stalk in the fairy tale, aspiring to the skies, and ending in an enchanted castle, but a huge growth of intertwisted fibres, grasping the earth by numberless roots, and bearing vestiges of "a thousand storms, a thousand thunders." It would be beside our purpose to discuss the relative merits of Mr. Hazlitt's publications, to most of which we have alluded in passing; or to detail the scanty vicissitudes of a literary life. Still less do we feel bound to expose or to defend the personal frailties which fell to his portion. We have endeavored to trace his intellectual character in the records he has left of himself in his works, as an excitement and a guide to their perusal by those who have yet to know them. The concern of mankind is with this alone. In the case of a profound thinker more than of any other, "that which men call evil”—the accident of his condition, is interred with him, while the good he has achieved lives unmingled and entire. The events of Mr. Hazlitt's true life are not his engagement by the 'Morning Chronicle,' or his transfer of his services to the Times,' or his introduction to the Edinburgh Review,' or his contracts or quarrels with booksellers; but the progress and the development of his understanding as nurtured or swayed by his affections. "His warfare was within ;" and its spoils are ours! His "thoughts which wandered through eternity" live with us, though the hand which traced them for our benefit is cold. His death, though at the age of only fifty-two, can hardly be deemed untimely. He lived to complete the laborious work in which he sought to embalm his idea of his chosen hero; to see the unhoped-for downfall of the legitimate throne which had been raised on the ruins of the empire; and to open, without exhausting, those stores which he had gathered in his youth. If the impress of his power is not left on the sympathies of a people, it has (all he wished) sunk into minds neither unreflecting nor ungrateful. CHARACTER OF HAZLITT. BY CHARLES LAMB. FROM THE LETTER TO SOUTHEY." THE friendship of Lamb and my father was once interrupted by some wilful fancy on the part of the latter. At this time, Southey happened to pay a compliment to Lamb at the expense of some of his companions, my father among them. The faithful and unswerving heart of the other forsaking not, although forsaken, refused a compliment at such a price, and sent it back to the giver. The tribute to my father, which he at the same time paid, may stand forever as one of the proudest and truest evidences of the writer's heart and intellect. It brought back at once the repentant offender to the arms of his friend, and nothing again separated them till death came. It is as follows:- 66*** * From the other gentleman I neither expect nor desire (as he is well assured) any such concessions as LH- made to C- What hath soured him, and made him suspect his friends of infidelity towards him, when there was no such matter, I know not: I stood well with him for fifteen years (the proudest of my life,) and have ever spoken my full mind of him to some to whom his panegyric must naturally be least tasteful. I never in thought swerved from him; I never betrayed him; I never slakened in my admiration of him; I was the same to him (neither better nor worse,) though he could not see it, as in the days when he thought fit to trust me. At this instant he may be preparing for me some compliment, above my deserts, as he has sprinkled many such among his admirable books, for which I rest his debtor; or, for any thing I know or can guess to the contrary, he may be about to read a lecture on my weaknesses. He is welcome to them (as he was to my humble hearth,) if they can divert a spleen, or ventilate a fit of sullenness. I wish he would not quarrel with the world at the rate he does; but the reconciliation must be effected by himself, and I despair of living to see that day. But, protesting against much that he has written, and some things which he chooses to do; judging him by his conversations which I enjoyed so long, and relished so deeply, or by his books, in those places where no clouding passion intervenes-I should belie my own conscience, if I said less than that I think W. H. to be, in his naural 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. But I forget my manners-you will pardon me, Sir.--I return to the correspondence." SONNETS TO THE MEMORY OF HAZLITT. BY A LADY. I. HE ranged all fields of Science-he whose head Hath his cold urn the flowers of fancy wreathed, Or hath the soul-inspired marble breathed? While the rare genius of his varied mind II. THOU, who didst grasp the mighty universe With wonder, love, and awe I follow thee. Yet thou wert mortal-and the dull sod cries, (Oh! dark and narrow house!) "Here HAZLITT lies!" III. TWICE HAZLITT came to our domestic hearth: Comes o'er us like a dirge:-that voice of thine, From the world's strife, now thy proud spirit's flown, IV. HE spake of early friends whom once he loved, Until his inmost breast his troubled spirit moved- Like one who mourned his friends long dead and gone, And, for their sakes, the world seemed dull and rude: Those speculations of the lofty soul, Whose single aim was Virtue's highest goal, Had made a sanctuary ir green solitude While from their burning lips those high truths passed. The oracles he kept which surrendered them at last : V. THROUGH good and ill report, honor and blame, To his first creed, nor slight nor censure feared. The Patriot, Philosopher, and Sage, High in the annals of his native land! Oh! say not then that HAZLITT died too soon Since he had fought and conquered-though the strife Cost him his health-his happiness-his life— Freely he yielded up the noble boon! He saw the mists of error roll away, And closed his eyes-but on the rising day. VI. SOUL-SICK of the dull world, when thou didst turn Pure and intense thy generous breast did burn: Midst love and prayers that reached thy inmost breast, In the omnipotence of truth and love, Thou heldist thy faith, all fear and doubt above, Or in their dread despite, still kept thy trembling trust. Forlorn thy course, oh! traveler alone Yet o'er thy soul's dim path immortal halos shone! 6* |