitage, ii. 39, 188,
209
Browne, William, ii. 79
Buffalmacco, ii. 146
Bulwer, Sir Edward Lytton, ii. 291,
295
Byron, Lord, i. 265; ii. 10, 19, 104,
105, 122,125, 130, 131, 134,154,157,
et seq.
-, letters of, to Leigh Hunt, ii.
110, et seq.
Byron, Lady, ii. 10
Caesar, Augustus, ii. 208
Caesar, Julius, ii. 74, 207
Campaigning, a home taste of, i. 147
Campbell, Thomas, i. 211, 212, et seq
Canning, i. 246
Carews, the, ii. 78
Carlyle, Thomas, ii. 266, et seq., 296
Castlereagh, Lord, i. 247; ii. 162
Catalani, Madame, i. 150
Chandos, Duke of, i. 21
Chandos, Duchess of, i. 22
Channing, ii 296
Charles the Fifth, ii. 121




328


INDEX.


Chaucer, ii. 147
Chiabrera,.ii. 177
Christianity, letter and spirit of, ii.
300, et seq.
Christ-Hospital, account of, i. 70; its
roost celebrated scholars, i. 70; its
history, i. 71; description of, i. 72;
dress worn there, i. 74; diet, i. 74.
routine of life, i. 105
Cicala, -the, ii. 209.
Cicisbeisro, ii. 2ý18
Clarke, Adam, ii. 296
Clarke, Cowden, 'i. 295; ii. 36
Clarke, Marianne, i. 240
Coleridge, i. 88; ii. 38, 46, 49, et i6eq.
Colman the Elder, i. 167
Colman the Younger, i. 185, 186, 187
Colonel, debut of one', i. 146
Color, beauties of, ii. 176, 255, 265
Columbus, ii. 177
Convent, English snuggery in one, ii.
188
Cooke, George Frederick, i. 158
Crouch, Mrs. i. 150
Dante, ii. 15, 97, 1293
Davies, Scrope, ii. 19
De Camp, i. 148
De Camp, Miss, i. 148
Delay, dangers of, i. 141
Delicacy, false and true, ii. 260
Dempster, Captain, i. 30
Deshayes, i. 154
Dibdin, Thomas, i. 186
Dickens, Chas. ii. 290, 291, 294
Dillon, Lord, ii. 189
Domitian, ii. 208
Doria,' Andrew, ii. 176
Dowton, i. 158
Dryden, ii. 15, 73
Du Bois, i. 211
Earthquakes, three shocks of, ii. 154
Ellenborough, Lord, i. 283
Elliston, i. 157
Emerson, ii. 296
Emery, i. 1.48
Emperors, Roman, their countenances, ii. 207
England, Allies of, i. 229,Examiner, The, its establishment, i.
201; ii. 54; its politics, i. 203; articles from, i. 204, 205; not Republican, i. 207; its religious opinions,
1. 208; government prosecution of,
L. 235, et seq.; second prosecution,
1. 241. et seq.; article for which
prosecuted, 243; political opinions,
i. 248; third prosecution, i. 249;
fourth and last prosecution, i. 272,
et seq.; article containing libel on


the PrAhct Regent, i. 273, et seq.;
author's comments thereon, i. 2,80,
et seq.; sentence for, i. 283; Examiner, how. injured during the
Tory ascendency, ii. 54
Fabroni, ii. 144
Farley, i. 148
Fawcett, i. 155
Fazzer, the mystery of, i. 118
Fireflies, i. 96
Field, Rev. Mr. i. 80
Fishermen, adventure with, i. 108
Flowers, active molecules in, ii. 249;
unique points, respecting, ii. 253
Fodor, i. 154
Fonblanque, Albany, i. 202
Forster,. John, ii. 291.
Fox, Hon. C. J. i. 62
Fox, W. J. ii. 275, 296
Foxton, F. J. ii. 295
Franklin, i. 29, 130
French, the, threatened invasion of
England by, i. 144; their shameless interference at aome, ii. 223;
general manners and appearance,
ii. 233
Feller, ii. 77
Fuseli, i. 223, et seq.
Galileo, ii. 208
Garrow, Mr. Justice, i. 283/
Gaskill, Mrs. ii. 294
Gay, ii, 79
Geddes, ii. 296
George the Third, literature during
the prime of, i. 61, 233, 235, 241
George the Fourth, i. 61, 235, 272, et
seq.
Gibbon, ii. 5273
Gibbs, Sir Vicary, i. 250
Gifford, i. 25
Giotto, ii. 146, 148
Goldsmith, i. 168, 185
Gooch, Dr. i. 295
Gore, Mrs. ii. 246, 295
Grdssini, i. 150
Grose, Mr. Justice, i. 284
Guiccioli, Madame, ii. 125, 135
Hall, Robert, ii. 296
Hazlitt, William, i. 14, 295; ii. 49,
187, 208
Hayley, i. 265
Herder, ii. 296
Hesiod, ii. 73
Hine, ii. 79
Hobhiouse, Sir J. C. ii. 19
Hogan, Major, i. 236, et seq.
Hogarth, i. 64
Holland, the late Lord, i. 266




INDEX.


329


Homer, ii. 73
Horace, ii. 74
Hook, Theodore, i. 53, 211, 214
Hook, Sen. i. 55
Hoy, Margate, a devout one, i. 136
Hunt, Rev, Isaac, the Author's fath'er,
his character and career, i. 16;
perils during the American war, i.
17; compliment paid him by the
father of Sheridan, i. 19; his answer
to a bishop, i. 19
Hunt, John, i. 201, 249, 281, 284; ii.
9
Hunt, Leigh, his progenitors, &c. i.
13, 106; birth and childhood, i. 37,
43; visit to France, i. 43; education at Christ-Hospital, i. 65; his
experiences there, i. 18, et seq.;
opinion of the Institution, i. 6.9;
favorite books, i. 90, 94; his grateful recollections of Christ-Hospital,
i. 98; early friendships, i. 98, et
seq.; first love, i. 106; visits to his
aunts, i. 107, et seq.; holidays, i.
109; clerical tendency, i. 114; early
dislike for Catholic bigotry, i. 115;
and respect for Jews, i. 116; leaves
Christ-Hospital, i. 121; juvenile
verses, i. 123; he visits Oxford
and Cambridge, i. 124; enters into
society, i. 128; his voyage to Margate, i. 136; walk to Brighton, i.
138; first prose writings, i. 166;
favorite prose-authors, i. 168, 176;
he writes for the News; his illness, i. 189; benefits arising from
it, i. 191; visit to Gainsborough, i.
193: establishes the Examiner, i.
201; edits the Reflector, i. 252;
Feast of the Poets, i. 252; Folly
and Danger of Methodism, i. 268;
attack on the Prince Regent, i.
274, et seq.; imprisonment, i. 285;
his jailers, i. 286; his children, i.
293; visitors, i. 295; restoration to
freedom, i. 298; visited by Lord
Byron on leaving prison, ii. 10;
visited by Lord Byron and by
Wordsworth, ii. 11; return to
Hampstead, ii. 14; Story of Rimini, ii. 15; translation of Tasso's
Aminta, ii. 44; Indicator, ii. 45;
voyage to Italy, ii. 54, et seq.;
visits Ramsgate, ii. 61; visits Dartmouth, ii. 73-76; stay at Plymouth,
ii. 78; continues his voyage, ii. 79;
thoughts on entering the Mediterranean, ii. 89; arrival in Italy, ii.
101; feelings toward Lord Byron,
ii. 122; an Italian adventure, ii.
125; residence at Pisa, ii. 128, 134,


136, 139; the Liberal, ii. 157; removal to Genoa, ii. 154; stay at
Lerici, ii. 154; at Albaro, ii. 156;
impressions of Genoa, ii. 163, et
seq.; first sight of religious procession, ii. 170; residence at Florence,
ii. 183; stay at Maiano, ii. 187;
Bacchus in    Tuscany, ii. 190;
Christianism, or Belief and Unbelief Reconciled (a work privately
printed), ii. 199, 293; first sight of
the Venus de' Medici, ii. 201; impressions of Italian people, ii. 214;
impressions of Italian character,
ii. 216; return to England, ii. 224;
visits Chambery, ii. 232; visits
Paris, ii. 233; opinion of the French,
ii. 236; arrival in England, ii. 236;
Sir Ralph Esher, ii. 241; establishes the Tatler, ii. 258; The
Gentle Armor, ii. 260; Captain
Sword and Captain Pen, ii. 266;
commences Chat of the Week, ii.
259; writes for The True Sun, ii.
263; removes to Chelsea, ii. 264;
establishes the London Journal,
ii. 266; Legend of Florence performed, ii. 279; latest productions
The Palfrey, Jar of Honey, Imagination and Fancy, Wit and Humor, Stories from the Italian
Poets, ii. 292; and other dramatic
writings in MS., ii. 286, et seq.;
attachment to the Queen, ii. 289;
removal to Kensington, ii. 291;
illness, ii. 292; habits of reading,
&c., ii. 294; opinions concerning
the laureateship, ii. 297; tributes
to the Queen, ii. 300; avowals of
opinion, ii. 298, et seq.
Hunt, Mrs. Leigh, i. 200, 291, 294; ii.
76, 92, 128, 136.
Hunt, Mary, the Author's mother,
her public spirit and private tenderness and sensibility, i. 30, et
seq.; conduct during a storm  at
sea, i. 30; to a beggar, i. 32; to an
unvisited acquaintance, and an unfortunate servant, i. 33; her horror
of war, i. 53.
Hunt, Robert, i. 24, 34, 141.
Hunter, Rowland, i. 223.
Idealisms familiarized, ii. 239
ITALY-Voyage to, i. 55, et seq.; arrival in, i. 101; adventure in,
ii. 125; Leghorn, ii. 127; Italian
manners, ii. 128; Pisa, ii. 136;
Italian  houses, ii. 138; Leaning Tower of Pisa, ii. 139; Baptistery, ii. 141; Campo Santo, ii.




330


INDEX.


143; Cathedral of Pisa, ii. 142; air Lanfranchi, Archbishop of Pisa, ii.
of Pisa, ii. 149; its inhabitants, ii.  139
151; their pronunciation, ii. 152; Le Grice, Samuel, i. 87; Charles
aspect of Pisa, ii. 152; camels at,  Valentine, i. 89
ii. 152; Lerici, ii. 154; Genoa, ii. Leigh, Mr. i. 21, 35; Lord, i. 35, 36
156-164, et seq.; Genoese dialect, Leslie, Lord, i. 297
ii. 179, et seq.; Florence, ii. 184; Lewis the comedian, i. 156
Church of Santa Croce, ii. 185; Liberal, the, ii. 158, et seq.
Maiano, ii. 185, et sea.; Italian Listoen, i. 158
landscape, ii. 197; Tuscan censor- Liverpool, Earl of, i. 247
ship, ii. 198; Venus de' Medici, ii. Llwyd, i. 135
201-204, et seq.; Florentine gallery, Lockhart, John Gibson, ii. 46
ii. 202; its busts of Roman emper- Lowth, Bishop, i. 19
ors, ii. 207; finger of Galileo, ii. Littelton, Lord, ii. 77
208; insects of Italy, ii. 209, et seq.; Lytton (see Bulwer)
trees of Italy, ii. 212; women of
Italy, ii. 214; deteriorationof Italian Malibran, i. 154
character, ii. 216; minestra or mac- Martini, de', ii. 230
caroni, ii. 222; the Vetturino, ii. Matthews, Charles, sen. i. 158, 216,
224; a skeptical postillion, ii. 227;  et seq.
Modena, ii. 228; Parma, and other Matthews, Charles, jun. ii. 279
Italian towns, ii. 229; Turin, ii.  -        Mrs. (Madame Vestris),
230; the Alps at sunrise, ii. 231.  ii. 279
Mathew, Father, ii. 296
James, G. P. R. ii. 295             Maurice, Rev. T. i. 132
Jenny Lind, i. 154                  -        Rev. F. ii. 296
Jerrold, Douglas, ii. 285           May, lines on fine weather in, analJews and their synagogue, i. 115      ysis of, ii. 246
Johnson, ii. 160                    Mazzini,* ii. 223
Jonson, Ben, i. 197                 Medici, Lorenzo de, ii. 200
Jordan, Mrs. i. 159                         Maddalena de, ii. 201
June, verses on, ii. 237            -       Venus de', ii. 201, 203, et seq.
Medina Sidonia, Duke of, ii. 77
Kean, Edmund, i. 183                Mediterranean Sea, its crowd ofgrand
Kean, Mrs. Charles, ii. 279, 280      memories, ii. 89
Kearsley, i. 14                     Melbourne, Lord, ii. 288
Keats, John, ii. 36                 Melodies, popular Italian, mistaken
Kelly, Michael, i. 149                for English, i. 56
Kemble, Charles, i. 159             Memmi, Simon, ii. 146
Kemble, John, i. 158, 163, 183, 187  Mendelssohn, ii. 296
Killigrews, the, ii. 78             Metaphysics, hypochondriacal, i. 191
'Kinnaird, i. 223, 226               Mill, John, ii. 275
Kirkup, ii. 189, 209                Millin, ii. 178
Knight, Charles, ii. 258            Milnes, Monckton, ii. 37
Knighton, Sir William, i. 295       Milton, ii. 12, 41, 87
Knowles, Sheridan, i. 55            Mitchell, Thomas, i. 118, 295
Monthly Repository, ii. 266, 275
Lablache, i. 153                    Moore, Thomas, i. 293; ii. 104; char.
Lamb, Charles, i. 68, 88, 116; ii. 46,  acter of, ii. 306; his letters to Leigh
et seq.; ii. 261                    Hunt, ii. 305
Lamennais, ii. 295                  Morgan, Lady, ii. 151
* Owing to the omission of a letter to a public journal, which I feared might seem
ill-timed and superfluous, the present work does not contain, as I intended it should,
a passage in which I had expressed my opinion of the great qualities of this patriot.
I therefore insert it here, till occasion may enable me to incorporate it with the text.
I differ with Mazzini, inasmuch as I lirefer a limited monarchy to a republic without
one; and I am for doing all things with the pen, and none with the sword; yet I
consider him one of the ablest and noblest of men. His writings first gave me this
impression, and every thing related of him by those who knew him, confirmed it. I
look upon him as one who "dies daily" for the sake of principle, and I devoutly
wish he may not become a martyr to it.




INDEX.


331


Moschus, ii, 74
Morton, i. 185
Mowatt, Mrs. ii. 280
Munden, i. 156
Naldi, i. 154
Napoleon, i. 204, 207, 230, et seq.
Newman, Francis William, ii. 295
News, the, i. 181, 182
North, Christopher, ii. 44, 279
Nurse, who killed children, i. 43
O'Keeffe, i. 184
Orgagna, ii. 149
Orger, Mrs. ii. 279
Ovid, ii. 74
Owen (Pugh), i. 136
Owen, Robert, ii. 295
Paine, Thomas, i. 29
Painters, early Italian, ii. 146
Paganini, account of, and verses on,
ii. 274
Paris, its impression on a lover of
books, ii. 233
Parisot, Mme. i. 154
Parker, Theodore, ii. 295
Pasta, i. 152
Pastorini, Giambattista, ii. 178
Perry, James, i. 243
Petrarch, ii. 97
Pignotti, ii. 144
Piozzi, Mrs. i. 256
Pitman, i. 295
Pitt, William, i. 62, 228, 233
Pittites, ministry of, i. 228
Pius the Ninth, ii. 223, 302
Playgoing, i. 161
Priestley, ii. 296
Prince Regent, see George IV.
Punishment, eternal, impiety of that
doctrine, i. 26, 50, 55; ii. 301
Queen Victoria, i. 69, 234; ii. 289, et
seq.; 297, et seq.
Ramsay, Allan, i. 212
Redi, account of, and    passages
from his Bacchus in Tuscany, ii.
190
Reflector, the, ii. 252, et sex.
Remoteness in nearness, ii. 265
Reynolds, Frederick, i. 186
Reynell, i. 24; Mrs. i. 24
Robinson, Mrs. i. 254
Rochester, ii. 74
Rogers, Samuel, ii. 16, 78
Rousseau and Madame de Warens,
ii. 109, 232
Rubini, i. 154
Russell, Lord John, i. 126, 248, 269,
286


Sailors, portraits of various, ii. 62
Scott, Sir Walter, i. 258, 263; ii. 44
Sea, poets on the, ii. 87
Sea-voyages, opinions respecting, ii.
58, 73, et seq.
Severn, Joseph, ii. 42
Shakspeare, ii. 87
Shelley, i. 220, 296; ii. 21, et seq.; his
generosity, ii. 31; adventure at
Hampstead, ii. 33, 128, 129; his
person and tastes, ii. 132, et seq.;
his letters to the author, ii. 317
Shelley, Mrs. ii. 27, 156
Sheridan, Thomas, i. 19; Richard
Brinsley, i. 276
Ships at sea, their discomfort, ii. 57;
their mode of hailing one another,
ii. 94
Siddons, Mrs. i. 158
Sidmouth, Lord, see Addington
Sidney, Sir Philip, ii. 71, 75
Slater, Mr. i. 29
Smith, Horace, i. 211, 219, 220
Smith, James, i. 211, 219
Somerville, Mrs. ii. 276
Sontag, Mme. i. 154
Southey, ii. 46
Spain, court of, ii. 95
Spectacle, an appalling one, i. 195
Spencer, Mrs. i. 31
Spencer, Earl, i. 164
Spenser, ii. 182, 239
Steele, i. 52
Steevens, Rev. Mr. i. 86
Stritch, ii. 292
Sumner, Holme, i. 292
Swearing, habit of, i. 52
Swinburne, Sir John, i. 296
Talfourd, Mr. Justice, ii. 291
Thackeray, ii. 294
Thomson, ii. 205
Thornton, Bonnell, i. 167
Thornton, Godfrey, i. 100; and his
family, i. 296
Titian, ii. 148
Trammezzani, i. 153
Tree, Miss Ellen (Mrs. C. Kean), ii.
279
Trelawney, ii. 124
Trinder, Dr. i. 38, et seq.
Tuscan government versus an English magazine, ii. 198, 199
Universities, the bad and good ot,
i. 128
Vacca, ii. 128
Van de Weyer, M. ii. 259
Vaughan, Robert, ii. 296
Venus, de' Medici, ii. 201, 203




332


INDEX.


Vestris, i. 154
Vestris, Madame, ii. 279
Vincent, i. 96
Virgil, ii. 73
Vitellins, ii. 208
Voltaire, i. 169, et seq.
Volunteers, St. James's, i. 144
Wales, William, i. 74
Walton, Izaak, i. 41
War, Voltaire oni, i. 175; breakfast
sympathies on the miseries of; i.
205
Way, ii. 260
Webbe, Egerton, ii. 270; his admirable banter on Martial, i. 271
West, President, i. 21, 22,1100, 116


Whately, Bishop, ii. 1296
Whichcote, ii. -296
White, Blanco, i. 2166,1269
Wilkes, John, i. 62
William IV. ii. 289
Williams, David, ii. 2f96
Williams, Captain, ii. 130
Wilson, Professor (see Christopghe7
North)
Winche-ster, William, i. 26
Wood, i. 118
Words'worth, i. 41, 265; ii. 11, 40, 239.Worthington, i. 26
Wortley, Lady Mary, i. 23
York, Duke of, ii. 236, et seq.
Young, i. 195


THE END