he old text of
the 'shyness of scholars.' The learned are out of place in competition
with the world. They are not and ought not to fancy themselves fitted
for the vulgar arena. They can never enjoy their old privileges. 'Fool
that it (learning) was, ever to forego its privileges and loosen the
strong hold it had on opinion in bigotry and superstition!' The same
tone of disgust pronounces itself more cynically in an Essay 'on the
pleasure of hating.' Hatred is, he admits, a poisonous ingredient in all
our passions, but it is that which gives reality to them. Patriotism
means hatred of the French, and virtue is a hatred of other people's
faults to atone for our own vices. All things turn to hatred. 'We hate
old friends, we hate old books, we hate old opinions, and at last we
come to hate ourselves.' Summing up all his disappointments, the broken
friendships, and disappointed ambitions, and vanished illusions, he
asks, in conclusion, whether he has not come to hate and despise
himself? 'Indeed, I do,' he answers, 'and chiefly for not having hated
and despised the world enough.'

This is an outbreak of temporary spleen. Nobody loved his old books and
old opinions better. Hazlitt is speaking in the character of Timon,
which indeed fits him rather too easily. But elsewhere the same strain
of cynicism comes out in more natural and less extravagant form. Take,
for example, the Essay on the 'Conduct of Life.' It is a piece of _bona
fide_ advice addressed to his boy at school, and gives in a sufficiently
edifying form the commonplaces which elders are accustomed to address to
their juniors. Honesty, independence, diligence, and temperance are
commended in good set terms, though with an earnestness which, as is
often the case with Hazlitt, imparts some reality to outworn formulae.
When, however, he comes to the question of marriage, the true man breaks
out. Don't trust, he says, to fine sentiments: they will make no more
impression on these delicate creatures than on a piece of marble. Love
in women is vanity, interest, or fancy. Women care nothing about talents
or virtue--about poets or philosophers or politicians. They judge by the
eye. 'No true woman ever regarded anything but her lover's person and
address.' The author has no chance; for he lives in a dream, he feels
nothing spontaneously, his metaphysical refinements are all thrown away.
'Look up, laugh loud, talk big, keep the colour in your cheek and the
fire in your eye;