BY FROMA HARROP Let us repair to the wild English hearth of 1821, where William Hazlitt is contemplating contemplation. “I never was in a better place or humour than I am at present for writing on this subject,” Hazlitt reports from Winterslow Hut. “I have a partridge getting ready for my supper, my fire is blazing on the hearth.” From there, Hazlitt tackles a source of much human misery – the “troublesome effort to ensure […]
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