gcls_courant_024 4

188 THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.

For the Courant.

BELLS.

The old cathedral bell,
With its deep and solemn knell,
Is sounding on the air
With a voice deop as despair,
Sadly, sadly,

Its voice is harsh and dread,
For behold, a king is dead;
And all the bells must toll
Dirges for the passing soul,
And cowlèd priests must tell
Masses, while each convent cell
Echoes to the wondrous bell
Sadly, sadly.

Through the old house where I dwell
Sounds the grand cathedral bell,
Working with its wondrous voice
Thoughts that make me to rejoice
Gladly, gladly.

From this town, antique and old,
With its sights strange to behold,
My thoughts wander astray,
To a village far away.
And the city whore I dwell,
I forget, as round me swell
Tones of that old village bell,
Gladly, gladly.

My heart cries "all is well,"
As that little village bell
Seems to sound upon my ear,
With its olden voice and dear,
Gladly, gladly.

Thus it rung when I was wed,
Thus, when first my true-love's head
Pressed my bosom, all his own;
But, dear God, it changed its tone,
And a death-toll did it tell,
With its grand, slow-throbbing knell,
And hearts answered to the bell
Sadly, sadly. HATTIE TYNG.

From the Philadelphia Bulletin
Leigh Hunt and His Contempories.

At fifteen minutes past two o'clock, Monday afternoon, we
received the foreign news, in which the death of Leigh Hunt;
at London, in his seventy-fifth year, was announced. Our notice,
written instantaneously, almost, in eight paragraphs,
went into the hands of eight compositors, and in twenty
minutes the news-boys were selling the "second edition" containing
it, in Third street.

Such rapidity is peculiarly destructive of a tendency to every
thing except the sternest matters of fact, and we feel like lingering
a few moments longer over the life of an author to
whom we have been indebted for some rare fancies and most
agreeable hours. As we stated, Leigh Hunt was the son of a
clergyman, and was educated at Christ's Hospital—a school
which numbered among its pupils Coleridge and Lamb. It is
commonly called "the blue coat school," and was founded
about A. D. 1553, in Newgate street. Every reader of Hunt's
work on Lord Byron and some of his contemporaries, will remember
how genially Hunt describes tbe lovely-spirited Elia,
and the "logician, metaphysician and bard," as Lamb called
Coleridge. In the same work will be found noble criticisms
on Shelley and on Clare, whom Hunt not only admired as
poets, but loved as friends, and defended as brothers in arms.
Then, too, he loved Keats, and they read and walked together
over Hampstead Heath (where Hunt introduced Keats to Coleridge);
they wrote together, and in every way mingled thought
and feeling. Speaking of the sympathy between them, in
consequence of his imprisonment for libelling the "Adonis of
fifty," Hunt says: "No imaginative pleasure was left by us
unnoticed or unenjoyed, from the recollection of the bards and
patriots of old, to the luxury of a summer rain at our windows
or the clicking of the coal in winter time." It was at
Hunt's house that Keats saw the lock of Milton's hair, and at
his request he wrote a poem about it, [see p. 61, Milnes' "Life
of Keats."] One or two threads of this lock of hair, we may
remark, are now in this country; they were given by Hunt to
Mr. Boker, the poet, and the messenger who delivered them
(along with some of Lucretia Borgia's beautiful hair), was
Bayard Taylor. Hunt had other friends in America, and at
one time he owned some property in Dauphin county, Pennsylvania.
We presume this property belonged to his father in
Revolutionary times. It was to John Keats that Hunt addressed
these lines:

" "Tis well you think me truly one of those
Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things;
For surely as I feel the bird that sings
Behind the leaves, or dawn as up it grows,
Or the rich bee, rejoicing as he goes,
Or the glad issue of emerging springs,
Or turf, or tree, or 'midst of all, repose:
And surely as I feel things lovelier still,
The human look, and the harmonious form
Containing woman, and the smile in ill,
And such a heart as Charle's wise and warm,—
As surely as all this I see, even now,
Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow."

The "Charles" alluded to in the sonnet was Charles Cowden
Clarke, who was also one of Hunt's friends. Haydon, the artist,
but still greater writer, as his Autobiography has proved,
was a friend of Leigh Hunt, and many a jolly time they had
together. We should like to quote from the letters of the authors
whose names we have mentioned (now lying before us)
some sketches, showing the feeling between them. We should
[COLUMN 2]
like to take a few leaves out, describing the "time " when a
whole party of t.hem, including Fuseli, Bonnycastle (author
the algebra), John Clare (then not emancipated from his country
dress and rustic manners), Charles Matthews and others, were
all sketched in a group by Hunt. There is rare fun in the talk
between Fuseli and Bonnycastle, about a "superb locale," and
in the way he folks of Bonnycastle "looking like a horse. His
laugh was equine. A bag of oats would have hung well on
him." Shelley writes to Maria Gisborne:

"You will see Hunt; one of those happy souls
Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom
This world would smell like what it is—a tomb;
Who is, what others seem :—his room, no doubt
Is still adorned by many cast from Shout,
With graceful flowers tastefully placed about;
And coronals of bay from ribbons hung,
And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung,
Tho gifts of the most learn'd among some dozens
Of female friends, sisters-in-law and cousins.
And there is he with bis eternal puns,
Which beat the dullest brains for smiles, like duns
Thundering for money at a poet's door ;
Alas! it is no use to say 'I'm poor!'
Or oft in graver mood, when he will look
Things wiser than were ever said in book,
Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderness."

Such was Shelley's picture of Hunt. Hunt's sketch of
Shelley is equally charming. lt will be found in the life of
Shelley, affixed to the "Blue and Gold" edition of his poems.
Shelley became acquainted with Hunt through his sympathy
with his "Liberal" views, and for years they dreamed of
conducting a magazine together. Lord Byron listened favourably
to the project, but backed out, making Hunt his enemy in
so doing, and the "Liberal" was begun without much aid from
him. The last lines Shelley ever wrote took the form of a
"Welcome to Italy" for Leigh Hunt. About this time, too,
says Lady Percy Shelley, in the "Shelley Memorials,"—"Leigh
Hunt and Shelley spent a delightful afternoon together in
Cathedral at Pisa. Here the noble music of the organ deeply
affected Shelley, who warmly assented to a remark of Hunt's,
that a divine religion might be found out, if charity were really
made the principle of it, instead of faith." At the burning of
the body of Shelley, Hunt and Byron were present, with Trelawney.
Then Mrs. Mary W. Shelley was one of that wonderful
group of genius. So was Horace Smith. Wordsworth and
Southey knew something of Lamb and Shelley, and had a
slight acquaintance with Hunt.

Of Hunt's numerous books we recal the following: "Foliage,"
a very characteristic book of rather youthful poems, full of conceits.
"The Story of Rimini," written about the same time, and
possessing the same characteristics. "Juvenilia," school-boy
productions. Criticisms in the News, the Examiner, on actors
and authors; "Classic Tales," "Feast of the Poets," "The
Descent of Liberty, a Masque," "A Translation of Tasso's
Arminta," "The Literary Pocket Book, a Poem." Then there
were the periodicals, called "The Indicator," "The Companion
and Indicator," and "The Round Table." In the letter, Hazlitt
assisted. Such exquisite criticism would be difficult to
parallel or define; we can simply say that they are a "feast of
fat things" to any one who loves the genuine love of books,
authors and plays. Hunt's last work was, we think, "A Book
for a Corner," a copy of which we were fortunate enough to
pick up at a stall several years ago, as we stood reading—
though not like Charles Lamb's boy, who had to sigh and lay
down the volume, when the owner of the stall came along and
saw him. The "Book for a Corner" does not contain much
original matter, but is a selection of quaint and pleasant letters
of Gray and other writers, Steele and Addison's account of
their clubs, and other out-of-the-way reading, in choice bits
and snatches—airy and delightful as the orchestral music between
the acts at the theatre.

The brothers Hunt continued their labours while in prison
for the libel on that silly Prince Regent, and, although Shelley
and other "Liberal" friends offered to pay their fine of two
thousand pounds, they refused the offer, and paid it themselves.
Leigh was not much of a man of busineas, but John, his
brother, was almost exclusively a business character, and
made most of the money for "the concern.'' We do not know
whether John Hunt is alive yet or not. The date of Leigh's
death is given as the twenty-eighth of August.

As old age grew upon Hunt, he must have felt sad to see his
old friends and fellow-authors drop off one by one. First
Keats, then Shelley, then Byron, Scott, Coleridge, Southey,
Lamb, Lloyd, Clare, Smith, Haydon, Mathews, Wordsworth,
Mrs. Mary W. Shelley, his "ancient enemy." Tom Moore, and
others who filled a large space in the literature of England,
from the beginning of the present century until the rise of
Tennyson. He must often have thought with emotion of his
old friend Charles Lamb's "Old Familiar Faces," which our
readers may not think inappropriate at the close of this article:

"I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhod, in my joyful school days,—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

"I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

"I had a love once, fairest among women !
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

"I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him to muse on the old familiar faces.

"Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

"Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?
So we might talk of the old familiar faces.

"How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces."

UNPLEASANT—a first-rate appetite and nothing to eat. Quite
as agreeable—plenty to eat and no appetite.

[COLUMN 3]
For the Courant.

MR. EDITOR: I have observed, of late, that the editor of the
Charleston Mercury, and Mr. JOHN W. OVERALL, of the New
Orleans True Delta, have been engaged in quite an animated
discussion touching the merits of Mr. SIMMS as a poet; Mr.
OVERALL denying to Mr. SIMMS the exalted position claimed
for him in the realms of poesy, while the Mercury persists in
unmeasured terms, the pretensions of Mr. OVERALL to just and
impartial criticism.

Now, as an outside observer of this warfare, I must be permitted
to remark, that the Mercury's attack of the 2d inst. is
simply a piece of personal billingsgate, beneath the dignity of
the character of the journal , an wholly unjust to Mr. OVERALL,
as a man, an author, and a gentleman.

It is conceded, I believe, that every man, in this land of liberty,
has a right to his own opinions, and is allowed the free
and full expression of them; and editors, especially, are wont
to avail themselves of this glorious privilege, by giving to the
world, through the medium of their respective sheets, their
pre-conceived opinions of men and things. Exercising this
right, Mr. OVERALL, while connected with the Daily Delta
(which paper, by-the-way, he edited with signal ability and
success for eighteen months), published a lengthy and able review
of Mr. SIMMS' poems, in which he clearly pointed out the
numerous and glaring defects with which the volumes abound,
and which, though unanswered at the time, has recently
brought down upon him the anthemas of the Mercury and of
Russell's Magazine. The Mercury has attempted to prop up the
the tottering monument of Mr. SIMMS' fame, at the expense of Mr.
OVERALL's private character, thus compromising the dignity
of the Press and the principles of courtesy.

The object of the Press should be to instruct, not to mislead;
to scatter the clouds of ignorance and error from the atmosphere
of reason; to remove the film of prejudice from the
mental eye, and thus to irradiate the benighted mind with the
cheering beams of truth. How far the Mercury has observed
this rule, or in what particular it has refuted the arguments of
Mr. OVERALL, remains to be determined by the impartial and
discriminating readers of this controversy.

An intimate acquaintance, of years' standing, with Mr.
OVERALL, both as regards his editorial capacity and the social
relations of life, justify me in asserting, that he has done more
to develop, foster and encourage young Southern genius, than
any man in our sunny clime. No young writer of promise
has yet appeared, who has not received a kind word of cheer
from his pen; and many have been stimulated to strive for
higher excellence in the "art divine," through his sympathy
and encouragement, who might have been killed, KEATS-like,
by the venom of jealous critics, in a State not far remote from
this. Has Mr. SIMMS, except in the case of Mr. PAUL HAYNE,
ever published a word in favour of the young writers of the
South? On the contrary, has he not repeatedly dipped his pen in
the gall of jealousy, when reviewing the productions of those
who had a right to some degree of clemency at his hands, and
many of whose poems will live when his are forgotten?

The Mercury is labouring under an idle delusion, if it really
thinks that its personal attacks upon Mr. OVERALL will "confer
upon him the only species of fame within his reach." His
reputation as a chaste, graceful and vigorous writer, is too
well established in this and other States, to be affected by
Mercury's fling, while his claims to a high and enviable position
in the Temple of the Muses, will not suffer by comparison with
those of the Magnus Apollo of Southern song.

I have the temerity to assert, that the "Funeral of Mirabeau,"
"The Bards," "Hymn to Hesperus," "A Picture," and
"The Girl of the Rhine," exceed in strength of diction,
beauty of sentiment, and musical rhythm, any poems in Mr.
SIMMS' volumes, and will be so regarded by all unprejudiced
critics.

A sense of justice to Mr. OVERALL, as a gentleman and a
writer, has induced me to pen this crude and hasty defense
against the bitter invectives which have been so unscrupulously
hurled upon him by the presiding genius of the Mercury.
New Orleans, Sept., 1859. JUSTITIA

Prof. Nott.

Our readers will find a beautiful article on our first page,
"The Maid of the Castle," by the late highly-gifted Professor
NOTT. It is many years since it was published, and we doubt
not that every body will thank us for reproducing it.

Asleep.

The last number of the "American Publishers' Circular"
actually quotes from BELLE BRITTAIN's (Col. Fuller's) new
book, "Sparks from a Locomotive." They will be quoting
Dr. MACKAY next.

MARRIAGE IN HIGH-LIFE.—Miss Mason, daughter of the
American Minister of Paris, was married on the ninth of
August, at 11 o'clock, A. M., to Mr. Anderson, of Virginia,
The persons present were the particular friends of the family.
Miss Mason selected for her wedding-day the twenty-eigth
anniversary of the marriage of her parents. Some large
bouquets of American flowers were broughto ut by the steamer
Vanderbilt for the occasion. They looked as fresh as if just
taken from their native bowers.