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him as an author-Sir R. Wilson is a for all of which he hath an exceeding ninny-and Alderman Wood never fine genie; the masterly disquisitions of seemed to us to stand, as a man of Mr Horner on subjects of political ecoletters, much higher than the present nomy; Mr Brougham's dashing, slashJeremy Bentham. The English Whigs ing, mashing articles on domestic and are almost all naturally stupid, which foreign polity, and many laudable pais more a misfortune than a crime; pers of nameless auxiliaries. We have but they are also almost all artificially no recollection, at this moment, of illiterate, which is more a crime than having denied the occasional great a misfortune. In short, look where merit of Numbers of the Edinburgh you may, over England and Scotland, Review, that appeared some years and you will see clever Tories and dull ago. But the objections we have Whigs—and we are informed that it urged against that work, forcibly but is just the same in Ireland--for Whig- temperately, are of the following kind. gery can dull the faculties even of an That it, all along, has been, in regard Hibernian. Should any one of our to the Christian Religion, either cold, readers doubt the truth of what we sceptical, or impious; that its politinow say, let him shut the Magazine, cal opinions, especially concerning our and if he is in a public room, let him foreign relations, have been base, foolcast his eyes around him, and look ish, cowardly, and unpatriotic; and consteadily on the first gentleman whom cerning our domestic affairs, too frehe sees reading the Morning Chron- quently false and factious ; that, in criicle, and if he is not an established ticism, even the very best papers have blockhead, he must, you may depend shewn a lamentable ignorance of the upon it, have mistaken that paper for true principles of poetry, and that the New Times or the Courier. Nay, though the editor's fancy and feeling let any man just run over the list of his have often exhibited themselves beauticommon acquaintances, and what great, fully in detached remarks and vivid ilheavy, stupid faces, or whatsmall, mean, lustrations, he has, through the influshrivelled ones, rise up from among ence which his Review once possessed the Whiggery! And what fine jolly, over the public taste, done more than all intelligent countenances beam up from the other critics of the age, to blind the Toryism of his native land! It is men's eyes, and deaden men's hearts very laughable to find the sole opposi- to the genuine works of imaginationtion one meets with in this world, is that in all learning, erudition, and gefrom a set of poor, fusionless, feckless neral knowledge—with the exception, creatures, that can with difficulty perhaps, of pure mathematics—the stand when supported, much less op- Edinburgh Review has ever been pose any body of ordinary strength. miserably deficient and absurdly proud They belong to the Opposition for- of its deficiences—that it created and sooth! So have we seen a brisk party diffused a vile spirit of captious critiof windle-straes in a barren-field, with cism and conceited coxcombry over the their empty heads all nodding away in youth of Britain, which is still ludiopposition--but the first gust of wind crously apparent in thousands of heathat came made them turn to the vy gentlemen, now middle-aged; and right-about in a twinkling, though that it was the first, to set an example they still kept opposing, no doubt, of that insolent and reckless personawhatever happened to be near them. lity which has since become a leading

Secondly, Akin to this our merit of feature of almost all periodical works murdering the Whigs, is that of chang- but our own-and for the introducing the whole character of the Edin- tion of which, into the formerly quiet burgh Review, in so far as it is pos- and serene walks of literature, it is sible to change the character of an ex- impossible for the Edinburgh Review tremely aged person. We have been ever to make sufficient amends to accused of using the Edinburgh Re- the public, or to receive sufficient puview ill. Now, that is not the case. nishment at our hands. In addition We use nothing ill. We should be to these truths, now universally adconvicted of flattery, were we to tell mitted to be self-evident, we have ochalf the pleasure we have had in casionally observed, that within these reading many of the ingenious and ele- few years Mr Jeffrey has got tired of gant dissertations of the editor, on li- the Review--as he well might-having terature, and morals, and philosophy, written so much, and so well, and so

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ill, on so many different subjects, and suppose. No sooner has he taken his on the same subjects for twenty years seat, and begun to spread animation and being, as he deserves, from his around him, by his cheerful and polite great learning, boundless ingenuity, demeanour, than the door again opens, and unequalled eloquence, at the head and in comes a heavy, sulky, vulgar of the Scotch bar ;--that in this ma- clown, the Scotsman we shall supnifest ennui, or rather disgust with the pose, who, with the lounging gait of work, he has felt himself

driven to the à clod-hopper, lours round the comnecessity of soliciting assistance from pany, with a dogged down-cast counall manner of dolts, and drivellers tenance-then puts his arms a-kimbo, to say no worse--the thought of which in awkward insolence striving to be must, at times, sorely distress his genteel—and bangs himself down in mind ; that, in this way, the stupidity mingled pride and dismay, with a sudof the Edinburgh Review has now den thud, upon a sofa, as if upon a become quite proverbial ; and people wooden bench at an evening book-sale. who wish to be thought clever are very The effect on the company is not reshy of reading it: and that, finally, its moved for some time, even by the subsale is so reduced as to render it now sequent entrance of a gentleman. an injudicious and unproductive con- About a dozen years ago, when the cern, which Mr Constable would act Edinburgh Review was in its glory,

wisely to give up altogether, and so the day of publication was a great day 21,1 leave the Periodical Literature of Scot- in this city. If it did not appear in

land entirely in the hands of us younger the forenoon, gentlemen, who were and abler men.

dining out, left orders, with the lass and

This seems to be the sum and sub- of their lodging, to bring their NumHE

stance of what we have, at various ber to Mr such or such a one, advotimes, with more or less expense of cate or W. S. fifth door up such and thought, written about the Edinburgh such a common-stair. No sooner had

Review, and if there be any mistake the party sat down to their corned pis in the items of the bill, they need on- beef and greens, and Jenny been ever,

ly to be pointed out to be immediately and anon extending her red fiery arm

corrected. One thing we feel perfecta close by the ear of some leading memsi ly confident of, that is, impartiality. ber of the Speculative Society, with a

While so many thousands have been barmy black bottle of gurgling small10 giving up the work, we still continue beer--than one heavy rap after another som to take it, partly from habit, we be- fell upon the outer door, as lass after

lieve, and partly from a nameless and lass assembled on the stair-head with ve undefinablepleasurewhich stillbreathes her master's Number. Jenny, at once ck upon us from its blue cover and yel- cook, waiter, and chamber-maid, went ei low back-and which is not always out and came in, in a flurry, with a deis dispelled, for some minutes, by open- cad of the Review in her apron-and all *ing the work. It delights us to see the party rushing upon her, each ravishi the Editor occasionally ogling again ed a treasure from her lap, and then, si the old work—and we always, on such heedless of the promised and approachi occasions, exclaim, “ Well done, Mr ing how-towdy, and seemingly resolva né Jeffrey, people may say what they ed to forget even the hot whisky-toddy se choose, but after all, Dr Morris is right with brown sugar, at that time the uni, i in calling thee the prince of Review- versal drink of our first-rate literary and

ers." It was only t'other day that we legal characters, allgrasped their knives felt all our admiration of the excellent unwiped of their fat and mustard, and editor revive when we saw his two ami, got, at once, into the heart of the Re

able and ingenious articles on the Edge view. There might be seen one small ps worth Memoirs and Geoffrey Crayon, yellow-faced gentleman, with pig-eyes, I the one preceding and the other fol, and a bald sconce, putting the work flowing that wretched abortion on the close to his nose, as if he were smellEn Jacobite Relics. Sometimes, in a ing out an article on parliamentary re

drawing-room, when the company are form, and mumbling, Aye, aye iets assembling to dinner, the door opens, Frank Horner I see"-set himself to

and in comes a well-dressed gentle- perusal, as if it were as great and as manly person, with a smile on his face, glorious a feat to read a good article and with a bow indicative of good so- as to writeone. Next to him pored, hapciety; Mr Jeffrey, himself, we shall ly, a writer's clerk, ambitious, perhaps, Vol. VIII.


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of stuttering, some future day, at the We have always known that the people side bar, under the smiles of some of Britain are sprung, patronizing judge, and of exchanging “ From Earth's first blood, have titles ma. his then ignoble lot for the enviable nifold,” renown of fourth-rate drudgery, doom- and that the light of liberty, dark as ed to dwindle, year after year, into un- the air may be over other lands, shines feed peripateticism in the outer-house, and will ever shine, from the cliffs of without

Albion. We should have felt asham“ One brief memorial, still erected nigh." ed to lift up our heads, had we, like But,

the great Whig Journal, irrationally “ We bridle in our struggling muse with degraded ourselves, by declaring that pain,

England was no longer a country worth That longs to launch into a nobler strain,” living in, even after the battle of Waand leave the imagination of our read- terloo. Had we ever so spoken, we ers to bring before them the lofty bliss should not have dared to look on of that intellectual afternoon ; when silver cross to Scotland dear," or the the red herring lay unheeded on the standard of England flying at the mahogany, and no noise was heard main of one of Nelson's old victorious from the flower of the Edinburgh ships. We have ever spoken with youth, but an occasional grunt of de. love of the throne, and reverence of light from that pig-eyed Speculator, the altar, with unmitigable scorn and or the crack of a rotten filbert which contempt of all traitors and infidels, some student, during a perplexing be they who they may, who would passage on the price of corn, ventured assail the one by abuse of the king, half-unconsciously to introduce for and the other by abuse of the minisuseless mastication into his defrauded ters, or the creed of religion. No and defeated jaws. These, my pen- man can continue to think of his counsive Public, were the bright, and try, as he ought to think, who accuse dewy, and laughing morning years toms himself to rail against her spirit, of the Edinburgh Review! It was and to deny her greatness and her then that the genius and character was glory. It is right that a truly noble formed of those many splendid bar- people, should think nobly of them risters, enlightened senators, and pro- selves; it is right that each individual found philosophers, with whom Scot- should support his own virtue, by land now overflows. Alas! for the holding inviolate in his imagination fifth stories of well-peopled tenements the virtue of the state. Can this be now! Go mourn for the Speculative, done by him whose eloquence is and take up a weeping for the Select ! confined to errors, whose ability is Give a groan for the Academic, and for exerted only against abuse, and who the Eclectic set no bounds to your ranges round and round the magnifigrief; sigh for the young men of medi- cent structure of the British Consticine, bedew with brine the cheek of tution, only to spy out some time-rent the stripling student of Scotch Law, in stone, or some crumbling piece of morthe general sorrow let not the writer's tar, which he foolishly or basely exaggerapprentice be forgotten, think on the ates into general decay and dilapidation, rising clergy with pity, commiserate while the wicked are endeavouring to the doom of literary men-milliners, drive their mines beneath the rockand pause to drop a pearly tear over foundation, in the hope of levelling all the heirs of small entailed estates ! its battlements with the dust? This is The Edinburgh Review is fallen, like the anti-British spirit of which we have Babel, or Babylon, the hanging gar- so often expressed our contempt, and dens are no more, and there is a con- which, we know, we have in many infusion of tongues among the ungodly. stances depressed and destroyed. It is

Thirdly, We deserve well of our coun- a spirit either detestably wicked, or try for having, during dangerous times, utterly foolish. They who cherish it upheld and encouraged a true British are objects either of hate or laughter, spirit. We have never allowed our- or of both. Living under the purest selves to rail about the ruin of our government that ever existed, they country, to talk of taxes like old wo- walk about, lifting up their legs from men, to drivel about the national

debt, the ground as if they were shackledto defame the soil that gave us birth. permitted to open their asinine jaws,


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whenever they choose, either for abuse awakening the delighted sympathies of

or panegyric, they call out with a loud the best critics, to the merits of the k voice that their mouths are pad-lock- Scotch Novels, then almost unknown

ed--they cry against crowded prisons, we humbly beg to share in this while they themselves are suffered to praise — But to us exclusively bego at large ; and declaim against the longs the merit of obliging the people ignorance of their rulers in bad gram- of Scotland to read Wordsworth. We

mar, and orthoepy beyond the correc- have made him popular bere, in spite ei tion of the press. Themselves at once of the Edinburgh Review, and all the i scum and sediment, they complain of Whigs that whine in chorus. Their

the stream of virtue being polluted ; as low and unprincipled abuse of that

if a bottle of wine might not exhibit great man we exposed and punished; in pieces of floating cork, and much and we have spread Wordsworth's a downward dregs, and yet be excello fame o’er earth and seas, Er ent port. Hopping about, like birds a in a town-aviary, with ragged feathers

“ Whatever clime our work's bright circle

warms." and peevish chirp, they forget that ce there are nobler birds winging their Then, look at our own poetry! How 201 way through the skies, or sitting amid tender, pathetic, and sublime, our se

the golden fruitage of happy groves; rious and how biting and caustic our

or marching to and fro over their own humorous song? Who can sufficiently i dunghills, and through their own dirty laud old Wastle? Does not the voice of or courts, either like little bantams, with the Standard-bearer rouse the soul like

their feathered leggikins bestudded the sound of a trumpet ? Who can

with globular mud diamonds, or large read our Irish correspondent's epic c dunghill fowl, with immense comb poetry without aching sides ? And ise and wattles, and no tail, who keep till taste, genius, and sensibility are in chuckling, and crowing, and scraping no more, the world will delight in eps among the soil, and looking fierce at Is not Mr Dowden of Cork å

all passers-by; they absolutely come pretty poet? and Mr Jennings, the in at last to conceive that they are your great founder of the Soda-water School?

only fowl; and when an egg is laid by Why, we have as much poetry-is one of the fraternity, a cackling is real, genuine, unadulterated poetry,

forth with heard far and wide, from all that might hold Mr Accum at defithe circumjacent and responsive poul- ance, as actually fills Timothy Tickler's try, as if every dunghill were sending back parlour, a snug room of twelve

forth to parliament its wing-clapping, feet square. There are elegies that ti strutting, and crowing representative. would draw iron tears down Pluto's

Fourthly, We have done more than cheeks-epithalamia that would make all the periodical works that have ever the virgin rose drop from the stalk of existed since the beginning of time single blessedness-epigrams “gleg as (moderately speaking) to spread the ony wombwell”--and extemporaneous empire of genius and imagination upon effusions, polished to the last pitch of earth. There is no single man of ge- artificial refinement! In the space benius whom we have not delighted to tween the window and the door, we honour. Of all the present living po- have piled up our dramas--comedy ets we have uniformly spoken with and tragedy, in alternate rows. On love, and gratitude, and reverence. the left side of the fire-place are our We have explained their principles portions, and parts of portions, of phimore philosophically than ever they losophical poems in blank verse--and themselves were able to do. We have on the right, all cur epics. In the gathered up the flowers that dropped middle of the room stands a noble pile. from the garlands of poetry-wiped of Occasional Poetry, which, numerous from them the dust scattered on them as the occasions are on which it is emby the hoof of vulgar criticism-res- ployed, still reaches to within two feet tored them to their bright companion- of the roof-Many effusions of both ship-and hung the whole dazzling sexes are there ! What a body of reglory upon the temple of Fame. (hear, spectful and constant readers of our hear!) The editor of Baldwin's Ma- Magazine! There they all lie, one agazine, a periodical, startled about three bove the other, all waiting their day months ago, lately stated, if we rightly of doom ! Many a romantic name is understood him, that he had been the sacrificed. Laura Maria follows Jenmeans of directing the attention, and ny Freebairn-and the place of Peter

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Nimmo is supplied by Orlando or tiously at last, we feel the grandeur of Maximilian Pugh. Oh! let our po- the powers, and the awfulness of the etical contributors take warning by destinies of our human nature, in that their fate! We devoutly trust that simple picture of humble but high some of the other Magazines will humanity, more mournfully and also take a sack or two of occasional poetry more majestically than when the curoff our hands. Has the Lady's Ma- tain falls before the dead bodies of gazine no bowels ? Must we look in conquerors or of kings. What was said vain to La Belle Assemblee? What is of this drama, so true to nature, and become of the old benignity of the so true to the thoughts of nature, cheEuropean? And does Sir Richard hear rished by the great men of old England? us plead in vain ? We offer to con- That it was childish, puerile, foolish, tract--gratis-nay, we will give a pre- barbarous, founded upon wretched mo mium, for the poet's corners in all the delsmand a disgrace to the literature of newspapers in Britain. Werather think a civilized people! All the old dramawe shall hire a sharp lad for the express tists were, at the same time, spoken purpose, and make him “ Clerk of the of with scorn and contempt--and the Occasional Poetry”—that shall be his reader was left in derision of Charles sole department, with a good salary, Lamb, and of those great spirits whom he shall never be made to audit his ac- he worshipped, and whose very names counts, and if he but keep down seemed to have been unknown to stock, we will settle an annuity upon the Reviewer. Such a critique could him in his old age.

not have been written by Mr JefFifthly, With respect to general li- frey—but there it was in the work terature, we surely are not saying too that has done so much for the old much when we affirm, that we have dramatists of England. When Miss delighted and instructed the reading Baillie's noble plays were review. public on many subjects that, but for ed-true, that praise was bestowed us, would, in all probability, have re- on the old dramatists. What then? mained in oblivion during many cen- Can we suppose such an incredible abturies, perhaps for ever. Mr Jeffrey surdity as Mr Jeffrey to despise the says that he has mainly contributed to contemporaries of Shakspeare ? Surely the existing love and admiration of the not. But what was said of them Old English Drama. We surely may Any thing discriminative, or enthube permitted to doubt this. The first siastic, or passionate ? Nothing at all paper in the Edinburgh Review, as far-but some wit against Miss Baillie as we recollect, in which any thing for injudiciously imitating their lau was said of the Old English Drama, guage. In the Review of Chenevix's was a critique on Charles Lamb's John plays-by the way, productions of great Woodville. That little composition power—there were some good remarks glistens with the most vivid and beau- on the strength, and originality, and tiful poetry-nature keeps giving hints passion, of the elder men ;--but, most of herself throughout all its scenes assuredly, not a word that entitled the now in all that quaintness which, at writer to class himself among the that period of human life, she more strong admirers of the old drama. A peculiarly loved—and now in that few years ago, some fine and philosouniversal language in which, without phic discussion-but noways origireference to time or place, she wantons nal, as every one knows who knows forth in her strong and rejoicing ex- any thing of the age of Elizabeth and istence-there, passion is simple as the James-appeared in the Edinburgh light of day, or various as the corusca- Review, in a paper on Ford's plays. tions of the northern lights—there, Ford himself, however, was somewhat truths so obvious as to common eyes thoughtlessly said to be by no means even to seem dull and trivial, become one of the best of the old Dramatists. affecting - even sublime, by their And we believe that Mr Jeffrey has, connexion with profoundest reflec- since that time, occasionally spoken tions, and most woful catastrophes with spirited commendation of our old There, character apparently artless dramatic literature ; though Massinger and unformed, yet rises up like what was denied to have genius in a critique, we see conflicting, suffering, enjoying, which Mr Gifford afterwards shewed dying, in this our every-day world to be one tissue of ignorance and maso that when all is shut up unostenta- lignity. This, we believė, is the sum

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