Great Voice in his day. But he produced nothing
which can permanently affect us; he gave no great turn to the
sentiments or opinions of mankind. His only original effort of any
mark, is his exposition of the association theory of beauty, which
rests on a simple mistake of what is pleasing for what is beautiful,
and is already nothing. We suspect that no man with his degree of
timidity will ever be very great, either as a philosopher or as a man
of deeds. He was a brilliant _writer_--the most brilliant, and, with
one exception, the most versatile in his age; but to this we would
limit his panegyric, apart from the glory of his long and consistent
career as a politician, which we think can scarcely be overestimated.

So many of the most remarkable passages of the work have been already
hackneyed through the medium of the newspapers, that we feel somewhat
at a loss to present any which may have a chance of being new to our
readers. So early as his twentieth year, we find Mr Jeffrey thus
sensibly expressing himself on an important subject:--

'There is nothing in the world I detest so much as companions and
acquaintances, as they are called. Where intimacy has gone so far as
to banish reserve, to disclose character, and to communicate the
reality of serious opinions, the connection may be the source of much
pleasure--it may ripen into friendship, or subside into esteem. But to
know half a hundred fellows just so far as to speak, and walk, and
lounge with them; to be acquainted with a multitude of people, for all
of whom together you do not care one farthing; in whose company you
speak without any meaning, and laugh without any enjoyment; whom you
leave without any regret, and rejoin without any satisfaction; from
whom you learn nothing, and in whom you love nothing--to have such a
set for your society, is worse than to live in absolute solitude; and
is a thousand times more pernicious to the faculties of social
enjoyment, by circulating in its channels a stream so insipid.'

At the peace of Amiens, Jeffrey wrote thus to his friend Morehead, 7th
October 1801: 'It is the only public event in my recollection that has
given me any lively sensation of pleasure, and I have rejoiced at it
as heartily as it is possible for a private man, and one whose own
condition is not immediately affected by it, to do. How many parents
and children, and sisters and brothers, would that news make happy?
How many pairs of bright eyes would weep