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340 which it can impart, when even literary fame, the purest of all earthly consolations has no longer the power to charm. He died at his house in George Street Edinburgh, on the 12th of July, 1838, in the eightieth year of his age.

JEFFREY FRANCIS.—This eminent barrister, and still more distinguished critic was born in Edinburgh, on the 23d of October, 1773. His father was George Jeffrey, one of the depute-clerks of the Court of Session; his mother was Henrietta Louden, daughter of Mr. John Louden, farmer, in the neighbourhood of Lanark. Francis, the subject of our memoir, was the eldest son of a family of five children; and it will be seen, from the foregoing particulars, that the success of his future career, be it what it might, could derive little aid from paternal wealth or interest. After having learned to read and write, he was sent, at the age of eight, to the high school of Edinburgh, and there he continued six years, employed almost entirely in the dry study of Latin for in those days the high school curriculum had not expanded beyond its ancient limits. The first four years of this long course were spent under Mr. Fraser, one of the teachers, who had the distinguished honour of being preceptor successively to Walter Scott, Francis Jeffrey, and Henry Brougham; the last two years he was taught by Dr. Adam, rector of the institution, and author of the "Roman Antiquities," under whose able tuition he matured his knowledge of Latin. One day, towards the close of this course, an incident occurred which seldom fails to influence a young aspiring mind at its outset: he saw one of the truly great, whom the world is proud to worship. One day, on the High Street, his notice was arrested by a plain country-looking man, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable but a pair of large dark eyes, which, when animated, were wont to glow from their deep recesses like lighted charcoal. The young critic even already seemed to have discovered that no ordinary merit was thus passing before his view, so that he continued to gaze after the stranger, until a person standing at a shop door tapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Ay, laddie, ye may weel look at that man! That's Robert Burns!" After this Jeffrey might say, "tantum Virgilium vidi" for although he afterwards enjoyed the intercourse of Campbell, Scott, and Byron, he never saw Burns again.

Having finished his preparatory education at the High School, Jeffrey, now in his fourteenth year, was sent to the university of Glasgow. His first year was devoted to the study of Greek under Professsor John Young, one of the most finished Grecians and elegant scholars of his day; the second to Logic, under Professor Jardine, a teacher in whom the faculty of calling forth the latent capacities of his pupils, and turning them to good account, seemed to be a kind of instinct. He was thus singularly fortunate, in having two such preceptors as an educational institution seldom possesses at the same time; and to the benefits which he derived from their instructions he bore a most honourable and enthusiastic testimony many years after, in his inaugural address to the college on being elected its Lord Rector. Of Jardine he said, "It is to him, and his most judicious instructions, that I owe my taste for letters, and any little literary distinction I may since have been enabled to attain." Such was his declaration when he had attained the very highest literary distinction; and there are some who can still remember how the tears rolled down the cheeks of the good old professor, when he found himself thus gratefully and unexpectedly requited. During his third season at college, Jeffrey attended the course of Moral Philosophy under Professor Arthur, the successor of Reid, a man whose promise of high distinction was closed by an early death. Thus fortunate in