as one pea to another, and you might fancy, that, at
some ordinary moment, when he least expected it, and
before he had time to smooth away his knowing compli-
cation of wrinkles, he had seen the Gorgon's head, and
whitened into marble, not only his personal self, but
his coat and small-clothes, down to a button and the
minutest crease of the cloth. The ludicrous result marks
the impropriety of bestowing the age-long duration of
marble upon small, characteristic individualities, such as
might come within the province of waxen imagery.
The sculptor should give permanence to the figure of a
great man in his mood of broad and grand composure,
which would obliterate all mean peculiarities ; for, if the
original were unaccustomed to such a mood, or if his
features were incapable of assuming the guise, it seems
questionable whether he could really have been entitled
to a marble immortality. In point of fact, however, the
English face and form are seldom statuesque, however
illustrious the individual.
It ill becomes me, perhaps, to have lapsed into this
mood of half-jocose criticism in describing my first visit
to Westminster Abbey, a spot which I had dreamed
about more reverentially, from my childhood upward,
than any other in the world, and which I then beheld,
and now look back upon, with profound gratitude to
the men who built it, and a kindly interest, I may add, in
the humblest personage that has contributed his little all
to its impressiveness, by depositing his dust or his memory
there. But it is a characteristic of this grand edifice
that it permits you to smile as freely under the roof of
its central nave as if you stood beneath the yet grander
canopy of heaven. Break into laughter, if you feel in-
clined, provided the vergers do not hear it echoing
among the arches. In an ordinary church you would
keep your countenance for fear of disturbing the sancti-
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
UP THE THAMES 243
ties or proprieties of the place ; but you need leave no
honest and decorous portion of your human nature out-
side of these benign and truly hospitable walls. Their
mild awfulness will take care of itself. Thus it does no
harm to the general impression, when you come to be
sensible that many of the monuments are ridiculous, and
commemorate a mob of people who are mostly forgotten in
their graves, and few of whom ever deserved any better
boon from posterity. You acknowledge the force of Sir
Godfrey Kneller's obj ection to being buried in Westminster
Abbey, because " they do bury fools there ! " Never-
theless, these grotesque carvings of marble, that break
out in dingy-white blotches on the old freestone of the
interior walls, have come there by as natural a process
as might cause mosses and ivy to cluster about the ex-
ternal edifice ; for they are the historical and biographi-
cal record of each successive age, written with its own
hand, and all the truer for the inevitable mistakes, and
none the less solemn for the occasional absurdity.
Though you entered the Abbey expecting to see the
tombs only of the illustrious, you are content at last to
read many names, both in literature and history, that
have now lost the reverence of mankind, if indeed they
ever really possessed it. Let these men rest in peace.
Even if you miss a name or two that you hoped to find
there, they may well be spared. It matters little a few
more or less, or whether Westminster Abbey contains or
lacks any one man's grave, so long as the Centuries,
each with the crowd of personages that it deemed mem-
orable, have chosen it as their place of honored sepulture,
and laid themselves down under its pavement. The
inscriptions and devices on the walls are rich with
evidences of the fluctuating tastes, fashions, manners,
opinions, prejudices, follies, wisdoms of the past, and
thus they combine into a more truthful memorial of their
dead times than any individual epitaph-maker ever meant
to write.
When the services were over, many of the audience
seemed inclined to linger in the nave or wander away
among the mysterious aisles ; for there is nothing in this
244 OUR OLD HOME
world so fascinating as a Gothic minster, which always
invites you deeper and deeper into its heart both by vast
revelations and shadowy concealments. Through the
open-work screen that divides the nave from the chancel
and choir, we could discern the gleam of a marvellous
window, but were debarred from entrance into that more
sacred precinct of the Abbey by the vergers. These
vigilant officials (doing their duty all the more strenu-
ously because no fees could be exacted from Sunday
visitors) flourished their staves, and drove us towards the
grand entrance like a flock of sheep. Lingering through
one of the aisles, I happened to look down, and found my
foot upon a stone inscribed with this familiar exclamation,
"O rare Ben Jonson ! " and remembered the story of
stout old Ben's burial in that spot, standing upright,
not, I presume, on account of any unseemly reluctance
on his part to lie down in the dust, like other men, but
because standing-room was all that could reasonably be
demanded for a poet among the slumberous notabilities
of his age. It made me weary to think of it ! such a
prodigious length of time to keep one's feet! apart
from the honor of the thing, it would certainly have been
better for Ben to stretch himself at ease in some country-
churchyard. To this day, however, I fancy that there
is a contemptuous alloy mixed up with the admiration
which the higher classes of English society profess for
their literary men.
Another day in truth, many other days I sought
out Poets' Corner, and found a sign-board and pointed
finger, directing the visitor to it, on the corner house of
a little lane leading towards the rear of the Abbey. The
entrance is at the southeastern end of the south transept,
and it is used, on ordinary occasions, as the only free
mode of access to the building. It is no spacious arch,
but a small, lowly door, passing through which, and push-
ing aside an inner screen that partly keeps out an exceed-
ingly chill wind, you find yourself in a dim nook of the
Abbey, with the busts of poets gazing at you from the
otherwise bare stonework of the walls. Great poets,
too ; for Ben Jonson is right behind the door, and Spen-
UP THE THAMES 245
ser's tablet is next, and Butler's on the same side of the
transept, and Milton's (whose bust you know at once by
its resemblance to one of his portraits, though older, more
wrinkled, and sadder than that) is close by, and a profile-
medallion of Gray beneath it. A window high aloft
sheds down a dusky daylight on these and many other
sculptured marbles, now as yellow as old parchment, that
cover the three walls of the nook up to an elevation of
about twenty feet above the pavement. It seemed to me
that I had always been familiar with the spot. Enjoying
a humble intimacy and how much of my life had else
been a dreary solitude ! with many of its inhabitants,
I could not feel myself a stranger there. It was delight-
ful to be among them. There was a genial awe, mingled
with a sense of kind and friendly presences about me ;
and I was glad, moreover, at finding so many of them
there together, in fit companionship, mutually recognized
and duly honored, all reconciled now, whatever distant
generations, whatever personal hostility or other miser-
able impediment, had divided them far asunder while
they lived. I have never felt a similar interest in any
other tombstones, nor have I ever been deeply moved by
the imaginary presence of other famous dead people.
A poet's ghost is the only one that survives for his fellow-
mortals, after his bones are in the dust, and he not
ghostly, but cherishing many hearts with his own warmth
in the chillest atmosphere of life. What other fame is
worth aspiring for ? Or, let me speak it more boldly,
what other long-enduring fame can exist ? We neither
remember nor care anything for the past, except as the
poet has made it intelligibly noble and sublime to our
comprehension. The shades of the mighty have no sub-
stance ; they flit ineffectually about the darkened stage
where they performed their momentary parts, save when
the poet has thrown his own creative soul into them, and
imparted a more vivid life than ever they were able to
manifest to mankind while they dwelt in the body. And
therefore though he cunningly disguises himself in
their armor, their robes of state, or kingly purple it is
not the statesman, the warrior, or the monarch that
246 OUR OLD HOME
survives, but the despised poet, whom they may have
fed with their crumbs, and to whom they owe all that
they now are or have, a name !
In the foregoing paragraph I seem to have been be-
trayed into a flight above or beyond the customary level
that best agrees with me ; but it represents fairly enough
the emotions with which I passed from Poets' Corner into
the chapels, which contain the sepulchres of kings and
great people. They are magnificent even now, and must
have been inconceivably so when the marble slabs and
pillars wore their new polish, and the statues retained
the brilliant colors with which they were originally
painted, and the shrines their rich gilding, of which the
sunlight still shows a glimmer or a streak, though the
sunbeam itself looks tarnished with antique dust. Yet
this recondite portion of the Abbey presents few memo-
rials of p.ersonages whom we care to remember. The
shrine of Edward the Confessor has a certain interest,
because it was so long held in religious reverence, and
because the very dust that settled upon it was formerly
worth gold. The helmet and war-saddle of Henry V.,
worn at Agincourt, and now suspended above his tomb,
are memorable objects, but more for Shakspeare's
sake than the victor's own. Rank has been the general
passport to admission here. Noble and regal dust is as
cheap as dirt under the pavement. I am glad to recol-
lect, indeed, (and it is too characteristic of the right
English spirit not to be mentioned,) one or two gigantic
statues of great mechanicians, who contributed largely
to the material welfare of England, sitting familiarly in
their marble chairs among forgotten kings and queens.
Otherwise, the quaintness of the earlier monuments, and
the antique beauty of some of them, are what chiefly
gives them value. Nevertheless, Addison is buried
among the men of rank ; not on the plea of his literary
fame, however, but because he was connected with
nobility by marriage, and had been a Secretary of State.
His gravestone is inscribed with a resounding verse
from Tickell's lines to his memory, the only lines by
which Tickell himself is now remembered, and which
UP THE THAMES 247
(as I discovered a little while ago) he mainly filched
from an obscure versifier of somewhat earlier date.
Returning to Poets' Corner, I looked again at the walls,
and wondered how the requisite hospitality can be shown
to poets of our own and the succeeding ages. There
is hardly a foot of space left, although room has lately
been found for a bust of Southey and a full-length statue
of Campbell. At best, only a little portion of the Abbey
is dedicated to poets, literary men, musical composers,
and others of the gentle artist breed, and even into that
small nook of sanctity men of other pursuits have thought
it decent to intrude themselves. Methinks the tuneful
throng, being at home here, should recollect how they
were treated in their lifetime, and turn the cold shoulder,
looking askance at nobles and official personages, however
worthy of honorable interment elsewhere. Yet it shows
aptly and truly enough what portion of the world's regard
and honor has heretofore been awarded to literary emi-
nence in comparison with other modes of greatness,
this dimly lighted corner (nor even that quietly to
themselves) in the vast minster, the walls of which are
sheathed and hidden under marble that has been wasted
upon the illustrious obscure. Nevertheless, it may not
be worth while to quarrel with the world on this account ;
for, to confess the very truth, their own little nook con-
tains more than one poet whose memory is kept alive by
his monument, instead of imbuing the senseless stone
with a spiritual immortality, men of whom you do not
ask, "Where is he?" but "Why is he here?" I esti-
mate that all the literary people who really make an
essential part of one's inner life, including the period
since English literature first existed, might have ample
elbow-room to sit down and quaff their draughts of Cas-
taly round Chaucer's broad, horizontal tombstone. These
divinest poets consecrate the spot, and throw a reflected
glory over the humblest of their companions. And as
for the latter, it is to be hoped that they may have long
outgrown the characteristic jealousies and morbid sensi-
bilities of their craft, and have found out the little value
(probably not amounting to sixpence in immortal cur-
248 OUR OLD HOME
rency) of the posthumous renown which they once as-
pired to win. It would be a poor compliment to a dead
poet to fancy him leaning out of the sky and snuffing up
the impure breath of earthly praise.
Yet we cannot easily rid ourselves of the notion that
those who have bequeathed us the inheritance of an un-
dying song would fain be conscious of its endless rever-
berations in the hearts of mankind, and would delight,
among sublimer enjoyments, to see their names emblaz-
oned in such a treasure-place of great memories as West-
minster Abbey. There are some men, at all events,
true and tender poets, moreover, and fully deserving of
the honor, - whose spirits, I feel certain, would linger a
little while about Poets' Corner for the sake of witnessing
their own apotheosis among their kindred. They have
had a strong natural yearning, not so much for applause
as sympathy, which the cold fortune of their lifetime did
but scantily supply ; so that this unsatisfied appetite may
make itself felt upon sensibilities at once so delicate and
retentive, even a step or two beyond the grave. Leigh
Hunt, for example, would be pleased, even now, if he
could learn that his bust had been reposited in the midst
of the old poets whom he admired and loved ; though
there is hardly a man among the authors of to-day and
yesterday whom the judgment of Englishmen would be
less likely to place there. He deserves it, however, if
not for his verse, (the value of which I do not estimate,
never having been able to read it,) yet for his delightful
prose, his unmeasured poetry, the inscrutable happiness
of his touch, working soft miracles by a life-process like
the growth of grass and flowers. As with all such gentle
writers, his page sometimes betrayed a vestige of affec-
tation, but, the next moment, a rich, natural luxuriance
outgrew and buried it out of sight. I knew him a little,
and (since, Heaven be praised, few English celebrities
whom I chanced to meet have enfranchised my pen by
their decease, and as I assume no liberties with living
men) I will conclude this rambling article by sketching
my first interview with Leigh Hunt.
He was then at Hammersmith, occupying a very plain
UP THE THAMES
249
and shabby little house, in a contiguous range of others
like it, with no prospect but that of an ugly village street,
and certainly nothing to gratify his craving for a tasteful
environment, inside or out. A slatternly maid-servant
opened the door for us, and he himself stood in the entry,
a beautiful and venerable old man, buttoned to the chin
in a black dress-coat, tall and slender, with a countenance
quietly alive all over, and the gentlest and most naturally
courteous manner. He ushered us into his little study,
or parlor, or both, a very forlorn room, with poor paper-
hangings and carpet, few books, no pictures that I remem-
ber, and an awful lack of upholstery. I touch distinctly
upon these external blemishes and this nudity of adorn-
ment, not that they would be worth mentioning in a sketch
of other remarkable persons, but because Leigh Hunt
was born with such a faculty of enjoying all beautiful
things that it seemed as if Fortune did him as much
wrong in not supplying them as in withholding a suffi-
ciency of vital breath from ordinary men. All kinds of
mild magnificence, tempered by his taste, would have
become him well ; but he had not the grim dignity that
assumes nakedness as the better robe.
I have said that he was a beautiful old man. In truth,
I never saw a finer countenance, either as to the mould
or features or the expression, nor any that showed the
play of feeling so perfectly without the slightest theatrical
emphasis. It was like a child's face in this respect. At
my first glimpse of him, when he met us in the entry, I
discerned that he was old, his long hair being white and
his wrinkles many ; it was an aged visage, in short, such
as I had not at all expected to see, in spite of dates, be-
cause his books talk to the reader with the tender vivacity
of youth. But when he began to speak, and as he grew
more earnest in conversation, I ceased to be sensible of
his age ; sometimes, indeed, its dusky shadow darkened
through the gleam which his sprightly thoughts diffused
about his face, but then another flash of youth came out
of his eyes and made an illumination again. I never
witnessed such a wonderfully illusive transformation, be-
fore or since ; and, to this day, trusting only to my recol-
250 OUR OLD HOME
lection, I should find it difficult to decide which was his
genuine and stable predicament, youth or age. I have
met no Englishman whose manners seemed to me so
agreeable, soft, rather than polished, wholly unconven-
tional, the natural growth of a kindly and sensitive dis-
position without any reference to rule, or else obedient to
some rule so subtile that the nicest observer could not
detect the application of it.
His eyes were dark and very fine, and his delightful
voice accompanied their visible language like music. He
appeared to be exceedingly appreciative of whatever was
passing among those who surrounded him, and especially
of the vicissitudes in the consciousness of the person to
whom he happened to be addressing himself at the mo-
ment. I felt that no effect upon my mind of what he
uttered, no emotion, however transitory, in myself, es-
caped his notice, though not from any positive vigilance
on his part, but because his faculty of observation was so
penetrative and delicate ; and to say the truth, it a little
confused me to discern always a ripple on his mobile face,
responsive to any slightest breeze that passed over the
inner reservoir of my sentiments, and seemed thence to
extend to a similar reservoir within himself. On matters
of feeling, and within a certain depth, you might spare
yourself the trouble of utterance, because he already
knew what you wanted to say, and perhaps a little more
than you would have spoken. His figure was full of
gentle movement, though, somehow, without disturbing
its quietude ; and as he talked, he kept folding his hands
nervously, and betokened in many ways a fine and imme-
diate sensibility, quick to feel pleasure or pain, though
scarcely capable, I should imagine, of a passionate expe-
rience in either direction. There was not an English
trait in him from head to foot, morally, intellectually, or
physically. Beef, ale, or stout, brandy, or port-wine, en-
tered not at all into his composition. In his earlier life,
he appears to have given evidences of courage and sturdy
principle, and of a tendency to fling himself into the
rough struggle of humanity on the liberal side. It would
be taking too much upon myself to affirm that this was
UP THE THAMES 251
merely a projection of his fancy world into the actual,
and that he never could have hit a downright blow, and
was altogether an unsuitable person to receive one. I
beheld him not in his armor, but in his peacefulest robes.
Nevertheless, drawing my conclusion merely from what
I saw, it would have occurred to me that his main defi-
ciency was a lack of grit. Though anything but a timid
man, the combative and defensive elements were not
prominently developed in his character, and could have
been made available only when he put an unnatural force
upon his instincts. It was on this account, and also
because of the fineness of his nature generally, that
the English appreciated him no better, and left this
sweet and delicate poet poor, and with scanty laurels in
his declining age.
It was not, I think, from his American blood that Leigh
Hunt derived either his amiability or his peaceful incli-
nations ; at least, I do not see how we can reasonably
claim the former quality as a national characteristic,
though the latter might have been fairly inherited from
his ancestors on the mother's side, who were Pennsylvania
Quakers. But the kind of excellence that distinguished
him his fineness, subtilty, and grace was that which
the richest cultivation has heretofore tended to develop
in the happier examples of American genius, and which
(though I say it a little reluctantly) is perhaps what our
future intellectual advancement may make general
among us. His person, at all events, was thoroughly
American, and of the best type, as were likewise his
manners ; for we are the best as well as the worst man-
nered people in the world.
Leigh Hunt loved dearly to be praised. That is to
say, he desired sympathy as a flower seeks sunshine, and
perhaps profited by it as much in the richer depth of
coloring that it imparted to his ideas. In response to all
that we ventured to express about his writings, (and, for
my part, I went quite to the extent of my conscience,
which was a long way, and there left the matter to a lady
and a young girl, who happily were with me,) his face
shone, and he manifested great delight, with a perfect,
252 OUR OLD HOME
and yet delicate, frankness for which I loved him. He
could not tell us, he said, the happiness that such appre-
ciation gave him ; it always took him by surprise, he re-
marked, for perhaps because he cleaned his own boots,
and performed other little ordinary offices for himself
he never had been conscious of anything wonderful in
his own person. And then he smiled, making himself
and all the poor little parlor about him beautiful thereby.
It is usually the hardest thing in the world to praise a
man to his face; but Leigh Hunt received the incense
with such gracious satisfaction, (feeling it to be sym-
pathy, not vulgar praise,) that the only difficulty was to
keep the enthusiasm of the moment within the limit of
permanent opinion. A storm had suddenly come up
while we were talking ; the rain poured, the lightning
flashed, and the thunder broke ; but I hope, and have
great pleasure in believing, that it was a sunny hour for
Leigh Hunt. Nevertheless, it was not to my voice that
he most favorably inclined his ear, but to those of my
companions. Women are the fit ministers at such a
shrine.
He must have suffered keenly in his lifetime, and
enjoyed keenly, keeping his emotions so much upon the
surface as he seemed to do, and convenient for everybody
to play upon. Being of a cheerful temperament, happi-
ness had probably the upperhand. His was a light,
mildly joyous nature, gentle, graceful, yet seldom attain-
ing to that deepest grace which results from power; for
beauty, like woman, its human representative, dallies
with the gentle, but yields its consummate favor only
to the strong. I imagine that Leigh Hunt may have
been more beautiful when I met him, both in person and
character, than in his earlier days. As a young man, I
could conceive of his being finical in certain moods, but
not now, when the gravity of age shed a venerable grace
about him. I rejoiced to hear him say that he was fa-
vored with most confident and cheering anticipations in
respect to a future life; and there were abundant proofs,
throughout our interview, of an unrepining spirit, resig-
nation, quiet relinquishment of the worldly benefits that
UP THE THAMES 253
were denied him, thankful enjoyment of whatever he
had to enjoy, and piety, and hope shining onward into
the dusk, all of which gave a reverential cast to the
feeling with which we parted from him. I wish that he
could have had one full draught of prosperity before he
died. As a matter of artistic propriety, it would have
been delightful to see him inhabiting a beautiful house
of his own, in an Italian climate, with all sorts of elabo-
rate upholstery and minute elegances about him, and a
succession of tender and lovely women to praise his