This is probably true on the anonymous system, where the editor is answerable for every word, and for the literary form no less than for the substantial soundness or interest of an article.  In a man of weakish literary vanity—­Jeffrey was evidently full of it—­there may well be a constant itch to set his betters right in trifles, as Gifford thought that he could mend Southey’s adjectives.  To a vain editor, or a too masterful editor, the temptation under the anonymous system is no doubt strong.  M. Buloz, it is true, the renowned conductor of the Revue des deux Mondes, is said to have insisted on, and to have freely practised, the fullest editorial prerogative over articles that were openly signed by the most eminent names in France.  But M. Buloz had no competitor, and those who did not choose to submit to his Sultanic despotism were shut out from the only pulpit whence they were sure of addressing the congregation that they wanted.  In England contributors are better off; and no editor of a signed periodical would feel either bound or permitted to take such trouble about mere wording of sentences as Gifford and Jeffrey were in the habit of taking.

There is, however, another side to this, from an editor’s point of view.  With responsibility—­not merely for commas and niceties and literary kickshaws, but in its old sense—­disappears also a portion of the interest of editorial labour.  One would suppose it must be more interesting to command a man-of-war than a trading vessel; it would be more interesting to lead a regiment than to keep a tilting-yard.  But the times are not ripe for such enterprises.  Of literary ability of a good and serviceable kind there is a hundred or five hundred times more in the country than there was when Jeffrey, Smith, Brougham, and Horner devised their Review in a ninth storey in Edinburgh seventy-six years ago.  It is the cohesion of a political creed that is gone, and the strength and fervour of a political school.  The principles that inspired that group of strong men have been worked out.  After their reforms had been achieved, the next great school was economic, and though it produced one fine orator, its work was at no time literary.  The Manchester school with all their shortcomings had at least the signal distinction of attaching their views on special political questions to a general and presiding conception of the modern phase of civilisation, as industrial and pacific.  The next party of advance, when it is formed, will certainly borrow from Cobden and Bright their hatred of war and their hatred of imperialism.  After the sagacity and enlightenment of this school came the school of persiflage.  A knot of vigorous and brilliant men towards 1856 rallied round the late editor of the Saturday Review,—­and a strange chief he was for such a group,—­but their flag was that of the Red Rover.  They gave Philistinism many a shrewd blow, but perhaps at the same time helped to some degree—­with other