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him. The mighty men of old, with whom he used some time elapsed before he published any thing to be compared, have disappeared. Byron, Shel- more in a poetical form, and during that time he ley, Scott, Coleridge, Campbell and Southey, have appears to have formed that system of poetry to gone, while Moore, Wordsworth, Rogers, and all which he has since adhered. This system is, in who remain, are mute, or nearly so. The critics reality, a kind of cockney variety of Wordsworth's, must therefore lower their ideas, and Hunt will enriched with an admixture of the faults of the old bear a very tolerable comparison with Tennyson, English poets, and pedantic allusions to the anBarry Cornwall, Haynes Bayley, Eliza Cook, et cients, particularly the Greeks. It can readily be hoc genus omne, and thus, in his old age, he is seen, that such a plan would materially injure the reaping the harvest of praise that was denied him effect of the highest genius, and it is therefore not in his youth. Pity that the latter fate were not as surprising that it destroys the little with which well deserved as the former! Even Christopher Leigh Hunt has been blessed. North turns round and condescends to approve of his former "re del Cocknio Parnaso."

Such has been his literary history. The revulsions of favor which he has experienced were shared alike by Wordsworth and Coleridge, but not in so great a degree, and, at the same time, much better merited. The chief wonder would appear to be, how a man with no more talents than Hunt possesses could manage to attract so much attention through so long a series of years. But this admits of an easy explanation. Ever since the year 1801, in which he commenced his authorship, he has been industriously engaged in writing and sending forth his works, both in prose and poetry, to the world. His intense vanity, apparently, will never suffer him to be at rest unless he has the satisfaction of knowing that some one is writing or talking about him; which pleasure he can generally procure by

his smartness and some natural talent.

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Considering the length of time during which he has been engaged in writing poetry, his productions in that branch of literature are singularly few and insignificant. It may be that he writes with difficulty, and employs much time in finishing and polishing. If so, he has the happy art of concealing his art, for his poetry all seems as if it were written stans pede in uno," without the slightest care, either in the composition or revision. We would rather put him in the class to which Horace consigned himself, “ rarò et perpauca loquentis." This is in poetry, for his prose essays and works are innumerable as the leaves of Vallombrosa, and in one of his autobiographies he acknowledges, that some of them are superior to any of his verses,a truth he does not much relish.

It might be expected, that in poems extending over so many years, there would be observable a great difference in style and manner,-but this is scarcely the case. After his "Juvenilia"*

This system is more particularly carried out in "The Story of Rimini" than in any other of his poems, and as that is at once the most ambitious and the best of his productions we will examine it more particularly as an exemplification of his merits and demerits. The story itself is excellently adapted for the purposes of the poet; it has great capabilities, and the little episode which Dante has made of it in his Commedia Divina, touched, as it is, with the hand of a master, is considered as the most beautiful passage in that great poem. Hunt's production is in parts quite good, and sometimes rises to the pathetic, but his "system" is continually interposing itself between him and his better poetry and injuring the effect of his most striking

passages.

The poem opens with the description of a fine spring morning-one of the best of which he can boast, for he is not usually very felicitous when speaking of nature.

"The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May

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

Now this is really quite pretty, notwithstanding the faults of style, and the air of jauntiness and smartness which pervades it. These blemishes, however, it has in common with the whole poem, and, indeed, is remarkably free from them, considering that it was written by Hunt.

Our author then proceeds to describe the scene in Ravenna where Guido, the Prince, is awaiting the coming of "bold Giovanni, Lord of Rimini," to whom his fair daughter is to be married. There is a very long description of the gorgeous train of perfectly true, (except that the poems are not exactly like Gray's, Collins' and Spenser's), and no doubt, if he lives forty years longer, he will have as just an idea of his sub

We will say no more concerning this production. Considering it as poetry, it is beneath criticism, and we will only quote his own remarks on it (Autobiography prefixed to Descent of Liberty, p. 4.) "My verses were my own, but not my will. The pieces were written with sufficient imitative enthusiasm, but that is all. I had read Gray, and I must write something like Grey; I admired Collins, and I must write something like Collins; I adored Spenser, and I must write a long allegorical poem, filled with "ne's," "whilom's" and personifications like Spenser." This is sequent efforts.

the expected bridegroom-we extract a few lines the next line ends with "square,") but goes on to as a specimen.

"With various earnestness the crowd admire
Horsemen and horse, the motion and the attire.
Some watch as they go by, the riders' faces,
Looking composure, and their knightly graces;
The life, the carelessness, the sudden heed,
The body curving to the rearing steed,

The patting hand that best preserves the check
And makes the quarrel up with a proud neck.

The thigh broad pressed, with spanning palm upon it,
And the jerked feather swaling in the bonnet.

Others the horses and their pride explore,
Their jauntiness behind and strength before;
The flowing back, firm chest and fetlocks clean,
The branching veins, ridging the glossy lean,
The mane hung sleekly, the projecting eye
That to the stander near looks awfully,
The finished head, in its compactness free,
Small, and o'erarching to the bended knee.
The start and snatch as if they felt the comb,
With mouths that fling about the creamy foam,
The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing,
The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping."

We have no doubt that Mr. Hunt considered this labored passage as a most vigorous piece of description, but we doubt whether he will be able to find any one of his opinion. What, for instance, are we to think of

"the riders' faces

Looking composure, and their knightly graces." And who ever heard of "the jauntiness behind" of a horse, while certainly a "flowing back" would render him very unfit for the saddle. Altogether, who that ever knew any thing about a horse would pretend to describe one of the above fashion? It is just what might be expected from a cockney, who about once in five years enjoys the opportunity of seeing one out of harness. As to the diction, any remarks of ours would but injure the happy effect which it must produce on the reader. A couplet like

"The flowing back, firm chest, and fetlocks clean. The branching veins, ridging the glossy lean,"

Or

"The thigh broad pressed, with spanning palm upon it, And the jerked feather, swaling in the bonnet,"

is enough to condemn the whole batch of cockney poets to the shades.

But to proceed. The train passes on, and at last, while Guido and his fair daughter Francesca are anxiously looking for the bridegroom from the balcony of the palace, a voice

"exclaims, the prince! now-now!'
And, on a milk-white courser like the air
A glorious figure springs into the square."

The author does not stop to inform us why the prince's courser was like the air, (probably because

say that Francesca falls in love, at sight, with this "glorious figure," which she of course deems to be her husband-but her father has been too cunning for her. Extremely anxious to have the match take place, and knowing that

"She had stout notions on the marrying score,"

he has had recourse to artifice. Giovanni of Rimini is a stern and bold warrior, but little used to the niceties of female intercourse, and, through the advice of Guido he has sent his brother Paulo to marry Francesca by proxy, and conduct her to Rimini. She, believing Paulo to be her destined husband, gives her consent, and finds her mistake too late to retract it. Paulo is entangled by her beauty, and thus, in the first Canto, we have enough seeds of misery for the other three.

The second Canto is occupied in detailing these various intrigues, and in describing the bride's journey home. From this we can extract but two lines.

"plashy pools, with rushes,

About whose sides the swarming insects fry,
Opening with noisome din as they go by."

The third Canto naïvely commences, after the following silly and egotistical fashion.

"Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss,
Or bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss!

Sad is the strain with which I cheer my long
And caged hours, and try my native tongue.
Now, too, while rains autumnal, as I sing,
Wash the dull bars, chilling my sicklied wing,
And all the climate presses on my sense,
But thoughts it furnishes of things far hence,
Which I should else disdain, tear-dipped and healing,” &c.
And leafy dreams affords me, and a feeling,

We suppose that as Milton deplores his blindness and his having "fallen on evil days," Hunt presumed that he might bemoan his two years' imprisonment, and the cold rains of Autumn which "washed the dull bars." As might be expected, such a mistake carries its own punishment with it.

He then draws the portraits of the brothers, Paulo and Giovanni. The latter is excellent as a character, and is only spoilt by the low and vulgar language used.

"Bold, handsome, able if he chose to please,
Punctual and right in common offices,
He lost the sight of conduct's only worth,
The scattering smiles of this uneasy earth,
And, on the strength of virtues of small weight,
Claimed towards himself the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning of his sweets and sours ;-
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then, if pleased to cheer himself a space,
Look for the immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever when his own was fair."

Of course Francesca finds it difficult to love this

unengaging husband, being already smitten with his engaging brother. She sees all the affections and attentions, with which she endeavors to conquer the unlawful love, thrown back upon her, and yet still she strives.

"And did she chance at times like these to hear
Her husband's footsteps, she would haste the more,
And with a double smile open the door,

And ask him, after all his morning's doing,
How his new soldiers pleased him in reviewing,

Or if the boar was slain which he had been pursuing," &c.

Francesca dies on hearing of Paulo's end. According to his last request, they are both buried together at Ravenna, and the poem concludes thus,

"They say that when Duke Guido saw them come
He clasped his hands, and, looking round the room,
Lost his old wits forever. From the morrow
None saw him after. But no more of sorrow.

On that same night, those lovers silently
Were buried in one grave, under a tree.
There, hand in hand, and side by side they lay,
In the green ground;-and on fine nights in May
Young hearts betrothed used to go there to pray."

The faults and beauties of the poem can easily

In the meanwhile, the situation of Paulo was scarcely more to be envied. For some time he was unconscious of his love, and the description of be seen from the above extracts. The story is his self deceit is admirably true to nature, with the same faults of language and expression. Thus they remain for awhile, each hour attaching them more strongly to each other, and opening their eyes to their true state, till, one fatal afternoon, they were reading the old tale of Launcelot

"And Paulo, by degrees gently embraced,
With one permitted arm her lovely waist,
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Leaned with a touch together thrillingly;
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart
Their color change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nursed,
Smiled upon Launcelot when he kissed her first.
That touch at last through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turned, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kissed her lovely lips, all in a tremble.
Sad were those hearts, and sweet was that long kiss.
Sacred be love from sight whate'er it is.
The world was all forgot, the struggle o'er,
Desperate the joy. That day they read no more."

well developed and well told, and some of the scenes and characters are described with a fidelity which shows Hunt to be a man of some observation in his own small sphere, though they are all so common-place, that they prove him to have had no conception of a character beyond the most ordinary kind. But all the good points of the poem are more than overbalanced by the low poverty of the language, the occasional vulgarity of the ideas and the extreme harshness of the versification.

As respects language, he observes in his preface, "the proper language of poetry is, in fact, nothing different from that of real life, and depends for its dignity upon the strength and sentiment of what it speaks. It is only adding a musical modulation to what a fine understanding might really utter in the midst of its griefs or enjoyments." We do not intend to dispute this point, which has been so often debated, or to repeat the arguments in favor of it, which have been already urged ad nauseam, and refuted ad misericordiam, but will only say that, granting the truth of Mr. Hunt's proposition, he There is so much that is beautiful in the fore- will still be convicted. He not only uses comgoing passage, that we have not the heart to criti-mon but vulgar language, which certainly no cize its faults as they deserve, even the "all in a tremble," and we have only to regret the slight vulgarity of the concluding lines. Hunt had better have kept still closer to Dante.

Giovanni soon discovers the intercourse between his brother and wife by her talking in a dream. He immediately rises and forces Paulo to follow him to the tilt-yard, where they fight; when Paulo throws himself on his brother's sword and expires. His death is beautifully told, but Giovanni mourns over him in stuff like this

"I trust we reap at last as well as plough ;-
But there, meantime, my brother, liest thou;
And Paulo, thou wert the completest knight,
That ever rode with banner to the fight;
And thou wert the most beautiful to see,
That ever came in press of chivalry;
And, for a sinful man, thou wert the best,
That ever for his friend put spear in rest;
And thou wert the most meek and cordial,
That ever among ladies eat in hall;
And thou wert still, for all that bosom gored,
The kindest man that ever struck with sword."

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understanding" would use under any circumstances; and he commits the glaring error of not varying or rising with his subject. A man under the influence of his passions of course speaks in a more elevated manner than when his mind is in a state of repose; but Hunt, writing in a forced style, is unable to catch even these common distinctions, and describes a fine spring morning in language as good, or better, than the scene of high wrought

interest where Paulo

"could no more dissemble,

But kissed her lovely lips all in a tremble."

It is really pitiable to be so completely brought down by the folly of the author as one must be by such expressions; and they are frequent, occurring on almost every page. Thus, what can we say, when told that Duke Guido on hearing of his daughter's death,

"looking round the room Lost his old wits for ever,"

or the information that the Princess Francesca

"had stout notions on the marrying score?" and the lament of Giovanni over the dead body of his brother comes like a cold shower-bath upon one's feelings, really moved by his untimely fate. It tempts us to throw down the book in disgust at the man who has so lessened himself.

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Another favorite crutch to assist the gouty feet of his measure is the termination "ness ;" "leafiness" and "lightsomeness," he is very partial to, and uses them continually, with "sunniness," floweriness," "beamingness," "gladsomeness," "rosiness," "surfy massiveness," &c., &c. Then we are constantly meeting with "sidelong," as "sidelong deck," "sidelong eye," "sidelong hips," But it is not only in using low and vulgar phrases (these we can partially understand, but what does that his language is bad. As Wilson says, he is "re he mean by "sidelong meekness ?"—and "sleek," del Cocknio Parnaso," and Bow-bell is heard through as "sleek sea," "the mane hung sleekly," or, all the notes of his hand-organ. The passages that we have quoted above bear ample evidence of this. If more is wanted, his use of the words "neat," "nice," and "fine" would be sufficient to convict him in any court in Christendom. Nearly every thing of which he approves has one of these adjectives liberally bestowed on it, and frequently in places where none but a cockney would use them; but "fine" is his chief favorite,—we meet with it on almost every page.

"Some of the finest warriors of the court."

"Never was nobler finish of fine sight."

"For as the rack came sleeking on, one fell
With rain, into a dell,

Breaking with scatter of a thousand notes,
Like twangling pearl; and I perceived how she,
Who loosed it with her hand, pressed kneadingly,
As though it had been wine in grapy coats,
And out it gushed with that enchanting sound,
Like a wet shower to the ground."
Nymphs.

Pray, did Mr. Hunt ever see a dry shower of rain?

Sometimes these conceited and outrè words produce a most ludicrous effect. A long poem called The Nymphs," in "Foliage," is full of them. Thus,

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Or,

"Reaching, with stately step, at the fine air.” "With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit," &c. and in the "Descent of Liberty," he dignifies a good old man with the title of "fine old Eunomus!" But, as if all this were not sufficient to destroy the effect of any language ever written, his style has to suffer still further degradation from his use of old and obsolete words, manufactured phrases, and out of the way terminations. This arises in a great measure from his admiration of the Elizabethan poets and his scorn of Pope and his school. Spenser is his great favorite, and, in adopting the faults of his versification, without its beauties, and in catching up an occasional word from him, Hunt no doubt, in the inmost recesses of his little heart, imagined that he was becoming, not a parodist, but Or, a rival.

Thus, we are continually meeting passages like the following from Rimini

"And the far ships, lifting their veils of light
Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light,
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay."

These adjectives like "scattery" he is very fond of, and is continually manufacturing them when there is a halt in the metre to be filled up. Thus we have "shiny peace," a sphery strain,'

Or,

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"There lie they lulled by little whiffling tones

Of rills among the stones,

Or by the rounder murmur, glib and flush,
Of the escaping gush," &c.

"And there the Hamadryads are, their sisters,
Simpler crown-twisters,

Who of some favorite tree, in some sweet spot,
Make home, and leave it not,

Until the ignorant axe downs its fine head,
And then the nymph is fled."

And now I find whose are the laughs and stirrings That make the delicate birds dart so in whisks and whirrings."

"And hey! what's this? The walls, look,
Are wrinkling as a skin does,

And now they're bent

To a silken tent,

And there are crystal windows;

And look! there's a balloon above

Round and bright as the moon above!”

But it is not only in expressions that we have to find fault with him, but frequently also in ideas. There is nothing, in any of his poetical works, really immoral or licentious, but there is frequently * We have frequently been amused by the straightlaced gy-strengthed," "winy globes,' pillowy fields," morality of the tory critics who abused Hunt as the defenclumpy bays," "knify way," "pillowy place," der of evil passions in "Rimini," while they praised to the

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grapy coats," "" pinky lashes," "sweepy shape," &c., and one of his sonnets commences

"A steeple issuing from a leafy rise

With farmy fields in front and sloping green."

utmost "Parasina," a story very similar in general outline.

Not that we would for a moment institute a comparison between them, but surely, if the former is calculated to do harm, the infinite beauty of the latter would only heighten its powers of evil.

a cockneyish vulgarity about him, especially when sense of both rhythm and harmony, and they are speaking of women, which is truly disgusting. such as may be found on every page without searching:

For instance, how appropriate such passages as the following are, in a serious poem!

"And for the poet, when he goes to hide him, From the town's sight, and for the lass beside him."

But, when he gets among the nymphs, he lets his fancy run riot,

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On the far side a foot and leg that glowed,
Under the cloud; a sweeping back another,
Turning her from us, like a suckling mother;
The next a side, lifting her arms to tie
Her locks into a flowing knot; and she
That followed her, a smooth down-arching thigh
Tapering with tremulous mass internally," &c., &c.

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These lines might be considered as very indifferent prose, but being presented to us as poetry, they could scarcely be excused in a poetaster with six months' practice. In an old rhymer like Hunt, who is continually enlightening the world on the But enough and too much of this; we might subject, and abusing his superiors for being better pardon the downright vulgarity of these descrip- than he, they are ludicrously unpardonable. But tions if they were in the least degree necessary to it is part of his "system," and he therefore perthe conduct of a poem, and there are things fifty severes in it to the destruction of the little pleatimes worse in nearly all of our "classics," but sure left his reader by his style and manner; though these are entirely gratuitous-merely introduced he modestly informs us in his preface that in wrifor their own sweet sakes, and to gratify the sus-ting thus, he is merely doing what Chaucer and ceptible feelings of the author.

Shakspeare did!

One of Hunt's most remarkable productions is his little collection of poems entitled "Foliage." The said "Foliage" is, with the true diffidence of

It is time now that we should turn to Mr. Hunt's versification and harmony, a point on which he professes to have bestowed great attention, and to be able to teach like a master. He holds in utter ab-genius, divided into "Greenwoods," or original horrence Pope and all subsequent poets, down to poems, and "Evergreens," or translations. Byron Rogers and Crabbe; he allows some credit to Dry- once pronounced the volume "the most monstrous den, but he evidently and conscientiously believes centaur ever begotten by Self-Esteem upon a Nightthat, since the days of Shakspeare and Spenser, mare;" but this, we presume, was in one of those no one has in reality been able to write an heroic fits of morosity during which he used to abuse line, with the exception of little Leigh Hunt. The every one for the pleasure of saying the hardest fault he finds with Pope is the cant of the time in things he could. The main features of the work which he wrote-that of too much sameness, and in question, according to the author, (see preface,) a melody too unvaried. This, and the modest opi- are "a love of sociality, of the country, and of the nion of his own powers are not advanced in one fine imagination of the Greeks." The latter is place, or in two, but they are fixed ideas and as evinced in the translations, of which more anon. immutable in his mind as his system and style. As to love of the country, with a man like Hunt, On reference to the copious extracts made from that means a place like his favorite Hampstead, "Rimini," (entirely at random with respect to the where you have brick and mortar round you, and versification,) the reader will see what kind of ir- all the delights and conveniences of a suburb to a regular jangling metre he would substitute for the great city, but in reality no country. He does smooth and easy flow of Pope's lines. We sub- not understand the country, as passages already mit a few more specimens, taken almost without quoted will abundantly testify, though he is conexamination from the same poem, as proofs of his tinually prattling about it, and occasionally break.

VOL. X-79

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