The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

Be present, ye home Truths and Graces,
That throw a charm on commonplaces,
And make a street or an old door
Look as it never look'd before,
Nay, doggrel's very self refine
Into a bark not quite canine
(Rather, a voice that once those fairies
Took delight in, call'd the Lares;
Fire-side gods, that used to sit
Loving jolly dogs and wit;)
For with a truth on our own part,
Which, though it frisketh, is at heart
The solemnest of all the solemns,
We sing, imprimis, Double Columns;
And secondly, our noble Type,
Beauteous as Raphael, clear as Cuyp.

315

Double Columns, in all places,
Are always cause of double graces;
They grace one's front, and grace one's wings,
And do all sorts of graceful things,
Making a welcome fit for queens;
But most of all in magazines.

Look at the fact. All monthly publi-
Cations that have been column'd doubly,
Have always hit the public fancy
Better, and with more poignàncy
Than your platter-fac'd, broad pages;
Witness things that liv'd for ages,—
London Magazines, and Towns
And Countrys, of charade renowns;
The old Monthly, still surviving
Though with single life now striving;
And the old Gentleman's (why also
Should he change, and risk a fall so?)
Truly old gentleman was he,
And liv'd to hail the century,
Although his diet was no better
Than an old tombstone or dead letter.
Then look at Blackwood, look at Fraser;
To them and their sales what d'ye say, Sir?
Tories, I own; the more's the pity;
But double-column'd, and therefore witty:
For columns (quoth th' Horatian fiddling)
Don't permit people to be middling.
The Dublin University
Might also spell his name with g,—
With o and g, and call himself
The Doubling,—therefore fit for shelf;
A clever dog; though he, too, beats
His Dublin drum with Toryous heats.
Tait, lastly, hath his columns double,
Though he began (which gave him trouble)
With single ones. I warn'd him of it,
And now, you see, he owns me prophet.

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Lucky for Tait;—because I prophesied
Also, that wealth would thus be of-his-side.
I only wish his columns were of
Narrower edifice; since thereof
Greater snugness comes, and easiness
Of reading, which is half the business.

Oh, nothing like your double columns!
Notions of single ones are all hums.
Compare a single one with any
Two that you see, how like a zany
It looks; how poor, inept, inhuman!
Oh, ever while you live, have two, man;
Two, like two legs; and don't be branding
With love of one your understanding.
Fancy a door with one provided!
How ludicrous! one-legged! lop-sided;
Whereas with two, like tit for tat,
Pediment, cornice, and all that,
It stands like something worth looking at,
Or a stout fellow in a cock'd hat.
See our own door-way, at page one;
There's fitness for a Parthenon!
Two columns, bearing that first story
Of strong and sweet Repository.
Will any man who hates a flat style,
Or a forc'd, object to that style?
Will Mr. Gwilt, or Mr. Barry,
Or Mr. What's-his-name? No, marry.
Our front demands them to be stout;
So no pun, pray, on the word gout.
Turn but the corner, and look there;
There see our columns mount in air,
So smooth, and sweet, and with a smile,
Air seems itself to feel the style.
No one will say, with wondering brows,
As the man did to Carlton House,
“Care colonne, che fate quà?”
Nor will the columns, with hum and ha,
Say “Non sappiamo, in verità.”
A pretty jest, 'faith, and a queer,

317

To ask our columns how they came here!
Egad, they'd say to such suggestion,
“How came you here, that ask the question?”

Double then be your columns, ever:
Were single ones in Nature? Never.
(There's nothing like a round assertion)
And history holds them in aversion.

All her best columns go by twos;—
Witness those pillars of the Jews,
Jachin and Boaz, which implied
That Love and Pow'r go side by side;
And those which Hercules set up,
When he sat down in Spain to sup
On fame and gratitude (no dull tray)
And carv'd upon them Ne plus ultra;
Meaning, “You can't surpass my columns;”
Words in our favour that speak volumes.
Upon the like, deny who can,
Goes that most wondrous fabric, man,
And on two legs walks noble and steady;
But this we have touch'd upon already.
Thus emperors walk; yea, poets; yea,
My lady B. and lady A.;
Yea (not to speak it lightly) queens;
And so must wits in magazines.

In short, look at the common sense
O' the case, and frame your judgment thence.
So wide are single-column'd pages,
The eyes grow tir'd with the long stages;
At each line's end you feel perplex'd
For the beginning of the next,
And have to run back all the way
To find it, and keep saying “Eh?”
Now double ones require but glances;
From line to line the sweet eye dances,
Without a strain, or the least trouble,
And thus th' enjoyment's truly double,

318

Taking your meaning and your thinking,
As easily as lovers, winking.
Besides, meanwhile it has an eye to
The other column it runs nigh to;
Which doubly doubles the enjoyment,
By certainty of more employment;
Just like that terrible Greek, who reckon'd,
While courting one love, on a second;
Or as your gourmand, dining pleasantly,
Says, “I'll attack that pigeon presently.”

So much for columns. Now for type.
What soul, of any judgment ripe,
Or wise by dint of good intentions,
But must exult in its dimensions?
What good heart swell not at a size
So very good for good old eyes?
Nay, good for eyes too not grown old,
But tried by labours manifold,
And glad not to be forc'd to take
To spectacles and vision-ache?
Young eyes, of course, can find no fault with it;
And babes that learn to spell, won't halt with it:
So that, in fact, the only pages
To suit all eyes and suit all ages,
And fill the whole earth's visual powers
With tears of transport, will be ours!
Good heav'ns! what an amazing glory!
Unknown in periodic story!

We knew once a shrewd speculator,
Young withal, and fond of pater,
Who in the course of a right breeding
Had got such filial views of reading,
That he projected an old men's
Newspaper, to be call'd—The Lens;
That is to say, a glass to read it;
Because the print was not to need it!
(We think we see old Munden kneading

319

The word, in his intensest reading,
And counting it a gain, exceeding).
Well, here's a Lens in all its glory,
The type of the Repository;—
A glass, without a glass's need;—
A print, that cries to all “Come, read!”
How pleasant to reverse, for once,
The cares that patronise good sons,
And give good sons occasion rather
To filiatronize their father.

There's a strange tale of an old sire,
Who screaming every moment higher,
Came running from a house, or rather
Hobbling, and follow'd by his father,
Who was belabouring him, because
Forgetful of all filial laws,
“Th' ungracious boy,” like a drawcansir,
Had laid a stick upon his grandsire!!

Observe our sweet Repository,
How 'twill reverse this horrid story.
For sure as we see future ages
Rise, like May-mornings, o'er our pages,
We see full many a grateful sire,
Old as that grandson, but all fire,
Come smiling from his home, and telling
The neighbours round about the dwelling,
How he had left, with eyes all glistening,
His father to his grandsire listening,
Who taking up our magazine,
And putting his white locks serene
Pleasantly back, and looking proud,
Read it, upon the spot, out loud

What need to add another syllable?
Hearts, that could stand this, are unkillable.