im. Owen does not, nor the
Rev. Mr. Marshall of Kirkintilloch, nor yet the conspirators of
Sheffield or Newport. Toryism scarcely thanks him for fighting its
battles; Whiggism abhors him. There is no one credulous enough to
believe that his aims rise any higher than himself, or blind enough
not to see that even his selfishness is so ill-regulated as to
defeat its own little object. His lack of the higher sentiments,
the more generous feelings, the nobler aims, neutralizes even his
intellect. He publishes his speeches, carefully solicitous of his
fame, and provokes comparison in laboured dissertations with the
oratory of Demosthenes and Cicero; he eulogizes the Duke of
Wellington, and demands by inference whether he cannot praise as
classically as even the ancients themselves; but his heartless
though well-modulated eloquence lingers in first editions, like the
effusions of inferior minds; nor is it of a kind which the 'world
will find after many days.' Brougham will be less known sixty years
hence than the player Garrick is at present.

Bolingbroke, when thrown out of all public employment-gagged,
disarmed, shut out from the possibility of a return to office,
suspected alike by the Government and the Opposition, and thoroughly
disliked by the people to boot--could yet solace himself in his uneasy
and unhonoured retirement by exerting himself to write down the
Ministry.

And his _Craftsmen_ sold even more rapidly than the _Spectator_
itself.

But the writings of Brougham do not sell; he lacks even the solace of
Bolingbroke. We have said that his history is without parallel in that
of Britain. Napoleon on his rock was a less melancholy object: the
imprisoned warrior had lost none of his original power--he was no
moral suicide; the millions of France were still devotedly attached to
him, and her armies would still have followed him to battle. It was no
total forfeiture of character on his own part that had rendered him so
utterly powerless either for good or ill.

_July 8, 1840._

THE SCOTT MONUMENT.

The foundation-stone of the metropolitan monument in memory of Sir
Walter Scott was laid with masonic honours on Saturday last. The day
was pleasant, and the pageant imposing. All business seemed suspended
for the time; the shops were shut. The one half of Edinburgh had
poured into the streets, and formed by no means the least interesting
part of the spectacle. Every window and balcony that overlooked the
pr