Sidney Smith was a writer of sermons as well as of political squibs. Is not their memory eternized in one of John Foster's most ponderous pieces of sarcasm? In an evil hour the dexterous and witty critic came forth from behind the fastnesses of the Edinburgh Review, whence, in perfect security, he had shot his quick glancing shafts at Methodists and Missions, at Christian Observers and Eclectic Reviews, at Owens and Styles, and (what the more wary Jeffrey, in the day of his power, always avoided) became himself an author, and, mirabile dictu, an author of sermons. It was as if he wished to give his opponents their revenge; and no sooner did his head peep forth from beneath the protection of its shell than the elephantine foot of Foster was prepared to crush it in the dust. It was the precise position of Saladin with the Knight of the Leopard, in their memorable contest near the Diamond of the Desert. In the skirmish Smith had it all his own way; but when it came to close quarters, and when the heavy and mailed hand of the sturdy Baptist had confirmed its grasp on his opponent, the disparity was prodigious, and the discomfiture of the light horseman complete. But why recall the memory of an obsolete quarrel and a forgotten field? The sermons-the causa belli-clever but dry, destitute of earnestness and unction—are long since dead and buried; and their review remains their only monument.

Even when, within his own stronghold, our author intermeddled with theological topics, it was seldom with felicity or credit to himself. His onset on missions was a sad mistake; and in attacking the Methodists, and poor, pompous John Styles, he becomes as filthy and foul-mouthed as Swift himself. His wit forsakes him, and a rabid invective ill supplies its place; instead of laughing, he raves and foams at the mouth. Indeed, although an eloquent and popular preacher, and in many respects an ornament to his cloth, there was one radical evil about Smith; he had mistaken his profession. He was intended for a barrister, or a lite

rary man, or a member of parliament, or some occupation into which he could have flung his whole soul and strength. As it was, but half his heart was in a profession which, of all others, would require the whole. He became consequently a rather awkward medley of buffoon, politician, preacher, literateur, divine, and diner-out. Let us grant, however, that the ordeal was severe, and that, if a very few have weathered it better, many more have ignominiously broken down. No one coincides more fully than we do with Coleridge in thinking that every literary man should have a profession; but in the name of common sense let it be one fitted for him, and for which he is fitted— one suited to his tastes as well as to his talents-to his habits as well as to his powers-to his heart as well as to his head.

As a conversationist, Sidney Smith stood high among the highest—a Saul among a tribe of Titans. His jokes were not rare and refined, like those of Rogers and Jekyll; they wanted the slyness of Theodore Hooke's inimitable equivoque; they were not poured forth with the prodigal profusion of Hood's breathless and bickering puns; they were rich, fat, unctuous, always bordering on farce, but always avoiding it by a hair's-breadth. No finer cream, certes, ever mantled at the feasts of Holland House than his fertile brain supplied; and, to quote himself, it would require a "forty-parson power" of lungs and language to do justice to his convivial merits. An acquaintance of ours sometimes met him in the company of Jeffrey and Macaulay —a fine concord of first-rate performers, content, generally, to keep each within his own part, except when, now and then, the author of the "Lays" burst out irresistibly, and changed the concert into a fine solo.

Sidney Smith we never saw, and his personnel, therefore, we cannot describe. We always figure him, however, to ourselves as a "round, fat, oily man of God," with a strongly marked forehead, and an unspeakable twinkle in his eye.

How far this resembles the original, we leave others to determine. Altogether "we could have better spared a better man." Did not his death "eclipse the gaiety of nations?" Did not a Fourth Estate of Fun expire from the midst of us? Did not even Brother Jonathan drop a tear when he thought that the scourge that so mercilessly lashed him was broken? And shall not now all his admirers unite with us in inscribing upon his grave—“ Alas! poor Yorick!"

WILLIAM ANDERSON, GLASGOW.

AMID our profusion of sketches, we have never yet permitted ourselves to draw a likeness of our venerable father, Samuel Gilfillan of Comrie. We feel at present a strong impulse to do so shortly; and we know Mr Anderson too well to doubt that he will stand aside gladly for a little, till we limn a yet dearer countenance than his, and analyse a character equally upright and sincere.

He was

Our father was indeed a very remarkable man. not what this fastidious age would call a man of genius, learning, or eloquence; but for genius he had a genial and impulsive heart for learning, extensive information-for eloquence, unequalled ease of plain effective address. His form was erect and manly-his brow lofty and marked— his eye quick to restlessness-his hair, as we remember it, tinged with grey-his whole aspect denoting the utmost activity of mind and ardour of character. Though naturally impetuous in his temper, and hasty in its expressions,

he was one of the most delightful of companions. He was frank to excess-guile had been forgotten in his composition; he had a childlike gaiety and warmth of manner, from which he rose gently-not, like some, rebounded violently into dignity; he was full of talk, and especially of anecdote and allusion, culled from a wide extent of miscellaneous reading; he had a knack, altogether his own, in bringing in his religious views, not like staring strangers, but like welcome and respected guests, into any company and any conversation. He was admirable, too, at adapting himself to all kinds of persons, and had one manner for the peasant, another for his brother-minister, a third for the literary man, a fourth for the religious and highbred lady, and a fifth for the mere man of the world—yet all natural, easy, and ranking themselves gracefully under the one idiosyncrasy of his character. As a husband and parent, he was affectionate to indulgence. His beaming eye betrayed his deep love-his faltering tones in his Sabbath-evening addresses to the little circle—the warm pressure of his welcoming hand, when any of his family came home from the distant city-his all but last look to us as, a few days before his death, he met us returning from the village-library with a precious volume of "Plutarch's Lives" in our hand-his walks with us through the ripe corn-fields of autumn, pouring out the while a stream of information and interesting comment on the objects around -the hope and preference, but faintly disguised-even his occasional inequalities of temper, shall all be dear "while memory holds a seat on this distracted globe." As a preacher, he was plain, earnest, serious, always animated, sometimes vehement. All this is true of many preachers besides him; but few possessed the inexpressible charm, the naïveté, the exquisite power of adapting his discourse to every little incident which occurred in the history of his audience, to every smallest surge which took place in its stream. He did not stand up before them as a sublime

orator, to fulminate, and fiercely and contemptuously sway -as an eager aspirant for their favourable suffrages, to tickle and to soothe-as the primed mouthpiece of an elaborate discharge-as a being piercing a lonely way through the thick of his hearers, wondered at, looked after, but not followed (a description this last which some will know how to fit on); but as a plain, honest, well-informed, warm-hearted man, conversing on the level of his people, solemnly yet easily, about the matters of their eternity; and, as the conversation went on, allowing himself the widest range, now beseeching, now threatening, gathering illustrations from every remarkable aspect of the sky above, or any singular incident in his audience below-here quoting a verse of poetry which evidently occurred at the moment, there applying an anecdote from his multifarious stores, and here again snatching a shaft from the newspapers of the day, watching the while every countenance, and obliging every one to return the eager glance; and doing all this with such perfect mastery, and in such evident good faith, as to secure undivided attention, when he did not, as was often the case, awaken deeper emotions-the tears of penitence, the thrill of conviction, the spasm of remorse, the eager light, forming itself on the upturned countenance, of the "joy that is unspeakable and full of glory."

As a writer, he enjoyed more extensive and valuable popularity than perhaps any man in his own body. His works, consisting of papers printed in the "Christian Magazine," and occasional small volumes on religious subjects, were read from Maidenkirk to John o'Groat's, welcomed in many an humble cottage as monthly messengers of gladness, and, besides passing through a multitude of impressions in this country, translated into French, Dutch, and Russ. Nor was their popularity to be wondered at, considering their unostentatious and pleasing merits. They were somewhat loosely and illogically composed; but so easy in their style, so lucid in their meaning, so short in