some time the briefless barrister diligently frequented the Edinburgh
courts, on the lookout for business. If he had few cases, he had
excellent company in another "limb," of his own kidney, John Gibson
Lockhart. These two roystering pundits, having little to do, filled up
their moments mainly with much fun, keeping their faculties on the
alert for whatever might turn up. The thing that soon turned up was
"Blackwood."

The "Edinburgh Review"--the first in the field of the modern
politico-literary periodicals--commenced its career in 1802, under the
leadership of Brougham, Sydney Smith, Jeffrey, and Horner, all stanch
Whigs. At first, literature had the second place, while politics
occupied the chief seat; though in later years their relative positions
have been reversed. Then, the one great thing in view was to have an
able party-organ, the fearless champion of a certain policy in matters
of State. The Whigs must be glorified, and the Tories put down, at all
events, whatever else might be done. The rejoicings of the former, and
the discomfiture of the latter, soon bore witness to the ability and
success of this new-fledged champion. But this one-sided state of things
could not continue always. The Tories, too, must have a mouth-piece
to testify of their devotion to "the good old cause," and silence
the clamors of their opponents. Accordingly, in 1809, appeared the
"Quarterly Review," with Gifford as editor, and Scott, Southey, Croker,
Canning, and others, as chief contributors. Under the conduct of such
men, it became at once an organ of great power, yet still not quite what
was wanted. It did not seem to meet entirely the demands of the case.
It had not the wit, pungency, and facility of its rival, and failed
of securing so general a popularity. Its learning and gravity made it
better suited to be the oracle of scholars than the organ of a party.
Compared with its adversary across the Tweed, it was like a ponderous