you speak English, sir?' Crowds had already assembled round the coach. 'Yes,' answered some of the bystanders, 'he speaks English, he knows what he is about.' This gave me courage, for I could see that the mob was in my favour. 'Sir,' continued the coachman, we must start; our time is up.' I then said, rather indignantly, I booked myself, I paid my fare, I have taken my place, I will not move. The bystanders were delighted; they shouted out -Bravo! he knows what he is about! Don't cheat the foreigner! The crowd increased, numbers came to hear the story, and the coachman, defeated, mounted his box and drove off, to his great mortification and that of the bearer of the green bag, who had flattered himself with having gained the day. The multitude shouted, Hurrah! hurrah!' which convinced me that the English, as a nation, loved to see the triumph of justice.'

my horse I put my saddle-bags, containing a few clothes and the medical chest. No mules or donkeys could now be got for hire. All night long the Beyroutines, chiefly the Christians and the Jews, were moving, leaving all their property behind. I took my party in the moonlight, but I was obliged to give up the horse I rode to an old woman who was utterly unable to walk farther, and I had to do the work of ten grooms. One child fell from a donkey, another was left behind; one woman was crying for her daughter, another calling for her mother; one wanted a cup of water, another fell from a horse, and many halted and slept on the road. It was to me a night of toil, of trial, and of sorrow. Oftentimes I sinned and wished I had never been born, or that I had never left England.'

This evacuation of Beyrout and its bombardment by Sir Charles Napier entailed as much disgrace upon the fleet as suffering upon the poor people. Disease, and famine, and death, and ruin to hundreds of peaceable unoffending Christian people resulted from Britain's participation in a war to uphold Moslemism and tyranny. Assaad lost a great deal of property by this heartless invasion, and he was not alone in this respect. He is prosecuting his labours now, however, peaceably among his countrymen, and we trust that Providence will abundantly bless his ministry. His Voice from Lebanon' is a most instructive and interesting volume, and will repay a careful perusal of its varied contents.

6

THE PRINCE AND THE COUNCIL; OR, A DAY IN VENICE. THE retinue of a proud and powerful German prince dashed, upon a beautiful morning in summer, into the famous and mighty city of Venice. The sunbeams were streaming brightly from the clear Italian sky, and dancing around the tall minarets of the church of San Marco and the high towers of the convents, as if they at least were determined to be cheerful and enlivening if nothing else was so about those gloomy buildings. The windows of the Doge's palace flashed back the ruddy morning light, and the waters of the lagunes rippled and curled as if smiling in the face of the radiant orb. The gondoliers raised themselves from their lairs, shook themselves, and muttered their aves as the equipage swept on, and the few persons who were stirring on the streets merely glanced at the cortege as they walked with half stealthy and timid step towards the Rialto.

The great primary agent of Assaad's plans for the regeneration of Syria consists in the education of youth, and this liberal and enlightened reformer looks upon the instruction of females as of paramount importance. In this country female education is notoriously neglected, and they are yet alive who look with jealousy upon the instruction of girls in aught save the merest elementary symbols. In the east, where Moslemism has any influence, woman is looked upon with greater indifference than even in the most despotic nation of the west; and consequently the difficulties of arousing the females themselves from the influence of the idea which enslaves them is greater than even with us. Assaad succeeded by patient argument, however, in impressing females with the value of education, and induced the attendance of their daughters at his schools. War, however, has for ever destroyed or checked the labours of philanthropy; and to the shame of the British cabinet be it spoken, that in trying to prop up what is termed the balance of power, they drove a popular and progressive leader from Syria, and placed that land again under the yoke of Turkish bigotry and oppression. The object of the war of 1840 was to drive Ibrahim Pasha from Syria; it was to expel the best government that had ruled the country for many years. He entered Syria in 1831, and was welcomed by all sects of the Syrian population. He gave equal liberty to all, no matter what their religion, and gained their love by imposing no new taxes and administering the law impartially. Syria was rising under his sway, and facilities were offered for Assaad prosecuting his missionary labours, when, behold! the British man-of-war the Liverpool, and two others of the same size, arrived in Beyrout harbour, under Commodore Sir Charles And I am in Venice,' said his serene highness, Alberto, Napier. The sight of these ships agitated and perplexed walking up and down the splendidly furnished room into the whole city. The people crowded to the beach to see which the Italian master of the hotel had shown him. 'I them. Omar Bey, a most intelligent civilian governor, am in Venice, the city to which the argosies of the east left Beyrout, that he might not be suspected of holding any come laden with the treasures of distant lands, where intercourse with the ships. The reports were various, the the merchants are princes, and the nobles more haughty people became more and more anxious and terrified, and than kings. Ha, ha!' he continued, looking first at the before the day closed it was reported that the commodore carpet of Turkey that covered the floor, then at the mirrors had resolved to fire on the town the following morning. of Spain that were suspended on the walls, and lastly at No sooner was this report spread than the inhabitants be- the rich arras that had been wrought in the looms of Lomgan to run away to the mountains for safety, leaving every- bardy; if the pride of the nobles equals the pomp of the thing behind, and all the Europeans and Americans em-hotel-keepers, verily I am in a city where magnificence barked for other countries. When I returned home in the and dignity have reached their acmé. Alberto took a evening, I found my house and grounds filled with my own few more turns through the splendid apartment, and looked relations and the neighbouring families, all in confusion, around him with a curious and inquiring eye, as if to all in despair, all perplexed, and not knowing what to do. satisfy himself of the splendour that surrounded him, and They all looked to me for advice, and fancied I must know then raising a silver hand-bell, that stood upon a table everything, as I had lately returned from England. Many formed of the richest ebony, he rung, and a phlegmatic Gerof them were crying, their children screaming; the sight man entered. And so we are in Venice, Carl?' said his was overpowering, and at one time I felt tempted to run serene highness, with an assumed incredulous smile. away too, and leave the country. As night approached The attendant almost bowed to the carpet. the alarm increased. It was evident that on the following day every one would be in the greatest danger. After committing the event to God in prayer, I made up my mind to remove all these people to the hills, and, laying aside all ceremony, I went to the house of my father-in-law, and with the rest of the family, I brought my betrothed Martha to my house. I placed her on my own horse, her mother on a mule, my own dear mother on a donkey, and I loaded our camel with rice and other provisions. Under

And what is to be seen?'

Wine shops, your highness,' exclaimed the ready attendant, wine shops as large and beautiful as the palace of Hesse Brandt, churches and convents as huge and as high as Drachenfels, and monks as fat as the wine casks van Ryn.'

'You would be looking for what portended good-living and ease, Carl, while everybody else was gazing on works of beauty in art,' said the prince, coldly. Is there nothing else to be seen in this city?'

'Dirty lagunes and bare-legged fishermen and gondoliers,' replied the dull German.

What is that?' said the prince, as the full wild sweep of a chorus of nearly twenty voices rose beneath his chamber window and gradually floated away like the passage of the morning breeze.

That is the song of the fishermen going forth to the Adriatic, your highness, to cast their nets,' said Carl, as he threw open the window that Alberto might look forth, and then stepped respectfully back.

denly pushed through amongst them, and, leaping into a gondola, pulled rapidly along the canal which flowed at their side, and was quickly lost to view.

Prince Alberto was sitting alone, enjoying a siesta and meditating a voyage on the Adriatic for the morrow, when he was aroused by the sudden entrance of a stranger.

What seek ye here?' said the prince, haughtily, at the same time eyeing the stranger with marked surprise and scorn.

'I seek thee,' said the Venetian, calmly. I summon thee before the Council of Venice.'

I have done nothing to give any council power over me,' said Alberto, still haughtily. I am not amenable to your fantasies; I will not obey them.'

They sing beautifully!' exclaimed the prince, as he leaned from the casement, and the full sonorous swell of the manly chorus was borne back upon his ear; and they pull well,' he muttered, as their oar-blades flashed in the sun and they swept along the house-bounded lagunes to- All in Venice are subject to the laws of Venice,' said wards the open sea. It is from such hardy cheerful men the messenger, in slow, deep tones. If you refuse to ac that Venice supplies her fleets of merchant argosies and company me, I shall cause my emissaries to take you by doubtless her war-ships. I see that even amidst the mag-force; and beware of your tongue if you would wear the nificence and dignity of this proud republic there is poverty head which contains it,' he whispered. and scantiness of habiliments,' said the prince, as he turned away and closed the casement.

They are the hardest workers, too, who are worst clad,' said Carl; yet they are wonderfully light of heart.' The Prince Alberto and his suite, despite of the unfavourable report of Carl, found much to interest and delight them in this city of the waters'--the ducal palace, in all its rich and elaborate grandeur; the spacious edifices of marble and stone; the busy Rialto, where thronged the keen-eyed merchants; the canals, along which the gondolas glided in all the varieties of paint and form which were pleasing to their proprietors. The aspect of life and activity, the bustle of trade and commerce, the vitality of prosperity and power, were so visible in all the marts and quays of this proud city, that Alberto found the reserve of royalty melting in the sunlight of republican grandeur, and he began to find himself less a king as he looked upon the plebeian wealth and dignity that surrounded him. As he walked along the streets and gazed into the bazaars of the merchants, full of the richest and most beautiful fabrics of cloth and other manufactures, and as he beheld the lofty and superb appearance of the homes of the merchant nobles, he wished that he could inoculate his own little state with a portion of the wealth-bringing energy that he saw everywhere exemplified around him. At last Alberto stood before a splendid emporium of all the richest fabrics of Italy. The velvets of Genoa hung in rich profusion at the bazaar, and the silks of Piedmont, and the lace, and linen, and woollen cloth of the Low Countries, mingled with the shawls of Cashmere and the carpets of Constantinople. One gorgeous piece of brocade, glittering with gold and the richness of its texture, caught the prince's eye. To see and to admire is almost equivalent to have, with princes; money could purchase this brocade, and so it became his forthwith, and was transferred from the bazaar of Hermio Rigaro to the arm of the slow but trusty Carl. There were so few streets comparatively through which horses and equipages could prance in princely style, that Alberto was content to saunter through the lagune-intersected streets with a few attendants. After having seen the Bridge of Sighs, the state-prisons, and the Cathedral of St Mark, with its celebrated lion,' and when he began to feel the incipient approaches of that ennui which princes under the most favourable circumstances will feel, Alberto inquired at Carl what he thought of the brocade, as a specimen of Venetian merchandise?

The brocade!' said Carl, looking about him in surprise. 'Now I bethink me your highness did intrust me with such a substance, but it is gone as an evidence of the perfection of Venetian robbery, as well as of the greatness of Venetian trade that fellow who brushed past me so rapidly in the strada we have just left has gone to make a mantilla of your highness's purchase.'

I wonder how such a thing could happen in Venice,' said the prince, aloud; in Venice, which boasts of the omnipotence of its power and the ubiquity of the law.'

Carl shook his head, but did not speak, for a stranger who had been lingering near the group of Germans sud

Yielding to what he felt to be an iron necessity, Alberto accompanied the functionary to one of the public offices, and was immediately ushered alone into a dark and gloomy hall, where sat three men dressed in vestments of the most appalling hue. A profusion of black cloth hung suspended from black rods on the wall; the cloaks of the judges were black, and the chairs on which they sat, and the table be fore them, wore the same grim aspect. The prince stood in the centre of this gloomy chamber for some time, until the silence and awe became so dreadful that he trembled with an undefined apprehension. This feeling was not in the least lessened when one of the judges, in slow, deep, sepulchral tones, demanded his name, his condition, and his motives for visiting Venice. If ever he had rejoiced in exaggerated notions of power, he felt now its utter worthlessness and his own helplessness. It was with a faltering voice, therefore, that he answered these gravely preferred questions. His querist seemed to be satisfied, however, and then another demanded, in a stern tone, if he had made any reflections upon the government of Venice. None,' said the prince, with trepidation. 'Reflect,' said the judge, sternly and coldly, and he repeated the same question.

Appalled by the circumstances in which he was placed, and by the manner of his catechists, the prince repeated his negation, when the third, in a loud and stern tone, bade him recollect himself again. The first judge then demanded if he had not purchased something in the morning. 'Yes,' said the surprised Alberto, recollecting the brocade which had been stolen from Carl.

And didst thou not censure the government of San Marco,' said the second judge, 'in consequence of that loss. The prince at once recollected and admitted that he had made some remarks, not of censure, but of surprise. He had scarcely made this admission when the third judge struck the table which stood before him with a rod, and immediately two folding doors were thrown open. In an instant the light of a highly illuminated chamber streamed into the cloister-like hall of judgment, and the terrified prince started with affright. The dim, solemn, sepulchral obscurity of one half of the hall contrasted so forcibly with the blaze and radiance of the other, that day and night seemed to have met and divided the empire of this scene with each other. But if the prince had been surprised at the suddenness of the action, what was his horror when, at the further end of the lighted hall, he beheld a corpse suspended upon a gibbet, with the identical piece of silk which had been stolen from Carl beneath its arms!

After allowing him what might be considered sufficient time to look at this spectacle, one of the judges addressed the prince; and, without taking the least notice of his rank, informed him that, as a stranger, his language was excused. But mark in yon suspended criminal,' he continued, 'an evidence of the ubiquity and promptitude of Venetian law, and do not be rashly censorious until you have had time to judge. You are at liberty,' he continued, in a milder tone, to remain as long as you please in Venice; and now you can depart to your hotel.'

The bewildered and terrified Alberto hurried towards his temporary residence, and, ordering his retinue, immediately departed, having passed, as the most eventful of his life, a day in the city of Venice.

Times are changed now, however; the pride and independence of Venice have departed with its wealth; and its mockery of republicanism has been exchanged for Austrian dominance. The stranger may now walk its streets without dread of the awful Council of Three; but wo to him still if he mutters one word above his breath in disapprobation of despotism or governmental injustice.

LITERATURE OF THE SCOTTISH BAR.
NO. II.-LORD JEFFREY.

SECOND NOTICE.

We have already referred to Lord Jeffrey as a critic of poetry, whose judgments, if they are in a few cases erroneous and prejudiced, are in general calm and accurate, and delivered after a searching analysis of qualities compared with functions. They will be transmitted to posterity with few modifications, for both their substance and their style are worthy of preservation and study. It would be impossible to over-estimate the value of his services to literature in this chief department. He is, pre-eminently, the man whom the muses should delight to honour. With out being himself a poet (for, so far as is known to us, he is only the author of a single sonnet, which modestly appeared in a lady's album, and certainly deserved no other place), he has yet done more for the muses, by his jealous guardianship over their professed lovers, than if he had been a sincere and passionate lover himself. In chastising and discarding Dermody and Hayley, and in punishing the freaks of the wanton little Moore, he has decidedly done better than if he had himself cultivated the art of rhyme. On reading Lord Robertson's volumes of verse, we were grateful that Jeffrey was merely a critic. He may almost be said to have created some genuine and noble schools of poetry, although he belongs to none himself, but only waits at the posts of their doors.

did not spare these? Who will mourn for anything save that he has not utterly extirpated these? Perhaps, also, his bustling and feverish course of life led him to commit the injustice under which the serene and meditative muse of Wordsworth suffered. The 'wee reekit de'il of criticism,' as he was wickedly named by Lockhart in Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,' could scarcely be expected to sympathise altogether with the pure murmurings of the fresh-water Lakes, the contrast being so extreme. But, intentionally, a foe to genius Jeffrey never was. He might be its hard taskmaster; but this was for the sake of its own glory, and not from natural tyranny or cruelty.

But we dislike the phrase, and would banish it back into the elements of the alphabet-an enemy to genius; for genius, sooner or later, will have all the world on its side, and may therefore courageously endure passing opposition with the calmest assurance of future appreciation. The most malignant and witty review may annoy, but can never crush. A simple sonnet, if it be a genuine utterance of the soul, will survive the widest outpourings of scorn. A few drops of hostile ink will not, surely, overwhelm a true bard! He will be, like Byron, aroused to a fuller and more pungent consciousness of his own inherent might, and not slain. It was not Gifford that slew John Keats. Consumption had previously been at work-far too great an enemy in itself to need to borrow an arrow from the quiver of any review. The youth was already fatally struck, and Gifford was but a grave-worm coming forth early to prey upon the dead. It would indeed be strange, as Byron humorously says, if

The mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuffd out by an article.' Wilson failed to extinguish, or even to dim the light of Alfred Tennyson; and after the ominous storm of ridicule and contempt which Christopher sent down from his high throne, the luminary has become brighter than ever. Nay, we believe that, unless other circumstances conspire, the power of a review to annihilate false pretensions is far from being instantaneous or direct. In open spite of Macaulay's crushing onslaught, the Rev. Robert Montgomery still lives to write, and the public are still eager to read his poetry.

If we were asked to distinguish the respective results produced by the criticism of our two greatest leaders in periodical literature-Jeffrey and Wilson-we should say In the writings of Lord Jeffrey there is no appearance that Jeffrey has emphatically taught what is not poetry, of any one hardened and confirmed peculiarity of intellect whilst Wilson has genially and enthusiastically expounded to strike us. It is not size, nor outline, nor feature, that what poetry is; and it is well that each has chosen the arrests attention, but it is the expression of his character, as office which suited best his abilities. Adopting the old a whole-an expression intensely intelligent and vivacious. theological distinction, we should mark out Jeffrey as the Hence, he was fully qualified to furnish the most graceful cherub the knowing one, and Wilson as the seraph-the and fascinating contributions upon the various mass of loving one, at the gates of the temple of the muses. The light literature. His glancing eye and facile hand were former has driven bad or weak poets to despair; the lat- equal to the diversity of the works presented. He was an ter has encouraged and stimulated true poets to a full de- instantaneous and close mirror to every changing hue of velopment of their nature and a confident and bold exer- the cameleon. Fictions must have been a relaxation to him cise of their gifts. Of course, at times they have exchanged after the hot bustle of law; and for him to read them was to their vocation, and Wilson has applied the lash, in vigorous be ready to criticise them, so quick was his insight into their style, to poetasters and mere versifiers; whilst Jeffrey has character, and his perception of all the salient points which soothingly spoken words of warm affection and of eloquent he could make effective in the pages of the Edinburgh and inspiriting hope, to induce bards to persevere in their Review.' Novels of a high order of merit were discussed tuneful labours; for he was a very different man from as carefully, though not as seriously, as if they had been Gifford, who appears to have fancied that he did well in poems-and such truly they are; and the critiques upon being always angry and severe, and who was visited with the Waverley' race were equal to those which he had no remorse for having put his hangman's hands' upon the previously made upon the Lay of the Last Minstrel,' premature, unformed, but noble genius of Keats-that Hy-Marmion,' and the Lady of the Lake.' His object was perion to a satyr.' Wilson has occasionally, with his hu- a twofold one-to give an idea of the novelist's art, and mour, blistered the irritable race, and Jeffrey has applied to afford specimens of the interest which the book might balsam to the wounds. Nay, it is generally understood contain for readers. After a profound though vivacious that his lordship—the fear of authors as he was-not only introduction, which determined with extreme subtlety and took pleasure in praising the worthy, but has also liberally pointedness the peculiar class to which the writer belonged, assisted them when they were under the pressure of mis- and the differential qualities which the writer might posfortune. His active generosity towards poor Hislop, the sess from that class, Jeffrey proceeded, with light and airy writer of the Cameronian's Dream,' was no solitary or touch, to cull from the bypaths of the tale the beauties; exceptional instance. He and poverty were often repre- and on these he descanted with enough of softness in his sented as the twin enemies of genius, but the truth is that manner to please and charm ladies, and with enough of he was almost invariably the best friend of genius, and, in philosophy in his tone to enlighten and instruct men. some cases, strove even to annihilate the other enemy- Immense as was the fame which the Waverley novels' poverty. He freely chastised dullness and affectation, in- obtained, and universally as they were read, and spoken anity and eccentricity, and who will now regret that he and written about, Jeffrey is the only critic whose remarks

upon them will go down to the next age. Perhaps other wrapped up in self-abstraction, were thus taught to give cotemporaries have displayed equal discrimination and out many brilliant jokes amid their quiet lectures. So we eloquence, in summing up and describing the general cha- learn from a letter written by Sir Walter Scott, when the racter of Scott as a novelist; perhaps the exhaustive essayQuarterly Review' was being projected as a rival. One of Mr Adolphus, written to prove who the Great Unknown' great resource,' he says, to which the Edinburgh editor was, before Scott's confession was publicly made, deserves turns himself, and by which he gives popularity even t to be placed first on the list of critiques; but no one has the duller articles of his 'Review,' is accepting contribu furnished such a fine analysis, and such a definite estimate tions from persons of inferior powers of writing, provided of several of the works, taken singly, in that remarkable they understand the books to which the criticisms relate. and unrivalled series. and as such are often of stupifying mediocrity, he renders them more palatable by throwing in a handful of spice, namely, any lively paragraph or entertaining illustration that occurs to him in reading them over. By this sort of veneering, he converts, without loss of time or hindrance of business, articles which in their original state might hang in the market, into such goods as are not likely to disgrace those among which they are placed.'

We may here notice, that his ancient friend in the critical art, Professor Wilson, was always but a very indifferent reviewer of novels. Christopher lacked the necessary patience to follow the writer through the labyrinth of his tale, and would either at the very commencement seat himself in his chair of fun and eloquence, from which he would cast a casual and brief glance upon the course and movements of the writer, or, if he shouldered his famous crutch and followed him, he would suddenly break off into a path of his own, in ardent chase of his own crowding fancies, and never, probably, to return to the progress of the book until the end. We need not, however, say that in several departments of light literature, Wilson, as a reviewer, was absolutely unmatched by the editor or by any contributor of the Edinburgh Review.' We have merely indicated his indisposition (whatever were the causes) to institute such an analysis of a novel as is essential to a thorough and critical estimate of its kind and merits.

We have seen how Lord Jeffrey treated the highest efforts of fiction. To novels of an inferior grade his manner was sarcastic, though the sarcasm was very playful. The extracts which he made were introduced with exquisite irony, and were dismissed with inimitable quizzing. A running commentary upon the development of the plot and the growth of the incidents was executed in a spirit of fun, which approached, and yet never crossed, the boundaries of caricature. The characters of mock heroism and sentimentalism were handled with the most charming scorn. Who can refrain from lamenting that Lord Jeffrey's critical pen was laid aside ere the writings of Mr Dickens could be reviewed? We should otherwise have been privileged with a thorough investigation of their character and tendencies, and this as yet is a desideratum which no periodical has promised well to supply.

In another field of literature, also, the tact and finish of Jeffrey's articles were unsurpassed, and well did they deserve to be included by him in his Select Contributions.' The biographies, which threw a familiar and homely light upon the notorieties or the eccentricities which had been extant in ages or in classes of our country, were most gracefully discussed, and as alluded to by him ceased to be trivial gossip. We would particularise those articles on Mrs Hutchison's memoirs, Lady M. W. Montague, Madame Duj Duffand, Pepys, and Cumberland, as inimitable for their ease and elegance. They partake of the wit with which he abounded and sparkled in the conversations of select coteries. Of a still higher character, in the same line of subjects, was his review of Sir Walter Scott's Life and Edition of Swift. Mr Lockhart is obliged to acknowledge its singular merits. Mr Jeffrey,' he says, attacked Swift's whole character at great length, and with consummate dexterity; and in Constable's opinion, his article threw such a cloud upon the dean, as materially checked for a time the popularity of his writings.'

In short, on all subjects save those of the pure sciences, Jeffrey's pen was as accomplished as it was versatile. He was up to the mark of the endless themes which engrossed him. He wrote frequently for all the departments in his periodical, and bore away the palm from the different contributors. But even this was not all which he did for the interests of the Edinburgh Review.' With his wit, he, as editor, enlivened the most ponderous and dull articles of his associates, and with his gentlemanly spirit he assuaged and softened the bitterness and invective of others. Papers upon the physical sciences were thus made to exhibit cccasional paragraphs of witty allusion, which relieved the surrounding heaviness, and sober savans, otherwise

Even John Foster, the essayist, though quite out of those editorial secrets which Sir Walter knew so thoroughly, had been struck with the same fact, and was unable to accouLI for it. It is most wonderful,' he writes in 1807, to a friend, how a parcel of young men have acquired such extensive and accurate knowledge, and such a firm, disa plined, unjuvenile habit of thinking and composing. B I shall not be made to believe that they have not an old fox or two among them. Yet they all admirably support the general level of able performance. The belles lettres critics seem to be stocked with logic as well as principle of taste, and the scientific critics to be fraught with satir as well as definitions.' And let it be remembered, that at this time Jeffrey was absorbed in law, and had more namerous and important cases to consider and plead than had any of his brethren at the bar. Besides, from his social qualifications and attractions, he was compelled to spend the most of his evenings at parties and the like. We need say no more concerning his versatility and industry.

Before leaving the literary portion of Lord Jeffrey's la bours, we may glance at the difference exhibited between the Edinburgh Review,' as it was under his manag ment, and the same periodical since it came into the hans of other editors. Then, it recognised and estimated t literature of the day; now, as if in an effort at dignity, it will only mention and canvass the literature of yesterday. Then, it laid hold of new books, in their very first editions, and gave its final verdict as soon as the author or pub lisher afforded it the opportunity; now, it leisurely and calmly waits until books have attained both age and fame A work must have gained for itself a reputation ere the Edinburgh Review will now condescend to criticise it at all. Much trouble is thus saved; credit for infallibility is also more easily and cheaply acquired; and though fami liar and second-hand opinions must be its oracles, yet these are less liable to be erroneous. Not only are the tares and the wheat allowed to grow together until the harvest, before the Edinburgh Review' will proceed to discriminate and separate them, but the public must hav first carefully separated them ere the Review' will do anything at all, and then it only attempts the process of sifting the wheat. Thus, what may strictly be called present literature-the literature of the age-remains untouched until it is old. Besides, once the Edinburgh Review' took delight in the unmerciful scourging of dullness, affectation, and eccentricity: but, now, books most broadly marked by these qualities are passed unnoticed by it; execrable poems and their authors have now a license to go at large; and the Edinburgh Review' is no longer a lite rary censor.

Apart from literature, Lord Jeffrey made several valu able contributions to metaphysical speculation. He had not the insight of a philosopher, like Coleridge, one of whose pages is a deeper revelation of the mysteries of the human mind than the many elaborate papers which Jeffrey has written. The Scotchman was extremely acute ani keen, whilst the other was infinitely subtle-a general difference which Coleridge once very happily defined in calling it the difference between the point and the edge of a knife. Neither was Jeffrey such a profound metaphysi