on," he declares, "insinuate themselves into
and influence almost every judgment we pass or sentiment we indulge, and
are a necessary help (as well as hindrance) to the human understanding; to
attempt to refer every question to abstract truth and precise definition,
without allowing for the frailty of prejudice, which is the unavoidable
consequence of the frailty and imperfection of reason, would be to unravel
the whole web and texture of human understanding and society."[16]

It is this infusion of passion and sentiment, the addition of the warm
breath of his personal experience, that gives the motion of life to his
analytic essays, and a deep and solemn humanity to his abstract
speculations. Hazlitt felt life with an intensity which reminds us of a
more spacious age. "What a huge heap, a 'huge, dumb heap,' of wishes,
thoughts, feelings, anxious cares, soothing hopes, loves, joys,
friendships, it is composed of! How many ideas and trains of sentiment,
long and deep and intense, often pass through the mind in only one day's
thinking or reading, for instance! How many such days are there in a year,
how many years in a long life, still occupied with something interesting,
still recalling some old impression, still recurring to some difficult
question and making progress in it, every step accompanied with a sense of
power, and every moment conscious of the 'high endeavour and the glad
success!'"[17] What an exultant sense of power over the resources of life!
What an earnest delight in the tasting of every pleasure which the senses
and the intelligence afford! His enjoyments comprehended the widest range
of sensations and activities. He loved nature, he loved books, he loved
pictures, he loved the theatre, he loved music and dancing. He loved good
talk and good fellowship; he loved an idea and anyone who was susceptible
to an idea. He also loved a spirited game of rackets, and though he hated
brutality, he has left us a very vivid and sympathetic account of a
prize-fight. Above all he loved the words truth and justice and humanity.
With such sensibilities, it is no wonder that his last words should have
been "I have had a happy life."

As the phrase is ordinarily understood, Hazlitt's dying expression might
seem unaccountable. Outwardly few authors have been more miserable. Like
the great French sentimentalist with whom we have compared him, a
suspicious distrust of all who came near him converted his social
existence into