The Express.
London, England, 1859-08-31 00:00:00

LEIGH HUNT.

The reading public have been so long accustomed
to what may be called the literary presence of Leigh
Hunt—have been so habituated to the sight of his
name among the books of the day, and even in the
columns of newspapers—that the announcement on
Monday morning of his death was at first even more
a surprise them a grief. It seemed like the sudden
withdrawal of part of one's own identity; the ces-
sation of one of the kindly habitudes of life. We
did not consider that, while his exquisite contribu-
tions to literature were accumulating year by year,
the grey-headed worker in the canoe of humanity
had long been old. We did not sufficiently reflect
that, at seventy-five year@ of age, life becomes a
thing of daily doubt, and death a constant proba-
bility. The admirers of the genius of Leigh Hunt
saw his name at the head of frequent articles in the
Spectator, and almost forgot that these were the
supplements of mars than hail a century of toil.
It was in the year 1800, when Leigh Hunt was a
youth of sixteen, that his first raw volume of
poems was put forth by his father, under the title of
" Invisailb&" The verses were as poor as verses
written at that time of life usually are; and one can-
not help being astonished, on looking them over, to
think that the writer should afterwards have deve-
loped so thoroughly original and beautiful a vein.
Ills youthful tastes, however, were formed at a time
when poetry was at its very worst ; but, as his
genius expanded with maturer years. he saw the
mistake in which he had been brought up, and,
going to the strenuous old Elizabethan school,
assimilated a great deal of the spirit which
animated it, without, as in the case of Lamb,
absolutely imitating the phraseology and external
manner. For Leigh Hunt was always emphatically
• man of the present and of the future; and,
much as he loved to wander and dream in
the old visioo-haunted regions of the past—
now straying with Spenser through the forests
of Ferric, in the company of knights and
nymphs—now mounting on the winged horse of
Ariosto, and riding deep into the enchantments of
Italian romance—at other times ►istening to the
statelier utterances of Homer, or rioting in the splen-
dour and magic of the "Arabian Nightie—it was to
him still more natural to interest himself in anything
which affected the happiness of his fellow-creatures,

and the progress of humanity out of the mists of
cruelty and ignorance into the light of love and
knowledge. He would at any time lay aside the pen
of a poet, to take up that of a journalist, if he saw
that • service was needed to the cause of liberal ad-
vancement, or a cheek required to ►ny form of ram-
pant toryine. He would quit even Spenser for the
daily or weekly paper, th►t tells of the sorrows and the
aspirations of the human race. He kept up with
the time in a way that was perfectly wonderful
in a person of his years. Many a younger man, who
had flattered himself he had run through his morn-
ing newspaper sufficiently for all ordinary purposes of
conversation, would find himself in the evening a
good deal bebindhand with the journalist who bad
fought the battle of liberal opinion in the days of the
Itegeney. And it was the same with literature se
with politics and social events. If any new work of
mark appeared, it was not long before Leigh Hunt
lod read it and could discourse • critical account of
its nature sad style, with that delicacy of apprehen-
sion and exquisite freshness of language which made
his conversation renowned not only in England but
in Arneri.a. Only the very day before his death
he requested a friend to read to him, as he lay in
his sick bed, • review which had appeared in a
weekly contemporary of Mr. John Stuart Mill's new
work. Another of his predi lee: ion'. showed itself even
nearer still to the close of all. Ile was a passionat
lever of music, especially of that which belongs to
what may be called the land of music; and
only three or four hours before his death, was listen-
ing with great delight to some Italian airs which his
daughter was singing in an adjoining room. He
signified his approval of these in a tone of voice so
firm and loud that any apprehensions which had
been previously felt were in some degree removed
but, shortly afterwards, he fainted. On recovering:
be said to one of his sons, who was seated by hie
bedside, " I don't think I shall get over Oder sad
almost immediately peered away.
In the union, which we have just pointed out, of
an equally balanced love of old poetry and modern
principle', we may find the secret of Leigh Hunt's
peculiar genius—a genius so fresh and novel, so
warm with human sympathy, so various in its range,
and so affluent in natural and acquired riches,
that it may be said to have added a new piece
of territory to English literature. Few writers
are more thoroughly original. In his prose essays
he began by a singular union of the quiet grace and
humour of Goldsmith with the stinging, epigrams
Nettie point of Voltaire ; but be soon got beyond
these characteristics, and produced, in the Indicator,
the Companion, the London Journal, and other
periodical worke, • series of essays, quite mutat i-
ideated in their style, and forming &perfect model for
that class of compositions. Though always retain-
mg his first admiration of the flee-natured Irishman
and greater Frenchman who had helped to form his
mind, he ceased to be • follower of either, because
he possessed a larger range of perception than the
first, and a more sympathetic and trusting nature
than the second. Asa critic of works of fancy and
imagination he has never been surpassed ; and wed*
not know where is to be found an essay on pasty
more subtle in its analy►is, more clear sad satisfying