attempted little else,
except by way of digression) he is, for the critic, a study never to be
wearied of, always to be profited by. His very aberrations are often
more instructive than other men's right-goings; and if he sometimes
fails to detect or acknowledge a beauty, he never praises a defect.

It is less easy to sum up the merits of the miscellaneous pieces, for
the very obvious reason that they can hardly be brought under any
general form or illustrated by any small number of typical instances.
Perhaps the best way of "sampling" this undisciplined multitude is to
select a few papers by name, so as to show the variety of Hazlitt's
interests. The one already mentioned, "On Going to a Fight," which
shocked some proprieties even in its own day, ranks almost first; but
the reader should take care to accompany it with the official record of
that celebrated contest between Neate and the Gasman. All fights are
good reading; but this particular effort of Hazlitt's makes one sigh for
a _Boxiana_ or _Pugilistica_ edited by him. Next, I think, must be
ranked "On Going a Journey," with its fine appreciation of solitary
travelling which does not exclude reminiscences of pleasant journeys in
company. But these two, with the article on Poussin and the "Farewell to
Essay-writing," have been so often mentioned that it may seem as if
Hazlitt's store were otherwise poor. Nothing could be farther from the
truth. The "Character of Cobbett" is the best thing the writer ever did
of the kind, and the best thing known to me on Cobbett. "Of the Past and
the Future" is perhaps the height of the popular metaphysical style--the
style from which, as was noted, Hazlitt may never have got free as far
as philosophising is concerned, but of which he is a master. "On the
Indian Jugglers" is a capital example of what may be called improving a
text; and it contains some of the most interesting and genial examples
of Hazlitt's honest delight in games such as rackets and fives, a
delight which (heaven help his critics) was frequently regarded at the
time as "low." "On Paradox and Commonplace" is less remarkable for its
contribution to the discussion of the subject, than as exhibiting one of
Hazlitt's most curious critical megrims--his dislike of Shelley. I wish
I could think that he had any better reason for this than the fact that
Shelley was a gentleman by birth and his own contemporary. Most
disappointing of all, perhaps, is "On Criticism," which th