afterwards. Chrysostom was for the world, but for Scotland first. To his time, he presented the religious poetic mind: the large-hearted disciple of Literature; one of those whose active Christianity appears to most persons to be the fervour of heresiarchs. As to myself, he was a direct influence, not lightly felt, in all that pertains to sympathy with the labours and trials of genius; in regions of religious and poetic thought; in times of close intercourse with Nature.

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CHAPTER V.

THE LITERARY CHARACTER.

I.

"Of texture midway between Life and Books."

-The Prelude.

"I have had dreams in which I thought I wished for Fame-it was certainly not posthumous Fame at any distance; I feel, I feel it was confined to the memory of those I love."

-HORACE WALPOLE.

"WE would that our pen could sing when LEIGH HUNT is its theme!" This has been said, and I repeat it, as best expressing the grateful and exultant feelings which his name brings to me.

He represents gay Fancy in my Life; with him, the best feelings are most happily expressed, and the darkest are clothed upon with light. My admiration of him must have come with the first blind movements of the spirit of youth. I, as it were, found myself with him. In my teens, the first number of The Liberal was amongst my scanty literary treasures. The self-same number is before me now, with its brown paper back,-part of one's education in the body still,-relic of a memorable shortlived, unfortunate compact between Hazlitt, Byron, Shelley, Hunt. It opens with The Vision of Judgment, then follows A Letter to the Editor of My Grandmother's Review, after which comes the tale of The Florentine Lovers. Drawn in heart to Hunt by this time, in a manner beyond the guess of affection, and surmising that the tale was from his pen, I rendered it in octave stanza, submitted it to him-ah, there is the boyish manuscript on my table, with Hunt's notes upon it, and letters, too, showing that I had touched him unto

tears.

So was it, at first vaguely, in time positively and strongly, the passion arose and developed into one sufficient for Life, so that all he was, most that he had done, came to be particularly known to me, and some friends dear to him came to be my friends.

I have heard disparagement of him; in my reading I come across bitter things said against him; I have little sympathy with the political views which he maintained, and I know that a novelist has made a jest of him. Nevertheless, acquainted as I am, with whatever narrowness of spirit or hateful party feeling can say, and knowing his cwn errors-he is still left to me a pure, heroic, indulgent, cheerful poetical spirit.

Not that I would ask excuse for any failings in him; even those of Burns should not be excused: the age is too good to permit of any extenuations. Only, I do say that Hunt over-lived his worst failings,-those which overtake us in early manhood, when fire is in the blood and detractors are around us; he left the viciousness long before it could be said that in nature's course it must have left him; what is more, he made his repentance plain, not in general terms, like ordinary pious people, but statedly, from time to time, as to facts and men, in St. Paul's spirit.—Had he some remaining in his later life?

He has, herein, been much calumniated, of which there is something of evidence apart from the protestations of friends. The worst construction of such offendings has been set forth anew in recent years, by one who, as a companion of Shelley, was flattered by some wellwisher as being the properest person to write Shelley's life. This is, indeed, an authority; certainly not one of the scribes. "A Daniel come to judgment; yea, a Daniel!" He vituperated Hunt, because of what Shelley gave to Hunt. Indeed, and how much was it? I fear that in the other world, Shelley would not have that Daniel to speak for him. Even here, he would take the radiance from Shelley's brow-but yonder, eternal

joy from his heart; for, beyond a doubt, this poetic spirit had thus much of his much-studied Holy-Writ in his being, that he felt it "more blessed to give than to receive." Yet, how much was it? Was it as we find it thus written? At a critical period of his life receiving an annuity of a hundred pounds from a friend; dependent on another friend for his home, when he himself had no home; beholden to that friend for his weddingring, for his marriage fees, for a home for his wife, for the little which he lived on, week by week, in his newlymarried life. Surely, all this can go with a brave, hardworking, unselfish intelligence, and may not be tarnished by the babble of detraction. The man himself thought so, for he entreated that his own record should be preserved, "that it might be seen hereafter." And so it has been. I speak as of Hunt, but the facts are, as a parable, from the amiable Southey's own pen as to himself.

I have dwelt on failings, because those that were without them pressed hard upon Hunt; the pity is that, with their sinlessness, they had neither charity for their fellows, nor the imagination necessary for the appreciation of high literary art. And, all told, we feel the presence of a being very different from themselves; we are left with a sweeter feeling for Hunt, who did

"gently scan his brother man, Still gentlier sister woman,"

and are constrained to say that if weaknesses led to such pleasant and elevating issues as are exhibited in Hunt's character, better, then, a tribe of such frailties than a world of frosted saints.

The man that remains with us, is a creature of feminine gentleness and forgivingness, and never lacking patience of spirit. On his every page, in every subject, we discern the refined, moulding force of feminine graces. Fearlessness goes with perfect gentleness,-this, in

Rabelais' words, "is clearer than the light and splendour of the morning star"-and this man who brightens his little room with flowers and flowered paper-hangings, is a sufferer for pungent language, and that little room is a prison. Indeed, Hunt was as fearless in his gentleness as most men are in their hate. This gentleness, furthermore, is ever gay through all his years, so that you cannot tell what lies under its gracious smile. Well, herein, too, he is a sufferer; sorrows he has, as well as thoughts, that lie too deep for tears. All this floweriness is to hide cold, black walls and the window bars; to make the most of the sunshine that comes into the prisonhouse we here call Life.

II.

"He had that universal sympathy with genius which makes all its victories his own." EMERSON.-On Plutarch.

AM I carried away by some enthusiastic impressions? Would it be correct to say that all this will be corroborated by his works? Consulting them, will there not be something else to say? will there not be something to unsay?—I shall consider. I glance along my shelves where his volumes stand. Each volume is a melodious, inarticulate voice. Listening to the eloquent silences of his poems, I find, throughout, musical expression, affectionate thought, and liveliness of fancy. There is no doubt, at times, a straining in the rhyme, which is simply to say that he is not equal to some five lords of song who have become heirs of all time.

The Story of Rimini is told with a lover's passionate heart. The Fancy Concert is one of the most perfect and airy of poetical vagaries. All his lyrics and sonnets bear internal evidence, by their ease and sincere tone, that they spring from the heart, are not constrained by will. His lyrical translations read like original inspirations. By no one has the Apologue been rendered