uted whether it is a
merit or a defect. What phrenologists would call the adhesiveness of
Hazlitt's mind, its extreme retentiveness for any impression which has
once been received, tempts him to a constant repetition of familiar
phrases and illustrations. He has, too, a trick of working in patches of
his old essays, which he expressly defends on the ground that a book
which has not reached a second edition may be considered by its author
as manuscript. This self-plagiarism sometimes worries us, as we are
worried by a man whose conversation runs in ruts. But his quotations
from other authors, where used in moderation, often give a pleasant
richness to his style. Shakespeare, in particular, seems to be a
storehouse into which he can always dip for an appropriate turn of
phrase, and his love of Shakespeare is of a characteristic kind. He has
not counted syllables nor weighed various readings. He does not throw a
new light upon delicate indications of thought and sentiment, nor
philosophise after the manner of Coleridge and the Germans, nor regard
Shakespeare as the representative of his age according to the sweeping
method of M. Taine. Neither does he seem to love Shakespeare himself as
he loves Rousseau or Richardson. He speaks contemptuously of the Sonnets
and Poems, and, though I respect his sincerity, I think that such a
verdict necessarily indicates indifference to the most Shakespearian
parts of Shakespeare. The calm assertion that the qualities of the Poems
are the reverse of the qualities of the plays is unworthy of Hazlitt's
general acuteness. That which really attracts Hazlitt is sufficiently
indicated by the title of his book; he describes the characters of
Shakespeare's plays. It is Iago, and Timon, and Coriolanus, and Anthony,
and Cleopatra, who really interest him. He loves and hates them as if
they were his own contemporaries; he gives the main outlines of their
character with a spirited touch. And yet one somehow feels that Hazlitt
is not at his best in Shakespearian criticism; his eulogies savour of
commonplace, and are wanting in spontaneity. There is not that warm glow
of personal feeling which gives light and warmth to his style whenever
he touches upon his early favourites. Perhaps he is a little daunted by
the greatness of his task, and perhaps there is something in the
Shakespearian width of sympathy and in the Shakespearian humour which
lies beyond Hazlitt's sphere. His criticism of Hamlet is feeble;