rendered to English literature, both by direct contribution, and by the support they have given (often essential support) to men in their younger days, who were to achieve future literary eminence. At the same time, it is difficult not to be struck by the strange fatality under which their criticism, in very conspicuous instances, went hopelessly astray. Especially in the hostile reception given to new poetical works of real genius, the leaders of English criticism appear, to the eyes of a later generation, to have been singularly blind. We have already noticed the attitude assumed by The Edinburgh towards Wordsworth and the 'lakers.' The Quarterly, in 1818, showed as little discrimination, in that wellknown article by the redoubtable Croker which has been popularly, but erroneously, made responsible for the death of Keats. In its centenary number, The Quarterly justly observed that a worse choice could not have been made than that of Croker for discussing the merits or demerits of 'the poet's poet'; since, though some poetry may have been within his range, and though he admired Scott and Byron, 'Croker was a thoroughly unpoetical person.' This is true; but, if an explanation, it is certainly no excuse for the choice. Inasmuch as Lockhart saw in Keats merely 'a cockney follower' of Leigh Hunt, and as Shelley, at this period, seems almost to have shared Lockhart's sentiments, it seems safer to fall back upon Andrew Lang's comment:

Shelley's letter to Leigh Hunt, with Lockhart's obiter dicta, prove that poet and writer alike may fail fully to know contemporary genius when they meet it, and may as in Shelley's preference for Leigh Hunt to Keats prefer contemporary mediocrity1.

It is not given to all men-even to all editors-to recognise 'genius when they meet it.' On the other hand, editors and critics have very often discovered, and enabled to win fame, quite unknown men, possessed, as the world in later days has recognised, of real ability, men who, but for them, might have had great difficulty in emerging from obscurity at all. Moreover, the editor of a periodical has often a difficult task in building up, out of varied and excellent material, a complete and effective whole. It is not surprising that the relations between Carlyle and his editors were, notwithstanding his indisputable genius, sometimes strained. He could not stand 'editorial hacking and hewing,' he wrote to Macvey Napier of The Edinburgh, for, surely, he, of all men, might be trusted to write quietly, without hysterical vehemence, as one

1 See Andrew Lang's Life of Lockhart, vol. 1.

who not merely supposed but knew. Lockhart, of The Quarterly, was compelled to decline an article from Carlyle on chartism, partly, because he stood in awe of his powerful lieutenant, Croker, and, partly, because the article almost assumed the dimensions of a book. In the years 1833 and 1834, Sartor Resartus was appearing in Fraser; but the editor was hurrying it to a close, finding that it did not meet the taste of his readers.

A century and more has passed since Walter Scott declared there was no literary criticism to be found outside The Edinburgh. In quantity, at all events, the deficiency was soon supplied; and quarterlies and monthlies and weekly and daily newspapers poured out a never ceasing flood of comment on almost every publication that saw the light. Reviews and magazines soon outgrew the extravagance of their stormy youth, and the excessive violence of language and the gross personalities once in fashion passed away almost as completely as the habit of duelling. The meeting between Jeffrey and Moore, and the more tragical encounter between Christie and Scott, brought credit to no one. Personal animosity and private dislike continued occasionally to colour criticism and to make it more scathing and pungent, as when Macaulay and Croker, in their respective organs, 'dusted each other's jackets'; but, differences between men of the pen were now left to the pen to settle; so, even the courts of law ceased to be invoked in their quarrels. The extraordinary development of periodical literature, as of journalism, in recent times, has greatly changed the character of literary criticism and the public to which it appealed-so much so that it is difficult for us, nowadays, to understand the thrill of emotion with which the first number of The Edinburgh was received, or the violent excitement created throughout the country by the extravagancies and absurdities of 'the Chaldee MS.'

Yet, the great services rendered, in the early years of the nineteenth century, by the pioneers of the new advance of periodical literature in this country, and of independent criticism in many fields, in that of literature more especially, will, nevertheless, remain unforgotten.

CHAPTER VII

HAZLITT

Or the group of romantic writers whose work appeared chiefly in the magazines of the first quarter of the nineteenth century, no one led an existence more detached than William Hazlitt. By temperament, he loved isolation, delighting to go alone on his walks into the country so that he might turn over in his mind some favourite abstract proposition and try to analyse, for his own gratification, some peculiar phase of human nature. In thinking upon political affairs he had assumed a position at variance with that held by most contemporary Englishmen. 'He wilfully placed himself,' writes De Quincey, 'in collision with all the interests that were in the sunshine of this world and with all the persons that were then powerful in England.' That he was not popular did not, however, make him, like Swift, a cynic. He had no high social ambitions which could not be realised. No man was ever more free from the desire of political preferment. Apparently, his highest aim was to write in a manner that would satisfy himself. Disappointment came to him when he saw others treat lightly convictions to which he clung with desperate earnestness. He was embittered when he discovered a friend wavering in his loyalty to a cherished ideal or when some one spoke with derision of his idols, especially of Rousseau, Napoleon, or the principles of the French revolution. With almost everybody worth knowing in London he became acquainted, but he quarrelled with all, so that when he died, in 1830, only Charles Lamb stood at his bedside. If we really learn to understand this isolated temperament, we shall find an admirable strain of courage and honesty, a conspicuous lack of double-dealing in a time when it might have been of temporary advantage for him to have trimmed his sails to the varying winds. No less a man than Charles Lamb discovered the real heart; for he wrote to Southey :

I should belie my own conscience if I said less than that I think W. H. to be in his natural and healthy state one of the wisest and finest spirits

breathing. So far from being ashamed of that intimacy which was betwixt us, it is my boast that I was able for so many years to have preserved it entire, and I think I shall go to my grave without finding, or expecting to find, such another companion.

Some light may be thrown upon Hazlitt's temperament and upon his antagonistic attitude toward the prevailing opinions of his day by a recital of some of the incidents of his life. From his forbears, he inherited traditions of dissent. His paternal ancestors had come originally from Holland to Ireland. There, the elder William Hazlitt was born and grew to be a man of strong character, destined to impress those with whom he associated. He received the master's degree from the university of Glasgow, where he established for himself a reputation for liberal views on religion and politics. He married the daughter of a nonconformist ironmonger and began his career as a unitarian minister. Wherever his profession took him, he attracted men of such intellectual ability as Priestley and Benjamin Franklin and achieved more than local fame on account of his powers of discussion. At Maidstone, William Hazlitt, the future essayist, was born on 10 April 1778. From Maidstone, the family moved to Bandon, county Cork, Ireland, where the father aroused the suspicions of the townspeople by an apparently too great devotion to the cause of the American soldiers in Kinsale prison. Recognising his increasing unpopularity, he decided to try his fortunes in America. Like many a radical of his day, he believed that there his ideals of liberty would become a reality. His three years in America present shifting scenes ending in disappointment and a determination that his family should return to England. In the following winter (1787-8), the father was called to the little church at Wem, near Shrewsbury. For more than a quarter of a century, the Hazlitts lived in this remote village. Most of the years between the age of ten and twentytwo, young William spent at Wem. So far, there is little indication of what the future had in keeping for the son of the poor, obscure, dissenting minister. The diary written by his sister Margaret in America attests his delight in the long walks across country with his father in Massachusetts. Numerous references in his essays describe with enthusiasm the pleasure which he found in walking with his father in the country about Wem and in talking on metaphysical subjects.

The other influence which seems with increasing years to have grown into a passion is the impression of nature upon him. His

eye was ever turned out of the window. In his own garden at Wem, he watched with a sympathy akin to Thoreau's 'the broccoli plants and kidney beans of his own rearing.' His tramps led him into all parts of Shropshire, to Peterborough, and into Wales. Nature was 'company enough' for him. Although he afterwards wrote much and well about books, he always associated everything with outdoor life-books which he had read, churches or pictures which he had seen, people whom he had met. Even the battles of Napoleon had such associations :

On the same day the news of the battle of Austerlitz came; I walked out in the afternoon and, as I returned, saw the evening star set over a poor man's cottage with other thoughts and feelings than I shall ever have again.

He struggled long and hard to find himself and his place in the world. When he was fifteen, he was sent by his father to the nonconformist theological seminary at Hackney. There, he found a deal of metaphysics to his liking, and, also, soon discovered that the ministry was not to be his calling. Fortunately for him, his brother John was a portrait-painter in London working under the direction of Sir Joshua Reynolds. To his brother's studio, William made frequent visits and became enamoured of the profession of painting. He was more than ever in doubt what to do. After an unsuccessful year at school, he returned to Wem. He could not preach, he would like to paint, he wished to write but could not. 'I was at that time dumb, inarticulate, helpless like a worm by the wayside.' One day, in 1796, he found a copy of Burke's Letter to a Noble Lord. For the first time, he felt what it must be to write, 'to be able to convey the slightest conception of my meaning to others in words.' Then, a new light shone into his soul. He met Coleridge, heard him preach, walked and talked with him and was invited to visit him at Nether Stowey and to meet Wordsworth. What this meant for Hazlitt he has described, with the charm of a poet, in My First Acquaintance with Poets, one of the finest essays in the language. As if from a dream, the young man of twenty arose with a resolution that the greatest discouragements could not shake off. Not quite ready to give up painting, he spent a little while with his brother in London. He crossed to the Louvre, where, for several months, he made copies of the masters for friends at home and actually went about in northern England painting portraits of his father, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lamb and others. Then, his career as a painter came abruptly to a close. Nothing remained for him but to write.