injured his work. Combining "in his own person the characters of Solon,
Lycurgus, Demosthenes, Archimedes, Sir Isaac Newton, Lord Chesterfield,
and a great many more," his restless genius accomplished nothing
substantial or sound. His writing was far less careful than his oratory.
A man from whom almost everything was expected, and who was always
before the eye of the public; he has been described as "the God of
Whiggish idolatry," and as "impossible" in society. Harriet Martineau is
unsparing in her criticism of his manners and language; and evidently he
was an inveterate swearer. His enthusiasm for noble causes was
infectious; only, as Coleridge happily expressed it, "because his heart
was placed in what should have been his head, you were never sure of
him--you always doubted his sincerity."

In the Opposition and at the Bar this eloquent energy had full scope,
"but as Lord Chancellor his selfish disloyalty offended his colleagues
while," as O'Connell remarked, "If Brougham knew a little of Law, he
would know a little of everything." Unquestionably his obvious failings
obscured his real eminence, and even hinder us, to-day, from doing full
justice to his memory.

* * * * *

It was the following, somewhat heavy-handed, review which inspired the
_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_, with all its "extraordinary powers
of malicious statement"--truly a Roland for his Oliver.


SYDNEY SMITH
(1771-1845)