productions. The several parts are connected | ple-one people; and sooner or later this with each other by natural means of com- design will be fulfilled. Who that people munication, and the surface and soil afford ought to be, in political ethics,-what naunusual facilities for those of an artificial tion has the best claim to the possession of kind. In short, this land is evidently marked the country, in the court of right and of exout by the Hand that made the world for pediency, we shall endeavor to determine the habitation of a great and prosperous peohereafter.

WINTER SLOW.*

Winterslow: Essays and Characters written there by WITLIAM HAZLITT. Collected by his Son. London: David Bogue.

silent groves are vocal with a thousand recollec- made an abstract, metaphysical principle of this

tions:

'And visions, as poetic eyes avow,

Hang on each leaf, and cling to every bough.?

Here I came fifteen years ago, a willing exile; and as I trod the lengthened greensward by the low wood-side, repeated the old line,

'My mind to me a kingdom is.'

I found it so then, before, and since; and shall I faint, now that I have poured out the spirit of that mind with truth, with freedom, and power, because I have been followed with one cry of abuse ever since, for not being a government tool? Here I returned a few years after to finish some works I had undertaken, doubtful of the event, but determined to do my best; and wrote that character of Millamant, which was once transcribed by fingers fairer than Aurora's, but no notice was taken of it, because I was not a government tool, and must be supposed void of taste and elegance by all who aspired to these qualities in their own persons. Here I sketched my account of that old honest Signor Orlando Friscobaldo, which, with its fine, racy, acrid tone, that old crab-apple Gifford would have relished or pretended to relish, had I been a government tool. Here, too, have I written Table Talks without number, and as yet without a falling off, till now that they are nearly done, or I should not make this boast, I could swear (were they not mine) the thoughts in many of them are founded as the rock, free as air, the tone like an Italian picture. What then? Had the style been like polished steel, as firm and as bright, it would have availed me nothing, for I am not a government tool! I had endeavored to guide the taste of the English people to the best old English writers; but I had said that English Kings did not reign by right divine, and that his present Majesty was descended from an Elector of Hanover in a right line; and no loyal subject would, after this, look into Webster or Deckar, because I had pointed them out. I had done something (more than any one except Schlegel) to vindicate the Characters of Shakspeare's Plays from the stigma of French criticism; but our anti-Jacobin and anti-Gallican writers soon found out that I had said and written that Frenchmen, Englishmen, men, were not slaves by birthright. This was enough to damn the work Such has been the head and front of my offending. While my friend Leigh Hunt was writing the Descent of Liberty, and strewing the march of the allied sovereigns with flowers, I sat by the waters of Babylon, and hung my harp upon the willows. I knew all along there was but one alternative-the cause of kings or of mankind. This I foresaw; this I feared; the world see it now, when it is too late. Therefore I lamented, and would take no comfort when the mighty fell, because we, all men, fell with him, like lightning from heaven, to grovel in the grave of Liberty, in the sty of Legitimacy! There is but one question in the hearts of monarchs, whether mankind are their property or not. There was but this one question in mine. I had

question. I was not the dupe of the voice of the
charmers. By my hatred of tyrants, I knew what
their hatred of the free-born spirit of man must be,
of the semblance, of the very name of Liberty and
Humanity. And while others bowed their heads
to the image of the Beast, I spit upon it, and buf-
feted it, and made mouths at it, and drew aside
the veil that then half concealed it, but has since
been thrown off, and named it by its right name ;
and it is not to be supposed that my having pene-
trated their mystery would go unrequited by those
whose delight the idol, half-brute, half-demon was,
and who are ashamed to acknowledge the image
and superscription as their own! Two half-friends
of mine, who would not make a whole one between
them, agreed the other day that the indiscriminate,
incessant abuse of what I write was mere prejudice
and party-spirit, and that what I do in periodicals
and without a name does well, pays well, and is
cried out upon in the top of the compass. It is
this, indeed, that has saved my shallow skiff from
quite foundering on Tory spite and rancor; for
when people have been reading and approving an
article in a miscellaneous journal, it does not do
to say, when they discover the author afterwards,
(whatever might have been the case before,) it is
written by a blockhead; and even Mr. Jerdan
recommends the volume of Characteristics* as an
excellent little work, because it has no cabalistic
name in the title-page, and swears 'there is a first-
rate article of forty pages in the last number of the
Edinburgh from Jeffrey's own hand;' though when
he learns against his will that it is mine, he devotes
three successive numbers of the Literary Gazette
to abuse that strange article in the last number of
the Edinburgh Review. Others who had not this
advantage have fallen a sacrifice to the obloquy
attached to the suspicion of doubting, or of being
acquainted with any one who is known to doubt,
the divinity of kings. Poor Keats paid the forfeit
of this lèze majesté with his health and life. What
though his verses were like the breath of Spring,
and many of his thoughts like flowers, would this,
with the circle of critics that beset a throne, lessen
the crime of their having been praised in the Ex
aminer? The lively and most agreeable editor of
that paper has in like manner been driven from
his country and his friends who delighted in him,
for no other reason than having written the 'Story
of Rimini,' and asserted ten years ago, 'that the
most accomplished prince in Europe was an Adonis
of fifty.'

'Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,

That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse.'

I look out of my window and see that a shower has just fallen; the fields look green after it, and a rosy cloud hangs over the brow of the hill; a lily expands its petals in the moisture, dressed in its lovely green and white; a shepherd-boy has just brought some pieces of turf with daisies and grass for his young mistress to make a bed for her sky-lark, not doomed to dip his wings in the dap

First edition printed in 1823. A second edition ap+ Leigh Hunt.

* Vide Hazlitt's "Lectures on the English Comic Wri-peared in 1837. tere," Lecture 4.

pled dawn. My cloudy thoughts drawn off, the | storm of angry politics has blown over. Mr. Blackwood, I am yours. Mr. Croker, my service to you. Mr. T. Moore, I am alive and well. Really, it is wonderful how little the worse I am for fifteen years' wear and tear; how I come upon my legs again on the ground of truth and nature, and 'look abroad into universality,' forgetting that there is any such person as myself in the world!

"I have let this passage stand, (however critical,) because it may serve as a practical illustration to show what authors really think of themselves when put upon the defensive."

I rouse myself from my reverie, and home to dinner, proud of killing time with thought, nay, even without thinking. Somewhat of this idle humor I inherit from my father, though he had not the same freedom from ennui, for he was not a metaphysician; and there were stops and vacant intervals in his being which he did not well know how to fill up. He used in these cases, and as an obvious resource, carefully to wind up his watch at night, and, with lack-lustre eye,' more than once in the course of the day look to see what o'clock it was. Yet he had nothing else in his character in common with the elder Mr. Shandy. Were I to attempt a sketch of him, for my own or the reader's satisfaction, it would be after the following manner: but now I recollect I have ought to entertain a just opinion of our-I to resume the subject here, some bat or owl of done something of the kind once before, and were selves. Good-heartedness and vanity are often found in company. Egotism for the most is blended with cordiality and contentedness. A person pleased with himself generally pleases others. There is a sociality in it likewise. Selfish and malignant men do not pour out their hearts in conversation or in books. They are shy and sullen.

Now I like an author to talk in this style. Egotism is not selfishness, and all of us

Addison, in the first number of the Spectator, observes that a reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure till he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor, with other particulars of a like nature, that conduce very much to the right understanding of an author. Coleridge said, if he could judge of others by himself, he should not hesitate to affirm that the most interesting passages in all writings are those in which the author develops his own feelings. I will make one or two more extracts to show Hazlitt's love for the neighborhood of Winterslow. They are extracted from different volumes of his writings, and to many readers they will be entirely new, and those who have read them will be pleased to read them again. They are intensely personal:

"What I like best is to lie whole mornings on a sunny bank on Salisbury Plain, without any object before me, neither knowing nor caring how time passes, and thus, 'with light-winged toys of feathered idleness,' to melt down hours to moments. Perhaps some such thoughts as I have here set down float before me like motes before my half-shut eyes, or some vivid image of the past by forcible contrast rushes by me-Diana and her fawn, and all the glories of the antique world; then I start away to prevent the iron from entering my soul, and let fall some tears into that stream of time which separates me farther and farther from all I once loved. At length

a critic, with spectacled gravity, might swear I had stolen the whole of this essay from myself, or (what is worse) from him! So I had better let it go as it is."

Again :

"On the road-side between Winchester and

Salisbury are some remains of old Roman en-
campments, with their double lines of circum-
vallation, (now turned into pasturage for sheep,)
which answers exactly to the descriptions of this
cloudy atmosphere I can conceive that this is the
identical spot that the first Cæsar trod; and
figure to myself the deliberate movements and
scarce perceptible march of close-embodied le-
gions. But if the sun breaks out, making its way
through dazzling, fleecy clouds, lights up the blue
serene, and gilds the sombre earth, I can no longer
persuade myself that it is the same scene as for-
merly, or transfer the actual image before me so
far back. The brightness of nature is not easily
the impressions of sense defeat and dissipate the
reduced to the low, twilight tone of history; and
faint traces of learning and tradition. It is only
by an effort of reason, to which fancy is averse,
that I bring myself to believe that the sun shone
as bright, that the sky was as blue, and the earth
ent. How ridiculous this seems; yet so it is."
as green, two thousand years ago as it is at pres-

kind in Cæsar's Commentaries. In a dull and

The following passage is exquisitely written :

"I remember once strolling along the margin of a stream, skirted with willows and plashy sedges, in one of those low, sheltered valleys on Salisbury Plain, where the monks of former ages had planted chapels and built hermits' cells. There was a little parish church near, but tall elms and quivering alders, hid it from my sight, when, all of a sudden, I was startled by the sound of the full organ pealing on the ear, accompanied by rustic voices and the willing quire of village maids and children. It rose, indeed, 'like an exhalation of rich distilled perfumes.' The dew from a thousand pastures was gathered in its softness; the silence of a thousand years spoke in it. It came upon the heart like the calm beauty of death: fancy caught the sound, and faith mounted

"There are neither picture galleries nor theatres royal on Salisbury Plain, where I write this; but here, even here, with a few old authors, I can manage to get through the summer or the winter months, without ever knowing what it is to feel ennui. They sit with me at breakfast; they walk out with me before dinner. After a long walk through unfrequented tracts, after starting the hare from the fern, or hearing the wing of the

raven rustling above my head, or being greeted by the woodman's stern good night,' as he strikes into his narrow homeward path, I can take mine ease at mine inn,' beside the blazing hearth, and shake hands with Signor Orlando Friscobaldo, as the oldest acquaintance I have. Ben Jonson, learned Chapman, Master Webster, and Master Heywood are there; and seated around, discourse the silent hours away. Shakspeare is there himself, not in Cibber's manager's coat. Spenser is hardly yet returned from a ramble through the woods, or is concealed behind a group of nymphs, fauns and satyrs. Milton lies on the table, as on an altar, never taken up or laid down without Lyly's Endymion sleeps with the moon, that shines in at the window; and a breath

reverence.

of wind stirring at a distance seems a sigh from the tree under which he grew old. Faustus disputes in one corner of the room with fiendish faces, and reasons of divine astrology. Bellafront soothes Matheo, Vittoria triumphs over her judges, and old Chapman repeats one of the hymns of Homer, in his own fine translation! I should have no objection to pass my life in this manner out of the world, not thinking of it, nor it of me; neither abused by my enemies, nor defended by my friends; careless of the future, but sometimes dreaming of the past, which might as well be forgotten."

raw, comfortless day, ten miles-it was in the month of January-to hear Coleridge preach at Shrewsbury. He was charmed, entranced. Coleridge leaves, and gives Hazlitt an invitation to visit him in the spring, at "Nether Stowey." Slowly thewinter months pass, but their cloudiness is brightened with the hope of seeing Coleridge in the spring. The time at last arrives, and Hazlitt, with unworn heart and untried feet, proceeds on his journey,passing through Upton, where he thinks of Tom Jones and the adventure of the muff. At Tewkesbury he sits up all night reading "Paul and Virginia;" stops two days at Bridgewater, and reads "Camilla," reaches Nether Stowey, a beautiful, green, and hilly country, near the sea-shore. He and Coleridge, in the afternoon, go to All-Foxden, a romantic old mansion, where Wordsworth lived. Wordsworth was not at home, but they had access to the "lyrical ballads," and read them with great satisfaction. The next day Wordsworth returns. They have a fine time of it, talking, reading, and sitting under elm trees, hearing the bees hum, while they drink flip. They decide upon taking a jaunt down the Bristol Channel. A delightful walk it proved to be, cheered by the most interesting conversation, flowing freely. The walk sharpened their appetites, and they enjoy themselves at inns on the road, feasting on rashers of bacon and fried eggs, tea, toast and honey. This trip made a most enduring impression on Hazlitt. He observed one thing, that Coleridge kept continually shifting from one side of the footpath to the other. It struck him at the time as an odd movement, but then he did not connect it with any instability of purpose, or involuntary change of principle, as he afterwards did.

The entire volume is exceedingly entertaining, and the richest gems of Hazlitt's intellectual wealth are scattered about in it with a profuse prodigality. In the essay on "Public Opinion," he again writes about himself:

"Winterslow" contains some eighteen essays, and opens with that fine one, "My first Acquaintance with Poets." The first poet Hazlitt saw was Coleridge, who came down in the neighborhood to preach; at that time he was an Unitarian. This was in 1798. He visits Hazlitt's father; both father and son were charmed with him; he poured out a stream of rich and fervid elo- man's temper and philosophy. It unhinges even quence. Hazlitt says he listened for a long our opinion of our own motives and intentions. It time without uttering a word, and the poet is like striking the actual world from under our was afterwards pleased to say that during feet: the void that is left, the death-like pause, the The growth of an two hours "he was conversing with Wil chilling suspense, is fearful. liam Hazlitt's forehead." Next morning actual support and nourishment from the general opinion is like the growth of a limb; it receives its Hazlitt walks through the mud, on a cold, | body of the opinions, feelings, and practice of the

"To have all the world against us is trying to a

world; without that, it soon withers, festers, and becomes useless. To what purpose write a good book, if it is sure to be pronounced a bad one? If our thoughts are to be blown stifling back upon ourselves, why utter them at all? It is only exposing what we love most to contumely and insult, and thus depriving ourselves of our own relish and satisfaction in them. Language is only made to communicate our sentiments, and if we can find no one to receive them, we are reduced to the silence of dumbness, we live but in the solitude of a dungeon. If we do not vindicate our opinions, we seem poor creatures who have no right to them; if we speak out, we are involved in continual brawls and controversy. If we contemn what others admire, we make ourselves odious; if we admire what they despise, we are equally ridiculous. We have not the applause of the world nor the support of a party; we can neither enjoy the freedom of social intercourse, nor the calm of privacy. With our respect for others, we lose confidence in our selves; every thing seems to be a subject of litigation-to want proof or confirmation; we doubt, by degrees, whether we stand on our head or our heels-whether we know our right hand from our left. If I am assured that I never wrote a sentence of common English in my life, how can I know that this is not the case? If I am told at one time that my writings are as heavy as lead, and at another, that they are more light and flimsy than the gossamer, what resource have I but to choose between the two? I could say, if this were the case, what those writings are. Make it the place, and never stand upon punctilio!'

at its word, to muster all the tropes and figures I could lay hands on, and though I am a plain man, never to appear abroad but in an embroidered dress. Still, old habits will prevail; and I hardly ever set about a paragraph or a criticism, but there was an under-current of thought, or some generic distinction on which the whole turned. Having got my clue, I had no difficulty in strmging pearls upon it; and the more recondite the point, the more I labored to bring it out and set it off by a variety of ornaments and allusions. This puzzled the scribes whose business it was to crush me. They could not see the meaning: they would not see the coloring, for it hurt their eyes. One cried out, it was dull; another, that it was too fine by half: my friends took up this last alternative as the most favorable; and since then it has been agreed that I am a florid writer, somewhat flighty and paradoxical. Yet, when I wished to unburthen my mind in the Edinburgh' by an article on metaphysics, the editor, who echoes this florid charge, said he preferred what I wrote for effect, and was afraid of its being thought heavy! I have accounted for the flowers; the paradoxes may be accounted for in the same way. All abstract reasoning is in the extremes, or only takes up one view of a question, or what is called the principle of the thing; and if you want to give this popularity and effect, you are in danger of running into extravagance and hyperbole. I have had to bring out some obscure distinction, or to combat some strong prejudice, and in doing this with all my might, may have overshot the mark. It was easy to correct the excess of truth afterwards. I "They are not, then, so properly the works of an have been accused of inconsistency, for writing an author by profession, as the thoughts of a meta- essay, for instance, on the 'Advantages of Pedantry,' physician expressed by a painter. They are subtle and another on the Ignorance of the Learned,' as and difficult problems translated into hieroglyphics. if ignorance had not its comforts as well as knowlI thought for several years on the hardest subjects, edge. The personalities I have fallen into have on Fate, Free Will, Foreknowledge absolute, with never been gratuitous. If I have sacrificed my out ever making use of words or images at all, and friends, it has always been, to a theory. I have that has made them come in such throngs and been found fault with for repeating myself, and for confused heaps when I burst from that void of a narrow range of ideas. To a want of general abstraction. In proportion to the tenuity to which reading I plead guilty, and am sorry for it; but my ideas had been drawn, and my abstinence from perhaps if I had read more, I might have thought ornament and sensible objects, was the tenacious-less. As to my barrenness of invention, I have at ness with which actual circumstances and pictur- least glanced over a number of subjects-painting, esque imagery laid hold on my mind, when I poetry, prose, plays, politics, parliamentary speakturned my attention to them, or had to look round ers, metaphysical lore, books, men and things. for illustrations. Till I began to paint, or till I There is some point, some fancy, some feeling, became acquainted with the author of the Ancient some taste shown in treating of these. Which of Mariner,' I could neither write nor speak. He my conclusions has been reversed? Is what I encouraged me to write a book, which I did ac- said ten years ago of the Bourbons, which raised cording to the original bent of my mind, making it the war-whoop against me? Surely all the world as dry and meagre as I could, so that it fell still-are of that opinion now. I have, then, given proofs born from the press, and none of those who abuse of some talent, and of more honesty if there is me for a shallow catch-penny writer have so much haste or want of method, there is no commonplace, as heard of it. Yet, let me say, that the work nor a line that licks the dust; and if I do not apcontains an important metaphysical discovery, sup- pear to more advantage, I at least appear such as ported by a continuous and severe train of reasonI am. If the editor of the Atlas' will do me the ing, nearly as subtle and original as any thing in favor to look over my Essay on the Principles of Hume or Berkeley. I am not accustomed to speak Human Action,'* will dip into any essay I ever of myself in this manner, but impudence may pro- wrote, and will take a sponge and clear the dust voke modesty to justify itself. Finding this method did not answer, I despaired for a time; but some trifle I wrote in the Morning Chronicle' meeting the approbation of the editor and the town, I resolved to turn over a new leaf-to take the public

:

* First printed in 1805. Reprinted in London a few years ago. Bulwer, in his "England and the English," says it is "a work full of original remarks and worthy a diligent perusal."