but finally he left the desk, legal or official, for the desk literary, to devote himself to the Examiner, set up in 1808 with his brother John. He went to prison for two years in 1813, rather than forfeit his consistency as a political writer. It was as a vindicator of liberal principles in politics, sociology (word then unused), and art, that he attracted the friendship of Byron and Shelley; it was to accomplish the literary speculation of the Liberal that he set out for Italy in 1821; it was to study Italy and the Italians, with a view to "improve" that and other "subjects," that he stopped in Italy till the autumn of 1825. He returned to England to try his fortune with books in prose and verse, in periodicals of his own or others'; and it was in the midst of unrelinquished work that he placidly laid himself down to sleep in August, 1859,—his last words of anxiety being for Italy and her enlarging hopes, his latest breath uttering inquiries and messages of affection. This is essentially a literary life; but it is given to a literature in which there is life,—for Leigh Hunt, although he dwelled and passed his days in the library, was no "book-worm," divorced from human existence, its natural instincts and affections. On the contrary, he carried into his study a large heart and a strong pulse; to him the books spoke in the voice of his fellow-men, audible from the earliest ages, and he loved to be followed into his retreat by friends from the outer world.
Leigh Hunt certainly was not driven to this little-broken retirement by the want of qualities which are attractive in society, or by the tastes that render society attractive; but under the force of remarkable contradictions in his character, he was often fain to waive what he desired and could easily have—"letting I would not wait upon I may," with an apparent caprice most exasperating to the bystander. He professed readiness for "whatever is going forward," seemed eager to meet any approaching pleasure; and then hung back with a coy, reluctant, anxious delay, that forbore its own satisfaction altogether. Probably this apparent contradiction may be traced to his origin and nurture. According to all evidence respecting his immediate progenitors, he was little of a Hunt, save in his gaiety and avowed love of "the pleasurable." His natural energy, which showed itself in a robust frame, a powerful voice, a great capacity for endurance, and a strong will, seems to have been inherited from Stephen Shewell, the stern, headstrong, and implacable. From the Bickleys, possibly—the gallant Knight Banneret of King William's Irish wars will pardon the doubt—his mother transmitted her own material tendency to an over-conscientious, reflective, hesitating temperament, which drew back from any action not manifestly and imperatively dictated by duty. The son showed all these contradictory traits even in his aspect and bearing.
He was tall rather than otherwise,—five feet ten inches and a half when measured for the St. James's Volunteers; though, in common with men whose length is in the body rather than the legs, his height diminished as he advanced in life. He was remarkably straight and upright in his carriage, with a short, firm step, and a cheerful, almost dashing approach,—smiling, breathing, and making his voice heard in little inarticulate ejacu-
