could have beat him in his best day; but that he (Broughton) was getting old in their last rencounter. When we stopped in Piccadilly, I wanted to ask the gentleman some ques5 tions about the late Mr. Windham, but had not courage. I got out, resigned my coat and green silk handkerchief to Pigott (loth to part with these ornaments of life), and walked home in high spirits.

P.S. Toms called upon me the next day, to ask me if I did not think the fight was a complete thing? I said I thought it was. I hope he will relish my account of it.

A FAREWELL TO ESSAY-
WRITING

he is very like Mr. Windham. I wish he would enter into conversation, that I might hear what fine observations would come from those finely-turned features. However, nothing passed, till, stopping to dine at Reading, some inquiry was made by the company about the fight, and I gave (as the reader may believe) an eloquent and animated description of it. When we got into the coach again, the old gentleman, after a 10 graceful exordium, said, he had, when a boy, been to a fight between the famous Broughton and George Stevenson, who was called the Fighting Coachman, in the year 1770, with the late Mr. Windham. This beginning 15 flattered the spirit of prophecy within me and rivetted my attention. He went on 'George Stevenson was coachman to a friend of my father's. He was an old man when I saw him some years afterwards. He took 20 hold of his own arm and said, 'there was muscle here once, but now it is no more than this young gentleman's.' He added, 'well, no matter; I have been here long, I am willing to go hence, and I hope I have done no more 25 harm than another man.' Once," said my unknown companion, "I asked him if he had ever beat Broughton? He said Yes; that he had fought with him three times, and the last time he fairly beat him, though the 30 world did not allow it. 'I'll tell you how it was, master. When the seconds lifted us up in the last round, we were so exhausted that Expected, well enough: gone, still better. neither of us could stand, and we fell upon Such attractions are strengthened by disone another, and as Master Broughton fell 35 tance. Nor a mistress? Beautiful mask!

uppermost, the mob gave it in his favor, and he was said to have won the battle. But,' says he, 'the fact was, that as his second (John Cuthbert) lifted him up, he said to him, "I'll fight no more, I've had 40 enough;" which,' says Stevenson, 'you know gave me the victory. And to prove to you that this was the case, when John Cuthbert was on his death-bed, and they asked him if there was any thing on his mind which 45 he wished to confess, he answered, "Yes, that there was one thing he wished to set right, for that certainly Master_Stevenson won that last fight with Master Broughton;

Written at Winterslow. Published in the London Weekly Review for March 29, 1828. The essay reflects Hazlitt's temperament, his interest in life, and his relations with his friends, Lamb and Leigh Hunt. The latter was editor of the Examiner, in which many of Hazlitt's essays were published.

"This life is best, if quiet life is best." Food, warmth, sleep, and a book; these are all I at present ask the ultima Thule 1 of my wandering desires. Do you not then wish for

"A friend in your retreat, Whom you may whisper, solitude is sweet?"

"

I know thee!" When I can judge of the heart from the face, of the thoughts from the lips, I may again trust myself. Instead of these give me the robin red breast, pecking the crumbs at the door, or warbling on the leafless spray, the same glancing form that has followed me wherever I have been, and “done its spiriting gently;" or the rich notes of the thrush that startle the ear of winter, and seem to have drunk up the full draught of joy from the very sense of contrast. To these I adhere, and am faithful, for they are true to me; and, dear in themselves, are dearer for the sake of what is departed, leading me back

for he whispered him as he lifted him up in so (by the hand) to that dreaming world, in the

the last round of all, that he had had enough." This," said the Bath gentleman, 'was a bit of human nature;" and I have written this account of the fight on purpose that it might not be lost to the 55 world. He also stated as a proof of the candor of mind in this class of men, that Stevenson acknowledged that Broughton

innocence of which they sat and made sweet music, waking the promise of future years, and answered by the eager throbbings of my own breast. But now "the credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er," and I turn back from the world that has deceived me, to nature that lent it a false beauty, and that keeps up

I Farthest north.

5

the illusion of the past. As I quaff my liba-
tions of tea in a morning, I love to watch the
clouds sailing from the west, and fancy that
"the spring comes slowly up this way.' In
this hope, while "fields are dank and ways
are mire," I follow the same direction to a
neighboring wood, where, having gained the
dry, level greensward, I can see my way
for a mile before me, closed in on each side by
copse-wood, and ending in a point of light
more or less brilliant, as the day is bright or
cloudy. What a walk is this to me! I have
no need of book or companion the days,
the hours, the thoughts of my youth are at
my side, and blend with the air that fans my 15
cheek. Here I can saunter for hours, bend-
ing my eye forward, stopping and turning to
look back, thinking to strike off into some
less trodden path, yet hesitating to quit the
one I am in, afraid to snap the brittle threads 20
of memory. I remark the shining trunks and
slender branches of the birch trees, waving
in the idle breeze; or a pheasant springs up
on whirring wing; or I recall the spot where
I once found a wood-pigeon at the foot of 25
a tree, weltering in its gore, and think how
many seasons have flown since "it left its
little life in air." Dates, names, faces come
back to what purpose? Or why think of
them now? Or rather why not think of 30
them oftener? We walk through life, as
through a narrow path, with a thin curtain
drawn around it; behind are ranged rich por-
traits, airy harps are strung
yet we will
not stretch forth our hands and lift aside the 35
veil, to catch glimpses of the one, or sweep
the chords of the other. As in a theatre,
when the old-fashioned green curtain drew
up, groups of figures, fantastic dresses, laugh-
ing faces, rich banquets, stately columns, 40
gleaming vistas appeared beyond; so we have
only at any time to 'peep through the
blanket of the past," to possess ourselves at
once of all that has regaled our senses, that is
stored up in our memory, that has struck our 45
fancy, that has pierced our hearts:
yet to
all this we are indifferent, insensible, and
seem intent only on the present vexation, the
future disappointment. If there is a Titian
hanging up in the room with me, I scarcely so
regard it: how then should I be expected to
strain the mental eye so far, or to throw
down, by the magic spells of the will, the
stone-walls that enclose it in the Louvre?
There is one head there of which I have often 55
thought, when looking at it, that nothing
should ever disturb me again, and I would be-
come the character it represents
such per-

I

fect calmness and self possession reigns in it!
Why do I not hang an image of this in some
dusky corner of my brain, and turn an eye
upon it ever and anon, as I have need of some
such talisman to calm my troubled thoughts?
The attempt is fruitless, if not natural; or,
like that of the French, to hang garlands on
the grave, and to conjure back the dead by
miniature pictures of them while living! It
is only some actual coincidence or local as-
sociation that tends, without violence, to
open all the cells where memory slept.'
can easily, by stooping over the long-sprent
grass and clay cold clod, recall the tufts of
primroses, or purple hyacinths, that formerly
grew on the same spot, and cover the bushes
with leaves and singing-birds, as they were
eighteen summers ago; or prolonging my
walk and hearing the sighing gale rustle
through a tall, straight wood at the end of it,
can fancy that I distinguish the cry of hounds,
and the fatal group issuing from it, as in the
tale of Theodore and Honoria. A moaning
gust of wind aids the belief; I look once more
to see whether the trees before me answer to
the idea of the horror-stricken grove, and an
air-built city towers over their grey tops.
"Of all the cities in Romanian lands,

Thechief and most renown'd Ravenna stands."

I return home resolved to read the entire poem through, and, after dinner, drawing my chair to the fire, and holding a small print close to my eyes, launch into the full tide of Dryden's couplets (a stream of sound), comparing his didactic and descriptive pomp with the simple pathos and picturesque truth of Boccaccio's story, and tasting with a pleasure, which none but an habitual reader can feel, some quaint examples of pronunciation in this accomplished versifier.

"Which when Honoria viewed, The fresh impulse her former fright renew'd." "And made th' insult, which in his grief appears, (Theodore and Honoria.) The means to mourn thee with my pious tears." (Sigismonde and Guiscardo.)

These trifling instances of the wavering and unsettled state of the language give double effect to the firm and stately march of the verse, and make me dwell with a sort of tender interest on the difficulties and doubts of an earlier period of literature. They pronounced words then in a manner which we should laugh at now; and they wrote verse in a manner which we can do anything but

I Dryden's version of a story from Boccaccio.

laugh at. The pride of a new acquisition seems to give fresh confidence to it; to impel the rolling syllables through the molds provided for them, and to overflow the envious bounds of rhyme into time-honored triplets. I am much pleased with Leigh Hunt's mention of Moore's involuntary admiration of Dryden's free, unshackled verse, and of his repeating con amore,' and with an Irish spirit and accent, the fine lines

"Let honor and preferment go for gold.

But glorious beauty isn't to be sold."

ΙΟ

What sometimes surprises me in looking back to the past is, with the exception al- 15 ready stated, to find myself so little changed in the time. The same images and trains of thought stick by me: I have the same tastes, likings, sentiments, and wishes that I had then. One great ground of confidence and 20 support has, indeed, been struck from under my feet; but I have made it up to myself by proportionable pertinacity of opinion. The success of the great cause, to which I had vowed myself, was to me more than all the 25 world: I had a strength in its strength, a resource which I knew not of, till it failed me for the second time.

"Fall'n was Glenartny's stately tree! Oh! ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!"

self a Leibnitz." He did not so much as know that I had ever read a metaphysical book: was I, therefore, out of complaisance or deference to him, to forget whether I s had or not? I am rather disappointed, both on my own account and his, that Mr. Hunt has missed the opportunity of explaining the character of a friend as clearly as he might have done. He is puzzled to reconcile the shyness of my pretensions with the inveteracy and sturdiness of my principles. I should have thought they were nearly the same thing. Both from disposition and habit, I can assume nothing in word, look, or manner. I cannot steal a march upon public opinion in any way. My standing upright, speaking loud, entering a room gracefully, proves nothing; therefore I neglect these ordinary means of recommending myself to the good graces and admiration of strangers (and, as it appears, even of philosophers and friends). Why? Because I have other resources, or, at least, am absorbed in other studies and pursuits. Suppose this absorption to be extreme, and even morbid· that I have brooded over an idea till it has become a kind of substance in my brain, that I have reasons for a thing which I have found out with much labor and pains, and to which I 30 can scarcely do justice without the utmost violence of exertion (and that only to a few persons) is this a reason for my playing off my out-of-the-way notions in all companies, wearing a prim and self-complacent air, as if I were "the admired of all observers?" or is it not rather an argument (together with a want of animal spirits), why I should retire into myself, and perhaps acquire a nervous and uneasy look, from a consciousness of the disproportion between the interest and conviction I feel on certain subjects, and my ability to communicate what weighs upon my own mind to others? If my ideas, which I do not avouch, but suppose, lie below the surface, why am I to be always attempting to dazzle superficial people with them, or smiling, delighted, at my own want of success? What I have here stated is only the excess of the common and well-known English and

-

It was not till I saw the axe laid to the root that I found the full extent of what I had to lose and suffer. But my conviction of the right was only established by the triumph of 35 the wrong; and my earliest hopes will be my last regrets. One source of this unbendingness (which some may call obstinacy) is that, though living much alone, I have never worshipped the Echo. I see plainly enough that 40 black is not white, that the grass is green, that kings are not their subjects; and, in such self-evident cases, do not think it necessary to collate my opinions with the received prejudices. In subtler questions, and matters that 45 admit of doubt, as I do not impose my opinion on others without a reason, so I will not give up mine to them without a better reason; and a person calling me names, or giving himself airs of authority, does not convince me of 50 scholastic character. I am neither a buffoon,

or costume, merely for effect. I am aware,
indeed, that the gay and airy pen of the au-
thor does not seriously probe the errors or
misfortunes of his friends he only glances
at their seeming peculiarities, so as to make
them odd and ridiculous; for which forbear-
ance few of them will thank him. Why does
he assert that I was vain of my hair when it
was black, and am equally vain of it now it
is grey, when this is true in neither case? to
This transposition of motives makes me al-
most doubt whether Lord Byron was thinking
so much of the rings on his fingers as his bio-
grapher was. These sort of criticisms should
be left to women. I am made to wear a little 15
hat, stuck on the top of my head the wrong
way. Nay, I commonly wear a large slouch-
ing hat over my eyebrows; and if ever I had
another, I must have twisted it about in any
shape to get rid of the annoyance. This 20
probably tickled Mr. Hunt's fancy and re-
tains possession of it, to the exclusion of the
obvious truism that I naturally wear a
melancholy hat."

I

favorite books, pictures, passages that I ever had: I may, therefore, presume that they will last me my life nay, I may indulge a hope that my thoughts will survive me. This 5 continuity of impression is the only thing on which I pride myself. Even L- -,' whose relish of certain things is as keen and earnest as possible, takes a surfeit of admiration, and I should be afraid to ask about his select authors or particular friends, after a lapse of ten years. As to myself, anyone knows where to have me. What I have once made up my mind to, I abide by to the end of the chapter. One cause of my independence of opinion is, I believe, the liberty I give to others, or the very diffidence and distrust of making converts. I should be an excellent man on a jury. I might say little, but should starve "the other eleven obstinate fellows' out. I remember Mr. Godwin writing to Mr. Wordsworth, that "his tragedy of ANTONIO could not fail of success." It was damned past all redemption. I said to Mr. Wordsworth that I thought this a natural consequence; for how could anyone have a dramatic turn of mind who judged entirely of others from himself? Mr. Godwin might be convinced of the excellence of his work, but how could he know that others would be convinced of it, unless by supposing that they were as wise as himself, and as infallible critics of dramatic poetry so many Aristotles sitting in judgment on Euripides! This shows why pride is connected with shyness and reserve; for the really proud have not so high an opinion of the generality as to suppose that they can understand them, or that there is any common measure between them. So Dryden exclaims of his opponents with

I am charged with using strange gestures 25 and contortions of features in argument, in order to "look energetic." One would rather suppose that the heat of the argument produces the extravagance of the gestures, as I am said to be calm at other times. It is 30 like saying that a man in a passion clenches his teeth, not because he is, but in order to seem, angry. Why should everything be construed into air and affectation? With Hamlet, I may say, "I know not seems.' Again, my old friend and pleasant "Companion "remarks it, as an anomaly in my character, that I crawl about the fives-court like a cripple till I get the racket in my hand, when I start up as if I was possessed with a 40 bitter disdain devil. I have then a motive for exertion; I lie by for difficulties and extreme cases. Aut Cæsar aut nullus. I have no notion of doing nothing with an air of importance, nor should

35

"Nor can I think what thoughts they can conceive."

I have not sought to make partisans, still less

I ever take a liking to the game of battledore 45 did I dream of making enemies; and have

and shuttlecock. I have only seen by accident a page of the unpublished manuscript relating to the present subject, which I dare say is, on the whole, friendly and just, and which has been suppressed as being too favor- so able, considering certain prejudices against

me.

In matters of taste and feeling, one proof that my conclusions have not been quite shallow or hasty, is the circumstance of their 55 having been lasting. I have the same

I Leigh Hunt wrote Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries (1828).

therefore kept my opinions myself, whether they were currently adopted or not. To get others to come into our ways of thinking, we must go over to theirs; and it is necessary to follow, in order to lead. At the time I lived here formerly, I had no suspicion that I should ever become a voluminous writer, yet I had just the same confidence in my feelings before I had ventured to air them in public as I have now. Neither the outcry for or against moves mea jot: I do not say that the one is not more agreeable than the other.

I Lamb.

Not far from the spot where I write, I first read Chaucer's Flower and Leaf, and was charmed with that young beauty, shrouded in her bower, and listening with ever-fresh delight to the repeated song of the nightin- s gale close by her - the impression of the scene, the vernal landscape, the cool of the morning, the gushing notes of the songstress, "And ayen methought she sung close by mine

ear,

at the British Institution, and all the world have come into my opinion. I have not, on that account, given it up. I will not compare our hashed mutton with Amelia's; but it put us in mind of it, and led to a discussion, sharply seasoned and well sustained, till midnight, the result of which appeared some years after in the Edinburgh Review. Have I a better opinion of those criticisms on that Io account, or should I therefore maintain them with greater vehemence and tenaciousness? Oh no; both rather with less, now that they are before the public, and it is for them to make their election.

is as vivid as if it had been of yesterday; and
nothing can persuade me that that is not a
fine poem.
I do not find this impression
conveyed in Dryden's version, and therefore 15
nothing can persuade me that that is as fine.
I used to walk out at this time with Mr. and
Miss L- 2 of an evening, to look at the
Claude Lorraine skies over our heads melting
from azure into purple and gold, and to 20
gather mushrooms, that sprung up at our
feet, to throw into our hashed mutton at
supper. I was at that time an enthusiastic
admirer of Claude, and could dwell for ever
on one or two of the finest prints from him 25
hung round my little room; the fleecy flocks,
the bending trees, the winding streams, the
groves, the nodding temples, the air-wove
hills, and distant sunny vales; and tried to
translate them into their lovely living hues. 30
People then told me that Wilson was much
superior to Claude: I did not believe them.
Their pictures have since been seen together

I Hazlitt is wrong in attributing this poem to Chaucer.
2 Charles and Mary Lamb.

It is in looking back to such scenes that I draw my best consolation for the future. Later impressions come and go, and serve to fill up the intervals; but these are my standing resource, my true classics. If I have had few real pleasures or advantages, my ideas, from their sinewy texture, have been to me in the nature of realities; and if I should not be able to add to the stock, I can live by husbanding the interest. As to my speculations, there is little to admire in them but my admiration of others; and whether they have an echo in time to come or not, I have learned to set a grateful value on the past, and am content to wind up the account of what is personal only to myself and the immediate circle of objects in which I have moved, with an act of easy oblivion,

THOMAS DE QUINCEY (1785-1859)

Thomas De Quincey was born at Manchester, August 15, 1785, the son of a prosperous merchant. He was sent to the Manchester Grammar School, from which he ran away when seventeen years old and spent a summer wandering in Wales. In the autumn he made his way to London, where he continued to lead a vagrant existence until his family reclaimed him and sent him to Oxford. He became acquainted with Coleridge, whose family he accompanied to Grasmere where, after 1809, he lived for some twenty years, in association with the Lake poets. Like Coleridge he had become addicted to the use of opium. His first important publication was an account of his use of the drug and the dreams that it brought him, The Confessions of an English Opium Eater, published in the London Magazine for 1821. In 1830 he removed with his family to Edinburgh, where he resided until his death in 1859.

De Quincey's writings are of a highly miscellaneous nature, being chiefly contributions to magazines on philosophy, political economy, history and literary criticism. His best known work was autobiographical, the famous Confessions and its sequel Suspiria de Profundis which describes the dreams induced by opium. The English Mail Coach is likewise an autobiographical experience with its attendant Dream-Fugue. This last and the Suspiria are the best examples of what De Quincey called impassioned prose, or prose having some of the imaginative and technical qualities of poetry, especially in the choice of words and sustained rhythms. In this respect De Quincey revived the poetic prose of the seventeenth century. He thus recovered for English