the harness is put to, and he rattles away as delightfully and as briskly as ever.  New causes are called; he holds a brief in his hand for every possible question.  This is a fault.  Mr. Jeffrey is not obtrusive, is not impatient of opposition, is not unwilling to be interrupted; but what is said by another, seems to make no impression on him; he is bound to dispute, to answer it, as if he was in Court, or as if it were in a paltry Debating Society, where young beginners were trying their hands.  This is not to maintain a character, or for want of good-nature—­it is a thoughtless habit.  He cannot help cross-examining a witness, or stating the adverse view of the question.  He listens not to judge, but to reply.  In consequence of this, you can as little tell the impression your observations make on him as what weight to assign to his.  Mr. Jeffrey shines in mixed company; he is not good in a tete-a-tete.  You can only shew your wisdom or your wit in general society:  but in private your follies or your weaknesses are not the least interesting topics; and our critic has neither any of his own to confess, nor does he take delight in hearing those of others.  Indeed in Scotland generally, the display of personal character, the indulging your whims and humours in the presence of a friend, is not much encouraged—­every one there is looked upon in the light of a machine or a collection of topics.  They turn you round like a cylinder to see what use they can make of you, and drag you into a dispute with as little ceremony as they would drag out an article from an Encyclopedia.  They criticise every thing, analyse every thing, argue upon every thing, dogmatise upon every thing; and the bundle of your habits, feelings, humours, follies and pursuits is regarded by them no more than a bundle of old clothes.  They stop you in a sentiment by a question or a stare, and cut you short in a narrative by the time of night.  The accomplished and ingenious person of whom we speak, has been a little infected by the tone of his countrymen—­he is too didactic, too pugnacious, too full of electrical shocks, too much like a voltaic battery, and reposes too little on his own excellent good sense, his own love of ease, his cordial frankness of disposition and unaffected candour.  He ought to have belonged to us!

The severest of critics (as he has been sometimes termed) is the best-natured of men.  Whatever there may be of wavering or indecision in Mr. Jeffrey’s reasoning, or of harshness in his critical decisions, in his disposition there is nothing but simplicity and kindness.  He is a person that no one knows without esteeming, and who both in his public connections and private friendships, shews the same manly uprightness and unbiassed independence of spirit.  At a distance, in his writings, or even in his manner, there may be something to excite a little uneasiness and apprehension:  in his conduct there is nothing to except against.  He is a person of strict integrity himself, without