ed about? Not one. Peter Pindar was a very funny blackguard, but still a very great blackguard. Southey's Wat Tyler was cushioned by himself, and only brought to light by most ungrateful scoundrelism. Don Juan was owned neither by author nor publisher. Lawrence, trembling and liverstruck, recalled his filthy physiology, and made a craven amende for having incautiously authorised its publication. Are these cases on which we are to impugn the conduct of a great constitutional judge? I doubt it. In a word, his conduct has kept a flood of improper books from the market, without recurring to the unpopular method of prosecution, and has neutralized the power of those which have already crept in. Until this fact is overthrown, let them rail at the Lord Chancellor with impotent fury. His character I shall not stoop to defend from such folks as Brougham or Denman; but, Mr Editor, you ought to give us a separate paper on him, whoin I shall ever consider, when regarded in all points of view, as the GREATEST OF OUR CHANCELLORS. Excelled he may be by some of his predecessors in different detached accomplishments; but, viewing him in all particulars, I hesitate not to repeat my assertion.

There is an isolated passage in this Review, on which I must be permitted to say a single word. Mr Brougham, in the course of ridiculing the selection of a Lord Chancellor to decide questions of a literary nature, and enforcing the propriety of sending all such delicate questions to a jury, has these words:—

"Look at the opinions now received and consecrated, as among the greatest blessings which natural reason has given

to mankind; see their original fathers

and assertors remunerated by the prison and the block; ask whether their names could have been handed down to us, for our shame almost as much as our glory, had a free and unbiassed jury passed between them and their country, or rather them and the human race. Conceive a jury bringing in a verdict of guilty against Galileo; though we dare say he was a very sincere and honest Cardinal, who sent to gaol, and bread and

water, at the age of 70, the man who taught Italy to think, because he suspected the earth went round the sun, and that it had not four

corners. What would have been Sir Thomas More's Index Expurgatorius, or that of the ecclesiastical Chancellors of former times? We know as respectable houses as any in the kingdom, where Shakespeare was (and most probably, notwithstanding the Family Edition, still is) a prohibited book.”

Now really, if Mr Brougham is serious here, he must be declining in understanding. Does not Mr Brougham know, that, within these hundred years, certain people, called wizards and witches, were every day tried and convicted to the death by free and unbiassed juries, all over England and and Scotland? Does he venture to doubt, that the judges were convinced of the absurdity of the verdicts in these cases long before the juries? Not he. Neither does he doubt, I am sure he has too much sense to doubt, that a free and unbiassed jury of worthy Italian farmers and craftsmen of the fifteenth or sixteenth century, would have regarded Galileo with at least as much horror as the Cardinal. He does not seriously doubt that Sir Thomas More's criticism was rather more likely to be liberal than that of any twelve free and unbiassed cheesemongers of Portsoken tempore Henrici Octavi-and if he knows anything of Scotland, he must know, that, at this very day, it would be no difficult matter to convince many a good free and unbiassed Presbyterian jury of ruling elders to inflict the utmost penalties the law might put in their hands upon the author of the first scene in Othello. In short, I cannot such a subject with a person of Mr bring myself to argue seriously upon Brougham's accomplishments. cannot be sincere when he says, that a knot of London tradesmen would be fitter than Lord Eldon to determine questions of this kind. A jury, if it be what it pretends to be, is chosen from the people; and to say that the people are not, more than the first men and greatest geniuses in the land, subject to the influence of silly prejudice as to such matters as books-this

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VOL. XIV.

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is really a proposition which I certainly do not imagine it possible for any man, in Scotland at least, to hold up his face to.

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There is an immensity of miscellaneous skirmishing in the article, hardly worth attention; but I shall, to wind up the affair nobly, extract one admirable light or shadow (call it as you please) of Whiggery.

"The court and the pirate play into each other's hands. Now, suppose the government, of which the Lord Chancellor is a member, were wicked or vindictive enough to seek the ruin of an author, to insult his feelings, and stain his reputation, a pirate need only be set to work, and the equitable waste is completed. A door is at once opened to all the abuses and collusions for the basest of private purposes."

The man who wrote this must be "in ruffian Whiggery thrice dyed;" so base a notion never could find place in a Tory bosom. But this employment of government power is quite consistent with the practice of those who, in 1806, put a Chief Justice into the Cabinet, there to decide on state prosecutions, which he was afterwards to try as judge:-and who made the Auditor of the Exchequer First Lord of the Treasury,-thus to be a check upon his own accounts. No wonder that any corruption of justice should occur to such minds as a regular and ordinary engine of state policy.

It must have gratified Mr Brougham very much to see that all this laboured article went for nothing, when, within ten days of its appearance, the case of Dugdale against Byron came to be heard and determined. It must have gratified him particularly to observe that even Lord Byron's counsel did not

venture to borrow a single argument from this grand Essay, which had all the look of being got up on purpose for this very occasion.

The article on Sir William Gell is amusing to me. It amuses me very richly to see the Edinburgh Reviewers maintaining the cause of the Greeks solely or chiefly on the ground of our common Christianity. This amuses me, and must amuse everybody. Just imagine the appearance of such an argument ten years ago within the blue and yellow covers! Such wonders, O Christopher, has your hand accomplished.-As for the Greeks, I confess that I am for them at least as warmly as the Edinburgh Reviewers can be. As for this article, all I shall say more of it, is, that its imbecility and puerile tone have a tendency to make one think with rather less shame of the abortion on the same subject in the last Quarterly; which last, by the way, is now generally understood to have been a contribution of Lord Erskine!-Lord Erskine contributing to the Quarterly! This, indeed, may make quiet people stare!

The article on Mr Rae Wilson's travels, is one the writer of which evidently works in a muzzle. The book is truly an absurd one, and he need not have feared to take his laugh out heartily. Mr Wilson, however, is a most benevolent and philanthropic person; and I am well pleased that circumstances have conspired to spare his bacon.

Of Leonard Horner's long and wouldbe-witty production on Geology, I beg leave to make no mention. I dare say Mr Boué is as great a charlatan as the Review says; but as to M. NECKER DE SAUSSURE, I must just hint my sus

picion, that he might have fared very differently, had his book not contained offences more serious in the eyes of his reviewers, than any mere geological blunders. M. Necker's book is far from being a mere geological affair. He describes the scenery, the manners, the society, and, above all, the literary society of Scotland. He was here and wrote his book at the time when the "Jeffrisii, Brogami, et alii Librariorum vernæ," were in their zenith of glory; and, wonderful to say, he never mentions one of the whole set. Could they have been hurt by this omission, which, considering M. Necker's copious notices of certain Tory authors, is certainly rather aremarkable feature in the book?

I come now to what you have probably been looking for. It would be consummate affectation in me to deny that my sensations in reading the article, " on the Periodical Press," were, on the whole, of a most pleasurable character. I shall not indeed deny, that once or twice in the course of the perusal, I felt a certain degree of pain. It was impossible it should be otherwise, considering that I once had a very considerable esteem for Mr Jeffrey-I don't mean to say any very considerable admiration for his literary talents -that I don't pretend to say-but a considerable esteem for his Editorial tact. I say it would have been very odd, if any man who had ever considered this Editor as entitled to respect of any kind, or on any score, could have read that article without something of occasional pain. I admit that this was my case. I did feel pain now and then from the sight of such sore degradation in a person for whom I once entertained something like respect and esteem; or, if these be too strong and high terms, at least let me say, something like a degree of kindliness and affection. I always considered Mr Jeffrey as a man of sharp but very limited faculties. I always laughed at the notion of his being a critic, either in politics or in literature; but I thought him, (I shall frankly confess the truth,) a capital Editor, as Editors go-I thought there was something like a proper feeling as to some things, which I need not particularize here, mixed up with all his vanity, folly, and blindness; and as one may have a love for one's spaniel in spite of his impudence, so I had an affection for Mr Jeffrey. I thought

him, after all, an honest sort of little fellow-I gave him credit for being as fair in his way as the different circumstances of his natural turn of mind and temper, his limited and imperfect education, and his unfortunate situation in regard to company and occupations, could well permit.-This was my feeling in regard to Mr Jeffrey as Editor of the Edinburgh Review-for, of course, I am not speaking, nor about to speak, of him in any other capacity. Such, I say, were my notions of him quâ Editor of the Buff and Blue.—I say all this, to prevent mistakes among your readers. As for you, you are quite well aware what my feelings used to

be.

Even you, however, will scarcely be able to guess what my feelings now are. I confess I am sorry to announce a fact which will give pain even to you. I cannot look on the appearance of this article as anything less or more than the death-warrant of Mr Jeffrey's editorial reputation. It is really a sad thing to stand by and see a man dangling in a noose of his own fastening. But such really is Jeffrey's case. is gone-dished-dead-utterly defunct. We have witnessed the last spasm. There is nothing for it now but to lay the body on the table, and bring out the necessary instruments of dissection.

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But, no. My dear sir, I shall spare you the trouble of a long and formal cutting up of this unfortunate victim. I shall merely lay open the skin here and there, and shew you a few of the prime points. Give me your eyes, then, kind Christopher.-But to drop our metaphors

Who wrote this article? This is the first question that will naturally occur to you, and to every one. I have made some little inquiry, and the result is considerable very considerable-confirmation of what my own first impressions suggested to me; viz. that the production belongs to nobody but the gallant of Southampton-Row, Holborn"the modern Pygmalion" himselfyes, no other mother's son but Mr William Hazlitt, author of the Liber Amo¬ ris!

That he wrote the article as it stands in the Edinburgh Review. I am not such a ninny as to imagine for a single moment. He (or some of his crew in London, acting under his control and dictation) wrote an article "on the pe

riodical press," and sent down that article to the Prince of Critics and the King of Men." The King of Men and Prince of Critics opened the packet with high feelings of aversion and reluctance. The affair of the Liber Amoris was too fresh-too recent. The universal disgust was too strong, vivid, and ebullient. The shame of having seen himself mentioned in print as a FRIEND and boon companion of such an animal as the author of that odious and loathsome piece of lewdness and profligacy, was a feeling that had not yet had time to cool. The idea that such a person, or that any of his Cockney clan, should still continue to write for the Edinburgh Review, was a thing from which the mind of the editor revolted. How shall I suffer it to be known that I tolerate such coadjutors, and yet expect that our former friends will not begin to shy old Blue and Buff altogether? This was the question that arose this was the cold qualm that shot through the heart and the liver of our Editor.

But what was to be done? The modern Pygmalion knew such and such things the author of the Liber Amoris could do such and such things What was to restrain the author of the Liber Amoris ?-Mr Jeffrey was in a pitiable state at that moment. He hesitated long-he pondered deeply-he stirred the shallow pool of his reflection, until it was a true puddle-and he ended with choosing that which, in the then perturbed and jumbled state of all his faculties, seemed on the whole to be by one hair's-breadth, and no more, the lesser of the two evils. He took what seemed to be the shorter horn of this unhappy dilemma; but short as it seemed, it has proved quite sufficient to transfix him to the backbone, and hold him out a fair object of the most deliberate derision. When he laid his shrinking and wavering hand on it, he more than suspected what was to be the result--he now feels it-and he will not speedily get rid of that feeling the more is the pity.

I do pity Mr Jeffrey individuallyto a certain extent; and yet I must once more repeat, that, on the whole, I witness this consummation with feelings of internal benignity, and a deep serenity of satisfaction. That the Editor is dished, I see; and I am sorry for it. But the Edinburgh Review is ruinedI see that; and I rejoice. Yes, the great

work at last is complete; and far be it from me to regret, that it was reserved for this vile hand to give the coup-degrace. Debellare superbos was ever your motto. The Blue and Yellow had long ceased to be your game. You, Christopher, tamed the party-coloured beast of prey in his strength-you broke him in his vigour-we all pitied him in his decline. You were the judge who tried and condemned. It was a fit thing that such a person as the author of the Liber Amoris should be found to do the one small and dirty office that justice required, after these preliminaries had been duly gone through. He has done his work well. He has pulled out the one small pin that sustained that trembling leaf-the drop has fallen-the old and hardened offender has at last paid the debt.

To drop the metaphor and speak reasonably, there was just one little bit of prestige which still adhered to the old and battered reputation of the Blue and Buff Review. That Cockneys were occasionally allowed to write puffs of each other in the work, was known ; but still these were kept far in the back ground. Their articles being all about themselves, their little poems, and essays, and lectures, and so forth, were, of course, on most trivial subjects, and made no sort of impression on the public mind; they were regarded as the merest Balaam; and, although people, remembering what the Edinburgh Review had once been, and the tone it had once sustained, were a little vexed to see it reduced so far as to seek even its Balaam from such quarters-still it was but the Balaam-every book must have Balaam-and nobody took the trouble to be either very sorry or very angry about what the Balaam of the Edinburgh Review was, or by whom it might be furnished.

But, now, what has happened?Our solitary bit of prestige has indeed vanished. What do we see now? Why, we see Mr Jeffrey obliged to allow his Balaamites, his Helots, his Cockneys, to write the first article that ever the Edinburgh Review contained on perhaps the most important, and certainly the most delicate subject, that ever that Review had the misfortune to meddle with-on the Periodical Press of Britain!!! He has suffered these people to produce boldly, under the shelter of his blue and yellow covers, a regular essay-the sole and visible ef