Speaking of excessive labor, we may observe that this is the general rule among men of science or letters.  They are, as a class, crushed by engagements and duties, as well as by problems and questions of which the world can not even dream.

The Edinburgh literati know but little of rest or recreation; from the editor’s chair up to the pulpit, they are under a lash as relentless as that of the taskmaster of Egypt.  For instance, we might refer to Buchanan, of the Mercury.  He has sat at his desk until he has become an old man, with the smallest imaginable subtraction of time for food and sleep, writing night and day, and carrying, in his comprehensive brain, the whole details of an influential journal.  This feature, however, is not confined to the Old World, and may easily be paralleled in the journalism of America.  Both Raymond, of the Times, and Bennett, of the Herald, almost live in the editorial function; and the former of these, though now Speaker of the Assembly, will either pen his leaders in his desk, during the utterance of prosy speeches, or in hours stolen from sleep after adjournment.  In addition to these, we might quote the caustic language of Mr. Greeley, in reference to some mechanics who had ‘struck,’ in order to reduce their day’s labor (we think 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