reckoned as the rival, if not the equal, of Wordsworth, Keats, and Shelley. We would rather rank him, as a poet, with Lamb and Barry Cornwall. But he was one of the leaders of the natural school-a literary pre-Raphaelite or prePopeite, taking his starting-point from Dryden. He and his school were poets of fancy neither romanticists nor classicists; realists in a sense, but not students of the facts at their feet, like Crabbe or Wordsworth; and their departure from the well-worn ways of poetry brought them praise and blame, rather on account of their common principles than in proportion to their comparative merits as poets. It is so in the case of every new movement; the final verdict-if there be such a thingis given by a later generation, which is not affected by the jealousies and friendships of to-day. The Leigh Hunt had good authority for thinking himself a poet. His detractors in the Quarterly called him the "hierophant of the new school of Cockney poetry," and spoke of Keats as his "simple neophyte and copyist." Whig reviewers, while they lectured him for affectation, negligence, and vulgar diction, awarded him the praise of "genuine poetry," "grace and spirit," and "infinite beauty and delicacy." The "Story of Rimini" was much admired at the time; Byron commended it warmly; and Scott, gossiping in Murray's shop, put the volume into his pocket. Shelley praised "The Nymphs," one of the pieces in "Foliage," as "truly poetical, in the intense and emphatic sense of the word." Robert Browning many years later wrote: "I have always venerated you as a poet. I believe your poetry to be sure of its eventual reward." It would be easy to make a selection from Leigh Hunt's poems which would find an honorable place in a "Parnaso Britannico." The poem by which he will be remembered is "Abou Ben Adhem," which, well known as it is, may be here transcribed once more: Abou Ben Adhem-may his tribe increase! Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, And to the Presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The Vision raised his head, And, with a look made all of sweet accord, Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Adhem. "Nay, not so," Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still, and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one who loves his fellow men." The Angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night He came again with a great wakening light, And show'd the names whom Love of God had blest, And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! But the "Chorus of Flowers," the "Grasshopper and the Cricket," or the following passage from the "Story of Rimini," will give a better idea of his style and its merits: One day 'twas on a summer afternoon, When airs and gurgling brooks are best in tune, And grasshoppers are loud, and day-work done, And shades have heavy outlines in the sun The princess came to her accustom'd bower To get her, if she could, a soothing hour, Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs, And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light The vines let in, and all that hushing sight Of closing wood seen through the opening door, And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er, And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more. So far the theme is not too high for our poet; but when we approach the catastrophe, we wonder that he should have had the courage to transcribe into his pale water-colors the tremendous encaustic of Dante-a poet, too, with whom he was so little in sympathy as to call him "the great but infernal Dante, whom I am inclined to worship one minute and send him to his own devil the next." When all is said, it may be admitted that his poetry will not survive. His reputation was won, as he himself confessed, too early and too easily; and our age has been taught by Tennyson and Browning to disparage fluency and admire fulness of thought or perfection of manner. The generation of Byron, Scott, and Rogers allowed a larger dilution of sense and style, and was more tolerant of commonplace; and when the turn of fluency comes again, it will not be worth while to disinter Leigh Hunt's flowing numbers and breezy sentiment. It is enough for his credit if a few poems be remembered to show what a fine poetical sense was his, tinctured with Keats and Shelley, Spenser and Ariosto, as his prose was tinctured with Lamb, Addison, and Steele. His verse, though neither deep nor strong, is delicate, fresh, sunshiny and original. He could, as Professor Dowden says, "have passed his whole life writing eternal new stories in verse, part grave, part gay, of no great length, but 'just sufficient,' as he himself writes, 'to vent the pleasure with which I am stung on meeting some touching adventure, and which haunts me till I can speak of it somehow.'" He turned the thoughts of English poets towards Chaucer, Spenser, and Dryden, and in so doing purified his native tongue, whilst he enriched it with echoes of Italy. He was an important element in shaping the course of Keats and Shelley. To him, more than to any one else, is due that modern study of Italian literature which was caught up and carried on by Landor, Tennyson and the Brownings, and has borne other fruit in the study of Dante, and the poets whom Rossetti taught us to know. And indeed it is not farfetched to put down to his score something of that international feeling which took shape in Mr. Gladstone's attack upon the Bourbon misgovernment at Naples, and the sympathy of this government and nation with Italy in the War of Independence in 1859 and 1860. Italy to Leigh Hunt was a poetical expression; but his latest thoughts were of her redemption, and he would have rejoiced, had he lived so long, to follow the career of Cavour and Garibaldi, and welcome Victor Emmanuel as liberator and king. Leigh Hunt was a true poet, if a small one, which is more than can be said of many of the craft who nowadays are so numerous and so unnecessary. In verse and in prose he spoke to his contemporaries, anticipating and answering their thought; and poetry which does this, though it may perish, has sweetened and elevated the life of its own time and increased "the gladness of the world," like the plays, the pictures, the conversations, the loves and friendships of those whose eyes have long since sunk into their orbits. Poor Yorick did not live in vain, though his lips can charm no more. The greatest, perhaps the best, part of our lives is made up of perishing trifles; and Leigh Hunt, whose self-conceit was always bounded by modesty, would never have claimed or desired for himself the immortality of the half dozen great wits with whom he was privileged to consort. If Leigh Hunt's own works fall short of his aspirations, and posterity is willing to let them die, it should not be forgotten that he was the pioneer in poetry to Keats, in prose to Lamb; and that amongst the priesthood of freedom he holds a place by the side of Coleridge, Shelley, and those less transcendental patriots who prepared the English nation for the peaceful revolution of 1832, "in that patient and irreconcilable enmity with domestic and political tyranny and imposture (as Shelley wrote), which the tenor of his life had illustrated." Nursed and brought up in adversity, "not understanding markets," incapable of resisting the impulse which made him spend weeks and months in writing plays that were never acted, or damned on the first night (though he had some legitimate dramatic successes), stillborn poems, and a mass of literature which was ill paid, or of which the expenses exceeded the returns, Leigh Hunt was never prosperous, and for the most part miserably poor. He was always in debt, and often absolutely penniless; he sometimes wanted even bread. The death of one son and the misconduct of another did not make him misanthropic. In the midst of hardships and mistakes his home was not unhappy. Here were no Byron storms, no Carlyle moroseness, no Shelley amours and desertions, no Coleridge cloud-walking; all was sociable, gay, and genial. He did not understand the give-and-take of life; he took adversity too lightly, and prosperity with too little of its responsibilities. But nothing worse can be charged to him; and in his daily intercourse we may be certain that the balance of good done and pleasure given was not to be measured by a pecuniary standard. His spiritual and charitable balance far outweighed his worldly deficits; and where this is the case it requires no great charity to give him the name of a good and honest man. From Blackwood's Magazine. CAPTAIN FRANCIS LAWTON. PART I. One afternoon in the autumn of 1813 two gentlemen entered the cathedral of an English city, and halted within the threshold, looking from side to side with an air of curious scrutiny, which bespoke the fact that it was their first visit to the building. They were old men, and in their quaintly made garments would have cut but sorry figures in our modern eyes, but they bore themselves bravely, as became officers in his Majesty's army, and in both there was an air of dignity which made the verger hasten towards them, in answer to the summons of an uplifted finger. The strangers desired to be conducted to that part of the building in which a certain monument had been erected, and the verger's face brightened as he heard the request; for in his estimation the cathedral was his own, and all that was therein, and it pleased him well that visitors should come from afar to behold the most recently acquired of his treasures. The black-gowned figure shuffled forward, and the two old gentlemen followed, walking with careful, reverent footsteps. They were treading upon graves of brave and good men who had long since been gathered to their fathers; the wall beside them was covered with tablets which the action of time had faded to a dull brownish His best epitaph is the dedication to hue, but the eye was attracted by the the "Cenci":— Had I known a person more highly endowed than yourself with all that it becomes a man to possess, I had solicited for this work the ornament of his name. One more gentle, honorable, innocent, and brave; one of more exalted toleration for all who do and think evil; one who knows better how to receive and how to confer a benefit, though he must ever confer far more than he can receive; one of simpler and, in the highest sense of the word, of purer life and manners, I never knew; and I had already been fortunate in friendships when your name was added to the list. F. WARRE CORNISH. gleam of stainless white marble in the distance; and it was at this spot that the verger drew up, before a monument which, both in size and in beauty of design, surpassed any which had yet been seen. The strangers were close behind him when he paused, but there was a marked difference in the manner in which they greeted the object of their search. The elder of the two hung back a step, and there was a pained shrinking upon his face as of one who quails before a dreaded ordeal; the younger pulled his eyeglass from his fob, and hurried forward to read the words which were carved upon the marble scroll. but among his fellows he was even more renowned for a personal magnetism which made him the most popular officer in the force, and the idol of his battalion; while his wonderful hold over his men was so well recognized by the commander, that he was frequently chosen to undertake duties of a specially hazardous nature. The army had marched some distance The inscription consisted of a eulogy | ments had called him into public notice, upon the brave and unselfish life of one Captain Francis Lawton, who had lost his life in India while gallantly attempting to take a fortress from an overwhelming force of the enemy, and the art of the sculptor had given an added meaning to the words; for over the figure of the dying man, whose torn clothing and wounded body told the story of catastrophe and defeat, there stood an angel, with wings outspread, hold-up the pass, and was about to advance ing in her hands a victor's crown! It was a happy inspiration, for Francis Lawton had never appeared a greater hero in the eyes of his countrymen than when the news of the failure of his last enterprise sent a wail of lamentation through the length and breadth of the land. A nation's memory is, however, a fickle quality, and at the close of the nineteenth century it is necessary to recall to memory some historical facts, in order that the reader may understand the circumstances attending Captain Lawton's defeat. The campaign in India which had as its object the relief of the rajah of Travancore against the attacks of Tippoo Sultan, commenced in the middle of June, 1790, and one of its first operations was the establishment of a secure and easy communication with the Carnatic, in order to bring forward the battering-train, and the supplies for the service of the troops. The Muglee Pass, by which the army had ascended the Ghauts, being too far to the northwards, and not sufficiently connected with posts, it became an object of great importance to dispossess the enemy of the Policode Pass, and of the hill-forts which commanded it. These forts were numerous, and the natural strength of their position made them in many instances appear almost inaccessible; nevertheless the army set itself resolutely to the attack, and started on the march towards Oussour with undaunted spirit. Although the present campaign was in its infancy, Captain Lawton had already gained for himself a unique position in the service. Distinguished gallantry in one or two previous engage to attack the fort of Kutnagheri, when it was discovered that there was a great want of water on the beaten road, and that it had the further disadvantage of passing within the range of the guns of the fortress. These, fired from the summit of a rock, could reach to a great distance and cause much damage; while the approach of the troops being seen from afar, all preparations would naturally be made for a defence. Under these circumstances the army halted, and Captain Lawton was sent forward to reconnoitre in search of a safer route. He had under his command a company of men, and two lieutenants, and was empowered with authority either to halt or to advance and attack, according to his own discretion. Some days later a messenger returned to the main body of the army bearing word that a path had been discovered, winding through the hills and woods, which, though unfit for an army or any large convoy, was yet eligible for a small detachment, and secure from observation. Captain Lawton was of the opinion that the best hope for success in storming the fort lay in a surprise under cover of darkness, when the force might be supposed to be much larger than it was in reality, and the killedar be alarmed into surrender by the rapidity and vigor of the attack, as had already happened more than once. He had therefore decided to follow the hill-road as far as possible, find a good position for watching the movements of the enemy, and there a wait his opportunity. He asked a certain time for the completion of his scheme, and when that time had elapsed the army ad vanced in confident expectation of success. The guns of the fortress were silent as they approached; but no English flag floated from the ramparts, and as the troops drew nearer they discovered with amazement and dismay that all that was left of the once mighty Kutnagheri was a deserted ruin. The enemy had abandoned their position, and, following their usual custom, had blown up the solid bastions of the fort behind them SO as to prevent its further possession, while of the captain and his men not a trace could be discovered. The gravest fears were entertained, and a search-party was organized to explore the hill-paths, under the guidance of the messenger who had originally been a member of the captain's company. For one long day they searched in vain, and then-in a thickly wooded gorge, within half a mile of the fortress itself-they came across the marks of a terrible struggle. Among the trees and rocks which blocked the narrow way lay a heap of dead bodies, many mutilated beyond recognition by the hands of the remorseless enemy; others exposed to the last indignity of having their bodies stripped, and left to furnish food for the birds of prey. It was evident that the captain's hiding-place had been discovered, and that, caught in a trap and surrounded on all sides, the little company had been cut down and utterly annihilated; and also that dread of the vengeance which would certainly follow had induced the enemy to abandon their position, and retire to a safe distance. In one sense, therefore, Captain Lawton had, after all, succeeded in clearing the way for his comrades; but in the opinion of men and officers alike, Kutnagheri was ing of the stalwart soldier, but of a curly-headed boy who had been his friend at Eton, the sharer and confidant of every youthful joy. He was getting an old man, and the days of his boyhood were clearer in memory than those of middle age; his eyes dimmed with tears, which were shed half for his friend and half for the days of youth-the merry, glorious days which would never return again. His friend looked at him with quiet understanding. "Nay, not ends!" he said gently. "It is impossible to limit the influence of a man like Lawton. The tone of the whole army is higher and purer to-day because he lived and died. It is the fashion to take dark views of things, and to think the worst of our fellowcreatures; but when one sees how ready men are to be fired by a fine example, it revives one's faith in human nature. It is there! the good is there, but it is often dormant for want of something to fan it into a flame. He lit the spark in many a breast. God bless him." The other bent his head, and his lips moved as if in repetition of those last two words. "Yes," he said reflectively, "he had a wonderful power of drawing out the best that was in a man. He was an optimist, Huntly; that was the secret of it. He believed in his men, and expected great things of them, and his confidence inspired them to rise to the height of the occasion." "That and his own splendid example. The man did not know the meaning of fear, Maurice. It was an unknown quantity. Such a nature is a grand inheritance." "Perhaps so, but I will tell you what dearly bought at the cost of one of the is grander. To know the meaning to most valued lives in the army. The two strangers stood in silence before the monument, while passers-by came and went, casting curious glances at their pale, absorbed faces. the full, to have had bitter experience of its power, and to have overcome it by sheer force of will. That was Lawton's case. You are mistaken in your estimate of his character, as were most "Ay! ay!" sighed the elder at length, people who made his acquaintance in "and so it all ends! Little Lawton! later years. He was in reality of a poor little Lawton!" for his thoughts timid nature, and his dread of physical had flown back, and he was not think-pain amounted to absolute terror. The |