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hink to nine hours). 'He was in favor of short days of work, and having labored eighteen hours per diem for nearly twenty years, he was now going to "strike" for fifteen during the rest of his life.' But I doubt the success of Mr. Greeley's 'strike,' and apprehend that his early application has continued with but little abatement. Before leaving Edinburgh for the New World, it was my good fortune to become acquainted with Jeffrey. He was at this time not so much distinguished as the reviewer, as he was by his new title of Lord Jeffrey, Judge of Court Session, with a salary of L3000 per annum. Lord Jeffrey was a small man, of light but elegant make, and peculiarly symmetrical. His head was quite small, but his countenance was of an imposing character; and his eye, brilliant but not fierce, often melted into a pensive tenderness. Such was Jeffrey's appearance on the bench in his latter days. I should have little judged from it that he was the relentless critic, whoso withering sarcasm was felt from the garrets of Grub Street to the highest walk of science or university life. My intimacy with Ballantyne, who published the _Edinburgh Review_, often brought the different MSS. before me, and I could contrast the exquisite neatness of Wardlaw with the slanting school-boy hand of Jeffrey. The tone and style of review literature have changed greatly since its inception, when each quarterly gloried in the character of a literary ogre, and dead men's bones lay round its doors, as erst about the castle of Giant Despair. Authors are not now thrown to the wild beasts for the entertainment of the multitude, as in former days; and had John Keats, or even poor Henry Kirke White, written and published fifty years later, they would never have perished by the critic's pen. Yet the same malignant assault which crushed their tender muse was the only thing which could amuse the latent powers of a far greater genius; and had not Byron been as cruelly attacked by the _Edinburgh_, he would never have given 'Childe Harold' to the world. The authorship of that most unjust and malignant _critique_, which, however brief, was sufficient to make the author of 'the Hours of Idleness,' foe the time, contemptible, was long a secret; but it is now admitted that it was by Jeffrey. Little did the murderous critic think that his challenge would bring out an adversary who would soon unhorse him, and then dash victoriously over the field under the especial pat
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