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tering bride, and airy hopes his children." He was appointed by the Duke of Chandos tutor to his son; but his character was like Henry Fielding's, as described by Lady Montague; give him his leg of mutton and bottle of wine, and in the very thick of calamity he would live happily for the time being. Embarrassments arising from becoming security for others pressed heavily on him; he lost his good name, which made him poor indeed, and finally became the inmate of a jail and the first room his gifted son, Leigh Hunt, had any recollection of was a prison. His habits had now become inveterate, and the promises of amendment made to his wife seemed to produce no good fruit. To the very last he had a great fondness for sermons, and he daily read the Scriptures;-there was no hypocrisy in this for it was to him the book of books. These many trials of life must have fallen severely on Mrs Hunt's affectionate heart, but even she had glimpses of sunshine, when the little room having been put in order, the fire brightened up, and coffee placed on the table, her husband with his fine voice and unequivocal enjoyment, would read some sermon of Saurin or Barrows. This to her was the height of enjoyment; she had but two accomplishments, but these two were the best of all, a love of nature and of books. Nevertheless this man, with all his imprudence and unfitness for the duties of life, was humane, full of candor, free spoken, liberal to the virtues and weaknesses of his fellowmen. The mother was most exemplary in all the duties of life, and labored anxiously to keep the family comfortable and together

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While her tried husband and her children slept."

Leigh Hunt says he can never forget her looks when she used to come to the school where he was, to see him, "with that weary hang of the head and melancholy smile." Suffering had softened her heart to the miseries of her race, and it is related of her, which ought to embalm her in the memories of all, that on a severe winter's day she was accosted in the street by a woman, feeble and ill clad, who asked for charity. Mrs. Hunt with tears in her eyes beckoned her up a

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gateway, and taking off her flannel petticoat gave it to her. It is supposed that a cold which ensued fixed the rheumatism on her for life. Was not that an angelic act, gentle reader, and do you not feel a moisture in your eye and a pressure about your heart? In her decay her great pleasure was to lie on a sofa, and look at the setting sun which she likened to the door of heaven, and fancied that her lost children were there waiting for her. Both she and her husband had become Unitarians and republicans. Leigh Hunt has descended with increase his parents' virtues. Some of his earliest writing is to be found in the "News," published in London in 1805. He was the dramatic critic for that paper, and established an entire new system of criticism. Before this period nothing could be more meagre and unsatisfactory than theatrical notices. The audience were generally more observed and commented on than the performers, especially if there were a number of lords and ladies gracing the boxes. Hunt commenced with the resolution to become acquainted with no actor or actress, so that he might be untrammeled, and that personal friendships might not interfere to warp his judgment. He was filled with the hope of exciting a laudable ambition in the actors, who had hitherto been, for the most part, a mere mark for scandal or ill-judged praise. His acquaintance with plays was considerable, and he joined with this a fondness for theatrical amusements. His remarks are excellent and well written, and the evanescent and fragile beauties of fine acting are dwelt upon with a delicate tact. 'Iris had dipt the woof." "As to the contempt that has been cast upon histrionic genius, it is not worthy an argument. If the knowledge of ourselves be the height of wisdom, is that art contemptible which conveys this knowledge to us in the most pleasing manner? If the actor is inferior to the true dramatist, if he merely tells others what has been told himself, does the officer deserve no praise who issues the instructions of his general with accuracy, with spirit, with an ardor that shows he feels them? For my part I have the greatest respect for an art which has been admired by the greatest critics, ancient and modern, which Horace did not think it beneath his genius to advise, Addison to commend, and Voltaire to practice as well as protect. That genius cannot be despicable in the eyes of

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the most ardent for fame, which without anything to show to posterity for its reason, has handed down to us the memory of Esop, Roscius, Baron and Le Couvreur, and which will transmit to our descendants the names of Garrick, of Oldfield, and of Siddons.

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It has been denied that actors sympathize with the feelings they represent, and among other critics Dr. Johnson is supposed to have denied it. The Doctor was accustomed to talk very loudly at the play upon divers subjects, even when his friend Garrick was electrifying the house with his most wonderful scenes, and the worst of it was that he usually sat in one of the stage-boxes: the actor remonstrated with him one night after the representation, and complained that the talking disturbed his feelings: Pshaw, David,' replied the critic, Punch has no feelings.' But the Doctor was fond of saying his good things as well as lesser geniuses, and to say a good thing is not always a true one or one that is intended to be true. To call his friend a puppet, to give so contemptuous an appellation to a man whose powers he was at other times happy to respect, and whose death he lamented as having eclipsed the gayety of nations,' must be considered as a familiar pleasantry rather than a betrayed opinion.

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"It appears to me that the countenance cannot express a single passion perfectly, unless the passion is first felt; it is easy to grin representations of joy, and to pull down the muscles of the countenance as an imitation of sorrow, but a keen observer of human nature and its effects will easily detect the cheat; there are nerves and muscles requisite to expression that will not answer the will on common occasions; but to represent a passion with truth, every nerve and muscle should be in its proper action, or the representation becomes weak and confused, melancholy is mistaken for grief, and pleasure for delight; it is from this feebleness of emotion so many dull actors endeavor to supply passion with vehemence of action and voice, as jugglers are talkative and bustling to beguile scrutiny.

"One of the first studies of an actor should be to divest himself of his audience, to be occupied not with the persons he is amusing, but with the persons he is assisting in the representation. But of all simple requisites to the mimetic art, this public abstraction seems to be

the least attained. Our good performers are too fond of knowing they are good ones, and of acknowledging the admiration of the spectators by glances of important expression: our bad performers are vainer still, because ignorance is always vain and because, not being able to enter into the interest of the scene, they must look for interest elsewhere. These men in reality never speak of one another, but to the pit and to the boxes; they are thinking not what the person spoken to will reply, but what the audience think of their speeches; they never speak soliloquy, because soliloquies are addressed to one's self, and they always address their solitary meditations to the house: they adjust their neckcloths; they display their pocket-handkerchiefs and their attitudes; they cast sidelong glances, and say to themselves, there's a lady in the 'stage-box contemplating my shape! The critics in the pit are astonished at my ease. My character sits well on me and so do my small-clothes.' But let us imagine the scene, in which this extravagance is performed to be a real room enclosed in your walls, for such a room the actor himself ought to imagine it. What then is he looking at all this time? He is casting side glances at a wainscot, or ogling a corner cupboard.

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We certainly imagine that the fame of Garrick as an actor has been injurious to his reputation as a writer. All the world were capable of admiring him in the former character and therefore they talked more of it. People are indeed unwilling to believe that a man can excel in two things at a time: when Voltaire produced his first comedy, he carefully concealed the author's name because he had succeeded in tragedy. But no man had better opportunities of studying the manners of the lively world than Garrick, and no man entered it with a mind more eager of observation: it was the business of his life to study mankind, and his universal powers of imitation prove that he succeeded. It cannot be denied that an universal mimic, a man who exhibited the features of human life in all their vivacity and variety of expression, must have well understood the human mind; a great actor does not copy faces like a portrait painter; he makes a countenance for the mind, and not, like an artist studies to make a mind for the countenance. It was said of Garrick by Johnson, who was not eager to praise

him, nor anybody else, that he was the first man in the world for sprightly conversation; and to pay a compliment to a man's powers of conversation, is to pay a compliment not only to his variety of information but to his knowledge of the mind: he who does not understand human nature will find it difficult to support and to please in a long conversation."

The stage affords the most lasting and vivid of our impressions.

It is a cheerful and instructive amusement, it is a sort of Aladdin's lamp of youth. The green curtain at that period shuts out nearly all our world, and at the tinkling of a bell, and as if by magic, it is drawn up, and glowing scenesfinely-dressed men and women, with wit and sense falling like pearls from their lips-the graceful wave of feathers, the fluttering of fans-the glancing of bright eyes-afford food for the enraptured sight

and ear.

"If spleen fogs rise at close of day
I clear my evening with a play,
Or to some concert take my way.
The company, the shine of lights,
The scenes of humor, music's flights,
Adjust and set the soul to rights."

GREEN'S SPLEEN.

And good-natured Farquhar, he who threw his glorious comedies" carelessly into the world," calling them two or three little trifles, thought that the ladies had a more inspiring and triumphant air in the boxes than anywhere else, with their best clothes, best looks, shining jewels, the treasure of the world in a ring. The stage is the only true mirror of life; it is better than a mirror, for we see not only the face, but the throbbing heart laid bare with its affections, hopes, and fears, and the tortuous windings of art. Conversing about a favorite performer or play, and comparing notes as it were with a friend is most delightful-especially those we have seen in by-gone days. Time and memory have softened and harmonized the colors, and we dwell upon its rich and subdued tone with a lingering fondness. The late Miss Vincent was the best performer (male or female) that I have ever seen. She died young, but she left an indelible impression on those who had the good fortune to see her. Beautiful and gifted with genius, she trod the stage as if born for it. Her voice was sweet and clear, and she had a light and elegant figure; but her great

power consisted in her total surrender of herself to the character she was performing. For the time being she was not Miss Vincent, but Juliet, or Miss Hardcastle or Amanthis. Churchill might have complimented her as he did a Vincent of his day.

"Lo! Vincent comes, with simple grace arrayed

She laughs at paltry arts, and scorns parade."

She forgot the audience-in truth she faith in nature, and trusted to her imnever looked at them. She had implicit pulses on the stage, which always gave seemed unconscious of her strength, and her acting a freshness and beauty. She auditors. Her modesty in this respect of the hold she had on the feelings of her was duly appreciated. "She pleased by Hardcastle, her gayety and archness were hiding all attempts to please." As Miss inimitable, and she infused a spirit of youth and happiness into it that would have pleased Goldsmith. Peace to her

ashes.

Hunt is fond of refined society, and no one can bring a larger supply of happy materials to make a " July's day short as December," or cause a winter's night to glide unheeded and happily away. He fills the head of a table gracefully and can tell a good story, and relishes one, and, like Will Honeycomb in the Spectacordially, has elegant, frank manners, and laughs easily; and, with the Vicar of tor, can smile when one speaks to him, Wakefield, he is by nature an admirer of happy human faces. His West Indian veins. His eye is bright, and a bon mot blood runs like quicksilver through his quivers about his sincere lips. His disposition is most affectionate, and his kindfew of the world's goods, he has surness untiring. Though blessed with but rounded himself with a band of loving friends.

"It is most straunge and wonderful to

find

So milde humanity and perfect gentle mynd."-SPENSER.

The mere reader of Hunt's books loves the man, and it is no wonder that those who live in the sunny atmosphere he creates about him should wear him in their " heart of hearts." To read his writings is like listening to the gentle voice of wisdom and charity. He leads you through quiet, grassy lanes; you feel the free air blowing against your cheek,

and the humble flowers that adorn the field and wayside in their meek beauty, have a fragrance and loveliness before unnoticed. If you sit with him at home, he will discourse on some favorite author, "one of great nature's stereotypes," and point out his beauties with a fond appreciation," with some sweet relish was for got before," with a wish to make all the world as wealthy as he is in the admiration and comfort they afford. He is alive to the poetry and beauty of human nature, and what lies about us in our daily paths, clear and inspiring to him, but hidden from many eyes by gross films, the product of worldly habits and customs. He is forcible and direct both in his poetry and prose. Cowley says that for a man to write well, it is necessary for him to be in a good humor, and this is one of the secrets of Hunt's success. He makes us behold the good and beautiful in every

thing, tenderly takes note of our faults and failings, so that we become tolerant towards those of others. The friendship we have for Hunt is a sure proof of his kindliness, and the sincerity of his writings. He has suffered much, but he seems as full of hope and trustingness now as in the days of his youth. Nature and man still have undying, cordial sympathy. This is genuine religion. His verses are very fine, and worked up from the simplest materials: read Rimini, for instance, "With subtil pensil peinted was this storie."-CHAUCER.

The bits of scenery in it are beautifully described, with a truth that brings them as palpably before you as if you were looking at a picture of Waterloo's. I observe that in a late edition he has changed the opening of the poem, to free the landscapes from northern inconsistencies:

1819.

The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May,
Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay-
A morn the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about-
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze-
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil;
And all the scene in short, sky, earth and sea,

Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

1844.

'Tis morn, and never did a lovelier day

Salute Ravenna from its leafy bay:

For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,

Have left a sparkling welcome for the light;

And April, with his white hands wet with flowers,
Dazzles the bride-maids, looking from the towers:
Green vineyards and fair orchards, far and near,
Glitter with drops, and heaven is sapphire clear,
And the lark rings it, and the pine-trees glow,
And odors from the citrons come and go,
And all the landscape-earth, and sky and sea-
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

Hunt is an exquisite judge of poetry, and his criticisms on Keats' poems, at a time when

"The tender page with horny fists was

galled."-DRYDEN's Religio Laici. were stamped with fearlessness, judgment, and a thorough insight into their beauties and faults, which the world now

acknowledges. As to his politics, I believe he never went farther than to insist on the inherent right of the people to choose any form of government that best pleased them. He certainly did not believe in the enormous faith of many made for one," nor in the bloody legacy of right divine. These heresies were sufficient for the Tory magazines, and

they opened their batteries upon him. They heaped up falsehoods mountain high. Governments built on the model of that of Paraguay, as described by Cacambo, in Voltaire's Candide, they heartily eulogized.

"C'est une chose admirable que ce gouvernement. Le Royaume a déjà plus de trois cent lieues de diametre ; il est divisé en trente provinces: los Padres y ont tout, et les peuples rien, c'est le chef d'œuvre de la raison et de la justice." Nor were they better pleased with his poems, criticisms and essays. They took out their rules and compasses, and measured, but found everything out of all plumb, quite irregular, not one of the angles at the four corners was a right one. There is a pleasant description of Leigh Hunt in the Pen and Ink Sketches. The author is describing the celebrated men he met at a breakfast party at Samuel Rogers'. "Leigh Hunt was amongst the earliest arrivais. He was about the average height, and looked somewhat older than I should have supposed, but anxiety and adversity had done their work on his frame. Unlike Rogers, his life has been one of privation and endurance. His hair was parted on the very centre of his forehead, and carefully combed towards either side. Once it had been raven black, but now it was so thickly streaked with the frost work of mental toil and time, that it appeared of iron gray. His eyes were dark and vivacious, and beamed with that kindly expression which one may be sure Leigh Hunt wears who reads his delightful works. There was a fullness about the lower part of his face, which rather marred the general pleasant expression, but his mouth was indicative of much amiability of disposition, his cheeks were whiskerless, which gave somewhat of a boyish air to his appearance, and this was increased by his manner of wearing his collar, which was ample, and turned down à la Byron. There was a slight stoop of his shoulders, that bend which is almost always a characteristic of studious men, and his dress was ill fitted, and hung ungracefully about a spare and somewhat attenuated figure. So much for the author of Rimini, who, as soon as he had greeted the master of the house, strolled towards the book shelves."

As a specimen how Hunt makes the best of everything, and can even throw elegance on the cheerless walls of a prison, I copy the following from his autobiography:

"I papered the walls with a trellis of

roses; I had the ceiling colored with clouds and sky; the barred windows were screened with Venetian blinds; and when iny book-cases were set up, with their busts and flowers, and a piano forte had made its appearance, perhaps there was not a handsomer room on that side of the water. I took a pleasure when a stranger knocked at the door to see him come in and stare about him. The surprise, on issuing from the Borough and passing through the avenue of a jail, was dramatic. Charles Lamb declared there was no other such room, except in a fairy tale. But I had another surprise, which was a garden. There was a little yard outside the room, railed off from another belonging to the with green palings, adorned it with a trelneighboring ward. This yard I shut in lis, bordered it with a thick bed of earth from a nursery, and even contrived to have a grass plat. The earth I filled with flowers and young trees. There was an apple tree, from which we managed to get a pudding the second year. As to my flowers, they were allowed to be perfect. A poet from Derbyshire-Mr. Moore-told me he had seen no such heart's-ease. I bought the Parnaso Italiano' while in prison, and used often to think of a passage in it while looking at this miniature piece of horticul

ture:

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Here I wrote and read in fine weather, sometimes under an awning. In autumn my trellises were hung with scarlet runners, which added to the flowery investment. I used to shut my eyes in my armchair and affect to think myself hundreds of miles off. But my triumph was issuing forth of a morning. A wicket out of the garden led into the large one belonging to the prison; the latter was only for vegetables, but it contained a cherry tree, which My friends

I saw twice in blossom.

were allowed to be with me till ten o'clock at night, when the under-turnkey, a young man, with his lantern, and much ambitious gentility of deportment, came to see them out.

I believe we scattered an urbanity about the prison till then unknown. Even W. H., (Mr. Hazlitt,) who there first did me the pleasure of a visit, would stand interchanging amenities at the threshhold, which I had great difficulty in making him pass. I know not which kept his hat off I to the diffident cutter up of dukes and with the greater pertinacity of deferencekings, or he to the amazing prisoner and invalid, who issued out of a bower of roses. There came T. B., (my old friend and

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