Those two hundred papers which he wrote in the _Edinburgh Review_ are of the widest range--charmingly and piquantly written. Yet they do not hold place among great and popular essays; not with Macaulay, or Mackintosh, or Carlyle, or even Hazlitt. He was French in his literary aptitudes and qualities; never heavy; touching things, as we have said, with a feather’s point, yet touching them none the less surely. Could he have written a book to live? His friends all thought it, and urged him thereto. He thought not. There would be great toil, he said, and mortification at the end; so he lies buried, where we leave him, under a great tumulus of most happy _Review_ writing. _Sydney Smith._ I return now to the clever English curate who was the first to propose the establishment of that great Northern _Review_, out of which Lord Jeffrey grew. Smith had written very much and well, and had cracked his jokes in a way to be heard by all the good people of Edinboro’. But he was poor, and his wife poor; he had his fortune to make; and plainly was not making it there, tutoring his one pupil. So, in 1804, he struck out for London, to carve his way to fortune. He knew few there; but his clever papers in the _Review_ gave him introduction to Whig circles, and a social plant, which he never forfeited. Lord and Lady Holland greatly befriended him; and he early came to a place at the hospitable board of that famous Holland House--of whose green quietudes we have had glimpses, in connection with Addison, and in connection with Charles Fox--and whose mistress in the days we are now upon, showed immense liking for the brilliant and witty parson.