e staple of the numerous periodicals which
Leigh Hunt edited or wrote, and of the still more numerous books which
he compounded out of the dead periodicals. It may be that a severe
criticism will declare that, here as well as elsewhere, he was more
original than accomplished; and that his way of treating subjects was
pursued with better success by his imitators than by himself. Such a
paper, for instance, as "On Beds and Bedrooms" suggests (and is dwarfed
by the suggestion) Lamb's "Convalescent" and other similar work. "Jack
Abbott's Breakfast," which is, or was, exceedingly popular with Hunt's
admirers, is an account of the misfortunes of a luckless young man who
goes to breakfast with an absent-minded pedagogue, and, being turned
away empty, orders successive refreshments at different coffee-houses,
each of which proves a feast of Tantalus. The idea is not bad; but the
carrying out suits the stage better than the study, and is certainly far
below such things as Maginn's adventures of Jack Ginger and his friends,
with the tale untold that Humphries told Harlow. "A Few Remarks on the
Rare Vice called Lying" is a most promising title; he must be a very
good-natured judge who finds appended to it a performing article. "The
Old Lady" and "The Old Gentleman" were once great favourites; they seem
to have been studied from Earle's _Microcosmography_, not the least
excellent of the books that have proceeded from foster-children of
Walter de Merton, but they are over-laboured in particulars. So too are
"The Adventures of Carfington Blundell" and "Inside of an Omnibus."
Leigh Hunt's humour is so devoid of bitterness that it sometimes becomes
insipid; his narrative so fluent and gossiping that it sometimes becomes
insignificant. His enemies called him immoral, which appears to have
been a gross calumny so far as his private life was concerned, and is
certainly a gross exaggeration as regards his writing. But he was rather
too much given to dally about voluptuous subjects with a sort of
chuckling epicene triviality. He is so far from being passionate that he
sometimes becomes almost offensive. He is terribly apt to labour a
conceit or a prettiness till it becomes vapid; and his "Criticism on
Female Beauty," though it contains some extremely sensible remarks, also
contains much which is suggestive of Mr. Tupman. Yet his miscellaneous
writing has one great merit (besides its gentle playfulness and its
untiring variety) which might pro