Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries
Portraits—the Author's Father.
LORD BYRON
AND
SOME OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES;
WITH
RECOLLECTIONS OF
THE AUTHOR’S LIFE,
AND OF HIS
VISIT TO ITALY.
BY LEIGH HUNT.
“It is for slaves to lie, and for freemen to speak truth.
“In the examples, which I here bring in, of what I have heard,
read, done, or said, I have forbid myself to dare to alter even the most light and
indifferent circumstances. My conscience does not falsify one tittle. What my ignorance
may do, I cannot say.” Montaigne.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1828.
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RECOLLECTIONS
OF
THE AUTHOR’S LIFE.
FAMILY PORTRAITS.—CHARACTER OF THE AUTHOR’S FATHER.
My ancestors, on the father’s side, were Tories and
Cavaliers, who fled from the tyranny of Cromwell,
and settled in Barbadoes. For several generations, himself included,
they were clergymen. My grandfather was Rector of
St. Michael’s, in Bridgetown,
Barbadoes. He was a good-natured man, and recommended the famous
Lauder to the mastership of the free-school
there; influenced, no doubt, partly by his pretended repentance, and partly by sympathy
with his Toryism. Lauder is said to have been discharged for
misconduct. I never heard that; but I have heard that his appearance was decent, and that
he had a wooden leg: which is an anti-climax befitting his history. My grandfather was
admired and beloved by his parishioners, for the manner in which he discharged his duties.
He died at an early age, in consequence of a fever taken in the hot and damp air, while
officiating incessantly at burials ![]()
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during a mortality. His wife was
an O’Brien, very proud of her descent from the kings of Ireland.
She was as good-natured and beloved as her husband, and very assiduous in her attentions to
the negroes and to the poor, for whom she kept a set of medicines, like my Lady Bountiful. They had two children besides my father;
Anne Courthope, who died unmarried; and
Elizabeth, wife of Thomas Dayrell, Esq. of Barbadoes, father by a first
marriage of the barrister of that name. I mention both of these ladies, because they will
come among my portraits.
To these their children, the worthy rector and his wife were a little too
indulgent. When my father was to go to the American
Continent to school, the latter dressed up her boy in a fine suit of laced clothes, such as
we see on the little gentlemen in Hogarth, but so
splendid and costly, that when the good pastor beheld him, he was moved to utter an
expostulation. Objection, however, soon gave way before the pride of all parties; and my
father set off for school, ready spoilt, with plenty of money to spoil him more.
He went to college at Philadelphia, and became the
scape-grace who smuggled in the wine, and bore the brunt of the tutors. My father took the degree of Master of Arts both at
Philadelphia and New York. When he spoke
the farewell oration on leaving college, two young ladies fell in love with him, one of
whom he afterwards married. He was fair and handsome, with delicate features, a small
aquiline nose, and blue eyes. To a graceful address he joined a remarkably fine voice,
which he modulated with great effect. It was in reading, with this voice, the poets and
other classics of England, that he completed the conquest of my mother’s heart. He used to spend his evenings in this manner with her
and her family,—a noble way of courtship; and my grandmother ![]()
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became so hearty in his cause, that she succeeded in carrying it against her husband, who
wished his daughter to marry a wealthy neighbour.
My father was intended, I believe, to
carry on the race of clergymen, as he afterwards did; but he went, in the first instance,
into the law. The Americans united the practice of attorney and barrister. My father
studied the law under articles to one of the chief persons in the profession; and
afterwards practised with distinction himself. At this period (by which time all my
brothers, now living, were born) the Revolution broke out; and he entered with so much zeal
into the cause of the British Government, that besides pleading for Loyalists with great
fervour at the bar, he wrote pamphlets equally full of party warmth, which drew on him the
popular odium. His fortunes then came to a crisis in America. Early one morning, a great
concourse of people appeared before his house. He came out,—or was brought. They put
him into a cart prepared for the purpose, (conceive the anxiety of his wife!) and, after
parading him about the streets, were joined by a party of the Revolutionary soldiers with
drum and fife. The multitude then went with him to the house of Dr. Kearsley, a staunch Tory, who shut up the windows, and endeavoured to
prevent their getting in. The Doctor had his hand pierced by a bayonet, as it entered
between the shutters behind which he had planted himself. He was dragged out, and put into
the cart all over blood; but he lost none of his intrepidity; for he answered all their
reproaches and outrage with vehement reprehensions; and by way of retaliation on the
“Rogue’s March,” struck up “God save the King.” My father
gave way as little as the Doctor. He would say nothing that was dictated to him, nor
renounce a single opinion; but, on the other hand, he maintained a ![]()
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tranquil air, and endeavoured to persuade his companion not to add to their irritation.
This was to no purpose. Dr. Kearsley continued infuriate, and more
than once fainted from loss of blood and the violence of his feelings. The two Loyalists
narrowly escaped tarring and feathering. A tub of tar, which had been set in a conspicuous
place in one of the streets for that purpose, was overturned by an officer intimate with
our family. My father, however, did not escape entirely from personal injury. One of the
stones thrown by the mob gave him such a severe blow on the head, as not only laid him
swooning in the cart, but dimmed his sight for life, so as to oblige him from that time to
wear spectacles. At length, after being carried through every street in Philadelphia, the
two captives were deposited, in the evening, in a prison in Market-street. What became of
Dr. Kearsley, I cannot say. My father, by means of a large sum of
money given to the sentinel who had charge of him, was enabled to escape at midnight. He
went immediately on board a ship in the Delaware, that belonged to my grandfather, and was
bound for the West Indies. She dropped down the river that same night; and my father went
first to Barbadoes, and afterwards to England, where he settled.
My mother was to follow my father as soon as possible, which she was not able to do
for many months. The last time she had seen him, he was a lawyer and a partisan, going out
to meet an irritated populace. On her arrival in England, she beheld him in a pulpit, a
clergyman, preaching tranquillity. When my father came over, he found it impossible to
continue his profession as a lawyer. Some actors, who heard him read, advised him to go on
the stage; but he was too proud for that, and went into the church. He was ordained by the
celebrated Lowth, then Bishop of London; and he soon
became so popular that ![]()
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the Bishop sent for him, and remonstrated
against his preaching so many charity sermons. He said it was ostentatious in a clergyman,
and that he saw his name in too many advertisements. My father thought it strange, but
acquiesced. It is true, he preached a great many of these sermons. I am told, that for a
whole year he did nothing else: and perhaps there was something in his manner a little
startling to the simplicity of the Church of England. I remember when he came to that part
of the Litany where the reader prays for deliverance “in the hour of death and at
the day of judgment,” he used to make a pause at the word
“death,” and drop his voice on the rest of the sentence. The effect was
striking; but repetition must have hurt it. I am afraid it was a little theatrical. His
delivery, however, was so much admired by those who thought themselves the best judges,
that Thomas Sheridan, father of the late Sheridan, came up to him one day after service, in
the vestry, and complimented him on having profited so well from his Treatise on Reading
the Liturgy. My father was obliged to tell him, that he had never seen it.
I do not know whether it was Lowth,
but it was some Bishop, to whom my father one day, in
the midst of a warm discussion, being asked “if he knew who he was?”
replied, with a bow, “Yes, my Lord; dust and ashes.” Doubtless the new
clergyman was warm and imprudent. In truth, he made a great mistake when he entered the
profession. By the nature of the tenure, it was irretrievable; and his whole life after was
a series of errors, arising from the unsuitability of his position. He was fond of
divinity; but it was as a speculator, and not as a dogmatist, or one who takes upon trust.
He was ardent in the cause of Church and State; but here he speculated too, and soon began
to modify his opinions, which got him the ill-will of the Go-![]()
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vernment. He delighted his audiences in the pulpit; so much so, that he had crowds of
carriages at the door. One of his congregations had an engraving made of him; and a lady of
the name of Cooling, who was member of another, left him by will the sum of £500, as a
testimony of the pleasure and advantage she had derived from his discourses. But
unfortunately, after delighting his hearers in the pulpit, he would delight some of them a
little too much over the table. He was neither witty nor profound; but he had all the
substitutes for wit that animal spirits could supply: he was shrewd, spirited, and showy;
could flatter without grossness; had stories to tell of lords whom he knew; and when the
bottle was to circulate, it did not stand with him. All this was dangerous to a West Indian
who had an increasing family, and was to make his way in the Church. It was too much for
him; and he added another to the list of those who, though they might suffice equally for
themselves and others in a more considerate and contented state of society, and seem born
to be the delights of it, are only lost and thrown out in a system of things, which, by
going upon the ground of individual aggrandizement, compels dispositions of a more sociable
and reasonable nature either to become parties concerned, or be ruined in the refusal. It
is doubtless incumbent on a husband and father to be careful under all circumstances; and
it is very easy for most people to talk of the necessity of being so, and to recommend it
to others, especially when they have been educated to that habit. Let those fling the first
stone, who, with real inclination and talent for other things, (for the inclination may not
be what they take it for,) confine themselves industriously to the duties prescribed them.
There are more victims to errors committed by society themselves, than society choose to
suppose. But I grant that a man is either bound to tell them so, ![]()
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or
to do as they do. My father unluckily had neither uneasiness enough in his blood, nor
imagination enough in lieu of it, to enter sufficiently into the uneasiness of others, and
so grapple vigorously with his fortune for their sakes; neither, on the other hand, had he
enough energy of speculation to see what could be done towards rendering the world a little
wiser: and as to the pride of cutting a figure a little above his neighbours, which so many
men mistake for a better principle of action, he could dispense with that. As it was, he
should have been kept at home in Barbadoes. He was a true exotic,
and ought not to have been transplanted. He might have preached there, and quoted Horace, and been gentlemanly, and drank his claret, and no
harm done. But, in a bustling, commercial state of society, where the enjoyment, such as it
is, consists in the bustle, he was neither very likely to succeed, nor to meet with a good
construction, nor to end his pleasant ways with pleasing either the world or himself.
It was in the pulpit of Bentinck Chapel,
Lisson Green, Paddington, that my
mother found her husband officiating. He published a volume of sermons preached there, in
which there is little but elegance of diction and a graceful morality. His delivery was the
charm; and, to say the truth, he charmed every body but the owner of the chapel, who looked
upon rent as by far the most eloquent production of the pulpit. The speculation ended with
the preacher’s being horribly in debt. Friends, however, were lavish of their
assistance. Three of my brothers were sent to school; the other, at her earnest entreaty,
went to live (which he did for some years) with Mrs.
Spencer, a sister of Sir Richard
Worsley, and a delicious little old woman, the delight of all the children
of her acquaintance. My father and mother took breath, in the mean time, under the friendly
roof of Mr. West, who had married her aunt. The aunt ![]()
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and niece were much
of an age, and both fond of books. Mrs. West, indeed, ultimately
became a martyr to them; for the physician declared that she lost the use of her limbs by
sitting indoors.
From Newman Street my father went to live in
Hampstead Square, whence he occasionally used to go and preach
at Southgate. The then Duke of
Chandos had a seat in the neighbourhood of Southgate.
He heard my father preach, and was so much pleased with him, that he requested him to
become tutor to his nephew, Mr. Leigh; which my
father did, and remained with his Grace’s family for several years. The Duke was
Master of the Horse, and originated the famous epithet of “heaven-born
minister,” applied to Mr. Pitt, which occasioned
a good deal of raillery. I have heard my father describe him as a man of great sweetness of
nature, and good-breeding. Mr. Leigh, who died not long since, Member
of Parliament for Addlestrop, was son of the Duke’s sister,
Lady Caroline. He had a taste for poetry, which
has been inherited by his son and heir, Mr. Chandos
Leigh; and, like him, published a volume of poems. He was always very kind
to my father, and was, I believe, a most amiable man. It was from him I received my name. I
was born at Southgate in a house now a boarding-school and called
Eagle-Hall: a magnificent name for a “preacher’s
modest mansion;” but I suppose it did not bear it then.
To be tutor in a ducal family is one of the roads to a
bishoprick. My father was thought to be in the highest way to it. He was tutor in
the house not only of a Duke, but of a State-officer, for whom the King had a personal regard. His manners were of the highest order; his
principles in Church and State as orthodox, to all appearance, as could be wished; and he
had given up flourishing prospects in America for their sake: but his West Indian
temperament spoiled all. He also, as he ![]()
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became acquainted with the
Government, began to doubt its perfections; and the King, whose minuteness of information
respecting the personal affairs of his subjects is well known, was doubtless prepared with
questions which the Duke was not equally prepared to answer, and perhaps did not hazard.
My father, meanwhile, was getting more and more distressed. He removed to
Hampstead a second time: from Hampstead
he crossed the water; and the first room I have any recollection of, is a prison.
Mr. West (which was doubly kind in a man by nature
cautious and timid) again and again took the liberty of representing my father’s circumstances to the King. It is well known that this artist enjoyed the confidence of his
Majesty in no ordinary degree. The King would converse half a day at a time with him, while
he was painting. His Majesty said he would speak to the bishops; and again, on a second
application, he said my father should be provided for. My father himself also presented a
petition; but all that was ever done for him, was the putting his name on the Loyalist
Pension List for a hundred-a year;—a sum which he not only thought extremely
inadequate for the loss of seven or eight times as much in America, a cheaper country, but
which he felt to be a poor acknowledgment even for the active zeal he had evinced, and the
things he had said and written; especially as it came late, and he was already involved.
Small as it was, he was obliged to mortgage it; and from this time till the arrival of some
relations from the West Indies, several years afterwards, he underwent a series of
mortifications and distresses, not without great reason for self-reproach. Unfortunately
for others, it might be said of him, what Lady Mary
Wortley said of her kinsman, Henry
Fielding, “that give him his leg of mutton and bottle of wine, and in
the very thick ![]()
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of calamity he would be happy for the time
being.” Too well able to seize a passing moment of enjoyment, he was always scheming,
never performing; always looking forward with some romantic plan which was sure to succeed,
and never put in practice. I believe he wrote more titles of non-existing books than
Rabelais. At length, he found his mistake. My poor father! He grew deeply acquainted with
prisons, and began to lose his graces and his good name, and became irritable with
conscious error, and almost took hope out of the heart that loved him, and was too often
glad to escape out of its society. Yet such an art had he of making his home comfortable
when he chose, and of settling himself to the most tranquil pleasures, that if she could
have ceased to look forward about her children, I believe, with all his faults, those
evenings would have brought unmingled satisfaction to her, when after settling the little
apartment, brightening the fire, and bringing out the coffee, my mother knew that her
husband was going to read Saurin or Barrow to her, with his fine voice, and unequivocal
enjoyment.
We thus struggled on between quiet and disturbance, between placid
readings and frightful knocks at the door, and sickness, and calamity, and hopes which
hardly ever forsook us. One of my brothers went to sea,—a great blow to my poor
mother. The next was articled to an attorney. My brother Robert became pupil to an engraver, and my brother John apprentice to Mr.
Reynell, the printer, whose kindly manners, and deep iron voice, I well
remember and respect. I had also a regard for the speaking-trumpet, which ran all the way
up his tall house, and conveyed his rugged whispers to his men. And his goodly wife, proud
of her husband’s grandfather, the Bishop;
never shall I forget how much I loved her for her portly smiles and good dinners, and ![]()
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how often she used to make me measure heights with her fair
daughter Caroline, and found me wanting; which I
thought not quite so hospitable.
As my father’s misfortunes, in
the first instance, were owing to feelings the most respected, so the causes of them
subsequently (and the reader will be good enough to keep this in mind) were not unmixed
with feelings of the kindest nature. He hampered himself greatly with becoming security for
other people; and, though unable to settle himself to any regular work, his pen was always
at the service of those who required it for memorials or other helps. As to his children,
he was healthy and sanguine, and always looked forward to being able to do something for
them; and something for them he did, if it was only in grafting his animal spirits on the
maternal stock, and setting them an example of independent thinking. But he did more. He
really took great care, considering his unbusiness-like habits, towards settling them in
some line of life. It is our faults, not his, if we have not been all so successful as we
might have been: at least, it is no more his fault than that of the West Indian blood of
which we all partake, and which has disposed all of us, more or less, to a certain aversion
from business. And if it may be some vanity in us, at least it is no
dishonour to our turn of mind, to hope, that we may have been the means of
circulating more knowledge and entertainment in society, than if he had attained the
bishoprick he looked for, and left us ticketed and labelled among the acquiescent.
Towards the latter part of his life, my father’s affairs were greatly retrieved by the help of his sister,
Mrs. Dayrell, who came over with a property from
Barbadoes. My aunt was generous; part of her property came among
us also by a marriage; and my father’s West Indian sun ![]()
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was
again warm upon him. On his sister’s death, to be sure, his struggles recommenced,
though nothing in comparison to what they had been. Recommence, however, they did; and yet
so sanguine was he in his intentions to the last, and so accustomed had my mother been to try to believe in him, and to persuade
herself she did, that, not long before she died, he made the most solemn promises of
amendment, which by chance I could not help overhearing, and which she received with a
tenderness and a tone of joy, the remembrance of which brings the tears into my eyes. My
father had one taste well suited to his profession, and in him, I used to think,
remarkable. He was very fond of sermons, which he was rarely tired of reading, or my mother
of hearing. I have mentioned the effect which these used to have upon her. When she died,
he could not bear to think she was dead; yet retaining, in the midst of his tears, his
indestructible tendency to seize on a cheering reflection, he turned his very despair into
consolation; and in saying “She is not dead, but sleeps,” I verily
believe the image became almost a literal thing with him. Besides his fondness for sermons,
he was a great reader of the Bible. His copy of it is scored with manuscript; and I believe
he read a portion of it every morning to the last, let him have been as right or as wrong
as he pleased for the rest of the day. This was not hypocrisy: it was habit, and real
fondness; though, while he was no hypocrite, he was not, I must confess, remarkable for
being explicit about himself; nor did he cease to dogmatise in a sort of official manner
upon faith and virtue, lenient as he thought himself bound to be to particular instances of
frailty. To young people, who had no secrets from him, he was especially indulgent, as I
have good reason to know. He delighted to show his sense of a candour in others, which I
believe he would have practised himself, had he been taught it early. For many years before
his death, ![]()
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he had greatly relaxed in the orthodoxy of his religious
opinions, and had totally changed his political. Both he and my mother had become
Republicans and Unitarians. They were also Universalists, and great admirers of Mr. Winchester, particularly my mother.* My father was
willing, however, to hear all sides of the question, and used to visit the chapels of the
most popular preachers of all denominations. His favourite among them, I think, was
Mr. Worthington, who preached at a chapel in
Long Acre, and had a strong natural eloquence. Politics and
divinity occupied almost all the conversation that I heard at our fire-side. It is a pity
my father had been so spoilt a child, and had got so much out of his sphere; for he could
be contented with little. He was one of the last of the gentry who retained the old fashion
of smoking. He indulged in it every night before he went to bed, which he did at an early
hour; and it was pleasant to see him sit in his tranquil and gentlemanly manner, and relate
anecdotes of “my Lord North” and the
Rockingham administration, interspersed with those
mild puffs and urbane resumptions of the pipe. How often have I thought of him under this
aspect, and longed for the state of society that might have encouraged him to be more
successful! Had he lived twenty years longer, he would have thought it was coming. He died
in the year 1809, aged fifty-seven, and was buried in the church-yard in
Bishopsgate Street. I remember they quarrelled over his coffin
for the perquisites of the candles; which put me upon a great many reflections, on him and
the world.
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* “The Universalists cannot, properly speaking, be called a
distinct sect, as they are frequently found scattered amongst various denominations.
They are so named from holding the benevolent opinion that all mankind, nay, even the
demons themselves, will be finally restored to happiness, through the mercy of Almighty
God.”—History of All Religions and Religious
Ceremonies, p. 263.
|
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Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries” in New Monthly Magazine
Vol. NS 22 (January 1828)
Gifted, too, like the subject of his Memoir, with very remarkable talents, he is much more to be relied on, both in
his choice of points of view, and in his manner of handling his subject: he is not likely
to spoil a bon-mot, an epigram, or a conversation and while he can seize all that was
really piquant about his Lordship, he is infinitely above retailing the low gossip and
garbage which same memoir-writers have done, in the true spirit of a waiting-maid or a
lacquey. He possesses, moreover, one eminent qualification for the task which he has
undertaken; he has a stern love of truth; and even his enemies will give him credit for
being uniformly consistent and honest in the expression of his opinions on all subjects. In
his present work he shows himself ready to be devoted as a martyr to Truth, (for that very
word of the book is true, no reader can doubt,) and boldly exposes himself to all the
vituperation of all the slaves who hated and attacked Lord Byron while
living, but who will now come forward with a mock display of generosity, and sympathy with
the illustrious departed, of whom they will represent Mr. Hunt as the
ungrateful reviler. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part I]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 4 (23 January 1828)
Mr. Hunt has done a bold deed
by publishing this work. We are not ourselves quite clear that he was right; but, as he is
doubtless well aware, he has at all events laid himself open to unmeasured
misrepresentation by the literary ruffians from whom he has already suffered so much. The
portion of the book which stands at the beginning, and which is alone particularly
mentioned in the title-page, refers exclusively to Lord
Byron. Mr. Hunt says, and we firmly believe him, that
he has withheld much which might have been told; but he has also told much which many will
think, or say, that he ought to have withheld. He has presented us with a totally different
view of Lord Byron's character from any that has previously appeared
in print, and this not only in general propositions, but by innumerable detailed anecdotes,
which it seems to its quite impossible not to believe, and from which it is equally
impossible not to draw very similar inferences to those which have occurred to
Mr. Hunt.
. . .
[William Jerden?],
“Review of Hunt, Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries” in Literary Gazette
No. 575 (26 January 1828)
In this quarto the author exhibits himself as a person of
considerable talent, and of much literary conceit and affectation. But his deeper offence
lies in the essence of the design itself, which appears to us to be one at which an
honourable mind would have revolted. To have gone to enjoy the hospitality of a friend and
taste the bounty of a patron, and after his death to have made that visit (for avowedly
mercenary ends) the source of a long libel upon his memory,—does seem to be very base
and unworthy. No resentment of real or fancied ill usage can excuse, far less justify, such
a proceeding; and (without referring to this particular instance, but speaking generally of
the practice, now too prevalent, of eaves-dropping and word-catching, and watching every
minute action exposed in the confidence of private life, for the purpose of book-making,)
we will say that these personal and posthumous injuries are a disgrace to their
perpetrators and to the press of the country. . . .
[Henry Southern],
“Leigh Hunt's Lord Byron” in London Magazine
Vol. NS 10 (February 1828)
Mr. Leigh Hunt
is so naturally prone to unbosom himself to the public, with whom he always in his
writings strikes up a friendly confidential intercourse, that previous to the appearance of
this work the world was well acquainted with the character of all his friends of public
notoriety—with his opinions on all possible topics, and more particularly with his
opinion of himself. We looked for, and we have found nothing new in this volume, save that
which relates in some way or other to the author’s visit to Italy; for since that
event in his life he has had little opportunity of communicating with his dear friend, his
pensive public, or we should have as little to learn of the latter as of the former part of
his life. It is thus that our attention is chiefly attracted to Mr.
Hunt’s account of Lord Byron; for
he, though not entirely a new acquaintance, only became thoroughly well known to him in
Italy. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
But however we may respect the man for his acquirements, his candour, and
his natural benevolence; however we may sympathise with him through the painful
disappointments, of which he has already numbered too many, we may be allowed, perhaps, to
claim for our literature, and for those who are engaged in supporting it, some portion of
that spirit of dignity and independence, without which they would be deprived of all their
gracefulness and of much of their utility. We are not insensible to the various proofs
which we have lately seen, of a disposition that prevails among certain classes of literary
men, to degrade their pursuits into a mere matter of trade; to produce a given number of
words for a proposed reward; and to praise or to censure according to the interests and
desires of those who employ them. But we own that we were not prepared for the extreme
degree of literary servility—to call it by no severer name—which is stamped
upon the principal pages of the work now before us. Nor does the author attempt to conceal his shame. It would not, perhaps, have been very
difficult for him, by a little address, to make a better appearance in the eye of the
public. It is certain, that if he had spoken less of his obligations to his publisher, and
of his own original plan in the preparation of his volume be would have less exposed
himself, to the censure of the world. He is, however, remarkably communicative upon both
these points, imagining, most probably, that by appearing to have no reservations, his
faults, such as they are, might be more easily forgiven. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
Let us not, however, be unjust to Mr. Leigh
Hunt, contemporary of Lord Byron. We
find, on referring to his preface, that he disclaims, though not with
indignation,—that, alas! he durst not—the catchpenny arrangement of the
title-page now before us, and indeed of the contents of the book itself. Had the bookseller
permitted the author to obey the dictates of his own taste and judgment, the newspapers,
instead of announcing for six months, in every variety of puff direct and puff oblique, the
approaching appearance of ‘Lord Byron and some
of his Contemporaries,’ would have told us in plain terms to expect the
advent of Mr. Leigh Hunt and his following; the
‘pale face rescued from insignificance by thought’ which Mr.
Hunt assures us he carries about with him would have fronted Mr.
Hunt’s title-page; and Mr. Hunt’s
recollections of Lord Byron would have been printed by way of modest
appendix to the larger and more interesting part of the work, namely, the autobiography of
Mr. Hunt.
. . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Literary Chronicle
No. 454 (26 January 1828)
We had given Mr.
Hunt credit for a superiority to petty resentments and vindictive feelings,
and here we find, as far at least as concerns Lord Byron, very little
else. We, who have been refreshing our memories as to all that Mr.
Hunt has, on various occasions, written of Lord Byron,
in which his poetical genius, his liberal politics, his ‘rank worn simply,’ and
his ‘total glorious want of vile hypocrisy,’ were earnestly applauded, cannot
help persuading ourselves that the portrait now presented would have been more favorable,
had the painter been freer from impulses, which it is very natural for him to possess, but
which cannot tend to the interests of the public, or to the development of truth. . . .
[Henry Southern],
“Leigh Hunt's Lord Byron” in London Magazine
Vol. NS 10 (February 1828)
Cause of complaint seems
to have existed between the parties, and the unfortunate death of Mr. Shelley rendered the situation of Mr.
Hunt, in relation to Lord Byron, one of peculiar
delicacy: we cannot allow that these circumstances could in the mind of Mr.
Hunt lead to any wilful misrepresentation; but it is not improbable that
they may have lent an unjust interpretation to circumstances meant to be taken otherwise,
and it is therefore necessary to state in the outset this caution. Mr.
Hunt, too, during their intercourse suffered all the pains of dependance: it
is needless to remark how sensitive and captious such a situation is calculated to make a
man, who if not proud in the ordinary sense of the word, is proud of the levelling claims of genius, and who saw with disgust that such claims
were not allowed to constitute equality with rank and wealth. Mr. Leigh
Hunt’s title to entire belief, when due allowance is made to the
natural influence of these partly unconscious and secretly operating causes, no one will be
hardy enough to deny; and when the denial is made, a look only upon the open, candid,
blushing and animated face of the book itself will be sufficient to contradict it. If ever
internal evidence was strong enough to quell the very thought of a suspicion, an instance
is to be found here. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
He drivels away in
the same mawkish style for several sentences, and what is the upshot? That he would have
written the book long ago, had he not preferred enjoying himself on the money, from time to
time advanced to him by Mr Colburn. He afterwards
acknowledges, “that, had I been rich enough, and could have repaid the handsome
conduct of Mr Colburn, with its proper interest, my first impulse, on
finishing the book, would have been to put it into the fire.” What mean and miserable
contradictions and inconsistencies are crowded and huddled together here! It was for money
that the book was written; he admits it, confesses it, hides it, emblazons it, palliates
it, avows it, and denies it, all in one and the same breath; yet, in the midst of all this
equivocating cowardice, in which he now fears to look the truth in the face, and then
strives to stare her out of countenance, all that he has done is still, in his own ultimate
belief, “wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best;” and a man of higher
principle, more unimpeachable integrity, and loftier disdain of money, never, on a
summer’s morning at Paddington,
Lisson Grove, or Hampstead, pulled on a pair
of yellow breeches! . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
His readers will
perceive that he doe not attempt to justify his account of Lord
Byron upon any public grounds. There are those who will contend that a
public man is public property, and that it is lawful even to corrupt his servants, in order
to obtain disclosures as to his personal and domestic life; inasmuch as such disclosures
may be rendered subservient to the general good. Mr.
Hunt, however, uses no such argument as this; which, infamous though it be, has
at least a specious and unselfish appearance about it, calculated to gain the assent of the
unthinking part of the multitude. He openly avows that he borrowed money, which he could
not repay, except by violating his native feelings of right and honour, by composing a
work, which, otherwise, he would never have thought of, and which, when composed he would
have put into the fire, if his pecuniary circumstances had enabled him to pursue the
dictates of his heart. The wretched woman who, under the veil of night, offers her
attractions to those who are disposed to pay for them, may tell a similar tale. It is not
her love of vice that drives her into the streets; it is not her horror of virtue; for the
human heart is not so radically vicious—particularly not in woman—as some
philosopher have chosen to represent it: No—she must live—dire necessity urges
her to barter, her person for money, and so she goes on in her career of heartless,
ignominious depravity. Such a being we commonly call a prostitute. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
Now the questions which we feel ourselves bound to ask of Mr. Hunt, are simply these:—Did the personal intercourse
between him and Lord Byron terminate in an avowal on his
(Mr. Hunt’s) part of hostility? And,
Would he have written and published about Lord Byron in the tone and
temper of this work had Lord Byron been alive? Except when vanity more
egregious than ever perverted a human being’s thoughts and feelings interferes, we
give Mr. Hunt some credit for fairness—and if he can answer
these two questions in the affirmative, we frankly admit that we shall think more
charitably, by a shade or two, of this performance than, in the present state of our
information, we are able to do. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
It appears from the
Preface that he had painted a full-length portrait of that perfect gentleman, Mr Hazlitt—but partly to oblige Mr Colburn, if we do not mistake, and partly because he
must have quarrelled—although he says not—with the amiable original, whom he
now accuses of having “a most wayward and cruel temper,” “which has
ploughed cuts and furrows in his face”—“and capable of being inhuman in
some things”—he has not given the picture a place in the
gallery. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries” in New Monthly Magazine
Vol. NS 22 (January 1828)
From the charge of ingratitude, Mr. Leigh
Hunt, in various passages of his book, successfully vindicates himself, and
shows that the obligations which Lord Byron has been
represented to have heaped on him, have been ludicrously exaggerated both in number and
value. Into matters so delicate, however, we do not intend to enter. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
We own that we do not think that in this and other such passages, the
publisher has been fairly dealt with by the author. The latter seems extremely anxious to
shift upon the shoulders of the former, all the blame which can attach to a work of this
description. It is obvious that Mr. Colburn wished,
and very naturally, to obtain a book that would repay him for his advances and other risks;
but it belonged to the author, if he really held any principles of honour sacred, to take
his stand upon them. If he has abandoned them, and that for the sake of the reward which he
was to get for so doing, it is clear that the taint of the transaction belongs, at least,
as much to him who receives, as to him who gives, under circumstances so humiliating. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
We are constrained to add, however, that on this occasion our
‘pensive hearts’ have withstood the influence both of Burgundy and Moselle. To
our fancy, dropping metaphors, this is one of the most melancholy books that any man can
take up. The coxcombries of Mr. Hunt’s style both
of thought and language, were these things new, and were they all, might indeed furnish
inextinguishable laughter to the most saturnine of readers. But we had supped full with
these absurdities long ago, and have hardly been able to smile for more than a moment at
the most egregious specimens of cockneyism which the quarto presents; and even those who
have the advantage of meeting Mr. Leigh Hunt for the first time upon
this occasion, will hardly, we are persuaded, after a little reflection, be able to draw
any very large store of merriment from his pages. It is the miserable book of a miserable
man: the little airy fopperies of its manner are like the fantastic trip and convulsive
simpers of some poor worn out wanton, struggling between famine and remorse, leering
through her tears. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part I]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 4 (23 January 1828)
Mr. Hunt does not appear before the world to give them an
account of events and connections of which they had previously no idea. We have all heard
quite enough of Lord Byron's munificence in receiving
into his house this distinguished gentleman and his family, to make it a prominent portion
of our general idea of his Lordship's character; and after the many statements and
insinuations, loud, long, and bitterly injurious to Mr. Hunt, which
have been founded upon the universal knowledge of this transaction, it seems to its neither
very wonderful nor very blameable, that he should at last come forward himself, and make
public his own defence. It is evident, from the whole tone of the book, that Mr.
Hunt has not stated in it a word which he does not believe. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Literary Chronicle
No. 454 (26 January 1828)
How anxiously we have looked for a work of
this kind, it would, we fear, be considered beneath the should be imperturbable dignity of
a reviewer to confess. We had assigned to Leigh Hunt the office of
Byron’s biographer, conceiving him on many accounts
eminently calculated for the task. His acquaintance with Byron had
been long and tolerably intimate, and, as a literary man, he was well qualified to draw
forth and accurately estimate the essentially mental qualities of his subject. His style of
composition too, seemed to us the more peculiarly adapted to the purpose, inasmuch as its
very defects in this instance resolved themselves into positive advantages,—such, for
example, as what is by many considered us over-fondness for minute details, his anatomy of
the most trivial of circumstances. We expected him to give not a bold sketchy picture,
‘beslabbered o’er with haste,’ but an elaborate portrait in which
‘each particular hair’ should be apparent, which would he not merely pleasing
to the eye, but in which the philosopher and the phrenologist might find ample materials
for deep and correct speculation. We did not look for unqualified eulogium,—we were
aware that truth would require anything but that,—but we imagined Mr.
Hunt to possess too little ascerbity of disposition for the transmutation
into vices worthy of record, what at most can be considered but insignificant overflowings
of bile, and may frequently bear even an advantageous construction. We have been
disappointed: in the present work, as far as it treats of Lord Byron,
we trace nothing of that vein of genuine and warm-hearted philanthropy by which the
writings of Leigh Hunt have been distinguished even more than by their
fancy and originality. . . .
[Henry Southern],
“Leigh Hunt's Lord Byron” in London Magazine
Vol. NS 10 (February 1828)
Of Moore,
Lamb, Campbell, &c., we are familiar with all that the author has said or
would repeat for the last or next twenty years. It is a novelty at any rate for one man of
genius honestly to give a minute and apparently honest account of the real private
character of another: but the privileges of the order to which both parties in fact belong,
may excuse the hardihood and the singularity of the scheme. Posterity invariably attempts
to rake up every peculiarity or characteristic trait from the memory of every great man;
and it is always loudly lamented when neither the investigations of antiquaries nor the
researches of ardent admirers can bring to light all that it is wished to discover.
Mr. Leigh Hunt has saved posterity any trouble in the case of
Lord Byron. We have his portrait here drawn by an acute observer
and a shrewd metaphysician, who had the advantage of living with him on terms of
intimacy—under the same roof. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Is not the tone of this passage insolent, unfeeling, and unmanly? The
writer, with flippant impatience to be insulting to the memory of a dead man, vainly tries,
by a poor perversion of the very ordinary, harmless, and pleasant circumstances, in which
he first saw the “Noble Childe,” to throw over him an air of ridicule, and to
make him and his pastime, to a certain degree, an object of contempt. But the ridicule
recoils on the Cockney. The “latter,” that is “Mr Jackson’s pupil,” that is, Lord Byron, was swimming with somebody for a wager, and that
our classic calls “rehearsing the part of Leander!” To
what passage in the life of Leander does the witling refer? “I
had been bathing, and was standing on the floating machine adjusting my clothes!” Ay,
and a pretty fellow, no doubt, you thought yourself, as you were jauntily buttoning your
yellow breeches. You are pleased to say, “so contenting myself with seeing his
lordship’s head bob up and down in the water, like a buoy, I came away.” Now do
you know, sir, that while you were doing so, a whole young ladies’ ambulating
boarding school were splitting their sides with laughter at the truly laughable style in
which you were jerking out first the right leg and then the left, to get into the yellow
breeches; for your legs and thighs had not been sufficiently dried with the pillow-slip,
and for the while a man with moderate haste might count a hundred, in they could not be
persuaded to go, but ever and anon were exhibited, below the draggled shirt-tails, in most
ludicrous exposure? . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Mr Hunt, however, fears he has gone too far in calling
himself a young man who had written a bad volume of poems; and he mentions that Lord Byron, who soon afterwards called upon him in prison,
thought it a good volume of poems; “to my astonishment he quoted some of the lines,
and would not hear me speak ill of them.” We daresay Mr Hunt was
very easily prevented from speaking ill of them; nor is there much magnanimity in now
announcing how little they were thought of by himself, and how much by Lord
Byron. This is mock-modesty; and, indeed, the would-be careless, but most
careful introduction of himself and his versifying at all, on such an occasion, must, out
of Cockaigne, be felt to be not a little disgusting and characteristic. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
We remember once hearing a midshipman giving an account of the death of
Lord Nelson, which consisted almost entirely of a
description of a musket ball that had lodged in his own buttocks, and been extracted
skilfully, but painfully, some months afterwards, as he lay on a sofa in his father’s
house at Lymington,—an account of the whole domestic economy
of which followed a complimentary character of himself and the surgeon. So is it with
Mr Hunt. He keeps perpetually poking and perking
his own face into yours, when you are desirous of looking only at Lord
Byron’s, nor for a single moment ever seems to have the sense to
suspect that the company are all too much disgusted to laugh at the absurdities of his
egotism. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
Under these circumstances it was, that the author obtained the information which gives a tainted zest to his work. He did
not, be it remembered, meet with Lord Byron on the high
road of life, in the general intercourse of society; had that been the case, he might have
been justified in recording his impressions of a character, that is likely to be enquired
into with some degree of curiosity by posterity. But he never would have enjoyed the
opportunity of seeing Lord Byron in Italy, had it not been for the
noble lord’s kind intentions towards him in the first instance, and in the next
place, for an actual advance of money, sufficient to defray his travelling expences from
England to that country; so that while Mr. Hunt resided in Italy, he
could have been considered in no other light than as a dependant on Lord
Byron. For such a person therefore, to take advantage of his situation, in
order to betray to the world all his noble protector’s errors and foibles, seems to
us nothing short of a domestic treason. But to publish those foibles for the sake of gain,
and to publish nothing but those, for the sake of spleen, indicate a dereliction of
principle, and a destitution of honourable feeling, which we shall not venture to
characterize. . . .
William Howitt,
“Leigh Hunt” in Homes and Haunts of the most eminent British Poets (London: Richard Bentley, 1847) 2 Vols
The occasion of Leigh Hunt’s visit to Italy,
and its results, have been placed before the public, in consequence of their singular
nature, and of the high standing of the parties concerned, in a more prominent position
than any other portion of his life. There has been much blame and recrimination thrown
about on all sides. Mr. Hunt has stated his own case, in his work on
Lord Byron and his Contemporaries. The
case of Lord Byron has been elaborately stated by Mr. Moore, in his Life and Letters of the noble poet. It is not the place
here to discuss the question; but posterity will very easily settle it. My simple opinion
is, that Mr. Hunt had much seriously to complain of, and, under the
circumstances, has made his statement with great candour. The great misfortune for him, as
for the world, was, that almost immediately on his arrival in Italy with his family, his
true and zealous friend, Mr. Shelley, perished From
that moment, any indifferent spectator might have foreseen the end of the connexion with
Lord Byron. He had numerous aristocratic friends, who would, and
who did spare no pains to alarm his pride at the union with men of the determined character
of Hunt and Hazlitt for
progress and free opinion. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part I]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 4 (23 January 1828)
But we confess that we have a good deal of doubt whether Mr.
Hunt has judged rightly as to the wisdom of speaking about Lord
Byron in the tone which he has assumed, considering the importance attached
by the world to the kind of favours received by our author from the aristocratic poet. We
do not question for a moment, that Lord Byron's kindnesses or
ostentations were done after a fashion, which very much tended to merge the sense of
obligation in a feeling of insulted self-respect. We are sure, from all we have ever read
or heard of Mr. Hunt, that he is really accustomed to consider his own
money as of much less consequence than money is commonly held to deserve; and that no man
would think less of the inconvenience of giving away any portion of his worldly goods by
which he could benefit a friend. But he would do well to remember that men will judge him
by their rules, and not by his; and that it is mere folly to afford new weapons against an
honourable reputation to those who have uniformly made so malignant a use of previous
opportunities. . . .
[William Jerden?],
“Review of Hunt, Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries” in Literary Gazette
No. 575 (26 January 1828)
In the career of social life where civilised well depend so much on their
fellow men, it must be that the noblest and proudest natures must often bend (we will not
say stoop) to receive benefits: from the king to the beggar, no one ever got through the
world without being obliged to others; and the receiver is as much to be esteemed and
honoured as the giver. But having once accepted the kindness of a friend, there is no after
act on his part, and far less any slight offence, or the mere cessation of bestowing
favours, which can form an apology for turning about to sting and wound your benefactor.
Silence is imposed, even if gratitude should be forgotten. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and some of
His Contemporaries [Concluded]” in Literary Chronicle
No. 455 (2 February 1828)
Of all the grave charges brought against Lord Byron by Mr. Hunt, the only one of real and
unquestionable importance, the only one which can at all account for or justify the
soreness of feeling by which the writer is evidently actuated, is contained in the
following passage:—‘The public have been given to understand that
Lord Byron's purse was at my command, and that I used it according
to the spirit with which it was offered. I did so. Stern necessity,
and a large family, compelled me; and, during our residence at Pisa,
I had from him, or rather from his steward, to whom he always sent me for
the money, and who doled it me out as if my disgraces were being counted, the sum
of seventy pounds!’ There is a meanness and an indelicacy
about this, which tends more to lessen Lord Byron, in our estimation,
than any of the peculiarities, strange and wayward as they were, upon which Mr.
Hunt dwells with such minute severity. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
If we rightly understand the drift of this argument, it means that
Mr. Hunt would have received as much of Lord Byron’s money as his lordship might have thought proper to give,
without feeling himself under the slightest obligation; but that he has since changed his
mind on the subject, ‘in practice at least,’ of which we presume the memoir of
his lordship is a sufficient example. There is much in this passage that savours of
Cobbett’s defence of his non-payment of a
loan advanced to him by Sir Francis Burdett. The
upshot of their common doctrine is this; that, whereas Messrs Cobbett
and Hunt have a high opinion of their own talents; and whereas one is
a political, and the other a miscellaneous writer, and they have not as yet amassed
fortunes by their publications—therefore, considering ‘the present state of
society,’ they need never think of refunding to any person who favours them with
pecuniary assistance! Mr. Hunt would, indeed, have us to believe, that
‘in practice at least,’ he has altered those notions of late, thereby affording
a ray of encouragement to those who might be inclined to imitate Lord
Byron’s generosity. But is he certain that if such persons were to be
found, he would not recur to his favourite doctrine? . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
He had been given to understand, forsooth!
that ‘the attachment was real; that it was rescuing Lord Byron
from worse connexions; and that the lady’s family approved of it.’ Supposing
all this to be true, does it follow that their conduct was the less criminal in the sight
of God—or less reprehensible in the opinion of good men?—But we correct
ourselves; it seems that Mr. Hunt has also a peculiar theory on this
subject, as on that of money. He tells us that he differs, very considerably, ‘with
the notions entertained respecting the intercourse of the sexes, in more countries than
one;’ by which, we suspect, he means that such intercourse ought to be subject to no
laws, human or divine. Truly, we have here a philosopher of the most agreeable
description! . . .
[Henry Southern],
“Leigh Hunt's Lord Byron” in London Magazine
Vol. NS 10 (February 1828)
The portrait will be acknowledged to be one of those which all who do not
know the original subject, from the reality of its look, and the force and nature of its
impression, will pronounce to be a perfect likeness; and they who did know it would place
the question beyond suspicion, unless indeed the picture is too close a resemblance to be
flattering, unless, contrary to the usage of artists, it represents deformities as well as
beauties. The ravages of the small-pox are never copied in a portrait. Biographies are
generally all so much alike, that the changes of a few names and circumstances would make
one pass for another. Eulogies deal in generals, and if a foible is confessed, it is
commonly one possessed by all mankind. Characters are seldom attempted, except by
historians and novelists; in both cases the original dwells only in the author’s
fancy. Viewed in this light, the character of Lord Byron
is perhaps the very first that was ever drawn from life with fidelity and skill; we have
him here as his intimate friends knew him—as those who lived with him felt him to be
by hourly experience. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Dignified historian! Sublime studies! What peering, and prying, what
whisper-listening, what look-eying, what note-jotting, and journalizing must have been
there! What sudden leave-taking of bower, arbour, and parlour, at nod or wink of the
master, whom he served! This was being something worse than a lick-spittle. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
With such a feeling running cold all the while at the bottom of his heart,
does this unfortunate proceed to fill page after page, through a long quarto volume, with
the meatiest details of private gossip,—dirty gabble about men’s wives and
men’s mistresses,—and men’s lackeys, and even the mistresses of the
lackeys (p. 13)—and, inter alia, with anecdotes of the
personal habits of an illustrious poet now no more, such as could never have come to the
knowledge of any man who was not treated by Lord Byron either as a friend or as a menial.
Such is the result of ‘the handsome conduct’ of Mr.
Hunt’s publisher—who, we should not forget, appears to have
exercised throughout* the concoction of this work, a species of authority somewhat new in
the annals of his calling: . . .
[William Jerden?],
“Review of Hunt, Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries” in Literary Gazette
No. 575 (26 January 1828)
The connexion between Lord Byron and
persons in rank, in intellect, and in every high quality of soul, so inferior to himself as
the coterie which gathered round him in Italy— and the consequences of that
assemblage, may, we think, be very readily accounted for. Lord Byron,
with the fervour of a young poet, imagined Leigh
Hunt—in prison for libelling his King—a sort of political martyr,
and thus prepossessed in his favour was led to estimate his writings by a fictitious
standard. But this fit of fancy must almost instantly have been dispelled, as the author
shews it to have been, when his lordship came into direct and constant contact with the
pert vulgarity and miserable low-mindedness of Cockney-land. We can picture him (the
haughty aristocrat and impatient bard) with Mrs.
Hunt, as painted by her partial husband, with the whole family of bold
brats, as described by their proud papa, and with that papa himself and the rest of the
accompanying annoyances; and we no longer wonder that the Pisan establishment of congenial spirits, brought together from various parts of the world,
should have turned into a den of disagreeable, envious, bickering, hating, slandering,
contemptible, drivelling, and be-devilling wretches. The elements of such an association
were discord; and the result was, most naturally, spleen and secret enmity in life, and
hate and public contumely after death. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Literary Chronicle
No. 454 (26 January 1828)
Few people, we believe, will discover either delicacy or good taste in the
conduct thus complacently described. In the lady we perceive a very unamiable penchant for
saying disagreeable things, not quite so smart as her affectionate husband fancies them,
and which could have lost none of their deformity when repeated by Mr. Hunt to his lordship. Then again, does it tell against Byron that he was vexed because the children were kept out of
the way? We suspect not, and really cannot help thinking that many of the causes of
difference must have originated with the party now complaining. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Mr Hunt, too, had had his midriff tickled by it out of all
measure,—had treasured it up among other bright and original sallies in the
store-house of his memory, and suddenly, and without warning, brought it out to annihilate
the Noble who had dared to criticise the personal appearance of “some friends of
mine.” Poor Byron, how easily wert thou abashed!
Disgust and scorn must have tied his tongue; just as they sicken the very eyes that run
over the low and loath- some recital by a chuckling Cockney, of
his wife’s unmannerly and unwomanly stupidities, mixed up with the poisonous slaver
of his own impotent malice, rendering page 27 of “Lord Byron and
his Contemporaries, by Leigh Hunt,” the most impertinent piece of printed
paper that ever issued from the press. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
There is another subject upon which we must touch, though with unfeigned
reluctance, and with as much delicacy as we can. It is well known that an intimacy of an
improper description took place between Lord Byron and a
Signora Guiccoli, soon after his
lordship’s arrival in Italy, and that that intimacy continued for a considerable
length of time. Mr. Hunt was aware of this; he knew, therefore, that
the parties were living in a state of double adultery, openly violating the most sacred
duties. Yet he never seems to have hesitated an instant, about introducing Mrs. Hunt and his children to a family thus tainted in all
its relations. He complains of having been treated by Lord Byron, on
some oc-casions, with disrespect; we ask, what better
treatment did he deserve, after degrading himself and his children, by such mean
compliances? . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
During this period Lord Byron wrote
occasional letters to Mr Hunt, some of which are highly
complimentary, but they soon wax somewhat cool—“My dear
Hunt,” changes into “Dear Hunt,” “Yours,
most affectionately,” drops off—and it is plain enough that his Lordship is
getting sick and ashamed of the connexion. No wonder. The tone and temper of Mr
Hunt’s character, manners, and pursuits, as given by himself, must
have been most offensive to a man of high breeding and elevated sentiments like
Lord Byron; and his Lordship’s admiration of “Rimini,” was not such as to stand against
the public disgrace of having it dedicated to “My dear
Byron.” The pride of the peer revolted, as was natural and
right, from such an unwarrantable freedom—and with his own pen, it has since
appeared, he erased the nauseous familiarity,—for Leigh Hunt
very properly substituting “impudent varlet.” . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Mr Hunt had been a despicable abuser of all lords, before
he had ever sat in company with one; and even now, he is embued with the rancorous dislike
of high-birth, that is the glory and the shame of the lord-hating gang to which he yet
appertains. But how quickly quailed his paltry heart, and
cringed his servile shoulders, and bent his Cockney knees, and sought the floor the
pertness of his radical-looking eyes, at the very first condescending visit from a lord!
The Examiner died within him,—all his
principles slipt out of being like rain-drops on a window-pane, at the first smiting of the
sun—and, oh! the self-glorification that must have illuminated his face, “saved
only by thought from insignificance,” when, as he even now exults to record it,
Lady Byron continued sitting impatiently in her
carriage at his door at Paddington, and sending message after
message, to the number of Two, to her lord, fascinated by the glitter of mean eyes, and
preferring, to the gentle side of his young and newly-wedded wife, the company of a
Cockney, whose best bits were distributed through the taverns for tenpence every
Sunday! . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
Mr. Hunt tells his readers that Lord Byron threw
him back his Spenser, saying ‘he could make
nothing of him’: but whether are we to believe that the noble lord, sickened (as all
Mr. Hunt’s readers have been for twenty years past) with Mr.
Hunt’s endless and meaningless chatter about the half dozen poets, good, bad, and
indifferent, whom he patronizes, was willing to annoy Mr. Hunt by the
cavalier treatment of one of his principal protegés, or that
the author of one of the noblest poems that have been written in the Spenserian stanza was
both ignorant of the Faëry Queen,
and incapable of comprehending anything of its merits? No man who knew anything of
Lord Byron can hesitate for a moment about the answer.
Lord Byron, we have no sort of doubt, indulged his passion for
mystifying, at the expense of this gentleman, to an improper and unjustifiable extent. His delight was at all times in the study of
man. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
It is equally certain, that we have now before us a
voluminous collection of Lord Byron’s private correspondence,
addressed, for the most part, to persons whom Mr. Hunt,
however ridiculously, describes as his own personal enemies—letters written before,
during, and after the period of Mr. Hunt’s intercourse with
Lord Byron in Italy; and although there occur many jokes upon
Mr. Hunt, many ludicrous and quizzical
notices of him, yet we have sought in vain for a single passage indicative of spleen or
resentment of any shape or degree. On the contrary, he always upholds Mr.
Hunt, as a man able, honest, and well-intentioned, and therefore, in spite
of all his absurdities, entitled to a certain measure of respect as well as kindness. The
language is uniformly kind. We shall illustrate what we have said by a few extracts.
Mr. Hunt will perceive that Lord
Byron’s account of his connexion with
The Liberal
is rather different from that given in the book on our table. Mr.
Hunt describes himself as pressed by Lord Byron into
the undertaking of that hapless magazine: Lord Byron, on the contrary,
represents himself as urged to the service by the Messrs. Hunt themselves. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
‘Genoa,
10bre 25th, 1822.—Now do you see what you, and your friends do by your
injudicious rudeness? actually cement a sort of connexion which you strove to prevent,
and which, had the Hunts
prospered, would not, in all probability, have continued. As it
is, I will not quit them in their adversity, though it should cost me character, fame,
money, and the usual et cetera. My original motives I already explained; (in the letter
which you thought proper to show;) they are the true ones, and I
abide by them, as I tell you, and I told Leigh Hunt,
when he questioned me on the subject of that letter. He was violently hurt, and never
will forgive me at the bottom; but I cannot help that. I never meant to make a parade
of it; but if he chose to question me, I could only answer the plain truth, and I
confess, I did not see any thing in the letter to hurt him, unless I said he was
“a bore,” which I don’t remember. Had this
Journal gone on well, and I could have aided to make it better for them, I should then
have left them after a safe pilotage off a lee shore to make a prosperous voyage by
themselves. As it is, I can’t, and would not if I could, leave them among the
breakers. As to any community of feeling, thought, or opinion, between Leigh
Hunt and me, there is little or none. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Before the First Number of this poorest of all Periodicals had left the
anvil, Lord Byron had grown sick and ashamed of the
Editor, and he “only made use of it for the publication of some things which his Tory
bookseller was afraid to put forth.” Hunt
attributes its downfall almost entirely to Lord Byron’s want of
spirit and independence. But Hunt himself, he acknowledges, grew daily
stupider and weaker in mind and body, and could indite nothing but drivel. Poor Shelley was dead—Hazlitt worse than dead—how then could the Liberal live even with “The Vision of Judgement, in which my brother saw nothing
but Byron, and a judicious hit at the Tories, and he prepared his
machine accordingly, for sending forward the blow unmitigated. Unfortunately it recoiled,
and played the devil with all of us.” Mr Hunt then tries to
attribute the death of the monster—which at its birth was little better than an
abortion—to the sneers of Mr Moore and
Mr Hobhouse. Poor blind bat, does he not know
that all Britain loathed it? That it was damned, not by acclamation, but by one hiss and
hoot? That every man who was betrayed by the name of Byron to take it
into his hands, whether in private house, bookseller’s shop, or coffee-room, called
instantly and impatiently for a basin of water, soap and towels. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
We remember to have seen some numbers of the “Liberal,” the periodical publication in the management
of which, Mr. Hunt assisted Lord
Byron; and although it is written, that of the dead nothing that is not good
should be said, yet we must declare, that a more silly, a more vulgar, a more
unentertaining, or at the same time, a more ostentatious work never dishonoured our
literature. In matters of morality, it was at least of a very questionable charac-ter; in matters of religion it was offensively conceited and
profane. It perished in the disgrace it deserved, and let it therefore rest in
contempt. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
He thought, no doubt, that his own compositions
would be easily distinguished from those of Messrs. Hunt and Co.; and
that, therefore, he might benefit these needy people without materially injuring his own
reputation. Humble as was his estimate of the talents of all his coadjutors, except
Mr. Shelley, he had not foreseen that, instead
of his genius floating their dulness, an exactly opposite consequence would attend that
unnatural coalition. In spite of some of the ablest pieces that ever came from
Lord Byron’s pen,—in spite of the magnificent poetry
of heaven and Earth,—the eternal laws of gravitation held their course: Messrs.
Hunt, Hazlitt, and Co.
furnished the principal part of the cargo; and the ‘Liberal’ sunk to the bottom of the waters of oblivion
almost as rapidly as the Table-Talk, or the Foliage, or the Endymion.
. . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Among the other causes of the death of the Liberal, Mr Hunt refers to
one bitterly spoken of by Hazlitt, in a note quoted
from some manuscripts—the attacks on it in Blackwood’s Magazine. So infamous, it appears, had
Hazlitt been rendered by some able articles in this work, that he
had been excommunicated from all decent society, and nobody would touch a dead book of his,
any more than they would the body of a man who had died of the
plague. This is an incredible instance of the power of the press. What! a man of such pure
morals, delightful manners, high intellects, and true religion, as Mr
Hazlitt, to be ruined in soul, body, and estate, pen, pencil, and pallet, by
a work which Mr Hunt himself declared in the Examiner had no sale—almost the entire impression of every
number lying in cellars, in the capacity of dead stock? . . .
[William Jerden?],
“Review of Hunt, Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries” in Literary Gazette
No. 575 (26 January 1828)
We are not inclined to press this matter beyond its just bounds, nor, to
set a higher value upon pecuniary obligations than they deserve; but surely, in spite of
the cant and wire-drawing distinctions of the author, it must be felt by every
well-constituted and upright mind, that the acceptance of such favours ought, at least, to
prevent their acceptor from violating the grave of his friend; for, as
the world goes, money is the greatest test of friendship; find the man who gives
it liberally and generously, as Lord Byron did to
Mr. Hunt, affords the surest criterion of his regard and
affection. Yet, writhing under a recollection of bounties ill-bestowed, thus does the
quondam worshipper of that noble lord, and of his rank and title, profane his character,
when death has sealed the lips which (if utter scorn did not close them) might have
punished the perfidy with immortal ignominy. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
It is not our province to defend Lord
Byron’s character from the imputations which are here made against it.
They may be all well founded, for aught that we know; but that they are set forth in a
vindictive, not to say a malignant spirit, no man can doubt, who understands that it is the
duty of a biographer to give the lights as well as shades to his portrait, which properly
belong to it. If Mr. Hunt is to be believed,
Lord Byron had not a single virtue, to redeem or palliate the
above formidable list of vices and infirmities; whereas it is notorious, that his lordship
had done many kind and generous acts towards literary friends; that he was never niggardly
of his praise where he thought it deserved; that throughout his too brief existence, he had
been animated by an unquenchable love of liberty, and had essentially served it by his
writings, and that finally he sacrificed his life upon its altar. These things alone, not
to say a word of his transcendant genius, ought to shed a brightness on his history, which
should cast many of his infirmities into the shade. It cannot be denied, that his great
poetical talents were sullied by many impurities, but these will of themselves decay in
time, and leave his name in that fine splendour, in which it was invested when it first
obtained its ascendant in our horizon. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
Much of what Mr. Hunt is pleased to call his account
of Lord Byron, is rather a dissertation upon his
character, than a history of his life. He takes a verse from the noble lord’s poems,
or a confession of an idle moment, and makes it the theme of half a dozen tiresome prosing
pages. There is little that is new in his narrative, and of that little, there is still
less that is important. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part I]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 4 (23 January 1828)
But the great value of this
portion of the work undoubtedly is, that it gives us a far clearer and more consistent view
of the character of the singular man and celebrated writer of whom it treats, than any
other book that has hitherto appeared. We see him in these pages living and moving before
us, not merely with his wings and scars, with the power and desperation, of his poetry, but
with the circumstances and attributes of ordinary humanity. And it is now, indeed, time
that we should begin to judge him calmly and fairly; for the renown, and the all but
disgrace which alike filled the air as with an immeasurable cloud, have shrunk, as did the
gigantic genius of the Arabian Tale, into a narrow urn. It is not more than his errors
deserve to say, that they were the rank produce of a noble soil, the weeds which grow among
Asphodel and Amaranth, on the summit of Olympus, and around the
footsteps of the glorified immortals. It is good for us that books exist which display the
union of poetic ability with a scorn and a selfishness of which literature scarce afforded
us any previous example; for the works of Byron may be a warning to
every mind, the mightiest or the meanest, that there are failings and vices which will even
break the sceptre and scatter to the winds the omnipotence of genius . . .
[Henry Southern],
“Leigh Hunt's Lord Byron” in London Magazine
Vol. NS 10 (February 1828)
Shall, then,
the public be informed of that which does not concern it; or shall we accuse the publisher
of such information of a breach of faith—of a treacherous betrayal of that which is
only revealed under the sacred confidence of domestic intercourse? We confess that these
fine words fall dead upon our ears. We see no reason that men should not be known as they
really are, but many for it; it is the first step to amendment. Had all the published lives
and characters been written in their true colours, the world would have been much further
advanced in virtue. This hypocrisy in glossing over vice—in smoothing down the
roughness and defects of character, is a kind of premium upon the indulgence of evil
passion. Though the world may have little to do with the private virtues directly; inasmuch
as these constitute by far the greater portion of its aggregate of happiness; there is no
more important subject can be discussed before it than the excellencies and failings of
eminent individuals. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and some of
His Contemporaries [Concluded]” in Literary Chronicle
No. 455 (2 February 1828)
Mr. Hunt asserts, on more than one occasion, that
Lord Byron had ‘no address,’ no
conversational powers, none, in short, of those little, pleasant, companionable qualities,
for which, we believe, Mr. Hunt himself is so deservedly celebrated.
Any deficiency of this sort, we should set down as no very culpable matter; but it happens
that there are many testimonies on this subject opposed to that of Mr.
Hunt. Some of these, we confess, may not appear either to him or to
ourselves, of a very conclusive order; but what will he say to that of Mr. Shelley? It is known, that in Julian and Maddalo, Mr. Shelley
introduces us to himself and Lord Byron; and thus favorably, both in
prose and verse, does he describe the latter: ‘I say that
Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word to express the
concentered and impatient feelings which consume him; but it is on his own hopes and
affections only that he seems to trample, for, in social life no human being can be more
gentle, patient, and unassuming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank,
and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much; and
there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in different
countries.’ The whole portrait is worthy of quotation . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
We should, indeed, have reason to blush, could we think for a moment of
entering into the details given by Mr. Leigh Hunt,
concerning the manners, habits, and conversation of Lord
Byron. The witness is, in our opinion, disqualified to give evidence upon
any such subjects; his book proves him to be equally ignorant of what manners are, and
incompetent to judge what manners ought to be: his elaborate portraiture of his own habits
is from beginning to end a very caricatura of absurdity; and the man who wrote this book,
studiously cast, as the whole language of it is, in a
free-and-easy, conversational tone, has no more right to decide about the conversation of
such a man as Lord Byron, than has a pert apprentice to pronounce
ex cathedrá
—from his one shilling gallery, to wit—on the dialogue of a polite
comedy. We can easily believe, that Lord Byron never talked his best
when this was his companion. We can also believe that Lord
Byron’s serious conversation, even in its lowest tone, was often
unintelligible to Mr. Leigh Hunt.
. . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
How insidiously the serpent slides through the folds of these passages,
leaving his slime behind him as he wriggles out of sight! There is a
Sporus-like effeminacy in the loose and languid language in which
he drawls out his sentence into what he thinks the fine-sounding word,
Sardanapalus. What if the Grand
Signior did take the youthful Byron for a woman in
disguise? The mistake of that barbarian no more proved that his lordship had an effeminate
appearance, than a somewhat similar mistake of the Sandwich Islanders proved the jolly crew
of the Endeavour, sailing round the world with Cook,
to be like Gosport-girls. . . .
[Henry Southern],
“Leigh Hunt's Lord Byron” in London Magazine
Vol. NS 10 (February 1828)
Mr. Hunt enters into an examination of the various publications which
have been broached on the subject of Lord Byron’s
life and character; and as he condescends to criticise some very paltry performances, we
are surprised that he did not bestow some attention on a paper which formerly appeared in
this magazine (for October, 1824). It is the only
sketch that has been written in the same spirit as his own; and since it remarkably
coincides in all leading points with the view above given, may be considered a confirmation
of its truth. This sketch appeared soon after Lord Byron’s
death, and attracted much attention at the time, it having been copied from our pages into
almost every other journal of the day. It was thought much too true, much too
unceremonious, and the very reverse of sentimental, the tone into which the nation struck
after the death of this remarkable person. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
There are upwards of forty pages
out of one hundred and fifty, devoted solely to a dull criticism on a work, entitled,
“The Life, Writings, Opinions, and Times, of
Lord Byron,”—a spurious compilation, known to be such by any man who
has the slightest judgment. Yet does Mr. Hunt set about refuting the
numberless fabrications of this precious publication, with as much solemnity as if it had
proceeded from a respectable quarter. But his motive is evident enough. He wished merely to
eke out his memoir, and give it as imposing an appearance as possible. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
In another part of the book, Hunt
quotes a few sentences, which seem very good ones, from an old article in the Magazine on
Lord Byron,—and adds, “there follows
something about charity, and clay-idols, and brutal outrages of all the best feelings; and
Mr Blackwood, having finished his sermon,
retires to count his money, his ribaldry, and his kicks.” Here
Hunt considers Mr Blackwood as the writer of
the Critique, or Sermon in question, and indeed he often speaks of that gentleman as the
author of the articles that have kicked up such a “stoure” in Cockney-land. On
other occasions, when it suits his purpose, he gives himself the lie direct,—but
probably all this passes for wit behind the counter. Mr
Colburn, however, cannot like it: nor would it be fair, notwithstanding the
judicious erasures which he has made on the MS. in its progress through the press, to
consider that gentleman the author of “Lord Byron and his
Contemporaries,” any more than of those very entertaining but somewhat
personal articles in the Magazine of which he is
proprietor, entitled “Sketches of the
Irish Bar.” That Mr Blackwood should occasionally
retire to count his money, seems not at all unreasonable in a publisher carrying on a
somewhat complicated, extensive, and flourishing trade. It is absolutely necessary that he
should so retire into the Sanctum, at which times even we do not think of disturbing
him . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and some of
His Contemporaries [Concluded]” in Literary Chronicle
No. 455 (2 February 1828)
With respect to Mr. Hunt's opinion of
Lord Byron's poetical ability, little need be said.
Whatever may be our respect for his general criticisms, in this particular instance we
entertain but little; nor need we stay to consider what he himself would say of a critic
who should acknowledge that he had read only a portion of certain works which he has no
hesitation in condemning, almost unqualifiedly, as a whole. ‘To the
best of my recollection I never even read Parisina, nor is this the only one of
his lordship's works of which I can say as much, acquainted as I am with the
others.’ There is an unpleasant assumption in this passage, which comes very
gracelessly from Mr. Hunt; at all events, it is a question whether our
dislike of the effrontery does not exceed our gratitude for the candour of the
acknowledgment. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
Even as to the more solemn subject of
religion, we ought to take shame to ourselves for even for a moment considering Lord Byron and Mr. Leigh
Hunt as brother infidels. The dark doubts which
disturbed to its depths the noble intellect of the one had little, indeed, in common with
the coxcombical phantasies which floated and float on the surface of the other’s
shallowness. Humility,—a most absurd delusion of humility, be it allowed, made the
one majestic creature unhappy: the most ludicrous conceit, grafted on the most deplorable
incapacity, has filled the paltry mind of the gentleman-of the-press now before us, with a
chaos of crude, pert dogmas, which defy all analysis, and which it is just possible to pity
more than despise. . . .
[William Jerden?],
“Review of Hunt, Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries” in Literary Gazette
No. 575 (26 January 1828)
The confessions in this passage betray some symptoms of grace, and prove
that the writer could not entirely reconcile his mind to the despicable course of doing
wrong to the memory of his benefactor for the sake of paltry lucre, if not also for the
gratification of still baser passions. Indeed the struggle between a sense of rectitude in
this respect, and the dishonour of publishing these memoirs, is obvious in many
places. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
Now a question suggests itself to us, which we are sure Mr. Hunt, with the high feelings thus entertained and expressed
by him, will thank us for asking. It is well known, that Lord
Byron took leave finally of Mr. Leigh Hunt by letter.
The letter in question we never saw, but we have conversed with those who read it; and from
their account of its contents—they describe it as a document of considerable length,
and as containing a full narrative of the whole circumstances under which Lord
Byron and Mr. Hunt met and parted, according to his
lordship’s view of the case—we confess we have been rather surprized to find it
altogether omitted in Mr. Leigh Hunt’s quarto. Mr.
Hunt prints very carefully various letters, in which Lord
Byron treats of matters nowise bearing on the differences which occurred
between these two distinguished contemporaries: and our
question is, was it from humanity to the dead, or from humanity to the living, that
Mr. Leigh Hunt judged it proper to omit in this work the
apparently rather important letter to which we refer? If Mr. Hunt has
had the misfortune to mislay the document, and sought in vain for it amongst his
collections, he ought, we rather think, to have stated that fact, and stated also, in so
far as his memory might serve him, his impression of the character and tendency of this
valedictory epistle. But in case he has both lost the document and totally forgotten what
it contained, we are happy in having this opportunity of informing him, that a copy of it
exists in very safe keeping. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part II]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 5 (29 January 1828)
Of Mr. Moore there is a very lively, pleasant, and
characteristic description. Mr. Hunt’s anecdotes about the
writer of ‘Lalla Rookh’ are,
in general, good-humoured enough; and we scarcely understand why Mr.
Hunt should have quarrelled with so distinguished and amiable a person, for
saying that there was ‘a taint in the Liberal,’
especially as he himself expresses the same thing in other words, when he talks of his
objections to the publication of the parody
on ‘The Vision of
Judgment.’ . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Of Mr
Moore he begins with drawing a favourable likeness—but having
something of the spleen towards him too, he puts on not a few touches, meant to dash its
pleasantness, and leaves it in a very unfinished state—for no other or better reason
that we can discover, than that Mr Moore most justly had said to
Lord Byron that “the Liberal had a taint in
it,” had, at a public dinner in Paris, spoken highly of
England, and in some verses written rather disparagingly of that very indulgent person,
Madame Warrens. On one occasion, he designates
him by the geographic designation of “a Derbyshire poet”—Mr
Moore, we believe, having had a cottage in that county—admitting in a
note, that at the time he had been too angry with Mr Moore to honour
him so highly as to call him by his name—and on many occasions he sneers at him for
living so much it in that high society, from which all Cockneys are of course
excluded—and saw, as has been mentioned, he threatens him with the posthumous satire
of Lord Byron.
. . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part II]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 5 (29 January 1828)
Moreover, his reasoning as to
Mr. Moore’s conduct with regard to Lord
Byron’s
Memoirs, seems to us to be at once vague and
inapplicable. What Mr. Hunt seems to aim at, is to make out an
inconsistency in Mr. Moore’s conduct, because he accepted 2000
guineas’ worth from Lord Byron, but would not accept the same
sum in money from Lord Byron’s family. The difference is obvious. In the one case the
present was a mark of friendship; in the other it was a payment, and might have been
thought and called a bribe. Suppose Mr. Shelley, when he dedicated
‘The Cenci’ to
Mr. Hunt, had given him the copyright; and that, if the Tragedy
had not been already published, our author had seen fit, after his friend’s death, to
throw it into the fire, would he have accepted 200l. or 200 pence
from the Society for the Suppression of Vice as a reward for his conduct? Mr.
Hunt almost always makes blunders when he talks about money-matters. He says
himself that he has no head for them; and he really ought to leave the discussion of them
to calculating stockbrokers or cool reviewers, while he writes (we hope) another
‘Rimini.’ . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part II]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 5 (29 January 1828)
On Shelley there is a long and most
interesting article. He was the greatest man of all those who are mentioned by Mr. Hunt; he was also his most intimate friend; and the notices
we have of him are proportionally valuable. Mr. Hunt’s book,
from bearing the name of Lord Byron on its title-page,
will probably go into the hands of many persons who know nothing of
Shelley but the name. We trust that the delightful, and we are
sure, most accurate portrait drawn by our author in the book before us, and the exquisite
specimens of poetry which he has extracted from Mr. Shelley’s
works, will induce a more detailed acquaintance with the writings of one of the most
benevolent men and powerful poets that have lived in any age or country. Of the errors of
some of his opinions, taken in their broad and obvious import, few men have had the
boldness to profess themselves apologists, and fewer still have had the charity to seek
among those errors for precious, though sometimes latent, germs of truth. We will venture
to assert, that those of his doctrines which are at first sight the most awfully
pernicious, are uniformly objectionable for the form rather than the spirit, the phrase
more than the feeling. It is, on the other hand, undeniable, that his sympathies are the
fondest and the best, his aspirations the purest and most lofty. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
We took a deep interest in Mr
Shelley. Full of admiration of his genius, and pity for his misconduct and
misfortunes, we spoke of him at all times with an earnestness of feeling, which we know he
felt, and for which we received written expressions of gratitude from some by whom he was,
in spite of all his unhappy errors, most tenderly beloved. Mr
Hunt must know this; but he is one of those “lovers of truth,”
who will not, if he can help it, suffer any one single spark of it to spunk out, unless it
shine in his own face, and display its pretty features to the public, “rescued only
by thought from insignificance.” Moreover, he hates this Magazine, not altogether, perhaps, without some little reason
of a personal kind—and, therefore, as a “lover of truth,” is bound never
to see any good in it, even if that good be the cordial praise of the genius of his dearest
friend, and, when it was most needed, a fearless vindication of all that could be
vindicated in his opinions, and conduct. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part II]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 5 (29 January 1828)
Judging of his mind as displayed in
his poetry, his hopes are fierce and rushing longings; his dislike, a curse; his
sympathies, an absorbing passion; the habitual pulses of his frame are the shocks of an
earthquake. Such was the spirit, clothing in the most glorious forms of beauty the one
purpose of purifying and ennobling its kind, on which were poured out all the vials of
muddy wrath in the power of the ‘Quarterly
Review.’ Such was the spirit which, in all
but its productions, is absolutely unknown to us, except through the short notice, at the
beginning of a volume of posthumous poems, and a part of the book with which Mr. Hunt has just enlivened society and enriched literature.
His information is full and consolatory, and we find in every line the authoritative
verification of those conclusions, as to Mr. Shelley’s reverence
and practice of all excellence, and habitual belief in the goodness of the Great Spirit
that pervades the universe, which are at once a triumph of candour and charity, and an
utter confusion and prostration to the whole herd of selfish bigots. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and some of
His Contemporaries [Concluded]” in Literary Chronicle
No. 455 (2 February 1828)
The articles descriptive of Shelley, Keats, Charles Lamb, &c. are worthy of them and of the writer.
They are correct and beautiful sketches, and will do much towards giving popular opinion a
right direction respecting the two first. The portraits of Keats and
Lamb are welcome ornaments to the volume; we regret that they were
not accompanied by one of Shelley. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
The author’s memoir of Mr.
Moore is too scanty, and, we may add, too prejudiced to deserve any
particular notice from us. That of Mr.
Shelley, on the contrary, is nothing but a panegyric. Of the genius of that
ill-starred and eccentric man, we have always thought very highly; his private life offers
little worthy of our admiration, and his religious principles still less. His end was
tragical, and contains a lesson that should appal the most thoughtless of his
disciples. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
So much for Mr. Leigh Hunt versus Lord Byron: the other
contemporaries that figure in this volume are, with two or three exceptions, persons whose
insignificance equals that of the author himself; and as they have had no hand, that we
know of, in this absurd exposure of themselves, we should be sorry either to waste our time
or to wound their feelings by any remarks on Mr. Hunt’s
delineations of them. Mr. Shelley’s portrait
appears to be the most elaborate of these minor efforts of
Mr. Hunt’s pencil. Why does Mr. Hunt
conceal (if he be aware of the fact) that this unfortunate man of genius was bitterly
sensible ere he died of the madness and profligacy of the early career which drew upon his
head so much indignation, reproach, and contumely—that he confessed with tears ‘that he well knew he had been all in the
wrong’? . . .
William Howitt,
“Leigh Hunt” in Homes and Haunts of the most eminent British Poets (London: Richard Bentley, 1847) 2 Vols
Every lover
of true poetry and of an excellent and high-hearted man, must regret that his visit to
Italy was dashed by such melancholy circumstances, for no man was ever made more thoroughly
to enjoy that fine climate and classical land. Yet as the friend of Shelley, Keats,
Charles Lamb, and others of the first spirits of
the age, Mr. Hunt must be allowed, in this respect, to have been one
of the happiest of men. It were no mean boon of providence to have been permitted to live
in the intimacy of men like these; but, besides this, he had the honour to suffer, with
those beautiful and immortal spirits, calumny and persecution. They have achieved justice
through death—he has lived injustice down. As a politician, there is a great debt of
gratitude due to him from the people, for he was their firm champion when reformers
certainly did not walk about in silken slippers. He fell on evil days, and he was one of
the first and foremost to mend them. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
In the memoir which Mr.
Hunt has given of him, we frequently observe the phrase
‘conventional,’ and ‘unconventional.’ It seems, that he imagines
the community divisible into these two classes, the former including those who acknowledge
an allegiance to the general rules of society, the latter consisting of those who would
like to live according to regulations of their own. Mr. Shelley has a
conspicuous place among the unconventional, and, if we mistake not, Mr.
Hunt aspires to a similar honour;—par
nobile-fratres. The author indulges us with a long and tedious
review of his friend’s different poetical works, of course exalting them to the
highest pitch of reputation. It will avail them little. The tendency to corruption and
decay, which in a signal manner is engendered in all obscene things, pervades them to the
core, and has already bowed them to the dust, with which they will soon be covered. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Gentle Reader—Let us so arouse your imagination, that you see a
Lion sleeping in the shade, or rather couched an a conscious slumber, his magnificent mane
spread abroad in the forest gloom, and the growling thunder hushed beneath it as in a
lowering cloud. Suppose him Sir Walter. Among the
branches of a tree, a little way off, sits a monkey, and did you ever hear such a chatter?
The blear-eyed abomination makes his very ugliest mouths at the monarch of the wood; and
shrieking in his rage, not altogether unlike something human, dangles first from one twig,
and then from another, still higher and higher up the tree, with an instinctive though
unnecessary regard for the preservation of his nudities, clinging at once by paw and by
tail, making assurance doubly sure that he shall not lose his hold, and drop down within
range of Sir Leoline. Suppose him Leigh Hunt. The sweet
little cherub that sits up aloft fondly and idly imagines, that the Lion is lying there
meditating his destruction,—that those claws, whose terrors are now tamed in glossy
velvet, and which, if suddenly unsheathed, would be seen blushing perhaps with the blood of
pard or panther, were given him by nature for the express purpose of waging high warfare
with the genus Simia! . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part II]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 5 (29 January 1828)
Of the remaining notices, we are most obliged to the author for that on
Mr. Keats. The names of Coleridge and of Lamb call up to us so much more vivid ideas of the persons in question,
that we learn comparatively little about them even from Mr.
Hunt’s very pleasant sketches. But Mr.
Keats’s reputation is at present but the shadow of a glory,—and
it is also plain enough to be seen that his works, beautiful as they are, are yet but the
faint shadow of his mind. His friend has commemorated his high genius, melancholy fate, and
unmerited contumelies, in a fitting tone of feeling. . . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part II]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 5 (29 January 1828)
His
was another of the bright minds at which a part of the public looked, for a time, only
through the smoky glass of the Quarterly
Reviewers. But by a just and necessary retribution, the abuse of power has
destroyed itself, and we doubt whether two hundred persons in the kingdom would now attach
the slightest importance to the most violent lucubrations of Mr. Murray’s critics. In the case of poor Keats, the mischief was irreparable; for it is clear, that whatever
predisposition to disease may have existed, the brutality of the extra-orthodox Reviewers
was the proximate cause of the death of an amiable man and a great poet, at an age when
most of his contemporaries were thinking of nothing but pounds and shillings, or the
excitements of ballrooms and burgundy, or the pleasure of covering the world with floods of
anonymous calumny. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
We believe we could not illustrate our view of the whole of this business
more effectually than by simply presenting a few extracts from Lord
Byron’s private letters in which this Mr.
Keats is alluded to. Our readers have probably, forgotten all about
‘Endymion, a
poem,’ and the other works of this young man, the all but universal roar
of laughter with which they were received some ten or twelve years ago, and the ridiculous
story (which Mr. Hunt denies) of the author’s death
being caused by the reviewers. Mr. Hunt was the great patron, the
‘guide, philosopher, and friend’ of Mr. Keats; it was he
who first puffed the youth into notice in his newspaper. The youth returned the compliment
in sonnets and canzonets, and presented his patron with a lock of Milton’s hair, and wrote a poem on the occasion. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
This sounds all mighty valiant—and no one can read the words,
without believing that “Hunt sent a challenge to
Dunbar, saying, Charlie meet me if you
daur,” and that his challenge struck a cold terror into the heart of “rough old
General Izzard.” But Mr
Hunt has waxed tea-pot valiant, when recording in old age the bold
achievements of his youth. All that he did was, to ask the General’s name, that he
might bring an action against him for libel. Half a syllable, with any other import, would
have brought the General, without an hour’s delay, before the eyes of the astonished
Cockney. Hunt then kept fiddle-faddling with attorneys, and
solicitors, and barristers, for months together, till finding fees troublesome, and that
there had been no libel, but in his own diseased imagination, or guilty conscience, he
“retreated into his contempt,” and in contempt he has, we believe, ever since
remained. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
There are hundreds of others who lived in the
time of Lord Byron, and had just as much title to notice as of those,
with perhaps one or two exceptions, who are here enumerated. Keats
died at the age of twenty-four, in a state little short of madness.
Campbell still lives to adorn his country, and promote the welfare
of his race. Dubois is scarcely known; Theodore
Hook, too well known for his, at least presumed, connexion with the basest
system of calumny that ever disgraced the public press; Mathews still
delights the town, and one of the Smiths, at least, has retired to Tor Hill, to die with one Reuben Apsley. Coleridge has grown
fat and idle; Charles Lamb has outgrown his visions; and as to the
rest, and even as to most of these, what had they particularly to do with Lord
Byron, that they should be denominated his
contemporaries? . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
To Mr Campbell he is exceedingly
complimentary—and has, he thinks, hit off the character of that delightful poet in
two words; he is a “French Virgil.” What
that means, we do not presume even to conjecture; but be its intents wicked or charitable,
it is a mere parody on Mr Charles Lamb’s not
very prudent or defensible remark about Voltaire,—of which, a word by and by. In the midst even of his
admiration, he cannot help being impertinent; and he tells the world that Mr
Campbell gladly relaxes from the loftiness of
poetry, and delights in Cotton’s Travestie of Virgil, (a most beastly
book) and that his conversation “is as far as may be from any thing like a
Puritan.” In short, he insinuates, that Mr Campbell’s
conversation is what some might call free and. easy, and others indecent,—a
compliment, we believe, as awkward as untrue. He pretends to be enraptured with the
beautiful love and marriage scenes in Gertrude of Wyoming; but we know better, and beg to assure him that he is not.
In confirmation of the correctness of our opinion, we refer him to the Story of Rimini. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
Mr Theodore Hook he also attempts
to characterise; and to us, who know a thing or two, this is about one of the basest bits
of his book. Not a syllable of censure does he pass upon that gentleman, but a wish
“that he had stuck to his humours and farces, for which he had real talent, instead of writing politics.” Now, there is no term of
contumely and abuse allowable in low society, which Mr
Hunt and his brothers, and the rest of the gang, have not heaped upon
Mr Hook’s head, in the Examiner, as if he were excommunicated and outcast from the company of all
honest men. But Mr Colburn is Mr
Hook’s publisher, and he is now also Mr
Hunt’s; and therefore he, who takes for motto, “It is for slaves
to lie, and freemen to speak truth,” thus compromises, we must not say his
conscience, but that which, with him, stands instead of it, party and personal spite, and
winds up a most flattering account of Mr Hook’s delightful,
companionable qualities, with the slightest and faintest expression of dissent,—if it
even amount to that,—from his politics, that, his breath, which is “sweet
air,” can be made to murmur. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
And, by the way, why did Mr.
Hunt inflict on Mr. Horatio Smith so
great an injury as to say, after describing his acts of generous friendship to the
unfortunate Mr. Shelley, that he (Mr. Smith)
differed with Mr. Shelley ‘on some points,’ without stating distinctly what
those points were—namely, every point, whether of religious belief or of moral
opinion, on which Mr. Shelley differed, at the time of his
acquaintance with Mr. Smith, from all the respectable part of the
English community? We are happy to have this opportunity of doing justice, on competent
authority, to a person whom, judging merely from the gentleman-like and moral tone of all
his writings, we certainly should never have expected to meet with in the sort of company
with which this, no doubt, unwelcome eulogist has thought fit to associate his name. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
Availing himself of the comprehensiveness of his title-page, Mr. Hunt has
given us memoirs of Keats, Campbell, Dubois,
Theodore Hook, Mathews, Messrs. James and Horace Smith,
Fuseli, Bonnycastle, Kinnaird, Charles Lamb, and Mr.
Coleridge, many of them it must be owned, respectable names, to whose merits
we offer no objection. But, why they should be set down as the
contemporaries of Lord Byron, we are rather at a loss to
conjecture. . . .
[John Wilson],
“Review of Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries” in Blackwood's Magazine
Vol. 23
No. 136 (March 1828)
All this proves, that Mr Lamb has a
head worthy of Aristotle, and that he ought to have a
face like that of Bacon. The saying about Voltaire is most repulsively narrated; and Mr
Lamb, who took such offence with Mr
Southey for regretting that Elia’s essays had not
a sounder religious feeling, what will he say—or feel, at least—about the sad
jumble of offensive and childish nonsense, which, without having the capacity of
re-creating the circumstances in which the words were uttered, or imparting the slightest
feeling of the spirit in which they were conceived, Hunt
has palmed off upon the public as characteristic specimens of the conversation of
Charles Lamb?
. . .
Anonymous,
“Lord Byron and His Contemporaries [Part II]” in The Athenaeum
Vol. 1
No. 5 (29 January 1828)
The
200 concluding pages are devoted by the author to his own memoirs. These are sparkling and
interesting, and exhibit no falling off of talent, or lack of matter. But the entertainment
to be drawn from them is of so different a kind from that of the previous notices, and so
much less concentrated and engrossing, that Mr. Hunt certainly judged
rightly in his original plan of opening the volume with that which is personal to himself;
and thus giving us a ‘diapason ending full’ in Byron and Shelley. Indeed, we would
advise the readers of the book to proceed after this fashion; and, beginning with the last
division of work, to travel regularly backwards. . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
We come now to Mr. Hunt’s recollections of his
own life, to which we find a portrait prefixed, calculated to do any thing but conciliate
our confidence. We have not the honour of knowing the original; but if this portrait be at
all like him we must confess, that we should have no great fancy for his company. We
understand that he is rather displeased with his painter, or at least, his engraver,
who, he thinks, has made him look like a thief. The picture certainly does warrant the
idea, for we could almost imagine, that he had something under his cloak which he had
purloined, and was making the best of his way home with it. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
Mr. Hunt received from the hand of nature talents which,
if properly cultivated and employed, might have raised him to distinction; and, we really
believe, feelings calculated to procure him a kind reception from the world. His vanity, a
vanity to which it is needless to look for any parallel even among the vain race of
rhymers, has destroyed all. Under the influence of that disease—for it deserves no
other name—he has set himself up as the standard in every thing. While yet a
stripling, most imperfectly educated, and lamentably ignorant of men as they are, and have
been, he dared to set his own crude fancies in direct opposition to all that is received
among sane men, either as to the moral government of the world, or the political government
of this nation, or the purposes and conduct of literary enterprise. This was ‘the
Moloch of absurdity’ of which Lord Byron has spoken so justly. The consequences—we
believe we may safely say the last consequences—of all this rash and wicked nonsense
are now before us. The last wriggle of expiring imbecility appears in these days to be a
volume of personal Reminiscences; and we have now heard the feeble death-rattle of the once
loud-tongued as well as brazen-faced Examiner. . . .
[Henry Southern],
“Leigh Hunt's Lord Byron” in London Magazine
Vol. NS 10 (February 1828)
One of
the cleverest sketches of character we remember is that of Mr. Leigh
Hunt’s father, the Rev. Isaac
Hunt, originally a barrister in America, then a fugitive loyalist, and
afterwards a clergyman of the Church of England, who lost a bishopric by his too social
qualities. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
Mr. Hunt speaks with no respect of his
father’s talents, but represents him as a graceful elocutionist. He was, we gather,
one of those comely, smooth-tongued, demi-theatrical spouters who sometimes command for a
season or two the rapture of pretty ladies, and the flutter of perfumed
pocket-handkerchiefs. Totally destitute of the learning of his new profession, and by no
means remarkable, if we are to believe his son, for clerical propriety of habits, it is not
wonderful that the creole orator was disappointed in his expectation of church patronage;
or indeed, that, after a little time, his chapel-celebrity was perceptibly on the decline.
Government gave him a moderate pension as an American loyalist; and as soon as he found
that this was to be all, the reverend gentleman began to waver somewhat in his opinions
both as to church and state. In a word, he ended in being an unitarian, and a republican,
and an universalist; and found that this country was as yet far too much in the dark to
approve either of his new opinions, or of the particular circumstances under which he had
abandoned his old ones. Worldly disappointment soon turns a weak mind sour; and stronger
minds than this have had recourse to dangerous stimulants in their afflictions. . . .
William Howitt,
“Leigh Hunt” in Homes and Haunts of the most eminent British Poets (London: Richard Bentley, 1847) 2 Vols
That is a fine filial eulogy; but still finer and more eloquent has been
the practical one of the life and writings of the son. Whoever knows anything of these,
perceives how the qualities of the mother have lived on, not only in the grateful
admiration of the poet, but in his character and works. This is another proud testimony
added to the numerous ones revealed in the biographies of illustrious men, of the vital and
all-prevailing influence of mothers. What does not the world owe to noble-minded women in
this respect? and what do not women owe to the world and themselves in the consciousness of
the possession of this authority? To stamp, to mould, to animate to good, the generation
that succeeds them, is their delegated office. The are admitted to the co-workmanship with
God; his actors in the after age are placed in their hands at the outset of their career,
when they are plastic as wax, and pliant as the green withe. It is they who can shape and
bend as they please. It is they—as the your, beings advance into the world of life,
as passions kindle, as eager desires seize them one after another, as they ire alive with
ardour, and athirst for knowledge and experience of the great scene of existence into which
they are thrown—it is they who can guide, warn, inspire with
the upward or the downward tendency, and cast through them on the future ages the blessings
or the curses of good or evil. They are the gods and prophets of childhood. . . .
William Howitt,
“Leigh Hunt” in Homes and Haunts of the most eminent British Poets (London: Richard Bentley, 1847) 2 Vols
The whole description of this charming and cordial family, is one of those
beautiful and sunny scenes in human life, to which the heart never wearies of turning. It
makes the rememberer exclaim:—“Blessed house! May a blessing be upon your
rooms, and your lawn, and your neighbouring garden, and the quiet old monastic name of your
street; and may it never he a thoroughfare; and may all your inmates he happy! Would to God
one could renew, at a moment’s notice, the happy hours we have enjoyed in last times,
with the same circles, in the same houses!” . . .
Anonymous,
“Review of Lord Byron and some of His Contemporaries” in Monthly Review
Vol. S3 7 (March 1828)
For such education as he has received, he has been
chiefly indebted to Christ Hospital. Whatever reputation he has
earned in literature, he owes, and to his credit be it spoken, entirely to his own
exertions. If we were asked what we think of Mr. Hunt’s
politics, we should answer, that, generally speaking, we approve of them; liberal measures
have always found in him a steady and energetic, and sometimes, even an eloquent defender.
Several of his miscellaneous compositions in light literature, we think favourably of. They
have in them a raciness, occasionally, that reminds us of the elder masters of our
language. His poetry we think verbose, and conceited in its diction, sickly in its imagery,
cockneyfied (to use an expressive phrase) in its descriptive
passages, and poor and tawdry in its sentiments. The most interesting portion of his
memoir, is that which relates to his imprisonment; it has been already before the world in another publication, and therefore we
pass it over. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
We had always understood, that Mr. Hunt,
before he was known by anything but his juvenile verses, obtained some situation in the
War-office; and that he lost this, after many warnings, in consequence of libelling the
Duke of York, then commander-in-chief, in the
newspapers; but of this story, there is no trace in the quarto before us, and we,
therefore, suppose it must have been, at least, an exaggeration. If it were true, it might
account, in some measure, for the peculiar bitterness of personal spleen with which the
Examiner, from the beginning of its career,
was accustomed to treat almost every branch of the Royal family. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
Mr. Hunt then fills several pages of his
quarto with blasphemous extracts from the last number of the Philosophical Dictionary now printing in that
commodious fashion at the Examiner press; and having used his scissars and paste as largely as he
judged right and proper in regard to the interests of the proprietors of that useful work,
he adds, ‘At these passages I used to roll with laughter; and I cannot help laughing
now, writing, as I am, alone, by my fireside,’ (p. 394). . . .
Leigh Hunt,
“Memoir of Mr. James Henry Leigh Hunt. Written by Himself” in Monthly Magazine
Vol. NS 7 (April 1810)
After spending some time in that gloomiest of all “darkness palpable,” a lawyer’s office—and
plunging, when I left it, into alternate study and morbid idleness, studious all night,
and hypochondriac all day, to the great and reprehensible injury of my health and
spirits, it fell into my way to commence theatrical critic in a newly established
paper, called the News, and
I did so with an ardour proportioned to the want of honest newspaper criticism, and to
the insufferable dramatic nonsense which then rioted in public favour. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“[Hunt's Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries]” in Quarterly Review
Vol. 37
No. 74 (March 1828)
We presume the turnkeys make a pretty penny by showing the spot where the
great Mr. Hunt actually
‘sat amidst his books, and saw the imaginary sky overhead and the paper
roses about him.’—p. 425.
The Raleigh chamber in the
Tower, Galileo’s dungeon at
Rome, and Tasso’s
at Ferrara, are the only scenes of parallel interest that, at this
moment, suggest themselves to our recollection. . . .
Isaac Barrow (1630-1677)
Professor of Greek (1660) and Lucasian Professor of Mathematics (1663) at Cambridge;
author of
Exposition of the Creed, Decalogue, and Sacraments (1669).
His sermons were much admired.
Anne Courthope (1800 fl.)
Leigh Hunt's unmarried aunt, born in Barbados.
Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658)
English general and statesman; fought with the parliamentary forces at the battles of
Edgehill (1642) and Marston Moor (1644); led expedition to Ireland (1649) and was named
Lord Protector (1653).
Elizabeth Dayrell (1790 fl.)
Leigh Hunt's aunt who married Thomas Dayrell of Barbados.
Henry Fielding (1707-1754)
English dramatist, essayist, and novelist; author of
Joseph
Andrews (1742) and
The History of Tom Jones (1749).
William Hogarth (1697-1764)
English satirical painter whose works include
The Harlot's
Progress,
The Rake's Progress, and
Marriage à la Mode.
Isaac Hunt the elder (1740 fl.)
Grandfather of Leigh Hunt; he was rector of St. Michael's, Bridgetown, in
Barbados.
Isaac Hunt the younger (1742-1809)
Leigh Hunt's father, born in Barbados; after study in Philadelphia and New York he became
a clergyman in England.
John Hunt (1775-1848)
English printer and publisher, the elder brother of Leigh Hunt; he was the publisher of
The Examiner and
The Liberal, in
connection with which he was several times prosecuted for libel.
Robert Hunt (1773-1851)
Leigh Hunt's elder brother, born in Philadelphia, who was apprenticed to a London
engraver; he contributed to the
New Monthly Magazine in the
1820s.
John Kearsley (1684-1772)
Born in England, he was a Philadelphia physician and architect.
William Lauder (1710 c.-1771 c.)
Scottish classical scholar; rendered infamous by his
Essay on Milton's
Use and Imitation of the Moderns (1750).
Chandos Leigh, baron Leigh (1791-1850)
Of Stoneleigh Abbey, educated at Harrow (where he knew Byron as a schoolboy) and Christ
Church, Oxford; he was a prolific minor poet in the Byronic vein. Samuel Parr described him
as “a lively companion, an elegant scholar, a zealous patriot, and an amiable and
honourable man.”
James Henry Leigh (1765-1823)
The son of James Leigh and Lady Caroline Brydges, and father of the poet Chandos
Leigh.
Robert Lowth, bishop of London (1710-1787)
Author of (in verse)
The Judgment of Hercules, a Poem (1743) and
(in prose)
De sacre poesi Hebraeorum (1753), and other works. He was
bishop of Oxford (1753) and bishop of London (1777).
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu [née Pierrepont] (1689-1762)
English poet and epistolary writer, daughter of the first duke of Kingston; she quarreled
with Alexander Pope and after living in Constantinople (1716-18) introduced inoculation to
Britain.
Caroline Reynell (1790 fl.)
The daughter of the printer Henry Reynell; she may be a relation of the Catherine
Reynell, daughter of the printer Carew Reynell, who married William Hazlitt jun.
(1811-1893) in 1833.
Henry Reynell (1746-1811)
London printer who employed Leigh Hunt's brother John.
Mrs. Spencer (1790 fl.)
Sister of Sir Richard Worsley, who adopted one of Leigh Hunt's older brothers into her
family. She was a niece of the painter Benjamin West.
Benjamin West (1738-1820)
American-born historical painter who traveled to Europe in 1760 and was one of the
founders of the Royal Academy in London.
Elhanan Winchester (1751-1797)
Unitarian preacher born in Massachusetts who came to England in 1787; he was author of
The Universal Restoration: exhibited in a Series of Dialogues between
a Minister and his Friend (1788).
Sir Richard Worsley, seventh baronet (1751-1805)
Politician and connoisseur; after losing the offices held in the North administration he
traveled in the Levant, returning with a collection of gems and marbles; he was envoy to
the Venetian Republic (1794).
Hugh Worthington (1752-1813)
Dissenting minister who lectured on classics and logic (1786-89) and was an admired
preacher.
