was as proud of the book then, as he is ashamed of it now. But there is nothing to be ashamed of. He might as well say he is ashamed of ever being a boy. Through his father and his little book he was introduced to many men of note, who treated him very cordially. The critics, too, were lenient, and from his extremely youthful age, the writer was flattered into a serious mischief to himself. Among the literati to whom he was introduced about this time, and one whom he seems to regard with most affection, was the Rev. Mr. Maurice, of the British Musuem, author of Indian Antiquities. He was a "short, chubby, good-humored companion, with boyish features, and a lax dress and manner, heartily glad to see you, and tender over his wine! He was a clerical sort of Horace." Many pleasant days, the recollections of which, and “the roast fowls and bottles of wine,” are happily remembered by Hunt, as having been spent in Maurice's rooms in the turret of the British Museum ; and he never passes these rooms without thinking of the pleasant days there spent, and how the Indian antiquarian used to “ lay down his magnifying glass, take both his hands, and condescend to anticipate the pleasant chat they should have about authors and books over their wine.” Subsequently Hunt read and wrote much. Everything which came in his way he read. He devoured the whole set of British classics like a glutton, and the effect of this was, he wrote a series of essays, in a paper called the Traveler, under the signature of “Mr. Town, Junr., Critic and Censor-General.” He describes his joy as being nothing short of transport, as he issued every Saturday with his printed essay in the papers under his arm. Goldsmith was the enchanter whose might astonished and delighted our young author. He says, “I

knew no end of quoting passages out of the Essays and Citizen of the World,' and is in rapture with his Vicar of Wakefield. We beg to correct our friend's memory and set him right—it was Olivia who was seduced by Mr. Thornton, the baronet's nephew, not “Sophia, by the villanous baronet,” as he recollects it. Fielding, Smollet, Vol. taire, Charlotte Smith, Bage, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Augustin La Fontaine, were his favorite authors in prose. Voltaire seems to have made the greatest impression on him. A collection of essays, by Colman and Bonnell Thornton, called the Connoisseur, also Johnson's Lives of the Poets, were favorite books of his, and on Pope's works he devoted much time and admiration. To compete, in his juvenile ardor, with the Rape of the Lock, he wrote a mock heroic, entitled The Battle of the Bridal. Dryden, too, sought his attention, and about this time—that is, from his departure from school to his twentieth year-he wrote two farces, a comedy, and a tra gedy. None of these productions saw the light, through a printer's devil. Shortly after he became theatrical critic for the News, a paper which his brother John, a printer, set up, and astonished the town by giving independent critiques, refusing tickets of admission to the theatres, and denying acquaintanceship with the actors and playwrights. It had been the custom there, as it is here now, to be well acquainted with actors, dramatists and artistes, who gave dinners, wine, tickets and suppers to the editors, critics and reporters, and so gained a glorious admission into the grandiloquent paragraphs in the morning papers. The criticisms of Hunt got notoriety, if not reputation ; and were afterward collected as an appendix to a volume of essays of the same nature.

At the beginning of the year 1808, The Examiner was started by the same brother and himself, in joint partnership. He studied the writings of Voltaire, Goldsmith, Steele and Addison, more than ever: ground himself in De Lolme and Blackstone, and came out boldly as a liberal reformer. The paper started without a party ; but the ideas threw out as its basis soon brought it one. Literature was well introduced, and formed a particular adornment to the politics of the paper; and by this means, readers of intelligence were seduced to peruse it who otherwise might have discountenanced a purely political journal. It grew into reputation. It was manly, if it was not remarkable for manner, and preserved a steadiness of purpose, if it did not present a style of polish. But it was fast attaining both, and accordingly the tories charged it with republicanism, disaffection to crown and church, and with conspiracy. As the Hunts from the outset denied themselves the employment of any party patronage, or political or theatrical acquaintances, so they never went to a public dinner, and never saw the principal men in connection with whose names the charge of conspiracy was brought against them. Mr. Leigh Hunt had been a clerk in the war office immediately previous to, and a short time after the starting of the Examiner, but felt it his duty to resign, from the tone which he thought fit to adopt towards the court and the ministry. Ere the paper was a twelvemonth old, a government prosecution was directed against it, in consequence of its taking up the cause of a Major Hogan, who accused the Duke of York of favoritism and corruption. A prosecution was also commenced against Mr. Perry, of the Morning Chronicle, for extracting two sentences of the closing part of the article in the Examiner; and, by some extra grudge of the tories, the Chronicle suit was commenced first, and Perry defending himself, was acquitted. The suit against the Hunts was then dropped.

Three years after this time, Mr. Hunt edited a quarterly journal of politics and literature, which his brother started—The Reflector, which lived but a year, through want of capital. It rose in reputation, and had writers like Barnes, Mitchell, Dr. Aikin, and others, contributing to it. Lamb also wrote in it, and Leigh Hunt's Feast of the Poets first appeared in the same magazine. It is many years since we read the poem, but we remember it with pleasure as a satirical production. Its publication made him many enemies; its plot being—a dinner given by Apollo to the Poets, and the consequent rejection of a great number who present themselves for admission. This arrangement gave him an opportunity to carp at not only the poets professing tory politics, but many others, until he raised an army of rhymers and rhymelings against him.

Among others he attacked Gifford and Walter Scott. He carped (and justly) at the monotony of Pope's versification, and laughed at Wordsworth. The same opinion he holds to this day of Gifford, and will not allow him to have had any genius. We are of the same opinion. That he had talent, we allow. He was a poetaster,-full of malevolence, which passed for strength,—and a dogmatic assurance, which he palmed for argument, because he said it. Of Scott and Wordsworth, he afterward learned to think differently: though differently still from what most critics think, rating the former as a novelist, rather beneath—and the latter a poet, rather above—their respective places. The Reflector had also a dash at the Prince Regent. Meanwhile the Examiner had been striding along at a bold pace, never receding in its assurance, and increasing with its audacity in strength and ability, as a constant action of the human muscles tend to solidify and strengthen their developments and endurance. The tories were watching its progress with eager eyes, and in their mind the happy moment arrived for examining the Examiner, and lynching it if possible. A second prosecution was instituted against it for the publication of a contemptuous article against the Prince Regent, setting forth the manner in which his health had been received with hisses at a St. Patrick's Dinner. The result of the indictment was, two years imprisonment, with a fine to each of the proprietors of five hundred pounds. Into prison they accordingly went.

For some time his abode was of a disagreeable character, and tended to undermine his health; but getting a more airy apartment, he papered it as a bower of roses, cultivated a small garden connected with it, read, wrote, and received visits from Moore, Byron, Cawden Clarke, Lamb, Shelley, and other eminent and intellectual friends. To his imprisonment he owes his first acquaintance with the latter poet. And well may he pride in it, and glory in it, for that alone was worth a life-time to accomplish. The friendship of Shelley !-in itself sounds like footsteps on the ladder of immortality. The venerable Bentham also honored the prisoner with a visit. Here, too, he wrote a portion of Rimini, and a masque on the downfall of Napoleon, the Descent of Liberty. His time was thus happily filled up, and he contrived to make himself comfortable and cheerful, notwithstanding the presence of that interloper-illness. The Story of Rimini was published in 1816. The tory critics, as usual, assailed it, but a sentence of Rogers to him repaid him for all their rancor. Meeting him shortly after its publication, Rogers told him “ he had just left a lady in tears over it.” Towards the close of the year 1821, Leigh Hunt and his family started for Italy, being invited to start a journal with Byron and Shelley. The Examiner was declining, and Mr. Hunt being in ill-health, he combined speculation with the hope of recovery, and so set out to gain his health, and friends to the cause of freedom, in Italy, if possible. Every reader of Byron knows all about the failure of the publication they started, and the mournful but grand death of Shelley, and the burning of his remains according to the spiritual old custom.

Every great poet should be so burnt after death in every land, and leave not a vestige of his bones behind. Who does not tremble at the sacrilege performed some years back on the remains of Milton, when some arch-fiend dragged the locks from his sainted head, and otherwise mutilated the world-loved form, that he might have a “something of Milton's ?" Why not buy his “ Paradise Lost ?" Better his body had been burnt generations ago, than remain to receive the awards of civilization so. Who that has ever read the Deserted Village, or Vicar of Wakefield, does not feel insulted at the indignities offered the tomb of Goldsmith not long since?

The remains of great poets should be reduced to ashes, and their works alone be their monument and their remembrance. It carries out the idea of their lives too_and seems like a flash across the earth; like inspiration, whence no one can tell; but it is there a living blaze—a sun standing still. The ceremony which followed the finding of Shelley's body is finely told. In Italy, Mr. Hunt lived at Leghorn, Genoa, Pisa, Florence, Maiano tells us stories of Byron and Madame Guiccioli-how the former wrote his Don Juan-up late at nights, under the influence of gin and water,' and how the latter was like one of Chaucer's heroines, and had the handsomest nose he ever saw of its kind. His descriptions of the cities and

towns he passed through are admirably sketched, and colored with much effect. One can imagine he sees the white houses of Pisa, and gazes down the Arno, from one of its three bridges.

The Liberal did not succeed beyond four numbers. The writers in it were Byron, Hazlitt, and Hunt, and Shelley's posthumous translation of May-day Night, from Faust, appeared in it. Hunt wrote a considerable portion of it: but, though on friendly terms, " their cordiality did not increase.” Byron was vain, and Hunt was rather inclined to obstinacy, certainly to independence, and did not yield that deference which the former thought he had a right to expect. The journal did not succeed either, as Byron expected, and instead of working it energetically, he grew cold on the subject, and so it died, not without making a great noise and some disturbance in the literary world. On the death of the Liberal, Hunt removed to Florence, and contributed articles to a new publication of his brother's, The Literary Examiner, and translated the Bacchus in Tuscany, of Redi, into English ; it fell dead from the press. At Maiano he wrote essays under the title of the Wishing Cap, in the Examiner, which formed the germ of his books called the Town, and Men, Women and Books. In Florence he also projected a magazine, to be selected from the magazines of the day in England, but the idea died of want of nourishment from the Florentine authorities. At Maiano he wrote another work, which has not yet been given to the public, though prepared for publication, and in the author's mind is the least faulty of his works; it is termed, Christianism; or Belief and Unbelief Reconciled. Returning to England, after a residence in Italy of more than two years, he took up his position among the old haunts, and dived into the literary sea again, buffeting and swimming and keeping himself over water ever since. He has been constantly before the public since that time, and his life is linked with his works, of which the Companion, a book of essays, and a collection of his poems, are the best known, with his books of criticisms and selections, entitled, Imagination and Fancy; Wit and Humor; Stories from the Italian Poets ; The Palfrey ; A Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla. He has, besides, from time to time, written a daily critical paper, called The Tatler-written in the True Sun. “ Contributed to the Westminster Review, 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.” Some of the essays from the London Journal have been collected, and are popular under the title of the Seer ; also the Romances of Real Life from the same publication ; but the author informs us, “ the reputation, as usual, was too late for the profit," and that they do not belong to him. In the Repository, Blue Stocking Revels was published; it is a sort of female feast of the poets. Since, he has projected many things, and written much that has not been published, among which are several dramatic compositions ; and much anxiety, and the precarious nature of his life, was relieved by a pension from the government. His latter days have not prospered, and though having written much and well, profit has not heaped any benefits on him—too often the case with our best authors. His works are popular, but have passed from his hands. His plays, with one exception, he could not get brought on the stage—that exception succeeded, and brought him (£200) one thousand dollars—for many reasons given by actors and managers. Looking at his life, it was one full of VOL. XXVII-NO. V.

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friendly recollections, though fraught with much adversity. He fought through it manfully, and in his old age reposes under the shadow of the pension list, and the sunshine of a good and healthy reputation.

The auto-biography is admirably written-easy, racy, abounding with sketches and anecdotes. Indeed, it is not more his own life than that of the lives of the wits of his day, authors, actors and musicians. The sketches of Byron, Moore, Shelley, Keats, Lamb, Coleridge, Carlyle, and of the Kembles, Siddons, Bannisters, Mundens, Mathews and Ellistons, are full of spirit, and are quite a history of those times. This is the chief charm in the work. His own part of it, or that part relating to himself, is free from egotism, always even-tempered, wiping off old differences, strengthening later friendships, reconciling ideas, or making people and himself understand each other and be friendly. His auto-criticism is remarkably candid, and his criticisms in general are peculiar for a fine conception of the beautiful and humorous, a very pleasing, if not profound sense of perfection, and so frank as to be winning. The parts relating to his residence on the continent, are exquisite pictures of Italian life and scenery, and gives him room to talk on his favorite topic-the poets and flowers and birds of a country—always turning every little thing to the poetic side of human nature. Altogether, the book is a genial, instructive, and hearty companion,

LORD CHESTERFIELD. The idea that first enters the mind when one sees the name of Chesterfield, is that of a man of fashion, cold, formal, with no natural feeling, or else that feeling carefully smothered and concealed ; in fact, a heartless man of the world. How just this may be,-how deserving he may be of the character thus ascribed to him,-has been the subject of much dispute. It is not our present purpose, however, either to defend or assail his views of men and things which are set forth in the well-known "Letters to his Son." Though his name will probably live in the memories of men, chiefly as the author of these “ Letters," and as the founder of the Chesterfieldian school of education and manners, yet it was not for these that he was known among his cotemporaries. He was no Beau Brummel in the gay circles of Paris, in foreign courts, or in the House of Lords. His reputation was founded upon a different basis from that of a dancing-master, nor did it hang upon so slender a thread as the novelty and grace of his cravat-tie. It was as a gentleman of refinement and education, that he was admired and courted in Paris; it was as a skilful and accomplished diplomatist, that he was sent to the Hague ; and it was as a graceful and elegant orator, a profound and liberal statesman, and a firm and unflinching friend to his country's best interests, that he was known in Parliament. Nor did his notoriety in public life arise merely from that wilful opposition to the measures proposed by the crown, by which many weak minds hope to make themselves known and felt. His opposition (whenever he did oppose) was high-minded and honorable, and his merits were duly appreciated by his opponents, who bestowed upon him the Lord Lieutenancy of Ireland, and an important Secretaryship. And his actions and course