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"You'd sure have to be able to sell anything to sell them!" A challenging glint had come into Hunt's eyes. "Young fellow, you're so damned fresh that if you had any dough I'd bet you five thousand, any odds you like, that you couldn't even GIVE one of the things away!"
Work was rolled up, thimbles and scissors put away in work-bags, and very soon the whole assembly had floated across the hall into the dining-room, and was pleasantly engaged upon Mrs Hunt's hospitable preparations for refreshment. Brisk little remarks filled the air as they stood about with their teacups in their hands. "I never can resist your delicious scones, Mrs Hunt. Home-made?
Had Olympus conspired to ridicule our love, that we must exchange our parting vows to the public strains of "The Caledonian Hunt's Delight," in Gow's version and a semitone flat? Then she darted to the path, and gazed along it down the hill. "We must run, Anne. There are more coming!" We left the scattered relics of breakfast, and, taking hands, scurried along the path northwards.
Thence a little to the office, and so abroad with my wife by water to White Hall, and there at my Lord's lodgings met my Lady Jemimah, with whom we staid a good while. Thence to Mrs. Hunt's, where I left my wife, and I to walk a little in St. James's Park, while Mrs.
Sir Sidney thinks that this and other changes, "which are all in the direction of the slipshod and the commonplace, were made on Hunt's suggestion, and that Keats acquiesced from fatigue or indifference." To accuse Hunt of wishing to alter "knight-at-arms" to "wretched wight" seems to me unwarrantable guessing.
The scarcest of all Leigh Hunt's poetical pamphlets, but by no means the least interesting, is that whose title stands at the head of this chapter. Of Ultra-crepidarius, which was "printed for John Hunt" in 1823, it is believed that not half a dozen copies are in existence, and it has never been reprinted.
And the picture being barren of artistic interest, his attention is caught by the Virgin's costume, and the catalogue informs him that Mr. Hunt's model was an Arab woman in Jerusalem, whose dress in all probability resembled the dress the Virgin wore two thousand years ago. The carpenter's shop he is assured is most probably an exact counterpart of the carpenter's shop in which Christ worked.
It is strange that an imitation of a cow's head by Paul Potter, or of an old woman's by Ostade, or of a scene of tavern debauchery by Teniers, should be purchased and proclaimed for high art, while the rendering of the most noble expressions of human feeling in Hunt's "Isabella," or of the loveliest English landscape, haunted by sorrow, in Millais' "Ophelia," should be declared "puerile."
Coventry, which so troubled me that I made her go before, and I ever after loitered behind. She to Mr. Hunt's, and I to White Hall Chappell, and then up to walk up and down the house, which now I am well known there, I shall forbear to do, because I would not be thought a lazy body by Mr. Coventry and others by being seen, as I have lately been, to walk up and down doing nothing. So to Mr.
Before midnight, when we were alone, he again reverted to Tennyson. He loves to gather and rehearse what is known of that wonderful man. Early in the morning he was once more in the library. I found him there laughing over a little book he had discovered. It was Leigh Hunt's copy of "English Traits," and was full of marginal notes, which amused Emerson greatly. Not Mrs.
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