“THE sense of beauty and gentleness, of moral beauty and faithful
gentleness, grew upon him as the clear evening closed in. When he went
to visit his relative at Putney, he still carried with him his work, and
the books he more immediately wanted. Although his bodily powers had
been giving way, his most conspicuous qualities, his memory for books,
and his affection remained; and when his hair was white, when his ample
chest had grown slender, when the very proportion of his height had
visibly lessened, his step was still ready, and his dark eyes brightened
at every happy expression, and at every thought of kindness. His death
was simply exhaustion; he broke off his work to lie down and repose. So
gentle was the final approach, that he scarcely recognised it till the
very last, and then it came without terrors. His physical suffering had
not been severe; at the latest hour he said that his only uneasiness was
failing breath. And that failing breath was used to express his sense of
the inexhaustible kindness he had received from the family who had been
so unexpectedly made his nurses,—to draw from one of his sons, by minute,
eager, and searching questions, all that he could learn about the latest
vicissitudes and growing hopes of Italy,—to ask the friends and children
around him for news of those whom he loved,—and to send love and messages
to the absent who loved him.”
* * * * *
Thus, with a manly simplicity and filial affection, writes the eldest son
of Leigh Hunt in recording his father’s death. These are the closing
words of a new edition of _The Autobiography of Leigh Hunt_, published by
Messrs. Smith and Elder, of Cornhill, revised by that son, and enriched
with an introductory chapter of remarkable beauty and tenderness. The
son’s first presentation of his father to the reader, “rather tall,
straight as an arrow, looking slenderer than he really was; his hair
black and shining, and slightly inclined to wave; his head high, his
forehead straight and white, his eyes black and sparkling, his general
complexion dark; in his whole carriage and manner an extraordinary degree
of life,” completes the picture. It is the picture of the flourishing
and fading away of man that is born of a woman and hath but a short time
to live.
In his presentation of his father’s moral nature and intellectual
qualities, Mr. Hunt is no less faithful and no less touching. Those who
knew Leigh Hunt, will see the bright face and hear the musical voice
again, when he is recalled to them in this passage: “Even at seasons of
the greatest depression in his fortunes, he always attracted many
visitors, but still not so much for any repute that attended him as for
his personal qualities. Few men were more attractive, in society,
whether in a large company or over the fireside. His manners were
peculiarly animated; his conversation, varied, ranging over a great field
of subjects, was moved and called forth by the response of his companion,
be that companion philosopher or student, sage or boy, man or woman; and
he was equally ready for the most lively topics or for the gravest
reflections—his expression easily adapting itself to the tone of his
companion’s mind. With much freedom of manners, he combined a
spontaneous courtesy that never failed, and a considerateness derived
from a ceaseless kindness of heart that invariably fascinated even
strangers.” Or in this: “His animation, his sympathy with what was gay
and pleasurable; his avowed doctrine of cultivating cheerfulness, were
manifest on the surface, and could be appreciated by those who knew him
in society, most probably even exaggerated as salient traits, on which he
himself insisted _with a sort of gay and ostentatious wilfulness_.”
The last words describe one of the most captivating peculiarities of a
most original and engaging man, better than any other words could. The
reader is besought to observe them, for a reason that shall presently be
given. Lastly: “The anxiety to recognise the right of others, the
tendency to ‘refine’, which was noted by an early school companion, and
the propensity to elaborate every thought, made him, along with the
direct argument by which he sustained his own conviction, recognise and
almost admit all that might be said on the opposite side”. For these
reasons, and for others suggested with equal felicity, and with equal
fidelity, the son writes of the father, “It is most desirable that his
qualities should be known as they were; for such deficiencies as he had
are the honest explanation of his mistakes; while, as the reader may see
from his writings and his conduct, they are not, as the faults of which
he was accused would be, incompatible with the noblest faculties both of
head and heart. To know Leigh Hunt as he was, was to hold him in
reverence and love.”
These quotations are made here, with a special object. It is not, that
the personal testimony of one who knew Leigh Hunt well, may be borne to
their truthfulness. It is not, that it may be recorded in these pages,
as in his son’s introductory chapter, that his life was of the most
amiable and domestic kind, that his wants were few, that his way of life
was frugal, that he was a man of small expenses, no ostentations, a
diligent labourer, and a secluded man of letters. It is not, that the
inconsiderate and forgetful may be reminded of his wrongs and sufferings
in the days of the Regency, and of the national disgrace of his
imprisonment. It is not, that their forbearance may be entreated for his
grave, in right of his graceful fancy or his political labours and
endurances, though—
Not only we, the latest seed of Time,
New men, that in the flying of a wheel
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well.
It is, that a duty may be done in the most direct way possible. An act
of plain, clear duty.
Four or five years ago, the writer of these lines was much pained by
accidentally encountering a printed statement, “that Mr. Leigh Hunt was
the original of Harold Skimpole in _Bleak House_”. The writer of these
lines, is the author of that book. The statement came from America. It
is no disrespect to that country, in which the writer has, perhaps, as
many friends and as true an interest as any man that lives,
good-humouredly to state the fact, that he has, now and then, been the
subject of paragraphs in Transatlantic newspapers, more surprisingly
destitute of all foundation in truth than the wildest delusions of the
wildest lunatics. For reasons born of this experience, he let the thing
go by.
But, since Mr. Leigh Hunt’s death, the statement has been revived in
England. The delicacy and generosity evinced in its revival, are for the
rather late consideration of its revivers. The fact is this:
Exactly those graces and charms of manner which are remembered in the
words we have quoted, were remembered by the author of the work of
fiction in question, when he drew the character in question. Above all
other things, that “sort of gay and ostentatious wilfulness” in the
humouring of a subject, which had many a time delighted him, and
impressed him as being unspeakably whimsical and attractive, was the airy
quality he wanted for the man he invented. Partly for this reason, and
partly (he has since often grieved to think) for the pleasure it afforded
him to find that delightful manner reproducing itself under his hand, he
yielded to the temptation of too often making the character _speak_ like
his old friend. He no more thought, God forgive him! that the admired
original would ever be charged with the imaginary vices of the fictitious
creature, than he has himself ever thought of charging the blood of
Desdemona and Othello, on the innocent Academy model who sat for Iago’s
leg in the picture. Even as to the mere occasional manner, he meant to
be so cautious and conscientious, that he privately referred the proof
sheets of the first number of that book to two intimate literary friends
of Leigh Hunt (both still living), and altered the whole of that part of
the text on their discovering too strong a resemblance to his “way”.
He cannot see the son lay this wreath on the father’s tomb, and leave him
to the possibility of ever thinking that the present words might have
righted the father’s memory and were left unwritten. He cannot know that
his own son may have to explain his father when folly or malice can wound
his heart no more, and leave this task undone.