denied him the opportunities for doing; much, That the Society which made more people hold that can be done effectually only in great libraries, But I return to my assertion, that the most memorable of all Secret Societies was the meanest.

It may seem strange to insinuate against the Aglaophamus any objection, great or small, as regards its erudition-that being the main organ of its strength. But precisely here lay the power of Lobeck, and here his weakness; all his strength, and his most obvious defect. Of this he was sensible himself. At the very period of composing the Aglaophamus, he found reason to complain that his situation denied him access to great libraries and this, perhaps, is felt by the reader most in the part relating to the Eleusinian mysteries, least in that relating to the Orphic. Previously, however, Lobeck had used his opportunities well. And the true praise of his reading is, not so much that it was unusually extensive, as that it was unusually systematic, and connected itself in all its parts by unity of purpose. At the same time it is a remark of considerable interest, that the student must not look in Lobeck, for luminous logic, or for simplicity of arrangement, which are qualifications for good writing, unknown to the great scholars of modern Germany, to Niebuhr altogether, and in the next degree unknown to Ottfried Mueller, and to Lobeck. Their defects in this respect are so flagrant, as to argue some capital vice in the academic training of Germany. Elsewhere throughout the world no such monstrous result appears of chaotic arrangement from profound research. As regards philosophy, and its direct application to the enigmas of these Grecian mysteries, it is no blame to Lobeck that none must be looked for in him, unless he had made some pretence to it, which I am not aware that he did. Yet in one instance he ought to have made such a pretence: mere good sense should have opened his eyes to one elementary blunder of Warburton's. I tax W., I tax all who have ever countenanced W., I tax all who have ever

their tongues than ever the Inquisition did, or the medieval Vehm-gericht, was a hoax ; nay, except Freemasonry, the hoax of hoaxes.

opposed W., I tax Lobeck as bringing up the rear of these opponents, one and all with the inexcusable blindness of torpor in using their natural eyesight. So much of philosophy as resides in the mere natural faculty of reflectiveness would have exposed [pure sloth it was in the exercise of this faculty which concealed] the blunder of W. in confounding a doctrinal religion [such as Judaism, Christianity, Islamism] with a Pagan religion, which last has a cultus or ceremonial worship, but is essentially insusceptible of any dogma or opinion. Paganism had no creed, no faith, no doctrine, little, or great, shallow, or deep, false or true. Consequently the doctrine of a future state did not (because it could not) belong to Paganism. Having no doctrines of any sort, Grecian idolatry could not have this. All other arguments against W. were a posteriori from facts of archeology: this was a priori from the essential principle of an idolatrous religion. All other arguments proved the Warburtonian crotchet to be a falsehood: this proves it to be an impossibility. Other arguments contradict it: this leaves it in self-contradiction. And one thing let me warn the reader to beware of. In the Oriental forms of Paganism, such as Buddhism, Brahminism, &c., some vestiges of opinion seem at times to intermingle themselves with the facts of the mythology: all which, however, are only an after-growth of sectarian feuds, or philosophic dreams, that having survived opposi tion, and the memory of their own origin, have finally confounded themselves with the religion itself as parts in its original texture. But in Greece there never was any such confusion, even as a natural process of error. The schools of philosophy, always keeping themselves alive, naturally always vindicated their own claims against any incipient encroachments of the national religion.

(To be concluded in next Number.)

LEIGH HUNT ON THE PENSION LIST.

BY GEORGE GILFILLAN, AUTHOR OF A "GALLERY OF LITERARY PORTRAITS."

to the prudence of taking a leaf out of Peel's
book, whose readiness to help Haydon amid the
perplexities of state intrigue, and the agonies
of a dissolving cabinet, did him such honour, and
flew abroad far as the report of that one pistol
which startled the whole land; or whether they
have been partly shamed into one of these gifts,
by the generous proposal of the London literati,
or whether we must class their conduct with those
numerous acts of penitence which precede a par-
liamentary deathbed: without asking such ticklish
questions, we, in common with every man of
letters, and every lover of literature, are called
upon to be thankful for it, to rejoice in it, and to
find in it a happy augury for the future.
the "sons of the morning" be glad. They are
no longer so much under the ban of public opi-
nion and the proscription of power as they were.
If no rain of mitres, or degrees, or dignities may
be expected, still they shall henceforth not alto-

Ir might rouse old Castlereagh or "Gentle to inquire whether they have not become awake man George" himself, from their dishonoured graves, to witness the recent distribution of pensions. Once so sternly reserved for the brokendown hacks of aristocratic literature, for those whose right hand had lost its cunning in defending the indefensible, and whose tongue had at last cleft to the roof of their mouths in bawling down the honest and the true-or for the dismissed mistresses, and superannuated bodymen and butlers of the nobility-they are beginning, though still slowly and sparsely, to drop upon men of real merit, and upon the wives and families of the great departed. The Whigs, who no more than the Tories, have been munificent in their patronage of genius -nay, who in one egregious instance (when, namely, they stopped the pensions of Coleridge and the little band who shared with him the tardy liberality of George IV.) disgraced themselves by unseemly penuriousness— -seem at last determined to redeem their character. They have, as all the world now knows, conferred pen-gether lose their reward. They will now have a sions on Leigh Hunt, on Father Matthew, and on the families of Chalmers and Hood. This is as it should be, and as it should have been, long ere now. It were wrong to criticise, too severely, the probable motives for these acts of liberality

Let

new stimulus to exertion in the hope that, in proportion to the energy and the truth of their exertions, may be the provision which a grateful country and a good Government are likely to make for their declining years, and that there is

less probability of their grey hairs going down to the grave as those of paupers, or of being carried thither by the hands of pauper children.

Such congratulations, however, can only avail, if it turn out that such gifts, as the Government has lately bestowed, are the firstlings of a large future fold. If not, if they be simply a sop to Cerberus, why, let Cerberus take his sop, and straightway seek more. Let the public, which has so unequivocally demanded, and got this concession, be strengthened by it to redouble its demands. There are still other veterans in the field of literature unprovided for besides Leigh Hunt, other authors and other divines besides Hood and Chalmers may drop off suddenly in those days, when death, like all other things, is going at railway speed, and leave nothing behind but the barren lustre of a name. Government may go to sleep again on the subject, and the public, and above all, the press must be prepared ever and anon to break its repose, and in defect of a "starling," to "holla out" with its thousand tongues such names as it deems most to deserve and most to require the bounty of the nation.

sal delight. We happened to be the first next to Mr. Hunt and his family, to learn the fact; we spread it, of course, as widely as we could; and throughout a long journey, and in intercourse with every variety of class, found it to excite unmingled satisfaction. Literary men clapped their hands for joy. Clerical men expressed their gratification in a style calmer, but as sincere. Commercial men, who had never probably read a line of his writings, but were familiar with him as a national name, were overjoyed. Politicians, who read no poetry, and knew Hunt only as the quondam-martyr in the liberal cause, felt it to be a triumph of their principles. The admirers of his genius, all of whom regard him as their personal friend, were as happy as if a pension had been presented to themselves. The Press, we find, both Tory and Liberal, has since taken up a similar note. And although we have heard one or two mutterings of dissatisfaction, yet they have been so low, so stifled, and, altogether, so few and so contemptible, as only to serve to accent the voice of the general joy. This shows that, after all, men have some heart, some gratitude- that, in the words of Shakspere, the great soul of the world is just." And it must, we think, have astonished Mr. Hunt and his friends themselves; for we are convinced that, till of late, they were not aware of the full interest which the age had in his fortunes, and of the full pride which it felt in his genius and his fame.

We were delighted, lastly, with the candour and discrimination discovered in the selection of the objects for this act of national munificence. Of the merits of Hood-having spoken so re

In considering the whole history of the recent pensions, we meet with many circumstances calculated to inspire us with pleasure and with gratitude. In the first place, we cannot but allude again to the noble offer of the London literateurs to give amateur performances in behalf of Leigh Hunt, in London, Liverpool, and Manchester. It not only testifies to their generosity, but is one among many proofs, that the wretched jealousies which were wont to disgrace the literary world, are fast passing away, that a better spirit is coming upon our era, and that a real and not a nominal repub-cently-why need we say more? If he had been lic of letters may by and bye be formed. And whatever of such roots of bitterness do still remain spring from whatever remains of the old degradation and contempt to which authors were subjected. Not very long ago, they were first classed with wild beasts, and then wonder was expressed that they bit and devoured each other. In proportion as they have been permitted to rise in the scale of respectability, have their unseemly jarrings died away, showing very clearly that the quarrels of authors have sprung from their calamities, and that of course when the cause is removed, the effect must expire with it. We were pleased, too, to observe the power which public opinion has acquired in wrenching from hands, however reluctant, the good things of the state. How generally and indignantly was this expressed at the bare rumours that the family of Hood were to be cast desolate upon the world! And how fast was that "hope deferred," which so long sickened the heart of poor Leigh Hunt, beginning to produce a very different feeling in the breast of the public, who are every year becoming more and more alive to the obligations which they owe him! Such murmurs, not loud but deep, were not lost upon the ears of Government, who even, The claims of Dr. Chalmers were of a kind were their seat in office securer than it is, would which still more commended themselves to the not be safe in defying any distinct or general general mind and feelings. And yet we protest demand from the vox populi. Accordingly it was against a disposition we observe in many quargranted, and the grant has given all but univer-ters to speak slightingly of the deserts of literary

a mere punster, like Jekyll; a mere curious and
clever combination of divine and diner-out, like
Sydney Smith; a mere heartless and witty bon
vivant, like Hooke-an age which is rapidly be-
coming sincere, and which, as an earnest man
may be known in his very laughter, is discover-
ing its earnestness in its very picture-books and
jest-books, would not have so eagerly sought
a pension for his family. It was not gratitude
simply for so much tickling pleasure received;
it was not merely admiration for his genius;
but it was a sense, caught almost by instinct, of
the purity of his purpose-the humanity of his
nature-and of the martyrdom which that huma-
nity inflicted on him; not to speak of the sacrifices
of soul to popular effects, of taste and tendency
to necessity-which his circumstances extorted
from him-that made Hood such a favourite with
the public. Every man that had read so much
as his "
Song of the Shirt," or his "Bridge of
Sighs," felt himself in debt to their author, and
rejoiced at whatever was done, whether through
private contribution or through the public funds,
to discharge even a fractionary part of what
could never in whole be defrayed.

men when compared with those of clergymen. We look upon this as a mere vulgar Scotch prejudice. Let both be rated at their proper value. Literary men, though belonging to the real clerus, do not make such high pretensions as the clergy, and are not to be tried by so severe a standard. | They do not save souls professionally; but, surely, they enlighten intellects, and they cheer hearts. They do not visit the sick in person; but they send in their vicarious monthly or weekly mcssengers, to enliven and console the forgotten and the solitary, the widow and the orphan. Theirs is not the loud oracular thunder; but theirs is often a still small voice, winning a gentle and irresistible way into the heart of the community. If they lead not always the great outward movements of society, they create and direct an undercurrent which is becoming even mightier than they. And, though the pulpit be still the throne of Scotland (and long may it so continue!) yet dim must be the eyes which discern not that in England, and many other countries, the Press is the real ruler, and the best way to check and wisely to regulate it is not, surely, by underrating those who wield its power. Let it not be forgotten, too, that while clergymen are by rank counted gentlemen, and therein secured against insult, and endowed with much influence, it is, or was, otherwise with literary men; that while the remuneration of clergymen is, generally, stated and secure, that of literateurs is most fluctuating and uncertain; and that thus there is the less reason for sacrificing the claims of the one on the altar of the other, or of wondering that Government is considerate enough to recognise and honour both. For our parts (and we surely may speak without prejudice) we prefer the "Song of the Shirt," or some of Hunt's little papers in the Indicator," to thousands of the sermons which every morning sees published, and which no eve sees bought or read.

vine.

for the departure of this princely man; we have
felt more at the fall of an aged leaf, at the
breaking of a hoary wave on the shore at
the close of a summer's day-his work was so
evidently over, and his destiny closed. But our
minds in rapid, yet lingering review, went over
the history of his life, and the character of his
mind, as of one living and nowise lost. What was
his meaning, and whence his power, were ques-
tions that came upon us with strange urgency?
And we felt that the following words best con-
veyed our ideas, and constituted the epitaph we
should inscribe on his tombstone.
Not a great
theologian, though possessed of vivid ideas on
theology-not a man of science, though widely ac-
quainted with many branches of science—not a
philosopher, though possessing much of the spirit
of philosophy-hardly a man of genius, for such
a subtle idealizing faculty as Jeremy Taylor for
instance, or of great poets was not his—but one,
whose high talent and energy, inflamed through
the force of their own mction, and burst out into
the conflagrations of eloquence-a Christian
orator unequalled-one in whom emotive sym-
pathy with the spirit of the age-with the Scottish
people-with the poor around him-with all that
was lovely and of good report, was the ruling ele-
ment-but for which, all his varied powers and
attainments would have only rendered him a
younger and less agile brother of Brougham, but
which, possessed, made him the man of a country
and of an age-made him lead great hosts and
gain great victories-and acquire for himself a
reputation as enviable and as unenvied (save by
the very Pariahs of party) as ever was won by
uninspired man.

We were fortunate enough-when recently in England-to track his course in more places than one.

We heard of him in the parlour of the author of "Sartor Resartus" whom he had-uninvited, unexpected, but not unwelcome-visited. In saying this, we are so far from wishing to They had met twenty years before, and had parted derogate from the name of Chalmers, that we mutually estranged, if not disgusted. They met mean to make it an opportunity for indicating recently, and parted after some hours' intercourse, what was, perhaps, his highest praise-that he mutually delighted. We can fancy their meeting combined, more entirely than any man of the like that of two rivers-one broad, rapid, clear, period, the characteristics of the man of letters and sunny-the other still, gloomy, and profound and science, and of the great preacher and di--both chanting their own song-the one a loud, In this point, what recent name of the Christian world can we weigh beside his, and not find it wanting? With more elegance, more acuteness, more wit, and more high-wrought and dazzling finish and point, Hall was yet a small and narrow soul compared to Chalmers; he wanted his width-his warm-heartedness-his profound and generous sympathies; and his eloquence, when printed, looks like a taper beside a furnace it is well-trimmed, brilliant, pointed, but not a broad or consuming fire. Foster, compared to him, was a gloomy monk; Irving, an intense maniac. In power, both were probably superior, but not in that management of powerthat turning of it to practical purposes, which doubles its momentum and worth-and still less

in that genial element in which his power was bathed. And yet we cannot say that we grieved

yet irregular "thunder psalm;" the other a
wilder, lower, and more mystic melody. Two
spirits more carnest-two more in essential points
at one and two-more influential over the rising
minds of the age-did not breathe. They met
they interchanged thoughts, like the shields of
Diomede and Glaucus-they parted to meet no
more on earth, for the one was bound for eternity,
and had only time to look in and make peace with
a kindred spirit, ere he went his way.
not remind our readers, that Dr. Chalmers had,
in an article on "Morell's philosophy," taken oc-
casion to pass a glowing panegyric on Thomas
Carlyle, and that this suitably paved the
way
their last meeting.

We need

for

We heard of him again, in the house of the gentleman just named, Mr. Morell, and sat, so it chanced, in the chair, where for two hours he had

has lived to find the late remorse of love, so long exhibited by the public, at length sanctioned and sealed by the signet of power.

We were never more fortunate than in the time when we called on this amiable and distin

discussed divers grave and high subjects, with that accomplished young philosopher. He promised, we understand, to arrange matters for getting Mr. Morrel to deliver a course of lectures in Edinburgh during the ensuing season. We trust that the spirited directors of the New Philosophi-guished person. He had newly received the cal Institution there will do themselves the honour of adopting and carrying into effect Dr. Chalmers's generous proposal.

notice of his pension. His appearance fully veri| fied what we had said of him years ago. He is a grey-haired boy, whose heart can never grow To return, however, to Leigh Hunt. The old. He received us with as much cordiality as thought of his pension suggests still more pleasing if we had been old friends. He spoke, in the emotions than do the others. He is alive, and flurry of his heart, as if this pension would now long may he live to taste the bounty of his Sove- be to him "riches fineless," and smiled when reign. He has long ago most honourably won the we compared him to a schoolboy, who imagines prize that has at last accrued to him-won it, not that his first shilling can span the round of all merely by his literary merit; this great as it is conceivable enjoyments. He showed us Lord (for he is already a British classic-he has been John Russell's letter, and expatiated on the before the public for nearly fifty years as a poet, delicacy and kindness which it discovered. He journalist, critic, essayist, and translator, and, spoke, during the short time we were with apart from his political writings, is the author of him, on various subjects, and in a gay, lively, forty separate volumes), is perhaps his least merit discursive style. Ilis conversation is a winding, —he has won it still more by the consistency of wimpling, sparkling stream, whereas that of Carhis political career-by the kindliness and genero- lyle, which we had listened to a few evenings sity of his nature-and by the savage injustice of before, is a river of lava, red, right onward, and the treatment which he underwent, both as a li- irresistible. Among other things about his friend terary man and as a politician. When sometimes Shelley, he mentioned that he had translated all disposed to think him too sensitive even to the the works of Spinoza, and that this translation criticism of his friends, and too jealous of his esta- was still extant. He received us in his library, blished reputation, we always modify our judg- which, as usually happens, forms a true index of ment when we remember the victimization which the man. Its shelves are radiant with the best he underwent from his foes. It is easy for those belles lettres of every country and age. It is a whose worst sufferings in life have been the head-room, the very sweat of which you imagine aches of excess, or the flea-bites of village scandal, to talk contemptuously of the soreness of a man, who for years stood on the pillory of public opinion, and had to sustain not merely the mud artillery of the base and the mean, but the fiery and orient shafts of men of kindred genius, whom circumstances and fate had ranged as archers against him, and who must have felt to those bright but mis-directed missiles much as the struck eagle does to the dart, feathered with her own plumage, which lays her low. The trample of Satyrs and other obscene things he might have endured; but to be patient under the tread of such demigods as Byron, Wilson, Moore, and Lockhart, hic labor hoc opus fuit. Yet all this he has survived, and this itself proves him possessed of no common powers, to say the least, of endurance, and we trust we may add, of forgiveness and charity too.

We glory in Hunt's pension, not merely for his sake, but for the sake of a class of men of whom he is the last living representative. Now may the injured shades of Hazlitt, Shelley, and Keats, deem themselves in some measure appeased. These all, as well as Hunt, had their errors; they all needed counsel, and, instead of counsel, received proscription-murder-under the judicial forms of criticism. They asked for bread, and received a stone, not over their graves, but in their foreheads. They sought liberty to sing, and what is rarely denied to the veriest ballad-singer was refused to them; their mouths were closed with a shower of cinders and mud. Men swore at them as blasphemers, and cursed them in the name of the Blessed. Hunt alone

will be poetry. Green leaves look in at its window, and a divine gush of sunshine half seamed them with gold. It seemed as if in that favoured room the "milder day" had begun. All things were in fine keeping-the old young poet, grey hairs on his head, but youth in his eyes and hand-the shelves laden with spirit-the sunny day-the leaves fluttering without, as if stirred with secret and half-born delight, to be recognised and renewed when their dream of being blossoms into being itself-the letter lying on the table, unconscious of the joy it had conferred― we shall never forget our emotions, and shall surely mark Thursday, the 24th of June, with a white stone.

After a grasp of his hand, with which ours was long warm, and a pat on the shoulder, which said, not in English nor Latin, but in the natural language of all mankind, Perge Puer, our friend and we left, uncertain which of us most to love the dear old man, to whom we must now bid farewell by his full name-James Henry Leigh Hunt.

While writing the above, our attention has been called to a sensible paper in a recent Spectator on the Pension Fund. In it the writer proposes the establishment of a new and larger fund, to be administered by the sovereign, solely as the executive and responsible officer of the nation. We fear the public is not quite ripe for such a measure. We are sure that even if it were adopted, the fund would still require to be strictly and jealously watched. Who, pray, is to instruct the Crown in the choice of the proper objects of such a charity? Till such a tund be formed—