The abridgements of the Spectator, set Hunt as a school task, instilled a dislike of prose-writing that may account for his preference through life for verse composition, although he was by nature less a poet than an essayist. From Cooke’s edition of the British Poets he learned to love Gray, Collins, Thomson, Blair and Spenser—influences responsible in part for his dislike of eighteenth century convention and for his historical prominence in the romantic movement. Spenser later became the literary passion of his life. Other books which he read at this period were Tooke’s Pantheon, Lemprière’s Classical Dictionary, and Spence’s Polymetis, three favorites with Keats; Peter Wilkins, Thalaba and German Romances, three favorites with Shelley. Later Hunt and Shelley’s reading was closely paralleled in Godwin’s Political Justice, Lucretius, Pliny, Plato, Aristotle, Voltaire, Condorcet and the Dictionnaire Philosophique. With the years Hunt’s list swelled to an almost incredible degree. It was through books that he knew life.
He left Christ Hospital in 1799. The eight years spent there were his only formal preparation for a literary profession. He greatly regretted his lack of a university education, but he consoled himself by quoting with true Cockney spirit Goldsmith’s saying: “London is the first of Universities.”[5] Through his father’s connections he met many prominent men in London and was made much of. This premature association accounts for some of the arrogance so conspicuous in his early journalistic work, which, in middle life, sobered down into a harmless vanity.
In 1808 Hunt started a Sunday newspaper, The Examiner. The letter tendering his resignation[6] of a position in the office of the Secretary of War, coming from an inexperienced man of twenty-four is pompous in tone and heavy with the weight of his duty to the English nation. His subsequent assurance and boldness resulted in 1812 in his being indicted for a libel of the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV, and in an imprisonment for two years dating from February 15, 1813. His elder brother John, the publisher of the paper, served the same sentence in a separate prison. They shared between them a fine of £1,000. By special dispensation Hunt’s family was allowed to reside with him in prison and, stranger still, he was allowed to continue his work on the libellous journal. At the same time he wrote in jail the Descent of Liberty and part of the Story of Rimini. He transformed his prison yard into a garden and his prison room into a bower by papering the walls with trellises of roses and by coloring his ceiling like the sky. His books and piano-forte, his flowers and plaster casts surrounded him as at home. Old friends gathered about and new ones sought him as a martyr to the liberal cause.
But the picture has a darker side which it is necessary to notice in order to understand Hunt’s personal relations. An imaginative and over-sensitive brain in a feeble body had peopled his childhood with creatures of fear, the precursors of the morbid fancies of later years. From 1805 to 1807 he suffered from a trouble that seems to have been mental rather than physical, probably a form of melancholia or hypochondria. He tortured himself with problems of metaphysics and philosophy. He was haunted with the hallucination that he was deficient in physical courage, and therefore subjected himself to all kinds of tests. At the beginning of his imprisonment he was suffering from a second attack of his malady. The injurious effects upon his health of close confinement at this time can be traced to the end of his life. After his release his morbid fear of cowardice and his habit of seclusion were so strong upon him that for months at a time he would not venture out upon the streets. Yet in spite of all this and of frequent illnesses, his animal spirits were invincible. His optimism was proverbial; indeed, it was a part of his religion. Coventry Patmore tells us that on entering a room and being presented to Hunt for the first time, he received the greeting “This is a beautiful world, Mr. Patmore.”[7] His wonderful fancy colored his life as it colored his poetry. With his flowers and his friends and his fancies he turned life into a perpetual Arcadia. It has been many times asserted that Leigh Hunt was morally weak. His self-depreciation is largely responsible for such assertions. It is true that he fell short of great accomplishment and that he was guilty of small foibles which Haydon exaggerated into “petticoat twaddling and Grandisonian cant.”[8] Yet the struggle and the suffering of his life show more virility and nobility than he is generally credited with, and prove that beneath a veneer of affectation lay strong and healthy qualities.
A second lasting and disastrous result that followed Hunt’s incarceration and that greatly affected his relations with Byron and Shelley was the crippling of his finances. While it cannot be said that he ever showed any real business ability, yet, at the beginning of the trials for libel, his money matters were in fair condition. The heavy fine and costs permanently disabled him. In 1821 his affairs were in such a bad state that, with the hope of bettering them, he left England on a precarious journalistic venture, an injudicious step, the cause of which can be traced to the lingering effects of his labors in the cause of liberalism. From 1834 to 1840 his misfortunes reached a climax. He sold his books to get something to eat. The pain of giving up his beloved Parnaso Italiano was like that of a violinist parting with his instrument. He lived in continual fear of arrest for debt. At the same time, family troubles and ill-health combined to torment him.
In 1844 Sir Percy Shelley gave him an annuity of £120, and in 1847, the same year of the benefit performance of Every Man in His Humour, he was granted through the efforts of Lord John Russell, Macaulay and Carlyle, an annual pension of £200 on the Civil List. There were also two separate grants of £200 each from the Royal Bounty, one from William IV, and the other from Queen Victoria. In his last years there is no mention made of want.[9]
Hunt’s attitude in respect to money obligations was unique, but well-defined and consistent. It was not, as is often inferred, either puling or unscrupulous.[10] He was absolutely incapable of the Skimpole vices.[11] His dilemmas were not due to indolence. On the contrary, he labored indefatigably as results show. The trouble was his “hugger-mugger” management, as Carlyle expressed it. He adopted William Godwin’s doctrine that the distribution of property should depend on justice and necessity, and thought with him that the teachers of religion were pernicious in treating the practice of justice “not as a debt, but as an affair of spontaneous generosity and bounty. They have called upon the rich to be clement and merciful to the poor. The consequence of this has been that the rich, when they bestowed the slender pittance of their enormous wealth in acts of charity, as they were called, took merit to themselves for what they gave, instead of considering themselves delinquents for what they withheld.”[12] Godwin held gratitude to be a superstition.
Consequently, when in need, Hunt thought he had a right to assistance from such friends as had the wherewithal to give. He accepted obligations, as will be shown in the following chapters, much as a matter of course.[13] But even in his worst distresses, he never desired nor accepted promiscuous charity; and he did not always willingly accept aid even from his friends. He refused offers of help from Trelawney. He returned a bank bill sent him by his sister-in-law, £5 sent by De Wilde as part of the Compensation Fund, and $500 presented by James Russell Lowell. In 1832 Reynell forfeited £200 as security for Hunt. Twenty years later, on the payment of the first installment of the Shelley legacy, Hunt discharged the debt.[14] He rejected several offers to pay his fine at the time of his imprisonment.[15] Mary Shelley, who more than any one had cause to complain of Hunt’s attitude in money matters, wrote in 1844 in announcing to him the forthcoming annuity from her son: “I know your real delicacy about money matters.”[16]
In the Correspondence there are mysterious allusions made by Hunt and by his son Thornton to a veiled influence on Hunt’s life, to some one who acted as trustee for him and who, without his knowledge or consent, made indiscriminating appeals in his behalf. The discovery of refusals and repulses led him to write the following to William Story, through whom came Lowell’s offer: “Nor do I think the man truly generous who cannot both give and receive. But, my dear Story, my heart has been deeply wounded, some time back, in consequence of being supposed to carry such opinions to a practical extreme.... It gave me a shock so great that, as long as I live, it will be impossible for me to forego the hope of outliving all similar chances, by conduct which none can misinterpret.”[17]