The “Century,” the only work he is known to have left to posterity, sorely perplexed the fastidious Horace Walpole, was too much of a mechanical production for the astute David Hume, and has thoroughly bewildered the legal acumen of Mr. Muirhead, the biographer of James Watt. It has challenged the skill of critics of every degree, from contributors to the Gentleman’s Magazine to those of the Harleian Miscellany, and even in all sketches of the history of the steam-engine, percolating thence through biographies, and popular accounts of Raglan Castle, to the latest and best illustrated works on our castles and abbeys. So many writers, so many minds, whose judgments in a collected form, would afford a very discordant and uninviting miscellany, a sad satire on the material and style of a certain class of criticism, too much encouraged in our current literature. It is painful to observe its constant want of sympathy with the pains and penalties which unhappily are the too frequent lot of lofty, original, inventive genius. The case might fairly be paralleled by supposing Voltaire and others to have successfully established a clique against Shakespeare, to misrepresent and malign the great dramatist up to the present time; when, suddenly should appear, the _first_ work, to settle his literary claims! Of course it is declared impossible; and so it is, with a literary work; but it is not so with Inventions. The fame of the Marquis of Worcester rests less on his book than on his Water-commanding Engine. The book we see and read, but probably not one man in ten thousand knows anything about the Engine. Here is the weak point when the tide turns against the Inventor, against the man, a man politically and religiously proscribed. A great man for his Engine but hated by those politicians who side with the Stuart dynasty, for his luckless association with Charles the First. And misunderstood by the dilettanti Walpole, a connoisseur in paintings and works of _vertu_, but in matters of science more ignorant of the Marquis of Worcester’s worth, than Voltaire was of Shakespeare’s genius. But we regret there is a third conspicuous offender in the field, and as he is the latest, so we hope he is the last of the clan of vituperative critics.