is most cherished prejudices. Now he had
not very many prejudices, and so he had an advantage here also.

Lastly, as he may be read with pleasure, so he may be skipped without
shame. There are some writers whom to skip may seem to a conscientious
devotee of letters both wicked and unwise--wicked because it is
disrespectful to them, unwise because it is quite likely to inflict loss
on the reader. Now nobody can ever think of respecting Leigh Hunt; he is
not unfrequently amiable, but never in the least venerable. Even at his
best he seldom or never affects the reader with admiration, only with a
mild pleasure. It is at once a penalty for his sins and a compliment to
his good qualities, that to make any kind of fuss over him would be
absurd. Nor is there any selfish risk run by treating him, in the
literary sense, in an unceremonious manner. His writing of all kinds
carries desultoriness to the height, and may be begun at the beginning,
or at the end, or in the middle, and left off at any place, without the
least risk of serious loss. He is excellent good company for half an
hour, sometimes for much longer; but the reader rarely thinks very much
of what he has said when the interview is over, and never experiences
any violent hunger or thirst for its renewal, though such renewal is
agreeable enough in its way. Such an author is a convenient possession
on the shelves: a possession so convenient that occasionally a blush of
shame may suggest itself at the thought that he should be treated so
cavalierly. But this is quixotic. The very best things that he has done
hardly deserve more respectful treatment, for they are little more than
a faithful and fairly lively description of his own enjoyments; the
worst things deserve treatment much less respectful. Yet let us not
leave him with a harsh mouth; for, as has been said, he loved the good
literature of others very much, and he wrote not a little that was good
literature of his own.

VIII

PEACOCK

In the year 1875 Mr. Bentley conferred no small favour upon lovers of
English literature by reprinting, in compact form and good print, the
works of Thomas Love Peacock, up to that time scattered and in some
cases not easily obtainable. So far as the publisher was concerned,
nothing more could reasonably have been demanded; it is not easy to say
quite so much of the editor, the late Sir Henry Cole. His editorial
labours were indeed considerably lightened by assistance from