kind of child, boy, husband, father, friend and priest, Sydney Smith was in the minds of those who knew him best.

And when one looks now through the pages of the book before us; when one recalls all the traits of Sydney Smith recorded in Jeffrey's Life; in Moore's Diary; in the late Lord Dudley and Ward's Letters; in Leonard Horner's Life of his brother Francis, we all feel, that in describing the character of Francis Horner, Sydney Sunith but described his own.

This Memoir is of very great importance in correcting an error into which many persons have fallen, in estimating the character of Sydney. He has been generally looked upon as one who existed only to enjoy himself in society, and as a churchman who cared nothing for his duties, save to discharge them with a regularity just sufficient to enable him, with decency, to receive the emoluments of his appointments. This latter error the Memoir fully corrects; but the former opinion is most curiously dissipated, by a letter to Sir George Philips, and corroborates an assertion in Moore's Diary, that Sydney Smith's natural disposition was grave and thoughtful. Moore writes, under date May 27th, 1926: "Breakfasted at Rogers's: Sydney Smith, Lord Cawdor, G. Fortescue, and Warburton. Smith, full of comicality and fancy, kept us all in roars of laughter. In talking of the stories about drinkers catching fire, pursued the idea in every possible shape. The inconvenience of a man coming too near the candle when he was speaking, Sir, your observation has caught fire.' Then imagined a parson breaking into a blaze in the pulpit; the engines called to put him out; no water to be had, the man at the waterworks being a Unitarian or an Atheist. Said of some one, He has no command over his understanding; it is always getting between his legs and tripping him up.' Left Rogers's with Smith, to go and assist him in choosing a grand piano-forte found him (as I have often done before) change at once from the gay, uproarious wag into as solemn, grave, and austere a person as any bench of judges or bishops could supply: this, I rather think, is his natural character."*

Writing, on the 28th February, 1836, to Sir George Philips, Smith himself thus observes upon his own character:

"My dear Philips,-You say I have many comic ideas

See "Memoirs, Journal and Correspondence of Thomas Moore." Vol. V. p. 75.

rising in my mind; this may be true, but the champagne bottle is no better for holding the champagne. Don't you remember the old story of Carlini, the French harlequin?* I don't mean to say I am prone to melancholy; but I acknowledge my weakness enough to confess, that I want the aid of society, and dislike a solitary life."+

The volumes before us are the work of Sydney Smith's daughter, Lady Holland, wife of the well known physician, Sir Henry Holland, author of the interesting book, Medical Notes and Experiences; and of Mrs. Sarah Austin, the writer of some most admirable works, and translator of Ranke's History of the Popes of Rome,-the lady whom Macaulay has so justly lauded in his famous essay. The work is formed upon the plan adopted by Lord Cockburn in his biography of Jeffrey, the first volume containing the memoir, and second volume consisting of a selection from the letters of the subject; a change from the plan introduced by Mason in his Life of Gray, and which we do not consider, in most cases, an improvement.

That his daughter and a female friend should write the memoir of Sydney Smith is, in our opinion, natural. No history, as we have endeavored to show, of his public life was necessary; and of his private life none could write, so truly and so graceful, as two women whose association he had enjoyed. All his life long he had cherished and sought for female society. A mind like his, playful and brilliant, yet strong and vehement, when the exertion of those sterner qualities was needed, finds in the gentle intercourse of thoughtful women, who are not, in the faintest tinge, “blue," a charm and a solace such as men of deeper energy of character, but of lesser fancy, can hardly appreciate. For ourselves, we believe that if this memoir were the work of a man, its charm would be in a great degree diminished. We might possibly hear more of politics and of divinity, but we should certainly

This refers to Carlini, the drollest Buffoon ever known on the Italian stage at Paris. He complained to a celebrated French physician of intense melancholy; and the doctor ordering him to frequent the theatres, particularly the Italian theatre, said, "If Carlini does not dispel your gloom your case must be desperate!" "Alas," replied the patient, "I am Carlini, and whilst I make all Paris laugh, I am myself actually dying with chagrin and melancholy."

† See Memoir," Vol. II. p. 388.

know less, far less, of Foston and of Combe Florey. And, after all, what public life have literary politicians? That Sydney Smith thought little of his public career, is evidenced by a letter which he addressed, in the year 1844, to M. Eugène Robin, in which he observes :-" It is scarcely possible to speak much of self, and I have little or nothing to tell which has not been told before in my preface. I am seventy-four years of age; and being a Canon of St. Paul's in London, and a rector of a parish in the country, my time is divided equally between town and country. I am living amongst the best society in the metropolis, and at ease in my circumstances; in tolerable health, a mild Whig, a tolerating Churchman, and much given to talking, laughing, and noise. I dine with the rich in London, and physic the poor in the country; passing from the sauces of Dives to the sores of Lazarus. I am, upon the whole, a happy man; have found the world an entertaining world, and am thankful to Providence for the part allotted to me in it."

So much for his own views of his life; and herein, in this playful, half Epicurean, tone, lies a considerable portion of the interest of these volumes. We might know Sydney Smith as a patriot, as a politician, as a reviewer, or as a wit, but not knowing him as a man, as a man in his home life, we know him not at all. Therefore it is that we welcome this book, given to the world by two women, each of whom is eminently suited to discharge her peculiar part, with justice to her subject, and with entertainment to the reader.

The prefaces to these volumes are not the least interesting portion of their contents: the daughter writes, that some memorial of her father, from those who knew him, may record his struggles, his temptations, his honesty, and his patriotism: the friend edits, that the world may know this man's mind, as his letters display it; and thus both child and friend prove the truth of his own declaration, "I printed my reviews to show, if I could, that I had not passed my life merely in making jokes, but had made use of what little powers of pleasantry I might be endowed with, to discountenance bad, and to encourage liberal and wise principle."†

In the year 1771, an odd, inquisitive, sagacious man, named

See "Memoir," Vol. II., p. 531.

† See Vol. II., p. 428,

Robert Smith, resided at Woodford, in Essex. He had, some years before this period, married a Miss Olier, the youngest daughter of a French emigrant, from Languedoc, driven over to England by the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes; this emigrant married a Miss Barton, a collateral descendant of Sir Isaac Newton, through his mother's second marriage. Mr. Smith was, as we have stated, married to Miss Olier, but they parted at the church door, he sailed for America, she went home with her mother, with whom she remained until her husband's return from his wanderings. He was possessed of some money, which he diminished by roaming over the world for many years, and "by buying, altering, spoiling, and then selling about nineteen different places in England, till, in his old age, he at last settled at Bishop's Lydiard, in Somersetshire, where he died."

Mrs. Smith was a woman of noble mind and countenance, and reared her children in all the love and respect which these qualities command; even about her correspondence there was so great a charm, that whenever Sydney, or his brother Courtenay, received a letter from her, during the schoolboy days at Winchester, their young companions would gather round them and request to hear it read aloud. She died about the year 1805.

Sydney Smith was born at Woodford, in the year 1771, the second of four brothers and one sister. These were four odd, impulsive boys. They neglected play; gave every hour of leisure to study, often lying on the floor stretched over their books, discussing all the subjects arising, those often above their years, "with a warmth and fierceness as if life and death. hung upon the issue," and the result was, as Sydney Smith used to say, "to make us the most intolerable and overbearing set of boys that can well be imagined, till later in life we found our level in the world."

Robert and Cecil, the eldest and third sons, were sent to Eton, where Robert, called by his schoolfellows Bobus, being then only eighteen, distinguished himself much, and with Canning, Frere, and John Smith, writing The Microcosm, He went from Eton to King's College, Cambridge, where he obtained considerable reputation, and was considered an admirable composer of Latin verse; he went out to India in 1804 as Advocate-General of Bengal, and according to Sir James Mackintosh, "his fame amongst the natives was greater than that of any pundit since the days of Menu." He returned to

England in 1812, and obtained a seat in Parliament. He was not distinguished in the House, but his ability was considerable. Canning used to say "Bobus's language is the essence of English." He loved Sydney sincerely, allowed him one hundred pounds per annum for many years, gave him £500, and contributed towards the support of his son at College. One of Sydney's first acts as a clergyman, was the performance of the ceremony of the marriage of Robert with Miss Vernon, aunt to the present Marquis of Lansdowne. He stood by Sydney's death-bed, and his own death took place one fortnight later, and thus a hope, expressed by the former in 1813, was fulfilled

"Dear Bobus,

Pray take care of yourself. We shall both be a brown infragrant powder in thirty or forty years. Let us contrive to last out for the same, or nearly the same time. Weary will the latter half of my pilgrimage be, if you leave me in the lurch."

Sydney was sent, at the age of six years, to a school at Southampton kept by the Rev. Dr. Marsh, and was thence, with his younger brother Courtenay, removed to Winchester. His life here was a hard one, but yet he and his brother so much distinguished themselves, that a round-robin was signed by their schoolfellows and presented to Dr. Warton, the Head Master or Warden of Winchester, "refusing to try for the College prizes if the Smiths were allowed to contend for them any more, as they always gained them." Referring to this period, Sydney used to say-" I believe, whilst a boy at school, I made above ten thousand Latin verses, and no man in his senses would dream in after-life of ever making another. So much for life and time wasted." Possibly the whole spirit of wisdom, pervading his admirable paper, Too Much Latin and Greek*, has its inspiration from his recollection of this time

cast away.

He left Winchester as Captain, for New College, Oxford, entitled to a Scholarship, and afterwards to a Fellowship. He was too poor and too proud to mix much in College society. He was sent, by his father, in the interval between obtaining his Scholarship and his Fellowship, to Mont Villiers,