THE

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

OF

LEIGH HUNT,

WITH

Reminiscences

OF FRIENDS AND CONTEMPORARIES.

"Most men, when drawn to speak about themselves,

Are moved by little and little to say more

Than they first dream'd; until at last they blush,

And can but hope to find secret excuse

In the self-knowledge of their auditors."

WALTER SCOTT's Old Play.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

NEW YORK:

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

82 CLIFF STREET.

PREFAC E.

BEFORE 'the reader looks any further into these volumes, I would entreat him to bear in mind two things.

And I say "entreat," and put those two words in italics, not in order to give emphasis to the truth (for truth is, or ought to be, its own emphasis) but to show him how anxious I am on the points, and to impress them the more strongly on his attention.

The first is, that the work, whatever amusement he may find in it (and I hope, for the publishers' sake, as well as my own, that it is not destitute of amusement) was commenced under circumstances which committed me to its execution, and would have been abandoned at almost every step, had those circumstances allowed.

The second is, that the life being that of a man of letters, and topics of a different sort failing me toward the conclusion, I found myself impelled to dilate more on my writings, than it would otherwise have entered my head to contemplate.

It is true, that autobiography, and autocriticism also, have abounded of late years in literary quarters. The French appear to have set the example. Goldoni and Alfieri followed it. Goethe and Chateaubriand followed them. Coleridge's Literary Life is professedly autocritical. With autocriticism Wodsworth answered his reviewers. And editions

of Collected Works have derived new attractions from whatever accounts of them their authors have been induced to supply.

Example itself, however, while it furnishes excuse in proportion to the right which a man has to follow it, becomes reason for alarm when he knows not the extent of his warrant. Others will have to determine that point, whatever he may be disposed to think of it; and perhaps he may be disposed not to think of it at all, but wholly to eschew its necessity. Such, at all events, was the case with myself. I would have entirely waived the autobiography, if a sense of justice to others would have permitted me to do so. My friend and publisher, Mr. Smith, will satisfy any one on that head, who is not acquainted with my veracity. But Mr. Smith's favorable opinion of me, and his own kindly feeling, led him to think it would be so much the reverse of a disadvantage to me in the end that he took the handsomest means of making the task as easy to me as he could, through a long period of engagements over due, and of interruptions from ill health; and though I can never forget the pain of mind which some of the passages cost me, yet I would now, for both our sakes, willingly be glad that the work has been done, provided the public think it worth reading, and are content with this explanation. The opportunity, indeed, which it has given me of recalling some precious memories, of correcting some crude judgments, and, in one respect, of discharging a duty that must otherwise have been delayed, make me persuade myself on the whole, that I am glad. So I shall endeavor, with the reader's help, to remain under that comfortable impression. I will liken myself to an actor, who