Here the magnetism of its master, whose personality was even more fascinating than his writings,[188] drew around him a society of the most intellectual and clever men of the day—Hazlitt and Haydon, Telford, Ollier, Charles Cowden Clarke, Charles Lamb, Shelley, the brothers Horace and James Smith, Keats, and many others. Leigh Hunt himself was not only a brilliant talker, but an accomplished musician; he sang and played delightfully, and amongst his friends and frequent guests were the Novellos, a family to which England is much indebted for the growth and appreciation of good music. No wonder, therefore, that Keats should sing: ‘Scarce can I scribble on, for lovely airs Are fluttering round the room, like doves in pairs.’ Grave Mary Shelley found the recurrence of the host’s fugues, and the masses, madrigals, and part-songs of his musical allies at times too much for her, and she wearied of them, but not of her delightful host. Of all his friends, Shelley, Charles Lamb, and Keats appear to have kept him closest company. From the first he was soon parted; but genial, ‘gentle Elia,’ and the sensitive yet strong-souled Keats, were his sympathetic friends and frequent companions. There is no doubt, with all his originality and independence of thought and character, Keats was greatly influenced by Leigh Hunt. Keats’ young enthusiasm and gratitude for Hunt’s encouragement and sympathy made him greatly overrate his mental powers. Both were saturated with the natural beauty of their surroundings—the woods, the fields, and what Bacon would call ‘the winsome air and amenities of the spot.’ Even Shelley owed some of his inspirations to the sweet influences of Hampstead; and we find him loitering in the fields, or leaning, notebook in hand, upon the old gray gate that admitted (notwithstanding the notice to trespassers) to the green glooms of Caen Wood, or one of those other gates, leading up to the charming walk to Highgate, with Caen Wood on one side, and the linked ponds on the other. I pleasure myself in thinking that it may have been in the blue, clear, ambient sky above the Heath that he heard the skylark singing: ‘Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heedeth not!’ Sometimes he might be seen pensively sauntering in Millfield Lane,[189] between Caen Wood and Highgate, an ideal lane in those days, secluded between great wayside elms and other trees, ‘Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,’ curving in its course, and farther sheltered by high hedges, not looking as if begrudged the ground they occupied, but buttressed by wide, grassy banks, bright with wild-flowers, fragrant with rose and woodbine in their season, and clustered generously with primroses in spring. [Illustration: _Highgate Ponds and Sheep._]